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"The Source" (the fortieth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Source" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), December 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Source by mrwrleft@yahoo.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Boy, was this a big fly! Huge,
actually. I’d never seen a fly this big in my life! Well, that is if I
could have evaluated its size correctly from where I was. As I woke up, I lay
on my back in the bed in my hotel room and looked up at the ceiling where the
fly was. It was hot and humid and I felt myself sweating and wanting to get up and get a drink of water from the bottle of Perrier I remembered was still in the refrigerator. But I also felt lazy and somewhat apathetic and, in the struggle with the thirst, these feelings, for the time being, were winning. I watched how the fly traveled along the ceiling surface upside-down, then stopped, lifted two of its front legs and rubbed them against its head, a movement that reminded me of washing one’s face. How in the hell can it hold itself with only four legs now? Instantly, though, I realized the irrelevance of such a thought. Explain me how it holds itself on the flat surface upside down using six legs. How it does it using just four is a problem of so much less significance. Come to think of it… yeah, they are light, but still. Does it just stick or does it create temporary suction inside its legs, or what? Strange. Such abilities, and yet flies are completely useless animals. I understand about flies being food for birds and stuff, but still. Birds could have eaten butterflies, dragonflies, seeds finally. Why were flies created? Only God knows. My mind drifted for a while captured by this thought, when suddenly I was taken out of my drift by a foreign presence. It manifested itself in the form of a voice, or at least, voice was the closest analogy I could come up with. Even though I couldn’t hear it literally pronouncing words per se, the phrase just somehow materialized inside my mind. "Aptitude to receive the correct answer is greatly amplified by one’s ability to ask the correct question." Huh? Excuse me? I beg you a pardon… who was that? The voice was initiated definitely from inside my head, but it wasn’t mine. It was a distinct other voice, not just my alter ego, or the "voice of reason" that always argues with you at moments of decision. I could feel the presence and the personality of the interlocutor. "Have you ever heard of telepathy?" "I’ve heard of it," I answered, "but I never thought…" "…It was possible." I wanted to add. "That’s what we are doing," the voice continued. "Mmmmm…." I was surprised, but not as surprised as I would think I could have been. "Mmmmm… may I, at least, inquire with whom am I speaking, or should I say "telepathing" if this is a word at all? "You have been looking at me for five minutes already." "You mean…" I looked at the fly now with some new chilling curiosity. "Yes." "But… but…" my ability to analyze stalled, overwhelmed by the multitude of thoughts that marched concurrently through my mind, like vanguard ant scouts through the wall crack. "There is no need to jitter and fidget. Yes, you’re talking to a fly." "Are you some kind of a special fly?" I finally composed myself. There was a considerable pause. "It’s a loaded question. You’ll have to be more specific. In my appearance and physiological functions I am but an average fly. Well…horsefly to be specific. In some way though, I am special. But I don’t think you know enough about flies in general to appreciate my non-mediocrity. Our frame of reference is too different. In other words, the spectrum of things upon which I pride myself could be appreciated only by a fly. And yet, not any old fly can appreciate me. There are plenty of us who are born to accomplish no more than the creation of more flies. And so my originality could be appreciated only by special, more delicately-organized, intelligent, flies. "But your ability to communicate. This is simply amazing, revolutionary, grandiose. I can’t even express to you how much I am impressed, bewildered, I can’t even find words. It’s… it’s against everything that we, as people, know. That’s what I mean." "Oh, that’s what you are after. You are such a typical human. You are not, of course, impressed with my manners, or with the precision and certainty with which I clean my beak, or with the elegance with which I put my food in my mouth, or with the complexity and elegance of the ornaments on my wings. And what are you interested in… and how we communicate telepathically – the generic ability of every fly, just like the ability to attach themselves to the ceiling." "But if so," I wondered, "why is it that flies and people, who live for such a long time side by side, have never been involved in contact similar to ours?" "Never been in contact? It’s not as much that they have never been in contact, as much as there is no record of such contact. And the reason for this is…." The fly paused. The pause was significant, so significant that for a moment I thought we had lost our contact. And, yet, I felt it wasn’t a "looking for the proper word" pause. "The reason for this is, the fly finally continued, "that there has never been a person who remained alive after such an encounter." "What exactly do you mean?" I felt my back cover with the sweat, and my breathing became heavier. "Quite simply, most humans do not possess the ability of telepathy, unless one of us injects them with an astrinogen – a special drug that opens up their telepathic communication channel. But that, at the same time, has a detrimental side-effect on them, if you know what I mean." The sweat that covered me – previously hot – felt icy cold as I slowly became aware of the situation I was in, and I tried to get up, but realized that I was paralyzed and couldn’t move any of my muscles. "But who? But when?" My mind didn’t want to accept the inevitability of the situation. "Yes that was me. And yes I did it while you were asleep. And no this is not immoral or as you might put it "inhumane," although as you might agree, my belonging to the fly specie doesn’t specifically obligate me to behave humanely." Although there was no demonic laugh succeeding this statement, I felt its absence as even more sinister. "That brings be back to you original question, or rather to the absence of it, which was, if you’d allow me to quote you "Why were flies created?" and which, as you also remember I catalogued as incorrectly stated." The fly now flew down from the ceiling and sat on my nose. The gentle touch of its legs on my skin made me feel incredibly itchy, and I had an overwhelming desire to lift up my hand and swipe the fly away. The only difference now was that no muscle in my body was obedient. And oh, boy from such a close distance the fly was indeed huge and disgusting. Although as much as I could, I tried to not think so, so the fly couldn’t sense my thoughts. "The correct question is not "Why were flies created" – the fact of creating flies is self-evident and doesn’t require explanation – but IS: "Why were humans created?" To which there is a very simple and comprehensible answer. And the answer is: "Humans were created as a SOURCE of food for flies." With this, the fly elongated its beak, poked through the skin on my nose, and started, presumably, sucking my blood. The itching sensation increased and became almost unbearable to the point that I started crying from helplessness. The fly finished, pull out its beak, and started to carefully wash its muzzle, the activity it presumably accomplished with such an elegance. While doing it I saw it looking into my eyes and, now, almost sensed the meaning behind this look. "So," I asked, "how long would it take you to completely drink me up?" "Just for me alone, it would take about three months, because – considering your size - you have about five liters of blood." "Three months" I smiled, "I don’t think I will last this long. I think I’ll die much, much, earlier than that. So, sorry to break it to you buddy, but you won’t have it all." "I know that, human." The fly responded still looking into my eyes. "That’s why I commented about consuming you just by myself. But we flies are not so selfish. We are more intelligent than that. And if you have no ability to communicate telepathically, then we flies do. Also, don’t think that all we can use of your body is blood. Human flesh is generally very nutritious and we prefer human meat to any other, fresh or, even better, not so fresh." And that’s when I heard the buzz. Making a great effort I slanted my eyes and saw the whole bunch of flies through the open window. That’s it, then. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes shut. This was the last willful act I still could undertake. |
| The Source by savitan@yahoo.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Neela pushed her way through the
throng of Diwali shoppers and gulped air as she came into the open. Madness. It
was a good thing she had managed to do most of her gift purchases in small
increments during the past few weeks. Just didn’t seem worth it to fight
the hordes for only two gifts- one for her mother’s full-time nurse and
the other for the lady who cleaned her house. She might find something better
at a quieter shop near home. As she hailed the rickshaw along the kerb it struck her that she could pop into her hairdresser’s on the next street before heading home. She doubted Mary would be free in the middle of the season for an impromptu haircut, but one never knew. If there had been cancellations… "Lovely to see you again!" Mary Yu was all smiles, her shiny black eyes almost disappearing as she waved to Neela in the mirror, comb in hand and standing behind a seated client. All the chairs were occupied, all gadgets in full throttle. Neela’s heart sank but it was only what she’d expected. She grimaced and laughed. "Oops. You look busy. Do you have a slot for tomorrow?" "Haircut?" the girl at the receptionist’s desk asked, simultaneously juggling the phone, the appointment book and instructions from Mary. As Neela nodded, Mary shouted over the babel of women’s voices and the radio."Haircut? Have a seat. We just had a cancellation. But you have to wait for a while, ok?" "But Mary, I told you. I filled the slot five minutes back." The receptionist protested as she cradled the telephone receiver against her shoulder. "Call and tell her sorry. She can come tomorrow. " Mary dismissed the absent client and winked at Neela before attending to the customer in the chair. Neela thumbed at surprisingly fresh magazines as the chatter in the parlour wafted around her. Hair dryers droned, stopped abruptly and re-started, the phone trilled occassionally and the women chatted - Mary’s shrill tones cutting through the lot. Water splashed into basins and the radio never let up on the latest music from Bollywood. School life was, in contrast, so orderly Neela reflected. Time-tables, classes, lesson plans, strict routine. Everybody knew what was expected of them at all times. So much easier. But no less creative for all the regimentation. She had been one of the best teachers in the school though slightly unconventional and constantly looking for creative teaching methods. That was before her promotion to the Principal’s chair which was very fulfilling but a desk job nevertheless. Now, after all this while, she still missed the give-and-take with young, fresh minds and the human drama of being surrounded by enthusiastic youngsters. As her hair was being sprayed, Neela looked at herself in the mirror. In pretty good shape for fifty, she thought. A few grey strands of hair showed, wrinkles around the mouth more prominent since she last appraised herself, and tired eyes. Could do with a bit of pepping up. And that yoga class – she would have to join soon. "So, was happenin?" The many years since Mary left Calcutta’s Chinatown for Pune had not dented her quintessential twang. Her’s was the traditional Chinese-Indian family in traditional Chinese-Indian vocations; women in the beauty business and the men in restaurants. They had family values typical to Indians as well – fierce family loyalty, respect for elders, work hard, study harder. All three of Mary’s children had been taught by Neela sometime in their schooling years. Typical teenagers, they spoke the lingo of their peers, watched the same movies and listened to the same songs. Even their careers had been decided for them by their parents like many of their friends. "Nothing much, Mary. How have you been?" Neela replied. "All fine. Jenny is now with me in the parlour. John is with his papa. Learning to cook!" Mary’s eyes twinkled as she laughed. "That boy, never entered the kitchen at home. Always ‘Mama, I want this to eat, I want that to eat. This is no good.’ Always. Now, he has to cook! So funny!" Mary shook her head as she snipped at Neela’s hair. "Albert doing very well in Canberra. Works with his uncle in restaurant. Another two-three years and then maybe he’ll open his own. He sent e-mail yesterday. Wants me and papa to come over. He’s ver-y homesick. Misses all his friends. What to do, huh? Struggle in the beginning and then all will be ok." Neela closed her eyes and relaxed. It felt good to have someone else in charge for a change. Then something that Mary said jerked her mind to attention. "What? What was that?" Neela emerged from her stupor. " ’Corruption everywhere. How can a school do this? Who to trust now?’, she said to me. I told her straightaway, ‘Say what you want about anybody else, Miss Neela has taught my children. I will not say a word.’ " "What was that?" Neela was disoriented. "But your school, everybody here knows it from a long time. How can they say things like this?" "What things? Who have you been talking to?" "They are saying money from your school has not been used for the children’s use but for lining the people’s pockets." Mary suggestively mimed stuffing her pockets and sniffed as she parted Neela’s hair. "Who is ‘they’? People talk all rubbish. Let them come and say it to my face - no guts. Where did you hear this? Complete rubbish.What evidence do they have? Lining pockets!" This was her life’s work they were casting aspersions on. On her, of all the people. On her school. "No smoke without fire", Mary murmured as she fetched the hair-dryer from the table beside her. Neela had had enough. "I think I’ll return later." She enunciated waspishly and bent to retrieve her bag from beside the chair. "Almost done" said Mary and Neela felt warmth caress her scalp as the hair-dryer whined. Her agitated face in the mirror looked nothing like her, all discoloured and pinched. She could feel her blood boil as her heart thumped loudly. Not good, she thought. Must calm down. Take deep breaths, de-e-ep breaths. Now breathe out, slooowly. "You know, respectable people are talking. So everybody will listen, no?" Mary said by way of explanation. "One of my clients heard it in her office. Someone’s child there goes to your school. Me, I never gossip. Have you ever heard me talk ill of anybody?" Neela dropped the change she was offered into her bag and walked out with her head high. It turned out to be an afternoon she would not want to re-visit ever. "All fine with you? And the school? Such things one hears nowadays. Such bad times. Nothing else to do but wait it out. Tsk, tsk."The librarian, an acquaintance of over fifteen years was at his philosophical worst, shaking his head. Neela had no wish to fan the flames and made a fast exit where she would have normally lingered. The clerk in her usual all-purpose store casted side-ward glances at her as he totalled her purchases. "No values left in society nowadays, I tell you. People claim they are doing good but in no time you hear of the do-gooder doing the best he can only for himself. Bah. They need to hang the whole lot. After all, whose money is it, huh? Whose money?". Prakash bhai, the friendly neighbourhoold grocer doled out her change even as he kept up his diatribe. She could feel all eyes in the shop on her as she left. How was she to combat this? An amorphous ‘they’ had judged her and her school without evidence. Couldn’t let it go unchecked; it was a matter of her integrity. How to tackle such an adversary? Neela felt out of her depth. Nothing in her life so far had prepared her for this. Who could it be? Who had an axe to grind with her? She knew without a moment’s doubt that her conscience was crystal-clear. She had nothing to hide – no dodgy personal finance dealings, nothing officially either. This was obviously vendetta time, pure and simple. Next morning in her office, she pulled out her rough, handwritten list. A compilation of people she had known from the start of her career. Those who might carry a grudge against her. It had taken her half the night and a thorough soul-searching before she could compile it. Taking the direct route seemed to be the simplest and most effective. Before she realised it, she had called up nearly six people on her list in two hours. All denied having started the rumour but four confessed to having heard it from some source or the other. And so it went down the list, all day long. Everybody who knew of the rumour had heard it from somebody else. Nobody had a clue where it originated. A few even had the audacity to suggest that she would be the best judge of its origins. Neela popped a pill and then reached for the water bottle on her desk. Already, she needed to switch on her desk lamp as birds returning home to the campus in the dusk set up a steady chatter. It had easily been the most nerve-wracking, enervating day of her life. And to top it all, she had not completed an iota of her earmarked official work. She massaged her temples with elbows propped on the desk and wished her migraine away. Would it make better sense to just forget about the rumour and not waste her energy in trying to track it down? What earthly purpose would that serve? Would it wipe her slate clean and restore her until-now unblemished record? One part of her was ready to throw in the towel and get her life back on even keel. But the other part of her would know no peace until she had discovered who has said it and why. It just was important to her, that’s all. She suspected it would also teach her students a lesson in character-building. To hold somebody responsible for their actions and not condone everything. Three days later, when Neela was no closer to unearthing her tormentor, it set her thinking. Nothing like adversity to get the creative juices flowing. What if the source was no ill-wisher but someone she counted amongst her friends and acquaintances.? She didn’t care to think so but had run out of options. What if she knew the person well or even casually with whom she let her defenses down, exposed her soft underbelly so to speak? Such a person would know where to hit so it hurt the most. And that opened a whole new can of worms. Living in one town all of her life, she knew so many people in so many different ways. She’d lived with them day in and day out. Where was she to begin looking for a disgruntled one who only wanted to twist the knife? Her list this time started with close friends and relatives and then in ever-widening concentric circles to all people she ever remembered meeting. The daunting part of it was that she could have easily overlooked somebody who could turn out to be the person out to get her. It had been relatively easy speaking to near-strangers and professional contacts on her previous list. This one was terrifying. A day later, Neela had unwittingly offended, frightened, disgusted and humored ten of her closest circle. She was none the wiser for it. It was her over-active sense of duty that drove her to check her emails. She couldn’t leave official mail unseen just because she was grappling with problems. She was no computer geek and barely managed basic tasks. For one who prided in a minuscule in-box, the ninety mails waiting for her attention galled her. There was no way they were going to be read tonight. She was mentally simply not up to it. ‘This might grab you, Miss Neela’, the title said as she scrolled randomly. It sounded so much like a student that Neela opened it. The sender’s name made no sense. Nor did the text, until she re-read it. ‘I thought you would be interested.’ it said. ‘It might explain some recent happenings. Albert Yu is my friend but I don’t agree with what he has done. Please excuse my false name. I’m writing this from a cyber-café so I’m untraceable. Regards.’ Neela felt flushed and chilled alternatively as she read the attachment. It appeared that the email had been sent to at least twenty people from Albert Yu. Some of the names registered as past students. Still uncomprehending, Neela read the mail. Folks, Greeting from Canberra. What’s happening with all of you? Let me tell you life in the restaurant business sucks. Do anything else, not this. Especially, don’t work for a relative. I feel like one of the slaves who built the Taj Mahal. Actually built it, I mean. With his own hands and his own sweat. With boss standing near by! Anyway, what news of school? Are you in touch? For those of you who don’t know, my mother has a very funny story about last week. Johnny sent me email with all the gory detaiIs. I laughed till my stomach hurt. You know Johnny is working with my father now. And he hates it. Cannot cook to save his life and my father won’t leave him alone. J quietly told my ma that he wanted to do something else. They have started a certificate course in Computer Graphics in school (evening classes) and he wanted to join. Only 15 seats. But Miss Neela would not let him. She said some other guy deserved it so he could earn a living. J already had a job so it was a luxury for him. He was so mad at her. And my ma, you know Johnny is her pet. Johnny says she was really angry for days. So Ma quietly started telling her customers that the school accounts were not okay. Somebody was making money with the children getting no facilities. I always knew my ma was a good story-teller but this time, it’s her best effort. She dropped hints into her customers’ ears about the school money. And you know women. Yak, yak, yak. (Sorry all gals getting this! My humble apologies!!) Soon it was all over town. Just like Chinese Whispers we used to play, remember (He! He! Very apt, huh!!) I think poor Miss Neela spent the past few days trying to hunt down the source. Everybody was asking everybody else if she’d called to ask. It’s too funny. Think I’ll ditch this stupid job and make a movie "The Revenge of Ma!!" Think it’ll run? Too much like Bollywood, no? Ok. That’s it for now. Write to me, somebody! Albert |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #5 Second place: #2 Others receiving votes: #3, #6 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Source tom_set@yahoo.com |
#1 of 8 |
| 665 | |
| I've told this story a thousand times but I guess you
guys want to hear it again. Yeah, the Cubs lost the World Series because, well
because they're the Cubs, but also because of the incident in Game 7 that came
to be known as The Play. It was my rookie year and I thought we might be in for a long season on opening day when they played the national anthem and Daffy Medwick, standing next to me said: "Every time I hear that song I have a bad game." I went 4 for 4 that day and the writers promptly decided they had seen the new Ted Williams. It took me only a few days to correct that impression. But I suppose you want to hear more about Daffy than me. Daffy Medwick was our third baseman in the twilight of a mediocre career. He had set a record for errors last season and I guess he wore a glove because he was supposed to - the ball didn't come into contact with it that often. As a hitter he managed to scratch out a .240 average and as a baserunner, well they still tell the story about the time he got lucky and hit a triple but was called out for failing to touch first base. When the manager went out to argue, the ump told him not to bother, he didn't touch second either. Well how could he be expected to remember where the bases were? He gets on so infrequently. Well anyway, we had a pretty good season and took the World Series to a Game 7. We were down a couple of runs mostly thanks to Daffy. In the top of the inning, they hit a potential third out to Daffy that he actually fielded. However his throw to first landed in the right field seats. Next up was their slugger who was so tough, he got intentional wallks in batting practice. We weren't going to walk him with two on protecting a one run lead but we probably should have as he promptly smacks a 450 foot homer. Most of our guys would have to pick up the ball and hit it three times to get it that far. We lifted our pitcher even though he told the manager he wasn't tired. He got the reply: "You may not be tired but our outfielders sure are." They got two quick outs on us in the bottom of the ninth which brought up Daffy to the plate. I thought maybe he was going to draw one of his infrequent walks on a low 3-2 curveball but he decided to swing at it. Luckily the ball happened to be where he was swinging and he dribbled it through the left side for a single. That brought me up to the plate. The packed ballpark was on their feet cheering in that frosty October air and I didn't let 'em down. First pitch they tried to sneak a fastball by me but I was ready and hit a screamer into the gap that rolled all the way to the wall. I'm thinking at least a triple but Daffy tripped rounding second, lost his balance, fell down, and crawled the rest of the way to third base. I had to settle for a double and was now perched on second as the tying run. The next batter hits a solid single to right and as I round third, I don't think he can throw me out. I'm steaming for home and Daffy, who had crossed the plate, was giving me the sign to slide. I ignore it and just as I'm ready to tap the slab, their catcher spears the high one-hopper and tags me on the shoulder. End of game. Of course I got asked a thousand times why I didn't slide when Daffy gave me the slide sign and all I could say was: "I had to consider the source." |
