The Stories of Dan Marvin

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Dan's Story Page!

Hi and welcome to my story page. I've been writing stories since... well, since I learned to write, I guess. These are a few of the stories I've written in the last few months and I'll be adding new ones as I get inspired. Feel free to check back often!

All items © 2000,1999 by Dan Marvin, please don't sell, copy, or distribute without author's permission. If you like anything here and want to publish a book of stories like these and pay me lots of money, please email me at: dan@gcdays.8m.com

I've slowly started adding some of the older "classic" stories to the page, I'll continue from time to time. Some of these were suggested by Bob Bishop. If you have personal favorites you'd like to see, please let me know and I'll add them. The dates on the classics are when they were added, not when they were written.

You can't really characterize anything as a war where there are no prisoners, no battle lines, and the object is to have sex with the enemy. Still, there's something going on between the sexes that isn't exactly easy to define. There are a lot of books out there that are supposed to help you understand the opposite sex. Generally they consist of 200 pages that can be boiled down into "we're all insane, deal with it." What the books do accomplish, however, is to point out that never before in our history have man and woman taken the time to get to know one another. It's not really a war between the sexes as much as trying to find some common ground.

Back in caveman times, the big priorities were drawing stick figures on the walls and trying not to get eaten by tigers. In between there was time for sharpening rocks into arrow heads so future generations could buy them for $12 apiece and making a baby a year or so, give or take. Somewhere a trial lawyer could really get rich if he could find a real Neanderthal to file a patent on arrow heads and ask for a percentage of the procedes in a class action suit, but I digress. The point is, there wasn't a lot of time for talking about PMS or discussing the merits of shopping vs ESPN. That and there weren't a lot of words for discussing these things either. Could it be that the proliferation of vocabulary spelled the end of harmony between the sexes? No, probably not, but it seemed like a cool question.

OK, so fast forward a few million years. The wild frontier of the old West was still in full swing. Men apparently dressed in trench coats and long sleeve flannel shirts in the middle of the desert and held women in high esteem. Mainly because their weren't many and what there were were always running into their houses and boarding up the windows when the James gang ran into town. When they were out of the houses, they had box suppers at the grange and wove wool and made a baby a year or so. There wasn't a lot of time to talk about why men won't cry or who was supposed to take the Bison out to thaw for tomorrow's dinner. There also wasn't refrigeration.

So, now, we have refrigerators and a vocabulary and Rikki Lake and maybe just a bit too much time and attention is devoted to talking about what makes us different. Men are allowed to be sensitive now and women can be trial lawyers and represent Neanderthals against the tourist concession industry. As I'd like to put it, we're in negotiations, trying to find out who gets what. Just some early indicators from the first sessions, women are going to keep the reproductive process and men get ear hair. There are still a few issues to be hammered out. Unfortunately, the police action just seems to be getting underway in earnest.

I for one am ready to declare a cease fire. I'm willing to go on record as the guy that waved the white flag. Here's all the dirt from our camp... we don't really care what you wear as long as it shows cleavage. Anyone who claims to be in touch with his feelings will never be invited to Monday Night Football. We sit around and talk about your bodies and what it's like to have sex with you. Farting is funny, pretty much all the time. Our insecurities usually deal with penis size and hair loss, not so much with how our butts compare to other men's. The reason we're not as secure after a few dates as we seemed at first is because you make us mental. Yes, we are jealous even if we say we're not. Shopping doesn't relax us, and never will. OK, I've spilled the beans from my side, who's willing to meet me halfway?

Through the sifting silt, a shaft of light penetrated. Still stunned from the rumbling torrent that used to be his apartment building falling down around him, Russ sneezed, then began to size up his situation. His left leg was trapped painfully beneath the remains of his coffee table, he could wiggle the toes which was a good sign. Perched on top of the coffee table was a sizable hunk of concrete, and on top of that was Mr. Bernsen's bathtub from apartment 3F. No sign of Mr. Bernsen, also a good sign.

