 
### Dream Vision

A collection of short stories by

David A. Bates

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 David A. Bates

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### Eye of the Beholder

"Look at this," Leonard Berton called from across the gallery.

His friend and next-door-neighbor Bob Walters strolled over to the portrait Leonard was indicating. "Yeah, what about it?"

The portrait was that of a young woman, dressed formally and smiling demurely.

"I've seen this painting at least a dozen times in the past few months, but today it looks different."

"Different, huh? How so?"

"I don't know. It just looks different. The girl looks more, I don't know, real than she used to."

"You've been working too hard Len," Bob said. "It's just a painting. It hasn't changed a bit in, let's see..." he read the plaque beneath the portrait. "1996 minus 1824. One hundred and seventy-two years. Is that right?"

"I don't care what it says. It looks different to me. There's more detail than there used to be." Leonard distinctly remembered seeing this portrait on earlier visits to the gallery, but hadn't paid much attention to it until today. "Who is she, I wonder?"

Leonard had visited the gallery regularly for the past three years. He began coming here with Shirley when they lived together. She was an art teacher and Leonard found he enjoyed her impromptu lectures. He wasn't an art lover in the classic sense of the word. Leonard didn't look upon each piece with the eye of a scholar or a fellow artist. He often described himself tritely as "not being an art expert, but knowing what I like."

When Shirley left him, he discovered that visiting the gallery was a habit he didn't want to break. "I just don't like going to bars," he told Bob. "The gallery is my relaxation, kind of like TV is for you."

Len enjoyed the serenity he found in the gallery's quiet halls. It was for him a refuge from the everyday pressures in his life. Demanding bosses, fickle women, bills, all his problems, faded away when he came here. He would wander, often for hours, reveling in the oils and watercolors and sculptures by artists unknown to most people. Nevertheless, Leonard enjoyed them as much as he did the one masterpiece the gallery possessed, a lesser-known Matisse.

Len usually came to the gallery alone but today he had talked Bob into coming with him. It was a rainy Saturday. Bob told Leonard, "I'm so bored that even a trip to an art gallery sounds better than staring at the television all afternoon."

While Leonard gazed transfixed, Bob squinted at the oil painting. He slipped into his worst pidgin French. "'Zee Arteest's Wife', 1824, by Jacque Branze. You have certainly found a strange phenomenon here, oui. A painteeng that changes."

Leonard rolled his eyes. "I don't know why I even bother trying to civilize you."

Bob continued to read the plaque beneath the portrait. "The artist died shortly after completing the painting. Hmmm. This was his last known work." Bob rubbed his chin as he looked at the face. "No wonder he died, if this _was_ his wife, she looks like she could kill any man. But what a way to go, eh?"

After a few more moments of looking at the widow Mrs. Branze as depicted in oil, Bob tugged on Len's sleeve. "Come on, pal, you wanted to show me the gallery. There must be more to see than one dead artist's wife."

Leonard reluctantly turned away. "Right. They have an excellent collection of western sculpture down this way. You'll enjoy that." As they passed into the next wing, he cast the portrait a parting glance over his shoulder. He would be back, soon, and without anyone to distract him.

The following Monday, on his lunch hour, Leonard visited the library. He went to the reference section and began looking through the art books. There had to be something, somewhere written about Jacque Branze and his works. In the fifth book he opened, Leonard found a brief biographical notation:

"Branze, Jacque, born 1752, died ca. 1824. One of a group of French painters noted for portraits and landscapes. Branze was most famous for his portrayal of prostitutes. He moved to Paris when he was in his 50's. He had a succession of wives, all younger than he and each younger than her predecessor. Some of his wives may have been the same prostitutes whom he painted. Little is known of his later life. It is believed he was responsible for the murder of his last wife, Gabrielle, soon after completing a portrait of her. Branze vanished after her death and was never seen again. The actual date of his death is unknown."

Then Leonard glanced at the picture of Branze. He nearly stopped breathing. "My God. He looks like me."

It was true. Except for the hairstyle and mustache, Jacque Branze was the spitting image of Leonard Berton.

Len rubbed his eyes and looked at the picture again. "I'm not imagining it. He could be my twin."

_Vanished._ The word broke through Leonard's thoughts. It seemed strange that Branze should disappear without a trace. "There's something mighty strange about all of this," Leonard said to himself as he closed the book.

That evening, after dinner, Leonard went next door to tell Bob about his research.

"Are you still hung up on that crazy painting?" Bob shook his head in exasperation.

"I'm not 'hung up', just interested."

"So he disappeared? So what? He probably decided to vanish into the sewers of Paris or something. He was an artist. Those guys were weird anyway. Maybe he died in an alley and they just never identified him, you know, buried him in an unmarked pauper's grave. That happened a lot back in those days."

"You're probably right. People disappear all the time, like you say. Even today. Still, I can't stop wondering about the guy. And that painting of his wife..."

"You're getting obsessed, Len. I've got to get you out of the house more often. Maybe we can find some real live women to entertain us, not some old painting."

"But there's something about her. You just don't understand."

"You don't even know if she really existed. She might have been a figment of the old guy's imagination. Maybe she was really some old hag who he just wanted to look like that, so he painted her that way."

"I know. I've thought about all that," Leonard said. "But I know that picture looked different to me the other day. I can't put my finger on it, but something about it was just different. And there's something else."

"What might that be?"

"The artist, Branze. He looked just like me. I saw a picture of him in the book at the library."

"You're imagining things, Len. I'm telling you, this isn't healthy."

"I saw it myself, today, in the library. I'm not making it up."

"Okay. Whatever you say."

Leonard gave up. "All right. You don't believe any of this. Just don't say I didn't try to tell you."

"Don't worry about that. I won't."

The next day, Leonard shoved a stack of papers into his desk drawer at four-fifty, placed his phone on automatic, sneaked out the side door, and made the seven-block walk through heavy pedestrian traffic in thirteen minutes. He knew the exact time it took because he checked his watch every three minutes. The gallery would close at six, and he wanted to spend as much time with his lady as he could.

Bursting through the gallery doors, winded from his walk, he was pleased to find the gallery nearly empty. _Great,_ he thought. _I'll have her to myself._ He rushed toward "The Artist's Wife." His footsteps echoed, adding to the eeriness of the gallery. Finally, standing before the portrait, he gazed at it in disbelief. Her eyes had a deeper, more soulful look. Her face was softer, her mouth moist and inviting. Leonard was enchanted by her sexuality.

"It's a remarkable work of art, isn't it?"

The voice, so sudden and intrusive, startled Leonard. With a cry of surprise, he turned to see a tall, gaunt gentleman in a poorly tailored suit standing directly behind him.

"I'm sorry," the man said apologetically. "I didn't intend to frighten you. My name is Joseph Morganstein. I'm the Gallery Director. I noticed you were admiring our Branze. It's one of my favorite works and...oh, my God. It can't be! Mr. Biggs, is that you?"

"No. My name's Leonard Berton. I don't know any Biggs. What's wrong?" Leonard was alarmed by the look of shock in the man's eyes. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm not certain I haven't. The man who last owned this painting could have been your twin brother."

"What!" Leonard felt lightheaded. This couldn't be happening. First the resemblance to Branze, now this.

"What do you know about this painting?" Leonard managed to regain his composure. "I've been doing some research on Branze lately." Len decided against mentioning the picture of the artist he'd found in the library.

"Well, we acquired it about two years ago in an auction. It was part of a private collection, an estate in New York City. We got it at an obscenely low cost. Probably due to the circumstances."

"Circumstances?"

"Yes. The owner, Donald Biggs, simply vanished. He was at a party two days before last being seen. At least 50 people claimed to have seen him there and speaking to him. That's why I was so shocked when I saw you. I thought you'd come to claim the portrait."

_Vanished._ There was that word again. "And what about the owner before him?" Leonard asked, not entirely certain he wanted to know.

"Donald's father, Walter. He died in 1983."

"Of natural causes?"

"Yes, as far as I know."

"Did Donald and Walter look alike?"

"No more than most family members. Donald favored his Mother's side of the family."

"Do you know if Donald was acting strangely at the party? Or if he said anything about the painting?"

"No. Not that I can recall," Morganstein gazed at the picture, then shook his head. "He was a very private man. I knew the family because of their interest in art. Donald was a collector like his father."

"Tell me, Mr. Morganstein, do you have any information about who owned this painting before the Biggs Family?"

"No, I wish I did. I can't even find out much about the artist."

"I read about him in the library yesterday," Leonard said. "The article didn't say much," he lied.

Morganstein sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid that we each have about the same information, or lack of it. Well, I must go and take care of some last minute business before closing." He extended his hand. "I'm so glad you visited today and I hope you return soon."

With that, Morganstein turned on his heel and walked off. He had taken only a few steps when he stopped and looked back.

"You asked if Donald Biggs said anything about this painting. I don't know about at the party, but the day I last spoke with him, he seemed troubled about something. We had been chatting about French portrait painters and he mentioned the fact that he had inherited the Branze. He told me it had the most interesting characteristic. He claimed it changed in appearance. He didn't elaborate on it, just that it wasn't quite the same face as when his father first acquired it. Donald was, for want of a better word, somewhat obsessed with the painting. That probably doesn't mean anything. As I said, Mr. Biggs was a loner. But you did ask."

Morganstein then hastened off toward the front of the gallery and Leonard was again alone with the portrait. Alone with his lady. He lovingly gazed at her.

She was truly beautiful, he thought. Almost real. "Why am I so afraid of you and yet so attracted to you?" he asked, then sheepishly looked around the empty hallway. He was talking to a lifeless painting.

But was it really so lifeless?

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice on the intercom: "The gallery will be closing in five minutes. Thank you for visiting us today. Please come again soon."

It was time to leave. Leonard felt like a teenager at the end of his first date. He wanted one last kiss but her father was flashing the porch lights.

The following Saturday, Leonard answered a knock on his door. It was Bob. "Hey, Len. Want to hit the mall and see if we can pick up any women?"

Leonard shook his head. "I can't. I'm going to the gallery."

"The gallery?" Bob's frown showed his disapproval. "Again? Don't tell me you're going to go look at that picture all day."

"But it keeps changing. Come and see for yourself."

"No way, my friend. You might have the hots for a face on a wall, but not this dude. I like my women a little warmer."

"I do not have the 'hots' for her."

"Oh yeah. You just called a painting 'her.' Does that sound normal to you? My God, Len, for the last month or so you've been acting really strange. Ever since you first noticed that damned painting, you haven't been the old Len I know."

"You're right. I know you're right. I just can't get that picture out of my mind. It's like she's trying to get inside my head or something."

Bob shook his head in despair. "I've heard enough. Do whatever you want, just leave me out of it." Turning, he began to walk away.

"Bob! I also found out that the guy who used to own the painting looked almost exactly like me. The Gallery Director thought I was the same person."

Bob halted mid-step and turned. "So you're telling me that not only did this artist look like you, but the last owner of the painting looked like you too? Doesn't any of this bother you at all?"

"Yes. A little bit I suppose. But that still doesn't explain to me why that painting is changing."

"Len. Get some help. You've let your imagination run away with your sanity. I'm serious. You're seeing paintings that change overnight and everyone involved with it looks like you. Like I said, it's not healthy."

Bob walked out the door. This time he didn't stop.

As Leonard drove to the gallery, he discussed with himself the possibility of possessing the painting. "How much could it possibly cost? Ten thousand dollars? Twenty thousand? I've got some savings. My credit is good. If it couldn't be purchased, it wouldn't be on display. There has to be a way."

Leonard was at the gallery before it opened. As he entered the building, he spotted Morganstein. Approaching him, Leonard blurted, "I want to buy the Branze."

"I'm afraid it isn't for sale. Even if it were, the price would be quite beyond your means, I believe."

"But you said you got it at a bargain price. Circumstances, you told me. Give me a price. I'll get the money. I have to have the painting." Owning the portrait would solve his problems, Leonard was certain.

