FICTION FROM A GAY MAN

STARLIGHT SUPPLY by Shawn O'Shea

2007-04-20T22:31:00.000-05:00

The door opened slightly when the insurance adjuster knocked. He poked his face in the space between the door and the jamb. From his vantage he saw a hodgepodge of newspapers, financial ledgers and overstuffed cabinets.
“Hello? Is anyone here? Mr. Williams?”
A disembodied voice responded, “Yes? Who is there, please?”
“Hello, Mr. Williams!” Still having not yet seen the apartment’s occupant, the man continued, “My name is Melvin Richards. I’m from U.B.I.”
“U.B.I.?”
“Universal Business Insurance. I’m here about your claim. There are a few discrepancies we at U.B.I. have a few questions about.”
“Of course,” the voice calmly said. “Please come in.”
As he accepted the invitation, Melvin noticed a leaning tower of presumably empty pizza boxes and a string of drying laundry underneath which was a half-full laundry basket presently being used as a bed by a burnt-orange Tabby. In an odd way, each additional piece of the chaotic scene he noticed helped make the small space seem organized in a disorganized sort of way.
Deeper into the chaos he delved, carefully stepping in order to avoid tripping over any number of empty glasses, cola cans or lone, unpaired shoes strewn across the floor.
Following a faint clickety-click-click-tap-tap-tapping, Melvin found the owner of the disarray facing a computer, frantically typing.
Without turning around, the man said, “Please sit down, Mr. Roberts.”
“Richards.”
Still typing, “Excuse me?”
“Richards. My name is Melvin Richards.” As he spoke, he scanned for a free place to sit. Finally he settled on the only spot not covered by one item or another, the arm of a dark green-plaid, over-stuffed, threadbare couch. “From Universal Business Insurance.”
“Of course.” Tappity-tap-tap-tap “I’ll be with you in just one minute.” Tappity-tap------------TAP “Ahhhhh! All sent! Finished!” He grabbed a half-full glass from atop the computer monitor and gulped the remaining liquid as he swiveled around in his chair.
Leaning forward to place the now empty glass on the floor, the man at the computer offered an outstretched hand, noticeably manicured, as it was the only thing within view that was neat and well cared for. “How do you do,” he said as the two men shook hands.
`”Fine. Thank you.” Melvin freed his hand from the over-zealous greeting and opened his stereotypical black leather brief case that was precariously balanced on his lap. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get right down to business.”
“Of course.” Williams began to pick up soda cans in his vicinity. One by one he gently shook them. He placed several cans back where they had been resting as he found them to be empty. When he discovered one adequately filled, he sat back in his chair and looked at Melvin. “I’m sorry. Where did you say you’re from again?”
Struggling to maintain his professional composure, “Universal Business Insurance.”
“Of course. I am so glad you are here. I filed a claim with your company. Could you possibly tell me when I might be able to speak to someone about it?”
“That’s why I’m here. To talk to you.”
“Oh? About what?”
“Your insurance claim.”
“Of course. How convenient this is! I filed a claim with your company.”
“I know. I----“ Suddenly Melvin felt like he was playing Abbott to this man’s Costello. This has to be a joke, he thought. The man he was sent to interview was even more “out-there” than the claim itself.
Melvin stood to leave, accepting the laughter he expected when he returned to the office when the reality of the situation was made apparent by the question, “So when do I receive my money?”
“Your----money.”
“Yes, Mr.----Richards, did you say? When should I expect my money?”
“You’re----serious.” He slowly sat back down.
“Of course.”
“This isn’t a joke?” As he gazed blankly at the man taking another sip from the salvaged soda can, “Hennessey didn’t put you up to this?”
“Of course.”
A wave of relief washed over Melvin. He knew he was going to be laughed at by Hennessey back at the office. He could handle that.
“I can understand how such a claim could be so interpreted. But,” the odd little man firmly put down the soda can and changed his tone to say, “I am not joking.”
A tsunami of fear washed over Melvin. He now knew he was going to be hacked apart by Williams in the apartment. He could not handle that.
Williams’ tone changed back, “Of course I understand I will not be handed by U.B.I. actual money. Cash, that is. After all, twenty million dollars is quite an astronomical sum. A check will suffice.”
“A check.”
“Of course.”
“For twenty-million dollars.”
“When do you suspect I should receive it?” He began another soda can salvage mission.
What I suspect, Melvin thought, is that you are a complete lunatic! Suddenly he realized his best chance to survive the situation would be to play along.
Having chosen his course, the insurance man started to conduct the interview as he would any routine claim. From his meticulously organized brief case he pulled a manila file folder labeled: STARLIGHT SUPPLY, W.W. WILLIAMS, OWNER
“Before I can approve your claim to paid, I’m required to ask you a few questions concerning the matter.”
“Of course.”
“There’s nothing personal about it. It’s standard procedure.”
“Of course.”
“It helps to deter those trying to commit insurance fraud.” Why did I add that last part!? he internally chastised himself.
“Of course. Please. Proceed.”
Attempting to hide experiencing his near put-to-death sensation, Melvin calmly continued. “Yes. Well, there is the matter of the name listed for the policy holder.”
“Oh?”
“I believe there is a typo.”
“Curious. May I see?” He reached out and took the copy handed to him. After quickly scanning the form he said, “No. It’s correct.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“So your name really is William William Williams?”
“That’s right.”
“I see.”
“My mother told me she named me that so if ever, in my life I lost the will to do anything, all I had to do was remember who I was.”
“I understand.” Oddly, he did. “Okay, then. Moving on.”
“Yes. Moving on.”
“The mailing address you have listed for Starlight Supply is 812 Halper Street, Apartment B12, Philadelphia.”
“Correct.”
“This apartment.”
“Correct. Is that a problem?”
“Well----no. However there does seem to be----“ He warned himself, don’t say problem, don’t say problem, don’t say problem!, “some confusion as to the address you have listed for the business location.”
“13 33 35.5 –22 11 21?”
“Yes. You see, it’s not a location.”
“It most certainly is a location! Here. Let me show you!” Williams swiveled to face his computer and started again to tap-tap-tap on the keyboard. It was only a few moments before upon the screen what appeared to be a stock photo from the Hubble Telescope. When a pinpoint of white streaked across the picture, Melvin realized he was looking at a live picture.
He placed his briefcase on the disheveled couch and slowly stood to make his way to look at the monitor from over Williams’ shoulder.
“There! Right there!” Williams declared, excitedly jabbing his finger at the near center of the screen.
Melvin squinted. “All I see is a bunch of stars.”
“Right here! Where my finger is!”
“Oh, yes. Now I see it.”
“You do?”
“Ummm, yes?”
“How could you possibly? There is nothing there to see.”
“Then what are you pointing at?”
“That is where it used to be.”
Managing to hold back his tears, he uttered with exasperation, “Where what used to be!?”
Williams turned in his chair. “Starlight Supply, of course.”
“There?”
“Yes.”
“In space.”
“Yes.”
“In a solar system.”
“No.”
“But you just said----“
“Technically Starlight Supply was in a star system. More accurately is was a star system. You see, we call where we live The Solar System because our sun, our star, is named Sol.”
By this point Melvin was sitting next to his brief case on the paper and clothes covered couch. “What!?”
“Sol. The star we call our sun is named Sol. Just like Betelgeuse. And Pleides. And----“
“What are you trying to tell me!? Why am I here?”
“Starlight Supply was a star.”
“It was?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s not anymore?”
“No.”
“What happened to it?”
“Simply put?”
“Please put it simply.”
“It exploded.”
“Exploded.”
“Yes. Exploded.”
“And so now you want us to issue you a check for----“
“Twenty-million dollars.”
“Yes. For twenty-million dollars for your business----“
“----Starlight Supply---”
“----which was a star----“
“Yes.”
“That exploded.”
“Yes.”
“So your claim is since this star which you believe to be yours----“
“It was mine. I owned it.”
“Mr. Williams. People do not own stars.”
“Some people do. I did. There’s the deed.” He pointed to a modestly framed document hanging on the wall above the computer. It read:
GALACTIC STAR REGISTRY
HEREBY CERTIFIES AS OF THIS
25TH DAY OF JUNE, 2002
MISTER WILLIAM WILLIAM WILLIAMS
IS THE SOLE OWNER OF THE STAR IN THE LOCATION OF
RA13h 33m 35.5s; DEC –22° 11’ 21”
HEREAFTER IN EVERY AND ALL SCIENTIFIC VENUES
TO BE REFERRED TO AS
STARLIGHT SUPPLY
Melvin vaguely remembered reading, or maybe hearing, about a company that actually will, for a price, name a star whatever a person chooses.
Deciding not to argue, “Fine. You owned a star. You owned a star and it exploded. Explain this to me then: Why should U.B.I. give you any money at all?”
“Because I paid the monthly premiums, which, I may add, were all paid promptly when due, if not before. Just in case something like this were to happen. Which it did. If you need verification, I have a recent well-reputed science journal around here somewhere. I can also give you the URL to several web sites if you would like to see for yourself.”
“The fact of that your----your star exploded is not in dispute. I just fail to understand how you could possibly believe you should be paid for it.”
“That star was my business Starlight Supply. Since its obliteration, my income has come to a halt.”
“Income.”
”Yes. Starlight Supply was my source of income.”
“How?”
“When I first gained the title, I contacted, via e-mail, 7,250 universities and observatories worldwide. The message explained to them I now retained ownership; of the celestial gaseous body at RA13h 33m 35.5s; DEC –22° 11’ 21, and if they desired the continued privilege of studying and or observing said body, it would require a monthly payment of $100.”
“What was the reaction?”
“As you can well imagine, I received quite a fair amount of negative replies.”
“I’m sure.”
“However, most of the responses were greatly beneficial.”
“They were?”
“They were.”
“How many?”
“How many what?”
“Responses. How many of them were beneficial?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Williams upended a can a can and emptied into his mouth. “Five thousand seven hundred eighty-two.”
“Five thousand----“
“----seven hundred eighty-two.”
“And they have all been paying you $100 a month for----how long?”
“Prior to the explosion, slightly longer than four years.”
Melvin retrieved a calculator from a pocket inside his brief case. Pressing numbers he said, “That would mean your yearly income is----“
“Was.”
“Sorry. Was.” When he pushed the total button he was astounded. “This can not be right!”
“Is the total: six-million nine hundred thirty-eight thousand two hundred dollars?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s correct.”
“So over the last four years, you have made over twenty-seven-million dollars?”
“Yes. Minus taxes and expenses, of course.”
“You pay taxes?”
“Of course.” Williams began to shuffle through a pile of papers stacked atop the hard drive tower. Finally he found a paper-clipped stack of tax documents that he handed to Melvin. “As you well know, your company would not issue me business insurance without a business license. And I could not have a business license without having filed the appropriate financial statements with the Internal Revenue Service and the state licensing board. So yes. I have paid my taxes.”
Melvin started punching the numbers on his calculator again.“No need for that. I have paid eleven-million one hundred one thousand one hundred twenty dollars in taxes.”
The stunned insurance adjustor looked up blankly at Williams. “And expenses?”
“Of course. Honestly, my expenses have been minimal. Less than one-million dollars in the entire four years.”
“For what?”
“I pay $250 a year for exclusive usage of a particular internet server. Plus I pay an assistant $380.56 each week to go to the bank and run other miscellaneous errands when needed.”
“Where is he now?”
“Where is who?”
“Your assistant.”
“Of course. She.”
“What?”
“She.”
“She what?”
“She. My assistant is a she.”
“Okay, then. Where is she?”
“I had to let her go.”
“Why?”
“Because Starlight Supply no longer exists.”
“That’s right.”
“Really, Mr. Richards. I do wish you would pay attention.”
Melvin was about to make a derisive comment. He thought better to leave the comment just made to him alone and continue as close to normal as possible. He was determined not to have to issue a check for twenty million dollars.
“Let’s start over.”
“Of course.”
“I will concede, Starlight Supply, a celestial body, a star, which you held title to and owned and used as a business to charge various universities and observatories $100 each month for the last four years for the privilege of studying, exploded recently, bringing your business to an end.”
“Absolutely correct.”
“What was the cause of the explosion?”
“Well, stars are in actuality gaseous bodies. Sometimes gaseous bodies explode.”
Melvin found himself trying to understand. “Like if you have a gas leak or leave the oven on without the pilot light lit.”
“Not exactly. But that’s close.”
“I see.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I think I do. I’m very sorry, Mr. Williams, but I think I am going to have to deny your claim.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Gas explosions are considered accidents. Accidents caused by negligence. U.B.I. does not pay on claims which are a result of negligence.”
“Of course. I would not expect you to.”
“That’s good.” Melvin started repacking his brief case; visualizing himself walking out of the strange apartment in only a matter of minutes. He stood.
“However, a gaseous celestial body exploding is not an act of negligence.”
Melvin lost his vision. “It’s not?”
“No. It’s not.”
He sat again. “What is it then?”
“A natural phenomenon.”
“A natural phenomenon?”
“Yes.” Williams was now drinking from another soda can.
“Like a flood? Tornado? An earthquake?”
“Again, close. But not exactly.”
The vision returned. “Ah! Then I am afraid I am going to have to deny your claim on the fact that is clearly what is termed in your insurance policy as ‘an act of God.’”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Richards, that you are incorrect.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Williams, that I am not. There is most certainly an ‘act of God’ clause in your insurance policy!”
“I am not arguing that.”
“Then what are you arguing?”
“Would you be so kind as to read the clause, please?”
It was Melvin’s turn to say, “Of course! It would be my pleasure!” He took the policy out of the manila folder and started paging through it. “I know it is here somewhere.”
“Page five. Paragraph six, subsection two.”
Melvin turned to the named section and was not surprised to find Williams was correct. “Here. It reads: ‘Agent shall not be required to pay on claims of loss of business in part or in whole which results from any source determined to be An Act of God.’” He looked up at the man sitting across the room from him. “I think that says it pretty clear, Mr. Williams.”
“Will you continue reading, please.”
Confused, but willing to oblige if only to bring the insanity to a conclusion, Melvin looked back down at the policy in his hand and read, “An Act of God is defined by Agent as an earthquake, flood, hurricane, storm, tornado or any other Earthly based natural disaster or any combination of those listed.” He looked smugly at Williams. “There. You see.”
Williams looked smugly back at Melvin. “Of course.”
“And you still think we owe you the money?”
“Of course.”
“How could you possibly think that!!?”
“It states very clearly, ‘any other Earthly based natural disaster. Starlight Supply is not on Earth.”
Melvin’s jaw went agape as he started down at the words he held in his hand, ‘….or any other Earthly based natural disaster….’ “Yes. But, I, you, it----“
“So when may I expect my check?”
Melvin finally admitted to himself he had been defeated. In monotone, he said, “I am authorized to issue you a check today. To whom should I make it out to?”
“Starlight Supply. Of course.”
“Of course.”
Forty-three minutes later, after endorsing the largest check in his career, in his life, the bewildered insurance man sat at a coffee shop with his black coffee in front of him. He did not know how he was going to explain to his boss what had just happened.
After his third cup, Melvin called his office on his mobile phone. “Hello, Sheila? This is Richards. Yeah.----I approved it.----I’m not joking,----Message?----No. No message. Wait! Yeah, give him this message----I quit!” He ended the call.
Immediately he dialed the phone again.
“Hello, operator? Can I please have the phone number for Galactic Star Registry?”