|
| The Source lee10@host365.com |
#2 of 8 |
| 2424 | |
| It was cold the day Dave Dinsdale poisoned his
neighbour's dog; the sort of day when frost on the lawn crunched underfoot; a
day when tree branches seemed painted on a clear, pale-blue sky in which a
lazy, hazy sun was disinclined to shed any heat. Dave was in his garden shed trying to keep warm, or at least, trying not to succumb to hypothermia. The only gloves he could find were an old pair of rubber washing-up gloves cast out last year by Moira, his wife. They were torn, "but they'll do for your gardening," she'd said. When his father died five years ago, much of the rubbish from his home had been stored in the shed until Dave could find time to go through the boxes and throw away what was of no use. "And that'll be all of it," Moira had commented at the time. That Saturday afternoon, one item on a long list of jobs she'd given him was to, "sort out your father's things, once and for all." "Nag, nag, nag," sighed Dave, massaging his yellow-rubber clad hands together to gain a bit of warmth through friction. It didn't have much effect. Activity might help, he thought, so he picked up one of the boxes and put it onto the workbench. "That's all she ever does these days." He tore off the ageing tape from the box lid and opened the flaps. "I should be inside watching the match on the box." He pulled out crumpled newspaper "But no, I'm freezing my socks off, fingers cold to the bone, rummaging among the old man's stuff instead," he grumbled and delved into the contents of the box. He hated to admit it, but Moira was right. It was all rubbish. "And it'll mean a trip to the tip later," he commented. "She won't let me rest till the job's done." Dave was methodical. Although he found nothing in fifteen boxes, he carefully sorted through the oddments in the sixteenth, and last, box. At the bottom, he found a cracked margarine tub labelled RAT POISON. Dave shook the box. It rattled. "Well I'll be buggered," he said. "I remember the old man using these when I kept rabbits when I was a kid." Some pellets fell through a hole in the tub and clattered onto the wooden floor. "Dangerous little beggars, if I remember right." Dave reached for a supermarket carrier bag and put the box in it. "I think they saw off some of the rabbits as well as the rats." Despite the clumsiness of working in rubber gloves. Dave was picking up the fallen pellets when he heard a tremendous racket from next door. He was used to the neighbour's dog, a very large, very aggressive Rotweiller, making an unreasonable amount of noise, but this was beyond the ordinary. Now if Dave had a fault he'd admit to, it was being nosy. Moira often told him it would get him into trouble, "one of these days." But Dave would always smile and reply, "one has to be vigilant with packs of thieves and murderers roaming the streets." Dave poked his head round the shed door. It sounded as though all the hounds of Hell had been let loose. He couldn't believe that one dog, not even that particularly obnoxious mutt, could make so much noise. He had to find out what was happening, justifying his actions by saying, "just in case McIntyre's being burgled." An ash tree grew next to the fence that separated the two gardens. He started to climb, then realised he was still holding the pellets in his clenched fist. He considered getting down and putting them in the dustbin but decided against that course of action. He might miss what was happening; and the bin was in sight of the kitchen window. Moira would want to know what he was doing, "wandering around the garden looking stupid when you should be in the shed, dealing with that rubbish like I'd told you?" Dave continued to climb. From the third branch up, one he knew would hold his weight, he peeked over the fence. McIntyre's garden was a disgrace. It had been entirely slabbed over and every slab was adorned with dog turds. The latest pile was still steaming; older ones were frozen, glinting in the thin light of the winter sun; still older ones were green with mould. Dave didn't comment on the stench that this would create come the thaw but watched the dog throwing itself at the fence opposite, the one that separated McIntyre's garden from that of his other, long-suffering neighbours. John and Florrie Smith were an unassuming, elderly couple who doted on their old, battle-scarred tomcat. It was this cat, Felix, which was taunting the dog and no matter how high the dog leapt, no matter how hard it ran and thumped its sturdy body at the fence, it couldn't dislodge the cat. Felix just stood on the top of the fence, swaying as the wood trembled against the onslaught. The hair on its neck stood on end, making it look twice its normal size and twice as evil. Baying like the Hound of the Baskervilles, the dog tried scrabbling up the fence. It hadn't the brains to catch the cat, which must have realised that the dog was an unworthy adversary because it yawned and disappeared down its own side of the fence. The dog stopped trying to climb the fence. It jumped back to see where the cat had gone, stood in the still soft turds which were obviously slippery and skidded. Its momentum carried it, stumbling, for several yards before it fell. It rolled over and Dave could hear its teeth clash together as its chin hit the ground. Dave made a mistake. He laughed. The dog looked up, glared at Dave...and charged, crashing into the fence just as Dave began a slithering descent of the tree. Dave opened his hand to grab at a tree branch and a dozen or so small pellets of rat poison arced over the fence, raining down onto the dog's head. Dave forgot about the pellets in his haste to escape and then with the need to hide the shredded gloves and to bathe his grazed wrists in disinfectant. His wife's nagging only served to drive the pellets further from his mind as he sought for a reason to explain how he came to be hurt, without mentioning that he'd been tree-climbing. He knew if he admitted to that, he'd never hear the end of it. * The thaw came a week or so later and the warmer days brought the Dinsdales out into their garden to do a bit of tidying up before Christmas. Moira was hanging out some sheets when she stopped and sniffed. "Where's that pong coming from?" Dave was cutting dead heads from the hydrangea. He stopped and smelt the air. "Dog dirt," he said. "From next door. That must be what it is. McIntyre never cleans his back yard. It's a disgrace. It's covered in the stuff." "Well, if it's no better on Monday," Moira told him, "you'll phone the Council and get the Environmental Health people round." She sniffed again. "You can't expect people to live with that stench." "Yes, dear." Dave murmured, for once agreeing with his wife. "I'll do it first thing." * On Monday, as soon as he arrived at the office, Dave telephoned the Council and reported his neighbour. "It stinks," he informed the officer who took his call, "what's more, it must be a health hazard." Dave was assured that someone would inspect Mr.McIntyres' property later that day. Dave then called his wife and told her to let the inspector into their garden if McIntyre was out. Now if Moira had a fault that she would admit to, it was her excessive need to be always cleaning. She wouldn't call it an obsession, but she did like things, "to be neat and tidy." And if the Environmental Health Inspector was going to visit her garden, she had to be ready. She raked leaves from the lawn. She swept the path. She cleaned the garage windows. Those jobs done, she checked that Dave had tidied the shed. Leaving her no reason to get on at him, Dave had indeed cleaned up the shed. Apart from a carrier bag that rattled as she picked it up, she had no cause to complain and she was walking down the garden path towards the house when the front-door bell rang. Hurriedly, she dropped the carrier bag into the dustbin, not noticing the pellets that dropped from a hole in the bag and down the drain. When he came home that night, Dave expected Moira to report that the Council's Environmental Health man had been and that McIntyre would be forced to clean up his back yard; maybe he'd even be summonsed. What he did not expect was to find Moira and Florrie sitting sobbing on the sofa. John stood with his back to the fire looking helpless as the two women wailed. "Hello, David," John said glumly. "There's a pot of tea in the kitchen if you want a cup. It's not long made." "What on earth's going on?" Dave asked. "Where's my dinner?" He looked at the hysterical women. "Who's died?" The cries doubled, screeching up the scale, driving John and Dave from the room. "Here. Read this." John grabbed that evening's newspaper from a chair as they fled to the calm of the kitchen, where John poured them both a cup of tea and Dave read the newspaper headline; "DRAMA AS LOCAL MAN SHOOTS HIMSELF." "What on earth," Dave gasped. He read on; "Samuel McIntyre, 58, a widower, died at his home in Wilmington Avenue sometime within the last fortnight. The Council, alerted by neighbours complaining about the smell coming from the house, attempted to inspect the premises earlier today. Accompanied by the police, they broke open the door and found the body of Mr.McIntyre inside. His dog, also dead, lay at his feet. Local residents told our reporter that the smell was overpowering and that at least one policeman was taken from the scene by ambulance. A Council official, Mr.John Woods, admitted that despite the recent spell of cold weather, the disintegration of the bodies had been hastened because the central heating had been on constantly since the deaths had occurred. Although an official report is still to be made, it seems that Mr.McIntyre, distraught at the death of his dog, took his own life. A shotgun was found at the scene but the police are not, at this moment, looking for anyone else in connection with Mr.MacIntyre's demise. They would, however, like to speak to anyone who can give them information about the suspected poisoning of the dog." "Oh, God," Dave moaned and dropped the paper onto the kitchen table. "I know," John shuddered, slopping his tea. "Fancy us living next door to that. I never for one minute thought the source of that appalling smell was a dead body. Just think, we've been breathing it in for days since Florrie discovered it last week." He looked at John. "The wind was blowing in our direction, so maybe you didn't notice it as soon as us?" "No," Dave shook his head and rubbed his chin with his hand. "And I thought the source of the smell was all that dog dirt." * John and Florrie, who'd noticed the smell before any of the other neighbours, were minor celebrities for a week. They were even interviewed, standing by their garden gate, by reporters from Midlands Television. Despite the fact that he was the one who'd alerted the authorities, Dave was not annoyed that it was the Smiths who got all the attention. Because of the dead dog, he thought it best to keep his head down, though he didn't really think rat poison could be effective after forty odd years. Within the month, the Council had cleaned up the McIntyre house and garden and the neighbourhood settled down to its normal humdrum existence. Once Christmas was out of the way, Dave and Moira booked a spring break, "to put the trauma behind us," they both agreed. * It was April. Dave and