"The value has risen considerably since I purchased it. I couldn't possibly sell it." Morganstein said and promptly walked away.

"What's his problem? Why did he get so angry over an innocent request?" Leonard shrugged and then hurried down the hallway toward his beloved.

He stopped short when he saw Morganstein standing in front of the painting. Completely oblivious to everything except the Branze, Morganstein slowly raised his hand and gently touched the surface of the painting. "Why can't you see that I love you?" he murmured. "Why am I not good enough for you?"

Stunned, Leonard stood frozen for a moment, then spoke. "Now I understand why you won't sell her, Mr. Morganstein. You're in love with her too."

Morganstein turned suddenly, shock reflected on his face. "What? What are you talking about? How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to hear everything you said. Long enough to know why you won't sell her to me. You want her for yourself. You want her to love you."

"Love? Now, see here, Mr., ah, er...."

"Berton. The name is Berton. Remember?"

"Yes, of course. Mr. Berton. You misunderstood what you heard. How could you think I'd want a painting to love me? Paintings cannot love. You are mad, sir."

Leonard knew the truth. He could read Morganstein's expression as well as he could read the look in the eyes of his beloved Gabrielle. She loved him, not Morganstein. Morganstein regained some of his composure. "She's not for sale, period," he snapped with finality and walked away as quickly as he could.

Smiling, Leonard walked toward the portrait. He was alone with her at last. "I don't care what he says, you're mine. I'm going to find a way to take you home with me. I promise."

Leonard lifted off the floor and floated ever so slowly toward the canvas. He felt more than saw the soft glow that emanated from the portrait and surrounded him in radiance. He felt the warmth flowing from the face on the wall, from her eyes, her smile. He felt a releasetotal, sensual, almost orgasmic in nature. How it was happening, he neither knew nor cared, but he, Leonard Berton, was completely at peace as he was absorbed into the portrait of "The Artist's Wife." He gave himself completely to her, opening his arms to accept her loving embrace.

Something was horribly wrong.

The pain was intense, searing, as though his entire body was aflame. He screamed, but no one heard. Shocked, Leonard realized he was being consumed. Desperately he fought to escape. It was too late. Every molecule of his body began to dissolve.

He screamed again, for the last time.

Her hunger was satisfied once more. She waited a long time for this feeding, but the humans she fed upon had to be perfect to her mind's eye. The face, the body, all must fit her idea of perfection.

She knew what they liked. Their minds were weak. She could read their every thought. She gave them what they wanted. They called it 'love.'

She had fed often, in many places and many guises, for thousands of years. Her only mistake was in taking the form of a human female. The artist, in France many years ago, wanted to paint her portrait. She toyed with him, as was her habit. He grew jealous and tried to destroy her. She simply transformed into the very painting the foolish artist wanted to create. He grew more and more obsessed with her, as she knew he would. She found she could easily lure him to her. Feeding on him had been almost too easy. His body sustained her for nearly a century.

She had spent much of that time locked away in dark, cold rooms. The need to feed returned. She again found her perfect human and made him possess her. How wonderful he made her feel as he was consumed.

Now, after much seeking, she had found yet another perfect human. She liked it here, in the gallery. She could choose her meals at her leisure. They walked past her and she could study them closely, seeking perfection. She made sure the tall one, the one who had the power to sell her, would always keep her here. She made him love her too. In time, there would be another perfect human, another meal.

"I'm coming, hold your horses!" Bob Walters ran to answer the doorbell. "Yes, who is it?" he asked through the closed door.

"Frank Berton. I'm Leonard's brother."

Bob quickly opened the door. "Please, come in. Len once told me he had a brother but...God, you look almost exactly like him."

"Yes, so I've been told. Actually I'm two years younger." Frank entered the house and extended his hand. Bob shook it, his eyes still on the familiar face.

"I was in town to finish some business with Leonard's property. We're hoping to be able to sell the house. It's been over eight months since he disappeared and there are bills that won't wait."

"Have you ever found out anything about what happened to Len? I spent weeks trying to locate him and ran into dead ends everywhere."

"No," Frank sighed. "We haven't. In fact, I was kind of hoping you could give me some leads. Len once told me you guys were close."

"I wish I could. I told the police everything I could think of during the investigation, but I'm afraid I wasn't much help. The only thing I know to tell you is that he spent a lot of time at the local art gallery. He even dragged me down there once. He had a fetish about one of the paintings there. I thought he was over the edge about it, but he didn't agree."

"The gallery, you say? I passed that on the way here. Maybe I'll go back there and see if they can help me. At this point, I'm willing to try almost anything."

Frank extended his hand again. "Thank you, Mr. Walters. Sorry to trouble you."

As he moved down the walk, Bob said to himself, "I can't get over how much Frank Berton resembles his brother." Somewhere in the back of his mind a conversation he once had with Leonard, something to do with resemblance, long forgotten, revived for only a moment. Bob shook his head. "He sure does look like Len."

"For a small town, this isn't a bad art gallery," Frank said to himself as he entered the building. "Maybe I'll look around a little while before I find the curator." He turned down a side hall and began to view the various works. "These sculptures would look great in my new place. Art is great for attracting women with class," he chuckled. "Maybe I can even get somewhere with that new brunette at work. God, but she's a babe."

As he said this, Frank walked past "The Artist's Wife." He slowed his pace. "Now that's a beautiful lady." He walked toward the portrait to read the plaque. As he approached, her hair began to darken.

### Collection Day

"It should have been here by now," Henry Blanchard said over his shoulder, peeking through the blinds.

"Sometimes he runs a bit late, Henry," replied Maggie. "You know that. You know how boys are. They get to playing ball or something and forget the time. He'll be here. Tommy hasn't forgotten to deliver the paper yet, has he?"

"No, he hasn't. But you know I like to read my afternoon paper before the news comes on at six, and it's nearly five-thirty."

"Honestly Henry, I don't know why you're so intent on having that paper here anyway. About all you ever read are the obituaries."

Henry chuckled. "I want to see whether my name is in it, so I'll know if I should lay down and die." Maggie rolled her eyes. It was a daily routine in the Blanchard household. Henry immediately opened the paper to the obituaries, scanned the list of names and made his remark about not being there so he didn't need to lay down and die. Maggie swore to herself she'd probably lay down and die herself if he didn't say that at least once a day.

"Here he comes, finally." Henry released the blind and walked toward the front door. He would wait for his paper in the yard. That way he could get it mostly read before the news came on; besides, he always enjoyed saying "hi" to Tommy. Since they moved into the Surf and Sun Estates retirement village three years ago, Tommy was the only young person Henry usually saw.

"Lord knows our own kids don't blaze any trails to visit us," he would complain to any willing listener. Henry thought often about his son and daughter, both with families of their own, and their "damned Yuppie lives," as he called them. "Just because they live a thousand miles away," he would regularly lament, "is no good reason not to take a few days off and bring our Grandkids down so we can see how they've grown."

Tommy finally rode within earshot of Henry, after slaloming from house to house. It always amazed Henry how the kid could toss a folded newspaper so far with either arm while riding a bike and never miss a porch.

"How ya' doin', Mr. Blanchard?" Tommy called out. "Great day ain't it?"

"Yes it is, Tommy. I'm doing just fine, but I'll be better once I get the paper read. Gotta check the obits to make sure I'm not in them. I want to see if I gotta lay down and die today," he laughed.

"Mr. Blanchard, you tell me that every day." Tommy uttered 'day' with a heavy breath as he heaved a copy of the _Daily Journal_ in a perfect loop onto the Saunders' porch. He immediately shifted his weight and angled across the street toward Henry, paper already in hand. "See if you can catch it," he shouted as he tossed the "Journal" in Henry's direction.

Henry made a grab for the paper, but it sailed over his head and landed with a plop on the porch behind him. If he'd stayed on the porch, he'd have made a perfect reception, just as he had done so often as a tight end in high school many years ago.

"Better luck tomorrow," Tommy laughed behind him as he rolled down the street, still shifting from lane to lane and heaving papers. Henry didn't answer. He was already back on the porch. He'd retrieved the _Journal_ and began walking toward the front door, turning pages as he stepped, seeking the obituaries.

"Good news, Mag. I'm still alive. At least my name isn't listed in tonight's obits."

"That's nice, hon," she said in a bored monotone. "Did you find out why Tommy was late tonight?"

"I completely forgot to ask him. I'll try to remember tomorrow." Henry turned on the evening news.

"Locally," the attractive anchorperson announced, "Richard Mannweiler, retired owner of Mannweiler and Sons Clothiers, died earlier today. Mr. Mannweiler was a noted civic leader and was instrumental in..."

"Mag, didn't we know Richard Mannweiler? Wasn't he the guy who lived over on Springbrook Drive, right here in the estates? That name sure sounds familiar to me for some reason."

Maggie stopped working in the kitchen long enough to listen to the report. "Yes, I think he is, or was, the same man. You remember him. We used to speak to him at the dinner dances. He was always organizing something or other in town."

"...death is officially listed as natural causes. In other news..." Henry tuned out the rest of the report. He just couldn't get over the idea he knew this Mannweiler, and not just because of some dance.

Shaking his head, Henry returned to the paper. "I dunno. That name sure rings a bell." He skimmed the sports section, which consisted of one full page, and decided to reread the obituaries. He'd only read the names the first time. Another part of his little game was to check the ages of the recently deceased. Henry made a mental note of those who died younger than he was. It was a bit macabre, true, but he couldn't see the harm in it.

Henry read the first two listings in the obituary section when he froze. There, in stark black and white, was a name he now knew all too well:

**MANNWEILER, RICHARD R.** Born October 23, 1922. Died August 6, 1994. Mr. Mannweiler was a resident of the Sun and Surf Estates and was the retired owner of Mannweiler and Sons, a local retail establishment. Funeral arrangements are pending.

"Maggie!" he shouted.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she ran into the living room. Henry sat staring at the paper and missed the look of alarm on her face.

"It's Mannweiler. The guy they just talked about on the news. His name is already listed in the obits. I _knew_ I recognized that name. It just didn't click when I read it the first time."

"You frightened me half to death, Henry. I thought you were having a heart attack or something. And all because you saw a name in the obituaries the same day you hear it on the TV news. He probably died early enough this morning for the paper to get it in today's edition."

"Yeah. You're probably right. I suppose it doesn't take as long to get the news into print as it did when we were young, what with all those computers and everything."

"Henry, you've simply got to stop getting all worked up over those obituaries. I tell you it just isn't healthy. All this talk about being dead. Keep it up and you really will be dead."

"You're right. I know you're right. I'm sorry. I'll try to stop doing that so much. It's just that I can't help but think there's something strange about Mannweiler's death."

"It's probably just a coincidence that the paper got the information so soon. That's all it is. Supper's ready. Let's enjoy it and stop thinking about such depressing things."

But Henry couldn't stop thinking about it. All that night and into the following day, he thought of little else but Richard Mannweiler and his twice-reported death. "People die every day," he said to himself as he worked in his rose garden. "Why should this death be any different? Why should I be so concerned about it?" The roses, lovely as they were, gave him no answers.

"Henry. How are you?" Henry turned toward the voice. It was Paul Saunders, his neighbor across the street. He got up, a bit stiffly from kneeling so long among the roses, and greeted his friend.

"I'm fine, Paul. Yourself?"

"A little touch of arthritis now and then, but otherwise not bad." Paul always had some sort of ache or pain and rarely failed to mention it when asked how he was. "At least I'm doing better than Bob Mannweiler. I suppose you know he died yesterday afternoon." Paul Saunders was the neighborhood busybody. He had a reputation for knowing what, and when, everyone was doing.

"Yeah, I heard all about it in the news." Henry suddenly looked straight into Paul's eyes. "Just a minute. Did you say yesterday afternoon?"

"Yep, right around five I believe it was. According to the story I heard, he was in the bathroom getting dressed for some committee meeting, one of those Fancy Dan doin's he was always going to, when he just dropped over. WHOOMP! Just like that."