He didn't know if it had been a bomb, an earthquake, or some more arcane disaster that had been following him his whole life. In fact, Russ didn't care all that much. The only way it effected him was in the degree of devastation rescuers had to wade through to find him. If there were rescuers. His first practical thought was "I can't count on getting rescued, if anyone is going to get me out of this, it's me."

The concrete wasn't going much of anywhere, and his leg was already showing signs of going to sleep. Reaching out to grab a piece of broken glass that lay close to hand, Russ began to cut around his sweatpants. When he had cut all the way around above his knee, right by the edge of the table, he carefully tried to slide his leg out. At first it didn't want to move, but eventually he got a burst of strength from the panic that began to assail him and the leg was miraculously free. Nothing appeared to be sticking out of or into the skin, so maybe he had lucked out. He tested the bruised extremity by stepping on it cautiously, apart from the tingle of too long without adequate blood it appeared to be sound.

Russ examined the rest of his body for cuts and scrapes. He had a few, but nothing serious and nowhere critical. The large slabs of concrete that had once been his building had saved his life. He wondered absently if the rest of his neighbors had been so lucky. But no time to dwell on that, other things were of a higher priority.

He didn't smell gas, although it was likely several gas lines had broken. There was no trace of smoke, although water distinctly ran from somewhere near him, he could hear the stream as it gushed from a broken pipe. He picked his away across the debris to where his front door had been, but there was no longer even and opening, the mess formed and underhand that tapered to nothing. It's funny how the mind works in situations like this "here should be the exit." Unfortunately for Russ, it wasn't.

The shaft of light began to attract his attention. He followed it up, through layers that had once been his own ceiling, through rubble that was the remains of his neighbor's apartment above him. The sun was coming directly from somewhere, so there had to be some way of getting out that way. He began to climb the pile of rubble, sliding sideways along two large slabs that he hoped were well supported, and breathing heavily when again he emerged into a relatively open area. This had, apparently, been the hall on the top floor. Still, the sunlight beckoned.

He would need a ladder, something to climb on. His best hope was the 2x4's exposed from the shredded wall of this floor. He dug and tore at two of them and, at last, they yielded. He worked his way up and his head burst out into the light. Russ was unprepared for what he saw. Everywhere, buildings had collapsed, the city was gone. If he was going to get out of here, he had to do it himself. He began to push at the remnants of the roof...

I miss my dad. It's tough to admit that, even to myself, but it's the truth. I just read a Reader's Digest article about a woman going through the death of her father and even now, after two years of time to heal all wounds, I found tears coming to my eyes. Little stuff like that chokes me up, reminders of a man I loved and respected a lot even though he and his life weren't always on speaking terms.

Dad died in April or early May, I was on a business trip and I had just gotten back from basically telling him goodbye when I got the call from my brother that I'd better get back there. When I got to the hospital six hours later, the room was empty and the nurses were very sorry but Mr. Marvin passed away a couple of hours ago. I had felt him go while I was driving there, I knew what I'd find when I arrived.

I was always thankful that I'd gotten to spend those final hours with him, Mom was so worn out that I told her to go get some sleep and I'd watch dad. He brightened up while I was there, shaved for the last time with a little of my help, brushed his false teeth as I'd seen him do 100 times before, and settled down a little even though he had the nervous energy of someone who knows the end isn't too far away. He knew why his family was there, not to cheer for his recovery but to make his transition out of this world easier than his time in it had been. I think he finally understood that all the time he spent chasing the American dream, he really had it there all the while in the form of a family that loved him and stuck by him.

The enduring legacy I got from my father was the ability to laugh through just about anything and the joy of everything funny. No joke was too risque for him, no laugh too cheap, life was best with a deck of cards in his hand and the three jokes he heard on Thursday on the tip of his tongue. I remember car trips where we joked about everything and anything, bouncing ideas off of one another fast and furious. I think that anyone who knows us outside of that situation would be surprised to find out that we not only spoke to one another, but we talked a lot. We had a bond that I still feel today.