Moira had enjoyed their week's holiday to Tenerife but were pleased to be nearly home again. But when the taxi turned into Wilmington Avenue, their pleasure turned quickly to alarm at the sight of the white van parked outside their house with ENVIRONMENTAL HEALTH TEAM emblazoned along both sides. Moira gasped, "The neighbours....What will they think?" She waved towards the van. "....about that......!" Dave had no answers. "Sod the neighbours. I'm going to find out what's happening." Leaving Moira to worry about suitcases and paying the driver, he stormed round the side of his house to where two men in council-blue overalls were digging up his garden. Another man, in a suit, was watching them, making notes on a clipboard. "What the hell are you doing here?" Dave shouted. "Ah," the man in a suit turned. "You must be Mr.Dinsdale?" Without waiting for an answer, he put out his hand. "I'm John Woods from the Council. We've had complaints from several neighbours about a terrible smell, the source of which seems to be your drains." Dave's mouth dropped open. "But, but, but," he stammered as he shook the man's hand. "And as you were on holiday and couldn't be contacted," John Woods continued, "we have had no option but to dig up your drains." At this point, one of the workmen shouted from the trench, "We've got it, Mr.Woods. It's rats. Lots of dead rats." He held up a rotting corpse. Moira, coming into the yard, vomited. Dave turned white but managed to keep hold of his lunch. "Well done, George." John Woods told his workman, backing away from the heavy, cloying scent of death. "Anything else you can tell us?" He held a handkerchief to his nose. "Well," said George. "From my experience, they look like rats what 'as been poisoned. They're all twisted up as if they died in agony." He waved the dead rat for all to see. The movement stirred the air, enveloping them all in a thickened miasma of putrefaction. Dave lost his lunch. John Woods patted him on the back sympathetically. And once Dave had regained a little composure he asked. "Now, Mr. Dinsdale. Tell me, do you keep rat poison on the premises?" |
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| The Source by Sideline17 lazdom@ono.com |
#3 of 8 |
| 2470 | |
| "So, you gonna to tell me what all the mystery is
about?" Steve tossed back the rest of his beer. Ruben set two plates on the table and fiddled with the controls of the wide screen TV across the room, smiling quietly as he settled himself in the chair next to his friend. "I’ve been keeping this to myself for almost ten years, so I think you can understand I’m not rushing it now." "Ten years?" Steve’s eyebrows shot up, "What are you talking about?" He glanced nervously at the blank screen, "You’re not gay or something?" "C’mon. You think I would have bothered to keep something like that a secret for so long? You know me, Steve. This is something serious." "Well, I thought I knew you, but then you spring this thing about ten years on me." Ruben pressed the remote and an empty dining room appeared on the screen. Steve recognized it immediately as Mamma’s house. Steve had called Ruben’s mother Mamma since as far back as he could remember, probably because she’d always been like a mother to him. What could this big mystery have to do with Mamma? "What is this?" "Ok, ok," Ruben took a long drink and met his friend’s gaze. "I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve discovered something. Something really big. Something that will change the world." Steve stared blankly, "You’re joking, right?" though he could see he wasn’t. Ruben took a deep breath, "You remember way back when I went trekking through Alaska?" Of course Steve remembered. Ruben takes three months off work to go wandering around in the wilderness alone. He had told him not to go, that he’d get eaten by a bear or something. But Ruben always had something to prove, though in the end he rarely proved anything. "Yeah I remember. You never talked a lot about it when you got back." Steve paused, "Come to think of it, I didn’t see much of you for a long time after that." Ruben chuckled, "You were convinced I was going out with some woman I didn’t want you to meet." Steve laughed, "I thought she must be a real dog." "Not a dog, more like a worm." "What?" Ruben appeared to be choosing his words carefully. "One night I’d decided to forego the reservations I had at the B & B and break in the tent I’d spent a fortune on. I should have known better with my luck. The weather turned and there was this sharp wind slicing through everything. I think it would have been warmer if it had snowed!" "What did you expect in Alaska? I thought Mamma had knocked some sense in that head of yours over the years." Ruben smirked at his friend and continued, "There I was in my tent huddled in a ball wearing everything I’d brought, cursing you for being right about the whole damn idea. I was trying to figure out how to make it back to the car without getting frozen solid by the wind when suddenly my back started to feel warm. Or rather, I actually started to feel my back." Steve laughed, "and your big discovery was you’d peed on yourself." "Very funny. But you know how much I hate to get cold…" "Why do you think I tried to talk you out of going?" Steve interrupted. "Would you just let me finish? My back felt like it was pressed against a small radiator. I was desperate to get warm, but if I went outside to see what it was I wouldn’t last more than a minute. As my whole body started to go numb I decided I’d have to risk it, but go as quickly as possible. I climbed out in the wind and ran around to the far end of the tent and there, pressed up against the side of it, was this wormy looking thing." "A worm?" Steve repeated dubiously. "Yeah, it was gross. It looked like a skinny banana slug or something. My first instinct was to squash it with my foot, but remember I couldn’t actually feel my foot. I had to do something fast so I scooped it up in my hands and raced back into the tent." "That’s disgusting." "Are you telling me? Anyway, I could feel it right through my gloves, or at least one end of it. But it wasn’t hurting or anything, just really hot. My fingers were coming back to life, and I figured I would put it next to my feet and I’d sleep like a baby." "I don’t think I want to know any more," Steve said warily. "Well, there isn’t much more," Ruben responded, "As soon as I got back into the tent the worm thing suddenly turned kinda grey and shrivelled up, right there in my hand. Just like that. In a few seconds it turned to dust and was gone." "Ok, I agree that’s weird." "I know, it was creepy. So there was nothing to do but go back to my huddling and whining. I eventually drifted off for a bit so I don’t know how much time had passed, but I started to feel warmth from the other side of the tent again. I ran out to check, and there was another worm thing there. I picked it up, felt the heat through my hands, and brought it into the tent. But once again, it just turned grey, shrivelled up and disappeared." "And do you mind if I ask why you didn’t just pack up and leave? I would guess you’d be the last person on earth to put up with a cold tent all night." "But it was so strange. I’d never seen anything like it. I mean I’d never even heard of something like that. So there I was I was in the middle of nowhere, freezing my ass off, and I knew I should get back in the car and return to civilization, but I just had to stay." "Ok, now I know Mamma never got through that thick head of yours." "Well, that has a lot to do with this. All those years living in that draughty house, Mamma always after me to shut the door, to bundle up. Never being able to turn the thermostat up despite the cold creeping in through those cracked window frames. And here were these fascinating creatures that could offer hear in the coldest conditions. The following weeks I started to…" "Hold up," Steve interrupted. "You stayed there for weeks?" "I never ended up seeing anything else in Alaska. Over the next few days I started hunting for these slugs and trying to find a way to keep them in one place. I couldn’t bring them in the tent or they’d die, so I’d collect a few of them and by the next morning they would have slipped off into the night. I tried to study them as much as possible during the day, what they ate, what they did. In fact they turned out to be terribly delicate. The slightest change in air pressure was enough to kill them." "Are you kidding?" Ruben stared at his friend, "I’ve never been more serious in my life. These little guys basically need to have one end pointed towards an even breeze while they feed and their other end open to the air, heating up like a radiator. If I tried to enclose them in any way that cut off the gentle air supply to their heads they would die. If anything came too close to their ends the heat their own bodies generated would kill them. It was the damnedest thing" Steve shook his head slowly, "Ok, I can see you’re serious and all. But this is your big discovery? Hot worms?" "Don’t you get it? These weren’t just worms, this was a natural source of heat. Under the proper conditions you could heat a whole house with these guys, maybe a whole building! This could be the alternative energy source civilization has been looking for!" Ruben jumped to his feet and started pacing the room, "My first problem was how to get the worms back to my house so I could study them more. I parked my car so that by opening both front doors I created a kind of wind tunnel and I opened the vents full blast. I actually made it home with seven of them still alive. I had a bad case of pneumonia, but it was worth it." "You have those things here?" Steve scanned the room nervously. "Not the original seven, of course. But I’ve spent the past ten years studying the worms, breeding them, and designing a way to channel their heat without killing them in the process." "And you haven’t told anybody about this? Not in all these years?" Ruben sunk down in his chair and lowered his voice. "Not a soul. At first it was just too weird. But then as I started making progress with the worms I realized that this could be something big. Big like ‘world-wide’ big. I’m sure there could be a lot of people who wouldn’t want something like this to come to light, big companies making a killing on heating the world. It would be so easy to destroy the whole project, these worms are so delicate and it’s taken me ten years to breed the fifty I have now." "Why don’t you just go back and get more? It would probably be easier than breeding the things." "I did go back, about six years ago when I told you I was going to a conference in Canada. I spent a whole week combing the area, but I couldn’t find any. Not one." "That’s pretty strange. Are you sure you went to the same spot?" Ruben stared his friend down, "Of course I am. It was like they’d been totally wiped out. So you can imagine how desperate I felt to keep the ones I have alive…and in secret." Steve nodded quietly, absorbing the information. "And now you have fifty? How do you keep them alive?" "Well, it’s taken forever but I’ve devised a modified funnel. The worms lie in little tubes with their ends open to the air while their heads face a ventilator that pushes the outside air past them and carries the heat away." "Wow. That’s cool, I mean you’re not exactly an engineer, are you? And you’re sure it’ll work?" "Yeah I’m sure, but I have to prove it." Steve gestured over to the screen, "Is that where Mamma comes into all of this?" Ruben smiled, "Yeah. You know how hard it was for her, cutting corners all those years to put me through university. I wanted to somehow show her all that work wasn’t wasted. Show her that I’ve finally amounted to something." Steve looked hard at his friend, "Ruben, you know she’s always been proud of you. You’ve got nothing to prove to her." Ruben’s eyes flared, "You don’t understand! She’s had such a rough time, stretching every dollar so she could put food on the table. All that effort so I could end up as a claims adjuster? Do you really think that’s what she had in mind all those years doing without, for me? I can finally give something back to her. She will never have to be cold again! I will heat her world. And when this video tape goes public, I’ll probably be one of the richest men in the world, and I’ll have the fine upbringing Mamma gave me to thank for it!" Steve’s voice softened as he placed his hand on Ruben’s arm, "Mamma doesn’t need all that. If you had really listened to that great woman