"Do you happen to know what time the _Journal_ is printed?"

"No, not for sure. I think it's sometime right after noon, though. It must be early afternoon because we usually get our copy right around four. We were in town until late yesterday and it was on the porch when we got home."

"It's usually printed sometime around twelve-thirty or one, but it was late yesterday. Didn't come until almost five-thirty. If Mannweiler didn't die until five or so, how could his obituary possibly be in last night's paper if it's printed right after lunch?"

"Gosh, I don't know. I didn't know it was there. I don't read the obits usually. Too depressing."

"Well it was. I saw it. Then I heard about it again on the six o'clock news. Paul, there's no way that could have been in yesterday's paper if he died when you say he did."

"I got the time from Gordon. He was there when it happened. I guess he and Gloria were going to the same meeting and they decided to meet the Mannweilers at their house and drive there together. They were in the living room waiting when Bob checked out. I talked to Gordon about an hour ago. He's pretty shook."

"I would be too."

"Maybe the paper was late because they wanted to get his obit in before going to press."

"I doubt that. Robert Mannweiler might have been an important man, but not important enough to stop a newspaper from going to press. I just can't figure out how they got that obituary printed so soon after the guy died."

"Don't know," Paul said. "I gotta go, Henry. Jean wants to go to Bob's funeral, so that means a new outfit. She needs to go shopping." Paul began walking home. He stopped and turned back toward Henry, who was about to resume the weeding of his roses. "Don't worry too much about that paper. They can get things done a lot faster today than when we were young, you know." Paul walked across the yard and out of Henry's sight.

"He's probably right," Henry said to his rosebush. "Everything's faster in this day and age."

At five minutes to four, Henry began watching for Tommy. His daily routine began. Three minutes later, Tommy rode into view. Henry dashed onto the porch to await his evening _Journal._

"Tommy!" He called, waving at the paper-laden youth. Tommy waved a rolled up newspaper in the air in acknowledgement. "You're earlier today."

"Yeah," Tommy replied. "I had to collect yesterday. Takes a little longer when I collect. Sorry."

"Collect? You've never collected from us. I always pay my subscription through the mail."

Tommy heaved Henry's copy of the _Journal_ toward him. Henry gathered it in as if it were a screen pass. "Great catch, Mr. Blanchard. Sometimes we collect door to door. It depends on the customer. Mr. Mannweiler was due, so I collected."

"Oh, okay. Just asking was all. Nice pass, by the way. Right in the numbers."

"Thanks," Tommy called out over his shoulder as he continued his route.

Henry strolled back toward the front door, unfolding the paper, then stopped stone cold in his tracks. "Mr. Mannweiler!" he shouted, then turned to run after Tommy, who was disappearing down the street. "Tommy!" he yelled after him. "Come back a minute. I have to ask you something."

"I'll be back in a little while, Mr. Blanchard." Tommy was several houses away and had to cup his mouth with his hand to shout. He nearly lost his balance, so he stopped pedaling and stood in the street straddling his bike. "Let me finish my route and I'll come back by. Okay?"

Henry wanted an answer right then but waved Tommy off. He supposed he could wait a few minutes longer. Tommy began riding again and Henry returned to his paper. As usual, he immediately turned to the Obituary Section. "Gotta see if I'm in here, so I'll know whether I should lay down and die." He chuckled to himself, forgetting his alarm over Tommy's having seen Bob Mannweiler just before he died. He turned to the page he knew the obits usually were listed and began scanning the names. Then he screamed.

Maggie heard the scream from the kitchen. She ran to the porch. Henry was leaning against the house. He was gasping for breath and his skin was almost pure white. Maggie was terrified.

"Henry. What's wrong? You're white as a sheet."

Henry couldn't speak. He held the paper up and pointed at it, trying to catch his breath. Maggie took the paper from his shaking hand and opened it. Then she screamed.

The first entry in the Obituary Section read:

**Blanchard, Henry James:** Born March 18, 1926. Died August 7, 1996. Mr. Blanchard was employed as a machinist at McDowell Tool and Die Company. He retired in 1990. He married Margaret Moran on January 20, 1947. She survives along with three children and seven grandchildren. Funeral arrangements are pending.

The Blanchards sat on the stoop. Maggie held Henry's hand, speaking soothingly to him. "It must be some kind of terrible mistake, Henry. That's all it is, I'm sure."

She looked up to see Tommy park his bicycle on the sidewalk in front of their home. Carrying a small loose-leaf notebook, Tommy strolled up the walk until he stood directly in front of Henry. He opened the notebook, took a pen from his pocket and made a checkmark. When she looked closely at the boy, Maggie thought he looked different somehow. The playful, boyish face had been replaced by...something else.

Tommy slowly raised his right arm and pointed a bony finger directly at Henry's ashen face. "Henry Blanchard," he uttered in a raspy, echoing voice. A cold, detached voice. "You must now lay down and die. Your soul is due. I have come to collect."

### DreamVision

The old man rose from the log upon which he had been sitting. He didn't know how long he had been there because he usually lost all sense of time when he visited the lake. He stretched to his full height and took a deep, cleansing breath of the cool crisp mountain air. The old man truly loved this place. He loved it even more since Ruthanne died. This had been their favorite place to go to get away from the city, away from its heat and dirt, away from the problems that constantly swept over them like tidal waves. Now that she was gone, he would come here to reminisce over the good times they once shared, and try to forget the bad.

First it was the water. They filled it with their poisons until it was unfit even to wade in. The old man missed pulling his pantlegs up above his knees and sloshing about in the cool water. They told him it was because it cost too much to clean, that it would cost someone his job if the water had to be kept clean.

It had been his idea to join the Greenleaves. Ruthanne was against the idea at first. "I'm too old and set in my ways to be an activist," she told him time and again. "Besides," she would always interject, "I want to spend time with our grandchildren."

"So do I," he'd counter. "But I also want to make sure our grandchildren have a world to grow up in."

Next went the trees. They cut down the forests to build the houses and to make way for the towns that seemed always to be bursting at the seams. The old man missed hiking through the woods at the edge of his neighborhood in the Autumn, when the leaves were such brilliant hues. Now a shopping complex stood there, its parking lot obliterating the spot where the tree once grew that he carved his and Ruthanne's initials into like an adolescent.

In the end, the old man had won. They joined Greenleaves. At first they did little more than stuff envelopes and make telephone calls. As time passed, however, it was Ruthanne and not he who became the true activist. She could canvass neighborhoods and camp out in government offices longer than the younger members of the group. She was a tireless campaigner for clean water and air, and for flowers and trees. Ruthanne came to consider the Greenleaves as the only solution to all the bad in the world. The longer she served, the more determined she became to set things right.

The little lake was a pristine setting, with its crystal clear water and a shoreline the color and texture of brown sugar. Did it even have a name? No one knew for certain. Perhaps it never had one. As far as the old man was concerned, this was his private lake and he could call it whatever he wanted. The name he chose was "Dream Lake" because it was here that he and Ruthanne talked over their dreams and plans. Many of those dreams and plans sprouted and took root at this very place. The couple would spend many peaceful hours listening to the sounds of nature and allowing their minds to wander wherever they would. Throughout all the years of their marriage, some of their happiest moments were spent right here.

Finally, the mountains disappeared, ground into powder by the developers. They needed the room, they announced, to build bigger and better highways, bigger and better cities and more factories to put people back to work. We're in a depression, and in a depression creating jobs is more important than a few hills and trees. Surely you can understand that.

They called themselves the Developers of Tomorrow. It was they who ran everything now. The government, industry, commerce, indeed the very lives of every person were under the control of the DofT. Who was willing to trade their livelihoods for a few drops of clean water or the shade of an old tree, they asked? Wasn't it much better to have money in your pockets?

The old man remembered the day he last saw Ruthanne as if it were yesterday. The Developers of Tomorrow succeeded in placing their own people in governmentfirst in Congress, then in the Presidency two years later. By the middle of 2005, the Greenleaves had been outlawed as seditious and its more active members found themselves under house arrest, or worse. When they came for their local chapter, Ruthanne was among the first to chain herself to the old tree in front of their headquarters. As much as he pleaded, the old man could not get her to back down. His last view of her was as he was pushed into a military truck and unceremoniously hauled away.

It wasn't until three days later he found out Ruthanne was dead. She had been gunned down with the others still chained to the tree. When they came to ask the prisoners if they would renounce their Greenleaves membership in exchange for freedom, the old man readily agreed. He'd had enough of politics in general and dissent in particular. All he'd asked for in return was that he be allowed to give Ruthanne a proper burial. If he'd sign a form promising never to obstruct the Developers of Tomorrow again, they told him, he could retrieve his wife's body. He buried Ruthanne on the shore of this very lake. She would have wanted to be nowhere else.

Within five years, The Developers of Tomorrow had clearcut nearly every stand of trees, dredged up nearly every body of water and graded and paved nearly every field and mountain. The old man stayed in the city, sequestered in his tiny apartment, living for the weekly pass he received to visit his lake. Only a few isolated natural places remained anywhere. Dream Lake was, by good fortune, one of those places.

The sounds were all around him today. Birds chirping noisily in the trees, the soothing muttering of the stream that fed the lake as it wound its way over the stones, broken only by the occasional splash of a trout snapping at a mayfly unfortunate enough to fall into the icy water. There was a gentle rush as the breeze brought fresh outdoor aromas to the old man's nostrils. He sniffed pine, the bittersweet blend of wildflowers, the refreshing scent of crystal clear water. All these sensations were especially vivid today. He was aware of it all as he worked the knots out of his back and knees from sitting on the log.

The old man sought out the wildflowers he would pick to place on Ruthanne's grave, as he did on each and every visit. He selected only the most beautiful blooms. These flowers, more than anything else, were what she died for. How fitting, he thought, that they should spend their last hours decorating her final resting place.

"And how are you doing today?" he asked a nearby grouse, who merely gave him a brief sideways glance as it skittered into the underbrush. The old man smiled to himself and half seriously wished that just once the birds would answer him in return. "How lucky you are," he said to the bird. "You get to stay here while I must leave soon to go home," he sighed.

The old man began to stroll along the lakeshore toward a grove of trees. As he walked, he gazed upward toward the mountains on the horizon. The morning mist had lifted from the water, but still shrouded the tops of the mountains. He knew that within a very short time, the sun would burn off the remaining mist and the day would grow warm. The animals would then move into the wooded area and if he wanted to see any of them he would need to go there as well. There were squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, even a few deer and fox living around the lake. The old man knew many of them as if they were his own children. He had given names to many of them. Occasionally, a squirrel or chipmunk would take food from his hand. Once, he even tamed a doe to the point where she would allow him to stroke her neck. He hadn't seen her for some time and often wondered what happened to her.

The old man entered the woods. The sounds changed, as did the scents. Now he could hear the buzzing of insects and many more birds. He picked up the damp odors of moss and mushrooms. These sensations gave him a different kind of feeling, not unpleasant, but more eerie. He was reminded once more of the walks in the woods he so loved as a younger man.

"Insects aren't very friendly," he said to himself. "Not like the squirrels, anyway. Besides, they bite."

For as much as he enjoyed the wildlife, the trees were his special pleasure. He identified each by their leaves and kept a logbook on each one. In it, he noted the changes each tree underwent as it grew and what colors the leaves became in the autumn. The old man would even help the seedlings grow by clearing out the dead limbs dropped by the older trees.

This was indeed his favorite corner of the world. The old man was never more contented than while visiting Dream Lake.

His inspection of the trees was barely underway when the female voice boomed over the speaker:

"Mr. Moore. I'm sorry but your time is up."

"Please," he pleaded. "Just give me a few more minutes. That's all I want."

"I'm sorry," the voice repeated. "You know we can't do that. You've only paid for two hours and that time is up."

"But you know how much this place means to me," he said. "It was Ruthanne's and my favorite place. I haven't even had time to visit her grave. I always put wildflowers on her grave."

