 
### THE LAST SUPPER:

### 13 SPECULATIVE SHORT STORIES

By

Glen Robinson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Prevail Publications on Smashwords

The Last Supper: 13 Speculative Short Stories

Copyright © 2013 by Glendal P. Robinson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction. Although some of the characters in this story are actual historical figures, they are used fictitiously for the purposes of this story.

### TABLE OF CONTENTS

Author's Foreword

1. A Mirror Darkly

2. Brindlestar

3. Destiny, Inc.

4. Eyes Wide Open

5. Voyage of the Dionysus

6. Jesús Saves

7. My Own Personal Singularity

8. What's the Frequency, Kenneth?

9. Pinocchio

10. Echo of a Smile

11. Yo Me Rindo

12. The Last Supper

13. Yesterday and Tomorrow

*****

### THE LAST SUPPER

*****

### AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

This is my second opportunity to gather my various short stories into one collection. The first,  The Stranger and Other Stories, was published in 2012 and was well received. Well, to be honest, it got one review on Amazon, and that was basically a complaint that they had to pay 99 cents for it. But I have given away more than 500 copies of it on Smashwords, and no one there has complained.

Since that time, I have written more short stories, so I thought it was time to share them. Most of them are my traditional fare; that is, speculative stories that crowd the line between science fiction and something else. I hope you enjoy them.

As always, you can find me—as well as my many other books—online at http://glenchen.com, on Twitter, Goodreads or at my Amazon site here. Blessings.

(back to Table of Contents)

**1. A MIRROR DARKLY**

**We had a discussion in my student writer's group a couple of weeks ago about whether some stories shouldn't be written. Most of my short stories come to me as dreams. I have several stories in the back of my mind that border on horror, but since I don't actually read horror, I haven't written them down. This is my first attempt in that direction. Those of you who are horror purists may not consider that part of the genre, perhaps more dark fantasy, and I will defer to your classification. Read it and see what you think it is.**

I've often said that teachers are simply students who love school so much that they never left. Whether that's true for anyone else, it's true for me. I loved high school and college, but I know that elementary school laid the foundation for my success later on in life.

And that's why I decided early on to become a first-grade teacher. Male first-grade teachers aren't that common, but I was fortunate to have one, and because I knew that more and more kids often didn't have a dad at home, I knew that I could be a great deal of help to many of them.

But it took me until my third year of teaching to learn that I couldn't help all of them. That's just the sad reality. Some kids have problems at home, with their health, or with other issues that are far beyond my ken and my control to help with. In those cases, all you can do is support them as much as possible, be a friend when they need one, and do whatever you can to make their challenges lighter.

That was the case during my third year as a teacher. The week before school started, I was asked to come visit a student in their home. I entered a relatively modest home in a quiet neighborhood and was introduced to Mrs. Melodie Addams and her first-grader Augie.

"It's short for Augustus," the precocious little blonde-haired boy said. I knew immediately that I would have a firecracker on my hands.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Augie," I said, bending down to his level as we sat in their darkened living room. "Are you excited about starting school? I have a pretty good idea that you will do really well."

"I'm already reading," he said matter-of-factly.

"It's true," Mrs. Addams said. "He started reading when he was three. Now he's reading every book he can get his hands on."

"And I have started math as well," Augie added. "I can add and subtract. I asked Mommy to teach me how to multiply and divide, but she said I had to wait for the rest of the kids in school."

I nodded slowly, still wondering what I was doing in their home. "I assume that my visit here was to allow Augie to get acquainted with me. And you, of course."

She stared at me. "Oh, I have no doubt that Augie will be fine with you as a teacher," she said. "And I can see that you are highly qualified. In fact, the school sings your praises.

"Well," I said, a little embarrassed. "Thanks."

"I wanted you to come because I want you to know about Augie's special needs," she said. "You see, he has been diagnosed with severe catoptrophobia."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not familiar with that particular disease, but as long as it isn't contagious, I am sure that the school–."

"It's not a disease. It's a phobia. I've already talked to the school board and the principal about it. He's fine as long as he is not exposed to mirrors. If he is, it's pretty traumatic."

I paused. "Mir—mirrors?" I echoed.

She nodded, and I looked down at the little boy, who acted as if nothing was wrong.

"If you look around our home, you will notice that all mirrors and shiny surfaces have been removed from our home. Augie doesn't ride in the car unless he wears a hood over his head. We never take him into public restrooms. And we are very selective as to which restaurants we visit and stores we go to—when he is with us."

My head was whirling. None of my education or the two years of teaching had prepared me for this. I knew that I needed to say something to reassure Augie and his mother.

"Well, you've talked to the school board and to the principal," I said. "Our school has been very good about making accommodation in the past. I don't see why that won't continue in the future.

"On the other hand," I said before Mrs. Addams could speak. "Kids will be kids. If we go about covering all the mirrors in the school for Augie's sake, they will know that there is a problem. And sooner or later, someone is bound to stick a mirror in front of his face."

Mrs. Addams nodded. "We had considered just home schooling him. But Augie really wants to be around other kids. He's doing fine learning here. But we feel for his own social development we want to give public school a try."

I looked at the little guy in front of me, who looked excited at the prospect of starting school, and I exhaled. Then I nodded.

"As I said, I can't guarantee anything, but I will do my best to make Augie comfortable."

Phil Sheridan, the principal, had already met with the Addamses. When I got back from my meeting, I talked to him about the possibilities. He and I agreed that somewhere along the line, disaster was waiting, but we would do our best to accommodate Augie.

That accommodation actually turned out to be easier than I imagined it would be. Our first plan was to accompany Augie to the restroom, covering the mirror whenever he visited it. But as we talked about it, we realized that I couldn't realistically leave my class alone to take care of one child's needs every single day. In the end, we decided to move my first-grade class down to the opposite end of the hall. Monica Sterns, the fourth-grade teacher, also taught crafts, and had a small restroom attached to her classroom. I made sure it had no reflecting surfaces, and we moved in.

The first week of classes were full of hectic excitement, but other than that, were actually not much different than the two other years I had taught there. Augie was a little shy at first, but a little girl named Belinda decided that Augie was going to be her best friend. By the second day of classes, they were inseparable. Augie even told her his secret, one that she swore she would never share.

I allowed Augie to use the special restroom, what the other kids started calling Augie's "batcave." Augie was gracious enough to share it with me. It had a toilet, a sink, and not much else. Because it didn't have a mirror, I attached a mirror to the inside of my briefcase for a double check on my appearance right before class or a staff meeting.

Mrs. Addams was usually pretty punctual about picking Augie up after school at 3:15. But three weeks into the school year, something happened and she didn't show up when she normally did. In fact, the after-school supervisor shut down at 4 and she asked me if I would be willing to watch Augie until his mom showed up. I was working on putting up new decorations in our classroom and knew that I would be there another couple of hours, so I said no problem. Besides, I had grown fond of Augie. He was a very bright boy, cheerful and always willing to help and participate.

I didn't even have to ask Augie to help with the decorations. He was thrilled to have the opportunity to help. It was late September, and I wanted students to start thinking about fall, so the decorations were decidedly orange, yellow and brown. I put Augie in charge of taking down everything that was on the bulletin board so that we could redecorate it. In the meantime, I streamed autumn-themed crèpe paper across the ceiling from wall to wall. I kept an eye on Augie, especially when he asked to take down the pushpins on the bulletin board.

I had finished about half the room when Augie yelled on the other side of the classroom: "Where should I put the old push pins?"

"Just lay them on top of my desk," I said. I had my back to him, but so far he had shown great responsibility for a first grader, so I wasn't worried. Then I heard a crash.

I turned on my stepladder and saw that in putting the pushpins on the desk, Augie had pushed my briefcase off the desk. Papers had flown everywhere and the briefcase lay on the floor upside down.

"That's all right, Augie," I said, seeing the shocked look on his face. "Give me a second to finish here and I'll pick it up."

A second later, I realized that he intended to pick it up himself, and a half a second after that realized that it would be a mistake.

"Wait–," I said, an instant before I heard a blood-curdling scream come from Augie. I dropped everything that was in my hands and leaped down from the stepstool. As I crossed the room in three strides, I saw that Augie had turned my briefcase over and was staring into it, and into the mirror inside. His face had turned white, and he began to cry.

I snatched the briefcase from his hands, closed it and lay it atop the papers on my desk, then grabbed Augie. I carried him over to the small set of cushions we had fixed up for a reading center. I pulled Augie into my lap while he sobbed, and I tried my best to comfort him.

"You know, Augie," I told him as he began to quiet down. "Everyone is afraid of something. I have things I am afraid of, even now."

"You're afraid? Why, you're a big man," he said.

I shrugged. "Even big men can be afraid. But you know there are two things to do when you are afraid."

"What's that?"

"First of all, you need to admit you're afraid," I said. "Until you admit it, you really can't do anything about it."

"Well, that's _obvious_ ," he said, and I smiled slightly. "What the second thing?"

"The second thing is a little harder. You have to face your fears," I said. "Let me ask you. When did you start becoming afraid of mirrors?"

His face grew very serious. "When the dark man came into my room."

Warning bells went off in my head. "What dark man?"

"He told me not to tell anyone, but I already told Belinda 'cause she's my best friend. But you're my best friend too, aren't you?"

I nodded. "The best. Now tell me. What dark man?"

His eyes grew big. "There was a big storm about a year ago. My window blew open and the man came in. He asked me if I wanted to be big and strong like him. I shouldn't have said yes, but I did. And then the pictures disappeared."

"Pictures? What pictures?"

He started to cry again, but I felt like there was a breakthrough coming.

"What pictures, Augie?"

In response, he got up from my lap, still crying, and went to my briefcase. He reached into it without looking and took out the small vanity mirror that I carried in it. He carried it back to me. I could see that the whole process was incredibly difficult for him, but he apparently seemed determined to see it through so that I could understand what he was going through. And I did want to understand.

But what happened was completely beyond my understanding.

Still crying, Augie climbed back into my lap and pulled the mirror up in front of our faces.

As I looked into the mirror, I saw that my face had turned ashen white. And that was all that I saw. Because Augie had no reflection in the mirror.

"The dark man stole my picture," he said simply to me.

And even though I knew exactly what Augie was trying to tell me, it was one of those rare moments in life when I had absolutely nothing to say to him in return.

(back to ToC)

* * *

### 2. BRINDLESTAR

I sponsor a student writer's club called the Rough Writers. One of the things we are exploring this semester is the concept of world building. Because many of the students write fantasy, and I write science fiction, I was interested in developing a world in which both could conceivably exist. That was the birth of Brindlestar, a world with three suns. Read on.

Left foot, right foot. Pause and listen. Left foot, right foot. Pause and listen.

Mira had learned the pattern of safely traversing Helfang Forest from her father, and even though she had no fear of being attacked by a giant leechlion or a Barbary raptor—not this close to Brindlestar—she kept to the pattern she had learned long ago. Her heavy moccasins slipped silently across the white forest floor, the snow clinging to the rough leather of both her feet and her breeches.

She heard a heavy sigh behind her. Jair, on the other hand, didn't see the point of caution, and for every careful step she took through the woods, he scuffled two steps in the snow.

"This will take us forever, you know," Jair said, his thin voice cutting through the silence of the forest.

Mira shook her head. "Jair, it's a wonder you haven't been eaten before this," she said. "I bet every longtooth within thirty sectors knows that you're coming."

"Yeah, well, if we lived in New Athens like most people, we wouldn't have to worry about longtooths, er _longteeth_."

"Plural is longtooth," she said. "Now let's be quiet or you will be someone's lunch."

"Lunch? I'm hungry," he said. "When do we stop to eat?"

"There will be plenty to eat when we get to New Athens," she said quietly, still looking around her. "You haven't been to a Brindlestar Festival before. Knowing how much you like to eat, it's something you will never forget."

"How old were you when you were at the last Festival?" he asked.

"Just about your age," she said. "Now shush. We're almost there, but there still could be wild things around here."

"I'm not worried, not even if there was a specter around," he said. "I've seen you shoot. You never miss."

Mira glanced back at Jair and smiled slightly, then glanced at the bow on her shoulder. Jair was right; she never missed. But that didn't make her any less wary. Being wary is what kept you alive in Helfang Forest. Father had taught her that, sometime before he had been killed himself.

* * *

Athena's flivver dropped from the skies silently, invisibly, just a sector from New Athens. She smiled to herself as she thought how ironic it was. She was originally from a city that was her namesake, and yet she was here to take something that belonged to them.

The camoed flivver could hardly be seen in broad daylight. Here, in brindle light so close to the azimuth of the three suns that served this bleak planet, the flying vehicle could only be seen if you were standing on top of it, or if you had an electronic sensor, which she did.

Still thinking about her name and the name of the town, she looked up at the weak light of the three suns: Paris, the yellow dwarf that signaled the onset of a three-year winter; Hector, the gas giant that brought four years of scorching summer; and Achilles, the one people never thought or talked about anymore, the dangerous one. Even now, she saw its pale blue outline on the horizon. Achilles: the death bringer, the tower toppler, the wave crasher. Every child on the planet learned to pray that Achilles would be held away one more season. And for close to a hundred years their prayers had been answered. What they didn't know—and Athena did—was that scientists had been the ones to answer their prayers. And the cost of answering their prayers had been a thermonuclear detonation.