you would understand that she’s always wanted you to be an honest man with a stitch of good sense." He broke into a wide grin, "And she succeeded- with at least half of it!" Ruben shook free of his hand, still agitated, "You just don’t get it, do you? This is her chance to hold her head high when she thinks of me." He stood up and began pacing again, "You’ll see! I told her I was preparing a surprise for her in the house this afternoon. I’ve set up the worms in the dining room window so that the funnel is hidden from view by the curtains but they have contact with the air through the open window. When she gets home and feels how warm her house is, she’s going to flip! And it’ll all be recorded on the mini cameras I installed around the rooms." "It’ll be the first time that damn old house will have been warm since I’ve known you," Steve laughed, "Hope you don’t give her a heart attack from the shock!" "Very funny. The only shock she’s going to have is when she sees her next bank statement." "C’mon Ruben, being warm is one thing, but.." "Shhh!" Ruben cut him off, "She’s come home!" Ruben turned mesmerized towards the screen, "Look! There she is. She’s coming in." Steve watched as Mamma came in to the entrance and began to remove her heavy coat. Her cat ran to greet her, rubbing against her legs. Mamma picked him up, rubbing her face in his fur, "Happy to see me Boots? You gonna tell me what that boy of mine has been up to around here today? Says it’s a surprise." She shook her head and laughed, "Ruben would be a fine man if he’d just get those crazy ideas out of his head." Ruben smiled as he listened, "Oh, she’ll see what comes of my crazy ideas." Mamma put the cat down and looked around, "It’s really hot in here. Don’t tell me he forgot to turn the heat off! Now that he’s got that big city job, he thinks we’ve got money to burn, eh Boots?" "She’s going into the dining room!" Ruben said excitedly. "She’s going to love this!" "He must have turned it up full blast, lord knows why," Mamma said to herself. She glanced across the room and her face flashed with anger, "For chrissakes! He left the damn window open! Has he completely lost his mind?" Mamma started across the room towards the window. Ruben jumped to his feet and screamed at the screen, "What is she doing? No! You can’t! She’ll kill them all!" He grabbed the sides of the TV, his face inches from the screen, "No, mamma. No!" Mamma slammed the window shut with a furious bang, "I swear after all these years, that boy doesn’t have a stitch of sense to save his life." Somewhere across town there was a loud, aching moan as a wide screen TV hit the floor. |
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| The Source by My Nguyen idlemousse@hotmail.com |
#4 of 8 |
| 505 | |
| I felt the incandescence flow into my being, and I no
longer saw with my eyes only. Sprinkles of light like that of dust motes
floating in the air, except now infused with a magnificence ten times grander
than mere dirt, sparkled and scintillated towards this great being. If I could
breath, I know it was being filtered into what soul I did have, and changing me
as we speak. Like ten million candles that are made into the sun, into one
world of burning stars that never die, but glow. Much like one dewdrop spewed
from a lawn-sprinkler, caught by dawn’s light, shifting it into a
multitude of colors as it rained down onto the grass; to be another life source
for something else. I knew I was dead, but with what luck I had managed to get that had brought me here, I did not know. Suddenly, I felt such warmth even as we speak being wrapped around me, holding me in its cradle and rocking me in its strong arms. Never have I felt such endless peace stretching where infinity can’t even touch. I reached out with my hands (if I did have hands, but I had a sense of reaching) and tried to grasp the complete radiance. Like everything having to do with light, we can only see it, but never really capture it. Suddenly there was a flash that blinded my eyes so that I had to look away. A shadow appeared in the corner of my eye, growing and manifesting itself. It pulled me away from the source and soon was engulfing me it its choking darkness. I was suffocating in its strange, evil wraps. Its surface, like slime and grease, so that I could not detangle myself form its strangling and slippery hold. I panicked and tried to grab that comforting light, but it slowly began to slip away, slowly dimming from my vision, losing its magnificence into the murky depths of oblivion. I felt as if life again was taken from me, and such despair of what endless joy and happiness that could have been mine, slowly ebb away. I felt my wretched soul twisting in the folds of the shadow, trying to free myself, but to no use. I never knew such unhappiness that my whole being seemed to cry out in pain and sorrow, wrought in anguish, as I pleaded to God again and again, why he had to cast me away from Him once more. When moments ago I had felt such peace evading me and throughout my being, now grief and doubt and despair, in turn, invaded me, like an unwelcome visitor of the night, tearing me into ribbons of pain and flesh. Is it not hell to know perfection and then to recede farther and farther away from it, to know that you will never see it again, but to live in a world where darkness reigns? I cannot tell you how true that is now. How truly wretched my soul is. |
|
| The Source savitan@yahoo.com |
#5 of 8 Runner-up |
| 2498 | |
| Neela pushed her way through the throng of Diwali
shoppers and gulped air as she came into the open. Madness. It was a good thing
she had managed to do most of her gift purchases in small increments during the
past few weeks. Just didn’t seem worth it to fight the hordes for only two
gifts- one for her mother’s full-time nurse and the other for the lady who
cleaned her house. She might find something better at a quieter shop near home.
As she hailed the rickshaw along the kerb it struck her that she could pop into her hairdresser’s on the next street before heading home. She doubted Mary would be free in the middle of the season for an impromptu haircut, but one never knew. If there had been cancellations… "Lovely to see you again!" Mary Yu was all smiles, her shiny black eyes almost disappearing as she waved to Neela in the mirror, comb in hand and standing behind a seated client. All the chairs were occupied, all gadgets in full throttle. Neela’s heart sank but it was only what she’d expected. She grimaced and laughed. "Oops. You look busy. Do you have a slot for tomorrow?" "Haircut?" the girl at the receptionist’s desk asked, simultaneously juggling the phone, the appointment book and instructions from Mary. As Neela nodded, Mary shouted over the babel of women’s voices and the radio."Haircut? Have a seat. We just had a cancellation. But you have to wait for a while, ok?" "But Mary, I told you. I filled the slot five minutes back." The receptionist protested as she cradled the telephone receiver against her shoulder. "Call and tell her sorry. She can come tomorrow. " Mary dismissed the absent client and winked at Neela before attending to the customer in the chair. Neela thumbed at surprisingly fresh magazines as the chatter in the parlour wafted around her. Hair dryers droned, stopped abruptly and re-started, the phone trilled occassionally and the women chatted - Mary’s shrill tones cutting through the lot. Water splashed into basins and the radio never let up on the latest music from Bollywood. School life was, in contrast, so orderly Neela reflected. Time-tables, classes, lesson plans, strict routine. Everybody knew what was expected of them at all times. So much easier. But no less creative for all the regimentation. She had been one of the best teachers in the school though slightly unconventional and constantly looking for creative teaching methods. That was before her promotion to the Principal’s chair which was very fulfilling but a desk job nevertheless. Now, after all this while, she still missed the give-and-take with young, fresh minds and the human drama of being surrounded by enthusiastic youngsters. As her hair was being sprayed, Neela looked at herself in the mirror. In pretty good shape for fifty, she thought. A few grey strands of hair showed, wrinkles around the mouth more prominent since she last appraised herself, and tired eyes. Could do with a bit of pepping up. And that yoga class – she would have to join soon. "So, was happenin?" The many years since Mary left Calcutta’s Chinatown for Pune had not dented her quintessential twang. Her’s was the traditional Chinese-Indian family in traditional Chinese-Indian vocations; women in the beauty business and the men in restaurants. They had family values typical to Indians as well – fierce family loyalty, respect for elders, work hard, study harder. All three of Mary’s children had been taught by Neela sometime in their schooling years. Typical teenagers, they spoke the lingo of their peers, watched the same movies and listened to the same songs. Even their careers had been decided for them by their parents like many of their friends. "Nothing much, Mary. How have you been?" Neela replied. "All fine. Jenny is now with me in the parlour. John is with his papa. Learning to cook!" Mary’s eyes twinkled as she laughed. "That boy, never entered the kitchen at home. Always ‘Mama, I want this to eat, I want that to eat. This is no good.’ Always. Now, he has to cook! So funny!" Mary shook her head as she snipped at Neela’s hair. "Albert doing very well in Canberra. Works with his uncle in restaurant. Another two-three years and then maybe he’ll open his own. He sent e-mail yesterday. Wants me and papa to come over. He’s ver-y homesick. Misses all his friends. What to do, huh? Struggle in the beginning and then all will be ok." Neela closed her eyes and relaxed. It felt good to have someone else in charge for a change. Then something that Mary said jerked her mind to attention. "What? What was that?" Neela emerged from her stupor. " ’Corruption everywhere. How can a school do this? Who to trust now?’, she said to me. I told her straightaway, ‘Say what you want about anybody else, Miss Neela has taught my children. I will not say a word.’ " "What was that?" Neela was disoriented. "But your school, everybody here knows it from a long time. How can they say things like this?" "What things? Who have you been talking to?" "They are saying money from your school has not been used for the children’s use but for lining the people’s pockets." Mary suggestively mimed stuffing her pockets and sniffed as she parted Neela’s hair. "Who is ‘they’? People talk all rubbish. Let them come and say it to my face - no guts. Where did you hear this? Complete rubbish.What evidence do they have? Lining pockets!" This was her life’s work they were casting aspersions on. On her, of all the people. On her school. "No smoke without fire", Mary murmured as she fetched the hair-dryer from the table beside her. Neela had had enough. "I think I’ll return later." She enunciated waspishly and bent to retrieve her bag from beside the chair. "Almost done" said Mary and Neela felt warmth caress her scalp as the hair-dryer whined. Her agitated face in the mirror looked nothing like her, all discoloured and pinched. She could feel her blood boil as her heart thumped loudly. Not good, she thought. Must calm down. Take deep breaths, de-e-ep breaths. Now breathe out, slooowly. "You know, respectable people are talking. So everybody will listen, no?" Mary said by way of explanation. "One of my clients heard it in her office. Someone’s child there goes to your school. Me, I never gossip. Have you ever heard me talk ill of anybody?" Neela dropped the change she was offered into her bag and walked out with her head high. It turned out to be an afternoon she would not want to re-visit ever. "All fine with you? And the school? Such things one hears nowadays. Such bad times. Nothing else to do but wait it out. Tsk, tsk."The librarian, an acquaintance of over fifteen years was at his philosophical worst, shaking his head. Neela had no wish to fan the flames and made a fast exit where she would have normally lingered. The clerk in her usual all-purpose store casted side-ward glances at her as he totalled her purchases. "No values left in society nowadays, I tell you. People claim they are doing good but in no time you hear of the do-gooder doing the best he can only for himself. Bah. They need to hang the whole lot. After all, whose money is it, huh? Whose money?". Prakash