"Mr. Moore, I must insist that you leave. We have others waiting for this space. It's not fair to them to keep them waiting, now is it?"

Sadly, Mr. Moore trudged out of the woods and entered the airlock. The door sealed behind him with a loud "Whoosh." When the door opened, he stepped out into the lobby of DreamVision, Incorporated. He went to his rented locker, dialed the combination on the padlock and opened the door. Mr. Moore removed his protective suit and breathing apparatus from the locker. He put them on, checked the pressure on the gauge and entered the exit portal. The countdown began over the speaker: "Ten... nine... eight." When it reached "zero," the pressurized door opened with a smoky flourish. Mr. Moore stepped out into the oily, yellow atmosphere. He narrowly avoided being run down by a teenager on a jetboard who was careening over the broken sidewalk as fast as the board could go. "Watch where you're goin', ya ugly old sumbitch," he screamed as he slalomed between two stripped cars.

"Sherry, we need to discuss this situation with old man Moore," Frederick Lewis said. The pair sat in his office on the second floor of DreamVision Incorporated. "He's the only one who still wants that old Outdoor Vision we developed back in the early 2010's. We need to use that room for the War Visions all these kids want nowadays."

"But he comes here almost every week and pays in cash," Sherry told him. "Most of these kids don't use money anymore. They pay us in scrip. And I'm not sure most of that isn't stolen or counterfeit."

"I know that, but there are a lot of those kids out there and they all want action and adventure, not nature. I've gotta do what's best for business, or you and I will both be out of a job. I started this place with two chambers back in the days when virtual reality was still a new fad. I still remember watching people with those stupid-looking helmets on their heads waving their hands in the air and punching at nothing. When they figured out how to download someone's imagination into a three-dimensional cube, I had to either spend a fortune and change with the times or close up shop. That means we have to use every room we have to the max. If someone comes in that door right now with a fistful of scrip and wants us to put him in the orgy he dreamed about the night before, I don't have any choice but to do it, no matter how distasteful it might be. That old man doesn't pay us enough to even pay the chemlight bill for that room every month."

"Couldn't we set it up so that they could hunt or fish or something?"

"We tried that once before. It didn't work. Hell, one guy even told me afterward that a doe came right up to him like it was a pet. Said it just stared at him like it wanted him to pet it or something. He just stood there and blew it away. Said there wasn't any challenge. People today want a REAL fight.

"If people wanted nature, they wouldn't have allowed us to chop down all the trees and dredge up all the lakes back in the 1990's. Besides, they can get the Nature Scenes Channel on their homevision sets. They aren't going to pay us to show them some old lakes and mountains when they get the same things in their living rooms for a lot less money. We can't even update that old scenario because there AREN'T any more lakes and mountains to copy from. And another thing..." hack, cough, cough, haackk... "goddam cough is getting worse. I gotta see about getting a richer air mixture on my next oxygen tank fill-up."

"I'll see what I can do," Sherry said. It was sad about Mr. Moore, she thought as she closed to door to Lewis' office, but business was business. Frederick was right. The kids were the ones who would keep DreamVision going and she needed this job. There was no point in getting sentimental over one lonely old man.

Sherry adjusted the setting on her air tank and walked out to the front office. It was late evening and the sun was beginning to go down. The temperature had dropped to 132 degrees. The air was thinned out enough to see as far as 20 feet in any direction. In a few hours, people would begin to move about as the temperature bottomed out in the high 90's, unseasonably cool, but tolerable for the middle of January.

In the first-floor window, directly below Sherry's office, a Chemlight sign blinked on:

DreamVision Incorporated

Where your every dream

Can come true!

$50.00 per hour

### The Kingdom of Knadda

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom named Knadda. All the subjects in Knadda were happy and prosperous. The Kingdom of Knadda had everything anyone could want. The water was clear. The air was pure. Everyone in Knadda had plenty to eat and drink. Every family had a beautiful home in which to live. It had been this way for as long as the people could remember.

The people of Knadda were grateful for their good fortune. No one really knew why they should have such a good life. One day, the people went to the home of the Wizard to seek an answer to this question.

"O great and all-knowing Wizard. Why do we have such good fortune?"

"Kind people," the Wizard said. "The answer is found in these words etched into the Great Tablet and is really very simple."

"And what might that answer be, great Wizard?"

The wizard read:

"Put back what you take out. Repair what you damage. Clean what you soil. Respect what you use and it will respect you. Do these things and you will always prosper. Thus has it always been and thus shall it always be."

So the people of Knadda lived by the words of the Wizard. They prospered for many years, as did their children and their children's children. There was plenty of food for all to eat. There was plenty of water for all to drink. There were plenty of stones and trees for all to build dwellings. Life in Knadda was good.

One day, a stranger came to Knadda. This stranger called all the subjects together in the town square. When they had gathered, he spoke to them.

"Good people of Knadda. I have come from a kingdom far away. I am here because the Kingdom of Knadda is prosperous in many things. You have clear water, clean air, many beautiful trees. You can grow plentiful crops and build fine homes. For that reason, I have chosen to build a factory here. In this factory, we will make the finest chairs in the world. People from every kingdom will buy our chairs. You will all become wealthy."

"But we already are wealthy," the people said. "The Wizard tells us so."

"Wizards don't know everything. Trust in me and I shall show you a wealth beyond anything you can imagine. Follow me and you shall have work for the rest of your lives, and the lives of your children and your children's children."

So the people of Knadda followed the stranger and turned away from the words of the Wizard. The factory was built and began to make chairs of all kinds: wooden chairs, stone chairs, even golden chairs for the highest royalty. Sure enough, the people became wealthier than they could have ever imagined.

The Wizard looked upon all of this with alarm. He begged the people to turn away from the factory and return to life as it was before. "Remember the words of wisdom I once spoke," he begged. "Respect what you use."

"Begone, Wizard!" the subjects angrily shouted. "We no longer need your tired old wisdom. Can't you see that we are wealthier now than ever before? We shall make chairs for the rest of our lives, our children will make chairs for the rest of their lives and our children's children shall do the same. The stranger promised us. THAT is how it always shall be."

Sadly, the Wizard turned away. He returned to his home on the edge of the kingdom. The subjects of Knadda vowed never to trust in him again.

Before long, many new people, upon hearing of the great wealth to be found there, began to come to Knadda. They cut down many trees to build dwellings. They demanded more food than the fields could grow. They drank more water than the streams could provide. Soon, a new dwelling was being built on every piece of open land.

The chair factory was running around the clock, making chairs for every kingdom in the realm. All the water the people didn't drink was pumped into the factory. When it came out, it was dirty and smelly. Every stone in Knadda was dug up and used to make chairs. There was not enough food to feed everyone in the kingdom because there were so many people and so much less land on which to grow crops. All the wealth of the land was gone. Even the great trees were nearly gone, used for building dwellings and making chairs.

Then one day, the stranger who built the chair factory again called the subjects together in the town square.

"Good people of Knadda. I have bad news. The chair factory will be closed forever."

"But why?" called out the frightened subjects.

"The water is fouled. The air is unclean. The trees, the stones, the minerals, all are gone. We cannot make any more chairs in Knadda."

"But you promised us work for as long as we lived, and for as long as our children lived and as long as our children's children lived. What shall we do now?"

"That is not my concern. I am moving the chair factory to another kingdom. One that has all the things I need to make my chairs. The things Knadda once had. Goodbye."

The people were afraid. Whatever would they do? How would they live? The great wealth they once had was now gone. "What shall we do?" they cried in despair.

"Let us visit the Wizard," someone suggested. "He will know what we should do."

"Yes. The Wizard knows all. Let us go ask the Wizard what to do."

All the subjects of Knadda went to the Wizard's dwelling at the edge of the kingdom. "Whatever shall we do?" they all asked at once.

The Wizard, now a very old man, stepped out of his dwelling and read the same words from the Great Tablet he had read so many years before:

"Put back what you take out. Repair what you damage. Clean what you soil. Respect what you use and it will respect you. Do these things and you will always prosper. Thus has it always been and thus shall it always be."

"Old fool," they shouted. "What good are those words now?"

"Seize him!" another screamed. "He speaks nonsense."

"Banish the Wizard! Banish the Wizard!" they chanted in unison.

The people fell upon the Wizard and began to push him toward the gates of the kingdom. As they did so, they cursed and mocked him. When they reached the gates, they threw the old wizard out into the wilderness. "Good riddance," they all shouted as they closed the gates and returned to their grand dwellings.

Many generations later, two scientists exploring in an uncharted desert came upon an old, weathered stone tablet buried in the hot sand. The scientists were puzzled. How, they wondered, could such a tablet have gotten into this wasteland? As they began to brush the sand away from the tablet, they discovered these few simple words:

"Put back what you take out. Repair what you damage. Clean what you soil. Respect what you use and it will respect you. Do these things and you will always prosper. Thus has it always been and thus shall it always be."

### Rosie

I walked out of the hotel at approximately 7:57 PM. I grabbed a cab and told the driver I was from out of town and to take me where the action was. He gazed over his shoulder in a come hither way and removed his cap.

The driver turned out to be a woman. "The name's Rosie," she purred in the silkiest voice I'd ever heard. "I can give you all the action you'll be able to handle and still survive."

I tried to avert her stare and looked out the window, or rather tried to look out the window. The cab's windows were fogged over. I couldn't see a thing. I looked around for something with which to clear the window. That was when I noticed that the windshield was also fogged over. How, I asked myself, can _she_ see? Before I could begin to figure it out, she rolled over the front seat and landed next to me. She was naked as a jaybird.

"Don't worry about a thing, honey," she whispered in my ear. "The car knows the way. Besides, I want to get to know you better." She began stroking my cheek and running her fingers through my hair. She had a body that did her voice proud.

Try as I might to resist, my baser drives overcame my resolve. I clutched her by the shoulders and kissed her full on the lips. She moaned. Her ruby lips parted just slightly to reveal a perfect set of pearly white teeth, and two needle sharp three inch fangs. I screamed. I attempted to break free with all my might, but her inhuman strength was too great. I couldn't push her away. "Don't try to fight it," she said. "It's no use." Closer and closer came those deadly incisors. I felt my arms give way. Just before she bit me, I mercifully fainted.

When I came to, I was lying strapped down on a hospital bed. I couldn't move my arms or legs. I felt cold. My face was bathed in sweat. I began to struggle against the restraints.

"HELP!" I screamed as loudly as I could. My voice was weak. I was weak.

I felt a damp rag against my forehead. A soft voice was telling me it was all over and to just relax. A soft voice. _That_ soft voice. _Her_ soft voice. The voice from beyond the grave. I whipped my head around in terror, seeking the source of that voice.

"Please," I pleaded. "Please don't bite me again."

She laughed. "Nobody is going to bite you, sir. You just fainted, that's all. When you feel like you are able to sit up, there's a cup of orange juice next to the bed. It will help you feel better."

My eyes finally focused. The vampiress of my nightmare was standing next to me. Her long, raven hair was tied behind her in a stylish ponytail. She wore a crisp, white uniform with a large red cross on the sleeve. A name tag with the name, " _ROSE_ " etched on it was pinned to her ample bosom. She smiled sympathetically at me. Suddenly, I felt foolish. Had it all been nothing more than a bad dream?

She was unstrapping the restraints. "Why don't you try sitting up? Take it slow. We don't want you passing out again, now do we?" She took my arm and helped me sit up. I felt a bit lightheaded, but I didn't feel as though I was going to faint again. She handed me the small cup of juice. "Here. Drink this down slowly. Then whenever you feel like you can, go ahead and get up. We have what we need and you're free to go."

I slowly looked around. The room I was in was brightly lit and smelled slightly antiseptic. There were several other beds like the one I was sitting on. I noticed all were empty. "Am I the only one here?"

"The others have all left. You're our last donor tonight."

I stood up, shakily at first but I managed to move a few steps. She stood next to me for a moment, then reached up and crimped a tiny metal pin in the shape of a drop of blood onto my shirt pocket. "Thanks for coming in tonight. You may have saved a life."