It was still a couple of hours before the Ascension and the beginning of the Brindle festivities. Athena forgot about astronomy and focused on her job. She pressed a button on her Doppler suit and disappeared from view.

* * *

Mira breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the lights of New Athens before her. The forest parted and they found themselves on a rutted dirt and cobblestone road, one that looked like it had been used a great deal. And it had, especially when it came time for everyone in the region to gather for Brindle Festival. When Paris was in ascension people had to wait for three long, cold years before they could gather again for the Festival; with Hector it was four, hard dry years. Everyone looked forward to the Festival, not just because it forecasted the next few years, but also because the Brindle season was the best time for growing and harvesting; between hot summer and frigid winter came a very fertile season.

_Fertile_ , Mira thought, and shook it out of her mind. People got a little crazy when it came to fertility. It was the task of the city fathers—and mothers—to take advantage of Brindle season in every way possible. That not only meant planting and harvesting, but also making sure animals bred and had their babies, and people, well....she sighed again. At age 14, she was still young, but within marrying age. And she knew of at least two old women who had eyed her for their sons since the last Festival. Now that father was out of the picture, they would be on the hunt for her. As wary as she had been in Helfang Forest, she needed to be just as wary here in town.

* * *

Athena stood on the roof of a shop overlooking the town square, watching the community gather for the festival. She was totally invisible to the crowd below, still wrapped in her Doppler shroud. She pointed her sensor at one person and then another, catching a snatch of a conversation as she scanned, but paying little attention to what was being said. She saw the shadows of men behind the leaded windows of the city hall across the square, and knew it was the city fathers getting ready to make the Ascension announcement. Curious, she pointed her sensor at the window and immediately heard their conversation as if she had been standing in the same room.

"Are you sure?" said one voice. "Are you absolutely sure? I mean, it's been close to a century since...."

"I've checked and rechecked the measurements and compared them to the ancient charts," said another. "There's no doubt in my mind. Achilles is in ascension."

"But the people," said the first. "Achilles means famine, floods, earthquakes. It's the reason why the countryside is filled with ruins instead of a civilization. It's the reason why we were able to settle here to begin with. But it will be the end of us all. What do we tell the people?"

"We tell them nothing," hissed the second. "They can't really prepare for it, and all telling will accomplish is panic." There was a pause. "No, we tell them that Paris is in ascension again. They will plant and harvest, then store their grain and their meats, ready for another cold winter season."

Athena listened to the city fathers, raising an eyebrow. She wondered why the scientists hadn't told her that Achilles was in ascension, but then it wasn't part of her job. Her job was merely to recruit. Maybe these city fathers knew something that the scientists didn't know. But she dismissed that thought as quickly as it struck her. The scientists knew all about it, or the city fathers were wrong.

She turned her attention back toward the gathering crowd below her. A young couple just arriving caught her attention. The young girl— _woman_ in this society—looked to be about 14; the boy about 8. She scanned them with the sensor. The girl was remarkably intelligent, scoring 144 IQ on the register, with a high quotient for problem solving. Athena smiled; she would have made a good specter. After all, that's how Athena had became one.

She turned to the second one, the boy. The register shot up to 160 IQ. Her mouth became a thin line. This was the one she wanted. He was even young enough to adapt to the transition of living in a scientist's compound.

She put her sensor away and jumped from the rooftop into an alleyway below.

* * *

Mira wasn't enjoying herself. Part of her attention was focused on avoiding Mrs. Claret and her three fat, rowdy boys and Mrs. Tatkins and her tall, quiet, pimply son. The other part was struggling to keep an eye on Jair, who had never been to New Athens, much less a Brindlestar Festival. It was too much for him and he raced from table to cart to booth, looking at everything, wanting to touch everything, and threatening to get in serious trouble with the shopkeepers there.

Mira reached out and grabbed Jair by the collar just as he started to chase after a cart full of apples. He turned and stared at her, surprised.

"There will be plenty of free food," Mira said. "But first they have to make the Ascension announcement."

Jair slumped his shoulders and hung his head, but stopped pulling away, resigning himself to standing beside and slightly behind Mira in the crowd. As they stood there, trumpets began to sound, and everyone turned toward the platform standing in front of the city hall.

"Hear ye, hear ye, his honor, Mayor Landcraft will now speak." A man in blue satin pants and red coat and hat spoke loudly from the front. Then a portly middle-aged man dressed in short pants and short waistcoat stepped forward to the front.

The mayor spent the next ten minutes talking about what had happened since the last Festival, information that Mira tuned out. Finally he got down to the important news.

"It is my duty and privilege to declare the Ascension of Paris," said the mayor finally.

The crowd sighed as one. Three years of hard snow and cold weather would be followed by three more years. No one looked forward to more of the same.

"Did you hear that, Jair?" Mira said, turning toward him. Jair wasn't there. Mira looked around her in the crowd, but didn't see him anywhere. Becoming more and more panicked, she continued to scan the crowd, then the shops and displays, then the alleys and streets surrounding them. Just as her father had taught her, she turned out the sound and sights of the crowd surrounding her, and tuned in for her brother's voice and anything that didn't seem to belong. A moment later, she turned when she heard a garbage can fall over in an alleyway behind them. She saw the can rolling across the alley. What surprised her was there was no one anywhere near it.

She sprinted to the alley and looked down it in the gloom.

"Jair?" she shouted. She heard a fumbling sound and thought she heard the squeak of his voice for just an instant, and she followed it down the alley. She caught a flash of something in front of her, something that looked like a form running fast and carrying something. She arrived at the end of the alley just in time to see a door close. She pushed on the door, but it was locked. She pounded on it and began to scream.

Her noise brought the attention of the city police. Others began to gather. "Hey there," they said. "You can't go banging on people's doors unless you know them."

"My brother's been taken," Mira gasped, the tears beginning to come to her eyes.

"Taken?" the policeman said. "Taken by whom?"

"Something," she said. "A dark form. Something invisible."

"A specter," said an old woman standing nearby. "They always come at Brindlestar. They take them to the city under the mountain."

"Hogwash," the policeman said. "Old ghost stories told to frighten children."

"Hogwash nothing," the woman said. "They took my niece three Festivals ago."

"What's you name, young lady?" the policeman asked.

"Mira," she said. "And my brother's name is Jair."

"Well, Mira, I am sure that Jair is around her somewhere, getting into mischief or filling his face with dillberry pie. Festival will be done tomorrow morning. And when it is done, I am sure he will turn up. Until then, there's not a lot we can do."

Mira wasn't so sure, but she didn't argue with the policeman. As the crowd filtered away, she stood close to the old woman who had spoken up. Finally, when they were alone, the woman looked at her sharply.

"You're going after him, aren't you?" the woman said.

Mira nodded silently.

"When I was your age, I would have too," she said. "Instead I stayed here, got married, had kids and got old."

"I love my brother," Mira said. "If I don't do something, I will never see him again."

This time the old woman nodded. They stared at each other for a long moment, before Mira spoke again.

"Tell me about the city under the mountain," Mira said. (back to ToC)

* * *

### 3. DESTINY, INC.

**Some might think that I write a lot about death simply because I am getting older. But the truth is that death has been a common topic since men and woman have been writing. Why? Because it is something that all of us have in common. For most of us, our last day of life will be a surprise. But what if modern technology made the date of our demise known to life insurance companies, government agencies and us? How would that change our lives? And what if along the line, we discovered information that wasn't meant for men to know?**

I've never been convinced that a man should know the future. There's something unnatural about it. Even the small peek at your own personal future that the Destiny chip provided always raised more questions than it answered. My father—I'm glad he died before all of this happened—used to say, "Don't borrow trouble from tomorrow; there's plenty enough of that for today." And he was probably right.

But a job was a job. And when you are a public relations professional like me, sometimes you end up sleeping with strange bedfellows. I was thinking about just that as I rode the elevator up to the 150th floor of the Destiny Tower for that morning's meeting. It was the meeting that opened my eyes to what we were really involved in. It was the morning—and the meeting—that opened everyone's eyes.

As I thought about the Destiny chip embedded in my own body, I unconsciously scratched my left forearm where it had laid under the skin since I was five. These days everyone got theirs embedded at birth, but the Destiny chip didn't exist when I was born, so I caught it at five when the chip became mandatory.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped out into the usual busy office setting. I left the quiet of the elevator for the bedlam of noise in the office. Margie was sitting at the receptionist desk. She winked when I stepped up to the desk, and I winked back. She tilted her head toward the conference room, and whispered: "They're waiting for you."

I nodded and made the left turn into the massive conference room with its picturesque view of the Manhattan skyline. The custom-made mahogany table was made to accommodate 40 people at a time, which always amazed me, especially since the day I heard it was a solid piece from a single tree. Today I saw that there would be only four of us. At the far end of the table sat Brennan Sheldon, CEO of Destiny, Inc., and our corporate attorney, Emily Watson. I didn't recognize the fourth person, who sat fidgeting next to Emily.

I paused for a second, caught off guard.

"Jonathan, come in," I heard. Mr. Sheldon waved me over, and I hiked over to the other side of the cavernous room.

"Just four of us?" I asked, still surprised.

Mr. Sheldon nodded. "When you hear what I have to share with you, you will understand why." He gestured at the fourth person. "I don't know if you have met Dr. Handley Brookings. He's from Quality Control."

I sat down across from Emily and to the right of Mr. Sheldon, who turned to Brookings and gestured for him to speak. He cleared his throat and started his story.

"One week ago, Heinrich Saars, one of our technicians in the nursery at a hospital in Berlin noticed an abnormality. Four out of seven babies that he was responsible for tagging registered the same date, August 12, 2133, seventy-one years from now. The other babies had earlier expiration dates. He reported the abnormality to our department, as he is required to do by policy.

"It was the first time we have had such an issue," Brookings said. "Curious, I logged into the mainframe and did a query on how many babies had been tagged with the same expiration date: August 12, 2133. Since the beginning of the year, we have had 106,352 babies with that date."

"So?" I asked. "We tag a lot of babies. There are bound to be some that will expire on the same date."

"Statistically, it's something of a speedbump," Mr. Sheldon said, finally speaking up. "Those things happen."

Brookings nodded. "It's similar to having a lot of births on the same day. There are days when a lot of people are born, and there are days when a lot of people...expire.

"And so I didn't get alarmed at first. Then on a hunch, I asked the mainframe to list the number of babies who were scheduled for August 13, 2033. There were none. I asked for August 11, and there was an average amount. I asked for August 14, and there were none. I went on and asked for total amount of expirations for the rest of the year 2133."

He leaned forward as if sharing a secret. "There were none."

I raised an eyebrow, still not understanding the implications. "A software glitch? Something wrong with the mainframe? How about the chips?" I asked.

He shook his head, and I could see that he was upset.

"I ran a diagnostic on all three of them. And then I ran it again, and then a third time. Finally I looked at our entire database—all 3.3 billion tagged people. There was not one single person scheduled to expire after August 13, 2133."

He stared at me. "In the end I could come to only one conclusion. The world ends on August 13, 2133."

I stared back at him with his white face, sweat beading on his forehead. Then I looked at Emily, her mouth drawn into a fine line, and finally at Mr. Sheldon, who had the same bland expression he always wore. I stared at them for a long moment, then laughed.

"This is some sort of joke, isn't it? I mean, it's got to be. The end of the world? Come on!"

Mr. Sheldon leaned forward. "I am taking this very seriously, Jonathan, and I think you should too. I also have a hard time believing that what we are witnessing is a prediction of our last day on earth. More likely it is some sort of malfunction. But in any eventuality, we need to do some crisis management."

"I agree," Emily said, nodding. "Government and industry jumped on to the Destiny bandwagon 25 years ago because we could prove that our chip accurately predicted how long each person would live. Our whole reputation is built on allowing our client base to know without a doubt which day will be their last day on earth. If news of this discovery comes out, it would ruin us and open us up to any number of lawsuits."

I looked back at Dr. Brookings. "What about this technician in Berlin, this Heinrich Saars?"

Brookings shook his head. "He won't be a problem. He a loyal corporate man, and we just gave him a hefty raise and promotion, along with a non-disclosure agreement. He won't open his mouth."

I looked at Emily. "Do we have any legal obligations to tell Washington about this? I mean, if we really know the day the world will end...."

"We _don't_ know when the world will end," Mr. Sheldon said. "That's just preposterous."

"Well, what _do_ we know?" I asked. "We know that our chip, which has been 100% reliable up to this point, is now telling us that the last person to die will do so on August 13, 2133. What that tells me is (a) our system is not longer reliable; (b) the world will end on August 13, 2133; or (c) something else is going to happen that we don't know and can't foresee."

I stood up and stared out at the skyline.

"In any of those cases, we have a major public relations challenge on our hands."

