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"Cloud Nine" (the seventy-fourth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Cloud Nine" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), Oct 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Cloud Nine By Roger Haller roger@cowboylogic.net (Entry #6) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Overcast skies were the North West
rule for most of the autumn months. I was having trouble remembering the last
span of sunshine that lasted more than forty eight hours. Meteorology was going
to be my ticket to the top. U-Dub had provided me the ticket two years ago and
global warming was going to hand me a nice career. So far a morning and afternoon radio weather spot at one of the local country stations was not my idea of a fast lane to the top. Working the models, it became evident last week, we were going to have a streak of sun beginning next Tuesday, and from all the signs, it may last for up to six days. Except for the system over us now, there was nothing between us and Hawaii. Nothing but clear blue. This was unusual for November, but very welcome. At last the weatherman was going to have the chance to be a hero for a few days. Right on schedule the sun showed up. The overcast gave way to brilliant fall leaves in red, orange and yellow swan songs painted by the sunshine. The Olympics gleamed like freshly whitened teeth, Mount Rainier smiled over us in deceptive good humor and the Cascades stood tall to guard our Starbucks mentality from the throngs from the East. It took a couple of days for the straggler wisps to clear out, but now we had the glorious Washington blue sky scenery that kept the locals local. All but one little cloud clinging to the side of Rainier like a playful kitten. The first day, I was probably the only one in Washington to notice it, since it seemed out of place with the high pressure layer blanketing the state. The second day, I noticed it hadn’t moved or even changed shape. I took a picture of it with the date stamp turned on, on the lab camera. I took a picture of it again the next day and the pictures were identical. I brought it up with the lab crew. They laughed at me. My history of practical jokes caught up with me and they thought I was “crying wolf”. The next day, I called Andy to the window and passed him the glasses. “Andy, do you remember me telling you about the sticky cloud yesterday?” Grinning, he replied, “Ya.” He took the glasses and moved to the window. “Now what do you think?” “No foolin’, there it is alright.” “What do you make of it?” “I dunno, is it a live vent?” “That’s what I thought yesterday, but it doesn’t move and doesn’t change shape. Compare the pictures.” “Man, this is strange. Its shape doesn’t fit with mountain fog. It’s lumpy, not stretched out.” “I know, let’s get some more brains on this.” I went back to the team, this time with a witness. It still took a little doing, but we finally got the whole team up to speed. Professor Paul Jerkins was the boss. He had been here all of his adult life and what hair he still had was white. I put my query to him. “Prof, what should we do about this? It has been three days now that we know of, isn’t it about time we find out more about that cloud?” “Yep, it’s chopper time. Dan, you and Andy come with me. Let’s get a close up.” It took an hour and a half, but we were soon right beside it. “Prof, doesn’t this cloud seem unusually opaque to you?” “Yes.” There were a few moments of uncluttered chopper noise, then the professor spoke up. “Put us down on the ridge above the cloud. I want a closer look.” Most of us had climb training for environmental studies of the snow pack so we were rigged for the altitude. The day was blinding on the glacier and the walking was dangerous because there were no shadows in the snow. No concept of depth so we walked gingerly toward the cloud clinging slope. It turned out we were about fifty feet above the cloud, it hung out from a rock face below. Following orders from the professor, we lashed a line to the chopper and ran it out over the edge. None of us were close enough to see the rope roll play out below us, but the professor was busy latching on his harness. Within moments, he was over the edge and out of site. Andy was prepping to follow. The professor never called the all clear, so I pulled on the rope to signal for a response. It was slack. “Prof, Are you ready for the next climber?” I called out over the edge. There was no answer but for the chill wind whistling over the cut. I called again a couple times, but still no answer. Andy clipped on. “I’m going down. Be ready to haul us both if something happened to the Prof. I may need help getting him back up. Andy slipped over the edge and was gone. This time I kept the rope taunt until I fell on my ass because the weight dropped off. I hauled the rope back up the slope hand over hand to look at the end. I suspected cuts from a sharp edge, what I got was completely unexpected. The rope was cut by something so sharp, or so hot there was no distortion I could see with the naked eye. It seemed it had been cut by a very precise edge, and it may have even been melted a bit on the flush end because there wasn’t a single strand anywhere. I just saw no burn evidence. I looked back at the pilot. His eyes were almost as stunned as mine. “Bret, we need a team here and we need then now. Help me get another rope over the edge with a tight deadman stake. I’ll hang out here until you get a rescue crew.” Ten minutes later with no word spoken, the chopper swung over me and charged down the slope, careful to avoid the orphaned cloud. Two choppers returned within an hour and a half and I watched them silhouetted in a west bound sun. We had at most a couple of hours to get the professor and Andy off this hill. Chet landed in his tracks and the coast guard hung out over the cloud. There was no weather to speak of, so the bay door slid open and a rescue team prepared a basket. One of their team road down with the basket and I watched it fold into the cloud. The chopper bounced as the cable snapped up toward the rotors with nothing on the end but a red end. The pilot was good. He swung out of the way of the flailing cable and the team landed on the crest with us. A conference on the radio and with our news chopper broke out and we were ordered off the mountain. A new attempt was going to go over the ledge we took, but it was going to stop short of the cloud and an attempt to contact the lost men would be made, as well as a scan for anything unusual. The air force base was notified as well. This was going to be a busy little cloud. Bret and I had trouble thinking of what to say, but the professor and Andy’s family was waiting in the news office when we got back. There was nothing we could tell them. Bret refueled and left immediately with the news team. It was going to be a long night. I sat beside Mrs. Jenkins and peered through her steamed glasses at red-rimmed eyes. “Are you ok Mrs. Jenkins? Can I do anything for you or get you anything?” A thin “No” was all I got in reply. I mumbled an apology and moved over to Andy’s wife and kids. The kid’s faces were stained with tear trails, but Andy’s wife simply sat quietly and blank. It seemed shock hadn’t given way to grief yet. “Can I do anything for you?” She just shook her head and looked at her kids, who looked at me as if pleading. I headed for the weather lab. Opening the door, I was almost knocked off my feet by Andy following the swinging door. “Wha…!” He grinned, “You swallow a fly?” and continued on by me. “Wait!. How… How did you get back?” “Get back from where?” “Rainier.” “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been working this new computer model all day. Prof and I have almost got it ready for prime time.” “Prof?” “Ya, your boss.” “He’s here?” “At his workstation, what’s got into you? He followed me to the office that, sure enough held the concentrating professor of meteorology. Andy followed me to his desk. “Prof, how did you get back down off the mountain?” “What are you talking about Pete. What mountain? When?” “Today, I lost you and Andy in a cloud on Rainier… Don’t you remember?” “Pete, are you losing it? Andy and I have been working this application all day.” I eased over to his south facing window, and there was Rainier, fading in the last light of the day, and there was the little cloud stuck to its side. Guys, you need to come out to reception. Your families think you are stuck on the mountain. All hell broke loose. After the weeping and tissue works, Bret and I were on the hot seat in the board room with the professor, Andy and the station manager grilling us. They had called Bret back to the base and he was filling them in on my story. His matched perfectly. He also had the logs with the coast guard and armed forces. It was easy to prove they were still on the mountain. The station manager called the coast guard and armed forces. It seemed their rescue paramedic showed up in their jump station with no knowledge of his past adventure. They were, however short one rescue basket. The Armed forces took possession of the site and kicked everyone else off the mountain. The next week was interesting because all aircraft were steered away from Mount Rainer and we were no longer able to report on the event but from long distance telescope pictures from a twenty mile parameter. All we could see was a series of aircraft going to and fro. The end of our week came with no answers, just questions. Bret’s black box was confiscated by the FBI and the rain came back. The clouds again obscured the mountain. It is now he beginning of December and we have another two day window to the sun. Mount Rainer is back, the cloud is gone. My tasks have returned to the mundane and I sit looking at the neatly severed end of a rope rolled on my office floor. I attach a luggage tag with a caption that reads, “Compliments of Cloud Nine, Area 52” Bret and I are going for a beer after work. |
| Cloud Nine By Nancy J Schneider njswritingnook@yahoo.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Sara was having trouble opening her
eyes, and when she did, she couldn’t see anything. There was a thick fog
surrounding her which affected her equilibrium. She put out her hands to steady
herself, but there was nothing to hold on to. Afraid to move in any direction,