I nodded and made my way to the door. A glance at my watch told me it was past ten and I needed to get some sleep. The next day was going to be a killer and I had never felt more tired than at that moment.

As I walked out of the storefront office and turned the corner, I happened to glance through a portion of the window where the paint had worn off. Rose was inside, carrying the pint of blood I had just given. I presumed she was going to put it in the large refrigerator I saw in the corner. I sighed relief. Giving blood was never pleasant for me, but at least it was done for another year. For some reason, I couldn't stop watching the woman. She stopped in front of the refrigerator, looked left, then right and pulled the cap off the bottle. I had to lean against the building to prevent myself from fainting once more. As I gaped in horror, Rose upended the bottle and downed the entire contents.

She stared straight at me through the painted window. A tiny rivulet of crimson trickled down her chin. She licked it up with her serpent-like tongue. "Yes sir," I heard her exclaim clearly with a haunting laugh. "You may have saved a life tonight."

### Santa?

It wasn't the dull roar of the traffic or the soft whisper of the summer night breezes pulsing through the open window that woke Marvin Cornett at 2 a.m. It was the sound of his front door opening. "Terrific, a damned burglar," was his first lucid thought. Marv didn't own a gun. He'd never even fired one. Instead, he grabbed the lamp from the table next to his bed and padded out into the hall.

"Who's out there?" Marv shouted, as if the thief was actually going to introduce himself before pilfering his silverware.

"Relax, Marv," answered a calm, male voice. "It's only me."

"Who's me?" asked Marv, trying to pull from his not yet wide-awake memory who knew him well enough to think that "Me" was a sufficient greeting. "And don't try to lie. I'm armed."

"With a table lamp? What were you planning to do? Make me squint to death?"

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Marv. Marv. Marv. I'm surprised at you. I would have thought that, of all people in the world, you'd recognize me." The ceiling light in the living room burst into life, switched on by the intruder. The sudden glow revealed a white-haired man with a full beard wearing a tailored Brooks Brothers suit. "You look pretty foolish standing there in your undershorts holding that lamp, Marv."

"You look like Santa Claus, except for the worsted."

"Close, but not quite a cigar, Marv. Santa's my older brother. I'm Sonny. Sonny Claus. He got the milk runschlepping toys to all the kiddies on Christmas Eve. One night and he gets the rest of the year to sleep. Me? I get stuck with the Yuppie route. Takes me six months to complete my appointed rounds, which explains why I'm dropping in on you in June, in case you were wondering."

"Just how stupid do you think I am, friend? You don't actually expect me to believe you're Santa Claus' younger brother, do you? Aside from not having the red suit, you don't even have the big middle. I'd guess even that beard is a fake. Now hit the road before I call the cops."

"I was hoping you'd just accept my existence like you did with my brother when you were six, but I can see you're a mite more skeptical now. Santa had dibs on the red suit, so I had to settle for running up huge accounts at menswear stores all over the world. As far as the jelly belly is concerned, only the kids appreciate that look. My clientele is more interested in buns of steel and stair-steppers, so I gotta stay in shape to impress them. I can see even that isn't working with you though, huh?"

"You break and enter on me and then try to feed me some lame story about being Santa Claus' younger brother and then wonder why it is I'm skeptical. I didn't fall off the hay wagon this morning, pal. I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was about eight, and I _never_ had any reason to believe there was a younger brother, Yuppie or otherwise."

"See, that's the worst part of this job, Marv," Sonny sighed as he sat down on the sofa. "It's bad enough that I gotta spend ten months out of the year working my way into condos like this one, lovely though they may be. I could deal with that. But the worst part is that not one single person I visit believes in me. That's even harder for me to handle than trying to come up with something new and exciting to give Bill Gates every year."

"You break in on Gates too?"

"I really wish you wouldn't put it quite that way, but yes, I visit Bill just like I do you every year. And let me tell you, it isn't easy with guys like him. I mean, what do you give a person who could buy the Universe? He's tried to get us to merge with him twice already, go online and all that sort of stuff, and don't think I haven't given it some thought. Wish he'd hurry up and do it so we could get a cut-rate deal on new letterhead. Anyway, at least he acts like he believes in me, even if he doesn't. Maybe he's just being hospitable. You have any Cutty and water, Marv? I sure could stand to wet my whistle."

"How did you know I drank Cutty?"

"Hey. Santa keeps his lists. I keep mine. One of these days I'm gonna retire and sell it to _Penthouse_. Boy, would THAT ever raise a few eyebrows!"

Marv chuckled at that one, nervously as Sonny noticed. "If you did that, you'd never be able to leave the North Pole."

"What North Pole? I've got a beach house in Bimini. All that snow and ice gives me sinus problems. And those damned reindeer my brother keeps around the place. Ye gods, those things are filthy. All they do is eat and crap all over the barn, and they get nasty if you don't feed them every three hours. Give me the sand, sun and surf any old day. And you ought to see some of the babes on Bimini, Marv. They'd make some of the women you've been dating look like rejects from a librarian's academy. Take my word for it, Marv."

"The gal I've been seeing is pretty nice."

"Who, Nikki? C'mon Marv. You can do better than that. Y'know what she asked for this year? An Italian sports car, and an Italian to go with it. You should hear what she says about you when she's with her friends and you're not around. She says you can't..."

Marv held his hand up. "I can imagine. You really do know a lot about me, don't you?"

"Told ya. Do you believe in me now?"

Okay, Marv told himself, let's put this old goat to the test and end this charade once and for all. "What did I ask for this year, and every year since I was a kid, that I've never, ever gotten?" Marv figured he'd play the game at least long enough to sneak back into the bedroom and call 911.

"I can't give you Elle McPherson, Marv. Much as I'd love to."

Marv chuckled, more than a little nonplussed. "Her too, but I was thinking of something else. Something even my Dad never gave me."

Sonny stood up and stretched. "How about that drink, Marv? It's getting really late and I still have the whole south side to do yet tonight."

"Sure. Cutty and water, coming right up." Another year, another disappointment, Marv thought. And to think I almost bought all of this, Marv tried to hide his very real disappointment as he sauntered toward the bar. Sonny Claus, indeed. Just another freeloader with a line of BS a mile long. Maybe I can even get back to sleep after I get rid of this joker, Marv thought, although he feared that decidedly un-sugarplumlike visions of Nikki arm-in-arm with someone named Carlo would no doubt dance through his head the rest of the night.

"Marv," Sonny said. "Do you remember back in 1963 when the Dodgers swept the Yanks in four straight?"

Marv stopped mixing the drinks. This guy must be some sort of mind reader, he thought. Do I remember? "I remember it like it was yesterday. My Dad and I, we were supposed to go see Sandy Koufax pitch that day. But Dad got called away on business right before we were to leave for the game. He'd promised me he was going to buy me a ball and have Koufax sign it. Said he knew Koufax and everything and that he was sure he'd autograph it for me. God, I'd have given anything for that baseball. Dad never took me to a game after that. He was always too busy and I grew up, or thought I had. Then Dad died and I..."

"You mix a pretty mean Scotch and water," Sonny interrupted before Marv became too maudlin. "Best I've tasted in a long time. I'd love to stick around and have a couple more of these, but time is flying." Sonny downed the rest of the drink and made his way to the door. He was about to grasp the knob to let himself out when he halted.

"Oh, by the way Marv, I've got this little thing I've been carrying around with me for a long time and I wonder if maybe you'd like to take it off my hands, sort of as a payment for the hospitality." He reached into his oversized pocket and rummaged a bit, then produced a package, beautifully wrapped in "Bon Voyage" paper and sporting a bright, orange bow.

"Pardon the wrapping, but Christmas paper is a tad hard to come by in Bimini in June. Any porthole, you know."

Marv began unwrapping the box, shooting questioning looks at the strange old man the entire time. Once he'd removed the paper, he opened the lid and gasped.

"My God! It's...it's... I can't believe it. How on Earth did you get this?" Marvin Cornett reached into the box and pulled out a scuffed baseball, its surface further blemished by the blue ink of the autograph "Best Wishes Marvin. Sandy Koufax - World Series - 1963."

Marv looked up, but the old man was gone. He hadn't heard the door close, but Sonny was gone. Marv looked again at the ball. It was real. It wasn't vanishing into thin air as the old man had just done. All that remained was the empty glass Sonny left behind. Marv picked it up. That was when he found the handwritten note left underneath the glass. It read simply:

"Ya Gotta Believe!"

### Speed Radar Controlled

"Man, Benny, this baby really hauls!"

Mark had to shout to be heard over the deep-throated roar of the tricarb 409. The powerful engine was the heart and soul of Benny Coleraine's latest pride and joy, a completely rebuilt-and very fast-cherry red 1964 Impala SuperSport.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet, pal," Benny yelled and pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. Both driver and passenger were pushed back against the hand-tooled leather bucket seats as the speedometer needle buried itself past the 120 mark.

Mark Andrews stared transfixed out the window as rural Michigan blew past him in a blur. The hot summer air blasting through the open window made almost as loud a roar as the finely tuned V-8. If he lacked both the cash and the mechanical aptitude to own a car like this, Mark thought wistfully, at least he was fortunate enough to have a friend like Benny who possessed both. The countless hours spent lying on the cold concrete floor of Benny's garage tightening bolts and the endless runs to chase down parts were all worth it for just one ride like this.

"When can I drive it, Benny?"

Benny shot his friend a sideways glance and smirked. "You'll get your turn. Don't worry." He quickly returned his attention to the road. They were entering a series of curves. Not the sharp, hairpin curves like in the mountains, but gentler, more open. Benny had negotiated these kinds of curves at speed before, so he knew exactly how close to the edge he could push. He kept thinking what a shame it was he hadn't invited Julie on this ride so she could see just how skilled he really was at handling two tons of steel at twice the legal limit. Guys who could handle fast cars always made out with the babes, or so it seemed to Benny Coleraine.

Mark almost missed the sign as it whizzed by. BURR CREEK 4 MILES, it read in white block letters. "There's a town up ahead, Ben. Maybe you ought to slow her down a bit."

"Nah. These two-bit burgs need a little excitement now and then. Gives them something to talk about over Sunday dinner. Besides, even if there is a cop there, I bet he ain't got a car that can come close to catching us. We'll just blow on through and take our chances. You game?"

"Do I have a choice? I'm sure as hell not going to jump out."

"My man. Let's do it!" Benny kept the pedal on the floor as the pair rocketed toward the little town of Burr Creek.

It was the second sign that really worried Mark. WELCOME TO BURR CREEK, then directly below, in slightly smaller lettering: SPEED RADAR CONTROLLED. He barely had time to read it all as the car sped into town.

"That sign said speed was radar controlled. Do you really think they have radar here?"

"Are you kidding? A place this small? They're lucky if they have electric lights. Look, we're almost out of the place already and...."

The Chevy froze in place. A blue vapor suddenly surrounded the car. The roar of the engine ceased, followed immediately by the searing and hissing of sheet metal and steel dissolving into molecules. Benny's and Mark's screams were snuffed into silence in the few seconds it took for their bodies to vaporize.

Less than two minutes after the speeding Chevy flew into the little town of Burr Creek, not a trace of the vehicle, nor its occupants, remained. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the summer breeze was the barking of a dog in the distance.

"These kids," Deputy Marshall Frederick Hampstead muttered. "You'd think they'd learn sooner or later that when we say speed is radar controlled..." The Deputy reached across his desk to the console, just below the bank of video monitors, and turned a knob which initiated the recharge of the Laser Destruct Beam. "...radar controlled is exactly what we mean."

### The Toolmakers

ITEM: Jane Goodall, during her many years in Africa, observed Chimpanzees using tools made from twigs to collect ants and other insects for food. These were the first recorded instances of tool use in animals other than Man.

"Have you been out here long?" asked Cyrus from a distance. He wanted to announce his presence so as not to startle the young woman. She had been observing for some time and focused on the activities in the brush, not behind her.