For a long moment, I forgot the others in the room and stared out at the busy New York streets below me. My Destiny chip told me that I was scheduled to die five years before this all happened. _Did it really matter when the world ended if I didn't live long enough to see it end?_

For some reason, I felt like it did. (back to ToC)

* * *

### 4. EYES WIDE OPEN

**This short story is an exploration of what might be a sequel to my book,** **The Kiss of Night** **. If you're interested, you can find it**  here **.**

Rudy's Never Closes is what the sign read, which is pretty much stating the obvious for pretty much every shop and restaurant in the country these days. When you don't sleep, you end up either doing crap all the time, like picking up strange women, or trespassing, or beating up any geeks you come across. The other alternative is to drink, or smoke, do drugs, or read or watch TV, which leads to boredom, which leads to stuff like picking up strange women, and the other stuff that I listed earlier.

One of the safer activities is to visit all-night diners, taste the local cuisine, and then compare notes. That's what all the gramps and grannies do—the ones who are still around, that is. Me, I eat when I'm hungry. No more than five times a day. None of this obsessive eating that so many have latched on since we woke up. Eating is for energy, for keeping meat on my bones. That's the critical issue in my line of work. Energy. Meat. Bones.

I'm a bounty hunter. Have been for quite a while since long before The Wake Up Call. I used to work out of Dallas, specializing in bringing in deadbeat dads and critters who were short on luck and long on reward money. I didn't get rich, but it was a living. I've never been the type to look too far off.

Then came the Great Sleep. Caught me off guard while I was visiting a cat house in Waco. Next thing I know, six weeks has gone by, and I am waking up with a full beard and a soft spoken Limey is telling me to take it easy and would you please drink some of this Gatorade? Funny, suffering from a national epidemic, and not even knowing about it until after you are pronounced cured.

After the Great Sleep came The Wake Up Call. If you remember, there was a honeymoon period while everyone was happy to be alive. After that for a long time, no one wanted to even think about going back to sleep. It was a while before it occurred to me and everyone else that sleep isn't that bad of a thing, and, oh yeah, now I can't sleep at all.

The world watched on and first they celebrated that a cure had been found for The Great Sleep. Then they did what one might expect: rather than opening their doors, they slammed them and nailed them shut. Poor Limeys who came to the States to help out got stuck in the States. Some wore Hazmat suits, but you can't eat or crap in a Hazmat suit, so that gets old quick. Within a few days, they'd joined the rest of us. It was take the medicine and stay awake forever, or not take the medicine and take a good, long nap. No middle ground, which, of course, sucks.

So once again the good old United States of Us was alone in the universe. Europe waited to see what happened, then they pretty much forgot us. England too. Guess they just got tired of messing with us.

Things got pretty crazy real fast. Suicides, that's to be expected. Then came the rioting and looting. And the bombings. Then the cool thing to do was to find celebrities and shoot them in a public place. And then anybody who happened to be in a public place. That got Washington's attention. The government had to do something pretty quick, or we were going to make Somalia look like paradise.

And so they decided what they needed was a scapegoat. They couldn't point out the guy from Nicaragua, Elizondo Lopez, who started the sleeping sickness; he'd died early on. And sleeping wasn't the problem anymore. Now it was a matter of not being able to sleep. And so they had to find someone to pin the cure on.

There were two people that the CDC were able to identify; the guys whose DNA was used to make the cure. Their names were Dr. Dale Grady and his bastard son, Matthew Suggs. Grady was easy to find. Guess he was feeling a little bit guilty about how everything turned out and surrendered himself to the FBI the day after they discovered that the vaccine had backfired. Lot of good it did him. He lasted a total of 45 minutes before someone pulled a pistol on the courthouse steps and shot him dead.

Suggs should have been easy to find too. He was in England when they started giving out the vaccine. When everything seemed to be over, he came back to the U.S. and got a ticker tape parade in New York City. And right after that he disappeared. Someone must have found him and got word to him that he was in danger.

With Grady gone, Suggs became Public Enemy #1. The Feds put out a $10 million bounty on him, which is where I come in. I know I have a lot of competition; some of those hottest to nail him aren't even interested in the bounty. But that's my job. I don't care if Suggs did the dirty or not. My job is simply to bring him in.

That's where Rudy's Never Closes comes in. I got a line that Suggs had an uncle in Albuquerque who was a short-order cook by the name of Rudy Suggs. The mom's out of the picture, so Matthew's next likely place to turn is going to be his next relative in line.

I don't plan on hurting him; after all, the kid's only 19. But I do intend to collect that $10 million bounty.

Who knows. Maybe it will be enough to bribe my way out of this godforsaken country to somewhere civilized, like Siberia.

Wish me luck. (back to ToC)

* * *

5. VOYAGE OF THE DIONYSUS

_Brindlestar_ **may have started as an exercise in world building, but it has taken on a life of its own. One of my enjoyable parts of writing for me is creating new characters, and then setting them down in a world that both challenges them and needs them to solve its problems. Meet Leef Undertree, would-be sailor and hero by necessity.**

Barrel-chested, sunburned Herv Wallak roared out his laughter and pointed. Leef looked where he was pointing, knowing what he would see before he looked, and grinned. The familiar sight of green land over blue water jutted before them. _Home_.

After three weeks at sea, Leef Undertree scarcely noticed the roll and rise of the fishing trawler. He had become a rider of the waves, the small ship serving as his horse, rising and falling in a rhythm that had become second nature to him. In fact, after three weeks on the Inland Sea, he had begun to feel more at home here than at his home in Salonika.

He tightened down the lines leading to the jib, and glanced once again over the gunwale at his prize: the largest razorbeak ever seen in these water, since, well since ever. It lay strapped to the outside of the gunwale, too large to fit in the hold of the ship. It had taken him many hours to land the beast, first with pole and line and later with grappling hook. And even now the trail of blood in the water and his own bloody hands reminded him of the battle he had undertaken—and won. Now it was only their speed that kept the razorbeak from serving as food for the monsters that trailed behind them.

The giant green fish's meat would feed the village for the rest of the season, but it was worth far more than that to him. It would mean that his father would regain his reputation as a leader in the community. And it would gain him something else, something far more important than prestige.

He envisioned the locust-wood deep draft ketch that he and his father had been working on for three years. His father, the master shipbuilder, had refused to name it: tradition stated that the ship's first captain had that honor. But Leef already had a name selected for his first love: _Dionysus_. The name chosen for the god of wine honored the many nights his father had sat drunkenly supervising his hard work, and it honored the drunken joy that he felt right now. For he now knew where he would spend the rest of his life. Salonika was no longer his home. His home was the sea.

The next two hours slipped by quickly, and soon Herv and he were cutting across the smooth water of the harbor, the primary sun Paris bright over his left shoulder, the distant sun Achilles dim on the horizon. The boat cruised toward the dock where Leef could see his father waiting with a cluster of other men. Theirs was the last fishing trawler to enter the harbor, and he suspected that others had seen his catch and had stolen his opportunity to surprise his father and the rest of the village.

Sure enough, as they pulled up to the wharf and Herv tied up the bowline and he tied up the sternline, a dozen men piled onto the trawler, eager to see the enormous razorbeak tied on the other side of the boat. Others waded out into the water alongside the boat. As the men untied the monstrous fish and towed it through the water to the winch that stood just beyond the bow, Herv barked out orders.

"Careful now, that fishy's got a lot of stories tied up in it, but there will be many fewer if it gets scarred in the process," he told them. "And I will have the hide of any of you that don't respect the efforts of this young man." He turned and grinned at Leef.

"If that don't buy you free drinks at Whaley's Pub for the rest of your life, I'll skin Whaley myself."

"I'm not concerned about Whaley's Pub," Leef said, turning to look at his father on the wharf. "I have something more important on my mind."

"Ah, he's proud of you, can't you see?" Herv said. "If he's of a right mind, he will give you your inheritance here and now."

"We'll see," Leef said, more to himself than to Herv. Without his eyes leaving his father, he climbed over the gunwale and climbed the moss-covered ladder to the wharf above.

"That's a grand fish you have brought in," Bard Undertree told his son as he joined him. Leef turned with his father to watch them hoisting the fish up on pulleys by its tail. The crossbeam with the pulley stood a good ten feet off the surface of the wharf, but even so, it wasn't high enough to keep the head of the big fish from lying on the wharf.

"It is all yours," Leef said to his father. "I brought it back for you to sell and pay off the debt on the business."

"There is no debt," Bard said. "You can keep the honor of the fish, and the money that comes with it."

"What do you mean, there is no debt?" Leef echoed. "What happened to it?"

Bard grasped his son by his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "I have been thinking about getting out of the business for some time now. Your brother brokered a deal—a good deal—with the Hazard family. They have agreed to take over the debt, provide a yearly stipend for me until I die, in exchange for the business and all its properties."

Leef couldn't believe his ears. He looked at his father blankly, then across the wharf to where his older brother Mact stood with Mr. Hazard and his daughter Lizbeth. Leef noticed how closely Mact and Lizbeth stood together, and suddenly he understood.

"I get it," he said slowly. "You get a retirement fee, Hazard gets the business, and Mact gets Lizbeth. What do I get?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where is my inheritance?" Leef said. "I don't want the business. I just want the boat we spent the last three years building. The _Dionysus_."

"I never promised you an inheritance," Bard said, and Leef noticed an edge coming into his father's voice. "Life is hard, and you will have to make your own way, just as I have spent the past 40 years making my own way. Besides, an inheritance goes to the firstborn." Leef had always felt close to his father, even when he had had to walk him home drunk from Whaley's Pub. But now, as he stared at his father, he realized that a barrier had come between him and his father. He had never gotten along with Mact, who was only interested in making money as a merchant. His father had had to choose between him and his brother. And Leef had lost out.

"The boat belongs to Mr. Hazard now," Bard said. "Talk to him. Maybe he will be willing to sell it to you."

Leef stood and stared as his father walked down the wharf and disappeared. Leef turned to the cluster of people around Mr. Hazard and walked up to his brother.

"That is the biggest fish I have ever seen," Mact said to him. "Congratulations."

"It's the biggest fish this village has ever seen, and that's a fact," Leef said, no joy apparent in his voice. "And I will give it to you gladly in exchange for the boat."

Mact looked at Leef and slowly shook his head.

"That boat belongs to my future father in law," he said. "And he plans on selling it to King Zhukov in Sparta. In fact, the King has already sent his deposit."

"I spent the last three years building that boat," Leef said. "I know every plank, every turnbuckle, every dowel that went into her. She's mine."

"I could care less how much time you spent working on her," Mact said. "All that matters is what the court will say, and all that matters to them is this slip of paper." He held the bill of sale over his head as if it were a club to strike Leef down. And for Leef it was.

A sudden wave of despair flooded Leef. Choking back a sob, he said:

"Then I give the fish to you as a wedding present. May you have a long life and many children." He turned and walked away from his brother for the last time.

* * *

The crowd of well wishers had thinned somewhat, but a few men still slapped him on the shoulder and wished him well. Leef hardly heard or felt them. All he wanted was to be alone. In a matter of two hours, he had gone from a sense of elation and the feeling of having a world of possibilities to one where he saw no future. His father had officially retired, his brother had taken the results of three years' labor, and he was without a job, a home and future.

He looked back at Herv. Perhaps Herv would be willing to take him on as a deckhand? But no, it had cost him a month's wages to convince Herv to take him on this last trip. Herv was no rich man, and he knew he couldn't afford to hire Leef for his trawler. And most, if not all, of the fishers were in the same situation. No, the only answer was for Leef to go into business for himself.

And the answer to that—he realized—was to do the unthinkable.

Leef walked away from the wharf, buried in his own grief. He hardly saw the young girl that stood where the wharf ended and the string of shops along the harbor begun. He started to step past her, but she stepped in front of him.

"Excuse me," she said in halting Common. "I am looking for passage to Sparta."

"I can't help you," Leef mumbled. "Try one of the captains on the wharf."

"I have tried," she said. "I have tried them all. No one will help me."

Leef shook his head, annoyed by the girl's persistence.

"Trades are blowing the wrong way this time of year," he said. "I don't blame them."

"Yes, but," she said, insistently. "My name in Mara. My brother was kidnapped. I need to get to Sparta to get him back."

"Take it up with the police in Sparta. Oh, that's right, you need to get to Sparta. Sorry, can't help you."

"Look, I don't have much money, but I will gladly pay you later for passage. But I need it right away."

"Listen girl," Leef said. "What part of no don't you understand?"

"I can't afford to accept no," she said, tears coming to her eyes. "I'm all out of options."

Leef nodded. "I know exactly how you feel. Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reasons. Sorry."

He stepped past her and walked away.

* * *

The midday turned to evening, and evening to night. The captains and their crews were all in Whaley's Pub, celebrating the end of another successful trip into the Inland Sea. There were no fatalities this time around, and that was reason enough for most of them to get drunk. Leef's catch had added to their good fortune, and so as the night went on, any captain who didn't have the fortune—or misfortune—to have a wife or children who would come and walk them home to a warm bed, found themselves asleep by the hearth at Whaley's. Jim Whaley was used to it, and knew who his regular customers were. His accommodations were comfortable, and he didn't charge much for a sailor to sleep on a table—or underneath one.

All of this time, Leef was nowhere to be seen. His father and brother didn't look for him. His father knew that his son would need time to absorb the news of the sale of his business. And so he left him alone to stew in his own juices.

