| 1 2 3 4 |
"Level Nine" (the forty-fifth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
5 6 7 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Level Nine" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), May 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Level Nine by lee10@host365.com (Entry #4) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Mo’s eyes were full of gritty
dust. They opened reluctantly, like stuttering roller blinds. Microscopic
shards from the earth’s womb scoured his eyeballs and he groaned. His
eyelids scraped shut, but he couldn’t close out the reality of the
intense, enveloping blackness as thick, as suffocating as treacle. His mind
carried him, unresisting, into unconsciousness. Awareness gently returned. The transition between unknowing and knowing was seamless and Mo kept his eyes tight shut against the nothingness that lay beyond. Kaleidoscopic colours played on the backs of his eyelids and he tried to divert his thoughts by making patterns of the whirling red, yellow and blue swirls and flashes; tried hard to believe he was at home and only dreaming. But it didn’t work and he desperately needed to explore this space into which he’d suddenly been plunged. One arm was pinned beneath him. With the other he pushed hard, scrabbling against lose gravel that rattled away on the sloping floor. But he was trapped. His feet were pinned down. He was imprisoned on his side, curled like a foetus in a womb. Behind him, the pile of fallen rock that had filled in the end of the mine’s lowest level, the difficult and dangerous Level Nine, creaked threateningly. Somewhere in front of his face, a similar fall lay heaped, quiet, and impassive. But he knew it was there. The mine that had echoed with the sounds of machinery working and with men laughing, singing and squabbling had gone. Mo had heard it go, had felt the rush of displaced air that pushed him in the back, making him stumble. It was that stumble, that brief fraction of a second that halted his step that had prevented him being under the second fall, the one that must have crushed the gang leader and the other three miners. Mo was held as firmly by his dread, as securely by the weight of the dark, as his feet were held by fallen rock. The pressure of silence squeezed him unremittingly and every breath was difficult. His head became light, his thoughts disorientated as his lungs struggled and failed to take in the air his body needed. He tasted bitter bile and gagged. He cried but the dust-laden air turned his sobs into dry retching. Rocks clattered from the pile, pressing into his back, showing just how small his tomb was. He opened his eyes, wiping them frantically, lubricating them with his tears, looking hard for a chink of light, for the promise of a way out. He listened for sounds of rescue. Nothing. He stretched his hand out into unseen space, touched hard rock. He scrabbled at it but the rock was unmoveable. Mo whimpered. Mo lay alone, in the darkness, in the deafening quiet. His breathing was shallow but unconsciousness refused to blanket him again and despite himself, in his mind, he replayed, over and over, those last few seconds before the second rock fall. He heard the crack as roof props failed, heard the sigh as the ceiling gave way, compressing the air beneath. He heard, again and again, the cries of the other men as they went under the punishing burden of rock that wiped out most of Level Nine. Suddenly he remembered, with a clarity that the surrounding dark couldn’t suppress, a forgotten memory that forced its way back into the narrative. Mo had stumbled but he hadn’t fallen at that point. He’d taken a half-step, almost catching up with Cecil, the man in front. When the ceiling gave way, Cecil had turned, had shoved Mo. He’d screamed, "Run!" He’d knocked Mo off his feet, but he’d saved his life. Yet Cecil hated Mo; loathed the young man who’d made his daughter pregnant. Only that morning, Cecil had demanded that one of them be taken off the gang. Management said they’d think about it and sent the gang underground. Mo felt a flush of guilt as he remembered an incident last week. He’d been at the bar in the Social Club with a pint in his hand when Cecil came up, threatening to "punch his lights out, if he’d got the guts to come outside." The group of young men surrounding Mo laughed at the small, angry, old man who was half Mo’s size. They’d pushed him away, and Cecil had made so much noise the Committee threw him out and banned him from the Club for a month. Mo had laughed too but he’d admired the older man’s guts for all that. Mo thought of the child who’d never know its grandfather; who’d never know what a hero he’d been and Mo was determined to tell his child that its grandfather had been a big man. Mo couldn’t do much. He couldn’t move but he’d still got lungs. He could use them, so coughing and shouting he filled the small space with noise. Some of it would penetrate the rock he thought, some of it must surely seep out to rescuers on the other side. He flung gravel and smaller stones at the rock wall. His cries, even damped down by the dusty air, echoed like sonar, hurting his ears. But he didn’t stop. Cecil’s push had to count for something. Mo kept shouting. Then a sliver of light appeared, high up in the tiniest of gaps between two stones. Mo threw gravel at the light and screamed louder than ever. The light grew, a thin, silver wand knifing the dark, cutting through Mo’s aloneness, exploding his despair. Mo stopped shouting and held his breath for fear he’d scare it away. He stared hard at it, focused on it. It was his way out. Like a baby’s passage along a narrow birth canal, life lay at the other end of the beam. He would follow it. It was all he needed. For the moment he relaxed, knowing rescue was imminent, even though nothing penetrated the darkness except for that one, thin, pencil beam of light. |
| Level Nine by P. D. Han pdhan@pdhan.co.uk (Entry #2) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| It was almost time to act. Deep down
he knew he was doing the right thing – even if no one else did. He sighed;
tears swelled in his eyes as he sat listening to the ‘noise’
coming from his CD player, the track "Who Must Die", the artist
Sepultura, a Brazilian death metal band; "Who decides who lives in this world? Who decides who dies in this world?" The intensity of the lyrics flowed within him, an adrenaline rush, pure inspiration; "Who dares to throw the first rock? Who believes in justice being done?" Today would be a ‘glorious’ day. Today would be his day. He smiled. Wiping away a tear he continued sitting, his emotions heightening as he listened to song after song, absorbing an abundant of anarchistic lyrics, to him buoyant, uplifting - motivating. He didn’t drink, smoke, or take drugs, he never had. His narcotic, his poison, was his music, brash, offensive music, his senses reverberating from the anti social melodies – stimulation from what the masses termed ‘pure filth’. The clock struck half past three just as the last track ended. Outside the sky was dulling as evening started to set in. Being December, it would soon be dark. It was time. He laced up his boots – army surplus grade one assault boots. He stood up and put on his combat jacket. Straightening the pins on his lapel he paused to admire their simplistic design, invigorating (right wing) fascist and racist meanings – a swastika (an insignia whose true meaning he probably didn’t realize, instead it was to him merely a fashion item – shock value), a red lightning fork (a badge used to show support towards nationalism), a British bulldog, a St. George’s flag (symbols which over the years had been hijacked, used as emblems of hatred), an orange square pin with the words UFF embedded (a Northern Ireland loyalist movement – the ‘Orange Order’). All in all a mix of political factions, each one part of his colourful and violent past. For a second he drifted back in time, back to the brutal yet elegant marches of what he’d often refer to as his ‘street fighting years’. Until today his crowning glory came in 2001 as he joined his fellow partisans and radical extremists tearing up the Asian community in and around the Westwood and Glodwick areas of the Lancashire town