"3 A.M." by Shawn O'Shea

2006-10-01T16:47:00.000-05:00

Together, the frigid air, the faint odor of anti-septic, along with the straight-backed, stiff-leather chair seemed to conspire to keep the overnight visitor from sleeping as he dutifully maintained his vigil.
Brent recalled from his days serving aboard ship in the Navy, a technique called battle napping. While applying the method a person could enter into a semi-REM-state for up to seven minutes at a time yet remain completely aware of his surroundings.
Brent cocked his head up and snapped open his eyes. He had positioned himself so the red digital numbers of nightstand clock were the first things he consciously saw. He stared at them for ten seconds when, in a blink, they switched from 259 to 300.
As if prompted by the changing numbers, the man for whom he had been keeping watch began to stir and mumble in the hospital bed. “What time is it?”
“It’s three a.m., Dad. Go back to sleep.”
Being told the time alarmed Brent’s father. “Three a.m.? We have to go! Now!” He tried to maneuver past the safety rails. Even over the commotion a tearing could be heard.
Brent jumped on his feet and attempted to calm his frantic father. He imagined what he had just heard was simply a bandage coming loose, an IV being pulled out, or, worst of all, the Foley catheter being yanked from its delicate position.
“Dad! Dad! Dad! It’s okay! You’re okay! I’m right here! Help! Nurse!” The panic began to subside. “It’s me----Brent. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Nurse!”
Brent kept one hand gently on the man’s shoulder and the other on the man’s chest. He could not help but notice where a once muscled torso had been was now a weak collection of cartilage and bone.
“We have to go! If we don’t leave now we’ll be late!”
“Go where, Dad? Be late for what?”
“The boat! If we don’t get there in time, the Captain will pull out without us.”
“What boat? Where are we sailing to?”
He raised his head, “Deep-sea fishing. You remember, don’t you? Deep sea fishing?”
The question raised from the depths of his mind a long lost memory within Brent. “Yeah, Dad. I remember.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seventeen-year-old Brent felt himself being shaken from a sound sleep. His eyes slowly focused on the dim silhouette of his father as he reoriented from a dream world to reality.
“C’mon, sport! Time to go!”
“Hunh? What time is it?”
“Three a.m.”
“Oh gawwwwwd!” Brent moaned as he sat up. Waking at such an ungodly hour was the only part of the deep-sea fishing trips with is father he disliked.
While searching the clothes-covered floor around his bed, he exhaled a long loud yawn, “Where’re my boots?” He was already dressed. His father always insisted Brent dress prior to going to bed for fishing trips so he could simply wake up and go.
“In the kitchen. Remember? You’re mother asked you to put them on down there so you won’t wake up her or your brother clomping down the stairs.”
“Oh yeah.”
“I’m gonna go warm up the car. Hurry up and get your boots on and meet me out there.” The older man then turned and went down the stairs in the manner Brent’s mother wanted her son to avoid.
In the dark, Brent wiped the remaining sleep from his eyes, made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and made his way to the kitchen. He slipped his feet into his favorite Timberlands. ‘I’ll tie them in the car,’ he thought.
It seemed to Brent he had only closed his eyes to rest as the car started to move when he again felt his father shake him awake. “We’re here! Let’s start unloading the gear.” Ninety minutes had actually passed. Only fifteen minutes remained before the boat would depart to begin its three-mile eastward sail.
After securing their rods, inspecting the lines for tangles and pre-cutting squid for bait they heard the Captain’s voice boom, “Release the mooring lines!” followed by the grinding of the engines. Seconds after the noise eased into a long steady growl and the boat inched away from dock so it could turn and slowly make its way through the marina, through the bay and out to sea.
Brent went as far out on the bow as he could. His favorite part of these trips was standing there, staring straight ahead feeling himself carried forward into the dark nothingness of the ocean night. Only the perpetual misting across his face reminded him there was another part of the world out there, his world. In his world he had no complaints, no worries, no problems.
He would remain situated until the Captain cut the engines at their first location. It would often be after sailing for forty-five minutes to an hour. This time, however, Brent abandoned his station after twenty-minutes. This time the boat bounced higher and with greater frequency than any previous trip.
The severity of the motion caused the spray to feel more rain-like than misty. It also formed a wall of water that crashed over the bow, soaking the young, self-appointed watchman.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dim light cast from above the washbasin allowed the nurse who entered to see the young man standing over and restraining her patient.
“What’s going on here? Did you call for assistance?”
The man’s son turned his head to address her, “He was trying to get out of bed. He thought he was late for----“ Brent felt it was pointless to give an explanation. “I don’t know what he thought. Anyway, I think ripped something. And he’s soaked.”
Before the young man had finished talking, the nurse began a cursory assessment making sure nothing had torn. A few adhesive strips required replacing. “Everything looks fine. It’s not uncommon for someone in his condition to have occasional dementia induced hallucinations.”
Brent’s knees weakened and he fell back into the chair. He understood in that moment his entire life was built on the faith his father was a pillar of health, was invincible, was his source of strength. The last few moments, capped with hearing the word ‘dementia’ applied to his father, forced his comprehension that the man he knew for the whole of his life was mortal. Was mortal and was soon to die. Where, Brent wondered, would he draw his strength when the inevitable happened?
“Who’s that?” The sick man was pointing at the nurse. With what Brent heard as fear, the man repeated, “Who’s that?”
Trying to remain composed, “Don’t worry, Dad.”
“But who’s that?” He was becoming increasingly agitated.
“It’s the first mate, Dad. She came to tell us it’ll be a while before we shove off.” Brent looked pleadingly at the nurse, wordlessly asking her to go along with his deception.
Relishing her new sea-faring role, the nurse reassured her patient, “That’s right. We have a few more lines to secure and finish inspecting the rigging and anchor hoist. After that, we’ll be ready to set sail.” She winked at Brent who was bewildered at both her willingness and her nautical knowledge
Brent mouthed “thank you” to her as he watched his father lay back and immediately fall asleep with new feelings of peace and serenity.
She wiped the resting man’s brow and said to his son, “He needs a fresh gown and dry bedding. I’ll be right back to change him.”
The only acknowledgement Brent gave the nurse as she left the room was a slight nod. He then leaned his head against the back of the chair, shut his eyes and inhaled deeply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seeing the mate’s look of surprise and suppressed laughter, Brent’s father turned to see his shivering, dripping son. “What the hell happened to you?”
After the boy explained what had happened, the mate offered with a tone of sympathy and amusement, “C’mon. You look like you’re about the same size as me. I have a change of clothes you can wear.”
Twenty minutes later he re-emerged from below deck dressed in a red, black and blue flannel shirt, yellow rubber overalls, thigh-high green rubber waders, and a red, gray brimmed ball cap with the boat’s name embroidered on the front in script. By that time, the engines were silent and the anchor had been dropped.
Brent awkwardly walked to the aft starboard corner where he knew he would find his father. Though not as strongly as while it was moving, the boat still pitched and rolled, but still heavily enough that less than half the passengers were actually fishing. The others were leaning over the side feeding their earlier meals to the creatures of the sea.
Taking position beside his father, Brent baited his line and released the reel lock. As his line dropped to the water below and drifted out into the vessel’s wake he asked, “Any luck yet?”
“Not yet. Too choppy. I think today’s gonna be----Oh, my god! Look at you! Who the hell are you supposed to be? The Gorton’s fisherman?”
He could not help but laugh at the reference to his outfit. “Shut up, Dad! It’s all he had. At least I’m dry.”
They had been fishing for almost thirty minutes, occasionally reeling in and recasting their lines, re-baiting the hooks when necessary, when it occurred to Brent, “Dad, shouldn’t the sun be coming up by now?”
“Yeah. It should.” The older fisherman was staring upward. His eyes, filled with concern, were scanning the sky for something. For what, he did not know. He reeled in his line and secured his pole. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“But, Dad, where----?”
“I said wait.”
Brent turned and watched his father enter the passenger cabin at the boat’s midsection. A larger than normal swell pitched the boat roughly causing Brent’s father to stumble forward.
Through the windows Brent saw his father talking to the same young man who had provided him with the fresh clothes. The mate had a look of fear and was animatedly gesturing. After a quick conversation, the mate turned abruptly and proceeded below.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Holding fresh linens and towels the nurse said to the visitor, “Why don’t stretch your legs while I change your father.”
“That’s alright. I don’t mind.”
“It was not a suggestion.”
“Oh. Okay.” Brent stood up and walked out of the room.
Standing outside the hospital room he cracked his knuckles, raised his arms above his head, arched his back and let out a low moan of relief as he felt his muscles tingle as they stretched out their stiffness. He rolled his head to experience the same sensation in his neck and looked around trying to decide in which direction to walk. A sudden, deep, lung-filling yawn helped with his decision.