But Leef wasn't wasting time in anger. Instead, he had taken the night hours to slip onto the deck of the _Islander_ , one of several boats owned by one Hakk Smeatson, the richest and most successful fisher and exporter in Salonika. Leef knew for a fact that Hakk would be spending the night in Whaley's. He also knew that his best mate had a girlfriend that he hadn't seen in a month, so he wasn't around either. That meant the _Islander_ was empty, and easy pickings for someone who knew what he wanted, and needed it badly.

Leef didn't consider stealing the _Islander_. It was too well known, and Leef had no desire to be pursued by ships he knew were faster than the trawler. Instead, he slipped into the hold for a fresh set of canvas sails, a hundred cubits of rope and a can of pitch.

An hour later, he had the sails, rope and pitch loaded into the _Dionysus._ If he had his druthers, he would have given the boat a fresh coat of paint, made sure it was waterproof with an extra coat of pitch in the hold, and properly named and launched her. But desperate times called for...well, he would properly launch his love at another time. Right now, his priority was to slip out of the harbor with the tide, early enough that no one in the harbor saw them leave.

The boat house had been locked, but Leef had been in it so many times that he knew every loose board and rafter. He slipped in through an upper window and loaded his supplies. When he had the mast stepped and the sails mounted, he hopped out of the boat, checked through a lower window to make sure no one was out on the wharf, then used a mallet to knock the chock out from under the rollers beneath the ship. A second later, he heard the boat begin to roll like a sled on a track. By the time the stern of the _Dionysus_ met the wooden doors, it was rolling fast enough to knock the doors open with a crash.

"Well," he said to himself. "If that doesn't wake them, I don't know what will."

He stood on the shore, watching the _Dionysus_ float on the water outside the boathouse. He hesitated, then as if remembering what he was there for, dove into the water and swam out to the stern of the boat and hauled himself aboard.

Five minutes later, he was sailing quietly out of the harbor, a stiff morning breeze and the outgoing tide allying with him in his escape. He looked back at Salonika as it grew smaller in his vision behind the boat. He had no idea where he was headed; he only knew that he would never be welcomed in his home town again.

"They hang horse thieves," he thought. "What do they do with people who steal ships?"

"I think they hang them too," he heard a voice say. As he looked at the door leading down to the hold, a dark head appeared. It was the girl who had confronted him hours before. Mara, she had called herself.

"Maybe they keelhaul them," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Whatever keelhauling is."

"What are you doing on this boat?" he said, an edge in his voice. "How did you get on her?"

"Same way you did," she said. "I snuck on in the dead of night. Face it, we are both criminals."

He stared at the young girl, hardly a teenager, and realized she was right.

"You know, I could just throw you over the side," he said.

"You could, but then you would be a murderer AND a thief," she said. "And I don't think you will. I'm a pretty good judge of character."

"You are, are you?" he said. He stared at her for a long while, and realized that once again she was right. He had stolen the boat in a rash act, had no plan and no provisions. He had never been to a port beyond Salonika, and yet stolen a boat that was promised to the King of Sparta, the richest and most powerful land on Brindlestar.

"So where do we go now?" he said finally.

"Where else?" she said, matter-of-factly. "We head for Sparta." (back to ToC)

* * *

6. JESÚS SAVES

The tale of Cassandra and her curse is known by anyone who has read Greek mythology. But does it have modern-day religious implications as well?

The full moon lit the waters of the Caribbean as I looked over the railing of the _S.S. Champion_. Behind me one could hear the noise of celebration—people laughing and shouting, dancing and singing—as we drew closer to the midnight hour. But I was still caught up in my serious, sad reverie. More than once since I had come onto this cruise the thought of jumping over the railing and ending it all had come to me. The laughing behind me hit my heart like daggers and I once again wanted to finish everything. I had no one left to grieve me, after all.

"Señor, why aren't you inside at the party?" I heard a voice behind me say.

I turned and saw a small, dark man dressed in the uniform of the cruise line. He smiled at me expectantly.

I shrugged. "I guess I just don't feel in a party mood, Jesus." I pronounced his name the way I saw it spelled on his name tag.

"Please, Señor, it is pronounced _hay-soos_ ," he said patiently. "And I understand your feelings about the party. Sometimes people feel like they need to celebrate even when there is nothing to celebrate." His face looked thoughtful for a long while, before brightening again. "But it is my job to make sure that you have a good time while you are aboard. You would not want me to lose my job, would you, Señor?"

I shrugged. "Sorry. My wife died six months ago, and it's been hard to celebrate anything since then. My therapist recommended I come on this cruise, and my friends chipped in and paid for it. I'd just as soon be at home feeding the squirrels in my backyard as be on this cruise."

"I am sorry to hear about your wife," he said. "It seems we both have our crosses to bear." He chuckled quietly to himself, then stopped when he saw that I wasn't laughing.

We stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the water for several long minutes before I broke the silence.

"So what's your cross?"

"Excuse me, Señor?"

"You said we both had crosses to bear. What is your burden?"

Jesús sighed. "Please, Señor, you do not want to hear of my difficulties. I may get in trouble if they were to learn I was telling a passenger of my problems."

I turned and looked at him. "Nonsense. Consider it therapy for me. Something to get my mind off of my own problems. Please. I insist."

He looked at me for a long moment as if trying to decide whether to trust me or not. Finally he nodded and sighed.

"Have you ever read the story of Cassandra?" Jesús said. "From Greek mythology?"

I thought for a long moment, then shook my head. "I was never much of a reader."

"Very well. Cassandra had the ability to foretell disasters, evil that would befall people. But she was also cursed with the fact that no one would believe her."

"Sounds terrible," I said.

"It is, Señor," he said. "It is also hereditary." He stared at me for a long while, waiting for his words to sink in. Finally I spoke.

"So you're saying that you have inherited this ability to forecast disasters?"

He nodded, and I could see sadness come into his eyes.

"My mother warned me of it when I was a little _muchacho_ ," he said. "She was a very quiet woman, who for the most part stayed to herself. She never read the newspaper or watched the TV news. When I grew up, I discovered why.

"My visions started when I was 17. Since that time, I have seen two train accidents, three fires, and four explosions. I have tried to save many, but have been only successful in one or two cases."

I continued to stare at him until I began to realize something.

"You're...you're here because the something is going to happen to the ship," I said.

He didn't nod, even though I could see he wanted to. Instead, his lips drew into a line and his eyes grew hard.

"When?"

"I am not sure," he said. "Soon, I think."

I looked at the little man, then listened to the reverie behind me. As I listened, the countdown to midnight began: "Ten...nine...eight...seven..."

"Have you told the captain?" I said.

He shook his head slightly. "He is aware of my history, and I have lost many jobs because I frightened the passengers. He would only lock me away where I could not help anyone."

"So you decided to talk to passengers one at a time," I said. "Individuals like me who aren't part of the crowd. You find suckers who are sad, or lonely, and convince that the world is coming to an end. What's your angle?"

"Angle?" he repeated. "I have no angle. I only want to save you."

I looked at him as fireworks went off above our heads, and the words "Happy New Year!" were shouted behind us. Suddenly I was disgusted with it all, the celebration, the crowd, the cruise, and the small man who had tried to convince me that he was the only one who knew of an imminent disaster.

"I'm going to bed," I said, turning away from him.

"I understand, Señor," I heard a sad voice behind me say.

I walked down the three levels of stairs to my small cabin, unlocked the door, entered and collapsed onto the bed, still fully dressed. I was tired of it all: tired of life, tired of pretending that things mattered, tired of going on. Despite my angry frame of mind, I fell into a fitful sleep.

I awoke, disoriented, a few hours later, with a rapping on my door. I got myself up and opened it, and somehow wasn't surprised when the small man Jesús was standing on the other side. I looked at him expectantly and he looked up at me, a bit embarrassed.

"It is time, Señor," he said, a note of urgency in his voice. "It will happen soon."

"What? What will happen soon?"

He stammered. "The ship...she will sink. Many, maybe all, will die."

I stared at the small man who stood in front of me, trying to decide whether to believe him or not. I don't know what made me do it, but finally, I nodded.

" _Esta bien_ ," he said quietly, and turned to lead me down the hallway, up the stairs and onto the deck we had left just hours before. The celebration had all disappeared, and everyone had gone to bed, many to rise late the next day with a major hangover.

"Get in," he told me, gesturing toward one of the lifeboats. He reached over and pulled back the white canvas cover that lay over the top of it.

"Where are the others?" I said. "Am I the only one?"

"So far," he said. "I will stay and try to save the others." I stood there and stared at him, doubt creeping back into my mind.

"Señor, do you trust me?"

I furrowed my brow. "I've known you for less than a day. Common sense tells me that I shouldn't trust you."

"There are matters beyond common sense," he said. "What does your heart tell you?"

I hesitated. "My heart says that you may be my only chance at salvation."

In response, he pulled the tarp back farther, and I climbed into the lifeboat. Minutes later, the gears began moving and the boat swung out and down, suspended by ropes over the water. When the boat hit the waves, Jesús told me to unhook the ropes.

"Do not lose courage," he shouted down to me. "I will be with you."

_This is crazy_ , I said to myself a minute after unhooking the second rope, but I had already committed. Everyone on the ship as far as I could tell was asleep, with the exception of my small, Hispanic savior. And for some reason he had placed me in the lifeboat by myself, not even bothering to join me.

I am a pragmatist by nature, and knowing that I was committed, I threw myself into my situation. I went through the lifeboat and found a first aid kit, a few old rations and five gallons of water. _Plenty to spare_ , I told myself, believing that I would be rescued within hours.

But it wasn't hours. It was a week before they found me, and I had by that time concluded that it had all been a hoax. A container ship found me floating on the flat sea, out of water, out of food, sunburned and finally deliriously happy to be with other people. When I finally got to the deck, I was congratulated by the captain.

"Thank God we found you," he said. "We had just about given up hope."

"Me too," I said. "It was insane for me to get into that lifeboat."

"It was an insanity that saved your life," he said.

"What are you talking about?"

" _The Champion_ struck an old mine left over from the Second World War, and sunk in less than a minute," he said. "It happened just before dawn a week ago. Everyone was believed drowned. But so far, we have found two alive. Thank God."

"Two?" I echoed.

He nodded, and stepped aside. Behind him, dressed in overalls like the other workers on the freighter, was Jesús. His sunburned face was sad.

"I tried," he said, shaking his head slowly. "No one else would believe me."

I smiled slightly. "One did. You saved me." (back to ToC)

* * *

7. MY OWN PERSONAL SINGULARITY

Many years ago, Aldous Huxley dictated his experiences as he lay on his death bed. With the exception of those who have been revived after near-death experiences, or those who claim to have "been to the other side," we don't know much about what lays beyond death's doors. Faith dictates that we trust God, or whatever line of thinking we believe in. But what if Einstein knew all along, and tried to tell us?

Time is relative, Einstein tells us. It's an artificial construct that we have created to remind us that we are finite, mortal. The universe doesn't wear a wristwatch. And thankfully, I decided to stop wearing one the day I found out I had terminal cancer.

That was some time ago—I no longer think in terms of weeks or months—probably rather quickly if you were to ask my dear Bethany. The illness has been hardest on her. For me, there was a brief moment of panic, a sense of denial, and thankfully, a long period of acceptance.

Now I am lying on my bed, looking at the faint cracks in the ceiling of my bedroom while Bethany and my two children, Mark and Elizabeth, help her in the kitchen. It's October, and normally Thanksgiving would be more than a month away. But because there's a very good chance I won't be here to enjoy it this year, the family decided to celebrate Thanksgiving in October like the Canadians. I didn't put up a fight, even though I have never been to Canada.

The door is almost completely open, and through the corner of my eye I can hear them talking and working. Liz and Mark are teasing and ribbing each other, as they always do, as siblings are supposed to do, as brothers and sisters have done and will continue to do as long as more than one child is born to a family. And there's a singular blessing that comes with seeing them interact with each other. They fight, as all siblings do, but even in their bickering you see the love that they share. I was born a single child, and continue to be amazed by the dynamics of sibling rivalry and bonding.

I think about Mark; creative genius that he is, obstinate man that he has become. I think of the challenges he has been through; the auto accident that took away partial use of his left arm and made him drop out of college for a year. I think about the job after job that he struggled with because of his physical and mental challenges. I think of the wonderful girl that he married and the young boy that he and his wife brought into the family. I see Mark as he was when the nurses brought him out of the delivery room the first time. I see him walking for the first time. I see him playing Little League, graduating from high school, then college. I see him as the boy he was and the man he has become.

I shift in the bed and feel numbness (can one actually feel numbness?) in my feet. There's no pain, only coldness. I know that the end will come sooner rather than later, despite what my family's plans are.

And I think about Elizabeth. Strong-willed, beautiful, brilliant, argumentative, sharp-witted. I feel sad that she hasn't found someone to share her life with as of yet, but I know that even with my life ending, hers is far from over. I remember carrying her on my shoulders on the beach in San Diego, her little legs dangling over my shoulders, her small hands grasping at my hair and my ears. I remember teaching her to ride a bicycle and her accidentally crashing into the neighbor's car. I remember the day I swung her between my legs and dislocated her shoulder, prompting us to visit the E.R. I think about the row of trophies and ribbons that lined a wall of her room, and the incredible joy on her face the day she was accepted into medical school. Each memory is as sharp on my mind as if it had happened five minutes ago, and I am grateful.