"I don't know. Three hours maybe. What time is it?"

"Almost six. Why don't you knock off and get something to eat. You probably have enough data for today anyway."

She stood up a bit more stiffly than she would have liked for her twenty-three years. Hours spent sitting still in the summer sunshine tended to age a person. It was impossible, however, to gather much data on wildlife by moving around and scaring them off.

"God," she muttered. "Nothing personal, but I'll be so glad when I get this Doctorate so I can heal up. I feel like I'm sixty years old from all this heat and the damned flies."

"Well, I am almost sixty years old, and I feel like that every day." Cyrus enjoyed joking with his graduate assistants when they got the least bit discouraged. It made them appreciate the work a little more, he felt. "Maybe we should have encouraged you to do your dissertation on the mating habits of the Common Housefly. At least then you wouldn't have to sit so still to study your subjects."

"Smart ass."

The pair entered the shade of the tree under which the research group had set up camp for the week. The woman exhaled in relief at the coolness of the camp. "Anyone got anything cold to drink?"

"Coming at 'ya, Cindy," said a tall, sunburned young man as he pitched her a cold can of beer. She held it against the back of her neck for a moment, then tore open the tab.

"How are the birds today?" another student inquired. "Anything interesting going on?"

"Nope," Cindy responded. "Just the same old stuff. The young ones started flying about two days after we got here, but other than that, it's just been hour after hour of eating and chirping."

"So I gather you haven't observed anything resembling tool use," Cyrus said. It was more of a conclusion than a question.

Cindy gulped some beer and sighed. "Nope. I guess the birds on New Caledonia are a lot further advanced, or a hell of a lot smarter, than these critters. They still pick up insects and whatever else they eat with their beaks."

"But these are smaller birds, finches and the like," Cyrus added. "The species observed using the twigs were crows. What about the indigenous crows?"

"I haven't really seen that many of them, to tell you the truth. Those few I have observed were not active. They just kind of stood on top of the outgrowths. It was almost as thought they were observing me while I was observing them."

"Phil and I noticed the same thing," interrupted another student. "We were over in Sector Seven, near the lake, trying to get some data on the waterfowl. There were about half a dozen Crows in the area, just standing on the rocks or in the trees, and they were watching us. It was creepy."

"Crows are not normally aggressive," Cyrus stated. "It wouldn't be abnormal for them to remain a little aloof when a large group of humans, or any other predator for that matter, invaded their turf. I wouldn't expect them to attack us. It would be more likely that they would act just as you have described."

"Maybe," replied Cindy. "But these birds weren't just staying out of our way. It looked to me almost as though they were tracking me. I know it sounds absurd, but whenever I'd move to a different site, they'd move also, and not away from me, but in such a way that they could keep me in their sight. The whole thing is a little unnerving if you ask me."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the camp. "Come to think of it," said the young man who had given Cindy the beer. "I noticed that too. I even saw a couple of them while I was here in the camp earlier. I had to get more film and when I came out of the tent, I saw two crows over there near that stump." He pointed in the direction of a large tree stump at the camp entrance. "They didn't appear to fear me. In fact, I got the impression they were sizing me up. Almost made me wish I'd brought my .22."

Cyrus stood up. "Well, it's been a long, hot day and we've been out here for almost a week. It sounds to me like we're starting to see phantoms in the soup. I think we need to eat a good meal and then get a good night's sleep so we can wrap this thing up tomorrow and head back to school. I don't know about you people, but right now I could eat my weight in crows."

The group laughed as the mood lightened. During dinner, the conversation turned to other topicsobservations made during the day and plans for summer break. The crows were forgotten.

He had no name, as names were not within their realm. He was The Leader because he was the strongest, dominant within the flock. His posturings and movements told the others that it was again time to gather.

They had hunted since time began, at least time as they comprehended it. Their prey was mostly smaller and weaker than they, or culled from the sick and injured if larger. This new prey, however, presented a new challenge. This creature exhibited awareness.

The campfire smoldered. Only a few embers still glowed in the pitch of the night. Doctor Cyrus Abramson and his Advanced Zoology students slept soundly in the fresh, mountain air. Their research project for this term was nearing completion. By the end of the next day, they would be home.

A little more than one hundred yards from the camp, rustling noises filtered out of the cave's entrance. The opening was well hidden behind the underbrush and hadn't been discovered by the meddling humans. Inside the small cavern, the covey gathered. In turn, each one grasped a twig in their beaks. Every twig, cut from trees the same day the humans came, had been honed to a deadly point.

The crows, armed and ready, turned to face the altar. Each one, again in turn, touched the point of their spears to the drawing on the wall of the cave. The drawing, crude as it was, would bring them luck. The birds touched the various parts of the drawing as they passed in single file. One touched the legs, another the torso and still another the head, tainted red to resemble the coloring their prey had assumed since arriving in their land.

The last crow touched the drawing, in the midsection. The covey moved out of the cave and took wing toward the camp. Now the hunt would be completed.

### Vanilla Man

What was there about life, Bob Walker wondered, that made being 47 years old and just divorced for the second time seem like not such a big thing? It was a much bigger thing the first time, back when he was 31 and the world was still his oyster. She got the house and the kids and most of the savings account that time too.

This time around, Bob figured he couldn't do much worse. Besides, it was her house to begin with. What the hell did he want with a fifteen-year-old split level anyway? The driveway needed repairs and the roof was about one more winter away from new shingles. By then, Monica would have someone else in her life who would be more than happy to spend his vacation sweating on her roof. Monica always managed to find someone. After all, she managed to find him.

That was the worst of it. Not only was Bob losing a wife and a home, he was also losing a job. The only thing worse than marrying the boss' daughter, in Bob's estimation, was marrying the boss. In this case, the boss was the Managing Editor of _The New Times Journal_. Bob was a senior staff writer when a late night editorial meeting punctuated with daiquiris and high expectations led two months later to wedded bliss and, for Bob, an instant promotion to Associate Editor. The funniest thing about it, if indeed anything funny could be gleaned from the entire sordid affair, was that the piece they originally met to discuss was rejected, only to be snapped up by _The Atlantic_ a week later. The author, then unknown, was now demanding six figure advances.

Did Monica secretly blame him for their failure to sign the author? She never let on that she did, not even during the worst of the proceedings. She was tired, so she claimed. Tired of the same old thing day after day. Bob was apparently one of those same old things she was tired of because he was among the first things Monica jettisoned as she sought a new beginning. Out of her house, out of her office and out of her life. At least she gave him two weeks severance pay. He wasn't sure he should push his luck and ask her for a reference.

So where to from here? Bob asked himself that question time and time again as he rolled down Interstate 70 through the heat of a Central Kansas afternoon. His car radio was tuned to an oldies station from somewhere east of him. They played one of those silly-assed songs that he hated as a teenager but couldn't stop singing to himself during the commercialssome bubblegum melody about staying together or breaking up, what's it gonna be? A moot point, Bob decided. Monica was in their house in Denver and he was...where exactly, he didn't know.

He hadn't thought it out too well, he'd decided after loading his belongings into his Cherokee that morning and driving east into the sunrise. After his first marriage ended, Bob went homehis real home, in Indiana. That was no longer an option. Both his parents were gone now and his childhood home belonged to strangers. He didn't even know their names. Hell, he didn't even know the names of his neighbors in Denver. Work. That was the thing that ruled Bob Walker's life. It was work that got him where he wanted to be, not idle chat with neighbors.

It was also work that got him into this fix. While he was banging away at his keyboard on this story or that article, someone else was banging away on Monica. Where had she met him? Bob didn't have a clue. He could have been the bagboy at the local supermarket for all Bob knew. What he did know was that the guy was where _he_ should have been and Monica wasn't objecting. The notion that this would someday make a great story caused Bob to chuckle under his breath. Bob thought everything would make a great story.

Which brought to mind still another problem. For as long as he could remember, Bob was an observer _of_ rather than a participant _in_ life. Even in school, during extracurricular functions, there he'd be, pad and pen in hand, scribbling facts, figures and observations while the other students danced or played or whatever. Maybe if I'd lived instead of watched, Bob mused as he rolled across the endless plains, I wouldn't be here now. Maybe.

On the other hand, it might just be the writing that will keep my head above the waterline, he thought. He'd known divorced men over the course of his lifetime who'd wallowed so much in their own self-pity that they became little more than dronesshells that resembled men. He'd interviewed some of them for an article he'd written at Monica's urging the previous year. What a drag, spending night after boozy night sitting bleary-eyed in singles bars interviewing men whose lives were in the toilet and who seemed for all the world to have no interest in pulling themselves out. Bob tried and failed to separate his distaste for these men and their dead-end lifestyles from his inborn writer's objectivity.

"This article is shit, Bob," Monica sniffed after throwing the manuscript back at him. "You make these guys all sound like soap opera rejects."

"They _are_ soap opera rejects," he retorted. "I didn't meet one man who wasn't on a full-time pity party the whole time. To listen to them talk about their ex-wives, you'd think they'd be dancing in the streets that they were away from them."

"Well, go fix it or find some other people to talk to or something. I can't put this in the way it is."

So he fixed it. He re-worded some of the less dismal of the tellings and "The Confessions of the Divorced Man" ran to rave reviews the following month. That nearly half of it was fiction didn't seem to faze the readership one whit. Bob was a hit. The magazine enjoyed a record readership that month and Monica treated him like she did when they were newlyweds again.

That lasted just under a week.

"Maybe I should stick to fiction and forget about articles," Bob mused as he slowed to negotiate the exit ramp. His increasing discomfort told him it was pit stop time and there was no sign of a rest area. He'd answer the call of nature and then continue rolling toward the summer sunset. What he should have done, he thought with a grin, was written a fiction piece about his own marital Armageddon and submitted it to The Atlantic. What a perfect coup _that_ would have been.

The weather-beaten sign caught Bob's attention. COLD BEER was about all he could make out from a distance, but upon closer inspection after slowing down, he could read the name of the establishment. MAXIE'S. A cold beer sounded pretty good to Bob. Perhaps, he thought, Maxie could even point him in the direction of a good, cheap motel. No way I'm driving all night, Bob told himself.

Using his writer's imagination, Bob tried to picture the interior of Maxie's. The place would be dark and smell of stale beer and sweat. There would be at least one dusty stuffed animal mounted on a shelf over the bar, its teeth bared in a frozen snarl. The aging jukebox would sit in the center of one wall and spew out country music like an audio avalanche. Maxie would be a fat, balding former truck driver who never met a stranger.

Before he could complete his mental image, Bob rounded a curve and nearly missed the place. Maxie's was a white clapboard structure sorely in need of a coat of paint. So far, Bob decided, so good. The gravel parking lot contained three pickup trucks in various stages of decay, a decades-old station wagon with the rear bumper missing and an assortment of older model cars, brethren to those gracing the back row of the used car lot in Bob's old neighborhood. His almost new Cherokee stood out like a well-polished sore thumb.

Bob stepped into the bar. It was dark, as he knew it would be, but not as dark as he'd imagined. The odor was that of fried onion rings. Bob's first reaction was that he was hungry. He realized it had been over six hours since his last meal.

After visiting the rest room, he stepped to the bar. There was no sign of the heavyset trucker he knew had to be somewhere in attendance. The bar was completely unoccupied. Maxie's other patrons huddled around the heavy wooden tables upending mugs of beer and conversing among themselves. His intrusion into their domain caused only a momentary lapse in the routine.

The only thing consistent with Bob's visual image was the jukebox. It did indeed dominate nearly one entire wall, but was silent as a chrome and neon tomb. Bob decided that before he took his leave, he would peruse the selection of music just to satisfy himself that there wasn't a record in the machine that didn't twang.

"What can I get ya?" inquired the female voice from behind the bar. Bob had been gazing at the yellowed photos taped to the wall and didn't see the woman approach.

He turned to face her. She had a vaguely homespun quality about her and probably was attractive in her younger days, Bob decided. Certainly she didn't fit into his preconceived notion of what the bartender of this sort of place ought to look like.