she felt real fear closing in on her. “Help! Is anybody out there?” she shouted. “Can anyone hear me?” The silence was as thick as the fog. There was no voice calling an answer. Where was she and what was going on? Slowly shuffling forward with her hands outstretched, she searched for something, anything. The fog seemed to be clearing a little, giving her a bit of confidence. Squinting she called again. “Hello, is anybody there?” Inching her way forward through the lifting mist, she could see someone. Was this a worse threat than the fog? She couldn’t very well hide as she didn’t know what was out there, so she stood as still as a statue. Straining to see, she got a better view of the person approaching. It was a woman. It almost looked like Mrs. Winters, but that was impossible. Yet it definitely looked like her. Then the woman smiled and Sara knew it was her. Taking a tentative step forward she called out, “Mrs. Winters?” “Yes, Sara, it’s me. It’s good to see you.” “But I thought, I mean I heard, that you, ummm, well I heard….” “That I died?” Mrs. Winters smiled. “I did my dear.” “Then, then does that mean I’m dead, too?” asked Sara looking around. “But this doesn’t look like heaven. I mean, where’s the Pearly Gates and the guy with the long white beard and the book, or the long white tunnel or all the angels coming to meet me? Where’s all the stuff that’s supposed to be here? This can’t be heaven.” “Well, that’s not really how it works. You’ll find out all about that some other time, but for now, you’re supposed to report to Cloud Nine.” “Cloud Nine?” “We only have a short time, my dear. Cloud Nine is where souls go who will be returning to earth.” “Soooo I died - but I’m not dead?” “Technically that’s correct. I’m sure you’ve heard of people who have ‘near death’ experiences, where they claim they died but came back to life. Well, you’re about to become one of them.” “You mean it’s true? That people come back from the dead?” Mrs. Winters nodded her head. “Sometimes He sends souls back. Not often, mind you, but there are times when He deems it best.” “But why me? Why is He sending me back? And what in the heck happened?” “Sara dear, He doesn’t tell us everything. I can’t answer those questions because I don’t know. I only know He sent me to meet you and has decreed that you are to report to Cloud Nine.” “Then what am I supposed to do?” “Don’t worry about it. Everything has a way of working out, you’ll see. Now come, we must hurry. They’re waiting at Cloud Nine.” Sara glanced around and could see a bit clearer now. Off to her right stood a beautiful tree, the most beautiful tree she ever saw. “Oh, Mrs. Winters. That tree! I’ve got to get a closer look.” Mrs. Winters answered in a voice that left no room for argument. “No my dear, not this time. That’s the Tree of Life.” Her voice softened, “Someday you will not only go closer, but you will pick and eat of the delicious fruit, guaranteeing eternal life. But not now. Not this time.” Taking Sara’s hand, Mrs. Winters led her to the left and the fog once again swirled through the air. It was strange to walk through the mist that churned around them, but Mrs. Winters step was sure. Sara tried to see, but other than the tree, there was only fog. Glancing over her shoulder, the tree was in the distance and growing fainter. The fog slowly absorbed everything but the two women. ******************************* Mrs. Stillman was keeping vigilance at her daughter’s bedside. She’d been there all night and now the sun was peeking through, promising a beautiful day. She picked up Sara’s hand and started rubbing her thumb. “Come on honey, wake up. Please wake up. Hank and I are right here waiting. Come on Sara, open your eyes.” She felt a slight twitch in Sara’s hand and called out to her husband. “I think she may be coming out of it Hank. Call the nurse!” Turning back to Sara, she repeated her litany. “Come on honey, open your eyes.” The nurse hurried into the room and checked the monitor. Next she checked Sara’s pulse and smiled. “Good morning Sara. Time to wake up.” Sara stirred and a soft “hummm” escaped. Slowly her eyelids fluttered, then opened. “Mom?” “I’m here Sara. I‘m right here,” she said, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Where am I? What’s happened?” Sara asked through dry, cracked lips. “There was an accident honey, but you’re going to be ok. The doctor said you’ll be as good as new in no time at all.” “But what happened? What kind of accident?” “You were crossing the street, and well, a car hit you honey. You’ve got a concussion, a few broken ribs and there was some internal bleeding, but the doctor said…” All of a sudden Sara remembered. The monitor beeped a different rhythm as she struggled to sit up. “Mmmm, that hurts. But I have to tell you, I was on Cloud Nine and …” “I know honey, I know. You were so happy and your mind was on the upcoming wedding and you weren’t watching the traffic when you stepped off the curb and no one blames you …” “No Mom! I mean I was literally on Cloud Nine. In heaven …” “Hush now Sara. Don’t get yourself all excited. All that matters is that you’re awake. We’ll take it one day at a time. You can tell me later. Right now you need to rest and get your strength back.” Sara closed her eyes. She’d have to wait until her mother wasn’t so upset. And she was tired. Hopefully Jeff would believe her when she told him. Jeff! Did he know? Her eyes popped back open. “Mom. Has anyone called Jeff?” “Yes dear, right after we got the phone call, Hank called Jeff. He should be here pretty soon. Just close your eyes and rest for now.” Kissing Sara on the forehead, she patted her hand and left the room. The next time Sara opened her eyes, she saw Jeff anxiously looking at her. She gave a small smile and reached for his hand. “My God Sara, I’ve been worried out of my mind. If anything were to happen to you I …” “I’m going to be fine Jeff, I’m going to be fine. I’m happy to be back,” Sara said, her words slurring a bit. “Right now you have to do everything the doctor says so I can take you home. He said you can probably go home by the end of the week if you continue to improve. Oh, Sara, I was so scared. They told me that your heart stopped for about two minutes during surgery. You almost died. Thank God you had a good surgeon working on you.” “Only two minutes? It seemed a lot longer. There’s so much I have to tell you. Cloud Nine and heaven,” she mumbled. “But right now I am tired,” Sara said as her eyelids fluttered shut. ******************************* “I know I gave you a lot to think about last night, but I told you the absolute truth. Now that you’ve had time to think it over, do you believe me Jeff? I know it’s all kinda confusing and hard to swallow, but it’s true. Every word I told you is true. I was literally on Cloud Nine up in heaven.” “Yea, honey, I believe you. I‘ll admit at first I was very skeptical, but I knew you believed it. I thought it was from the bump on the head or wishful thinking or something. I’ve had some doubts about God and heaven and all that churchy stuff you’re always talking about, and then you come along with this cloud nine and heaven thing. I prayed that God would show me the truth. I guess what happened to you proves it, that there is a God and heaven.” “Mom thinks it’s all a dream or something. She said, ‘Honey I know you believe what you are saying, but think about it. Heaven? People don’t come back from heaven.’ Then I tried to tell her about the Tree of Life, but she only gave me that, ‘Yes dear’ answer. I know she was only pacifying me and didn’t really believe me. But it’s important that you believe me.” “I do, but don’t you wonder why? Why did it all happen? I mean did He ever tell you why He was sending you back?” Jeff asked. “No not really. He didn’t say anything. I never even saw Him. The only one I actually saw was Mrs. Winters. I could feel some kind of activity around me, but I never saw anyone. But I could feel Him. It was such a… a numinous place.” “Num-a-what?” “Numinous. It’s a feeling of the all-inspiring holy presence of God. I definitely could feel His presence. I know He was there. It’s something I can’t explain, but it filled my whole being. Maybe we can‘t see Him until we eat from the Tree of Life. I wanted to stay, but that wasn’t to be. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital.” “Maybe He sent you back to convince me there really is a God and a heaven and eternal life. Maybe that’s why.” Sara looked at him and twitched her head just a fraction. “Maaayyybe. But I don’t think that’s the reason. Jesus once told a parable about the rich man and poor Lazarus and the rich man wanted someone to return from the dead to convince his brothers. But he was told ‘they have Moses and the prophets.’ In other words, the Word. So I really don’t think that’s the reason I was sent back.” She lowered her eyes and added, “Although I’m glad that it turned out this way for you.” “It’s strange how everything started to make sense last night when I was praying. Before it seemed that I was just saying words, but last night I really prayed, and it was like all the answers fell in place. It was truly awesome.” “We both have much to be thankful for. Now all I have to do is figure out why I returned and what I‘m supposed to do.” “Maybe nothing. Maybe you’re just being given a second chance at life.” “Maybe, but I think there’s more to it than that. I just have to figure out what.” ******************************* “That was some meal my love. I’m glad you said ‘yes’ when I asked you to marry me,” Jeff said. “Oh, so you proposed so you’d have a good cook?” Sara chided. “You know better than that. But I do love your cooking - and you of course,” Jeff said with a twinkle in his eye. “So, what’s the occasion? You said you had something to talk over. Out with it, what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours? You’ve been so secretive all evening.” “Well, I do have something important to talk over. I just wanted to wait until you had a full belly so you’d concentrate on what I’m going to say.” “Oo-kk-aa-y I’m all ears.” “Remember how we decided that after we were married I’d work at your dad’s company because I could make more money? I mean, you still have a year left before you can take your bar exam and we figured my salary would get us through, remember? At the time it sounded like the perfect answer. But now I’m not so sure.” “Why? Don’t you want to work for my dad’s law firm? He offered you a really good position and an even better salary. What’s wrong with that?” “Nothing honey, it isn’t because it’s your dad or working for him or anything like that. But teaching is all I ever wanted to do, and the offer still stands. I called Mr. Beyer and they still want me in fall. I told him I’d let him know for sure by Monday. I know it won’t pay as much as working for your dad, but I really, really think I ought to take that job as a teacher.” “But babe, we talked about it for hours. Your salary as a teacher won’t be enough. I still have one year to go before I can …..” “I know, I know. But we could make it if we cut back on some things. I know we could make it. But there’s another reason, Jeff. Remember I told you Mrs. Winters is the one who met me in heaven? Well, she was my fifth grade teacher. She’s the one I told you about that helped me during that time when my life was falling apart with Mom and Dad talking about divorce and everything. It was Mrs. Winters who saw that I needed help and it was Mrs. Winters who got me through that rough time.” Sara’s voice pleaded, “Don’t you see Jeff, why would it be Mrs. Winters who met me unless there was some kind of connection? Maybe the message I’m supposed to get is that I should pursue my teaching and not worry about the finances. Maybe I’m supposed to be a teacher so I can help some other child the way Mrs. Winters helped me.” Jeff sat back, rubbed his chin and said, “It kinda make sense. But you know it will be rough for a while until I get my degree, don’t you? There are some things we’ll have to go without. But if you’re convinced this is what you’re supposed to do, I guess we should do it. Course I’ll have to explain it to dad, and that won’t be the easiest thing in the world. He’ll point out the difference in salary and make it sound like we’ll end up in a cardboard box, but I’ll make him understand.” Sara threw her arms around his neck. “God I really do love you. I know this is right and I promise I won’t complain when the budget gets tight. We’ll make it, and some day we’ll look back and wonder why it took us so long to see what He was trying to tell us.” |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place: #6 Third place: #4 Fourth place (tie): #5, #7 Others receiving votes: #1, #3, #11 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Cloud Nine jeff.palmer@rpintegration.com |
#1 of 11 |
| 33 words | |
| One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...nine
Clouds in the sky The last is euphoric, a gathering of laughter but the silver lining is faded and the smiles only painted on |
|
| Cloud Nine madhatterat50@yahoo.com |
#2 of 11 |
| 1708 words | |
| Even the flies were too lazy to work up much energy.