My reminiscing is interrupted as Bethany comes in to check on me. She puts her hand on my forehead, kisses my cheek.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" she asks. I can't tell her that I am numb and cold from the waist down. In fact, I can't tell her anything. The cancer has affected my ability to speak, and I can only smile in response. I can see the sadness behind the smile that she shares with me.

"Dinner will be ready in about 30 minutes, OK?" We both know that I won't be able to share the turkey, the corn, mashed potatoes and gravy, the sweet potato pie that she always cooks for me and no one else, the cranberries and the delicious pumpkin pie. I will watch them eat and share in the fellowship of family, eating only in spirit.

I see Bethany and I see the young girl I fell in love with so long ago, her quick smile, sharp wit and short skirt too much of a temptation for me in college. I had barely finished my courses and graduated, so obsessed had I been with her. We had dated quickly and recklessly, loving and fighting with the same passion, marrying as soon as our education, our parents and our pocketbooks would allow it.

Our early marriage was as rocky as our courtship had been, with both of us called to work in order to pay bills. Then one child, and then a second were born. I finally found a job that helped get us out of debt. We moved from apartment, to rented house, to our first purchased fixer-upper, to a much larger, much nicer home.

Things got better financially. But I would never surrender those first years of sacrifice and sharing. And through it all, she was there: my partner, my lover, my eternal best friend. My life was like a fine wine that mellowed with age, but I wouldn't trade any bit of it for another year of life.

Speaking of which, I feel the numbness of my lower body taking over the rest of my body. My heartbeat is loud in my ears, slowing steadily. I look through the doorway at the others, wishing to say goodbye, but knowing that perhaps my going will be easier if they are caught up in what they are doing. There is no pain; I feel like I am watching one of those medical shows on TV that Liz made me suffer through.

And then a miraculous thing happens. I am once again caught up in my memories: of Mark, of Elizabeth, of my darling Bethany. But instead of remembering each incident one at a time, I am reliving them _simultaneously_. It doesn't make sense, but then I never really understood Einstein. And I bet he was surprised when he came to his last breath as well.

For I have met my own personal singularity. Just as time slows and eventually stops as one nears a black hole, I am finding my own personal time slowing. I am reliving my life—all of it—right now. And as I close my eyes for the last time, I realize that my wonderful life is my own gift to myself.

Einstein was right. I wonder if he knows that. (back to ToC)

* * *

8. WHAT'S THE FREQUENCY, KENNETH?

**Some stories are harder to write than others. Other stories just don't seem to go away. Here's my third entry in the Brindlestar universe, revisiting Mira and her attempts to rescue her brother.**

Bernie Hoxstetler was bored with his life. That's not to say he was depressed, or angry, or suicidal. After who knows how many years of the same old thing, he was just plain bored.

Every morning he arose to find his breakfast ready for him at the door of his penthouse suite: oatmeal with raisins, two pieces of wheat toast with a pad of butter (not margarine), a grapefruit and a cup of coffee. It had been the same breakfast for as long as he could remember. For some reason, the hotel didn't leave a menu and he was never early enough to catch the waiter who brought breakfast, and so he ended up with the same breakfast, day after day, week after week.

He ate his breakfast while sitting in bed watching the morning talk show on TV. At least he used to. When he wasn't watching some of the cleaning staff had misplaced his remote, while switching the channel to the nature network. Now he had scenic panoramas of the beach and a beautiful rising sun, stories about exotic birds and not much more. It was entertaining for a while, but lately it had been getting on his nerves. He did appreciate the quality of the TV set here; it was almost like being there. Sometimes he could almost smell the sea air, he thought.

This was one of those mornings. He sat back and poured cream over his oatmeal while he watched the Nature Channel's Ode to a Spring Morning take place in front of him. He knew the program well.

"And three, two, one...now!" Bernard said, waiting for the inevitable two doves to settle at the lower edge of the TV set. He had already named them Bert and Ernie. He knew that it was just a TV program, but once in a while he put a few crumbs from his toast on the sill beneath the TV, and he would swear that they picked at them. But he knew that was just his imagination.

Today his two friends were slow in coming. He waited and waited for them, but they didn't appear. Instead he heard a human voice, just out of sight in the TV.

"A little help here, please," the voice said.

Frowning, Bernie stared at the light from the TV. He didn't move, and if he had had the remote, he would have switched the channel. Instead he heard the voice again.

"Hello in there," the voice said. It sounded like the voice of a young girl.

"Hello," he said back to the TV.

"Can you help me?"

"I...I don't know how I can help you," he said. "You're on TV." He placed his tray on the bed and stood up.

"I don't know what a TV is," the voice said. "Can you come to the window please?"

"What window?" Bernie asked.

"Do you see the sun coming up? Walk toward it."

The only rising sun he could see was on the television set. He slowly walked toward the bright light of the TV.

"That's it," the voice said. "A little closer. Closer."

Soon Bernie was standing in front of his TV set. In amazement, he realized that the closer he got to the set, the more he could see in the image area. Standing in front of it, he now saw not only the rising sun and the ocean it had risen over, but now saw the shoreline, sandy beaches and a spit of land that curved around and formed a bay beneath him.

"Amazing," he whispered to himself. "This TV is 3-D, and I never even realized it."

"Hello," he heard the voice say again. He turned to his left and saw a young girl about fifteen hanging from a rope. She was suspended along a stone wall. His eyes followed the rope up and over the stone wall high above his head.

"Amazing," he said again. "Interactive TV. What will they think of next?"

"Dr. Hoxstetler? You are Dr. Hoxstetler?" she asked.

He nodded, then shook his head. "If this is interactive TV, then you should see the name on my account. Actually, it's probably in my wife's name. She takes care of all the bill paying, after all."

"But you are Dr. Hoxstetler? You did work Under the Mountain?"

He shrugged. "Call me Bernie."

"Fine, Bernie. My name is Mira. My friend Leef is somewhere down there holding on to the other end of this rope."

"It's a fascinating story," Bernie said. "A lot more entertaining than what's been on this frequency before. You say your friend's name is Kenneth?"

"No, Leef. We've come to rescue you."

"Rescue me? Ha, that's a laugh. First of all, you're stuck in there in that TV set. How do you plan to climb out of there and rescue me. Second, I have never stiffed a hotel for a bill in my entire life. I'm not about to now. And you can tell Kenneth the same thing."

"You're not in a hotel, Bernie. You're a prisoner of King Zhukov and you are locked away in the tower of his castle."

Bernie frowned at the latest news. The idea that he was locked in the tower of a medieval castle made sense in that his room was decorated in dreary gray with stone walls, the bolt on the outside of his door, and that he had not seen another human in a very long time.

"But how did I get here? Where is my wife? Who's going to feed Bert and Ernie?"

Mira shook her head. "Listen, I don't know about your wife, and I don't know Bert and Ernie. But I do know that it is getting light pretty fast here, and that sooner or later the guards will see me hanging here. Unless you find a way to pull me into your room there, their arrows will turn me into a pincushion."

Bernie smiled at that. "Or a porcupine."

"What's a porcupine?" Mira asked. "Never mind. Can you find something to pull my rope over? Or for me to grab?"

He looked around his small room but found nothing. Then he had an idea, and snapped his fingers.

"I have it! I'll soak my sheet with water and hang it out the window. Then when winter comes, it'll freeze. Then I'll hold it out like a pole and you can pull yourself over."

Mira looked over at him and said nothing, but frowned. When he didn't respond, she finally said, "Can you find something heavy to tie to the end of your sheet? Then just throw it over."

Bernie listened to her, then nodded. "Even better."

He looked around and finally found his slippers. He didn't believe that one was heavy enough for his purposes, and so he tied both slippers to the end of the sheet. He walked back to the TV set—which he was now realizing was actually an open window—and began to swing the shoes in a big circle, first up, then down. After the shoes had looped over his head three times, he let go of the sheet and it flew toward Mira. The young girl caught the slippers and the sheet.

"Now I will hold onto the end of the sheet and you pull me over," she said.

Bernie listened and nodded. He pulled and within a minute, Mira was at the edge of his window, and he helped her inside.

"Whew!" she said when she entered. "What is that smell?"

"Maid's day off," Bernie said.

"Listen to me, Bernie," Mira said. "I didn't come here just because I wanted to rescue you. I came because I need you. My brother was kidnapped, and has been taken to the City Under the Mountain. Leef has a ship and he has agreed to take us there. But only you know how to get there and how to get in."

Bernie listened and nodded. Mira waited for his response. Finally it came.

"I LIKE this story!" Bernie said. "This is exciting! It's just like Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo."

"I don't know those people," Mira said. "Are they here in Sparta?" She shook her head, exasperated. "Listen, Bernie...Dr. Hoxstetler. Will you help us?"

"Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You're my only hope," he responded, grinning. "Sure, let's go."

Mira looped and tied one end of the sheet around herself, wrapped it around the rope, then looped and tied the other end around Bernie. Finally, she jerked on the rope and it began to grow taut, the lower part of it pulling away from the tower wall. Bernie leaned out and saw Leef, aka Kenneth, far below them leading a massive auroch on a leash away from the castle. Their rope was attached to it.

"No time to waste," Mira said, sitting on the edge of the window. "Let go!"

"May the force be with us!" shouted Bernie as the two of them, wrapped in the sheet, slid down the rope to the ground.

"That was _awesome_ ," Bernie said. "Can we do it again?" He turned to the young man holding the leash of the auroch. "What's the frequency, Kenneth?"

"Is this him?" Leef asked Mira, an annoyed look coming into his face.

"It had better be," Mira said. "Between your stolen boat and his rescue, we are quickly becoming well-known criminals."

"Maybe we'll show up on America's Most Wanted," Bernie said. "We're going to be famous!"

"Bernie," Mira said. "We are going to try to avoid that as much as possible."

The three of them left the auroch behind, and Bernie and Mira followed Leef to his waiting ship. (back to ToC)

* * *

9. PINOCCHIO

What would life as a zombie be like? Would you still remember your former life? This story explores the zombie apocalypse from a unique perspective.

It wasn't life. I had given up on life a long time ago. It was existence—barely. I took no notice of my gray, pallid, flaking skin, my putrefied face and hair, my black nails or the thick, black fluid that oozed from the sores that covered my thin body. I was only dimly aware of the shops that I passed as I shuffled down the ash-filled city streets along with all of the other shapes that had once been human.

I was resigned to what I was, only dimly aware that once I had a choice. I could have chosen what to wear each day, what to eat, even who to talk to. Now I only knew that those memories were far, far below my consciousness. I was a spectre, a shape without consciousness. I was a zombie.

And so it was that I hardly noticed when the big deuce and a half U.S. Army truck drove up and the scientists in their yellow plastic hazmat suits jumped out. A few took out rifles and began shooting the other shapes around me. And I waited for the shot to come for me, a bullet to rip through my skull and brain and turn me into the pile of garbage that I knew I already was.

Instead, a shape that looked somehow familiar stood in the back of the truck, scanning the street until the shape saw me. I looked through the clear plastic faceplate and saw the soft eyes of a woman. She stared at me for what seemed like a long time, until I began to shuffle toward her, my arms reaching out to somehow capture the life that she represented. She pointed at me, and nodded to the others.

"That one," she said simply.

In response, two men threw a heavy cargo net over me. The weight of it dragged me to the ground and I collapsed. I moaned and grunted, trying to push the net out of the way and stand up. Instead, a man stepped up and jabbed a needle into my shoulder.

They loaded the cargo net with me in it into the back of the big truck. I drifted in and out of consciousness as they left the city streets and followed the road back into the mountains. The truck bounced along the rough road, and I saw another truck carrying the scientists following behind. I looked up at two big men in the hazmat suits on either side of me, preventing me from rising, and the woman sat right behind the cab of the truck. She continued to stare at me as if I were someone she knew, and I stared right back at her, although in my state, my thoughts were more about food than about fellowship.

We entered a dark tunnel with a sign arching above the tunnel. I could no longer read, so I had no idea what the sign said. All I knew was that the trucks entered the tunnel and the darkness that came with it. And then lights came on overhead. I lay in the bottom of the trucks and stared at the fluorescent lights that ran by, each panel that we passed taking us from light to darkness and back to light.

Finally I heard brakes squeal and the trucks stopped. The woman jumped down from the back of the truck and I felt the springs lift as her weight disappeared. I saw that I was in a large room made specifically for storing vehicles. Hands reached on either side of me, and before I knew what was happening, metal clamps locked around my upper arms, just below my armpits. The netting lifted off of me, and I found myself free, with the exception of the metal clamps. The two strong men who had watched over me up to this point held the end of inch thick metal rods attached to the clamps. Together they encouraged me to stand up and then half fall/half jump from the back of the truck.

Even though I was drugged, I jerked and pulled against the clamps, hoping to pull free, even if it meant losing an arm in the process. Injuries meant nothing to me and others like me, for with the pale existence that we lived came painlessness. I could tear my arm out of its socket and never feel anything. Several others I had been around had done that very thing. There was some drippy oozing of the black fluid that replaced blood, but that didn't seem to stop or even slow down those who did it.