of Oldham. Since then he’d kept a low profile – to avoid any potential arrest - always moving and always drifting from one town to another. Finally, he’d ended up here, the City of Sunderland on the North East coast of England. For a while, he felt settled. Over a period of time he tried (and failed) to detach himself from his turbulent past. Retiring from the marching scene he turned to reading, and started writing poetry. Eventually he formed a band, his metrical compositions becoming lyrics. It became a method to vent out his suppressed frustrations. Sadly his musical adventure was short lived, ending abruptly in bloodshed and tears. From that moment he kept himself to himself. Talking to no one, he’d collect his benefits on a weekly basis before returning in isolation to his rented accommodation in Pallion, thinking, constantly thinking, of what future lay ahead of him. He had concluded none. Now it was time to end it all. He walked through the hallway towards the front door, stopping as he caught his reflection in the hallway mirror, his shaved head, scarred, tattooed, worn, well worn, war torn. He picked up an old battered acoustic guitar case. Etched on the side were the words ‘Level Nine’. Inside lay the future. He felt strangely proud as he closed the front door behind him never to return. Outside it was cold, but dry. A couple of school children brushed past him as they made their way home from Diamond Hall Junior School. He turned onto a back lane walking briskly over the worn out tarmac road, side stepping the litter, the dog shit, and the human vomit that lay scattered in between the pot holes and cobbled paths. Heading towards the city centre his thoughts turned towards his target, a pre-mediated objective - his motive which some would see as being weak, but this was real life and not a fictional novel. It didn’t need an elaborate explanation in order to satisfy a reading audience. It didn’t need him as some fictional character to be fleshed out in detail in order to follow some antiquated literary rule about character development making the difference between a good read and a bad read. Life is full of surprises he thought. Likewise it is full of unanswered questions. ‘Why’ was a word that he knew people would ask of him and yet would probably not fully comprehend. But did it really matter? In a literary sense he was the lazy author’s choice, the loner, the assassin with no name – and with a motive that wasn’t fully explained nor would be. Feeling nervous, but unnerved at the same time, a mix of emotions – good ones filled his aura. He was now marching, marching towards glory; "I'm going out on the streets and I'm feeling high. But you want to fight me and I don't know why." In his head a classic, a punk classic was yelling out at him; "Yeah, I wanna get dirty all covered in mud, But you turn on me … all I see is blood." He loved this song, an anthem if there ever was one. Aptly titled Let’s Break The Law"the Anti Nowhere League, it fuelled his body. He felt delirious. This was utopia. In his head the lyrics were a blessing, a signal that confirmed his commitment to the cause; "Well let’s break the law tonight. We'll give ‘em what for tonight. We'll settle the old score tonight" He turned onto Hylton Road stopping to drop a letter in a post box outside one of the many second hand junk stores that lay scattered up and down this crude and shabby part of Sunderland. Many dodgy deals took place here. In fact, providing you knew who to approach and how to approach them, you could obtain almost anything if the price was right, from smuggled booze and tobacco to pirate DVD’s, stolen goods, and small fire arms. In fact it was here that he’d managed to stock up on the contents held inside his guitar case. Looking down towards the city centre familiar landmarks rose in the darkening sky illuminated by street lamps and a plethora of road works – warning lamps flashing on and off an eerie amber glow. To his left Sunderland Minster also known as St. Michaels and All Angels Church rose above the city centre, its spire radiating a ghoulish green colour. He paused looking at the church realizing that this was one landmark he was not familiar with. He’d actually never noticed it before – not that places of worship and religion interested him. The Bible, Christ, Ten Commandments, seven deadly sins, seven cardinal sins or whatever meant fuck all. The only time he’d come close to anything remotely spiritual was after he’d found on the Internet the quote Samuel L. Jackson’s character Jules said in the movie Pulp Fiction; "And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers." It signalled the only time he’d actually looked at a Bible, finding the passage in the Book of Ezekiel 9, though the wording was somewhat different as the movie had combined extracts from the book of Psalms 9. As he started walking again he drifted back in time once more, thinking of the day he told the band the name they’d use – ‘Level Nine’. He tried to explain the connection between Pulp Fiction and the Bible, the number 9 standing out like a sore thumb. They didn’t understand. Story of his life. No one ever understood, but then a true artist never could be. ‘Level Nine’ played numerous gigs, each one gaining significant momentum, until a packed house in a rundown pub in a rundown part of Sunderland ended in chaos. He didn’t remember much. Everything happened so fast it even now it was still a blur, although images of being dragged into a police station, beaten, accused, and abused haunted him daily. After the events of that night he became withdrawn. Where possible he ignored newspaper reports of the incident and the lies they told about who was to blame. In fact he’d become so withdrawn he’d not bothered to attend the band members funerals – friends who in his opinion had been murdered. The magistrate’s verdict was that of an accident – after an unsuccessful attempt at trying to convict him as being responsible for the deaths of his compatriots. He knew who was to blame though and tonight he’d perform one last concert in honour of ‘Level Nine’ – a musical performance that would be anything but harmonic for his orchestral apparatus would be an instrument of death. Looking beyond the church he sighted his target – Gill Bridge Police Station – the scene of his detention and subsequent torture. It was presently undergoing a refurbishment program meaning the roads around the station were closed or churned up as new layouts and new tarmac was slowly being laid. It had caused traffic chaos as the road passing the station lead to one of only two bridges that spanned the River Wear. Beyond the station again lit up in a ghoulish green colour, were the huge arches of the Wearmouth Bridge, a mini version of the Sydney Harbour Bridge minus the concrete towers at each end. Heading downhill towards some wasteland opposite the station, he forced the guitar case through a hole in a fence prohibiting access to a demolished wilderness, before climbing up and over onto the other side. Moving swiftly, he kept low, darting in and out of numerous ruined buildings until he was in sight of the station. By simultaneously flipping two locks he opened the guitar case. Inside lay a dismantled snipers rifle. With precision and professionalism he started to retrieve his ammunition, carefully assembling a Dragunov Semi-Automatic. This was his ‘Mannlicher-Carcano’ the name of the rifle Lee Harvey Oswald had allegedly used to assassinate John F. Kennedy, though this weapon was far superior, fired more accurately, was semi-automatic, had greater distance, was more modern and considering its Russian origins was a unique gift. His allegiances to certain parties communist, nationalist or otherwise led to many contacts. One had led him to one of the second hand shops on Hylton Road and the purchase of this beautiful ornament, this perfectly crafted ‘Samurai sword’. Delicately and meticulously he fashioned the rifle, the barrel and stock locking into place, the telescopic lens fitted with night vision capability clicking into position. Pressing firmly he inserted a magazine clip – 12 rounds, 2.5 calibre bullets of American origin smuggled into the country via Ireland. Finally he screwed onto the modified barrel