He walked over to the nurses’ station and attempted to get the attention of the sole male nurse on the floor. “Excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you, but could you tell me how to get to the cafeteria?”
“No bother,” the man said as he looked up. “I’m just going over my progress notes. The cafeteria? Sorry. It’s closed. Doesn’t open again until seven. Wait. Today’s Sunday? Eight.”
“Well is there a coffee vending machine anywhere?”
Another nurse came behind the desk as he answered, “No. Just soda and junk food.” He looked at the young man and said, “Hold on a minute.” He turned to his co-worker, “I’m going on break.”
“Fine,” she responded with a hint of frustration.
A hand gesture indicated to Brent to follow his guide fifty feet down the hall where there was a door with a placard that read NURSES ONLY in white letters on a crimson background.
The man in blue hospital scrubs opened the door and turned to his companion, “Come on in.” What was once a patient’s room was now a break room.
Brent sat on a molded plastic chair at a table reminiscent of a high school lunchroom. He watched as coffee was poured into two canary yellow porcelain mugs.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Two of each----please.”
Brent wrapped his hands around the mug placed before him. He stared at the wavy coils of steam streaming upward from the dark liquid until he heard, “Pretty rough, hunh?”
Startled, he looked up into the face sitting across the table from him. “What?”
“Dealing with your dad. Pretty rough.”
“I’m sorry. I know he’s been a burden on you all. But I really appreciate everything you all have been doing for him.”
“Oh. You’re welcome. That’s what we’re here for. But that’s not what I meant. I meant it must be pretty rough for you.”
“I guess.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job.”
“I’m not really doing anything. Just sitting there.”
“That’s not true. You’re doing a lot. You’re helping him through something that could be very frightening for him. You’re keeping him calm.”
A twinge of guilt shot through Brent. “By lying to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t even know where he is, what’s going on! Whenever he starts talking like he’s somewhere else, I go along with it and let him believe it.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s my father! That’s what’s wrong with that! I’m not supposed to lie to him.”
“So I suppose you never lied to him while you were growing up?” The nurse smugly sipped his coffee.
“That was different.”
“Right. Now it’s okay.”
“How is it okay? What makes it okay?”
“Look. Your dad is dying.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry. But it’s true. And sometimes when----that----is happening,” he did not want to use the word ‘dying’ again, “a person’s mind can shift out of reality and into a place where it feels comfortable, happy, safe. Think of it as life’s ultimate defense mechanism.
“Shouldn’t I tell him the truth? That way he could face what’s happening.”
“Why?”
“So he could deal with it.”
“Deal with what? The fear? The panic?”
“But he----“
“Deep down he knows. He is dealing with it. Just not in a way you understand.”
“So what can I do?”
“Just what you’ve been doing. Be there for him. Let him be happy. Protect him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brent’s father told his son to pack up their gear to secure it inside. The Captain wanted all passengers inside the cabin because a nasty storm was headed toward them.
Reeling in his line, Brent asked, “How nasty?”
“Any storm when you are in the ocean is pretty nasty.”
“So are we going to head back to land?”
A noticeable pause preceded the reply. “No. We’re going to ride it out.”
“Cool!”
“Yeah. Cool.” His father carried a red cooler and tackle box to the cabin.
Brent sat on that cooler pressing his knees against his chest and resting the soles of his feet atop that cooler. Ignoring the sight and smells produced by those passengers whose stomachs were being defeated by the storm, he struggled to maintain his balance so he would not fall onto the deck as the small vessel rocked violently.
“It’s kind of like being on a roller coaster. Isn’t it, Dad?”
“Yeah. A roller coaster.”
“It’s kinda fun, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. Fun.”
The curt responses suggested to Brent he was not being given all the information. It was easy for him to stifle the feeling of anxiousness by thinking, ‘He’s my father. He would tell me if anything was wrong.’ To make sure, “Is everything okay, Dad?”
“Yeah. Fine.” At that moment, two mates emerged from below deck, their green waders covered to above the knee with a viscous black residue. “I’ll be right back.”
The crewman his father approached shook his head negatively to a question unheard by Brent before spinning on his heels to leave the cabin to ascend to the wheelhouse.
His father returned conspicuously more talkative, “Well, it’s official. This trip is pretty much a wash. Sorry about that.”
“Next time will be better.”
“Yeah. Next time.”
As his father went on to tell his son when ‘the next time’ could be and how much of a catch ‘the next time’ would produce, Brent watched as the members of the crew, including, occasionally, the Captain, ran to and fro around the boat and in and out of the familiar door. During the activity that continued for an hour, Brent would not allow himself to believe anything except his father’s earlier statement as to the condition of things: “Yeah. Fine.”
Brent could not help but experience a sense of relief as he heard the engines roar to life. Shortly after, the boat added forward to its already heavy rocking and rolling motions.
During the craft’s slow voyage toward shore, Brent intermittently looked at his father to give the impression he heard what had been said by smiling and nodding his head in agreement even though the man’s words were being drowned out by the combined sounds of the grinding machinery and the pounding rain. Mostly the boy stared out the window watching the storm attack the tiny craft.
When the first rays of daylight appeared as the storm clouds broke and the rain subsided allowing the boat to pick up speed Brent realized their journey home had passed the two-hour mark. By the time they reached shore it was almost ten a.m.
While they unloaded the gear and packed the car, the mate who provided the dry clothes apologized to Brent explaining his clothes, including his favorite boots, had been ruined in the oily water below. He would have to wear the fishing outfit home.
Father and son were silent for the drive home and most of the unloading. When they were nearly finished Brent had to ask, “Dad, what was really going on out there? Why was there so much water? And oil? Enough to ruin my clothes?”
“The engines broke down.” He paused. “And the oil tank cracked. That’s why we weren’t moving.”
“What about the water?”
“A seal on the hull popped, too. So we were sort of taking on water.”
“Sort of?”
“We were sinking.”
Though Brent had already guessed the truth, he was not sure at which he was more surprised, his father’s confirmation or the calmness at which he made it.
The recent memory of his panic flashed through Brent’s mind. “Sinking? What do you mean we were sinking? Don’t they have pumps for that?”
“Normally. But they need the engines in order to operate. That’s why the mates kept going down there. They were bailing the water out by hand. When they got enough of it out to stay afloat, the Captain went down to repair the engines. But what are you worried about? We made it back okay, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, I guess. But, Dad,” Brent felt childish about his impending confession, “I was really scared.” Brent received a comforting pat on the back when he turned to walk into the house.
Several feet away, Brent heard his father whisper, “So was I, Brent. So was I.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting at his father’s bedside Brent stared at the yellow coffee mug that was resting inches from the red digital numbers. He wondered how he was supposed to protect his father, and what exactly was he supposed to protect him from? ‘Who’s going to protect me?’ he thought.
“Brent? How’d we do?”
“What’s that, Dad?” Brent stood and put his hand lovingly on the dying man’s chest.
“How’d we do? Did we catch a lot of fish?”
“Yeah. We did, Dad. Biggest haul ever!”
“That’s good.” He closed his eyes. “Strange, though. I don’t remember.”
Weakly and with his eyes still closed, his father reached across his body and placed his hand over his son’s, “Brent?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“We didn’t just go fishing, did we?”
“No, Dad. We didn’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” He opened his eyes and looked at his son. “What’s really going on? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” Brent gently patted his father’s hand that he now held between both of his own.
The man was almost asleep when he startled his son by suddenly opening his eyes. “Brent?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“I’m scared.”
Brent stared into his father’s eyes with a comforting smile on his face. He gently brushed a few stray hairs from the man’s brow with his fingers. He continued to soothingly stroke his fingers along his father’s hairline.
When he was sure his father had fallen asleep, Brent sat down again, looked at his father and said in a whisper, “So am I, Dad. So am I.”

SPIRITUAL BACKORDERS by Shawn O'Shea

2006-09-06T15:03:00.000-05:00

"Hello?"

"Tanner? This is Steve."

"Hey! How the hell have you been? So, what? You only call me once a year now?"

"Yeah. Been busy working."

"How are things?"

"My crew just got a evaluation and got an eighty-five percent quality rating."

"Congratulations!"

"I wanted one-hundred."

"You always were a hard-assed boss! That's whay I quit. I'd rather only deal with you as a hard-assed friend."

"You quit because you're lazy!!"

"Tanner honestly did not know if Steve had insulted or teased him. "Yeah, well, it's in the writer's handbook that we have to be."