I stood facing the crowd of people that had gathered there, my back to the big green truck, strong men holding me in place with clamps. As I stared at the crowd and gnashed my teeth, threatening them with the only weapon I still had available to me, I felt someone else come up behind me. I couldn't see them, but could smell them standing there. Frustrated, I tried to twist and turn to get at them, but felt a cold metal rod glide across my back, clicking into place between the two arm clamps. The woman stared at the man I knew stood behind me.

"Is that absolutely necessary?" she asked.

"It is if you want him to remain in one piece," I heard a deep voice behind me say. "These vermin will pull their arms out of their sockets as simple as pie. This will protect him—and us."

After the rod was added, the two man walked me through a set of double doors, down a hall, and into another room. They clamped the rings around my arms to a large metal table that was standing on its end. I felt my arms and legs clamp to the table, then other belts and clamps went around my chest and my hips. All the while I watched the two men, waiting for one of them to get close enough for me to rip his throat out, or at least to sink my teeth into him and share my misery. But both were careful and I never got the chance.

When I was locked down, they brought out shears and cut the rags that used to be clothing from my body. I stood naked against the metal table, helpless yet defiant.

The woman I had seen in the truck came into the room, now changed out of her yellow hazmat suit into a white lab coat. She was joined by a smaller man with glasses and a white lab coat as well. For a long while they inspected my body. Finally they stood back and looked at me, talking.

"No broken bones, only minor contusions, and that one nasty bump on the back of his head. He's in remarkably good shape, considering," said the man.

The woman smiled faintly. "He's got good genes."

The man shook his head. "We'll have to do some blood tests, CAT scan and other lab work. Regardless, I think your plan is futile. It will take a miracle to do what you want to do."

The woman stared at me for a long time. "I've always believed in miracles, haven't you? After all, we are here, still alive, even though the rest of the world has gone into the toilet. Isn't that a miracle?"

The man took off his glasses and pretended to clean them. "Yes, well, I guess you could call that a miracle. But what you are asking...."

"What I am asking is only what I must ask. Nothing more," she said. "I am not just looking for a miracle. I am looking for an answer."

"We are all looking for an answer," he said.

"Then that should settle the matter," she said, turning and leaving the room.

What followed were several weeks of tests, more tests, and even more tests. I was prodded, poked and stuck. I had every manner of tissue and fluid removed from my body. I had doctors and scientists stand in front of me, chatting with each other as if I wasn't there. Because for all of them, I was only another lab rat. There was no sense of desperation, hope of even optimism. They were going through the motions; that was all.

It was only the woman who dared to try to communicate with me. Every morning, she would come into the room where they had me shackled and would talk to me. I didn't understand a lot of what she was saying, but I enjoyed the tone of her voice. Sometimes I would hear her use a name: Johnny. She would repeat it as if it was supposed to mean something to me. And once in a while I would see tears gather in her eyes. I didn't understand what they were, but somehow they moved me. The woman was the only one who showed me kindness. I swore than when I broke free, she would be the last one that I would kill.

One morning, several weeks into the tests, the two strong men appeared again. They injected me with something that made me sleepy, and then they unlocked me from the table. They walked me into the next room, and then walked me up a set of stairs and into a large glass tank. I had no idea what it was for, and decided to not fight them.

The clamps fit into place on either side on the inside of the tank. When I was bolted into place, I suddenly felt strong hands grip the sides of my face and a mask slipped over my face. That was when I started to panic. The mask had taken away the only weapon I had; my teeth.

While I struggled in place, the tank began filling with a bright green fluid. I continued to fight as it rose to my knees, my waist, and then over my face. Soon I was covered by the fluid with only the mask to allow me to breathe.

I remained in the tank for several days. Again, only the man with glasses and the woman came to visit me, and then only the woman talked to me. There was an intercom system on the outside of the tank, and surprisingly I could hear her as she continued to call to me, "Johnny. Johnny. Johnny."

It was the third day in the tank before I realized that I was Johnny. What had been my existence began to change into more of a nightmare. I began to remember that I had a life before my time on the street, before my skin had turned gray and my mind had gone blank.

And I began to try to communicate with the woman. She couldn't hear my voice behind the mask and beneath all of the green slime. But somehow she recognized that my struggles had turned from a being who only wanted to destroy into someone who could be reasoned with.

A day later, they drained the tank and attached wires to me and tubes to my left and right arm. As I hung there suspended, I watched black fluid pump out of one arm and red fluid—blood—pump into the other. My skin began to change color. I watched the scientists come and gather, staring at me through the glass as if they were truly watching a miracle.

And then the disaster came. I was becoming more and more human, until one day I felt a searing pain run through my chest and down my left arm. I cried out and the man with the glasses came running. He looked at the monitor that was hooked to me and began to frown.

"It's not going to work," he said over his shoulder as the woman stepped up behind him.

"But we're so close!" the woman said.

"We were never close," he said. "You're not being reasonable."

"Reasonable?" she echoed. "We're close. This could be the breakthrough we are looking for. Just tell me what we need for him. Tell me."

The man took his glasses off and cleaned them, his eyes never leaving me. He spoke so that I couldn't hear his words, spoke low so that only the woman could hear.

Her face turned white. And then she nodded.

_Yes_.

He turned a dial and suddenly I was asleep.

I woke up in a bed. I had photos of the countryside on the wall across from me. It wasn't the countryside that existed now, a land of the undead. It was a countryside filled with green grass and cows and sheep and fluffy clouds. It was from somewhere in my memory, somewhere in the distant past—or the distant future.

I looked down at my pale, thin arm lying atop the sheet and realized it was the arm of a man, not a zombie. I looked over at the other one, then felt my own face. There was no loose, dry skin. It was firm and young. As far as I could tell, I was a healthy young man.

As my eyes gathered focus, the man with the glasses came in.

"Ah, you're awake," he said, more to himself than to me. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel—," I started to say, and the voice came out hoarse. I hesitated.

He waved at me as if dismissing the problem.

"Oh, that's just a combination of the anesthetic and the fact that you haven't spoken human words in over a year. So, what's it like to come back from the dead?"

I stared at him, not knowing how to respond. He chuckled to himself.

"Well, there will be plenty of time to answer rhetorical questions like that in days to come. You know you are a miracle, don't you? The first success story of many—we hope."

"The woman—," I whispered.

"Do you remember your name?" he asked, not bothering to respond to my question.

"Johnny. The woman said my name was Johnny."

"Yes. John Blackthorne to be exact. Do you remember your life before? Oh, never mind, the memories will come soon enough."

"Where is the woman?" I asked again.

The man with the glasses paused and blushed, as if caught doing something distasteful.

"Well you see, John. The tests and the procedure we did on you was almost a total success. Almost. What we didn't count on was the fact that you had a congenital heart condition. If you had had a healthy heart, it wouldn't have been a problem. And we have high hopes for the others who follow."

He reached down and pulled back my sheets and I saw that a fresh scar ran from between my two collarbones straight down my breastbone almost to my navel.

"What happened?" I said, staring at the scar.

"Your heart gave up from the stress of the procedure," he said. "We needed a replacement for you to live. With the population as low as it is, it was impossible for us to cross match and find some stranger who fit your profile. The next best thing was to find a close relative."

"Close relative?" I repeated.

"In this case, your mother," he said, not daring to look up at me. Instead, he reached beneath the bed and pulled out a framed photo. In it was a likeness of the woman who had talked to me as I spent my time in the tank.

"Dr. Marta Blackthorne. She gave you life—twice. And she will be known from this day forth as the woman who saved countless souls from a unthinkable destiny."

I stared at the photo and then at the man in the glasses.

And then a wail broke free from my lips. It was the cry of a lost child who had been found, only to lose the one most precious to him. (back to ToC)

* * *

### 10. ECHO OF A SMILE

Sometimes what keeps society moving forward smoothly is just the fact that we don't share everything that goes through our minds. If we did, people we admire and respect might not stay that way in our minds. On the other hand, who knows what might happen.

People assume when you are a professional that you have things figured out. I know that's the way I think. I look at men in their fancy BMWs, women in their business attire and think, they have it all together. And generally, that's how our society has been able to function. You see a judge up front, he passes sentence, and you assume that he has thought it all out reasonably and come to a fair conclusion. And that's because we think that he has all of his marbles in his head. Our nightmares are made from the belief that beneath that polished, professional exterior might lurk a serial killer or a rapist or the next Lee Harvey Oswald.

We live in peace because we rely on those in positions of trust to be who they appear to be.

I guess that's where I come in. I am a professional, a professor to be exact. I stand in front of scores, if not hundreds, of students every day. I talk about subjects and tell them what I think they need to know in order to succeed in the world, once they pass my class. There's a modicum of trust that comes with having a PhD after your name, gaining tenure, and being called "Professor" or "Doctor." It's easy to get used to that trust, and even take it for granted. After a while, you start thinking that what you have to say is actually important, earth-shaking even. And that's when the danger comes.

I know better. More than anything, I am just a man. But by being one, I have betrayed that trust.

I could say it started with fall semester and a class that I teach to mainly freshmen called Intro to Modern Mythology. Even though I choose to begin there, I really know that it started long before that. But for argument's sake, let's start there.

Intro to Modern Mythology is taught in Heffner Hall, room 101. The lecture hall seats 250 students, and I usually get close to that number. It's hard to keep track of that many students, especially freshmen, many of who won't be around in another year. But I do my best, even though many of those names slip through the cracks in my brain.

I've taught the class many times, and since there's no point in taking record of over 200 students in a class, when the clock got to 9:30, I left the small desk off to the side and stepped up to the podium.

"Welcome to Humanities 102, Intro to Modern Mythology. My name is Professor Martin Steinbrenner. I hope you all took advantage of the opportunity to pick up a syllabus on the table by the door. If you didn't, please do so now."

I watched as the inevitable large number of students got up from their seats and went back to get a syllabus. As I paused for them to get what they needed, I saw her.

She was obviously a freshman; she couldn't have been more than 17 or 18. She was dressed in shorts and a pink blouse. She was medium height, slight of build with dark brown hair that fell gently over her shoulders. In any other time or with any other professor, she would have been just another number. But the moment I saw her stand up in the fifth row and walk back to get a syllabus, I knew that she was different.

Time stood still, and the rest of the room disappeared as I watched her walk back up the aisle to the small table, reach for the stack of syllabi, take one and spin on the front of her sandals to return to her seat. I felt my heart catch in my throat, and felt it pounding loudly.

_No. No. No_. I thought. _This is wrong, this is bad news. Look somewhere else. Do something, stupid._ But instead of looking away, I continued to stare at her. I watched as if in slow motion, she walked the several steps down the aisle toward me. And then she looked up.

And I realized what it was about her that made her special.

Somehow, I was able to break away from staring at this young woman, who in another life could have been my daughter. I fumbled my way through what should have been a basic introduction to the new course for these frightened new college students. But all of the time I was lecturing, I was thinking about this girl in the fifth row that made my heart pound in my chest when I saw her.

After class, I made a point of collecting my papers and throwing them into my satchel for my escape back to my office, at the same time chastising myself for acting like such a fool. I was a disgrace to my department, to my school, no to teaching itself. My thoughts alone should be cause for my dismissal. On the other hand, I hadn't acted on those thoughts...

I had just snapped my leather satchel shut and turned to go when I heard a soft voice. My heart sank and raced at the same time.

"Dr. Steinbrenner," I heard the voice say, and I turned to see the mystery girl standing in front of me. Just as I had dreaded, she had large grey eyes with long thick eyelashes. She stood staring at me, and I knew I had to respond.

"Yes," I said abruptly. "How can I help you?"

"My name is Marta Hartwin," she said. "My mother told me to look you up."

And then it all came together.

"Yes," I said dumbly. "How is your mother?"

She smiled, and it echoed another person that I had known years before.

"She's fine. She says to say hi."

"Wow, how is Elizabeth?" I said, realizing an instant later that I was repeating myself.

Surprised, Marta smiled again. "She's fine, professor. She teaches fourth grade."

"Fourth grade," I echoed. "I used to be in the fourth grade. Of course, that was a long time ago."

Marta didn't answer this time, but bit her lower lip, apparently a bit embarrassed. And even that little action made my blood roar in my ears. Elizabeth was the one that got away, many years ago. Somehow, it hadn't been the right time, even though there was obvious passion for both of us. Time had changed many things, but for some reason, it hadn't changed this.

We stood there awkwardly looking at each other for a long moment, each afraid to break the silence. Finally, I did.

"Well, I hope you enjoy the class."

She smiled slightly, obviously as embarrassed for me as I was for myself.

"I'm sure I will. Thank you very much."

I tried hard to not think about Marta in the next two days, but secretly I looked forward to my class meeting again on Wednesday. But when class period started, there was an empty seat in the fifth row. I was both disappointed and relieved. I jumped right into my lecture comparing Greek and Roman mythology. When the class period ended, I was surprised, however, to be once again face to face with the girl who caused my heart to race.

She handed me a white slip of paper. It was a drop slip.