They drifted in and out of the sunlight streaming through Cloud Nine’s
dirty windows. Motes of dust hung listlessly in the air, as though trying to
decide where to settle. "I got hunert dollars!" Idaho Billy slammed his open palm on the bar and dropped five ragged, tattered balls on to the much scarred wood. He spent the next few minutes carefully smoothing hundred dollar bills until he had a small fan in front of him. "Them's real hunert dollar bills that I got to spend right here." "And you can take 'em to the crapper on your way out back, too," Blister pointed to the box hanging from the wall. Labeled 'Toilet Paper', it hung just below the puffy-lettered CLOUD NINE sign leading out to the toilet. An over flow of dollars, fives, tens, even hundreds spilled out onto the floor. "Can't even buy a drink for five hunnret dollars anymore," Idaho Billy scraped up his paper and stuffed it back into his coat. Perhaps he could trade it for something to eat later in the market place. "You wanna know what happened to your money, ask Willie. “Just stand him a drink is all," Blister said as he wiped the bar out of habit. His afternoon custom was Idaho Billy, Dallas Davey and Willie. “What do I got left?” Dallas Davey said. “Six hard, 8 beer, or 12 soda,” Blister read from a slate from under his bar. “Only the soda carries over. You don’t drink the booze, you lose it, but you can swap it for dinner if you want.” "Willie sounds like he tells tall tales to me," Idaho Billy slurped down his drink and slammed the glass on the bar, intent on drinking rather than how much Davey had left on his tally. "How in hell does he get to sit at the end of the bar like that and swill booze without?" Dallas Davey demanded. “How'd you get to stand here?" Blister asked. "We worked damned hard," Billy swore and slapped his empty glass down, waving for yet another drink. They’d sweated like coolies all morning in exchange for time in Cloud Nine. Buying Dallas Davey drinks was a waste of time as he wasn't much of a drinker, being too out of practice, but Billy planned to test his own consumption record. "You know we did." "Dug that damned ditch," Davey slurred his words. He'd be under the bar right soon. "Thirty feet for what? Bar time. Don't seem right." "You coulda done it yerself for ten minutes of free bar, a meal and a bed tonight, Davey," Blister reminded him as he filled their glasses. "You want another?" Idaho looked at Davey, whose myopic eyes refused to focus as he tried to stare back. His mouth hung agape - like he didn't know where he was - much less who he was with. Idaho turned back to Blister and nodded. "Might just as well," he said. Dallas Davey was on his way to the floor in a slow melt. Billy snorted and sighed. "I ain't got anything better to do this afternoon. Give him one of Davey’s drinks. He’ll never miss it." Blister took Davey's filled glass and set it in front of Willie. Willie stared at the glass and let a minute pass. Idaho squirmed, even cleared his throat noisily, but Blister shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Another minute passed before Willie lifted his drink from the bar. Age and liver spots covered his hand and tremors threatened to spill most of the booze onto the bar before it hit his lips. Idaho expected him to slam the drink back, but Willie just sipped the home made corn squeeze, barely clearing the liquid from the rim of the glass. In moments, Willie’s shaking hand steadied and he put the glass back on the bar in the same wet circle. Willie sat a bit straighter on the bar stool, ran his hand through his grey hair - simple pats and gestures that changed him from derelict bar fly to someone waiting for Recovery. He cleared his throat softly, but when he spoke, his voice sounded like a cold diesel engine warming up. "The Collapse of the entire industrial economy wasn't the mercurial phenomenon of financial institutions failures that history books write about," Willie said. "That's a popular myth and misconception. Many colleges teach such nonsense in their classes. The Collapse was destined to happen and it started very simply. Two centuries of inertia pushed The Collapse into place and, once started, The Collapse became impossible to stop. Simple laws of physics. It started quite simply on the lower West Side. I wasn’t there at the very start, but I saw some of the early beginnings." * "Sorry, money isn't any good here," an aged cashier behind the counter barely glanced away from his newspaper at the stack of junk food and the twenty dollar bill beside the pile. The store was a simple mom-and-pop convenience store, nothing special, Willie remembered later. "What are you talking about?" A young kid looked at the stack of goodies. He snatched the twenty dollar bill from the counter and turned it to the light. "You think this is fake or something?" "Nope, it's prob'ly not fake," Pop said as he glanced up, taking in the punk and the bill at the same time. Baggy pants, dirty sweat shirt that hadn't seen a washing machine in several weeks, hair that hadn't seen a barber in that many years; Willie decided the kid wasn't smart enough to phony a fart, much less a twenty. Another customer entered and Pop glanced up, nodded and pulled a ledger from under the counter. A moment of recognition passed between them. New guy wandered through both aisles of the convenience store and selected two or three items. Pop made a quick notation and the new guy left without a word, and - much to the surprise of the kid standing with his mouth open - without paying. Willie wasn't sure what he missed, but something important happened just then. The kid missed it all. "Cool," the kid scraped his goodies off the counter and started for the door. He got three feet before the old man behind the counter suddenly grew a 45 pistol in his hand. "Leave the stuff," Pop said. The pistol wasn't threatening anyone in particular, pointed sort of at the floor in front of the kid, sort of at the door. "I got the money you crazy old coot! You said it wasn't fake!" The kid screamed, but he froze. A cold moment passed and ice formed in Willie’s veins. He shivered. Pop turned back to his paper, resting the pistol on the counter now that everyone knew where it was. Willie knew that the old man wasn't really reading. Everyone was waiting for the kid to move. The kid finally tossed his goodies on the floor and stomped out, muttering under his breath - something about taking his business elsewhere. Willie wondered what was going to happen with his own small stack of mostly chocolate goodies and the ten dollars he held lightly in his hand. It was late and a simple chocolate craving drove him to this store. Now, both bill and goods seemed to weigh a ton all of a sudden. Pop looked up from his paper. Cold blue eyes sparkled beneath grey brows that swept over his eye sockets like breaking surf - and read Willie's thoughts. "Your money won't be good here, either," Pop said. "I'd plan on no money being good anywhere soon enough." "Why not?" Willie couldn't quite believe what he heard, but the couldn't quite work up enough indignation to leave. Besides, he was curious. "Look at what it says on the bill," Pop nodded. Willie turned the ten spot over, expecting to find ink stains from some radical cult, or perhaps some hidden message, but the bill was exactly the same as he'd used so many times in his life. No difference, nothing unfamiliar. He looked up at the old man, who had turned back to his paper. "It's in the fine print," Pop suggested. ""This note is legal tender for all debts public and private."" Willie read. "So?" "That means money is good only as long as I believe in the people backing it. In this case, I don't know you, so your private debt is not good here," Pop sighed as though he'd delivered the same lecture too many times. "That leaves the government. Another sigh. "Look, you seem like you could be honest, but I've been burned before. With you, if I take your marker...and that's all money is, your marker...I probably got a 50-50 chance you can back it up with something. If I pass your money on, it becomes my marker. I put my honor and reputation on the line. People who take it trust me, should everything else falter, to make good on my marker. "Finally, someone in the chain is going to have to trust the government to make good on that marker because they printed it in the first place, promising to make good on my private debt, should I fail. The first people who took government markers trusted the government to make good. For quite awhile, the government could do so. Not any more. Not me. Trusting the government's become too chancy for my tastes. Better just not to take any markers at all, especially those printed by the government. “So leave the stuff. Nothing personal, mind you." Pop turned back to his paper. |
|
| Cloud Nine glenlee10@sky.com |
#3 of 11 |
| 2320 words | |
| OK. So it had been a stupid thing to do and now I was
paying the price. Too high a price for what was only a prank after all but once
I’ve got over this final hurdle, I swear I’ll never do anything as
dumb again. Today is make or break time and if I don’t die in the trying, the Chancellor may still have me beheaded. For the satisfaction of the crowds, he’s quite likely to do that. So far I have fought and won four of the contests. The Chancellor models himself on the Emperor Nero of Old Earth and the fifth and final of the gladiatorial style fights to which I was sentenced is against his current favourite. Marsalan Jones is one of the best trivolis in a decade and he has fought in this arena for so long that he knows all the air currents and eddies that will keep him aloft and out of the way of unexpected moves. In my four flights I have leant much about the arena but mine will be the disadvantage in our coming bout. It will be held in the heat of the mid-day when there will be no shade. The sun will scorch and blister my white skin. Jones’ hide, the colour of weathered oak, will be resistant to the sun’s worst efforts. And with promises to myself to watch my step in the future, should I have one, I grab the reigns of The Dirty Duck and head for the tunnel leading to the arena, barely in advance of the sharp tip of the spear of the guard who’s come to fetch me. At the entrance, I hesitate before stepping over the sharp edge of sunshine. Fear glues me to the spot and threatens to loosen my bowels. The guard jabs my rear and moves me out. Overhead the sky is hazy silver and the sun a fiery white ball that seems close, too close. Shit-scared, I step onto the hot sand. It burns my bare feet but as soon as he feels the open air, the Duck tugs at his reins and begins to float with little fizzing farts, inviting me to step on board. I do so, and slip my feet into his frizzy fur. I’ve flown the Duck for over seven years and my toes curl into a tight grip. We drift along the inside of the arena, keeping a few feet away from the wall. The arena is like a huge cylinder stood on end, lined with seats for the spectators. It buzzes like a hive of excited bees. The wall of seats must be the height of a ten-storey building, higher than any trivol can fly. In the centre of the arena there is a pit filled with glowing coals. It is my task to dump Marsalan Jones into that pit so that he fries. It is his job to attempt to do the same with me. His mount, Cloud Nine, is a younger trivol than the Duck I’ve been told, and much prettier. For those of you who don’t have any acquaintance with trivols like my Duck, rather than facing my potentially limited future, I’ll explain this unusual life form. Basically, a trivol is like a huge whoopee cushion stuffed through the hole in the centre of a metal washer at least six feet across. Soft, curly hair grows on the animal’s skin. Its edges are its exoskeleton and are as hard as iron. Trivols are herbivores and in their capacious stomachs, any green food is turned into gases which, when expelled, allow the trivol to fly and to manoeuvre. The secret of riding a trivol is learning to harness its individual eccentricities. It’s like riding a surfboard through the air. My father gave me The Duck for my fifteenth birthday and I’d discovered that sprouts gave him a turn of speed unequalled by most other trivols. It was that speed that had got me thus far in the combats but it was that speed and the ability to turn on a sixpence that had got me into trouble in the first place and into the Chancellor’s disfavour. For a bet at a party, I’d kissed the pretty girl by the swimming pool. I’d coasted up behind her, the Duck’s popping farts hidden by the noise made by the other partygoers, and I’d placed a kiss on her delicious, bare neck, before whizzing away. Unfortunately, I’d had a few beers and left the whizzing a bit too late. I’d also been too merry to notice that the girl came equipped with her own army and I was unseated and bounced on my head and into jail; me and The Duck both. I shouldn’t have tried it on with the Chancellor’s niece! But The Duck wants to fly and brings me back to my stark present, which is on the opposite side of the arena to the entrance, now filled by the appearance of Jones on Cloud Nine. I have seen the two before, as a spectator and they are a truly magnificent sight. Cloud Nine is smaller than The Duck but its hair is snow white and its exoskeleton is ebony and shines with a deep gloss. The Duck in comparison is a grimy-beige with a rusty coloured surround. Hence its name, The Dirty Duck. Being at a disadvantage, I have to act fast and take the initiative. The Duck scents a rival. I feel its excitement and with a shrieking blast of expellation, I allow it to fly up and bank over the top of the pit. The heat