"A beer, please. The colder, the better."

"My beer is always cold. Only way I'll serve it." A mug appeared in her hand as if by magic. She filled it with the golden brew and slid it in front of Bob in a single, smooth motion.

"A buck fifty, unless you want to start a tab."

"Not this early in the day," Bob remarked as he reached into his pocket. He fished a five out of the tangle of keys and coins and dropped it onto the bar.

"You're new around here, aren't ya?" She eyed him with what Bob took to be suspicion as she laid his change in front of him. "Least I've never seen you before."

"I'm just passing through on my way to...who knows."

She chuckled. "Yeah. We get a lot of folks in here on their way to Who Knows. In fact, I was on the road to Who Knows when I took over this place."

"You own this bar?" Bob hoped his look of surprise wasn't too obvious.

"Lock, stock and pickle jar. Been here going on six years." She extended a slender hand. "Name's Maxine Edelmann, but you can call me Maxie."

"Bob. Bob Walker." He shook the offered hand. "Nice to meet you. Nice place you have here."

"It'll do. Keeps the wolves away from my door anyhow. So tell me, Bob Walker, does whoever you're leaving know how to get to Who Knows too?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"You might as well be wearing a big, red sign. Guy like you in clothes like that this far from a town of any size has gotta be getting away from something."

"Just a lot of bad decisions. The only two things I ever found worth doing in my life were marriage and writing and I'm not worth a shit at either of them."

Maxie's eyes widened a bit. "A writer, eh? Can't say that I've ever had one of those in here before. Don't read much myself. No kind of time with this place. What is it you write?"

"Human interest stuff mostly. Why people do what they do. That sort of thing." Bob downed a third of the beer in one swallow. He was thirstier than he thought.

"Well, why do they?"

"Why do they what?"

"Why do they do whatever it is they do? You said that was what you wrote about. You must have at least a few answers by now."

"I wish I did. About the only thing I know for sure is that the more I study the human condition, the less I understand."

Maxie gave Bob a look which he thought best to ignore. He wasn't sure whether she was asking these questions of him because she was truly interested or just to make bartender-type small talk. It occurred to him that his uncertainty only served to underscore his last comment.

"Then why do it?" she asked.

"I guess it's because I never get tired of listening to peoples' stories."

Maxie gestured toward a table at the rear of the bar. "What about those guys? I'll bet they've got stories to tell."

Bob turned to glance at the subjects of her statement. "They look like ordinary guys to me. I can't imagine any of them having anything interesting about their lives, at least nothing interesting enough to make people want to read about them."

"How do you know they aren't interesting? Maybe the problem isn't them. Maybe it's you. Maybe you just need to dig down deep enough to find the story."

Bob sighed and took another long drink. "I suppose digging into a person's soul takes a better man than me." That it took a far better man than him, Bob wasn't quite prepared to admit out loud.

He downed the last of his beer and held the empty mug up. Maxie placed a fresh one in front of him without missing a beat.

"You want a story? I've got a good one I'll share with you no charge. When I was a kid back in Chicago, my folks owned an ice cream parlor. I worked there from the time I was old enough to see over the counter until they closed the place and I went into my first marriage. That's another story.

"There was an old guy who came into the shop every day at the same time and always ordered the same thingone scoop of vanilla in a sugar cone. Every day, the same time, the same thing. Vanilla in a sugar cone. We used to call him The Vanilla Man. I think he came in every day for at least five or six years and never ordered anything else.

"One day, he didn't show up. We didn't think much about it at first. We thought maybe he was sick or something. People did get sick once in awhile. Then the second day, he didn't show up again. By the third day, we began to wonder.

"About a week after his last visit, a woman we'd never seen before came in and introduced herself. She was Vanilla Man's wife. We never even knew the man's name, much less that he had a wife. She told us he'd died the first day he didn't come in for his vanilla cone and she just wanted us to know.

"Then she said something that always stuck with me. She told us his last words to her were: 'I wish I'd ordered the Pistachio.' The man went through his entire life and never tasted pistachio. I decided then and there I'd never let that happen to me."

"That's interesting," Bob replied. "But I don't see what that has to do with the conversation we were having before."

"I think that's your problem, Bob. I think you've lived nothing but a vanilla life and you just don't want to sample the pistachio. Those guys over there," she gestured toward the table. "They might not be what you consider exciting, but I'll bet they have a lot more pistachio in their lives right now than you do."

It wasn't until almost two years later that Bob Walker, newly married and traveling with his bride from one book signing to another, found himself in Maxie's neck of the woods again. His best seller, a gritty examination of the lives of everyday people, was dedicated to Maxie and her laser-like penetration of his soul. His plan was to present Maxie with an autographed first edition and introduce her to Carole at the same time.

"You'll love this lady," he told his new wife. "If it weren't for her, I'd probably be covering high school football games somewhere in Wisconsin now."

Bob had no trouble recognizing the turn-off. He'd always know the way back here. He swung the Cherokee into the empty lot. Something didn't look quite right.

Maxie's place was closed.

Bob walked slowly to the front door. He was still several feet away when he saw the hand-lettered sign.

' _Out of Business. Gone in search of the Pistachio.'_

### At The Wall

The names, fathers and brothers,

carved in stone for all to read.

Memories, left behind

Old sandals, torn and tattered.

Survivors, Sons and Mothers.

The tears, openly spilling,

flow like rain from other Springs.

Suffering, remembered

The lives, lost and shattered.

A touch, perhaps fulfilling.

So many, like children they come,

seeking reasons long forgotten.

Questions, unanswered

The dreams, gone and scattered.

Silence, prayers for some.

Lessons unlearned, so much pain,

it happens so many times.

Deaths, unheeded

The soldiers, how much it mattered.

Healing, again and again.

### Silver Screen

As a child I would always dream

of things that weren't quite real

like spaceships and goblins and time machines

and images that could only be seen

through the magic of that silver screen.

As I grew older I still could dream

and I traveled with my mind

to Casablanca and the Land of Oz

the places I had never been

through the gateway of that silver screen.

Now I watch the children dream

their eyes wide with awe

of princes and heroes and dragons

and magical kingdoms so serene

through the wonder of that silver screen

When my years are at an end

and my dreams are in the past

of adventure and danger and intrigue

let me relive them all as they once seemed

through the power of that silver screen

### Snow Wars

The Great Midwest. The Snow Belt. Living, working and driving there can be at best a challenge and at worst a hazard to life and limb. But to a kid in junior high school, and hating it, the Snow Belt can bring joyous freedom. For not only is The Great Midwest home to severe weather, it is also the home of Snow Days.

Snow days. Parents face them with dread and trepidation, but the kids embrace them with relish. A snow day means a day away from Geometry, Social Studies and Gym. It means a day spent snuggled in bed until well past ten in the morning and then in a near-paralytic stupor in front of the Cathode Ray God.

Unless you lived in my neighborhood back in the early 1960's.

In my neighborhood, a heavy snow meant one thing and one thing onlySnow Wars. Snow wars were combat with an intensity rivaling Juno Beach. Snow wars in which no clear winner was ever determined. Not even the spring thaw brought peace in our time. Hostilities were merely suspended temporarily, until the next Snow Day.

Our Snow Wars were fought along multiple fronts, which rarely followed traditional patterns. A front might stretch for ten city blocks, bending and twisting to accommodate the most ideal defensive positions. Hedges were preferred because the approaching enemy forces could be observed for some distance, yet the defenders were safe from assault. Not even the most tightly packed iceball could penetrate a thick hedgerow. Thorns were always a bonus. Even the boldest of snow warriors would not risk crippling injury at the hands of a prickly bush, not even for the thrill of pummeling the enemy into submission.

Old Lady Burnham's house was, by universal agreement, the DMZ. She had little patience for thirteen-year-olds and even less for the occasional misfired shot. Telephone calls to parents, or the police, were the most effective deterrent to a well-organized offensive ever developed. Those of us on the receiving end of one of Old Lady Burnham's complaints always believed that the United Nations missed the boat in not using her as an international peacekeeper. She could strike fear in the hearts of the coldest snow troopers. Even the prickly bushes were preferable to a round with Old Lady Burnham. For that reason, landmarks easily recognizable to both sides were established at various locations along our fronts for the sole purpose of warning the combatants of their increasingly dangerous proximity to the haunts of Old Lady Burnham. The fire hydrant on the corner of Tenth and Crescent was the absolute edge of the free-firing zone. Beyond that point, the possibility of an errant overhand lob finding its way onto Old Lady Burnham's front porch became a behavior modifier more significant than being hit squarely in the face by one of Chucky Scaparelli's full-bore fastballs.

The day the Snow Wars changed forever began not unlike all previous Snow Days. A ten-inch overnight snowfall, coupled with an inch of sleet, sealed the fate of school early on. Like all good Snow Troopers, we listened for school closing reports on our radios beginning at around five-thirty in the morning. Any and all background noise halted immediately with the words: "The following schools are closed today due to weather conditions..." The silence continued until we heard the name we all waited for, our school, mentioned among the list of climatic casualties. Then the cacophony of voices in full cheer mode could be heard from households all over town.

For our parents, it was just another day to slog to the office or the plant. For us, it was party time. We barely finished our breakfasts before donning our best Snow Wars bib and tucker. Off to the field of battle we trotted as fast as our buckle-booted feet could carry us.

The battle commenced pretty much as it had stopped earlier in the week, with the combatants taking up positions along a front covering at least four city blocks. The ice-covered snow was perfect for our mission, which was to leave no human body unscathed.

Chucky Scaparelli and his minions mounted an attack on our left flank, catching us by surprise. No one in our group figured Chucky for having the intelligence to plan those kinds of elaborate tactics. His usual approach was straightforward and direct, namely, a rock-hard fist applied liberally to soft, break-away facial features. Fortunately for our side, my cousin Phil and several of his buddies spotted the assault in time to react. Phil's forces had the temporary advantage of greater numbers. Thus blessed, his suicide squad managed to drive Chucky and his gang back behind Gladstone's Pharmacy. The rest of us, at Phil's prompting, decided to press our advantage. We poured over the front lines in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. Hurling iceballs as fast as we could pack them, we gained almost an entire block before Chucky's squad regrouped and held. They had managed to retreat as far as the prickly hedgerow along the alley behind the Martins' house. Since Bob Martin was among Chucky's troops, any hopes of their being driven off by an irate homeowner vanished.

We pulled up well out of range of the siege we knew was soon to begin. Nobody wanted to concede a standoff this early in the day. What we needed was a plan. What we got was Ricky Nettrow's little brother volunteering to sneak around behind and hit them from the rear. To our minds, such a move was sheer madness. Chucky liked being outwitted in Snow Wars even less than he liked being called by his nicknameMeatface. (Chucky was the first among us to develop acne.) We could only imagine with horror what would happen to little Johnny if he did manage to make it behind them. Even at the age of thirteen, when the activities of most boys revolved around either being cool or toughness one-upmanship, we were anything but comfortable with the thought of facing Ricky's parents after their first glimpse of the remains of their younger son.

The only solution was to follow Johnny's lead and embark upon a flanking action of our own. We quickly decided to make a wide sweep of the immediate vicinity and hit Chucky's squad from the side. As we began our movement, we stockpiled as many snowballs as we could physically carry in the belief that once hostilities resumed, there wouldn't be time to re-arm. Thus, loaded down with icy ordnance, we made our move.

Chucky's friends spotted our leading wave moments before we opened fire. Outnumbered as they were, their counter-attack was withering. Snowballs flew in our direction like an avalanche. We looked to be in very real danger of total defeat, and in the backyard of one of the enemy officers. We beat a hasty retreat, firing as we fell back.

In our haste to escape the jaws of death, we failed to observe the all-important landmarks. So involved were we with our botched mission, not to mention saving our skins, that not one of us thought to utter a warning. In a sudden horrifying moment, I noticed that in our haste to escape certain capture, we had fallen back _behind_ the all-important fire hydrant. Chucky's forces, also focused on our complete annihilation, failed to note our positions.