"Listen. I have a favor to ask. Shelly, my oldest girl graduates in two weeks and has been chosen valedictorian."

"Awesome! You must be really proud!"

"It means she did better than everybody else in her class, which isn't too difficult considering how lazy kids are today."

"Oh."

Steve continued, solemn and business like, "She just read us her speech."

"How is it?"

"It's okay considering her age. I think it can be better, but I don't think she can do it herself. I want to send her over there so you can help her punch it up a bit. Just correct her mistakes, show her a few little secrets. You know, put a professional polish on it."

"That's fine, but does she want my help? After all, it is her speech."

"Her mother is up with her now trying to get her to stop crying. She ran to her room in tears after I told her I really didn't like it. Told me I never loved her and never approved of anything she ever did. Can you believe it? Kids!"

Tanner believed Shelly was probably right. "No. Can't hardly believe it."

"She has to learn that all through life there are going to be people who are going to want more no matter how much you give them and there is no such thing as good enough. Might as well learn it from her father first."

Tanner was stunned.

"I'll send her over now. Her curfew is ten. I'll extend it to eleven if you think the extra time is needed."

"Fine. Send her over."

"Make sure you are brutally honest with her."

"Um....okay. I will. Somebody is at my door. Send her over and I will talk to you when we are finished. Bye."

Tanner stood there for a moment trying to conceive that man's attitude with his own daughter. He had known Steve since middle-school, and in all that time he never saw the man express any emotion, good or bad, even when his own parents were killed in a violent car crash. But to tell your daughter her valedictorian speech was not good? The man simply must be a void. Just a shell walking around with no soul!

"No soul? Where did that thought come from?" He hurumphed as he walked into the kitchen and threw a slab of two-day old pizza into the microwave. "People are people. Not vehicles for some unseen spirit!" The beeping told him his pizza was finished. He took a bite as he walked to his recliner and said with a full mouth and hot melted cheese dripping down his chin. "Who am I trying to convince? Me?" Tanner finished his pizza.

He awoke to the doorbell, surprised he had dozed off, considering he was not tired when he sat down. As he stood to answer the door, on phrase repeated in his mine, "You're almost here. You'll be fully aware soon." All he knew was that someone, something, in his dream he just had said it to him. he was oblivious as to its meaning.

The person ringing the doorbell was a stunningly pretty young girl with glowing yellow-blond hair that looked like a piece of satin flowing like a veil to the middle of he back. What struck him most was how pretty she was even with her pathetic frown and sad, puffy, brown eyes. She was looking at her feet trying to avoid revealing she had been crying.

He decided to be fooled by her charade. "You must be Shelly, Steve's daughter. Actually, from your recent accomplishment, I will probably have to start saying he is Steve, Shelly's father." The comment made her look up and briefly smile.

Good, he thought, Steve hadn't completely destroyed her. "Come on in. My name is Tanner O'Bannon."

The girl came in and sat on the edge of the couch, still with a downward stare. With her right arm outstretched she said, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. O'Bannon.

Tanner shook his guest's hand and sat in his recliner. With a jerk he kicked up the footrest. "Hey, if you and I are going to collaborate on something you have to get something straight right now!"

Shelly looked up at him with an expression that she knew she had done something wrong and was obediently waiting for him to properly scold her. "What is that, sir?"

Tanner paused when he heard the voice from his dream again, "You are doing the right thing. You're almost here. You'll be fully aware soon."

"None of this Mr. O'Bannon crap! Call me Tanner." Another small bud of a smile began to sprout from her mouth. He felt good at having been able to erase her frown. "Now your dad wanted me to teach you some of the secrets about writing. Well, secret number one: make sure you have something to munch on and drink at all times." He indicated his preparedness by lifting up a bottle of people and pointing to a half-empty bag of chips on the coffee table. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes, please."

"That brings us to rule number two:" the little banter, he noticed, started Shelly's smile to bloom further. She untensed and sad back on the couch. "Good writers, the best writers serve themselves and help themselves to anything they want in the kitchen of any other writer's home they happen to be in."

She looked perplexed.

"That means the kitchen is thataway! You're virtually a high school grad-gee-ate now, and, in my bood that means you can officially start your career. Well, start it by following rule number two!"

Shelly giggled as she suddenly understood. She got up and went to the kitchen. She hollered out, "Anything?"

"That's what I said!"

She came back to her new partner with a piece of cold pizza in one hand and an unopened bottle of beer in the other. Tanner jumped up and grabbed the bottle. "Give me that! You can keep that!"

The girl who showed up despondent now let out a loud, boisterous belly laugh. The laughter continued as she went back into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of pop for herself and returned and sat cross-legged on the floor.

"Rule number three:" Tanner said in a pseudo-stern voice, "NEVER scare me like that again!!"

While she ate her pizza, Tanner thought it best to describe his long journalism career, the titles of his five published novels, the two awards he had won, and he felt he should give her a synopsis of the screenplay he had currently been working on.

Although it had not been his intention, he had impressed Shelly with his verbal resume and told him she probably would not ever be as good as him, although she would like to be.

"Who know, you might even end up being better! But for now, your dad said your speech needs a little punching up."

"Yeah. He said it was poorly written and that my comments to my classmates are too childish and immature." sadness started to return.

"What do you think?"

She too the posture and attitude of a proud writer. "I think it is perfect. I think I put a lot of thought and effort into it and that every word I used I chose carefully." Her voice went to a whisper as her eyes descended in shame. "I think my father just doesn't understand what I am trying to say or who I am saying it to. I think he wants me to write something with the attitudes that I am going to present this to the U.N. World Security Council."

"Well, I bet you're right. I bet it's a fantastic speech. However, don't get caught in that trap of saying your work is perfect. I still find things I wish I would have worded differently even after I see a piece published."

"Really?" She was hooked. She wanted to know more. Much more.

"Really. Read me your speech. I want to hear it."

Happy to oblige, Shelly stood, clutching her speech and went to the center of the room. She cleared her throat, glanced at her work and with dignity and poise began to recite.

Tanner was impressed not only with her words, but also by her presentation. She did not need to refer to the papers in her hand nor did she pause or stutter. When she finished, she took her earlier seated position. Apprehensively she asked, "How was it?"

"Incredible!"

She glowed. "Do you really think so? I mean is there anything you would change? Did I make any mistakes?"

"Change? I wouldn't dare! It wouldn't be your speech then. Howdever, if you want me to, I could make a few constructive criticisms on it."

"What? Tell me!" She was truly excited to have a professional writer evaluating her work.

Tanner ended up on the floor facing her. He made his suggestions and she drank them in. He was thrilled when at two or three of his comments she successfully argued her point of view.

The actual rewriting took only an hour. She continued to sit and talk and he enjoyed it as much as she did. He enjoyed it so much that he called Steve and told him they were almost there, but she would probably need the curfew exception. Steve's only comment was, "Whatever it takes to get her to do it right. Tell her not to be late."

Tanner thought what an ass Steve was but quickly put him out of his mind as the girl continued gushing her whole life history to him. She revealed so many things. It was almost as if she had been waiting to have someone actually be interested in what she had to say. She told him how much she really liked school, her favorite teachers, favorite movies, books, music groups. She even told him a secret----that she and her boyfriend were very much in love and were planning to elope to Las Vegas when they turned eighteen.

She also talked about her father in a way that showed Tanner the young girl in front of him was mature beyond her average peers. "I know I'm important to him. But more like an asset than a daughter."

Tanner felt the need to comfort her, "I wouldn't say that----"

"Oh, it's okay. I figured out a long time ago that he doesn't really love me. Me, my mom or my brother and sister. But that's only because he doesn't know how to. I don't know if you noticed, but my dad doesn't know how to feel anything. I feel sorry for him, really. I love him so much and would do anything to let him understand, even just a little, how happy I am. I think my life is perfect. Oops! I shouldn't say that, should I?----Always room for improvement?"

"No, Shelly. I think you can correctly use the word perfect to describe yourself."

When she left she gave him a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek, a hug and kiss like she would give her father if she thought he would feel anything if he did. Somehow Tanner knew that for those few hours he was the emotional surrogate father she had needed her entire life. She spent seventeen years with him in just four hours. This made him feel his own brief sense of perfection. Then the voice came, "You're almost here. You'll be fully aware soon."

When the door closed behind Shelly, Tanner had a tingling chill rush through his body. The part of him that always needed concrete explanations told him it was just a breeze from outside.

Not tired, but so emotionally satisfied, he thought he might as well just go to bed and let his first ever perfect day come to a close.

His body instantly surrendered to sleep when he curled up under his fluffy down comforter.

"You're almost here. You'll be fully aware soon."

Tanner did not recognize where he was nor did he remember traveling to where there was. He then suddenly realized he also did not remember waking up and starting his day to be able to travel anywhere.

"You're almost here. You'll be fully aware soon."

"Where!? Where am I almost, and what is it I'll be aware of!? Come to think of it, who the hell are you!!?"

He noticed a feeling of standing on a moving sidewalk when he heard the voice playfully laugh and repeat, "You're almost here. You'll be fully aware soon."

"But who are you!?

"You. Me. It. All."

Just twelve hours ago, that answer would have set Tanner off in a rage. Now not only did hi understand the answer, he understood that it would not have been the answer that enraged him, it would have been his frustration at not being able to understand. He was feeling odd, although the oddness came from knowing that he was now fully aware, yet he was not sure of what it was he fully aware.

He now saw that his being was not in the familiar solid form he had known for the past thirty-four years, but was fluctuating between the form he knew and many others, some of which were colors, light, shapes and some things even his own imagination could not define. He was also aware even with the voice coming from somewhere around him, he was feeling a sense of oneness, much different from the loneliness he frequently experienced.

But the oneness was made more noticeable when it disappeared and he felt the warmth and joy of something? someone? else.

"Thank you so much for your help. I never had anyone understand me, all of me, the way you did."

"You're welcome." Tanner saw another fluctuating being in front of him. "Who are you?" For a brief second, both being went into forms he recognized; they were him and Shelly sitting cross-legged across from each other. Then, just as quickly, they shifted back to---what he did not know.

Without having to ask, he knew what had happened: while driving home from his place, Shelly's car was struck by another vehicle. He knew she did not die instantly, but the moment she realized she could die, that when her soul realized her body would die, she let go and did so willingly. Did so because she realized she could do something she wished she could do.

"You did this for your father?"

"I did this for the physical vehicle that was the father to my most recent physical manifestation. I know now, as you now do also, the reason Shelly's father and many people like him seem so empty and void of emotion, feeling or caring is because physical containers are easy to create. You are in a time when procreation just happens without thought or concern to its ramifications. It happens so much that there are not enough souls to always fill those containers. Without a should, a human lives, but a being is not present."

Tanner now understood his friend Steve perfectly. He also understood what this being in front of him was planning. "That person who was your father may have been empty, but you still grew to love him."