of the rifle a British made thread mounted silencer. Positioning himself comfortable on his stomach and lying on top of a pile of rubble with the rifle’s telescopic arms places firmly into the ground, he peered into the scope. A lone figure sat at a desk inside what was to all intense and purpose a deserted station. That figure represented the very essence of what he hated. Pausing for a brief moment he recalled the concert, the police storming in, the riot, the blood. The police, the fucking police. It was all there fault. Pure and simple. He despised them, their corruption, their lies, and abuse of their privileged powers. Tonight he’d remove that privilege. From within the sights of the Dragunov, the officer – the ‘Pig’- would pay the price. It didn’t matter if he had partaken in the raid on the concert and the subsequent beatings or not. He was in his scopes – wrong place, wrong time. One pull of the trigger was all it would take. In his head new lyrics flowed, this time from American rapper Ice-T, the track – "Cop Killer"; "Cop killer, better you than me. I'm a Cop killer, fuck police brutality! Cop killer, I know your family's grievin' (fuck 'em) Cop killer, but tonight we get even." He pulled the trigger. A round of bullets ripped through a window setting off numerous alarms. As the glass shattered, the projectiles found their target with pin point accuracy. Unmoved, he remained focused peering through the sights of the Dragunov, scanning for any signs of movement. There was none. His job was done. Without displaying the slightest hint of emotion or fear from the ringing alarm bells that would soon herald the arrival of a number of patrol cars, he stood up and headed off towards the Wearmouth Bridge leaving behind the rifle, the open guitar case – his life – and yet he initially felt let down, kind of empty. The melodramatic hysteria that had built up inside of him, much like sexual foreplay, anticipation, excitement, the challenge of the pleasures that lay before him led to an instant and sudden climax. Although he felt fulfilled there was a hollow presence that bothered him. If anything however he certainly didn’t feel guilty. It was after all, justice. It wasn’t cold blooded murder. They drew first blood not him. He didn’t start the fire. Traffic was light as he crossed over to the far side of the bridge, walking to the middle before peering over and down at the black and polluted fast flowing River Wear. Below lay ‘Ambit’, a highly acclaimed piece of art that had toured many different parts of the world. What a stupid name and stupid ‘sculpture’. Art was something he liked to think he understood. He was after all an artist in his own right, a former political soldier he would carry out his method of artistic license with his fists. He then became a musical artist albeit for a brief instance. Now he was a true artist – a killer. As sirens wailed in the distance, he paused looking down at ‘Ambit’, an odd arrangement of floating oil barrels fastened together glowing a strange mustard orange. Feeling no penance at all, he climbed onto a ledge, mumbled a few lines from a song off the album "Hammered" by Motorhead and gently pushed himself off; "Never mind, never fail. Right this time, on the nail. Never mind, never mind. No remorse, no remorse". A few days later a letter arrived for the attention of the Chief Constable of the Northumbrian Police Force. Inside was a hand written and badly composed poem, "Upon Ambit I fell, straight into Hell. Any you wonder why, my choice to die? One reason really, one thought that’s all, Your fault you see, and thus my call. Who pulled the trigger, who did the crime? ‘twas Level Nine - dying time." |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #3 Second place: #2 Others receiving votes: #6, #5, #7, #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Level Nine Charles Langley talespin@netacc.net |
#1 of 7 |
| 411 | |
| Mary Anne O'Connor sat staring at the colored lights on
the tiny ceramic Christmas Tree. She remembered stories her parents told her
about trees that took up a good part of the room at this time of
year. There was a sound at the door. She hastily covered the small object and went to see who was there. It was Johnny. "What's the matter, Mom," he asked. "You look all flustered." "I was sleeping," she lied. "You woke me." Then she reconsidered. Maybe the time had come. "I wasn't sleeping. I was looking at a relic from the past. A remembrance of a faith that filled the lives of most of our country." She uncovered the tree. "First athiests got prayer removed from the schools. Contested the Pledge of Allegiance because it mentioned a higher being. Then minority groups claimed that our religion infringed on their rights and shouldn't be seen on government sites. After the five wars against middle East countries, refugees came in in such numbers that our religion was a minority. That's when it became illegal to use any word for God except Allah. Level Nine Godless Squads were organized to recruit children to inform on their parents. Today you can be sentenced to death for exhibiting faith in anyone other than the politicians. Now I think it is time to tell it like it is. To give you the chance to stand up for a belief, or to destroy those who love you. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the birth of Our Lord Jesus Chist. It was traditional to give gifts on that day. Tomorrow you will get your first Christmas Gift." "Will it be the wrist computer that I asked for?" "I'm afraid not. Things haven't been good for us since your father died in the war. You will have to settle for something less, given with love and good cheer." She bowed her head and said a simple prayer over the tiny ceramic tree. Outside, Johnny put his ring cell phone to his lips. He blew on it to activate it, then spoke in numbers. He heard the connection being made through his wireless earpiece. "Hello. Is this the Level Nine?" "It is." "Do you still give a reward to anyone who reports a religious believer?" "We do." "Is the reward enough to buy a wrist computer?" "Absolutely." "Good. I'll give you a name. But you can't make the arrest until the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow she's giving me a gift." He smiled and looked at the wrist where the new computer would fit. |
|
| Level Nine P. D. Han pdhan@pdhan.co.uk |
#2 of 7 Runner-up |
| 2486 | |
| It was almost time to act. Deep down he knew he was
doing the right thing – even if no one else did. He sighed; tears swelled
in his eyes as he sat listening to the ‘noise’ coming from his
CD player, the track "Who Must Die", the artist Sepultura, a Brazilian
death metal band; "Who decides who lives in this world? Who decides who dies in this world?" The intensity of the lyrics flowed within him, an adrenaline rush, pure inspiration; "Who dares to throw the first rock? Who believes in justice being done?" Today would be a ‘glorious’ day. Today would be his day. He smiled. Wiping away a tear he continued sitting, his emotions heightening as he listened to song after song, absorbing an abundant of anarchistic lyrics, to him buoyant, uplifting - motivating. He didn’t drink, smoke, or take drugs, he never had. His narcotic, his poison, was his music, brash, offensive music, his senses reverberating from the anti social melodies – stimulation from what the masses termed ‘pure filth’. The clock struck half past three just as the last track ended. Outside the sky was dulling as evening started to set in. Being December, it would soon be dark. It was time. He laced up his boots – army surplus grade one assault boots. He stood up and put on his combat jacket. Straightening the pins on his lapel he paused to admire their simplistic design, invigorating (right wing) fascist and racist meanings – a swastika (an insignia whose true meaning he probably didn’t realize, instead it was to him merely a fashion item – shock value), a red lightning fork (a badge used to show support towards nationalism), a British bulldog, a St. George’s flag (symbols which over the years had been hijacked, used as emblems of hatred), an orange square pin with the words UFF embedded (a Northern Ireland loyalist movement – the ‘Orange Order’). All in all a mix of political factions, each