bhai, the friendly neighbourhoold grocer doled out her change even as he kept up his diatribe. She could feel all eyes in the shop on her as she left. How was she to combat this? An amorphous ‘they’ had judged her and her school without evidence. Couldn’t let it go unchecked; it was a matter of her integrity. How to tackle such an adversary? Neela felt out of her depth. Nothing in her life so far had prepared her for this. Who could it be? Who had an axe to grind with her? She knew without a moment’s doubt that her conscience was crystal-clear. She had nothing to hide – no dodgy personal finance dealings, nothing officially either. This was obviously vendetta time, pure and simple. Next morning in her office, she pulled out her rough, handwritten list. A compilation of people she had known from the start of her career. Those who might carry a grudge against her. It had taken her half the night and a thorough soul-searching before she could compile it. Taking the direct route seemed to be the simplest and most effective. Before she realised it, she had called up nearly six people on her list in two hours. All denied having started the rumour but four confessed to having heard it from some source or the other. And so it went down the list, all day long. Everybody who knew of the rumour had heard it from somebody else. Nobody had a clue where it originated. A few even had the audacity to suggest that she would be the best judge of its origins. Neela popped a pill and then reached for the water bottle on her desk. Already, she needed to switch on her desk lamp as birds returning home to the campus in the dusk set up a steady chatter. It had easily been the most nerve-wracking, enervating day of her life. And to top it all, she had not completed an iota of her earmarked official work. She massaged her temples with elbows propped on the desk and wished her migraine away. Would it make better sense to just forget about the rumour and not waste her energy in trying to track it down? What earthly purpose would that serve? Would it wipe her slate clean and restore her until-now unblemished record? One part of her was ready to throw in the towel and get her life back on even keel. But the other part of her would know no peace until she had discovered who has said it and why. It just was important to her, that’s all. She suspected it would also teach her students a lesson in character-building. To hold somebody responsible for their actions and not condone everything. Three days later, when Neela was no closer to unearthing her tormentor, it set her thinking. Nothing like adversity to get the creative juices flowing. What if the source was no ill-wisher but someone she counted amongst her friends and acquaintances.? She didn’t care to think so but had run out of options. What if she knew the person well or even casually with whom she let her defenses down, exposed her soft underbelly so to speak? Such a person would know where to hit so it hurt the most. And that opened a whole new can of worms. Living in one town all of her life, she knew so many people in so many different ways. She’d lived with them day in and day out. Where was she to begin looking for a disgruntled one who only wanted to twist the knife? Her list this time started with close friends and relatives and then in ever-widening concentric circles to all people she ever remembered meeting. The daunting part of it was that she could have easily overlooked somebody who could turn out to be the person out to get her. It had been relatively easy speaking to near-strangers and professional contacts on her previous list. This one was terrifying. A day later, Neela had unwittingly offended, frightened, disgusted and humored ten of her closest circle. She was none the wiser for it. It was her over-active sense of duty that drove her to check her emails. She couldn’t leave official mail unseen just because she was grappling with problems. She was no computer geek and barely managed basic tasks. For one who prided in a minuscule in-box, the ninety mails waiting for her attention galled her. There was no way they were going to be read tonight. She was mentally simply not up to it. ‘This might grab you, Miss Neela’, the title said as she scrolled randomly. It sounded so much like a student that Neela opened it. The sender’s name made no sense. Nor did the text, until she re-read it. ‘I thought you would be interested.’ it said. ‘It might explain some recent happenings. Albert Yu is my friend but I don’t agree with what he has done. Please excuse my false name. I’m writing this from a cyber-café so I’m untraceable. Regards.’ Neela felt flushed and chilled alternatively as she read the attachment. It appeared that the email had been sent to at least twenty people from Albert Yu. Some of the names registered as past students. Still uncomprehending, Neela read the mail. Folks, Greeting from Canberra. What’s happening with all of you? Let me tell you life in the restaurant business sucks. Do anything else, not this. Especially, don’t work for a relative. I feel like one of the slaves who built the Taj Mahal. Actually built it, I mean. With his own hands and his own sweat. With boss standing near by! Anyway, what news of school? Are you in touch? For those of you who don’t know, my mother has a very funny story about last week. Johnny sent me email with all the gory detaiIs. I laughed till my stomach hurt. You know Johnny is working with my father now. And he hates it. Cannot cook to save his life and my father won’t leave him alone. J quietly told my ma that he wanted to do something else. They have started a certificate course in Computer Graphics in school (evening classes) and he wanted to join. Only 15 seats. But Miss Neela would not let him. She said some other guy deserved it so he could earn a living. J already had a job so it was a luxury for him. He was so mad at her. And my ma, you know Johnny is her pet. Johnny says she was really angry for days. So Ma quietly started telling her customers that the school accounts were not okay. Somebody was making money with the children getting no facilities. I always knew my ma was a good story-teller but this time, it’s her best effort. She dropped hints into her customers’ ears about the school money. And you know women. Yak, yak, yak. (Sorry all gals getting this! My humble apologies!!) Soon it was all over town. Just like Chinese Whispers we used to play, remember (He! He! Very apt, huh!!) I think poor Miss Neela spent the past few days trying to hunt down the source. Everybody was asking everybody else if she’d called to ask. It’s too funny. Think I’ll ditch this stupid job and make a movie "The Revenge of Ma!!" Think it’ll run? Too much like Bollywood, no? Ok. That’s it for now. Write to me, somebody! Albert |
|
| The Source mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#6 of 8 Winner |
| 1565 | |
| Boy, was this a big fly! Huge, actually. I’d never
seen a fly this big in my life! Well, that is if I could have evaluated its
size correctly from where I was. As I woke up, I lay on my back in the bed in
my hotel room and looked up at the ceiling where the fly was. It was hot and humid and I felt myself sweating and wanting to get up and get a drink of water from the bottle of Perrier I remembered was still in the refrigerator. But I also felt lazy and somewhat apathetic and, in the struggle with the thirst, these feelings, for the time being, were winning. I watched how the fly traveled along the ceiling surface upside-down, then stopped, lifted two of its front legs and rubbed them against its head, a movement that reminded me of washing one’s face. How in the hell can it hold itself with only four legs now? Instantly, though, I realized the irrelevance of such a thought. Explain me how it holds itself on the flat surface upside down using six legs. How it does it using just four is a problem of so much less significance. Come to think of it… yeah, they are light, but still. Does it just stick or does it create temporary suction inside its legs, or what? Strange. Such abilities, and yet flies are completely useless animals. I understand about flies being food for birds and stuff, but still. Birds could have eaten butterflies, dragonflies, seeds finally. Why were flies created? Only God knows. My mind drifted for a while captured by this thought, when suddenly I was taken out of my drift by a foreign presence. It manifested itself in the form of a voice, or at least, voice was the closest analogy I could come up with. Even though I couldn’t hear it literally pronouncing words per se, the phrase just somehow materialized inside my mind. "Aptitude to receive the correct answer is greatly amplified by one’s ability to ask the correct question." Huh? Excuse me? I beg you a pardon… who was that? The voice was initiated definitely from inside my head, but it wasn’t mine. It was a distinct other voice, not just my alter ego, or the "voice of reason" that always argues with you at moments of decision. I could feel the presence and the personality of the interlocutor. "Have you ever heard of telepathy?" "I’ve heard of it," I answered, "but I never thought…" "…It was possible." I wanted to add. "That’s what we are doing," the voice continued. "Mmmmm…." I was surprised, but not as surprised as I would think I could have been. "Mmmmm… may I, at least, inquire with whom am I speaking, or should I say "telepathing" if this is a word at all? "You have been looking at me for five minutes already." "You mean…" I looked at the fly now with some new chilling curiosity. "Yes." "But… but…" my ability to analyze stalled, overwhelmed by the multitude of thoughts that marched concurrently through my mind, like vanguard ant scouts through the wall crack. "There is no need to jitter and fidget. Yes, you’re talking to a fly." "Are you some kind of a special fly?" I finally composed myself. There was a considerable pause. "It’s a loaded question. You’ll have to be more specific. In my appearance and physiological functions I am but an average fly. Well…horsefly to be specific. In some way though, I am special. But I don’t think you know enough about flies in general to appreciate my non-mediocrity. Our frame of reference is too different. In other words, the spectrum of things upon which I pride myself could be appreciated only by a fly. And yet, not any old fly can appreciate me. There are plenty of us who are born to accomplish no more than the creation of more flies. And so my originality could be appreciated only by special, more delicately-organized, intelligent, flies. "But your ability to communicate. This is simply amazing, revolutionary, grandiose. I can’t even express to you how much I am impressed, bewildered, I can’t even find words. It’s… it’s against everything that we, as people, know. That’s what I mean." "Oh, that’s what you are after. You are such a typical human. You are not, of course, impressed with my manners, or with the precision and certainty with which I clean my beak, or with the elegance with which I put my food in my mouth, or with the complexity and elegance of the ornaments on my wings. And what are you interested in… and how we communicate telepathically – the generic ability of every fly, just like the ability to attach themselves to the ceiling." "But if so," I wondered, "why is it that flies and people, who live for such a long time side by side, have never been involved in contact similar to ours?" "Never been in contact? It’s not as much that they have never been in contact, as much as there is no record of such contact. And the reason for this is…." The fly paused. The pause was significant, so significant that for a moment I thought we had lost our contact. And, yet, I felt it wasn’t a "looking for the proper word" pause. "The reason for this is, the fly finally continued, "that there has never been a person who remained alive after such an encounter." "What exactly do you mean?" I felt my back cover with the sweat, and my breathing became heavier. "Quite simply, most humans do not possess the ability of telepathy, unless one of us injects them with an astrinogen – a special drug that opens up their telepathic communication channel. But that, at the same time, has a detrimental side-effect on them, if you know what I mean." The sweat that covered me – previously hot – felt icy cold as I slowly became aware of the situation I was in, and I tried to get up, but realized that I was paralyzed and couldn’t move any of my muscles. "But who? But when?" My mind didn’t want to