"And I am going to be the soul of that person so he can experience and know the happiness, and sorrow, his daughter knew."

Tanner repeated what Shelly had said to him, "'I love him so much and would do anything to let him understand, even just a little, how happy I am.' That's what you, Shelly, told me earlier."

"And now I can. And part of that is because you helped fill the last need the being of Shelly needed----acceptance. Acceptance by someone she respected which in turn allowed her to truly accept herself. Her life was truly perfect because of that."

Just as quickly as the other being disappeared in front of him, he heard a high-toned bell. It was his telephone ringing which brought him back to the physical world. The clock he looked at as he uttered a groggy, "Hello?" told him it was two-thirty.

Shelly's mother was on the other end crying hysterically. He could not understand her actual words. He did not have to. "I'll be right over."

As he was driving to Steve's house, he passed and saw the wreck that had ceased from existence the Shelly this part of him knew. That also made him accept he now felt different. He was not sure how different, but good different. About life, people, everything. But he was also sad to sense that as open-minded as he had just become, there was a part of the physical side of his being which blocked the total understanding he had gained.

He began to feel slightly confused about a few things. The biggest of which was why it was Sarah who called and not Steve. He did not know Steve's wife well, but he did know that she could be extremely emotional at times. But Steve----Steve normally took care of things like that. As a matter of fact, he probably would have just let people find out when they read Shelly's obituary.

But then another odd sensation overcame him which stayed with him for the remainder of his drive, a sensation of sadness, loss and sorrow. But it was not those emotions which made him feel odd. After all, a beautiful, talented, intelligent young girl had just died. What was odd was deep down he felt a sense of joy for having met Shell and a sense of gratitude for being able to experience the painful emotions.

Clark, Shelly's brother answered the door when Tanner got to the house. "Hi. I'm Tanner O'Bannon. Your mom called and asked me to come over. Are your parents here?"

Holding back tears he believed teenage boys are not supposed to shed in front of anyone, Clark replied, "The cops came and took my mom to ID my sister. My dad is upstairs."

Tanner followed the staircase to the upper level, again wondering why it was not Steve who went with the police. He had to identify his parents once and did so without breaking down. Surely he could do this easily.

The master bedroom was directly at the top of the stairs. Tanner went in there expecting to find Steve. When he saw he was mistaken he walked back into the hallway. He stood there, thinking. He heard sobbing coming from two doors down on the left. Slowly, one step at a time, he walked toward the sound. The door was ajar. Carefully, as not to disturb the room's occupant, he pushed open the door. What he saw was something non one had ever seen.

Steve was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of what had obviously been the girl's bedroom. He created a nest for himself with all her stuffed animals, her award and several of her trophys. He rocked forward and back holding a framed photograph of Shelly and himself standing next to each other.

Tanner took off his shoes, entered the room and closely mirrored Steve who was crying uncontrollably. When he did, Steve looked at Tanner and just stared into his companion's eyes and continued to sob for several minutes. For a brief moment, Tanner's soul took over and he saw the being he had met in his sleep looking back at him through Steve's eyes. They were saying "Thank you" again. Tanner's own soul was able to answer back "You're welcome" without an audible word being spoken.

Tanner then noticed some papers Steve was clutching between his chest and the photo. Without being asked, Steve held them out, looked at them and said, "This is a rough draft of her speech. I found it in the trash can." He paused for a minute or two. "It is really, really good. I am so proud of her."

"I know." Tanner now started to cry along with Steve as they looked at each other some time more.

Steve managed to force the words, "She was such a happy girl."

"I know." Tanner sobbed harder, hugged his friend and did not let go until they were both finished crying.

The last thing either of them said for several hours was when Steve looked at Tanner to say, "Her life was truly perfect."

"ALTERNATIVE PERSPECTIVE" by Shawn O'Shea

2006-07-11T12:00:00.000-05:00

Kat Carter sat behind the wheel of her parked care absently staring through the windshield, only her subconscious recognizing the beauty of the gradual color changes the rising sun painted across the early morning sky. It was a blinding ray of light gleaming off one of the hospital's windows at just the right angle striking the corner of her right eye that finally brought her out of her trance but did not stop the inner mantra which put her in that state: 'Should I call or shouldn't I? Should I call or shouldn't I? Should I call or shouldn't I'.... Pure exhaustion and utter confusion about the conversation she had with her son the previous night made the simple decision seem to need a think tank of experts to make the proper choice.

Before she realized what she was doing, the distraught woman was pushing the speed dial button on her cel phone assigned to her son's San Francisco apartment. Suddenly a new thought infiltrated her mind, 'Oh, god!, please don't let HIM answer.'

HIM was Terry, her son's roommate and "friend." According to her precious baby boy (Kat would never stop thinking of he youngest child that way, despite her "baby boy" was now thirty-four years old), Terry was a freelance web-site developer who worked out of their apartment. That meant it was HIM who usually answered the phone.

Kat wanted to hang up when the ringing was replaced by the sound of someone fumbling with the receiver while trying to coordinate placing it to their ear. The obviously annoyed person who answered the phone managed a hoarse and groggy, "Hello?"

'Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! HIM didn't answer!'

Unaware she was sounding coy, "Steven? It's mom."

"Mom? What's wrong?" He still sounded groggy, but his annoyance turned into concern.

"Nothing's wrong, honey. I just think we need to talk about it some more."

Mother's baby boy was annoyed again. "Now!? What time is it?"

Kat glanced at the digital numbers in the center of her dashboard. "Well, it's six-thirty here, so I suppose for you it's nine-thirty."

Failing at keeping his sigh from sounding like a groan, Steven corrected his mother----again, "No, mom. I'm three hours behind you. Behind you!"

"Oh. So that means it's only...."

"Right. It's only three-thirty here."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"You never do." Steven recognized his statement for fact sounded like a harsh admonishment. "Don't worry about it. I'll be able to get back to sleep."

Not taking her son's hint to let him go, Kat expressed the thought which had just occurred to her, "Why didn't he answer?" When she had always made the same time conversion error, HIM was the one to answer the calls.

Knowing his mother did not intend her emphasis on the word 'he' to be as insulting as it sounded, Steven responded, "Terry? He spent the night somewhere else. He'll be home later tomorr----today."

"Already he's stepping out on you? I really think you should reconsider this whole thing."

Sounding more awake and more frustrated, "I really don't think Terry's out cheating on me right now, mom."

"And what makes you so sure?"

"Let's put it this way: If he is, he has bigger problems than I do."

"Why's that?"

"Because he went just down the hall to crash at his sister's."

"Oh. I see." Although she felt a tad bit foolish, Kat tried to salvage her original point, "Well, I still think you should step back from this thing. At least give yourself some time to think it over."

"Time? Terry and I have been together for seven years now! Living together for five of them! I think we've thought it over about as thoroughly as we can. How much more time do we need?"

Kat felt even more disheartened that she did before she made the call. Those experts in her head had made the wrong choice; Despite their misguided advice, she knew there was now no retreat from this battle. "But marriage!? Is that even legal?" She knew this was the point of the argument to offer a concession, "Couldn't you just live together and be happy?"

Steven was doing the best he could to control his rising anger. "You DID NOT call and wake me up in the middle of the night to start in on me! I am so over fighting about this with people! I just agreed to marry the man I love! I'm happy, damn it!, even if you're not!"

"People? What people have you been fighting with?"

"First you. Then Terry. Then Terry's sister because I fought with Terry. Now you again."

A feeling of guilty pleasure and satisfaction coursed through her. "You fought with Terry?" Now believing HE was in agreement with her, saying HIM's name came easily, "Doesn't Terry think you two should get married either?"

"That's not what we fought about, mom."

Deciding to push her luck, Kat asked hopefully, "Did he change his mind? Did he say marriage didn't make sense to him, so nevermind?"

"No, mom."

"What, then?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? It couldn't have been about nothing. Tell me! Tell me what you fought about."

Steven's final button had been pushed. "You! Okay!? We fought about you!"

Kat had never hung up on any of her three children, however, she was debating whether or not if now would be appropriate to do so for the first time. Fearing what his answer might be, she quietly asked, "Me? Why were you fighting about me?"

Without missing a beat, he responded, "When I told him all you seemed to really be concerned with was what would the rest of the family, your friends and your co-workers think about our plans, he called you an egotistical, selfish, cold-hearted bitch."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"And what did you say to that?" She closed her eyes in expectation of his stinging words.

"What do you think I said?"

She started to cringe.

"I told him not to call you that." He paused. "You're my mother!" Kat opened her eyes and let her defenses down. "Only I can call you an egotistical, selfish, cold-hearted bitch!"

Kat felt stung. As a tear slowly glided down her cheek, she asked, "Is that what you think of me? That I'm a bitch?"

"Yes. No. Well----not usually."

"And what does that mean?"

"Normally you're fine. At least with most things. But about this?----Yes, your are being a bitch."

"How can you say that!? All I really want, sweetie, is the very best for you."

"No, mom. You don't. All you really want is the very best for you."

"That's not true!"

"Oh, god!, why do you insist on doing this now?" The sound of Steven's loud sigh as he drew a breath for confidence into his lungs told Kat her son was now going to thoroughly explain his view on the matter. "All you've focused on since I called you with this news----this good news----is how people are going to look at you after they find out your gay son has made a lifetime commitment to someone he is in love with and who is in love with him."

The only rebuttal her brain could form was, "You have it all wrong. Honestly, Steven, I just don't want anyone to judge you negatively." Before thinking it would be adding fuel to the embers she added, "I never even told anyone that you're, you know, gay."

"Mom! I'm thirty-four years old! I'm single by your definition! And I live in San Francisco in an apartment I share with a man I have brought as 'my guest' to weddings and other major family functions! I think they have pretty much figured out I'm gay! I don't think it will be a big shock what Terry and I are planning!"

"But you know how they are, honey."

"I know how YOU are!"

"That's not fair."

"Look, mom, I really am too tired to argue with you right now! Can't we do this later tonight?"

"I'm not trying to argue. I just want you to explains to me, why marriage?"

"Would you be asking me this if I told you I was engaged to a woman?"

"Of course not."

"Then why the hell are you asking it now!?"

"Don't you dare yell at me, Steven Joseph Carter! I am still your mother!"

"I'm sorry. It's just that I'm tired and I'm frustrated and----" The tone in her son's voice suddenly switched from anger to one she could not quite define. "Mom, I have to go. I'll call you back in a little while." The connection died.

I can't believe he hung up on me! She became even more frustrated after trying to call him back and receiving only a busy signal. Why is he doing this to me!?

Kat snapped her phone shut, slit it into her purse and opened the car door which automatically released the confining safety belt. Instinct more than attention guided her feet toward the hospital entrance and then to the elevator which carried her to the eighteenth floor.

Though she arrived in time for the standard report given by the nurses from the previous shift, Kat was oblivious to all that was said. The only thought racing through her head were, how am I going to possibly explain all of this to the family?', 'What are they going to think of me?', and 'What did I do wrong to deserve this?'