one part of his colourful and violent past. For a second he drifted back in time, back to the brutal yet elegant marches of what he’d often refer to as his ‘street fighting years’. Until today his crowning glory came in 2001 as he joined his fellow partisans and radical extremists tearing up the Asian community in and around the Westwood and Glodwick areas of the Lancashire town of Oldham. Since then he’d kept a low profile – to avoid any potential arrest - always moving and always drifting from one town to another. Finally, he’d ended up here, the City of Sunderland on the North East coast of England. For a while, he felt settled. Over a period of time he tried (and failed) to detach himself from his turbulent past. Retiring from the marching scene he turned to reading, and started writing poetry. Eventually he formed a band, his metrical compositions becoming lyrics. It became a method to vent out his suppressed frustrations. Sadly his musical adventure was short lived, ending abruptly in bloodshed and tears. From that moment he kept himself to himself. Talking to no one, he’d collect his benefits on a weekly basis before returning in isolation to his rented accommodation in Pallion, thinking, constantly thinking, of what future lay ahead of him. He had concluded none. Now it was time to end it all. He walked through the hallway towards the front door, stopping as he caught his reflection in the hallway mirror, his shaved head, scarred, tattooed, worn, well worn, war torn. He picked up an old battered acoustic guitar case. Etched on the side were the words ‘Level Nine’. Inside lay the future. He felt strangely proud as he closed the front door behind him never to return. Outside it was cold, but dry. A couple of school children brushed past him as they made their way home from Diamond Hall Junior School. He turned onto a back lane walking briskly over the worn out tarmac road, side stepping the litter, the dog shit, and the human vomit that lay scattered in between the pot holes and cobbled paths. Heading towards the city centre his thoughts turned towards his target, a pre-mediated objective - his motive which some would see as being weak, but this was real life and not a fictional novel. It didn’t need an elaborate explanation in order to satisfy a reading audience. It didn’t need him as some fictional character to be fleshed out in detail in order to follow some antiquated literary rule about character development making the difference between a good read and a bad read. Life is full of surprises he thought. Likewise it is full of unanswered questions. ‘Why’ was a word that he knew people would ask of him and yet would probably not fully comprehend. But did it really matter? In a literary sense he was the lazy author’s choice, the loner, the assassin with no name – and with a motive that wasn’t fully explained nor would be. Feeling nervous, but unnerved at the same time, a mix of emotions – good ones filled his aura. He was now marching, marching towards glory; "I'm going out on the streets and I'm feeling high. But you want to fight me and I don't know why." In his head a classic, a punk classic was yelling out at him; "Yeah, I wanna get dirty all covered in mud, But you turn on me … all I see is blood." He loved this song, an anthem if there ever was one. Aptly titled Let’s Break The Law"the Anti Nowhere League, it fuelled his body. He felt delirious. This was utopia. In his head the lyrics were a blessing, a signal that confirmed his commitment to the cause; "Well let’s break the law tonight. We'll give ‘em what for tonight. We'll settle the old score tonight" He turned onto Hylton Road stopping to drop a letter in a post box outside one of the many second hand junk stores that lay scattered up and down this crude and shabby part of Sunderland. Many dodgy deals took place here. In fact, providing you knew who to approach and how to approach them, you could obtain almost anything if the price was right, from smuggled booze and tobacco to pirate DVD’s, stolen goods, and small fire arms. In fact it was here that he’d managed to stock up on the contents held inside his guitar case. Looking down towards the city centre familiar landmarks rose in the darkening sky illuminated by street lamps and a plethora of road works – warning lamps flashing on and off an eerie amber glow. To his left Sunderland Minster also known as St. Michaels and All Angels Church rose above the city centre, its spire radiating a ghoulish green colour. He paused looking at the church realizing that this was one landmark he was not familiar with. He’d actually never noticed it before – not that places of worship and religion interested him. The Bible, Christ, Ten Commandments, seven deadly sins, seven cardinal sins or whatever meant fuck all. The only time he’d come close to anything remotely spiritual was after he’d found on the Internet the quote Samuel L. Jackson’s character Jules said in the movie Pulp Fiction; "And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers." It signalled the only time he’d actually looked at a Bible, finding the passage in the Book of Ezekiel 9, though the wording was somewhat different as the movie had combined extracts from the book of Psalms 9. As he started walking again he drifted back in time once more, thinking of the day he told the band the name they’d use – ‘Level Nine’. He tried to explain the connection between Pulp Fiction and the Bible, the number 9 standing out like a sore thumb. They didn’t understand. Story of his life. No one ever understood, but then a true artist never could be. ‘Level Nine’ played numerous gigs, each one gaining significant momentum, until a packed house in a rundown pub in a rundown part of Sunderland ended in chaos. He didn’t remember much. Everything happened so fast it even now it was still a blur, although images of being dragged into a police station, beaten, accused, and abused haunted him daily. After the events of that night he became withdrawn. Where possible he ignored newspaper reports of the incident and the lies they told about who was to blame. In fact he’d become so withdrawn he’d not bothered to attend the band members funerals – friends who in his opinion had been murdered. The magistrate’s verdict was that of an accident – after an unsuccessful attempt at trying to convict him as being responsible for the deaths of his compatriots. He knew who was to blame though and tonight he’d perform one last concert in honour of ‘Level Nine’ – a musical performance that would be anything but harmonic for his orchestral apparatus would be an instrument of death. Looking beyond the church he sighted his target – Gill Bridge Police Station – the scene of his detention and subsequent torture. It was presently undergoing a refurbishment program meaning the roads around the station were closed or churned up as new layouts and new tarmac was slowly being laid. It had caused traffic chaos as the road passing the station lead to one of only two bridges that spanned the River Wear. Beyond the station again lit up in a ghoulish green colour, were the huge arches of the Wearmouth Bridge, a mini version of the Sydney Harbour Bridge minus the concrete towers at each end. Heading downhill towards some wasteland opposite the station, he forced the guitar case through a hole in a fence prohibiting access to a demolished wilderness, before climbing up and over onto the other side. Moving swiftly, he kept low, darting in and out of numerous ruined buildings until he was in sight of the station. By simultaneously flipping two locks he opened the guitar case. Inside lay a dismantled snipers rifle. With precision and professionalism he started to retrieve his ammunition, carefully assembling a Dragunov Semi-Automatic. This was his ‘Mannlicher-Carcano’ the name of the rifle Lee Harvey Oswald had allegedly used to assassinate John F. Kennedy, though this weapon was far superior, fired more accurately, was semi-automatic, had greater distance, was more modern and considering its Russian origins was a unique gift. His allegiances to certain parties communist, nationalist or otherwise led to many contacts. One had led him to one of the second hand shops on Hylton Road and the purchase of this beautiful ornament, this