"I see," I muttered more to myself than to her, and pulled out a pen to sign it.

She looked around us as the others filed out. As I signed the paper, she spoke again.

"I'm really sorry," she said. "It's not that I don't appreciate you as a teacher or the class. It's me."

"It's you? How?" I asked, then wondered if I should have asked.

"Mom always talked about this boy that she fell in love with in college, and I wanted to meet you. You are just as handsome as she said."

Once again my heart raced, and I had a hard time believing my ears.

"But...but...I just think it would be best for both of us if I didn't take your class."

I stared at her, realizing that she had enough wisdom for both of us, and the courage that I had lacked. I nodded mutely.

"See you around, Professor," she said, smiling over her shoulder.

I waved goodbye to her back as she walked up the aisle and out the door.

(back to ToC)

* * *

### 11. YO ME RINDO

I have been toying on and off with the story of a young boy and girl who grow up together in the 1920s and 30s: he from the family of a poor sharecropper, she a banker's daughter. On the outside, they have nothing in common, and yet destiny seems to sometimes bring unlikely people together. This is part of that story.

The church called Santa Maria de la Roseta had a long and illustrious history before that day, Henry Hudson was sure of that. There were indications among the rubble that it must have been there for several hundred years. In fact, Henry saw one plaque on a broken pillar with the Roman numerals for 1711. Yes, it must have been a very beautiful and memorable church in its day.

But today its purpose was a lot more pragmatic and important to Henry. Its thick stone walls—those that were still standing—gave him protection from the mortar shells and sharpshooter bullets that had threatened his life for the past week. It wasn't a large church, but it afforded enough space for each of the 22 wounded Republican soldiers to lie on the ground, relatively protected from the dust and shrapnel that surrounded their hilltop.

Henry looked up at the clear blue morning sky through the open ceiling and frowned. It was going to be another hot day, but at least it wouldn't rain like it had done yesterday. He wished there was more he could do for the wounded, but without proper medicine and food, well, at least he was giving them water from the nearby well.

"Horse," Antonio said from the nearby wall. He sat at the window, looking out at the devastated orchard, watching for snipers and waiting for the inevitable attack.

"Caballo," Henry said quietly in response.

" _El_ caballo," Antonio said, correcting him. "Always include the article, because unlike English we have a male and female article for our nouns. And you need to know which one it is."

Henry looked up. "So if it's a mare, is it _la_ _caballo_?"

Julio laughed loud, above them on the rafter. "Amigo, how long have you been here in España?"

"Six months," Henry said, checking a wound on an officer lying to the side. "I think the colonel's wound is opened up again."

"We are out of bandages," Julio said. "Use your undershirt." Julio watched as Henry dutifully took off his shirt and then the dirty inner shirt, tearing it into strips.

"How it is that you have been here so long and still do not know to speak Spanish?"

Henry shrugged, separating the new bandages into a pile and taking one for the colonel. "I've been busy."

"But six months, _muerte_. It would seem that you would pick up at least something during that time."

"Leave him alone," Antonio said to Julio. "We are doing our best."

"Hey Henry," Julio said. "I will give you a sentence to memorize. It will maybe save your life. Repeat after me. _Yo me rindo_."

" _Yo me rindo_ ," Henry repeated, putting his outer shirt back on. A bullet zipped overhead, and Julio ducked instinctively. "What does it mean?" Henry asked.

Julio burst into laughter again, and Antonio shook his head, smiling. "It means, 'I surrender.'"

Henry stood and looked at the two. " _Yo me rindo_ ," he said again.

Julio laughed again, then stopped suddenly. "I do not think you will get an opportunity to use it. The _fascista_ do not take prisoners."

Julio and Antonio exchanged a grim look, then Antonio nodded in agreement at Henry. "That is true, my friend. I know that you don't believe in guns, but it may be the time to reconsider their use."

"That's all right," Henry said. "I'll take my chances with tending the wounded." As he stood there, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo of the girl he left behind. He looked at it longingly for a long moment.

"You should never have left Rose," Antonio said. "Even if it was for a good reason."

"Rose?" Henry said. "She's just a childhood friend."

Antonio chuckled. "You may say that, but I know better." He looked outside, as if wishing he were somewhere else.

"All right, Henry," Antonio said. "Translate this for me: Take me to the hospital."

Henry thought for a minute. " _Llévame al hospital_."

" _Bueno_ ," Antonio said, and Julio clapped his hands. In response, they heard a roar and everyone ducked their heads as a mortar round exploded just outside the walls. The dust was still falling as two more men ran into the building. Both of them carried something in their arms, with their rifles slung over their shoulders. The lead man fell to his knees beside the nearest wounded soldier and deposited a double-handful of green apples onto the ground. The others took immediate interest.

"Those are green," Antonio said. "They will give you a stomach ache."

"I don't care," Julio said, dropping from the rafter and grabbing two of them. "I am hungry. Thank you, Pablo. Andrés."

"I sent the two of you out there to scout, and you come back with green apples?" Antonio said, staring hard at the two young men who had just arrived.

Pablo stood up and turned toward Antonio. "We did scout. They are still out there. Perhaps a hundred soldiers, two armored cars, and a tank."

"A _tank_?" Julio said. "How can we fight against a tank?"

"Well, it is a very small tank," Pablo said.

"It looked big to me," Andrés said.

"In any case we need to leave," Julio said.

"We can't leave," Henry said, standing up. "We have wounded."

"Who asked the American?" Pablo said. "I know I didn't."

Antonio nodded. "Henry is right. If we leave, these wounded are as good as dead. Our orders are to stay here and protect them until the brigade returns with transportation."

"Our brigade?" Julio said. "You say that as if they were just over the hill. They have been gone a week, and we are still here."

Antonio's lips grew thin. "We stay and fight if we must. Those are our orders."

Julio and the others grumbled, but as Henry watched, they went back to their places on the wall. A few minutes later, Julio spoke up.

"I see movement out there," he said. "It looks like we have company coming."

"Ready, brothers," Antonio said. "Henry, bring the ammunition as needed. Remember that this is for our families, our homes and our country." Henry stood, feeling helpless as the others climbed into positions to shoot. A moment later, guns began going off. In response, he heard machine guns and mortars booming outside.

As he watched, he saw Julio fall from his place on the second floor, a bullet through his head. A minute later, Andrés fell as well, machine gun bullets ripping across his body.

"More ammunition!" Pablo shouted from the window where he stood. Henry picked up the box of bullets and brought them to Pablo at the window. Pablo reached for the loose bullets for his bolt-action rifle, but as Henry watched, an explosion just outside the window threw shrapnel in his face, killing him instantly and splashing blood in Henry's face. He stood staring for a long moment, shocked, then saw the black line of soldiers outside rapidly approaching the church.

"Henry!" he heard behind him, and turned to see his old friend, Antonio at the far window. He ran over with the ammunition box, and started to pick up the rifle that Julio had dropped. Antonio shook his head.

"This is not your fight, my brother," Antonio said, his voice sad. "I am sorry I brought you into this." He reached out and took Henry's hand. "We are long way from the university."

Henry nodded. "I made the decision to come."

"Go back home," Antonio said. "Go back to Rose."

"I will...if I can," he said. He looked out the window at the mass of soldiers, the trucks and the dark shadow of a tank in the distance. "What about them?" he said, gesturing at the wounded.

"Perhaps," Antonio started. "Perhaps the _fascista_ are more merciful than we have heard." They stared at each other, bullets flying over their heads, mortars exploding outside. Then Henry nodded.

He ran to the pile of white rags he had made from his undershirt. He took the gun that he had considered using against the enemy and tied a white flag onto its barrel. Then he slowly walked back to the window where Antonio stood, and gave Antonio the gun.

" _Yo me rindo!"_ Henry shouted as Antonio held the white flag outside the window. " _Yo me rindo!"_

The little church of Santa Maria de la Roseta had seen many memorable events over the past two centuries. It had seen its share of weddings, babies and funerals. But the broken walls and shattered ruins paid no mind to the soldiers on that hilltop, some to bask in victory, some to be bayoneted where they lay, one to be delivered to prison...and one who was sent home. (back to ToC)

* * *

### 12. THE LAST SUPPER

What if you had a chance to live forever? What if that choice would affect other people's lives? What if you had to choose between your own good and the good of all mankind?

Dining on the 102nd floor of One World Trade Center might have been excuse enough for Rachel Katrachian. Or it might have been the fact that the event afforded the opportunity to eat food prepared by world-famous chef Montrose, who up to this point had never come to the United States. Or it maybe it was the opportunity to rub shoulders with the elite of industry and government, with her being the only reporter present.

But the reality was that Rachel had accepted the cryptic invitation to attend this impromptu gathering of the _hoi polloi_ because the invitation came from Hanson Greer, the richest man in the world. Greer never gave dinner parties, at least that she knew. He didn't because he didn't have any friends. You didn't start from next to nothing and end up with a net worth that many small and a few medium-sized countries would envy by making friends.

Rachel looked around her and the more she looked, the more questions came into her head. She had gasped when she first arrived and saw the once-in-a-lifetime view of the New York skyline— _she swore she could see the curvature of the earth!—_ but now she was gasping at the people who sat at the table around her.

Directly across from her sat Mirian Hall, chairwoman of First Love, the largest humanitarian organization in the world. Right now the rotund, middle-aged woman was talking to the elderly man next to her, Robert L. Steenway, CEO of Kagame Industries, the new world leader in electronics. Across from those two and next to Rachel sat Dr. Martin Freedbaum, the Surgeon General of the United States, and on the other side of him was Howard K. Pauls, the director of the FBI. On and on she went down the table, a veritable Who's Who of movers and shakers. Rachel counted 12 of them— _was there any significance in the number?—_ minus the empty chair at the front where Hanson Greer should be sitting.

The person sitting directly across from Greer's empty chair was the greatest mystery for Rachel. In her 12 years at _The New York Times_ , she had never heard one kind word passed between Greer and Baldwin Black, the middle-aged CEO and founder of Agate Lion, Inc., Greer's biggest competitor. In fact, the two of them had almost come to blows six years ago following an antitrust suit filed by Black, one that had finally been settled out of court.

Her iPhone buzzed a text. Despite her surroundings, she chanced a glance at it: **Washington Post claims Watson is dead.** She flinched, knowing the text from her city editor was there to rub in the fact that she wasn't ready to run her story on the disappearance of Hamilton Watson, the environmentalist who had disappeared six months ago. He had been scheduled to speak on national TV, supposedly to make some major announcement, and then had disappeared. Everyone suspected foul play, and the _Post_ was ready to shout murder, but Rachel wasn't convinced.

"I'm sorry, madam," a voice said over her shoulder. She turned and a white-gloved hand reached down and took her iPhone. "Mr. Greer's instructions were quite explicit. No electronic devices of any kind."

That drew a look from more than one of the people around her, and Rachel nodded meekly and handed him her iPhone. She looked up as she heard applause and a few laugh and say, _At last_. A handsome young man who looked vaguely familiar was wheeling Hanson Greer's wheelchair in through large double doors in the rear of the room. Greer took his place at the center of the table, where Rachel noticed the empty chair had been removed.

"I'm so sorry I am late," Rachel heard Greer say in his shaky voice. Rachel knew that Greer was 79 years old, but to her Greer looked like he had aged a great deal since the antitrust trial six years before. She glanced back at Black, who applauded modestly with the rest of those at the table, but she noticed that he wasn't smiling.

"I hope you have been enjoying the meal here," Greer continued. "Isn't Montrose wonderful? I wish I could have enjoyed the meal, but unfortunately I am on a very strict diet, as you can see." He gestured to a bag of liquid that was mounted on a pole next to him, and smiled faintly. Then he turned to the young man standing behind his wheelchair.

"My apologies, I do intend to introduce this young man here, but before I do, I have one more thing I want to share with you." He snapped fingers and waiters appeared from behind each chair, each removing the empty dinner plates and replacing them with a tall champagne glass, filled with a golden fluid. Rachel watched as the Surgeon General lifted the glass and sloshed the fluid around in the glass. It had a thicker viscosity than wine or champagne, and it sparkled with an unnatural brilliance, flecks of lights swirling through the glass.

"Now that everyone is taken care of, and before you enjoy my treat, I want to introduce you to my young guest. Ladies, gentlemen, this is Dr. Hamilton Watson."

The room went silent, as if everyone was unsure what they were hearing. As soon as Greer said it, Rachel realized why the young man looked so familiar. She had been doing research for the past two weeks on Watson, and had seen many photos of him in college and during his early career. The hair was shorter, the man didn't wear glasses, but this, indeed, was Watson.

The FBI director laughed finally. "Come on now. Is this some sort of joke?"

Watson smiled and shrugged. "No joke, Mr. Pauls. I know that I don't look like the 55-year-old man you are used to seeing, but it is indeed me, Hamilton Watson."

"Look," Greer said, motioning for a waiter to bring an electronic tablet. "This tablet is equipped with software that can take Watson's fingerprint, and log you into the FBI database. Feel free to check with it. Do whatever you need to."

As Pauls used the tablet to register Watson's fingerprint and send it to the database, Greer continued speaking to the rest of the group.