accept the inevitability of the situation. "Yes that was me. And yes I did it while you were asleep. And no this is not immoral or as you might put it "inhumane," although as you might agree, my belonging to the fly specie doesn’t specifically obligate me to behave humanely." Although there was no demonic laugh succeeding this statement, I felt its absence as even more sinister. "That brings be back to you original question, or rather to the absence of it, which was, if you’d allow me to quote you "Why were flies created?" and which, as you also remember I catalogued as incorrectly stated." The fly now flew down from the ceiling and sat on my nose. The gentle touch of its legs on my skin made me feel incredibly itchy, and I had an overwhelming desire to lift up my hand and swipe the fly away. The only difference now was that no muscle in my body was obedient. And oh, boy from such a close distance the fly was indeed huge and disgusting. Although as much as I could, I tried to not think so, so the fly couldn’t sense my thoughts. "The correct question is not "Why were flies created" – the fact of creating flies is self-evident and doesn’t require explanation – but IS: "Why were humans created?" To which there is a very simple and comprehensible answer. And the answer is: "Humans were created as a SOURCE of food for flies." With this, the fly elongated its beak, poked through the skin on my nose, and started, presumably, sucking my blood. The itching sensation increased and became almost unbearable to the point that I started crying from helplessness. The fly finished, pull out its beak, and started to carefully wash its muzzle, the activity it presumably accomplished with such an elegance. While doing it I saw it looking into my eyes and, now, almost sensed the meaning behind this look. "So," I asked, "how long would it take you to completely drink me up?" "Just for me alone, it would take about three months, because – considering your size - you have about five liters of blood." "Three months" I smiled, "I don’t think I will last this long. I think I’ll die much, much, earlier than that. So, sorry to break it to you buddy, but you won’t have it all." "I know that, human." The fly responded still looking into my eyes. "That’s why I commented about consuming you just by myself. But we flies are not so selfish. We are more intelligent than that. And if you have no ability to communicate telepathically, then we flies do. Also, don’t think that all we can use of your body is blood. Human flesh is generally very nutritious and we prefer human meat to any other, fresh or, even better, not so fresh." And that’s when I heard the buzz. Making a great effort I slanted my eyes and saw the whole bunch of flies through the open window. That’s it, then. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes shut. This was the last willful act I still could undertake. |
|
| The Source walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#7 of 8 |
| 2483 | |
| Colin, sitting at the computer, seemed to have all five
senses engaged at once, but was oblivious to the fact that his father had
entered the room. "I’m still waiting for it to load," he said into the cell phone, speaking in the cadence that is the currency of fifteen-year old boys. "My dad doesn’t have high-speed internet, so I might have to wait until I get home to check it out." "A-hem." Jack opted for the exaggerated clearing of his throat to announce his presence. "Your mother’s here," he said; "She’s waiting outside." Colin muttered what passed for ‘good-bye’, then pocketed his phone as he stood up. He grabbed the bag he always toted on his biweekly visits, and slung it over his shoulder. "I’d better shut this down," he said, turning towards the computer. The web-page that was intended to be display was still blank. "I’ll get it," Jack said. "Your mom’s been waiting for awhile; you’d better get going." Colin nodded, then walked towards the front door.. "Don’t forget to say goodbye to Heather." "Goodbye, Heather!" Colin called out as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Jack had meant for him to say goodbye face-to-face, but didn’t bother to press the issue. Vicky, his ex-wife, was particularly sensitive to having Jack’s girlfriend imposed upon their son- just another in the litany of rules she insisted that Jack observe if he were to continue being a part of his son’s life. Vicky’s attitude was nothing new. It was her fastidious need to prove herself as a mother that drove a wedge between them. He thought that she’d change as Colin grew from infant to toddler, then toddler to young boy, but she never let go. Jack’s input as a parent became irrelevant, and as mother son grew closer, husband and wife drew further apart. She had become a parent worthy of a Greek tragedy, and Jack was resigned to a bit part in his own life. "Was that Vicky?" Heather had emerged from the kitchen, scanning the room for expected but absent guests. "Where’s Colin?" "He left." "Did Vicky come in?" "No. She called from her cell phone when she pulled into the driveway." "Oh." Heather’s shoulders slumped forward. "Don’t take it personally," Jack said. "She hates me. She hates me because I’m too young for you." "You’re only two years younger than her…" "But she treats me like a child," Heather said. "Don’t worry about it." "But I do worry about it; I want her to be comfortable with me being a part of Colin’s life…" Jack let out an exaggerated chuckle. "I’m his father, and she doesn’t seem comfortable with me as a part of his life. Vicky acts like I’m some loutish ex-jock who wants to relive his glory years through his kid; And Colin treats me like he expects me to force my opinions on him every time I open my mouth." "All teenagers are like that." "Yeah, but this goes way back. He’s always been kind of shy, and I thought that sports might help build some character in him. And I thought if I could get him interested, at least I would be able to relate to him on some level, but Vicky wouldn’t allow it. He would be afraid to even try, and she would criticize me for trying to encourage him." "Maybe he was intimidated about following in your footsteps," Heather said. "Have you ever tried to get interested in stuff he likes?" "I tried, but I just don’t ‘get’ the things he’s into. All he seems to care about are his comic books. He’s been reading and collecting them for years. I told Vicky those things are stunting his development, but she thinks they’re just a harmless hobby." "I’ve never seen him with a comic book when he comes over here." "He knows I don’t like them. Instead he spends all of his time screwing around on that thing…" Jack had only intended to nod in the direction of the computer, but suddenly found himself moving towards it at an urgent pace. "Oh my God," he uttered as he sank into the chair, staring at the screen. "What is it?" He began reading: "’Welcome to ‘The Man-Source’, your one-stop site for all of your erotic needs; We have videos, bondage gear, chat-rooms…" Heather had moved closer, and was looking at the monitor from over his shoulder. The web-page contained numerous photos of muscular men with come-hither expressions. Some were in provocative poses, but the only graphic image was a boxed in photo of three penises. "It says ‘Members Only’", Heather pointed out, unable to stifle the chortle in her voice. "Oh my God," Jack gasped; "My son is gay." *** Jack and Heather said nothing as they drove to pick up Colin for his next visit. It had been a trying couple of weeks since the discovery of the Colin’s visit to the gay porn site. Jack’s first impulse was to confront his ex-wife—to lay the blame on her. Heathertalked him out of it, and stoically absorbed his venting of the feelings he wrestled with. Jack alternated between anger and denial, and rebuffed suggestions that he confront Colin directly about the issue. He didn’t trust his ability to remain calm if indeed his worst fears were confirmed, and Heather commended him for realizing as much. At the same time, she tried to emphasize that the possibility of Colin being gay was not ‘the end of the world,’ and tried to subtly steer Jack towards acceptance. By the end of the first week, Jack decided that he may have jumped the gun, and decided that a different approach might be in the offing. "Maybe if I got him some ‘magazines’, or a ‘regular’ adult movie; those might steer him back in the right direction," Jack had said. Heather, fearing that Jack might be backsliding into denial, offered an alternative that would enable her to contribute to the cause in her own way. "Why not just give him access to an adult web-site?" she said. "You could buy him a membership to a site- put it on your credit card- and let him check it out for himself. He’s always on the computer anyway, and I’d imagine it’s a lot easier to close a browser window than to hide a magazine or video if mom walks in." Jack seemed both pleased and impressed with this idea, and in turn, Heather was pleased to have impressed him. She volunteered to research a suitable site, and Jack gave her his blessing to do so. The next day, she told him that she’d found a good one, but neglected to mention that it was actually an upscale gay site she learned of from a coworker. She felt that if Colin was gay, at least one adult in his life would be encouraging to be comfortable with his sexuality. The day after she signed up to the site, she delivered her‘gift’ to Colin, meeting him outside his house as he arrived home from school. "Your father wanted me to give this to you," she had said, offering him a card with the web-site address and the password handwritten on it. Colin, shrugged as he took the card. "Your dad’s not ready to talk about it just yet, but I want you know that you can talk to me anytime," she added. It had been four days since Heather had given it to him, and she was nervous and excited to see what the next challenge would be to bridge the gap between father and son. By the time they pulled into the driveway behind Vicky’s car, she was giddy with excitement. *** "You’ve ruined my son!" Jack and Vicky had shouted at each other almost simultaneously. "What are you talking about?" Jack shouted. Heather seemed to shrink behind him as she looked around for Colin. There was no sign of him. ‘How dare you give my child permission- and a password- to view pornography!" Vicky snarled. "If I had known you were just sitting back letting him turn gay, I would have hooked him up with some porn a long time ago!" "Our son is not gay!" "Oh, really?" Jack replied. In a less heated voice, he managed to convey the incident at his house. "One web-page, and that makes him gay?" She said. "Jack, I saw the stuff Colin has been looking at on his computer, and the only way that boy is gay is if he’s secretly a lesbian." "What?" "The site he’s been visiting- the one you gave him a password for- it’s nothing but women having sex with each other." "Really?" Jack could barely stifle the smile that fought its way onto his face. "Where’s Colin?" Heather asked. "He’s not home yet," Vicky responded, never taking her eyes off of Jack. "All I’ve ever wanted from you was for you to make your support payments, and to attempt to be some sort of role model for your son. I thought you understood how I felt about you remaking him in your image, but I guess it was too much to expect for you not to damage him somehow." "Damage? How have I damaged him?" "I’ve raised Colin to respect women, and how do you undermine me? With your ‘trophy girlfriend’, and pornography!" "Oh, what bullshit! I try to do everything I can to connect with Colin, but you seem hell-bent on playing him against me! Why don’t you let him go to one basketball game? It’s not just about sports- it’s about my son and I doing something together! But he’ll never know that because you’ve convinced him that liking sports is on a par with being in some sort of cult!" Jack yelled. "Just once I’d like to ask him to a game and know for sure if he’s saying ‘no’ because he wants to, or because you’re telling him to!" Before Vicky could respond, Colin walked in the door. "Hey everybody- what’s up?" He seemed more cheerful than usual, but it faded fast in response to the serious expressions shared by all of the adults present. "Hi Colin," Heather said. Jack offered his son a sudden, unconvincing grin. "Hey son, I was just telling your mom that there’s something I want to ask you…" "What?" "Your father wants to know if you’re gay," Vicky cut in. "No," Jack countered; "I wanted to know if you wanted to go to a