gives us extra lift and we scream down above Jones and Cloud Nine. All I can do is hang on and steer. Jones is blinded by the sun. I aim for the edge of Cloud Nine nearest to the pit. My intention is to catch the creature’s hard part and flip the pair over my head and into the pit, where Jones will be unseated. Cloud Nine should survive, apart from a bit of singed fur; trivols usually do. The game, for that is what it is, is based on the childish tiddlywinks, the hot pit taking the part of the plastic cup in the board game. The trivols clash. Jones and Cloud Nine are too near the ground for a swift get away from our dive but Jones manages to throw his weight across the narrowing gap. I try to stamp on his face but my weight change makes The Duck wobble and the flip I’d hoped for didn’t come off. Cloud Nine slides from underneath us and crabs sideways across the floor of the arena before powering upwards with a blast that rocks the whole stadium. We follow but get slipstreamed, to crash, bottoms up, against the wall. Faces from the nearest seats jeer at us, and one man, a tubby, moronic type, jabs a finger at The Duck, causing my trivol to gasp out some of its vital, gaseous ballast. The Duck rights itself. I swear and kick the man, smearing his nose across his face. Blood blossoms. I feel better for that and return to the fight. By this time, Jones has taken Cloud Nine as high as he can, looking to blind me. He is succeeding. Squint as I might, I can see nothing against the silvered sun. But I can hear what’s happening. I can hear what my enemy is doing. I can pinpoint where he is both by the sounds and the direction of Cloud Nine’s gases, which are noxious in the extreme. Whatever Jones feeds Cloud Nine on, the smell is rank. I let the Duck idle near the sand, his exhausts ticking over, building up to explosive force. Jones and Cloud Nine approach. I wait, the Duck tilted at a forty-five degree angle. When the stench is overpowering and the sound at near sonic volume, I let The Duck go. The Duck’s leading edge hits Cloud Nine in its soft under belly and the white trivol expels practically all of its gas in a blast that unseats Jones and sends him flying headfirst in a beautifully described parabolic arch, straight into the heart of the fire. I smell his hair singe. I hear his scream and shall do until the day I die, no doubt. He does not expire quietly but before he is surely dead, the roar of the crowd drowns his cries. Cloud Nine, riderless for the first time in a long time, no longer the alpha male of its species, glides down to touch down near The Duck. It shuffles up some dust, then settles down, exhausted. I fall from The Duck’s back in a heap next to my tivol and wait for the Chancellor’s verdict. My head is tucked into my chest and I am as tired as though I’d run the marathon. Then I hear a snuffling and The Duck’s reins, which are still wrapped round my knuckles, twitch. I look up. The Duck’s back is undulating. Its hair is standing on end as though it has been charged with electricity, yet there is not a cloud in the sky so there can be no storm nearby to create such an effect. It is only when The Duck writhes across the sand to end up nose to nose, as it were, with Cloud Nine that I begin to suspect. I had The Duck when it was a youngster. Seven years later and it must be mature. Cloud Nine is no longer camouflaged by the smell of tivol gases and is giving off a sweat scent that I have never experienced before. The Duck seems to be fascinated. The reins are jerked from my hand and I can only watch as The Duck begins to coax Cloud Nine into a response. And Cloud Nine does respond, despite its fatigue and inches its slow way onto The Duck’s back. There is total silence in the arena as the two tivols put on a display rarely seen, for these are rare and shy creatures. The Duck gently lifts the two of them off the ground and circles above the pit. The heat assists their spiralling, higher, ever higher; higher than tivols have been known to reach. Soon they are out of sight. But we all watch and wait. Even the Chancellor’s guards standing at the entrance to the arena are waiting. None of us know what for. The sun is beyond its zenith and a keen eyed youth squeals and points at a black dot in the sky. The silence is broken and the hubbub that arises is great enough to keep a hundred tivols afloat. The dot soon resolves itself into two tivols, wingtip to wingtip, engaged in a bizarre, aerobatic courtship dance. I am so engrossed that I do not hear the Chancellor coming up behind me. The first I know of his presence is his voice. “You seem to have put on quite a display today, Marcus Fowler.” I spun round and fall to one knee. “Your Excellency,” I sputter. I look up at him. He is looking upwards at the display, which was drifting lower. “I was undecided as to what your fate would be.” He is not looking at me. “But those two have given me an idea.” I hardly dare reply. But he doesn’t seem to need one. “I have heard,” he says, “though no one has ever given me the evidence to prove the case, that tivols mate for life and produce one offspring every year.” I think I mumble something back. “In which case, we seem to have a breeding pair on our hands.” Finally he looks at me. “I could just take the two of them and have you thrown in the pit but that might be a waste of talent.” I agree, I think frantically. “So,” he smiles, though there is no warmth behind the smile, “providing the two come back down, I will set up a breeding and training farm, which you will manage for me. I think it will provide me with enough stock to put on these contests more often than just the once every year.” I thank him. I think I gabble, so great is my relief. “You will be my Head Tivoli,” he says. “You will have money, position, responsibility, a house and enough freedom to do your job to my satisfaction.” The Duck and Cloud Nine are at head height. The Chancellor ducks his head to avoid being decapitated. My tivol brushes my hair as he passes, acknowledging that I am still important to him. His mate follows suit. Eventually they settle at my feet and the crowd goes wild. When the volume reduces sufficiently for him to make himself heard the Chancellor speaks to me again. “But,” he growls, “go anywhere near my niece again and I’ll have your head cut off and hung over the town’s main gate.” He smiles like a vampire might on smelling blood. “To discourage other young men who might have similar, stupid ideas.” And he stalks off, leaving me weak and shaken. I calm myself by scratching The Dirty Duck’s belly, which he loves, and for the first time, I stroke Cloud Nine. Her hair is finer than the Duck’s and silkier. It is no wonder that Jones fell from her back so easily. In fact I wonder that he stayed on for so many years. Obviously the coarser haired male is better for fighting as it allows a better grip. And I realise that I have learnt my first lesson as Head Tivoli. The second must be to learn the difference between the male and the female of the species. It is not apparent. We leave the arena to a mighty cheer from the crowd; an elated ex-combatant with two very tired tivols at my heels. |
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| Cloud Nine lins.writing@yahoo.com |
#4 of 11 |
| 2435 words | |
| Yes, spring was here and I had much to do. The earth
was rich and dark as I turned it over preparing it for planting. Winter, longer
than usual, made my waiting seem forever. It was mid May and I was first
starting the garden. I worked my way down the side then back up to the tree
line for the fourth time and noticed an odd cerulean something sticking up from
the soil at the edge of the trees by what I call the sitting rock. “Come on Max, lets go see what that is,” I called to my schnauzer. He dashed ahead leaping to the top of the rock. I guess he thought it was time to rest and survey our work. I stuck my shovel in the ground and walked towards the thing. I figured out what it was but not why someone would bury a gym bag there. I pulled on the handle to see if I could draw it out easily or if I’d have to use the shovel. It came loose on the second pull; it was heavy. I shook it a bit to see if it rattled, it just moved slightly inside. Max started growling as I carried it over to the sitting rock. Maybe I shouldn’t open it; it isn’t mine. “Oh well, why not. If I don’t like what’s in it I’ll close it and bury it again. Right Max?” He responded with a headshake. Brushing off the dirt, I opened the zipper. “Wow! This can’t be real! There must be thousands of dollars in here!” I closed it up and took it to the house with Max bounding ahead then dashing back barking all the way. Putting it on the floor in the kitchen, I reached for the phone to call my husband, Conrad. He’d know what to do. Max stood sniffing the bag from end to end. “Hi, Connie, how’s your day going?” I said, trying to come across as calm. “Not too unpleasant. The phone hasn’t been ringing as much as usual so I guess it’s been good. How’s yours going?” “I started digging the garden and found something buried at the tree line,” I replied keeping my voice low. “What was it?” “A blue gym bag about the size of a small back pack. You know the old kind that sort of looks like a football.” “Anything in it?” “Yeah, lots of money.” “What do you mean, ‘lots of money’? How much is lots?” “I haven’t counted it. I just opened it and quickly closed it. Thought maybe I should call and see what you think we should do.” “Just leave it. I’ll think about it and we’ll discuss it when I get home. How much do you think it is?” “Thousands maybe. The ones on top were hundred dollar bills and it’s full.” “Whew. I’ll think on it.” “Okay, we’ll talk later. Love you.” “Yeah, later. Love you too.” I hung up the phone and pushed the bag into the closet. Max took up a guard position. I really didn’t want to go back out and start digging again but knew it was the best thing to do. I poured a glass of iced tea and sat at the table instead. “I’ll sit just for a few minutes and think a little while.” Where did it come from? Whose is it? When did they put it there? Why? The bag was expensive so it could stay buried quite a while without any damage to the contents. The mail was on the table and the overdue notice for the clinic stared at me. It wasn’t that late and it was the first time I ever paid one late. If we could keep this money, we could pay all our other bills with some left over. I couldn’t think of this anymore; it made my mind race with so many different avenues to follow. I’d better get back to the garden. “Lets go pooch, work to be finished.” Max looked over his shoulder at me, slowly got up and followed me into the yard. I was glad I wasn’t putting in as big a garden as last year because it was so much work keeping it up much less all the canning and freezing when harvest came. Just one row of carrots, yellow and green beans, peas, leaf lettuce, four tomato plants, two pepper plants and four hills of cucumbers; enough to help with groceries yet not an over abundance of work. “Maybe I could hire a gardener with the money. Don’t look at me like that, Max. I know it’s not our money and I have no right spending it, even if it’s only in thought. Although, we could give a bunch to church to help with the mortgage and even get something for the audio/video booth. Lord, help me not think about this anymore and give us wisdom to know what to do with it.” The sun brought warmth but the light breeze kept the air cool enough to work. A Blue Jay called and the Chickadee answered with a twang. A squirrel darted from tree to ground hunting for last year’s stash of nuts. Yes, God is good, all the time. He brings peace where turmoil runs rampant. I finished turning the soil and went in for lunch. Max took his spot in front of the closet. The kitchen was a mess from breakfast and supper had barely entered my mind. I really needed to buckle down and get things done, starting with dishes and supper. “Burgers on the grill with pasta salad and rhubarb pie from yesterday. Connie can do the burgers and there’s less clean up after,” I said putting the last dish away. Max lay in front of the closet and whined. I don’t think he liked the bag. “Lets get going on the garden again pooch. There’s plenty of raking to do before we plant.” Max raced through the garden to the spot where the bag had been buried and started digging making the dirt fly in all directions. Maybe there was more concealed deeper. “Max, come here. No more digging.” He came reluctantly to where I had started to rake and lay down. After finishing the garden, which took most of the afternoon, I made the salad, set the table and Connie drove up and walked in the kitchen. “Well, did you count the money?” Connie asked. “No, it’s in the closet where I plunked it after talking to you this morning. I haven’t even touched the money.” “Good. Considering everything, I think we should call the police and turn it in right now. It’s not ours and we have no claim on it. Being found on our land doesn’t make it’s ours.” “I was hoping you would agree with me,” I said exhaling with relief. “That’s what I thought too; not that I haven’t done a little day dreaming today. Would you mind putting the burgers on the grill while I call the police? I’m sure we’ll be asked plenty of questions when they arrive.” “No problem. I’ll change and get them cooking. Why does Max look so miserable? He’s usually running from room to room when I get home.” “I don’t think he likes the bag. He’s taken up guarding the closet since we came in from the garden. When I brought it back to the house, he kept jumping at it and barking. I thought I’d have the neighborhood here wondering