perfectly crafted ‘Samurai sword’. Delicately and meticulously he fashioned the rifle, the barrel and stock locking into place, the telescopic lens fitted with night vision capability clicking into position. Pressing firmly he inserted a magazine clip – 12 rounds, 2.5 calibre bullets of American origin smuggled into the country via Ireland. Finally he screwed onto the modified barrel of the rifle a British made thread mounted silencer. Positioning himself comfortable on his stomach and lying on top of a pile of rubble with the rifle’s telescopic arms places firmly into the ground, he peered into the scope. A lone figure sat at a desk inside what was to all intense and purpose a deserted station. That figure represented the very essence of what he hated. Pausing for a brief moment he recalled the concert, the police storming in, the riot, the blood. The police, the fucking police. It was all there fault. Pure and simple. He despised them, their corruption, their lies, and abuse of their privileged powers. Tonight he’d remove that privilege. From within the sights of the Dragunov, the officer – the ‘Pig’- would pay the price. It didn’t matter if he had partaken in the raid on the concert and the subsequent beatings or not. He was in his scopes – wrong place, wrong time. One pull of the trigger was all it would take. In his head new lyrics flowed, this time from American rapper Ice-T, the track – "Cop Killer"; "Cop killer, better you than me. I'm a Cop killer, fuck police brutality! Cop killer, I know your family's grievin' (fuck 'em) Cop killer, but tonight we get even." He pulled the trigger. A round of bullets ripped through a window setting off numerous alarms. As the glass shattered, the projectiles found their target with pin point accuracy. Unmoved, he remained focused peering through the sights of the Dragunov, scanning for any signs of movement. There was none. His job was done. Without displaying the slightest hint of emotion or fear from the ringing alarm bells that would soon herald the arrival of a number of patrol cars, he stood up and headed off towards the Wearmouth Bridge leaving behind the rifle, the open guitar case – his life – and yet he initially felt let down, kind of empty. The melodramatic hysteria that had built up inside of him, much like sexual foreplay, anticipation, excitement, the challenge of the pleasures that lay before him led to an instant and sudden climax. Although he felt fulfilled there was a hollow presence that bothered him. If anything however he certainly didn’t feel guilty. It was after all, justice. It wasn’t cold blooded murder. They drew first blood not him. He didn’t start the fire. Traffic was light as he crossed over to the far side of the bridge, walking to the middle before peering over and down at the black and polluted fast flowing River Wear. Below lay ‘Ambit’, a highly acclaimed piece of art that had toured many different parts of the world. What a stupid name and stupid ‘sculpture’. Art was something he liked to think he understood. He was after all an artist in his own right, a former political soldier he would carry out his method of artistic license with his fists. He then became a musical artist albeit for a brief instance. Now he was a true artist – a killer. As sirens wailed in the distance, he paused looking down at ‘Ambit’, an odd arrangement of floating oil barrels fastened together glowing a strange mustard orange. Feeling no penance at all, he climbed onto a ledge, mumbled a few lines from a song off the album "Hammered" by Motorhead and gently pushed himself off; "Never mind, never fail. Right this time, on the nail. Never mind, never mind. No remorse, no remorse". A few days later a letter arrived for the attention of the Chief Constable of the Northumbrian Police Force. Inside was a hand written and badly composed poem, "Upon Ambit I fell, straight into Hell. Any you wonder why, my choice to die? One reason really, one thought that’s all, Your fault you see, and thus my call. Who pulled the trigger, who did the crime? ‘twas Level Nine - dying time." |
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| Level Nine P.S. Gifford psgifford@earthlink.net |
#3 of 7 |
| 465 | |
| Elizabeth all at once had opened her eyes and felt
strangely rested. She allowed her retinas to adjust to the bright warm light
and began to scrutinize her unexpected surroundings. She experienced a tinge of
panic as she did not only did not know where she was but had absolutely no idea
of how she got here. However as soon as the anxiety had risen it quickly faded
and she became at ease with her dilemma. She purposefully studied the metallic
room. Yes, there was no doubt about it; she was in some sort of elevator. She
was alone and confused yet she did not feel afraid, in fact on the contrary
Elizabeth felt remarkably tranquil. She noticed that she was wearing a long
soft pink cotton summer dress and this bemused her, for she had not worn such a
dress in a long, long time. Elizabeth desperately attempted to concentrate on where she had just been. She examined the beautifully inscribed numbers next to the buttons which went all the way up to level nine. Vague slivers of memories started to cluster coherently within her mind. Yes, she had started to remember! She closed her eyes as images of her ailing health replayed. "That was it!" she realized, " I had fallen prey to the dreaded rampant fever". She remembered the servants in her big house tending to her. She remembered the doctor being called. She remembered the shaking of the heads. And she remembered finally falling into a deep blissful sleep. All at once she started to understand where she was and found herself excited at the prospect. "I made it" she sighed. "I have actually made it! Bring me on home Lord, bring me on home." It was then that the elevator doors suddenly slid open to reveal a big brightly colored sign, "Welcome to cloud nine". Elizabeth could not help but smile to herself as she paused to study the glorious peaceful scene. She could acutely smell the sweet scents of the multitude of colorful wild flowers; hear children’s enchanting giggling as they frolicked innocently under the cloudless blue sky. Somewhere off in the distance she was convinced that she could even hear the soft sounds of a string quartet performing Mozart, as it soothingly serenaded with the sounds of gurgling streams gushing crystal water down the green hills. Eagerly she stepped forward just as a young woman and man appeared in her path. She recognized the faces instantly, her dead parents. Her heart froze in fear as her father waved an all too familiar axe in her face and pushed her abruptly back into the elevator. "This is the wrong floor Lizzie Borden!" He yelled… "They are expecting you in the basement." |
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| Level Nine lee10@host365.com |
#4 of 7 Winner |
| 1002 | |
| Mo’s eyes were full of gritty dust. They opened
reluctantly, like stuttering roller blinds. Microscopic shards from the
earth’s womb scoured his eyeballs and he groaned. His eyelids scraped
shut, but he couldn’t close out the reality of the intense, enveloping
blackness as thick, as suffocating as treacle. His mind carried him,