They don't teach you how to mourn in school. There are plenty of books on the subject but as well intentioned as they are, they're all a little simplistic. Cry for awhile, get angry at him, maybe be depressed for a few days, and then move on. Maybe it is that simple and I just blew it, but I still feel the loss, and I don't really want to stop feeling it as strange as that sounds. Dad taught me a lot about life, some by positive example, and some by examples of what not to do. To some degree, his passing on means that I'm the dad now. I started to write that my safety net has a big hole in it now but it really doesn't, he handed me the net before he left and made sure I knew how to use it.

I guess I'll end up back where I started. I miss him and I wish he didn't have to die before he met his youngest grand-daughter. She's really pretty dad, you'd like her a lot. I'll try to be a good dad for her, like you were for me.

If you want to travel backwards in time, dust off your old tapes and play them a time or two. Despite years of braincell genocide, I can quickly place myself at a particular time and place that is conjured up by a song. I bring this up, not as a new theory, but as one that struck me on a walk tonight with my son. Let me back up a bit.

Adam bought a walkman at a yardsale the weekend before last. It was 3 bucks which was a good price for a Sony if it worked and worth the gamble if it didn't. A couple of double A's and a set of headphones scrounged from the junk drawer and he had a bonafide music machine. It replaced one that broke under mysterious circumstances, if you can call the hands of an almost six year old mysterious.

Once this technological marvel had been revived, it was time for a trip to the tape rack. He was fond of a tape of 50's greatest hits so maybe it was time for him to experience some new groups. I thought he'd like the Beatles but he didn't really take to them. I'm not sure if it's genetic, but he loved my favorite tape which had Paul Simon's One Trick Pony on one side and Blood Sweat and Tear's Greatest Hits on the other. Anyway, he had a tape in the player tonight when he asked to go feed the ducks at the pond and off we went.

As we were coming back, I heard him singing the lyrics to a W.A.S.P. song. They were a wonderfully bad hair band in the mid eighties with one album added to my collection when I was still deciding if I wanted to be a punk or not. I knew at that moment that the tape he had in was one that I had made in college of "Hard Rock." I smiled as he sang long forgotten lyrics, getting 80% or so right.

He handed me the tape player and ran on ahead to watch Rugrats, and I put it on and continued walking for a bit. Guns and Roses was on next, followed by some old Van Halen. It took me back to my room in the house, I remember making the tape vividly. I had searched through Auggie's room because he and Cards had some good hard rock, and I'd made a swing through the rest of the house too. Mostly, though, I was putting the one track from various albums I'd bought through my High School years onto a tape to play in the basement at an afterhours sometime.

I remember having a pledge (sorry, postulant) get me some beers as I cued up the tape player time and again, synchronizing it to my turntable which was suspended from the ceiling. That little master stroke of engineering actually worked well to dampen the shocks that came with living with 15 other guys in a 100 year old house. The tape had the wonderful hiss and hum of having been stolen from actual vinyl, it's tough to remember a time when making a party tape was the highest priority for my day.

I guess the most interesting thing about having my six year old hand me a piece of my past so he could go watch Rugrats was the contrast between then and now. Twelve years ago I didn't know that I'd have a wonderful wife and a great kid and another one on the way and live in Florida and... well, you get the picture. If I had known it then, I'm not sure if it would have given me comfort or scared the bejesus out of me, probably a little of both. It's good that music can take us back in time and probably just as well that nothing has been invented yet that takes us forward.

For me, it wasn't the purchase of the minivan that marked my passage into domestication, it was the Father's Day gift of a sidewalk blower. These loud contraptions have sprung up like mushrooms in suburbia the last few years and no self respecting suburbanite can get through life without one. I knew, as I stood in my button down shirt and cutoff sweats, blowing crap from the trees from one end of my driveway to another, that my transformation was complete. Like it or not, I was "dad."