"Kat? Kat? Kathy!" The sharpness of the shift supervisor's voice brought the distracted nurse back to her job.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

A look she read to be pity was on his face as the supervisor repeated, "I asked if you wanted to go home. Really, it's okay if you do. Everyone would understand."

"Why would I want to go home?" Kat was confused. "Understand what?"

"That you must be too upset to work."

"Why would you think that!?" Defensively she added, "What could I possibly be upset about!?"

"The news. We heard it over the radio just before you got here." He placed his hand on her arm just below her shoulder. "You must be devastated."

Kat felt as if the entire world had been shaken and it was now crumbling down all around her. 'The news!? How would it be on the news this fast!? Why would it even be on the news at all!!?'

"So do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Want to go home? Try to get a hold of your son or at least wait for him to call?"

"You don't understand. I tried to call the the line was busy."

"That makes sense. Everyone must be trying to get through."

'Everyone? Who is everyone and what do they know!? Why would Steven want to tell everyone!? Why is he DOING THIS TO ME!!?' "Yeah. I think I'll just stay at work. Here, at least, I can try to focus on something else." The last think she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts about Terry's and Steven's future plans. "I just don't want to think about it."

"Fine. But I'm giving you a light patient load. Our census is low, anyway."

"Okay. Who do I have?" Kat opened her little notepad to scribble the pertinent information about her charges.

"1802, 1811 A and B, and 1849."

"Four? That's all?"

"The rest of us just have five each. I told you, we only have thirty-four patients on the floor. Less than half the beds."

"What do I need to know about them?"

"It was all in report." Annoyed, "Weren't you paying attention? Are you sure you don't want to go home?"

"No. I don't want to go home. Just tell me again, please."

"0-2 was taken down for her surgery before we came on and is not expected back until tonight. 11A sleeps most of the time, except during meals, and only needs to be checked in on occasionally for I-V changes. B is actually being discharged today and 49 is Miss Nellie. You already know what's going on with her."

The eighty-seven year old Miss Nellie, as she insisted everyone call her, was the staff's favorite patient. She had been on the eighteenth floor for just over a month; originally admitted to set a broken arm sustained from a fall while on her way home from Sunday services, her stay had been extended after contracting a case of pneumonia which even the strongest I-V antibiotics were only slowly curing.

Kat began her duties for the day, only the fact that she had been working as a nurse for over thirty years keeping her from making any critical errors. However, the few instances when she wasdid manage to tuck away her feelings of embarrassment behind her concentration to her tasks, inevitably who would be interrupted by a coworker stopping to say, "Kat, honey, I just heard the news. It's awful!" or, "You must be terribly upset." Even the man from maintenance made a special effort to console, "I really hope your son's okay."

To each comment, Kat simply responded, "Thank you. But, I'll be fine."

It was not until she had finished discharging Mr. Jeffries and absently heading down the hall to Miss Nellie's room that she literally bumped into the hospital's chaplain. Twenty-four hours earlier, he was the personification of everything she believed in and knew to be true, but now he stood before her representing confusion and ambiguity.

With his hands on her shoulders, he inundated her with rote cliches such as, "God's will is mysterious.", "Have faith that everything will be okay.", and, "All we can do is pray."

"But, Father," she pleaded, " I have been praying. I've been praying for years!" She had to force herself not to let the tears flow from her eyes. "I feel like this is all my fault. That I have done something so horrible in my life to deserve this!"

"No one deserves this, my child. Not the people being affected and certainly not you." While Kat was trying to figure out why the chaplain had used the word 'people,' he added, "But natural disasters do happen."

Believing her baby boy's life had just been compared to a 'natural disaster,' Kat abruptly excused herself and started again for her destination at the end of the hall.

Without acknowledging the silver-haired lady's, "Good-morning, dearie." as she entered 1849, Kat allowed her knees to buckle which resulted in her landing in the tan, faux-leather chair usually used by patients' visitors. At last losing control of her emotions, she thrust her face into her hands and sobbed more uncontrollably than he ever had.

Many years of life had taught Miss Nellie the benefits of a good hard cry. So, the wise old woman patiently laid there propped up by her pillows. After a few minutes, when the upset woman's torrent of tears began to subside, she said in a tone, which had years ago become perpetually motherly, "Tell Miss Nellie what's the matter, dearie."

Kat tore her face from her hands, "Oh, Miss Nellie, it's awful! I'm awful!"

"Now, now. Things are never as bad as we believe them to be. Tell me exactly what it is that you think is so awful."

"I can't. You wouldn't understand."

"Honey, trust me. There aren't many things left about life I don't understand."

Kat sniffled. "This may be one of them."

"Try me."

Mustering the courage during the split second she used to inhale a deep breath, Kat decided to trust the old woman with her problem----part of her problem, "It's my son, Steven. He called me last night to tell me hi's getting married."

"That's the last thing to be upset about, dearie."

"That's not the problem." Kat sniffled again. "It's who he's marrying that's the problem!"

Very matter of factly, Miss Nellie asked, "Don't you like him?"

Stunned as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown on her, Kat desperately hoped she had misheard or misunderstood the question. Afraid of the response, but more afraid to leave it floating, "What do you mean? I love my son. What kind of question is that?"

Miss Nellie laughed. "Of course you love your son, dearie. I already knew that by how often and how affectionately you talk about him."

Despite feeling surprised at her apparent unconscious openess about Steven, Kat felt a sense of relief.

"I meant the young man his is going to marry. Don't you like him?"

"What!?" Kat wanted to run out of the room, out of the hospital, out of her life.

"Well?"

The words formed in Kat's mind were those of adamant denial; The words that formed by Kat's lips were, "But....how....how did you know that...."

"That your son Steven is gay? Dearie, I may be well past old and frail of health, but my mind is sharp enough to cut through steel." Miss Nellie saw her nurse still looked confused. "You may not have said the exact words, but you have mentioned your son and his 'friend' many times. On occasion you've put emphasis on the words 'his roommate.' Once even, I think you must have been tired, since it was the end of your shift, you said, 'my son and his partner.'"

Looking down in shame, "You must think I'm a horrible mother."

"And why would I think that, dearie?"

"Because my son is gay. Because he is marrying a man."

"Does the man treat Steven well?"

"Yes."

"Does the man love Steven?"

"Yes."

"And does Steven treat him the same and love him, too?"

"Yes, but...."

"So, dearie, what is the problem?"

"The problem is, what will people think!?"

"About what?"

"About their marriage? About Steven?" Kat paused. "about me?"

"People will think you raised your son to be the type of man who is capable of caring for and loving another human being. And, well, if hey don't care for who he loves, that's their problem, not yours."

Not willing to concede to common sense, Kat protested, "That's very easy for you to say, you don't have a son who's gay."

Miss Nellie sank back into her pillows. "That's true. I don't."

"See."

"My daughter is." Taking advantage of the shock she knew Kat was feeling, the elder mother added, "And she has been in a relationship, a marriage, with the same woman for thirty-three years now."

"And that doesn't upset you?"

"Why should it? Susan is very happy with her life. All my children are. What more can a mother ask for? Miss Nellie leaned her head forward. "Is Steven happy?"

"He says he is. I think so. Yes."

"Then stop worrying about what others think and start allowing yourself to be happy for him."

"How? How do I do that?"

"You just do it. Start by going to him right away and, as you hug him, tell him how much you love him and always will."

Feeling a bit lighter, Kat stood. "You're right. Thank you so much, Miss Nellie!" She hugged her elderly patient. "I'll call him tonight."

"You're welcome, dearie, but it would be better to see him in person. You can't hug him over the phone."

"I would love to able to do it that way. Unfortunately, there's no way I can."

"Yes, you can. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"It's not that." Kat started fluffing Miss Nellie's pillows. "It's just he lives all the way out in San Francisco."

"Oh, my! Really?"

Miss Nellie's sudden tenseness caused the nurse to stop what she was doing and apprehensively ask, "Yes. Why?"

"You haven't heard? Well, I'm sure it's okay. That he's okay." The old woman did not want to continue.

"Haven't heard what!? What's okay!? Who!? Tell me!"

"San Francisco had a major earthquake just a few hours ago." Miss Nellie increased the volume level of her television. "It's been all over the news."

The newscaster seemed to be speaking directly to Kat, who could do nothing but listen and stare at the tiny flickering screen. He informed her that around 3:42 a.m. West Coast Time, The City by the Bay suffered an 8.2 magnitude earthquake. He explained that reports were still coming in, but what they knew at that poing was in addition to three cables on the Golden Gate Bridge snapping, a large number of buildings had collapsed, including the Ferry Building at the Embarcaderro and the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park. As yet, there was no death toll, and there were major fires in almost every part of the city.

The worst of the fires, he went on to report, was in the Mission District which was over fifty-percent engulfed. As the news caster spoke, the picture flashed to show an aerial view of the ongoing devastation.

Through the billows of black smoke and mountains of flames, Kat recognized the suffering area as the neighborhood in which her son and is roommate lived. Still in her trance, she forced herself to speak, "I'm sorry. I have to go now." And with her movements matching the monotone sound of her voice, she turned and walked out of the room.

Acting purely on automatic, the semi-catatonic woman moved toward the nurses' station where her supervisor happened to be. "Kat, how are you holding up?"

Reaching below the counter where she had stowed her handbag, she answered him only with, "I'm sorry. I have to go now." Without further explanation, Kat, through instinct more than attention, guided her feed toward the elevator which lowered her to the lobby and out the hospital doors.

During her drive home, Kat was so distraught she did not notice the several accidents she nearly caused. She could only focus on every horrible thing she had ever said to her son, how she have more often told him how much she loved him because now it may be too late; What a horrible mother she was!

Several hours later, still in a surreal mindset, Steven's mother sat on the edge of her couch, television remote in hand, flipping back and forth through several major news channels listening to the same repeated facts, unrealistically hoping to hear a report stating specifically her baby boy was alive and well.

Every fifteen minutes, she picked up the phone and dialed her son's number. Each time her call was answered by a series of beeps followed by by a calm, cold voice telling her all circuits were currently busy and suggesting she try her call again later.

This routine continued for three days broken only when she would fall asleep due to exhaustion, although these perios of rest never lasted more than forty-minutes each. By the end of the second day, Steven's older sister and brother had joined their mother. Worried for their brother, they were equally concerned about their mother, whom they had to force to keep drinking fluids and eating.

With the exception of on of her children occasionally saying, "Here, Mom, eat this." or "Drink this." The family members sat in silence.

Mid-afternoon on the third day of being bombarded with information which seemed to grow worse as the hors passed (the only good news being the Mission District fire was now contained to only one block) Kat was finally awakened from her trance when the phone, which everyone now realized had amazingly remained silent the whole time, began to ring.

Attacking the receiver, Kat shouted, "Hello? Steven? Is that you? Are you okay?"