what all the commotion was.” After supper, the police came within the hour and boy did Max bark while guarding the closet. Once he settled down, the questions started flying! “Where did you find it? When did you first notice it? Why did it take this long to call us? Did you open it? How much money was in it when you found it? Did you see anyone in the area that didn’t belong?” I answered them all at least three times to four different people when finally Detective Toby Truman stepped forward. “That’s enough boys. I’m sure you have the information necessary to clear up this matter. Mrs. Alban, did you find anything else where you found the bag?” “No, but I didn’t look for anything else either. Our dog, Max, wanted to dig more there but I didn’t let him.” “It may be a few days for us to finalize the investigation, so a couple of officers will stick around for further analysis; if that’s okay with you?” “Sure, take all the time you need. We want this cleared up,” Connie replied shaking Truman’s hand. “You will keep us updated on where this came from, won’t you?” “That’s a definite yes. It may have been here for quite a while by the looks of the bag. It’s in good shape, but an old style. I don’t think they even sell this kind anymore. I’ll be in touch.” Truman left after talking to the guys out at the sitting rock. They stayed until it was almost dark poking here and digging there. They came in, took our fingerprints, then said they’d be back in the morning and not to go into the taped off area. The rest of the evening was quiet, both of us thinking on what had transpired. I didn’t really want to talk about it and neither did Connie. So many possibilities and nothing we could do about any of them. It certainly seemed a Godsend but then it wasn’t ours. Lord, I don’t know what you have in store for us but thank you for the ability to dream. Give us wisdom and discernment to make good choices and follow your leading. I hope after all that has happened today, I can get a restful night’s slee… Buzz, buzz. I awoke with a jolt. “Boy, that alarm is annoying!” “Yeah, I agree,” Connie said as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and made his way to the bathroom. “Good morning Lord; thanks for the refreshing rest. Keep us on track throughout the day with who knows what adventure you have in store.” I slipped on my robe and headed for the other bathroom. The sun peeked over the back tree line with a wispy breeze gently blowing the yellow tape around the dig sight. I hoped the police wouldn’t get here too early; I didn’t want breakfast interrupted. “Let me know if Detective Truman calls,” Connie said walking out to his car. “Oh, don’t worry you’ll know almost as soon as I do.” Two officers came about 9:00 o’clock while I was organizing my seeds ready for planting. Max barked until we went out the back door and he checked them out. I guess they were okay because he lay in the grass next to where I was working, pretending to sleep. I finished planting the seeds and headed back to the house. “Would you guys like some lemonade?” I called over my shoulder. “Sure would, if it’s not too much of a bother,” the gangly one replied. I filled a couple of glasses and brought them out. “Have you found anything else?” “Not yet,” the squat dark haired one said. “We should be finished in about an hour. I’ll let you know when we leave. Thanks for the drinks, very thirst-quenching. Glad we started early it’s already getting hot.” They left forty-five minutes later after taking the tape down. I guess they didn’t find anything more and I’ll have to wait for Truman to call with the final word. I walked up to the sitting rock and surveyed the area. They had been in the woods but nothing looked disturbed. The sitting rock was just that, a rock that allowed me to sit and do some serious contemplation. My mind flitted from the bag to bills to thankfulness for all I have. God always knows best, even if it’s not as I want it. In the end, it’s the best. Connie called before leaving work but there was nothing to report. By the time he pulled in the garage, supper was almost ready. I hoped the detective would call when the kitchen was cleaned. Truman rang the doorbell shortly after Connie turned on the news. I’d finished cleaning the kitchen a few minutes earlier. “Detective Truman, come in. Have you come to a conclusion already?” “Yes, and this is for you,” he said, handing me the blue bag. “It wasn’t difficult to figure out once we opened this and found a note in the bottom explaining everything. This is a bank draft for two hundred forty-five thousand dollars for the honesty and timely manner in which you handled this situation. ” “It’s ours? How could that be?” “Read this. It’s the note found with the money.” “The one hundred five thousand dollars is for whoever finds it, providing they turn it in to the authorities within twenty-four hours and without counting it. The bills must not be touched by anyone but the authorities prior to returning to the discoverer. The authorities must contact Theodore Spencer at Crimson Manor, Stuart, Iowa to verify contents and receive further instructions.” “You mean this is really ours? All of the three hundred fifty thousand dollars?” I sat down only because I would have fallen any way. “Yes. This is Mr. Spencer’s way of repaying a debt he had with the previous owners of this land. A Mr. and Mrs. Jesse Chalmers.” “Chalmers? That’s my grandparents! I knew grandpa was a philanthropist but never dreamed anything like this! I remember he set up grants for underprivileged students, but never knew he did anything else. We bought this house from the estate after they died three years ago. My dad said grandpa left all his money in a trust for the disadvantaged youth in his church. What did Mr. Spencer do that made my grandfather give him so much money?” “Mr. Spencer said it was a business venture he wanted to get into that needed capitol; the Chalmers backed him. He was only nineteen at the time. Your grandfather believed in him and knew Mr. Spencer would be a good investment both in business and personally, as he displayed honesty and integrity. Of course, the business took off with leaps and bounds and by the time Mr. Spencer was twenty-five he was a multimillionaire. When he tried to pay it back, your grandfather refused to take it. So, Mr. Spencer decided to try and do his share of good and give it back to an honest individual.” “What would have happened if we had counted the money and found the note ourselves? We could have just kept it and no one would have known.” “That’s true, but you would only have received the cash, nothing extra. How would you have explained it to the IRS and everyone else?” “I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you, Lord for keeping me honest. Mr. Spencer, you put me on Cloud Nine, right up with the angels.” |
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| Cloud Nine Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#5 of 11 |
| 1687 words | |
| The Dread Lord of the Great Western Desert was away in
the north and the kingdom was in the protection of his sons. From deep in the
mountains to the southwest, a raiding party penetrated the land unnoticed. Ten
seasoned warriors each with two horses, they travelled light and fast. "It looks like an easy target." Concealed below the skyline, the leader of the raiding party spoke cautiously as they studied the caravan. "Four guards will be no match for us but we could take casualties. It's all about speed and getting in and out without being caught. Getting out is the hard part. We could take their horses but they look in worse shape than ours and I'm not going home on a camel. The prisoners will slow us down and so will any wounded. We'll follow them and wait until near dawn. This will be a surprise attack with no heroics. We're here to do a job and then get home safely." The fire was lit, the tents were put up and the caravan got ready to settle down for the night. A tall noblewoman turned to her four female attendants. They had been brought up together. They were more like friends and her chief attendant was also her cousin, but she would always be the Fifth-Daughter of the Dread Lord of the Great Western Desert. "The night will be cold, stay warm and sleep with a dagger," she said. "Goodnight, Fifth-Daughter," they replied. Their mistress said this every night in the desert but they knew it would be cold and they checked their daggers. Something woke Fifth-Daughter. Was it the wind outside the tent or something more ? Quickly she shook off the last of the sleep and the dagger was in her hand and there was a shadow on the wall of the tent that shouldn't be there. She was not trained for personal combat like her many brothers, but she knew to stay low and keep quiet in the dark. She took time to bundle the blankets to look like a sleeping figure and made herself small in the darkest part of the tent. The shadow stopped at the entrance as if waiting for something. She tried to breath without making a sound. When the signal came it all happened at once. The quiet of the night camp was broken everywhere with the loud shouts warriors use to startle their opponents and embolden themselves. Fifth-Daughter did not move, she was not a warrior but she knew the ways of war. The shadow rushed into her tent, changing at once into a solid opponent that grabbed at the blankets. But this opponent had his back to her. She got him twice with the dagger before she was seized from behind. She felt a neck lock go on, not the simple kind that closes the airway but the skilful kind that cuts off the blood to the brain in a few heartbeats. She struggled trying to strike backwards with the dagger, then there was a rushing in her ears, her balance went, and she knew no more of what was happening. She came to in the light of the breaking dawn and it was all over. Her guards lay dead and the raiders had two dead and one wounded. Four of the five ladies of the court were now captives. "They must be from beyond the boundaries for their dialect is strange and rough," Fifth-daughter said quietly. Then lowering her voice further, "Say nothing of my cousin, perhaps she got away." The raiders laid their dead alongside the guards in shallow graves scooped from the sand. They took a moment for a short ritual according to their custom then it was time to get on the horses. The leader told the captives he would have to search them for concealed weapons and his men gathered round offering to help. He searched Fifth-daughter more carefully than was necessary. She didn't flinch but looked him straight in the eye. He thought she was probably wondering what her people would do to him if he was caught but she was actually thinking that she had never seen blue eyes before. "Don't worry," he said with obvious regret, "You're not for the likes of us. Our King is waiting to meet you, all of you." Then the wounded warrior said he might not be able to ride but he got little sympathy from his comrades who laughed and pointed at Fifth-daughter and said he had been beaten by a better warrior. "That's not a problem," said the leader. "We can leave you here, but of course we'll have to kill you." So the wounded raider quickly realized he could ride a horse if he leaned well forward over the horses neck. The journey was long and hard but uneventful. On the journey the ladies thought all the time about Fifth-daughter's cousin and about the King. Fifth-daughter wondered if he would have blue eyes too. They reached the capital of the kingdom in the mountains. It was a poor sort of place compared to the court of the Dread Lord of the Great Western Desert. However it had a certain charm unlike it's king who turned out to be old and fat and smelled of lamb grease and spices, mostly garlic. Fifth-daughter's cousin had stayed low in the dark as she crept away. From a distance she watched the events unfold and cried for the guards, whom she had know from childhood. She also cried for the ladies as she imagined what would be in store for them. Then they were gone and she got a horse and water. She returned with a small force. To her horror they dug up and examined the dead raiders. The clothing pointed the way as clearly as any map. However it was not a small force that set out in pursuit for the Dread Lord was back from the north. The overwhelming forces of the Dread Lord swept into the little mountain state. The fat King gave a spirited speech and promised they would resist the invaders to the last man. His men however had little enthusiasm for this strategy and quickly surrendered. So it was over and the army of the Dread Lord herded the King and his troops to an open area on the outskirts of town. Many of the townspeople came to watch not least because they had never liked the fat King. On being offered payment they lit fires and brought out the great cooking pots that they used for feasts and festivals. Soon the smell of herbs and spices filled the air as the water was brought to the boil ready for the lamb and everyone except the fat King and his soldiers looked forward to a grand celebration. The fat King was brought forward and thrown down in front of the Dread Lord. "What shall we do with him?, " asked the Old Chancellor. The Dread Lord looked at the fat King and then at Fifth-daughter. He had seen something in her over the years that reminded him of himself as a younger man. He gave his decision. "It is all for Fifth-daughter to decide." Fifth-daughter exchanged a long look with her father who nodded his encouragement. She went over to the fat King who was cringing on the ground and held out the back of her hand towards him. He thought this must be