It all begin innocuously enough. A pretty girl turns your head and after a few years of courting you decide that maybe you are the marrying type, after all. You make yourself promises that you'll never drive a Jeep Cherokee or spend Saturday afternoons cleaning the grill. "Life's too short! Besides, she's fun. We'll wait a few years, then maybe have a kid..." The wedding ceremony is like a big party. "This is great! All my friends are here and there's an open bar!" Of course, after the party your friends go home and you have a wife.

What becomes painfully obvious at that point is that you don't really fit in. Your realm of friends dwindles from individual guys that like to drink and fart and watch football to "couples." Unfortunately, almost all couples either have babies, are having a baby, or think you should have a baby. There's not much room for argument at this stage, you knew the rules going in and chose to ignore them. Either you're going to have a baby or you'll be ostracized by all couples everywhere.

So, why not? Let's have a baby. It won't change our lives that much. We can still have our couples friends over for cocktails while the baby sleeps. It will be fun! Well, it is fun but by now you're well down the road to owning a minivan and a <gasp> driveway blower. The baby comes along and all the stories you hear are basically true, they keep you up and smell funny and you never really know what they're thinking. There's a curious footnote here, though, babies are really cool, especially when they're yours. They force you to fall in love with them because they're so helpless. Face it, you're going down hard.

So, the baby grows up and it's yours and you can't give it back so you raise it and maybe have another one or two depending on how poor you really wanted to get. You buy sneakers and clothes and sneakers and food and sneakers and other kid stuff and sneakers. Your baby starts to walk and talk and demanding things and suddenly the two door coupe you bought when you were still a couple that's almost but not quite paid off isn't really that cool anymore. Now it's time to go to the Dodge dealer and... well, I'll skip the gory details. But minivans are fun, they're like a station wagon on steroids.

There is only one step left. What's it going to be this year for father's day? Last year you dodged a bullet with the dinner out. This year. RUN! It's a hand-held fully automatic driveway blower! The directions might as well say "you aren't 20 anymore, welcome to the realm of the responsible adult!" They don't say that of course. They suggest that you don't stick your head in the whirly parts and to have fun. So there you are, blowing the tree crap from one end of the driveway to the other and it hits you... I've got to write this down and warn everyone!

The attic creaked above him, weight from unknown footsteps forcing reluctant groans from the ancient rafters. The air in the house was cold, unnaturally cold, even though the temperature outside hovered close to 85, inside it couldn't have been more than 50 degrees. He pulled his light jacket around him and shivered, hoping the noises would stop. They didn't.

Jeffry had stopped by that morning on a whim, tempted by the Bobby's childish goading and his own curiosity. After the Martins had been murdered three years ago, the house had quickly been boarded up and no one had been in it since to his knowledge. There were stories of night-time apparitions and weird wailings in the night, everyone knew that it had the be the Anderson's ghosts, unable to sleep eternally until their killers had been brought to justice. Jeffry wanted to help set them free.

He had begun by going around to the back of the house, checking the boards on the cellar windows. It quickly became evident that he wasn't the first kid with this idea. One of the boards was loose and could be swung rather easily out of the way revealing a broken window that led into the cellar. He climbed through, shining his flashlight around him even though the other windows let in some scant light.

The cellar was mostly empty. There were some beer cans and other garbage that stood testament to the perseverance of young people looking for somewhere to make less attractive in the guise of "partying." He knew that someday he'd understand the allure, he couldn't wait to get old enough to be cool. This was the first step, just wait until the kids at school heard that he went into the Anderson place.

As Jeffry snooped around the house, he didn't notice that the once sunny day had started to cloud over. A late spring breeze sprang up and blew in some clouds that began to darken and thicken. Soon, it was sprinkling, he did hear the sound on the windows. He knew that he was going to have to wait here for the shower to pass, they were always over in an hour or so. The door to the upstairs yawned open and he began to ascend.