"I invited you tonight because I need your help. Our research in nanotechnology has had a significant breakthrough, a milestone that can't be held in the hands of just one man. I need you to help me to decide what to do with it."

"What kind of breakthrough?" the Surgeon General asked.

"In front of each of you is water from the Fountain of Youth," Greer said. "The Elixir of Life. I call it...the Chalice."

"What are we talking about?" Black said on the other end of the table.

"What we are talking about is a way to extend life exponentially," said Watson. "I know in the past that I have been publically opposed to nanotechnology and the specter of letting microscopic machines into our bodies, but look at me."

He smiled broadly and opened up his suitcoat to show his flat stomach and broad chest. "I have never felt better in my life."

Pauls nodded, still looking at the tablet. "He checks out. Don't know how, but this is Watson."

Greer spoke up. "We have been working on nanotechnology for more than 10 years, as you know, Baldwin," he said, nodding to Baldwin Black. "We had a significant breakthrough a year ago, and were ready to do beta testing six months ago. We approached Dr. Watson because he has been one of our leading critics. How better to prove the critics wrong than to allow our leading critic to benefit."

Rachel stared at the young Hamilton Watson. "You said extend life exponentially. How long is that?"

"We really don't know," said Watson. "All the projections show at least quadrupling the average life span, to about 300 years."

"Three hundred...," said the Surgeon General.

"But that's the first step," Greer said. "Who knows that we will be able to do in ten, fifty or a hundred years. Think of it: long life, and living it at a peak of health."

The group stared at each other, still confused. Finally Rachel spoke up again.

"Pardon me, Mr. Greer, but if this technology is everything you say it is, then why haven't you taken advantage of it? Why are you still in a wheelchair?"

Greer smiled. "Ah, the cynic speaks. Well, that's fine. I have my own personal reasons behind the decision not to continue on in this life. I have done a great deal and am ready to explore the great beyond. What matters to me now is what my legacy will be."

"I'd like to see the data on this," Black said. "That is, if you are serious about sharing this."

"Serious, yes. And you'll see the data. I have made enough money in my lifetime to take care of all of you for a long time to come. In fact, that's part of the deal."

"Deal? What deal?"

"It's a one-time only deal," said Watson. "The technology calls for three potions. One today," he gestured at the golden glass in front of each of them. "One a week from now, and the third and final six months from now."

"It took quite a bit of manpower to manufacture the nanites that you see in front of you," Greer said. "We have enough for each of you to complete the treatment. And our goal is to produce much more of this in days to come. But you can imagine what would happen if word of this got out prematurely.

"Therefore we have our own sort of non-disclosure agreement," he continued. "If you choose to join us, you will remove yourself from public life. You will come to work for us. And in some cases, we will ask you to separate yourselves from friends and family. You can imagine what they will think if suddenly you start getting healthier and looking younger.

"Think of it. The end to disease, sickness, plague, even death," said Greer. "But we need to be patient."

Rachel nodded, thinking of what a story it would make for _The Times_ , and at the same time how many millions would kill to have a chance at virtual immortality. And then she looked at Greer, who was trying to sell a panacea that he himself refused to take. She frowned, thinking.

"Has anyone considered what the long-term implications are for the planet?" Rachel blurted out, suddenly. "I mean in all of this wonderful news, this chance for each of us to live 300 years, what will it do to the world? The population couldn't handle it."

Watson nodded, suddenly serious. "That's the main reason why Mr. Greer brought me into the project. I have run computer projections and they don't look good. If everyone alive today were to add the nanites, we would have a total environmental collapse in three generations. We're talking plague, starvation, rioting; the whole ball of wax."

Greer looked at the young man, then at the rest of them.

"As much as I respect and admire the work you all do at present, I have called you here tonight because I have a bigger task for you. I need you to help me decide what to do."

Once again, the 13 of them sat around the table, with Hamilton Watson standing by, waiting for an answer. Baldwin Black spoke up finally.

"Well it appears that our choices are: (a) we keep the Chalice to ourselves, or at least to a select few. In that case, word will eventually get out and we will all be massacred. (B), we give everyone the Chalice, and somehow keep them from having babies—maybe mandatory birth control. Or (c), we find a way to reduce the number of people in the world without destroying the earth in the process, perhaps some sort of selective plague."

Everyone turned and stared at Black as his last few words escaped his lips. Greer spoke.

"Thank you, Baldwin," Greer said. "I knew I could count on you to be pragmatic at a time like this."

"Or D," Rachel blurted out. "What about D? We don't use the technology at all."

The others stared at her, and Greer cleared his throat. "That is always an option, Miss Katrachian." He turned to everyone else, and struggled to stand, finally rising with the help of Watson. He stood before them with his arms outstretched, as if giving a blessing to the 12 of them.

"This is the decision before us. I ask that you join us in this venture, not because I want to reward you with something special, but because I need your wisdom to make the right choices. My days are numbered, but yours are just starting. I ask that you signal your willingness to accept the challenge by drinking the Chalice before you."

As Rachel watched, each of them picked up the cup before them and drank, one by one, starting with Baldwin Black. Finally, only Rachel sat with a full cup before her. She looked at the others, one by one.

"Frankly, I am surprised that the rest of you were able to make the decision so easily," she said.

"What's to decide?" Watson said. "We are talking about immortal life here."

"Not immortal life," Greer said. "Don't call it that."

"When I get done with it, dear Hanson, it will be immortal life," Baldwin Black said.

Wheels turned in Rachel's head as she looked around the room and then at the cup before her. Finally she made her decision.

"Look," she said. "Drinking this cup has made all of you lose your objectivity. Don't you have need for someone to remain objective on your team? I'm willing to join, but only on my terms."

Greer's eyebrows raised. "You are passing up the gift I have for you, and yet taking on the responsibility? Miss Katrachian, I have underestimated you."

Rachel nodded, mutely, looking around the table at the people who had given up everything to gain a chance at immortal life. And she wondered if she was the smartest person in the room. (back to ToC)

* * *

### 13. YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW

If you could talk to an ancestor and learn more about your family, would you? What's more, if you could talk to a great-great-grandchild, somewhere in the future, what would you want to know about your own future? Finally, what would these conversations do to cement the relationship with those who came before...and after?

One can never really anticipate when the turning point of our life will be. In retrospect, it's relatively easy to look back and see that our life changed for better—or worse—when we met a significant other, when we got a job, when a child was born, or maybe when we made a major decision in our lives.

Mine happened when my grandfather died.

I hadn't really known my grandfather. My father and grandfather hadn't been on speaking terms and I probably could count on one hand the number of times I had seen him or talked with him on the phone. Even after my dad died of cancer when I was a teenager, the alienation between my dad and his dad was continued by my mother perhaps out of respect for her dead husband, or maybe just because of force of habit.

So I was pretty surprised when I got a phone call from a lawyer's office that my grandfather had died and left me something in his will. Apparently he didn't have much. Taxes had eaten up his rickety old house and property, and he lived for the last few years strictly by claiming Social Security. But even though we didn't really know each other, apparently blood was thicker than water. I visited the lawyer's office, and left with an envelope from Gramps and a full-length antique mirror.

I waited until later that evening when I got back to my studio apartment to open the envelope. As for the mirror, I suspected that it was very old, and I had already made up my mind to sell it on Ebay and get what I could for it. My dreams of making a living as a web designer had been merely that, and I needed all the financial help I could get. Maybe Gramps had somehow anticipated that, and even though he didn't have any cash, he had found a way to help me out in my present needs.

I lugged the mirror up three flights of stairs and stood it up in my apartment in the corner behind the front door and just to the left of the water-stained, flowered pull-out couch that also served as my bed. Then, without turning on the lights, I walked over to the window overlooking the street, sat down on a rickety wooden chair and tore open the envelope.

My eyebrows went up when I saw the letter inside. As soon as I saw it, I thought of Leonardo da Vinci. Because da Vinci was the creator of mirror writing—the art of writing documents backwards—and my grandfather had copied that technique. If I took my time, I knew that I could read the letter on my own, but it seemed odd to receive such a letter AND a mirror, and then not use them together.

And so I decided to turn the light on, something that I rarely did for budgetary reasons. The bare 75-watt bulb above my head put a harsh light into the room and odd shadows everywhere, but at least I could see better. I had received the mirror covered by an old canvas cover, which I kept on it, feeling that it would be more likely to stay Ebay friendly if I didn't scar it up. Now I pulled that cover from the top, and let the canvas drop to the floor. I pulled my chair in front of the mirror and held the letter up to the mirror. I read:

Dear Grandson:

Circumstances have prevented me from being a greater part of your life, but I hope to change that. If you have received this letter, it means that I am dead. But I am not gone.

Our family has a special legacy, and that legacy comes in the form of this mirror. I don't know how old the mirror is, or how it came to be. I suspect it is at least several hundred years old. I do know that it has been handed down from father to son, and in our case, grandfather to grandson, for many generations. I was once a young man, and I know you are probably considering the sale of the mirror and how it would help your immediate financial needs. Put that thought out of your head. The mirror is worth far, far more to you than you can ever dream.

Somehow the mirror has bonded to our family, and we have bonded to it. In coming days, I encourage you to examine the mirror closely, and I trust that you will discover what I am talking about. Discovering the truth about this mirror will change your life.

Sincerely, Harris Benjamin Parker (your grandfather).

The letter was dated a month ago. Apparently, grandfather had known that he would be gone soon, and it impressed me that he had been thinking of me when he wrote the letter. I stared at it for a long while, then let it drop to the floor.

Grandpa had said that I needed to examine the mirror closely, and so I decided to do just that. I turned it and looked at the back, the edges with their fine filigree on the wooden frame, the cracked base that seemed to be made of a darker, harder wood, and the chipped edge of the mirror itself. After almost half an hour, I shrugged. The mirror seemed to be simply that—a simple mirror—and there didn't seem to be anything significant in its design.

_What had the old man been talking about?_ I wondered. Dad never talked about his father, or even why they had a falling out. But I suspected that the old man had perhaps been a little odd to begin with. Perhaps I was wasting my time, I thought, and started thinking about Ebay again.

I sat and stared into the mirror again, frowning as I did so. I never liked the way I looked, and as I sat there, I found myself thinking about where I was in my life. I was independent; away from the control of my mother. But I had found myself on a dead-end street. There was no call for web designers these days, despite what the commercials on TV said. I looked around at the ratty furniture in my small apartment and sighed.

I turned back to my image in the mirror, and paused. As I watched, my image began to go out of focus, and in its place, the image of another young man appeared. The man looked a lot like me, and was my age. But the cut of the shirt, the hairstyle and a few facial details were all different. As the image slowly became sharper, I realized that I was looking at what my grandfather had probably looked like when he was my age.

I was admiring the likeness between his image and mine when the image moved. I jumped, falling backwards off of my chair. The person in the mirror turned his head and looked right back at me. And the young man's face broke into a slow smile. I lay on the floor for a long moment, wondering what to do.

_This is stupid_ , I thought, and pulled myself off the floor and sat back down.

"Hello," I said quietly, nervously, waving my hand. The image in the mirror moved his lips and seemed to be saying the same thing, but I heard nothing. He then turned behind himself and found a small chalkboard and wrote on it. He held it up for me to read. Once again, the words were backwards, apparently because we were looking through a mirror.

" _My name is Ben Parker."_

I continue to stare at him, not sure how to believe what I was seeing. Finally, I looked around me and found a pad of paper. I wrote:

" _That was my grandfather's name, but you're too young. My grandfather was an old man."_

He read what I had written and started laughing. Again, there was no sound.

" _I am in the year 1948. What year are you in?"_

I wrote my response, and his eyebrows went up when he read it. I then wrote:

" _How is this possible? How can we be 65 years apart and talk face to face?"_

He shrugged. Apparently the magic—or science—was beyond him, just as it was beyond me. He wrote again on the chalkboard:

" _What can you tell me about what my life will be like?"_

This time it my turn to shrug. I didn't really know him, and I hesitated to tell him that he and his son were estranged. I did tell him that he had three children, where he lived, and what his occupation was. And answering him made me start thinking. I wrote:

" _If I can talk to you about your future, does that mean I can talk to my grandson?"_

He nodded, and wrote:

" _I have talked to six generations of our family, all the way back to the early 1800s. You and your father have yet to be born."_

My mind whirled with the possibilities. Not only would this give me an opportunity to talk to those before me, but also those who weren't born yet.

We talked for another hour, and then we closed the evening off, he satisfied that he had learned something of his future, me with a feeling of bonding with my family and my legacy.

_It was funny_ , I thought, sitting there in my small apartment on my seedy couch. I had been all alone in the world. It wasn't until my grandfather died that I realized that I had never been alone, nor would I ever be alone. And because of that, I felt an obligation to my grandfather and those who came before me to be the best person I could be. And then I realized that I had even more of an duty to live my life for my son, and his son, and so on for as long as the mirror would exist.

I flicked off the light and wondered what tomorrow would bring, and all of the tomorrows beyond it. (back to ToC)

**I hope you have enjoyed this electronic book. If you would like information on Prevail Publications, or other books by Glen Robinson, visit us at my** website **or on** Twitter **. Please feel free to add your review of this book on Smashwords.com.**