their way of swearing fealty. The girl has brains too, of course they can't rule here without my help. So he kissed the back of her hand with as much ceremony as he could manage. "What's she doing," said the Old Chancellor. "I've never seen that before it's not part of our custom." "Oh, I've seen her do this before," said the Dread Lord quietly. "It was when she was saying goodbye to her old dog." Always one to know what to do next, the Old Chancellor stepped forward. "What are your instructions, Fifth-daughter," Her instructions were given in a clear firm voice as she gestured towards the cooking arrangements. "Boil him", she said for she was her father's daughter. He struggled all the way to his death, which greatly entertained the crowd. When the screams had died down, Fifth-daughter turned to the late King's troops. Her message needed few words and did not present a difficult decision to the prisoners. "Do you chose to follow your old leader or a new one?" she said. With this she was on the verge of doing what no woman had ever done but what her many brothers took for granted. Her new followers prostrated themselves with loud cries of fealty, and relief. Mindful of the way things must be done she turned and kneeled before her father. "In your name, Dread Lord," she said. So on this day the lands of the Dread Lord grew larger with a new Dukedom and a new Duke for they did not have a word for a female in such a position. Fifth-daughter could hardly believe her good fortune. Here and now, in a man's world, a female had risen to such a position. She and her ladies, for they too would enjoy her success, were on cloud nine. Here in a strange land above the clouds they had found a little piece of earthly paradise for themselves. When all the shouting was over and the palace had been tidied it was time for Fifth-daughter to assert her authority in a new way. The warriors of the raiding party were sent for and lined up in a private room. "Don't they clean up well," she said to her ladies. "But we'll need to take care for they might have concealed weapons." She searched the leader more carefully than was necessary. He didn't flinch. "Which one will you chose My Lady," they giggled. Fifth-daughter looked up and down the line and then into the blue eyes of the leader. "Oh, all of them," said Fifth-daughter, for she was her father's daughter and she knew the ways of court. |
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| Cloud Nine Roger Haller roger@cowboylogic.net |
#6 of 11 Winner |
| 1859 words | |
| Overcast skies were the North West rule for most of the
autumn months. I was having trouble remembering the last span of sunshine that
lasted more than forty eight hours. Meteorology was going to be my ticket to
the top. U-Dub had provided me the ticket two years ago and global warming was
going to hand me a nice career. So far a morning and afternoon radio weather spot at one of the local country stations was not my idea of a fast lane to the top. Working the models, it became evident last week, we were going to have a streak of sun beginning next Tuesday, and from all the signs, it may last for up to six days. Except for the system over us now, there was nothing between us and Hawaii. Nothing but clear blue. This was unusual for November, but very welcome. At last the weatherman was going to have the chance to be a hero for a few days. Right on schedule the sun showed up. The overcast gave way to brilliant fall leaves in red, orange and yellow swan songs painted by the sunshine. The Olympics gleamed like freshly whitened teeth, Mount Rainier smiled over us in deceptive good humor and the Cascades stood tall to guard our Starbucks mentality from the throngs from the East. It took a couple of days for the straggler wisps to clear out, but now we had the glorious Washington blue sky scenery that kept the locals local. All but one little cloud clinging to the side of Rainier like a playful kitten. The first day, I was probably the only one in Washington to notice it, since it seemed out of place with the high pressure layer blanketing the state. The second day, I noticed it hadn’t moved or even changed shape. I took a picture of it with the date stamp turned on, on the lab camera. I took a picture of it again the next day and the pictures were identical. I brought it up with the lab crew. They laughed at me. My history of practical jokes caught up with me and they thought I was “crying wolf”. The next day, I called Andy to the window and passed him the glasses. “Andy, do you remember me telling you about the sticky cloud yesterday?” Grinning, he replied, “Ya.” He took the glasses and moved to the window. “Now what do you think?” “No foolin’, there it is alright.” “What do you make of it?” “I dunno, is it a live vent?” “That’s what I thought yesterday, but it doesn’t move and doesn’t change shape. Compare the pictures.” “Man, this is strange. Its shape doesn’t fit with mountain fog. It’s lumpy, not stretched out.” “I know, let’s get some more brains on this.” I went back to the team, this time with a witness. It still took a little doing, but we finally got the whole team up to speed. Professor Paul Jerkins was the boss. He had been here all of his adult life and what hair he still had was white. I put my query to him. “Prof, what should we do about this? It has been three days now that we know of, isn’t it about time we find out more about that cloud?” “Yep, it’s chopper time. Dan, you and Andy come with me. Let’s get a close up.” It took an hour and a half, but we were soon right beside it. “Prof, doesn’t this cloud seem unusually opaque to you?” “Yes.” There were a few moments of uncluttered chopper noise, then the professor spoke up. “Put us down on the ridge above the cloud. I want a closer look.” Most of us had climb training for environmental studies of the snow pack so we were rigged for the altitude. The day was blinding on the glacier and the walking was dangerous because there were no shadows in the snow. No concept of depth so we walked gingerly toward the cloud clinging slope. It turned out we were about fifty feet above the cloud, it hung out from a rock face below. Following orders from the professor, we lashed a line to the chopper and ran it out over the edge. None of us were close enough to see the rope roll play out below us, but the professor was busy latching on his harness. Within moments, he was over the edge and out of site. Andy was prepping to follow. The professor never called the all clear, so I pulled on the rope to signal for a response. It was slack. “Prof, Are you ready for the next climber?” I called out over the edge. There was no answer but for the chill wind whistling over the cut. I called again a couple times, but still no answer. Andy clipped on. “I’m going down. Be ready to haul us both if something happened to the Prof. I may need help getting him back up. Andy slipped over the edge and was gone. This time I kept the rope taunt until I fell on my ass because the weight dropped off. I hauled the rope back up the slope hand over hand to look at the end. I suspected cuts from a sharp edge, what I got was completely unexpected. The rope was cut by something so sharp, or so hot there was no distortion I could see with the naked eye. It seemed it had been cut by a very precise edge, and it may have even been melted a bit on the flush end because there wasn’t a single strand anywhere. I just saw no burn evidence. I looked back at the pilot. His eyes were almost as stunned as mine. “Bret, we need a team here and we need then now. Help me get another rope over the edge with a tight deadman stake. I’ll hang out here until you get a rescue crew.” Ten minutes later with no word spoken, the chopper swung over me and charged down the slope, careful to avoid the orphaned cloud. Two choppers returned within an hour and a half and I watched them silhouetted in a west bound sun. We had at most a couple of hours to get the professor and Andy off this hill. Chet landed in his tracks and the coast guard hung out over the cloud. There was no weather to speak of, so the bay door slid open and a rescue team prepared a basket. One of their team road down with the basket and I watched it fold into the cloud. The chopper bounced as the cable snapped up toward the rotors with nothing on the end but a red end. The pilot was good. He swung out of the way of the flailing cable and the team landed on the crest with us. A conference on the radio and with our news chopper broke out and we were ordered off the mountain. A new attempt was going to go over the ledge we took, but it was going to stop short of the cloud and an attempt to contact the lost men would be made, as well as a scan for anything unusual. The air force base was notified as well. This was going to be a busy little cloud. Bret and I had trouble thinking of what to say, but the professor and Andy’s family was waiting in the news office when we got back. There was nothing we could tell them. Bret refueled and left immediately with the news team. It was going to be a long night. I sat beside Mrs. Jenkins and peered through her steamed glasses at red-rimmed eyes. “Are you ok Mrs. Jenkins? Can I do anything for you or get you anything?” A thin “No” was all I got in reply. I mumbled an apology and moved over to Andy’s wife and kids. The kid’s faces were stained with tear trails, but Andy’s wife simply sat quietly and blank. It seemed shock hadn’t given way to grief yet. “Can I do anything for you?” She just shook her head and looked at her kids, who looked at me as if pleading. I headed for the weather lab. Opening the door, I was almost knocked off my feet by Andy following the swinging door. “Wha…!” He grinned, “You swallow a fly?” and continued on by me. “Wait!. How… How did you get back?” “Get back from where?” “Rainier.” “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been working this new computer model all day. Prof and I have almost got it ready for prime time.” “Prof?” “Ya, your boss.” “He’s here?” “At his workstation, what’s got into you? He followed me to the office that, sure enough held the concentrating professor of meteorology. Andy followed me to his desk. “Prof, how did you get back down off the mountain?” “What are you talking about Pete. What mountain? When?” “Today, I lost you and Andy in a cloud on Rainier… Don’t you remember?” “Pete, are you losing it? Andy and I have been working this application all day.” I eased over to his south facing window, and there was Rainier, fading in the last light of the day, and there was the little cloud stuck to its side. Guys, you need to come out to reception. Your families think you are stuck on the mountain. All hell broke loose. After the weeping and tissue works, Bret and I were on the hot seat in the board room with the professor, Andy and the station manager grilling us. They had called Bret back to the base and he was filling them in on my story. His matched perfectly. He also had the logs with the coast guard and armed forces. It was easy to prove they were still on the mountain. The station manager called the coast guard and armed forces. It seemed their rescue paramedic showed up in their jump station with no knowledge of his past adventure. They were, however short one rescue basket. The Armed forces took possession of the site and kicked everyone else off the mountain. The next week was interesting because all aircraft were steered away from Mount Rainer and we were no longer able to report on the event but from long distance telescope pictures from a twenty mile parameter. All we could see was a series of aircraft going to and fro. The end of our week came with no answers, just questions. Bret’s black box was confiscated by the FBI and the rain came back. The clouds again obscured the mountain. It is now he beginning of December and we have another two day window to the sun. Mount Rainer is back, the cloud is gone. My tasks have returned to the mundane and I sit looking at the neatly severed end of a rope rolled on my office floor. I attach a luggage tag with a caption that reads, “Compliments of Cloud Nine, Area 52” Bret and I are going for a beer after work. |
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| Cloud Nine Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#7 of 11 |
| 2247 words | |
| In your whole life you've never been happier than you