Halfway up the stairs, a draft from somewhere blew the door shut. He sprinted the remaining stairs, panting and out of breath as he got to the top. He looked down into the staircase, sure he would see a ghost materialize out of the ether, looking to do him greivous bodily injury. Instead, he saw some stairs and a closed door. He began to search the bedrooms.

In the second bedroom there was still some furniture. From a crack between the boards, he saw the wind and rain lash against the house, this was a particularly nasty storm. Jeffy began to rethink how good an idea this actually was. As he sat, waiting out the storm, comforted by a room with some actual furniture, he heard the moaning. It could be wind in the eves, or it could be Mr. Anderson looking for him. Jeffry shivered.

He curled up into as compact a ball as he could, sitting in the overstuffed chair that the mice had started to systematically disassemble. The wailing from overhead was joined by the obligatory banging and the creaking of the joists above him. Jeffry was terrified as the bedroom door opened and...

"Jeffry, it's time for lunch. Why are you in your closet?" His mother handed him a ham sandwich. He'd have to wait for another day to be cool.

Staring back at them from the inside of the old box was the head of a badger, mounted in a menacing pose with beady glass eyes staring back at them, it's jaw full of badger teeth snarling in a permanent grimace. The boy and the girl were startled at first, then dissolved into peals of laughter when they realized the mammalian threat was largely ornamental. They continued pawing through grandpa Joe's belongings in the attic, each discovery a realization that the man wasn't exactly right.

The uniform from the war had a few holes but the decorations still clung proudly to the faded cloth. A picture of him wearing this uniform in younger years left no doubt that he had been an attractive man with a firm, egalitarian chin and straightforward gaze. His eyes had dimmed somewhat over the years but when the chin set firmly, there was no way you were going to talk him out of what he had decided to do.

Towards the bottom was an unmarked box covered with years of dust, tied with a ribbon and unadorned with markings. Susie and Mark picked it up and looked at it in the dying light of a midwinter afternoon sunshine, slanting in through the vents. It held no clue as to what lay within. With a pull, the ribbon started to untie and then broke, disintegrating after years of laying undisturbed.

Inside was a stack of letters. They were addressed to Miss Josephine Marks and had been returned to Joseph Cullins undlivered. None had been opened, but they sat there begging the children to peek inside. At the bottom there was one, opened letter. This one was addressed to "My Darling Joe" and was written in the careful script of a lady of some refinement. Carefully, not wanting to rip the letter, they opened it.

"My Darling Joe" it repeated. "You know that I have always loved you, since the day we first laid eyes on each other in the five and dime. Your letters have brought me much happiness during a cold time in our nation's history. I'm not sure how to say this so I'll just say it... Papa says we have to move. He won't or can't tell me where just yet, but he says we must. I can't disobey Papa, especially not with you way over in Europe. I don't know when I'll write again, or from where, but I promise I will. Love always, Josephine."

The children looked at each other and then at the pile of unopened mail that had rested on top of this letter. They had all been sent to the address this letter was from, none of them had been opened. Obviously she had never written Grandpa Joe back. His devotion to her was stunning, even to a 12 and 10 year old. They didn't say a word as the closed up his trunk, putting everything carefully back from where it had come. Slowly they descended the stairs and walked to Grandpa Joe's room.

He looked back at them from the chair, smiling. "Did you find any treasures?" He asked the children.

"Grandpa Joe, " Mark started reluctantly, "Who was Josephine Marks?" As soon as the question was out of his mouth he wished he hadn't asked it. Grandpa Joe sputtered a moment and then smiled.

"She was a woman from in a magazine. Soldiers would write to her and she'd write back. After awhile, the government must have shut 'er down. You kids... you didn't read any of the letters I wrote to her did ya?" The kids shook their heads and Joe breathed easier. "Well, be off with ya now, and let me know when dinner is!" The kids scampered off and Grandpa Joe thought about Josephine Marks for the first time in 50 years.

Grasping at the outcropping with fingers numb from fatigue, Will made the mistake of looking down. Below him yawned the valley formed by the mountain he had been climbing. His head swam slightly as the precarious nature of his life came fully home to him. A climber since his teens, Will often attacked the slopes without gear, and usually without fear. This one had proven deceptive.