"Mrs. Carter?" The voice coming through sounded as if the person had been crying and just now stopped. "This is Terry. Steven's friend."

"Terry!? Where's Steven!? What's wrong with Steven!?"

"He----he's----" Terry began to sob.

"Oh, my god! Is----is he----well, is he!?"

Inhaling, Terry answered, "I'm sorry. I just had to recompose myself." He sniffled. "Steven's okay. He's alive. It's just----"

"Just what!?"

"It's just that as everyone was leaving after the initial quake, an aftershock hit and collapsed the building trapping several people inside----including Steven." Terry paused long enough to take a deep self-assuring breath but continued before Kat could ask any questions, "He was buried under the debris for almost thirty-six hours before the rescue team reached him. When they did, we saw he had suffered a concussion, several broken ribs and a shattered femur."

Using all she had to remain calm, "Where is he now?"

"They flew him to the USS Mercy, a Navy hospital ship right outside the bay."

"Was he conscious?"

Holding back his tears, "Yes, but barely. He was really weak from dehydration and his injuries." There was a seemingly eternal pause while both Kat And Terry searched for the right thing to say. Finally, unable to repress his need to cry any longer, Terry egan to bawl uncontrollably. "I----I----I'm sor----sor----sorry, Mrs. Carter."

Mother's instinct had told Kat her Steven was in good hands and would be okay. It also allowed her to now turn her attention to the upset young man she was talking to. "For what? Not calling sooner? I understand. All the lines were busy. Believe me, I know. I've been trying for----"

"No! Not that!"

"What then?"

"For----for----for not being with him when it happened! No," He loudly exhaled, "For it not being me instead of him!"

"Terry! Why would you say such a thing!?"

"Because I know how much you love him!"

Suddenly Kat understood everything Steven had ever told her. "You love him , too, don't you?"

"With all my heart. There's nothing I would do for him. It hurts so much knowing how much help he needs now and not being able to do anything for him That's another reason I wish it was me!"

"Don't be silly. I know Steven pretty well, and from how much he's told me he loves you, he's more worried about you're feeling right now."

"He told you that? He actually told you he loved me?" Terry cringed at putting the emphasis on 'you.'

"Of course he did. And why shouldn't he?" The pride in her next statement surprised even her. "After all, you two are getting married."

"Yeah, but,----he told me you didn't like the idea. That you tried to talk him out of it."

"What's not to like? You love each other and make each other happy. What more could a mother ask for?"

"He made it sound as if you hated the idea. Hated me."

"I admit I said some pretty insensitive things and I'm sorry for that."

"That's okay."

"But if you're going to marry my son, Terry, there are two things I am going to ask you do to. First, try to accept that when I get flustered, I don't always say what I mean or mean what I say."

She actually made Terry giggle. "Okay. And the other?"

"Call me Mom!"

"FIRST CRUSH" by Shawn O'Shea

2006-07-07T23:24:00.000-05:00

Today was one of those therapy sessions. You know the type: you think you spent the entire hour divulging every finite detail of every secret hidden within every shadowed recess of your soul, but she says she thinks you are holding something back. She says talking in metaphors and literary comparisons is not truly expressing my thoughts and my----dare I say it?---- feelings! Ugh!

I guess I rolled my eyes one too many times and too close to the end of the session because she had the audacity to give me----me!----a writing assignment. Of course, now I'm convinced she doesn't know what she's doing because when I asked what I should write about she just said my feeeeeeeeeeeeeelings! What kind of answer is that?

So here I sit, pen in hand, notebook on lap, with absolutely no clue how to begin. The only thought that comes to mind is I feel this is a waste of time! But, somehow, I don't think that's exactly what she wants.

What was it she asked me today? That's right: when did I first know I was gay? My, god!, who remembers!? Come to think of it, though, when did I first know?

There are so many first things about being gay I do remember: first boyfriend, first sexual experience, first gay bar, first gay porn......

Wait! What was that? A brain flash! A memory! But what was it? Oh! There it is again! Come on! Think! Think! Think! Aha! Here it is!:

I'm seven, no, eight-years-old. There was this older boy, he made me feel weak-kneed and, well, the only word to describe it, ga-ga every time I saw him. I was never able to figure out how old he was; I knew he had to be at least sixteen since he drove. And, oh!, that car! It was and incredible white sports car with a red stripe that outlined the hood. I have no doubt that when he drove you actually felt like you were going at a speed of Mach five!

He had an always perfectly groomed crop of black hair. He had a white racing helmet he occasionally wore; He looked hot in that, too, but I preferred him without it. His large, beautiful, long-lashed eyes were as black as his hair, not an ominous menacing black, however. Rather, they were like a pair of highly polished onyx gemstones which begged to be stared into. And I was more than willing to oblige!

I remember feeling so happy every time I had an opportunity to look into those eyes!

I can't forget that one outfit of his, either. It was a dark-blue, short-sleeved polo shirt with a white collar and white piping around the sleeve edges; gloves mad of light-brown leather; extremely tight, and, therefore, extremely erotic crisp white pants; a red ascot-like scarf, matching socks and black leather penny-loafers. And he never had a smudge or stain, he was always clean and pristine!

It makes me feel tingly just thinking about it!

Sadly, though, I didn't exist in his world. I had to watch him always be fawned over by her!, that emaciated, mousy-haired little tramp of a girlfriend of his. Trixie was her name. I couldn't stand her!

Who would think that after all these years I would still feel such jealously toward her?

But, sitting here with this happy reminiscence, it really doesn't matter that he and I always did and always will exist in different worlds. He will always be my first love.----my first crush!----my Speed Racer!!

"STRAWBERRIES & JELLYBEANS" by Shawn O'Shea

2006-06-29T10:47:00.000-05:00

Ellie found herself walking down the dirt path bordered by various types of vegetation and shrubbery. She could not help but notice the freshness of the air, the clear open sky not marred by the sight of poles, wires and towers.

The place seemed familiar to her. Famliar in a way that it reminded her of several places all at the same time, though she knew she had never been there nor to any place like it.

Before she finished a full twenty paces, Ellie noticed something she had long since forgotten. "Strawberries?" She knelt before the bush and picked one of the tiny red fruits and put it to her mouth and ate it. "I haven't eaten a fresh strawberry since I was a little girl." And remembering how good they were, she ate several more before she made an incredible realization:

As she looked at her bent knees and ran a hand over her straight back she was startled by a deep, calm voice. "That's right, Eleanor, you are kneeling. You are kneeling doing something you love but have suppressed for many years."

With ease she could barely recall ever having, Ellie stood and looked at the man before her. He looked like a farmer with his tan dusty boots and denim overalls which covered a blue and white plaid flannel shirt. His face looked windblown and strong; his cheekbones high, his eyes a soothing grey and his cleft chin with just a thin trace of freshly grown stubble. The only thing in his hand was an empty wicker basket.

Ellie knew a woman of her age should be afraid of a stranger who appears from no where, but for an unexplainable reason, she felt content and relieved that particular stranger was there. Then a brief flash in her mind pushed two words from her lips, "Uncle Calvin?"

The man smiled, "If you wish."

"Does this place belong to you?"

He continued smiling. "No, it does not."

She turned as she talked and looked over the fills ranging in shades of green speckled with colors of yellow and red and violet. "Where is this place? The closest I've ever seen is when my son lived in South Carolina. Is that where we are? South Carolina?"

"If you wish."

Ellie took a step close to the man. "I don't understand. What do you mean, 'if I wish.'?"

He brushed Ellie's cheek with his free hand. "Eleanor, this can be anyplace you like. I can be anyone you wish me to be."

"So this is a dream. Everything can and probably will all change without even a moment's notice."

Ellie was not used to tying to figure things out on her own; She was born in an era when what your parents told you was gospel. When a young fill grew up and married, her husband was the only authority on every subject. Finally she reached an age where her children and grandchildren explained things to her the way the thought things should be explained to her.

"You are asleep yet you are not dreaming."

She thought at this point she should feel a sense of frustration, however, the only feeling she had was a desire to ask more questions. "Please, Uncle Calvin, I am not an exceptionally smart woman. I never went to more than the tenth grace since I had to start working to help my family, and that was almost a lifetime ago."

He handed her the basket. "Do not be sorry for your life's choices, Eleanor. You are and were a good woman, child, wife and mother." He slowly turned and started strolling farther down the path. "Deep down you know all you need to know, Eleanor. About me, about this place, about why you are here."

Instinctively Ellie followed the man, filling the basket with fresh strawberries as she walked. Neither said a word for a long time, yet she noticed if she stopped to pick a group of fruit, the man stopped and waited for her to continue following as he stood there looking at her, smiling a knowing smile.

The awestruck woman stopped picking the berries when the basket was three quarters full. She then began to concentrate on keeping up with the one she called Uncle Calvin.

"If this place doesn't belong to you, who does it belong to? Are they here? Will they be angry we are on their land? Should I offer to pay for the strawberries?"

"This place belongs to many people. No one of whom will be angry you are here. On the contrary, they will be very pleased when you arrive."

More riddles Ellie thought. "When I do arrive? I'm already here. I just don't know how I got here or where it is I am. Why can't you tell me any of that directly?"

He kept slowly walking forward. "At the present time you are a visitor here."

"Who am I visiting? Who invited me?" As Ellie asked the questions, she still followed her friend. "Please answer me!" She realized it was the first time she had raised her voice since she arrived. She also noticed she was becoming overwhelmed by more familiar emotions. "You didn't when I met you, but you are scaring me now. Who are you? Where are you taking me!?"

Continuing to walk, the man responded, " I am taking you no where. You are following me."

Frustration now joined Ellies fear, "Fine! Then where am I following you?"

"You enjoy jellybeans, do you not, Eleanor?" He stopped.

A sudden calm again overcame her. Not even concerned with the mystery of how this man would know such a little detail about her she replied, "Very much. My husband used to bring them to me when we first got married. But the last time he did that was the day before he went off to the war. I suppose I could have----"

"Then you should have some now." With his still warming smile, he turned to face her.

She looked around and saw an amazing sight; large flowery bushes all with broad yellow waxy leaves with thick intertwining stems and on each grew a special fruit of its own. However, when she looked closer she saw it was not fruit which grew. "My god! Jellybeans! They're actually growing on the vines!"

Before she thought of asking how such a thing could be possible she began frantically picking the candy off the plants as if they would suddenly disappear if she did not work fast.

As the man stood there and watched her he recited, "I promise, my sweetheart, with eyes that sparkle and hair that gleams, we'll never ever part, when we sit in fields of strawberries and jellybeans."

Ellie quickly turned her head and smiled and laughed. "That's right. Our fields of strawberries and jellybeans. Walton mailed me that poem when he first left for the war." She wiped a laughing tear from her cheek. "God, that poem was awful. But at the same time, I thought it was the loveliest poem I had ever read. You know, I still have that poem tucked away in a shoebox somewhere."