are at this moment. It is not yet dawn, and so she is still in bed. You move hurriedly about the kitchen, whistling the theme from "Man of La Mancha." The soles of your slippers scuff noisily across the old linoleum floor, making a sound like oowhhirp-oowhhirp-oowhhirp. You know that the linoleum, like your slippers, needs to be replaced. Its edges are torn and they curl up here and there along the baseboard, but you don't concern yourself with such mundane matters this morning because this will be your first breakfast together, and you want it to be special. You put two slices of bacon in the frying pan. One for you and one for your wife. Your wife. The words strike you as funny, odd, uncomfortable in a way. You wonder how long it'll take you to get used to saying them. A week, perhaps. Maybe two at the outside. You let your mind play with the thought as you take the bacon out of the frying pan and set it on a paper towel. Eighteen days you decide, though you don’t know where the number came from. It just sounds right somehow. In eighteen days, you figure, you'll be used to calling her your wife. You suppose it could happen faster than that if you practiced, but even before Joliet you were never the romantic type. Making her breakfast in bed is pretty much your limit in that department. With one hand you crack open an egg on the edge of the skillet and deftly pour it into the frying pan. Your mind goes back to thinking about the eighteen days. You decide that that's too soon for a bachelor of twenty-seven years. You tell yourself – convince yourself, really – that a month'll be plenty soon enough. Hell, a month ago you didn't even know that this woman existed. Four days ago she was a nameless blonde in a black cocktail dress who, for all you knew, just happened to be standing next to you at a roulette table in Vegas. You put some bread in the toaster. # # # The casino is a jumble of activity and noise that overwhelms the senses, and so you're not sure how long it is that she's been there, standing beside you. It's her scent – her perfume – that first gets your attention. She smells like sex. Like Wanda Bukowski in the back seat of your father's Packard after the senior prom. You steal a glance out of the corner of your eye. She's no Wanda Bukowski. Everything about her says that she's out of your league. Her clothes, her jewelry, the way she carries herself. Women like her don't give men like you the time of day, even when they don't know about your record. But hell, this is Vegas, and you're just passing through anyway. You've been doing well, winning here and there at the tables and on the slots. You're up a couple hundred bucks and you've got some money to burn. House money, they call it out here. You're feeling lucky and decide to try to impress her. You put a hundred dollar chip down on black. She watches you, then reaches across the table and places her bet. Her arm brushes innocently against you, and you wonder for a second if she did it on purpose. But you look and see that she played red, so you don't think so. You lose. She wins. Acting like it didn't hurt to lose a hundred bucks, you put down another chip. You change your strategy and play odd this time. As before she waits until after you've made your move. She puts hers down on even. Again, you lose and she wins. You force a smile and a laugh and blow a smoke ring with your cigar. You think you remember somebody doing something like that in a movie you saw once when you were in prison. Cagney, Bogey, somebody like that. Somebody smooth with women. You double your bet. Two chips. Two hundred bucks. This time you go with high, any number between nineteen and thirty-six. You act like it's nothing, like you do this sort of thing all the time. She doubles her bet as well, only she plays low. The result is the same. You begin to think she's a witch of some sort. Quickly you do the math in your head. If you double your bet yet again – four hundred bucks - you can break even. You've just lost three straight times on a fifty-fifty bet, so you figure the odds have to be in your favor. Your mind isn't working well. You're not picking up on warning signs the way you should. You put everything you've got left on red. Four hundred bucks. A week's wages. A month's rent. You don't have to look to know how she's betting, but you watch anyway because you can't help yourself. The witch stacks all her chips on black. You go bust and turn to leave. You feel someone grab your sleeve. Instinctively you try to pull your arm away. "Don't leave," you hear her say. You want to chew her out for shadowing your bets and stealing your luck, and you come damn close to doing it, too, but when you turn around you come face-to-face with those eyes. Her eyes. They're blue. Light blue, like melted sky. You've never seen eyes that color before. Witches couldn't possibly have eyes like these. "Please," she coos. Her voice is soft and oh so irresistible. "I'd like to buy you dinner if I may." "Only if you marry me," you tell her, half-joking. She laughs. It's not the kind of laugh you're used to getting from women. Oh, they laugh at your jokes all right, but really they're just being polite, that's all. Enduring the awkwardness of your company and trying not to hurt your feelings. Yet all the while they're secretly calculating how much longer it'll be before you take them home and end the misery of the date they never wanted to go on in the first place. No, her laugh is nothing like that. Her laugh is genuine, from the heart - a lover's laugh. You can't turn down a laugh like that. Over a dinner of prime rib and baked potato you learn that her name is Martha, that she's a recently widowed schoolteacher from a little town in Iowa and that she's never even gambled before let alone been to Vegas. The trip was her sister's idea, she says. Set up to help her get over the grief of having suddenly lost her husband in a farming accident. Martha and her sister were going to do it together until her sister's boy was struck by a car and broke his leg. That left Martha with a plane ticket and a hotel reservation and a sister who insisted that she go ahead without her. She did, she says, and you can tell by the way she says it that she's proud of how she's re-establishing her independence and getting on with the rest of her life. You sense in her a kindred spirit. Two souls trying to erase their past and begin life anew. You forget you ever thought she was a witch and reach across the table, taking her hand in yours. It's the first time the two of you have touched, and you're amazed at how small and delicate her hand is. You feel like you're cradling the trembling heart of a wounded bird, and you find yourself fighting the impulse to tell her you love her. But your rap sheet indicates you were never very good at resisting impulses, and three days later, which was yesterday, you found yourself in the express lane of a drive-through wedding chapel. You've been on cloud nine ever since. # # # The toaster makes a dinging sound and the bread pops up. The noise brings you back to the present. You wipe the dust off a serving tray and set Martha's breakfast on it. You wish you had a freshly cut rose to complete the arrangement. The occurrence of such a tender thought makes you think the prison years are fading ever farther back into your memory. This woman will be good for you. You just know it. She giggles like a school girl when you take the tray in to her. No one has ever made her breakfast in bed before, she tells you. Her joy and her innocence are contagious. You sit on the edge of the bed and bounce up and down each time she tries to take a bite of food. She laughs at your school boy antics, and you promise to behave and never do it again, but it is another one of life's temptations that you cannot resist. Again and again she tries to eat, but it's impossible for her fork to find her mouth. Her face becomes smeared with eggs and butter. Exhausted, and with your ribs aching from laughter, you collapse in each other's arms. You feel your eyes welling up with moisture. It is then that you decide to tell her. "I did time once, you know." You try to say it matter-of-factly, as if it's no big thing. At first she says nothing. Her eyes, those mesmerizing liquid blue eyes, stare blankly off into space. You dab at her face with a napkin, hoping that the act of wiping away the eggs and the grease and the butter from her chin will somehow take the edge off of the bombshell you've just dropped, but she remains cold and distant. The way you figure it, there's no point in holding anything back now, so you start telling her all about it. About the bar in Evanston and how it was really more of a misunderstanding than anything else. A couple of guys tanked up on brews, and how one thing led to another with neither one of them sensible enough or sober enough to back away and not take everything so damn personal, except of course that neither one of them did. And the next thing you know this lawyer that they assigned to you is advising you to plead to manslaughter and do the time. Five to ten guaranteed is better than putting your ass on trial for murder and risking twenty to life, he tells you. And what the hell do you know because, at twenty-two, you were still a kid who's dumb enough to think that lawyers who work for free have your best interests at heart. You'd give your right arm, you tell her, if none of that had ever happened, except that, what with life being fickle the way it is, chances are the two of you would never have met if either one of you came into this moment with even a slightly different history. You try to explain to her how life is like some great big jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces have to fit into these tiny little places exactly. You had to kill that guy, you tell her, just like she had to lose her husband and her sister's kid had to break his leg and all those other things, like prison and roulette, had to happen to the two of you along the way, just so you could meet when you did and get to this point where you are right now. She doesn't look like she's buying it, so you reach out for her hand, but she pulls it away. "Give me a minute," she says. She pushes aside the tray, gets out of bed and runs into the bathroom. You know she's crying in there. And you know that it's your fault. You feel badly for what you've done and decide to give her some space. You don't know what else to do. You take the breakfast tray downstairs and start cleaning up the kitchen. When she comes down, she's dressed, as she was when you first met her, in the black cocktail dress – and she's holding a gun. She sits down at the kitchen table and motions for you to do the same. "Carl," she says, "do you love me?" Of course you do, you tell her. "How much?" she asks. You're not sure how to answer this. The gun staring you in the face makes it difficult to think. You stumble all over yourself trying to find the right words – the words that will make her put the gun down. "Carl," she interrupts, "do you love me as much as I love you?" You tell her that you do. "That's very good, Carl," she says. "Because, you see, I hate your guts." You ask her if that's because you didn't tell her about your past, about how you did time in Joliet. "No, Carl. That's not it. I already knew about that. In fact, I've known about it for over five years now." Over five years? How could this woman know something about you from five years ago when you just met her last week? You wonder if she might be having a nervous breakdown. You ask her if she's sure she's right about the time. "Yes, Carl, I'm quite sure. Five years and seven months to be exact. Ever since my husband was killed in a bar fight." Something's not right here. You remind her how she told you her husband had been killed in a farm accident of some kind back in Iowa. "Carl," she says as she gets up from the table and walks around behind you, "let's try to put two and two together here, shall we. I lied to you, okay? It's as simple as that. Why, I don't even know as I've ever even been to Iowa." Suddenly, it all becomes clear. This woman has been tracking you, stalking you, for the past five years. The seemingly chance meeting in Vegas and everything that followed was not a matter of coincidence. It was by design. And now that you've figured that out, it's too late. You hear her cock the hammer. You prepare yourself for the final seconds of your life here on earth. Except that it makes no sense that she should pretend to fall in love with you and marry you. You ask her why she didn't kill you outright when she first saw you. "Oh Carl, don't you understand? There would be no pain if you didn't love me. You see, Carl, the pain is not in the dying. The pain is in having to go on living." You hear the gun fire. You flinch. Her body bumps against you as it falls to the floor. Reflexively, you turn to look at it. Her blood flows out from under the back of her head and forms pools in the uneven surface of the linoleum. Her deep blue eyes sparkle like sapphires. |
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| Cloud Nine Nancy J Schneider njswritingnook@yahoo.com |
#8 of 11 Runner-up |
| 2463 words | |
| Sara was having trouble opening her eyes, and when she
did, she couldn’t see anything. There was a thick fog surrounding her
which affected her equilibrium. She put out her hands to steady herself, but
there was nothing to hold on to. Afraid to move in any direction, she felt real