basketball game tomorrow night..?" "If I say ‘no’, does that mean I’m gay?" Colin smirked, enjoying his own wit. "Of course not!" Jack reacted as if his son were serious. Colin in turn reacted as if scolded, a hurt look overcoming his face. "I think I may have over-reacted," Jack said, sheepishly. He realized that the best thing would be to explain the events that brought them to this moment, and proceeded to do so. Colin seemed to absorb this with a full range of expressions until his father finished talking. "If you were so upset about a gay web-site, why did you give me a membership to another one?" "What?" "That site that Heather gave me the address for was totally gay." Jack turned to Heather with an inquiring glance. "I thought that if Colin is gay, then he should have an outlet to explore who he really is…" "You sent him to another gay site?" Jack was fuming, but Colin was quick to intervene. "You guys were both pretty quick to jump to the wrong conclusion," he said in her defense. ‘Well, that site was pretty convincing." "What was it called?" "The ‘Man Source’." "Oh, wow," Colin said, shaking his head; "I think I know what happened; my friend Mike and I created a comic book called ‘Source Man’, and Mike was working on a web-site. I was trying to check it out, but I must have hit the keys wrong…" "A comic book?" Jack sounded skeptical. "Wow, that’s so cool, Colin," Heather said. "Maybe you could show it to me some time…" "Didn’t he tell you about his comic book, Jack?" Vicky asked. "He never tells me anything, thanks to you," Jack snapped back. Suddenly, the three adults went at each other- insults and accusations flying. "…and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my son spend anymore time with someone who would expose him to pornography at his age!" Vicky yelled, punctuating her tirade with the self righteousness of superior vocal power. Colin zeroed in on her. "Mom!" he shouted, drawing all of their attention. "How did you know I’ve been looking at that site on my computer?" he asked. "I-" "Tell him," Jack said. Vicky let out a defeated sigh. "I have one of those programs that let’s me track what you do on the computer." "And that’s how you respect my privacy and individuality? Isn’t that kind of hypocritical?" "I do it for your own good; you don’t know how hard it for me to do this alone and still do it right." "Then why don’t you let dad help out? Why not stop ‘talking him down’ so much, and let me find out for myself what he’s really like?" "He doesn’t, I mean, I don’t-" Vicky’s words sputtered until they dissolved into sobs. Jack took her heaving body into his arms. "Jesus!" Colin yelled, startling his parents out of their unexpected moment of tenderness. "If I had known parents were going to be this much work, I wouldn't have had them!" Jack grinned as he reached out and drew his son into his embrace. Heather stood by, awkwardly alone. *** "Tell me about this ‘Source Man’ you and your friend made up," Jack said to his son as they sat in the hard plastic seats of the arena. Colin, who looked even more uncomfortable than usual in the cramped space, leaned close to be better heard over the noise of the crowd. "’Source Man’ is this guy who is like a conduit for the powers of other super-heroes. All he wants is to be a hero himself, but his only power is to give, or recharge the powers of others. The other heroes accept him onto their team, but all they do is try to protect him and tell him what to do instead of letting him be a hero in his own right, so it kind of sucks for him." "I don’t get it…" "It’s okay dad," Colin said turning his attention back to the game. "You don’t have to ‘get’ it." It had been a month since the big confrontation that collectively cleared the air for all involved. Jack decided that Heather was indeed too young for him, and parted amicably with her. Vicky started to realize that their son was not a pawn in or a token that confirmed her parenting skills. And he and Colin had finally started to know each other. This was good. This, he ‘got’. |
|
| The Source Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#8 of 8 |
| 1605 | |
| I dreamed that I was being chased and couldn't get away
because something had a hold of my foot. I tried to yank it free but a stab of
pain awakened me and I saw that I was being held by a leather thong around my
ankle tied to a heavy stake in the ground. The events of yesterday flooded
through me as I remembered why I was in this teepee in the middle of an Indian
village. As I poked my head out of the tent flap, I could see about two dozen more teepees in their conical array, hear the babble of the native's voices, the sounds of wood being chopped, and the smells of meat being cooked by an open fire. Of course I was noticed right away and a hulking young brave strode over to me and unsheathed a large wicked looking knife. My heart jumped, but all he did was lean over and slice the thong I was bound by. Then he motioned me to follow him. I suppose I had been tied down to keep me from running away in the night but here in the daylight, I wouldn't get twenty paces before someone caught me. The villagers looked at me with some wonderment and I glared back with undisguised hatred masking my fear for after all, these were the people who had killed my father and kidnapped me. He had shot two of them before being overwhelmed and I was snatched up, thrown across a pony, and ridden to this village. The brave led me to a large tent and motioned me to enter. As my eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior smelling of musty animal skins, I could see three men sitting crosslegged who immediately began jabbering in their gutteral yet somehow melodic language. The wizened old man in the middle wearing a colorful beadwork vest was doing most of the talking. After he had finished, the man on his right surprised my by speaking to me in perfect English. "We have decided that you must stay with us for a time. You were spared because we do not kill children but if we let you go, you might bring back soldiers. Your comforts will be provided for but you must work just like anyone else." I was led out of the tent, given a deerskin tunic and an old pair of moccasins, and put to work carrying water, scrubbing hides, gathering wood, and other chores. The natives accepted me with equanimity and some natural curiousity. They communicated mostly with gestures but by the end of the day, I had picked up a few words such as; A-yes, keyu-no, and yokoke-thank you. Dinner was a delicious venison stew with vegetables which I greedily wolfed down. Afterwards, around the campfire, several people, women as well as braves, got up to tell stories accompanied with great pantomime. I was nearly able to follow them as they seemed interesting but they only made me long for a good book or the sound of a piano. The man I had spoken with early in the day led back to my tent which I was to share with several others. His name was Okshakla, meaning deep water. I asked him how he came to know the English language so well. "When I was a young boy, the white soldiers raided our village which was then about 200 miles east of here. The men put up a brave fight but most were slaughtered and the rest of us fled. I was not fast enough and was captured. The next two months were spent at a fort along the Ohio river where I learned the white man's ways and picked up some of their language. From there, I was sent to Philadelphia to work on the shipping docks." "We lived for several years near Philadelphia," I said. "My mother died of smallpox there." "That is what many of us have died from, your disease. So you are familiar with the city. At first I was awed by the big buildings and great ships. My English had improved enough to start reading some of the books they had and the newspapers they put out. Soon though, I tired of their filthy rivers, coal smog, pompous airs, and constant noise, so I decided to come back to find my tribe. I took a horse and rode him about halfway back here until he tired. I set him loose into a farmers field and walked the rest of the way, searching for nearly half a year until I finally found them." "Didn't you like having a roof over your head, a warm bed, and regular meals?" "I never got used to that and the food was mostly boiled or poorly cooked. I missed the stars, the whispers of the wind and the sounds animals of the night. Your people are destroying the land you live on while our people live in harmony with nature and respect everything from the highest tree to the smallest insect. Your killing of our people is no more moral that ours, we who are merely trying to protect the land that was ours. You will be warm under your buffalo robes and will sleep well." He was true to his word and I awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. I learned many of the Indian's skills and even made myself a pair of mocassins to replace the ill-fitting ones I had been given. The natives were very kind to me and taught me many things about their way of life and I realized that my resentment and desire for revenge was slowly diminishing. Then one day a party of ten was preparing to travel upriver and I was told I would be going along. The journey would take several weeks but I was eager to go see more of the country. Having been raised mostly in big towns, it seemed like quite an adventure to me. "Why are we taking this trip?" I asked Okshakla. Are we going hunting or exploring or searching for a new campsite?" "We always are looking for a new home if need be, Little Firefly," (for that was the name I had been given). "The young braves want to fight the white man and drive him back but the older wiser ones know now it cannot be done. What we are seeking on this venture is the source of the river." "Whatever for?" "It is a cleansing time," he said gravely as he helped me pack the few belongings I would need as well as the basic tools and supplies for the trip. "When you find the source of the river of life, you also will find the source of your being. It is more than a destinaton, the most important part is the journey." I soon saw that he was right. We saw much wildlife and many new beautiful flowers and trees. The river became smaller and colder as the days went by but it was invigorating to bathe in once you got used to the chill. They would take the root of a yucca, grind it against a rock, and make a rich lather, better than any oily perfumed soap, that would clean your hair and body wonderfully. The birds and animals regarded us a bit warily but usually without fear as most had probably never seen man before. Soon we saw a mountain in the distance and in two more days were at the foot of its majesty. The river was only a few feet wide now, cascading down the mountain in gentle ripplets over rocks and moss that gave of a lilting laugh of its gentle power. It was a bit of a difficult climb the next morning but by late afternoon we came to a tall waterfall. All the members of our party shed their burdens and stood gazing up at the roaring cataract. I too was awed by the sight and felt somehow transformed. The men talked among themselves a little and Okshakla spoke to me. "This is the source of the mighty river that we live by so many days downstream. These drops of water cascading down come from the melting winter snows and the rains. Look at the little trees and shrubs clinging to a bare existance in the rocks nearby and look at the other barren parts of the mountain where there is no water. Then look behind you at the path we have taken and see that everything is green with the life-giving water." I looked at what he talked about for some time, then walked by myself to the edge of a promontory. The sun was just beginng to set, casting a soft vermilion glow on the vast vista of nature's unbroken countryside. The uplifting sight made me realize that this was the world of tranquility and natural changes that we were meant to occupy in peace. Okshakla came up to me and said: "Now that you have seen this, I am bidden to tell you that you will be free to go. You can probably not find your way back to our village and we might be gone by then. There is an trading outpost about a days walk to the east where you can rejoin your own kind. I wish you well and feel honored to know you." He bowed slightly and contemplated me impassively with a trace of sadness in his keen black eyes." "If it's all the same to you. Okshakla, I would like to remain here with you and your people." |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club