His foot was pushed into a small crevice, hardly big enough to hold his toe. His left hand flapped in space, there was nothing to grab and he was running out of options. Down would be foolhardy, the cliff merely laughed at him. The bulge he was clinging to allowed up, or at least he had thought it had, but no down. He had to try again.

For the last hour, he had been working up a series of handholds that seemed always just a few inches too far apart. Since he had found this footing, he had been trying to swing to his left from his handhold, pushing off with his right foot and swinging to a small outcropping. Twice his fingers had brushed the edge and he had felt the icey gnaw in his stomach that said "boy, you just almost bought it" every bit as real as when his father used to tell him that growing up.

Now his right hand was all done, the arm was numb. Getting to the outcropping meant that he could see around the bulge, look for a place to get to and rest. Staying where he was meant having his body eventually fail and falling 14 stories into a brushy ravine, bouncing off some rocks in the process. Will sucked in a deep breath and lunged.

His hands caught rock and he clung with his fingertips. He had no footing, just two handholds too far apart from each other. He wiggled his fingers desperately, almost clawing at the rock. His feet pushed against the rock and gave him the little bit of leverage required to let him shift his weight. The handhold held fast, he held on with his left arm, letting his right regain some circulation. Almost reluctantly, he swung his head to look further around the cliff face.

He was surprised to see a ledge, an easy grab from where he now stood. He swung his right hand around, caught the outcropping, then used his left to get ahold of the ledge. Pulling his body up over the edge, he sat panting for a few minutes, not wanting to think of how close he had just come to "buying it." He was sure that his father was up in heaven saying "I told that boy he'd kill hisself" to his Uncle Louie while they puffed away on cigars.

He thought his mind was playing tricks on him after a moment when he heard the music. He hadn't looked at how far the ledge went being too exhausted and fighting with his dad in his head. He turned his head and saw a cave. He was sure that the music was coming from there. Slowly he got to his feet. The opening to the cave sloped downward, he didn't have a flashlight so he walked cautiously. After a period of getting darker, the cave started getting lighter. A hand grasped him on the shoulder and he sucked in a breath.

"Hi son!" the voice belonged, unmistakably to his father. Will looked around him as the cave opened up into a room of billowy white, filled with happy, smiling people from his past. There were even bikini models.

On the rocks at the base of the cliff, Will's body twitched once, and then was still.

The third Tuesday after the sunfruit harvest was the traditional Festival of Zambir. Throughout the island, wives were busy fermenting the sunfruit into sloof and the children braided each other's hair with bits of shell and bright fabrics. Chief Rafeesh looked out from his hut and inhaled the pungent odor of sloof, smiling broadly as he thought of the festival just two days away. He had much to do!

He bowed deep at the alter of the sea god, then walked down the hill to the beach. The trees spoke to him, the muted whisperings of his ancestors. He smiled at their familiar quarrel, whether to whirl this way or that, until finally they were out of his hearing. The sun greeted him warmly, reflecting from the ocean waves and the brilliant white sand. He sang the joyous Hymn of the Morning and swam to the sandbar and back to cleanse away yesterday's woes leaving him more room to enjoy today's delights.

Miya had his breakfast ready when he returned and they ate robustly of eggs and fruits, gathered from the forest around them. Dried fish from two days before added an interesting flavor to the repast and he complimented her on its preparation. "I am lucky indeed to be honored with your love. I thank the sea god for this providence." Miya blushed slightly and went about cleaning up the eating area.

Enjoying a pipe of Tumanj at the door, he could see the village below as it began to bustle to life. So much to do! So much to prepare! The wet season would soon be upon them and it was time to enjoy the fruits of this seasons harvest with good friends and merriment. He saw the Krajoc the man of medicine approaching and prepared to receive his friend. Krajoc was getting old, but every morning he braved the hill to give Rafeesh counsel. It was good.