No one ever really knew who threw the fatal iceball. One minute we were struggling to survive the onslaught. The next minute, all time stood still as we heard a tinkling crash behind us. It wasn't until we saw Chucky's entire squad turn and run hell bent for election away from the field of battle that the enormity of what had just occurred struck us like a locomotive.

Someone had broken Old Lady Burnham's picture window.

Slow death at the hands of the ugliest monster ever seen on the Saturday Night Creature Feature would have been preferable to the fate which now awaited us. Before we could escape, Old Lady Burnham flew out of her house faster than any of us thought humanly possible even for a kid and began screaming at us like a Banshee. It didn't require a genius to know that before any of us arrived home, our parents would have all received a phone call, at work, and would be ready, willing and able to donate us to the first family of Gypsies that happened by. Thoughts of joining the circus passed through my mind, but I knew even that wouldn't put me far enough away from the wrath of Old Lady Burnham.

It was two full weeks before any of us were allowed out of our homes except to go to school. Our allowances were immediately garnisheed for the replacement of the shattered windowpane. Warnings to stay away from Old Lady Burnham's house were unnecessary. Not even Chucky had enough courage to go to within two blocks of the place.

But winter was far from over. Snow Wars, by their very nature, never end. What to do?

As before, it was Johnny Nettrow who gave us the solution to our problem. It was an unintentional solution, but a solution nonetheless.

Johnny started out that morning to build a simple snowman. In his enthusiasm for the project, he had overestimated the size and weight of the base he'd rolled. It wasn't long before the thing towered above his head. Observing this, and being the ingenious individuals we were, the idea to construct a snow fort was born.

This wasn't going to be just any snow fort. No sir! This was going to be the Fort Knox of snow forts. Not only did we pack snow into a wall fully fifteen feet long and five feet high, we then carried bucketfuls of water from the Nettrow's kitchen and poured it over the edifice. Within less than half an hour, we had a snow fort which had walls harder than the wooden paddle in the Principal's office. If Chucky Scaparelli and his hoodlum buddies harbored any ideas about our unconditional surrender, we just upped the ante.

Of course Chucky was not about to be outdone. Before we had applied the last bucket of water to our redoubt, Chucky's horde was busy constructing their own snow fort just across the alley in the vacant lot. Where we used water to form an ice barrier, they placed rocks into the sides of their fort. Where ours had extra thick walls, theirs was built in a semi-circle. Our ill-fated flanking movement two weeks earlier had taught them a lesson in defensive strategy.

It was shaping up to become the Armageddon of Snow Wars. All we needed was another of our parents' worst nightmares. We needed another Snow Day.

Finally, after six days of preparation and prayer, our dream was realized. That night it snowedhard. Early the next morning, we gathered around our respective radios in breathless anticipation. We awaited those immortal words: "The following schools are closed today..." The announcer began reading what seemed to be the longest list in the world. Every school we knew, and many we didn't, was closed up tight. Still we waited. Surely they wouldn't make US risk life and limb while every other student body in America slept in, would they? Forget the fact that we collectively planned to expose our bodies to far worse abuse than going to school could possibly inflict, it wasn't fair to force us to trudge through all that inclement weather just to sit in class. Then, just when we were about to give up, when we knew beyond any doubt the next thing we heard would be a commercial break and the end of the list, our school was mentioned. We were free. Let the battle commence!

Breakfast was inhaled. No sooner had day broken then the opposing forces faced off across the narrow alley. Having had almost a full week to build our fort, we had the time to construct an entire room just for the storage of snowballs. It was filled to overflowing with icy missiles boasting a hardness comparable to cold rolled steel. Not only that, we now had an entire back yard covered with six inches of virgin snow. It was truly a beautiful sight to behold.

As befitting his beast-like temperament, Chucky fired the first volley. His speed and control were at their peak. A perfectly rounded iceball whizzed toward us at close to the speed of lightand splattered harmlessly against the rock-hard wall of our fort.

"Nice try, Meatface," one of the bolder members of our troupe yelled. Everyone, including the shouter, knew full well he would never have said that in a face-to-face situation. Not if he wanted to live to see another sunrise, that is. The only reaction his act of bravado elicited this time was a sudden and intense barrage of snow boulders over the walls of our fort. By simply ducking, we escaped serious injury.

Once we were certain the initial launch was over, we returned fire. Every member of the group began tossing our pre-manufactured snowballs toward the enemy encampment as fast as we could pick them up. Our volley had about the same effect on Chucky's fort as his had on ours. That is to say they plopped harmlessly against the sides, to their glee. After a brief session of name-calling and hooting at our effete assault, Chucky's gang initiated round two.

This continued for at least three hours. Neither side could do much more than add additional thickness to the opposing side's fort. Then, to our collective horror, Chucky's entire squad began an all-out assault. They softened our resolve with a barrage of iceballs, then ran straight toward our fort, firing as they advanced.

We threw iceballs at them as hard and as fast as we could. This tactic only resulted in increased profanity and even greater speed in the frontal assault. It looked like we were close to total defeat.

Then the impossible happened. Chucky's entire force rammed into our icy wall as hard as they could. From behind the redoubt, we could hear the muffled _thump_ of bodies ramming into the wall. Then we heard the even more muffled sounds of collective cursing. Chucky's gang had charged us with all their might, only to hit our ice-hardened wall and bounce off. Our water strategy had worked. Before the enemy could collect themselves and regroup, we battered them with still more snowballs. They ran, actually ran, back to the safety of their own encampment. We had faced down the forces of evil and they blinked.

The great standoff resumed. The siege and counter-siege picked up where it left off before Chucky's ill-fated attack. It was cold. Standing behind a wall of snow and ice generates far less body heat than running to and fro across the entire neighborhood hurling snowballs as we ran. We were approaching desperation, which meant desperate measures were called for.

My cousin Phil told us to huddle up. He had a plan, which usually meant someone was going to get hurt. When we heard the plan, we were absolutely certain someone was going to get hurt. It was utter madness, but so was freezing to death. Phil proposed that we attack Chucky's fort in an all-out assault. Having just witnessed the failure of the first attack, we thought the cold air had finally frozen my cousin's synapses. "We used ice, they didn't," was all he would say. My cousin was always able to get others to do his bidding.

Since I was one of the larger kids in the group, all eyes suddenly turned toward me. I knew what they were thinking. If anyone had to lead such an assault, it should be someone big enough to ward off the worst of the snowball bombardment sure to occur the second we began our kamikaze run. "We'll cover you," was their lame attempt at making me feel at ease. Cover me. I was about to die a horrible death and these guys were going to cover me.

But I was getting really cold. Daytime television was looking better and better. I reasoned that if I agreed to this insanity, I could have the remainder of the day to thaw out and lick my wounds. Besides, I'd been on the receiving end of Chucky's thermonuclear snowballs before and had yet to succumb. How bad could it be?

We decided to make our death defying run on the count of three. I'd lead with the others right behind me, hurling snowballs over the walls as fast as they could to keep the defenders pinned down. We were hoping the element of surprise would be on our side.

It wasn't. The second we emerged from behind our protection, Chucky and his thugs resumed hurling their snowballs at a heretofore unheard of velocity. We staggered under the withering fire, but came on. The enemy began throwing iceballs, with both hands, and still we came on. We were on a mission and no power on Earth could stop us.

After what seemed an eternity, we managed to reach Chucky's fort. The head of steam we'd built up was now fully charged. We crashed into the frozen wall as one. Since I was in the lead, I took the brunt of the blow. At first, it seemed as though the wall would hold. Then, as if a miracle had occurred, it cracked. First a tiny bit, then more, until finally a huge, gaping hole appeared through which our collective army poured, still firing week-old iceballs. Where our formidable enemy had failed, we succeeded. Victory was ours. The long, cold Snow Wars were over, at least for that day.

But Chucky was not the type of guy to soon forget his humilation at the hands of lesser beings. He would, we all knew, return seeking vengeance. We began to actually hope there were no more snow daysno more opportunities for Chucky and his gang to steal back our glory.

To our good fortune, Spring arrived early that year. Only the Sun's rays would put an end, once and for all, to Snow Wars. The great snow forts still stood in the spring warmth. They soon resembled an Arctic Stonehenge, their icy fingers reaching upward into the blue sky as if trying to grasp Winter's cold from its springtime hiding place. By the end of the school year, only a semi-circle of stones remained in the vacant lot to mark the site of Chucky Scaparelli's last stand.

By the following winter, most of our group had outgrown Snow Wars. We had suddenly discovered basketball, skating and, some of us at least, girls. Old Lady Burnham moved out of her house the summer after our last Snow War and in with a son who lived in another state. Her house was sold to a family with three boys, all younger than us, who loved to hide behind the prickly bushes and pelt us with snowballs as we passed by. We would occasionally feign a sortie, but not even Chucky could bring himself to chase them into what we would forever consider to be Old Lady Burnham's turf. The names might have changed, but the Burnham specter remained.

As the years passed, we went through middle school and into high school. Snow Wars became a dim memory, buried under Football games, Friday night dances in the gym and driver's ed. Chuck Scaparelli (He dropped the 'y' in tenth grade. No one debated his decision.) dropped out of school the day after his sixteenth birthday and, after a brief career as Chief Car Washer and Parts Go-fer at Red Denton's Garage, moved to the West Coast. It was a very sudden move and was done both at the insistence of his father and without the permission of his probation officer. None of us ever found out what happened to Chucky after he moved away, although we always had suspicions. Whenever we read about the escapades of a serial killer or cult leader in the newspaper, we wondered if Chucky Scaparelli had resurfaced at last.

The Nettrow brothers each became successful in their own way. Rick became a doctor and by the age of forty was Chief of Cryogenics at a major university medical center. He achieved highest honors among his peers for his publication of a brilliant dissertation on long-term effects of exposure to extreme winter weather conditions.

After graduation from high school, John was accepted at West Point. Once in the Army, he rose to the rank of Lieutenant General. His essays on tactical flanking maneuvers won numerous citations and several medals.

My cousin Phil entered politics, first on the local level and then nationally. His ability to form coalitions made him a recognized leader almost at once. Phil never turned down a challenge or a committee assignment and was mentioned on two occasions as a potential candidate for Vice President.

Other Snow War veterans went in many different directions. Bob Martin moved with his family to New York City two years after the final Snow War. He overcame the decidedly negative influence of Chucky and became a playwright. His off-Broadway production about a group of adolescent friends coming of age won him considerable critical acclaim and opened on Broadway the following year. A feature film based on the play is scheduled to open nationwide next year.

As we grew older, we also grew apart, as childhood friends tend to do. We became teachers, factory workers, business executives and, in the case of at least two of Chucky's closest associates, convicted felons. When we did meet, usually by chance and for brief moments, our conversations centered on our families, careers and current events. The Snow Wars were never mentioned.

Me? I toyed with the idea of playing football in high school, but somehow the idea lost its appeal when I really thought about it. I went on to college and then graduate school before finally falling into a career designing prefabricated buildings. I founded a company with a loan from my cousin which last year netted over fifty million dollars producing foam polymer structures for use in hostile environments.

Kids? Yes, as a matter of fact. Three of them. As I write this, they are all in our front yard throwing snowballs at each other. It must be in the blood. The moment I finish this memoir, I intend to pull on my insulated coveralls and teach them the finer points of constructing a proper snow fort. Then, if I don't get too cold, I'll show them how to pack an iceball. Playing in the snow may not prepare them for real life, but it's important to keep some traditions alive.

### About the author:

### David Bates is an environmental administrator for a small city in Indiana. He has a Bachelor of Science degree from Ball State University and a Master of Public Administration from Western Michigan University. He has written numerous articles for water environment journals and has served as President of the Indiana Water Environment Association. He enjoys photography, reading (and writing of course), traveling and nature. He lives with his wife, two cats and a Shih-Tzu in Southern Michigan.

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