unresisting, into unconsciousness. Awareness gently returned. The transition between unknowing and knowing was seamless and Mo kept his eyes tight shut against the nothingness that lay beyond. Kaleidoscopic colours played on the backs of his eyelids and he tried to divert his thoughts by making patterns of the whirling red, yellow and blue swirls and flashes; tried hard to believe he was at home and only dreaming. But it didn’t work and he desperately needed to explore this space into which he’d suddenly been plunged. One arm was pinned beneath him. With the other he pushed hard, scrabbling against lose gravel that rattled away on the sloping floor. But he was trapped. His feet were pinned down. He was imprisoned on his side, curled like a foetus in a womb. Behind him, the pile of fallen rock that had filled in the end of the mine’s lowest level, the difficult and dangerous Level Nine, creaked threateningly. Somewhere in front of his face, a similar fall lay heaped, quiet, and impassive. But he knew it was there. The mine that had echoed with the sounds of machinery working and with men laughing, singing and squabbling had gone. Mo had heard it go, had felt the rush of displaced air that pushed him in the back, making him stumble. It was that stumble, that brief fraction of a second that halted his step that had prevented him being under the second fall, the one that must have crushed the gang leader and the other three miners. Mo was held as firmly by his dread, as securely by the weight of the dark, as his feet were held by fallen rock. The pressure of silence squeezed him unremittingly and every breath was difficult. His head became light, his thoughts disorientated as his lungs struggled and failed to take in the air his body needed. He tasted bitter bile and gagged. He cried but the dust-laden air turned his sobs into dry retching. Rocks clattered from the pile, pressing into his back, showing just how small his tomb was. He opened his eyes, wiping them frantically, lubricating them with his tears, looking hard for a chink of light, for the promise of a way out. He listened for sounds of rescue. Nothing. He stretched his hand out into unseen space, touched hard rock. He scrabbled at it but the rock was unmoveable. Mo whimpered. Mo lay alone, in the darkness, in the deafening quiet. His breathing was shallow but unconsciousness refused to blanket him again and despite himself, in his mind, he replayed, over and over, those last few seconds before the second rock fall. He heard the crack as roof props failed, heard the sigh as the ceiling gave way, compressing the air beneath. He heard, again and again, the cries of the other men as they went under the punishing burden of rock that wiped out most of Level Nine. Suddenly he remembered, with a clarity that the surrounding dark couldn’t suppress, a forgotten memory that forced its way back into the narrative. Mo had stumbled but he hadn’t fallen at that point. He’d taken a half-step, almost catching up with Cecil, the man in front. When the ceiling gave way, Cecil had turned, had shoved Mo. He’d screamed, "Run!" He’d knocked Mo off his feet, but he’d saved his life. Yet Cecil hated Mo; loathed the young man who’d made his daughter pregnant. Only that morning, Cecil had demanded that one of them be taken off the gang. Management said they’d think about it and sent the gang underground. Mo felt a flush of guilt as he remembered an incident last week. He’d been at the bar in the Social Club with a pint in his hand when Cecil came up, threatening to "punch his lights out, if he’d got the guts to come outside." The group of young men surrounding Mo laughed at the small, angry, old man who was half Mo’s size. They’d pushed him away, and Cecil had made so much noise the Committee threw him out and banned him from the Club for a month. Mo had laughed too but he’d admired the older man’s guts for all that. Mo thought of the child who’d never know its grandfather; who’d never know what a hero he’d been and Mo was determined to tell his child that its grandfather had been a big man. Mo couldn’t do much. He couldn’t move but he’d still got lungs. He could use them, so coughing and shouting he filled the small space with noise. Some of it would penetrate the rock he thought, some of it must surely seep out to rescuers on the other side. He flung gravel and smaller stones at the rock wall. His cries, even damped down by the dusty air, echoed like sonar, hurting his ears. But he didn’t stop. Cecil’s push had to count for something. Mo kept shouting. Then a sliver of light appeared, high up in the tiniest of gaps between two stones. Mo threw gravel at the light and screamed louder than ever. The light grew, a thin, silver wand knifing the dark, cutting through Mo’s aloneness, exploding his despair. Mo stopped shouting and held his breath for fear he’d scare it away. He stared hard at it, focused on it. It was his way out. Like a baby’s passage along a narrow birth canal, life lay at the other end of the beam. He would follow it. It was all he needed. For the moment he relaxed, knowing rescue was imminent, even though nothing penetrated the darkness except for that one, thin, pencil beam of light. |
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| Level Nine Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#5 of 7 |
| 645 | |
| "I'm glad I have one fresh t-shirt left. I'm going to
take off the one I'm wearing and hang it on my back underneath my long sleeved
shirt. That way they can't stab me in the back. And I'll leave a little bit
hanging down so when they kick me in the ass it won't hurt so much. Bed one is
easy, nicely made with fresh sheets and all you have to do is lie down and
sleep. Bed two is fun with my crossword and Lifesavers and the good pen with
the flowing ink. Bed three is unmade but I just don't care anymore. I can't
stand it but I'm used to it. From four on it gets more complicated. They keep
adding stuff, stuff I can't figure out. It gets elaborate and unreal and I
can't deal with it. I just can't deal with it. Especially without my window. I
could at least look out and see other people living their lives, eavesdrop,
peeping Tom, but not in this damned place. My window faces the South - And
I'm nearly halfway to Heaven - but I'm never frowning, or down at the mouth -
my window faces the Sou-ou-ou-outh - my window faces the South. My computer
was a window. I used to have a life before the computer. The whole world was
there and I mostly played games. If I could just live my life over knowing what
I know now, or maybe I could just start from right now if they'd give me
another chance. It's corporations, advertising, making money. That's what's
ruined everything. telemarketers, popup ads, trees cut down for a three pound
Sunday paper full of ads. I don't need them to tell me what I want. I know what
I want, I think, or at least I used to. Damn bitches! My life would be so easy
without those damn bitches parading around. I'm hungry, even though the food
here is deplorable. Man, the feasts I used to whip up at home. Home, what home.
The family home was sold. Now it's a series of apartments. Sometimes I dream
about the old home. You'd think it would make me feel sad but it makes me feel
safe." The voice went on, sounding a little tinny through the speakers in the control room. Dr. Milquetoast yawned, glanced automatically over the banks of screens, reached for his brown paper bag and pulled out a banana and some crackers. The door opened somewhere in mid banana bite. "Dr. Stern! I didn't, uh ..." "Expect to see me here at this hour? Relax Doctor, fininsh your banana. It's just a routine spot check. What is that voice?" "It's one of our Level 9 patients. I just keep him on because he's, well, kind of interesting." "How long has he been Level 9?" "For weeks, Sir." "That's highly unusual. You'd think he'd either go on to Level 10 with the straight jackets or go back to one of the lower levels. Does he respond to medication?" "Not well. He just sits in a corner. He mutters "Damn bitches" once in a while, probably because you can't get an erection when you're on the drugs, but mostly he just sits there. I can give him the medication now if you'd like." "No need. We'll just sit and listen for a while." "... way back then. Way back when/then. I was a normal kid. Mother, father, sister, brother, uncles, aunts, cousins, home, school, summer vacations, family reunions, Christmas, birthday parties. I don't know how kids today are going to make it. Too much information. Too much information. Teach your children well - the one they pick - the one they'll go by. Don't you ever ask them why. That's right, don't ever ask them why. They don't know why. They think they do but only I really do. And you know they love you. |
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| Level Nine Trish Wahlstrom trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#6 of 7 |
| 627 | |
| Every day she would come out to the pasture fence and
bring me an apple. Susie was the nicest 10 year old girl a pony could ever hope
to know. Then later in the stall she would brush me thoroughly. I always looked
forward to that. Jeans and a t-shirt were all I ever saw her in so I guess she
was pretty even with her long blonde hair in a ponytail (how appropriate).