fear closing in on her. “Help! Is anybody out there?” she shouted. “Can anyone hear me?” The silence was as thick as the fog. There was no voice calling an answer. Where was she and what was going on? Slowly shuffling forward with her hands outstretched, she searched for something, anything. The fog seemed to be clearing a little, giving her a bit of confidence. Squinting she called again. “Hello, is anybody there?” Inching her way forward through the lifting mist, she could see someone. Was this a worse threat than the fog? She couldn’t very well hide as she didn’t know what was out there, so she stood as still as a statue. Straining to see, she got a better view of the person approaching. It was a woman. It almost looked like Mrs. Winters, but that was impossible. Yet it definitely looked like her. Then the woman smiled and Sara knew it was her. Taking a tentative step forward she called out, “Mrs. Winters?” “Yes, Sara, it’s me. It’s good to see you.” “But I thought, I mean I heard, that you, ummm, well I heard….” “That I died?” Mrs. Winters smiled. “I did my dear.” “Then, then does that mean I’m dead, too?” asked Sara looking around. “But this doesn’t look like heaven. I mean, where’s the Pearly Gates and the guy with the long white beard and the book, or the long white tunnel or all the angels coming to meet me? Where’s all the stuff that’s supposed to be here? This can’t be heaven.” “Well, that’s not really how it works. You’ll find out all about that some other time, but for now, you’re supposed to report to Cloud Nine.” “Cloud Nine?” “We only have a short time, my dear. Cloud Nine is where souls go who will be returning to earth.” “Soooo I died - but I’m not dead?” “Technically that’s correct. I’m sure you’ve heard of people who have ‘near death’ experiences, where they claim they died but came back to life. Well, you’re about to become one of them.” “You mean it’s true? That people come back from the dead?” Mrs. Winters nodded her head. “Sometimes He sends souls back. Not often, mind you, but there are times when He deems it best.” “But why me? Why is He sending me back? And what in the heck happened?” “Sara dear, He doesn’t tell us everything. I can’t answer those questions because I don’t know. I only know He sent me to meet you and has decreed that you are to report to Cloud Nine.” “Then what am I supposed to do?” “Don’t worry about it. Everything has a way of working out, you’ll see. Now come, we must hurry. They’re waiting at Cloud Nine.” Sara glanced around and could see a bit clearer now. Off to her right stood a beautiful tree, the most beautiful tree she ever saw. “Oh, Mrs. Winters. That tree! I’ve got to get a closer look.” Mrs. Winters answered in a voice that left no room for argument. “No my dear, not this time. That’s the Tree of Life.” Her voice softened, “Someday you will not only go closer, but you will pick and eat of the delicious fruit, guaranteeing eternal life. But not now. Not this time.” Taking Sara’s hand, Mrs. Winters led her to the left and the fog once again swirled through the air. It was strange to walk through the mist that churned around them, but Mrs. Winters step was sure. Sara tried to see, but other than the tree, there was only fog. Glancing over her shoulder, the tree was in the distance and growing fainter. The fog slowly absorbed everything but the two women. ******************************* Mrs. Stillman was keeping vigilance at her daughter’s bedside. She’d been there all night and now the sun was peeking through, promising a beautiful day. She picked up Sara’s hand and started rubbing her thumb. “Come on honey, wake up. Please wake up. Hank and I are right here waiting. Come on Sara, open your eyes.” She felt a slight twitch in Sara’s hand and called out to her husband. “I think she may be coming out of it Hank. Call the nurse!” Turning back to Sara, she repeated her litany. “Come on honey, open your eyes.” The nurse hurried into the room and checked the monitor. Next she checked Sara’s pulse and smiled. “Good morning Sara. Time to wake up.” Sara stirred and a soft “hummm” escaped. Slowly her eyelids fluttered, then opened. “Mom?” “I’m here Sara. I‘m right here,” she said, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Where am I? What’s happened?” Sara asked through dry, cracked lips. “There was an accident honey, but you’re going to be ok. The doctor said you’ll be as good as new in no time at all.” “But what happened? What kind of accident?” “You were crossing the street, and well, a car hit you honey. You’ve got a concussion, a few broken ribs and there was some internal bleeding, but the doctor said…” All of a sudden Sara remembered. The monitor beeped a different rhythm as she struggled to sit up. “Mmmm, that hurts. But I have to tell you, I was on Cloud Nine and …” “I know honey, I know. You were so happy and your mind was on the upcoming wedding and you weren’t watching the traffic when you stepped off the curb and no one blames you …” “No Mom! I mean I was literally on Cloud Nine. In heaven …” “Hush now Sara. Don’t get yourself all excited. All that matters is that you’re awake. We’ll take it one day at a time. You can tell me later. Right now you need to rest and get your strength back.” Sara closed her eyes. She’d have to wait until her mother wasn’t so upset. And she was tired. Hopefully Jeff would believe her when she told him. Jeff! Did he know? Her eyes popped back open. “Mom. Has anyone called Jeff?” “Yes dear, right after we got the phone call, Hank called Jeff. He should be here pretty soon. Just close your eyes and rest for now.” Kissing Sara on the forehead, she patted her hand and left the room. The next time Sara opened her eyes, she saw Jeff anxiously looking at her. She gave a small smile and reached for his hand. “My God Sara, I’ve been worried out of my mind. If anything were to happen to you I …” “I’m going to be fine Jeff, I’m going to be fine. I’m happy to be back,” Sara said, her words slurring a bit. “Right now you have to do everything the doctor says so I can take you home. He said you can probably go home by the end of the week if you continue to improve. Oh, Sara, I was so scared. They told me that your heart stopped for about two minutes during surgery. You almost died. Thank God you had a good surgeon working on you.” “Only two minutes? It seemed a lot longer. There’s so much I have to tell you. Cloud Nine and heaven,” she mumbled. “But right now I am tired,” Sara said as her eyelids fluttered shut. ******************************* “I know I gave you a lot to think about last night, but I told you the absolute truth. Now that you’ve had time to think it over, do you believe me Jeff? I know it’s all kinda confusing and hard to swallow, but it’s true. Every word I told you is true. I was literally on Cloud Nine up in heaven.” “Yea, honey, I believe you. I‘ll admit at first I was very skeptical, but I knew you believed it. I thought it was from the bump on the head or wishful thinking or something. I’ve had some doubts about God and heaven and all that churchy stuff you’re always talking about, and then you come along with this cloud nine and heaven thing. I prayed that God would show me the truth. I guess what happened to you proves it, that there is a God and heaven.” “Mom thinks it’s all a dream or something. She said, ‘Honey I know you believe what you are saying, but think about it. Heaven? People don’t come back from heaven.’ Then I tried to tell her about the Tree of Life, but she only gave me that, ‘Yes dear’ answer. I know she was only pacifying me and didn’t really believe me. But it’s important that you believe me.” “I do, but don’t you wonder why? Why did it all happen? I mean did He ever tell you why He was sending you back?” Jeff asked. “No not really. He didn’t say anything. I never even saw Him. The only one I actually saw was Mrs. Winters. I could feel some kind of activity around me, but I never saw anyone. But I could feel Him. It was such a… a numinous place.” “Num-a-what?” “Numinous. It’s a feeling of the all-inspiring holy presence of God. I definitely could feel His presence. I know He was there. It’s something I can’t explain, but it filled my whole being. Maybe we can‘t see Him until we eat from the Tree of Life. I wanted to stay, but that wasn’t to be. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital.” “Maybe He sent you back to convince me there really is a God and a heaven and eternal life. Maybe that’s why.” Sara looked at him and twitched her head just a fraction. “Maaayyybe. But I don’t think that’s the reason. Jesus once told a parable about the rich man and poor Lazarus and the rich man wanted someone to return from the dead to convince his brothers. But he was told ‘they have Moses and the prophets.’ In other words, the Word. So I really don’t think that’s the reason I was sent back.” She lowered her eyes and added, “Although I’m glad that it turned out this way for you.” “It’s strange how everything started to make sense last night when I was praying. Before it seemed that I was just saying words, but last night I really prayed, and it was like all the answers fell in place. It was truly awesome.” “We both have much to be thankful for. Now all I have to do is figure out why I returned and what I‘m supposed to do.” “Maybe nothing. Maybe you’re just being given a second chance at life.” “Maybe, but I think there’s more to it than that. I just have to figure out what.” ******************************* “That was some meal my love. I’m glad you said ‘yes’ when I asked you to marry me,” Jeff said. “Oh, so you proposed so you’d have a good cook?” Sara chided. “You know better than that. But I do love your cooking - and you of course,” Jeff said with a twinkle in his eye. “So, what’s the occasion? You said you had something to talk over. Out with it, what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours? You’ve been so secretive all evening.” “Well, I do have something important to talk over. I just wanted to wait until you had a full belly so you’d concentrate on what I’m going to say.” “Oo-kk-aa-y I’m all ears.” “Remember how we decided that after we were married I’d work at your dad’s company because I could make more money? I mean, you still have a year left before you can take your bar exam and we figured my salary would get us through, remember? At the time it sounded like the perfect answer. But now I’m not so sure.” “Why? Don’t you want to work for my dad’s law firm? He offered you a really good position and an even better salary. What’s wrong with that?” “Nothing honey, it isn’t because it’s your dad or working for him or anything like that. But teaching is all I ever wanted to do, and the offer still stands. I called Mr. Beyer and they still want me in fall. I told him I’d let him know for sure by Monday. I know it won’t pay as much as working for your dad, but I really, really think I ought to take that job as a teacher.” “But babe, we talked about it for hours. Your salary as a teacher won’t be enough. I still have one year to go before I can …..” “I know, I know. But we could make it if we cut back on some things. I know we could make it. But there’s another reason, Jeff. Remember I told you Mrs. Winters is the one who met me in heaven? Well, she was my fifth grade teacher. She’s the one I told you about that helped me during that time when my life was falling apart with Mom and Dad talking about divorce and everything. It was Mrs. Winters who saw that I needed help and it was Mrs. Winters who got me through that rough time.” Sara’s voice pleaded, “Don’t you see Jeff, why would it be Mrs. Winters who met me unless there was some kind of connection? Maybe the message I’m supposed to get is that I should pursue my teaching and not worry about the finances. Maybe I’m supposed to be a teacher so I can help some other child the way Mrs. Winters helped me.” Jeff sat back, rubbed his chin and said, “It kinda make sense. But you know it will be rough for a while until I get my degree, don’t you? There are some things we’ll have to go without. But if you’re convinced this is what you’re supposed to do, I guess we should do it. Course I’ll have to explain it to dad, and that won’t be the easiest thing in the world. He’ll point out the difference in salary and make it sound like we’ll end up in a cardboard box, but I’ll make him understand.” Sara threw her arms around his neck. “God I really do love you. I know this is right and I promise I won’t complain when the budget gets tight. We’ll make it, and some day we’ll look back and wonder why it took us so long to see what He was trying to tell us.” |
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| Cloud Nine Salvatore Buttaci http://www.geocities.com/sambpoet |
#9 of 11 |
| 120 words | |
| God decided how many stars should occupy the universe and He calls each star by name: This good God of ours who loves the stars. Yet those who are ungrateful curse The Creator, cast Him the blame For all things under the stars. Some insist He doesn’t care, or worse, There never was a God. How lame! In their pride they alone are stars. And too, the clouds God numbered traverse The sky and at His Will provide the rain. One special cloud, high as the stars, God assigned to lift those who burst with joy in the playing of life’s game. How loving a God He is! Each time We walk on air, He lifts us to Cloud Nine. |
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| Cloud Nine Marcus Bird http://marcusbird.blogspot.com |
#10 of 11 |
| 2174 words | |
| Nights like these, Vince thought, made cold people wrap
their arms tightly around one another while bustling to some destination.
Nights like these the sky is streaked with grey clouds that turn into a
brooding, black coat. This was the night he smelled Michiko's hair. He was by
himself—an amazing feat considering he hated being alone—and always
felt the need to express himself through people he knew. He went to a popular
bar, called Cloud Nine which had great Wednesday night happy hour cuisine. It
was in this place, eating a Caesar salad, he saw Michiko. She walked in, a
bundle of foreign expression, an externality of the rawness of Japan's populace
and fashion sense. She wore a shiny gray jacket adorned with large yellow
buttons on the shoulders and a thin yet form fitting black vintage tee;
followed by a chocolate brown skirt and long Cat-in-the-Hat looking socks
straight out of a rugby player's closet. Vince was in mid-bite when she walked
in. She looked perturbed, lost in a broken train of thought, or searching for
something. Her eyes were dark and mysterious. Even her hair, a large bob of
luxuriant styling courtesy of some uber-expensive Tokyo fashion shop, stood
out. As Vince stared at her, she glanced at him and held his gaze. He coughed
briefly, turning his eyes, and finished biting into his salad. After a few more
chews, he glanced through the corner of his eye in her direction. She was at
the bar, standing by herself. Something inside him stirred in a way that it had never done so before. Maybe it was her striking contrast to everyone else, or maybe it was her foreign touch, that spark of Tokyo-pop and extreme fashion that tickled h | |