"I know." He began his walk again.

She ran to his side as he gradually picked up his pace. "Wait. Please tell me. How did you know that poem? I've shown that poem to no one----ever. Did you know my husband? Did he tell you that before he died?" Her heart sank. Her tears of joy quickly turned to tears of betrayal. "It was supposed to be ours. In the letter that came with the poem, he asked me not to tell another living soul. He even promised to keep it a secret for the rest of our lives." She was now following behind him again. "Why would he have done that to me?"

"You will know all the answers soon."

"You keep telling me all these things I will know soon. But I want to know when. Tell me that so I can at least know how long I have to wait."

"How long you wait is up to you."

She felt confused again. "I don't understand."

Ellie almost bumped into the back of the man as he suddenly stopped and turned. He was still smiling as he put both his hands to her shoulders. "Eleanor, you are meant to be here, however, not at this exact moment. You are not meant to stay here until you go back----"

"Go back!? Go back where? I don't even know where I am!"

"----until you go back and accept certain parts of your life."

The last statement shook her body with fear. "No! You are wrong! I don't even know what you mean!"

He took a jellybean out of the basket and put it in her mouth. "Yes, you do. As I speak, you are starting to understand what I say and what you must do."

"I don't want to be here! Tell me how to get back!"

"You must come here and come here to stay. But first you must go back and you do not need me to tell you how to do that."

Ellie stepped back and dropped the basket. "Get away from me! I know what you want me to do and I won't do it!" She turned and ran from the man at a speed she could not even remember running as a child. "Stay away from me! Stay away!"

As she put more distance between her and the man she thought was her uncle, her legs began to ache and her chest grew heavy. Her feet went numb and she fell to the ground and sobbed, shielding her head with her arms from an unknown danger, "I won't do it! I can't!"

She continued to cry until she went back.

* * * * * * * * * *

Ellie stood in the path again. "Uncle Calvin! Please come to me. I'm sorry! I know what this place is now! I know what I have to do now! I'm just----afraid."

As she slowly turned calling out to the man she had seen before, he appeared behind her. "There is no need to be afraid. Have you accepted?"

"No. I can't. If I accept, I won't be able to go back. I can't do that to them."

"Do you understand what you are doing to them now?"

"It won't last long. Everything will be fine."

"Everything will be fine. If you come here."

"I can't do it. Not yet."

"When do you think you should?"

"When they are all okay. When I am no longer needed."

"Look carefully at them. Do you think you are still needed there?"

"Family is important. They need me to be there."

"Both your son and daughter are leading successful and productive lives."

"What about their children?"

"What about them?"

"I have to be there for them."

"Your grandchildren are starting out on their own lives."

"They are doing good. Their parents raised them right, instilled good values, but I still need to
be there for them." A single tear rolled down her cheek.

"Why? Tell me about your grandchildren."

"I have two beautiful granddaughters. They both have wonderful careers. The one has met a wonderful and handsome young man who seems to make her very happy. She's talked about marriage. She even wants to wear my wedding dress."

"And your three grandsons?"

"Oh, the boys. Each of them is the most handsome men I've ever seen. The middle of the three is on his way to financial success. He just bought a car that the payments alone are half the total of Walton's first car."

"He sounds as if he is doing well. What of the two brothers?"

"The youngest, my baby, he has just started coming into his own. I think he's going to be quite a ladies' man. He just started a job which is teaching him about responsibility. A lesson his mother tells me he is learning slowly, but well."

"There is one more, is there not?"

"I'm proud of him and love him as much as all the others."

"But?"

"Well----he loves to talk. Talk about his dreams, his ideas, his plans. He's a wonderful writer. I
tell him so all the time. When ever he comes to see me he always says, 'Grandmom, I have a great new book idea, and after it's published I want you to be the first one to read it.'"

"How was his book?"

"He hasn't written it yet. Like i said, he likes to talk. Everytime he tells me that, I try to push
him along by saying, "You know, getting things published takes a long time. I don't think I'll be around to read it.' I try to sound down when I way it, but he always replies the same, 'Oh, don't worry, Grandmom, you're going to be around forever.' Truth is, I can't wait until he gets around to writing it."

"Do you think he ever will?"

"He will." She turned her back on him. "Someday."

"He needs your help to pursue his dream."

"I can't leave him. I promised I would be there for him."

"And he promised you something he has not put any effort into fulfilling."

"That's why he needs me there."

"That's why he needs you here. You know you will never see him realize his goal so long as you are there. But you can help him."

She spun around, tears welling in her eyes. "How can I do that here?"

"By letting go. You will help him realize that he must put actions into his plants less they die and it is too late."

Ellie's mind began to fill with answers to questions she didn't know she had. "You're right. I know it now. I've always known it. But he'll be heartbroken."

"They all will. But they will continue their lives in the course in which you saw them start."

"And he will finally fulfill his promise." The tears stopped and all the traces of pain she remembered faded. "I understand now. I am content with the way my life was. I am ready now. I am ready to die and come with you."

The man handed Ellie the basket she just now noticed he had been holding during their conversation. And now they both walked along, hand in hand, in the field of strawberries and jellybeans.

"TWO PAGES" by Shawn O'Shea

2006-06-06T07:58:00.000-05:00

Okay. I have my coffee, I have as good table, I have my chocolate biscotti. My laptop is booting up and-----should I have gotten the anise biscotti instead? I had the chocolate one yesterday. No. I like the chocolate. Concentrate! I need to write at least two pages today. Remember, my goal is no less than one page per day, hopefully more. But since I didn't get anything written yesterday, I need to write two pages today. Good! All booted up. Click that. Click that. Open that. There! All ready to start typing. Yeahhhhhhhhh. Just start-----to type. To type. Tooooooo type. What to type? Damn! It was all so clear in my head last night. All right. That's fine. I'll just start writing and I can always go back later and edit.

Had Trevor known when he rolled out of bed that morning

Rolled? Come on! I can do better than that! Climbed? No. Stumbled? That doesn't make sense. Hmmmm. Rolled. Rolled. Rolled. I don't know. I don't know. Oh, well, it'll have to do for-----Oh! I know!:

Had Trevor known when he rolled, bleary-eyed, out of bed that morning

A little better.

Had Trevor known when he rolled, bleary-eyed, out of bed that moring what his day was going to bring and just how quickly it was going to bring it, he would have shut off his alarm clock altogether and skip his morning classes. However, the first fifteen minutes after he opened his eyes were going to begin a lesson for the second-year journalism student that no college course could ever teach him.

Okay. First paragraph down. Always the hardest. It's not great, but like I said before: I can always go back and edit later. Now! To continue. Oh. I need a refill. Already? Wow! The coffee's good today. Alright. I'll get this first and then it's down to serious work! Really. No goofing off. I need to finish two pages.

Hmmmm. He didn't charge me for my refill. I wonder if he likes me. He was kind of flirting with me. Nahhh. He probably just forgot. He-----Concentrate!

Hair tousled and clad only in his shower shoes and red

No.

.....purple

No.

.....green

No.

.....orange

Damn it! Why am I making this so difficult? Let me just keep it simple for now.

Hair tousled and clad only in his shower shoes and a white terrycloth towel wrapped tightly around his svelte waist

Was that so hard?

.....which helped accentuate his muscular calves and smooth six-pack abs,

Six-pack. Should I simply get a six-pack and a movie tonight or just go out? It would be cheaper to-----Will you stop it!? Concentrate! You can make plans later.

.....Trevor closed his dorm-room door behind him and, still groggy for sleep, lazily dragged his feet down the hall to the shower room. As he got to

Got to? I don't think so.

.....neared the showers, the sound of running water grew increasingly clearer drowning out any notice of his flip-flopping footwear. Since he did not hear any voices spouting the usual immature college-boy dorm-shower vulgarities, Trevor assumed whoever was in there was alone; at least he hoped so and that whoever it was had almost finished and was about ready to leave. Still in the closet about his sexuality, the handsome college sophomore was extremely uncomfortable showering with his fellow male classmates, always afraid that one thing which would give him away would happen.

Hee-hee.

Like a fog-bank, steam suddenly rolled into

Rolled again! Damn! Whatever. I'll fix that later.

.....into the hallway. It was so thick and hot when Trevor entered the black marble-tiled room that he was not sure if the dampness he felt on his forehead was moisture or sweat. He did know in order for that much steam to build up, the hot shower would had to have been on all night.

"Hello!" Suddenly feeling uneasy, Trevor slowly moved toward the open-bay shower. "Is anyone in there?" Receiving no answer, he commented to himself, "Some idiot must have been too drunk last night to remember to shut the water off."

Okay! I'm no a roll now!

Having heard no response, Trevor comfortably stripped the towel from his waist and hung it on

That boy has the most beautiful eyes. Boy? Listen to me! He's probably only a year or two younger than me. I wonder who he is. I've never seen him before. He'll probably just order his coffee to go since there are no empty tables. Damn! Why did this couple have to just sit down next to me!? Oops! He caught me looking at him. But he smiled and nodded 'hello.' That's a good sign. Smile back. Smile back! Okay, now look away and get back to work. Put him out of your mind. It's pointless anyway. There's no place for him to sit. Let me see where I left off.

Having heard no response, Trevor comfortably stripped the towel from his waist and hung it on That boy has the most beautiful eyes. Boy? Listen to me! He's probably only a year or two younger than me. I wonder who he is. I've never seen him before. He'll probably just order his coffee to go since there are no empty tables. Damn! Why did this couple have to just sit down next to me!? Oops! He caught me looking at him. But he smiled and nodded 'hello.' That's a good sign. Smile back. Smile back! Okay, now look away and get back to work. Put him out of your mind. It's pointless anyway. There's no place for him to sit. Let me see where I left off.

Doh! I didn't even realize I was still typing. Ughhhhhh! Highlight that, down to there. Good. Now-----delete! Now pay attention!

Having heard no response, Trevor comfortably stripped the towel from his wais and hung it on one of the brass hooks just outside the shower bay. Even though he still believed himself to be alone, the shy young man modestly covered himself with his hands as he walked toward the already running shower. It was not until he felt something under his left foot that he looked down to see he had stepped on someone's outstretched hand that he realized he was not the only person in the room. Looking closer, he realized the hand belonged to Jon MacCarthy, a professor in the math department and coach of the school's lacrosse team. And, considering that he did not move when stepped on, combined with the fact that he was fully clothed, and there was a dark red spot staining his dress shirt in the center of his chest, he was definitely very dead!

What? Oh, my god! Mr. Eyes just asked if he could share the table with me! What to I say? Of course I want him to sit here. But I really need to finish two pages today! Maybe I'll let him join me but just keep working. No. That would be rude. I don't know. I don't know. You know what? I've done enough today. Good. He sat-----oh! those eyes! Click. Click. Click. And it's saved. He said his name is Josh.

I'll just write three pages tomorrow!