Anyhow all little girls look pretty much alike to me. Me and this one were
going to try to win the big competition next weekend. Everyday we practiced. She was such a good little rider that I learned the turns and jumps very quickly. Then I would prance around with pride though maybe it was a little undignified for a horse to do that. The jumps were the hardest but I learned to time them just right and kept jumping a little higher every day. Afterwards, Susie would pour a couple of buckets of cold water on me and give me a good rubdown. And another apple. Oats and hay are alright if you’re hungry but there’s nothing like a crisp sweet juicy apple. On the day of the big meet, we were doing pretty well. After a few rounds most everyone had made mistakes somewhere and there was just us and this snooty rich girl. Susie was dressed nicely in riding pants and an embroidered pink shirt but Little Miss Rich Girl had on expensive boots and a silk top astride a strong pony that was bigger that me ( but not as handsome). The one time Susie had tried to be nice to her she had gotten snubbed so I snubbed the other horse too, though he didn't have much to say anyhow. They had raised the bar on the final jump to level 7. Our competition breezed through and took the jump easily. I had a good run at it, jumped it as high as I could and cleared it by about an inch. Then they raised it to level 8. The other pony was strong and experienced but he barely cleared it. I was getting a little tired, it had been a long day, but I gathered up all my strength, jumped higher than I ever had, and also barely cleared it. The crowd applauded as Susie smiled at them calmly. Then they raised it to level 9. No one had ever jumped that high before and I was all for calling it a tie but no one was listening to me. Little Miss Rich Girl spurred her horse on and it looked like they had it made but his back heels clipped the bar, they lost their balance, and down they went. The crowd gasped but the girl had rolled smartly and got up unhurt. Her pony got up slowly but was also unhurt. Thank goodness! Then it was my turn. Weariness was beginning to set in. Susie patted my neck and said c'mon, you can do it. I ran quickly and surely and timed my jump perfectly. I didn't even wan't to look down but kept my eyes to the sky. I pulled my front hooves up just in time but grazed the bar with my belly. The bar didn't fall, luckily, and I had gotten just enough extra forward momentum to pull up my back hooves, missing the bar by a whisker. We landed a little awkwardly but Susie hung on and gave a loud girlish squeal of triumph. I was definitely prancing now as we came to the winners circle. Before the trophy was presented and pictures taken, Susie slipped off and ran to the nearest fence post. She came skipping back with something she had hidden there. An apple. |
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| Level Nine mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#7 of 7 |
| 2352 | |
| While on his way up to the forty-fourth floor where he
worked, Russell absently looked at the little built-in monitor inside the
elevator, contemplating the density of information that an average person is
getting nowadays. Without it, he mused, we’d probably feel like a deep sea
water fish brought to the surface. He remembered the time when, back in his college days, he and two of his buddies spent three days on the lake, deliberately away from civilization. The first day went ok, but then they experienced such an informational hunger that they ended up reading the labels from the corned beef cans and match boxes. And now, instead of clearing his head, getting it ready for the daily "meat grinder," Russell was focusing on the monitor where weather, stock market and highway patrol reports rotated on the screen with measured predictability. *** At his desk, Russell checked his over-night jobs, responded to e-mails that piled up from the previous night and this morning, and returned to the problem he had been presented with yesterday. He’d been just too tired to deal with it, then - exhausted as if someone had syringed all the gray matter out of his cranium. But he was rested, now, and ready to deal with it, even though it frightened him somewhat. Russell was afraid because he knew he would have to dig deep to brace himself for this mental effort. But, at the same time, he craved the experiencei - he knew, should he concentrate hard enough and give himself completely to it - the award would be oblivion. Russell loved these moments of oblivion. The subject matter consumed him so much that he would lose awareness of who he was: an alive organism somewhere in the space-time continuum, an informational unit tracked by his social security number, bank account number, credit card number, employee number, FICO score, amount of money in his the bank account, amount on his pay check, number of his dependents…. But, mostly, it afforded an escape from the realization that, despite all his efforts, his life didn’t amount to anything special and he couldn’t rise above being just a statistic, even in his own eyes. The problem had been presented to him by Paula - the analyst, who worked with him on the in-house automated underwriting software. "It’s Loan 3595423. Bert Muller from the Louisiana branch worked on it. He had to send this loan to a second signer because it was above his authority level. So he sent it to Rich Hatchinson. But then, when Rich wanted to send it further.…" "Wait. Why would Rich need to send it further? Isn’t he a Senior Underwriter himself - Level Five?" "He is, but this was the five hundred sixty-five grand loan, which requires signing off on by an Executive Vice President Level 7." "So? "Well. When Rich attempted to send it to Level Seven, his authority listbox was empty." "Got it." "This is kind of urgent, you know." "I said, I got it. Give me five minutes to myself organized, and I’ll jump right on it." So this was the problem. He ran the program and started tracing its execution, observing its jumps from statement to statement and periodically checking its inartistic values. Everything seemed to be in place. His mind felt fresh and it seemed that the gears in the mechanism of his brain, those that kept slipping while rotating against each other yesterday, now were grabbing snugly. After a while Russell came to a query that was supposed to find the users with Level Seven access. It was empty. He copied the statement and ran it separately in the Query Analyzer. The same result - empty. ‘Wait a second … and who am I suppose to see there? Ray Merkin. He’s a EPV of Underwriting. Didn’t he just resign?’ "Hey Paula…" He caught her as she was on her way back to her cubicle. "Didn’t Ray Merkin resign?" "Yeah." "And did you deactivate him in the database?" "Yeah." "Well, then there’s no surprise no one shows up. There isn’t anybody in the company occupying Level Seven right now." "True, but shouldn’t the program, if it didn’t find anybody on Seven, go to the next level?" "Hm…So who’s actually supposed to show up?" "Jeff Spinnaker, he is Chief Credit Officer, Level Eight." "I wonder why he’s not showing?" "Good question." "Mmmm…yeah." Russell went back to the program and checked the code. Strangely, until Level Six, the program advanced to the next level if there was no one in the current one. But then… Russell just couldn’t figure why it wouldn’t advance to Eight. It made no sense. Russell ran the query to see who was Level Eight in the database. As soon as he saw the results he understood what was the problem. Not only did the query return "Jeff Spinnaker," but also himself, Paula and Andrew, another programmer on this project. All sitting in there with the CCO - and the CCO’s level of authorization. Programmers and analysts needed high level access to be able to move freely within the program - but they weren’t supposed to be able to approve five hundred sixty-five thousand dollar loans. If he didn’t cap the logic at Level Seven, every programmer involved with this project would, ultimately, show up on Level Eight. What he needed to do was add a Level Nine to the authority table, then grant all the programmers Level Nine and modify the logic of the stored procedure to let the Level Eight show in the list when there was no Level Seven around. Piece of cake technically, but administratively…. Time for a break. His best ideas usually came to him over coffee. Russell pushed his chair back and looked over at Andrew, oblivious at his monitor. "Hey, Andrew - let’s go get some coffee." *** In the lunchroom there were two signs posted by the brewing machine. "If you take the last cup - be kind and make a new pot." …and… "Please do not brew a new pot of coffee until the pot is totally empty so the pot will not overflow." Andrew cast a glance at them and sighed. "You know, I was always wondered whether it is physically possible to comply with both of these requests simultaneously. Think about it. Certainly, if it would happen that your cup was the very last one in the pot, then the directive would be clear. But what are the chances? Most likely after you’d pour yourself a cup, the pot would still have some fractional amount left. Say half or a quarter of a cup. So which directive should be followed?" Russell smirked just to show his participation, but then his face went back to his normal, grouchy "Don’t bother me, can’t you see I’m busy?" expression. Andrew looked at him and grinned. "Why do I feel you’re about to give birth to an idea?" "Idea? More like a complaint. I’ve got to go back there and talk to Denise." "Oh…I feel your pain." None of the programmers enjoyed working with Denise and there was a valid reason for that. "She’s not a bad person" Russell noted, answering their shared, though unspoken, thoughts. "It’s just...." "Yep. Not bad - just obtuse." They shook their heads in unison. "It’s not her fault of course." Russell wiped absent-mindedly at some spilled coffee on the table. "It’s that stupid Sarbanes-Oxley shit." "What’s a ‘Sarbanes-Oxley’?" Peggy Miercules from Accounting, who just entered the lunchroom, poured coffee in her mug. "Not ‘what’ but ‘who’," Andrew jumped in. "Two old farts from the Senate who, after 9/11, decided to display their patriotism and vigilance. They wrote a bill and named it after themselves." "Oh, my… So how does that affect us?" "In many detrimental ways. Once specifically is a division of power. One group develops the software, but another maintains it. Supposedly for better security." "So what’s wrong with that? Sounds reasonable." "Sure. Looks good on paper. What happened in reality though is that people who know what they’re doing in the production database are replaced with the people who don’t know shit. So it’s not only very dangerous to let them do anything in production, but also it’s become practically impossible to fix a production problem. All these tons of papers you have to fill to fix one little puny thing. It actually takes at least three times more to describe the problem, get permission and all this crap, than just to fix the damned thing." "But why don’t the people who maintain the product know what they’re doing?" "Well... theoretically, they should. But all IT departments are normally small shops. They can afford only half a dozen people who know what they are doing. The rest are just sort of low-pay all-purpose clerks." "Oh, boy. So, now what?" "So, now we are in a very bad situation. Just recently, one buddy of mine told me lots of small businesses are closing their IT departments and are contracting their IT services to India." "Wow, that sucks. OK, boys, I’d better be going. Have a nice day." Peggy waved to them on her way out. Russell and Andrew watched her leave, then looked at each other and, simultaneously, shook their heads. Accountants. What did they care? *** "So, what do you want to do…add another authority level?" Denise’s pale eyes looked at Russell through thick glasses as if they knew, beyond a reasonable doubt, that he was guilty. Only they didn’t know how to prove it yet. "I’ve never heard of this. Why can’t you do this the usual way?" "Because it’s the current production issue. Listen Denise, it’s not a big deal. All I have to do is to add one more record to one table and change one line in the stored procedure." "But you want to do it in the production database. Without testing?" "Try to understand Denise - the loan cannot be approved if I do this in ‘Test.’ Why is this such a hard thing to understand? It needs to be done in production." "All I know is you didn’t design your system properly if you need to be in production to approve the loan." "What are you talking about? What do you know about designing a system? Design is a collective effort. You should know that it’s not me who comes up with how many security levels a system is supposed to have. I’ve been requested to make eight levels... and I’ve made eight." "So, why do you need Level Nine now?" Russell sighed loudly, thinking how difficult it would be to explain this to her. "Because we never have enough time to do what needs to be done. You know that. ‘There’s never enough time to do things right, but somehow there’s always time to redo it,’" he quoted. "Look," Denise was adamant, "I don’t know what you’re going to do and, honestly, I don’t care. You say I don’t let you do your job. Well, you can say this as much as you want. But the fact is - I’m doing MY job!" Russell turned his head away, trying to calm himself - he was ready to choke Denise. Yes, he could do that... but what would it accomplish? Now Denise’s eyes looked as if Russell’s guilt was proven and the jury had just come back with a First Degree Murder verdict. "Go test it, document the problem, and I’ll be happy to sign it off. And don’t roll your eyes at me. I told you - I’m just doing my job." *** Russell sat at his desk and looked at his monitor without blinking. ‘Stupid Denise! Stupid ‘Sarbanes-Oxley’… "Protect production from developers" - how stupid is that? If I wanted to, I could get into ‘production’ just like this.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘All I need is the alphanumeric password generator that would attempt to open a database as a system administrator. Put it in the loop and save the password that worked. Piece of cake. "Protect production from developers" - Stupid fucks! I need their permission like a dog needs a fifth leg.’ *** It took Russell half an hour to write the program. And now it was running. He turned away to his second computer and now worked on documenting the problem for Denise, but periodically looked back to see if the system administrator password had been found. It took the program an hour and a forty minutes to crack the password. There it was - "AUDITOR911." ‘Someone was also thinking of "Sarbanes-Oxley," I guess.’ Russell grinned. Carefully, he looked around and, seeing that no one was looking, logged into the production database as the system administrator, quickly inserted the level 9 authority level and made a change to the stored procedure and, just as quickly, logged out. Russell wiped the sweat off his forehead, logged into the application as Rich Hatchinson and tested that Jeff Spinnaker popped out in his authorities list box. ‘Thank fucking God!’ "Hey Paula." Relaxed, now, Russell mosied over to her cubicle. "We’re fine now with the whole thing on Loan 3595423. Take a look." Paula quickly tested it. "Great! I’m going to call Rich. How did you do it?" "Don’t ask." Russell rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Don’t ask." *** An hour later, while Russell was still talking to her about the project, Paula received a phone call. "It’s Jeff Spinnaker," she whispered to Russell, shielding the receiver with her hand. She withdrew her hand. "Yes, Jeff?" "Sure. I’ll be there in five minutes." "What does he want?" Russell gestured at Paula, not being able to hear the conversation. "No biggie. He never used the software before and didn’t know which button to hit in order to approve the loan." Russell laughed, but not joyfully. "Isn’t it ironic?" "What?" Paula was about to leave. "Nothing. Everything. It’s like symbollic of our life - they’re so high on the security level list and yet dosn’t know which button to press." "Who? Jeff or Sarbanes-Oxley?" "All of them." *** It was time to go home. Russell pressed the "Lobby" button inside the elevator and rubbed his eyes. The elevator stopped and Russell emerged, almost bumping into a woman who was moving in the opposite direction. "Oh, shucks!" Russell realized it wasn’t the Lobby, he’d walked out of the elevator too early. The doors were closing, but the woman heard Russell’s comment and pressed the "Open" button just in time. "Thanks." Russell smiled apologetically. "Sorry." "It’s OK," the woman smiled back. "Aren’t we all getting off on the wrong floor?" Russell smiled. ‘Yep. Wrong floor and wrong security level.’ |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club