"Krajoc my friend! Will you join me in Tumanj?" Rafeesh offered him a seat and the pipe. Krajoc lifted it to his lips and inhaled deeply, welcoming the rush as he had on countless mornings before.

"Rafeesh, we must speak of Zambir" he began without preamble. "I predict the weather will turn sour this year. We must decide if the festival should go on as planned." They bundled their heads closer and talked of the pros and cons of canceling the festival. Rafeesh had no doubt that the weather would turn. Inside the hut, Miya fretted. She had been working so hard to make the best sloof she had ever made, it would be a shame not to drink it.

Finally, with much chagrin, Chief Rafeesh decided. This year, the festival would be called on account of weather. He and Krajoc set out down the mountain to tell the others. There would be much disappointment but storms brewed swiftly and all would need their senses if one descended upon them when they were involved in the festival.

Zambir day dawned bright and beautiful, the sun spoke to him as usual as Chief Rafeesh swam out to the sandbar. One hour turned to two which turned to four, but there was no sign of the storm. Rafeesh decided to seek out Krajoc who had broken his morning ritual and stayed away this morning. When he got to Krajoc's hut, he was really pissed to find the medicine man tanked on sloof.

He picked up the telephone and began to dial, methodically. It was his job. The phone rang once, then twice, then a voice, pleasant but cautious. He knew before he even spoke that soon he would be dialing again. "Hello, have I reached Mrs. Richardson?" The phone went dead without even an 'I'm not interested.' Richard crossed the name off the list and moved one spot down.

The ring on the phone was old fashioned, a buzz and not a nice modern ring. The connection ratched at him once, then twice, and then there was a voice. A tiny "hello?" greeted his ear. He sighed.

"Hi sweetie, is your mommy or daddy home?" Richard tried his best to keep his voice sugary sweet and happy. He hated kids. Oddly, the voice on the other end of the line started... crying. This was new. "Are you OK honey?" he asked, wondering what he had gotten into.

"Daddy is here" he heard the child say, "but mommy is sick, at least that's what daddy told me. He told me not to come in there but I saw mommy on the floor and he was all red." The line was quiet except for her silent sobs. Richard sat back, dazed.

"What do you mean he was all red?" he asked, trying to decide if this was a real emergency.

"He was all red, and so was mommy. He sounded funny. Mommy wouldn't move. Then he told me to go play. I'm scared." The crying sounded in the background again. Richard thought quickly to himself. He was just a telemarketer for God's sake! Still, he put the girl on hold and called 911.

"Hello, this is Richard Thomas. I need you to trace this phone number (he gave the number). I think there has been some sort of accident there." Richard gave details for a few more moments and then the operator told him to keep the girl talking. He sighed and hung up, then switched back to the other phone.

"Honey, are you there?" he asked. The line was very quiet. Suddenly, a new voice answered.

"Who is this?" The man's voice was gruff and strident, but filled with strain. Richard didn't know whether to answer or hang up. He decided to answer, to give the girl a chance.

"My name is Richard. Is everything all right there?" He didn't know how to keep the man on the line, his mind raced.

"Sure everything is allright, who is this?" In the background, Richard could hear the man telling the little girl to please, please quit crying, daddy was on the phone. At least she was still OK. Suddenly, the sound of sirens could be heard. The man was back on the line. "I've got caller ID Mr... Thomas. You've just made a big mistake!" The phone went dead.

Richard Thomas sat back, dripping with sweat. He was just a telemarketer! After a moment he picked up the phone, looked at the list, looked at the phone, and carefully set it back down. He stood up and walked out the door.

His mouth tasted like the inside of a sweaty baseball mitt, he smacked his lips together twice before realizing he didn't want to do it again. His head throbbed with the after effects of too much domestic beer followed by too little sleep. He heard the sound again, it was louder this time, louder and closer, and he wanted it to stop.

After the third try, his eyelids opened, slightly crusty from congealed goo that had deposited in the night. The light that filtered through was harsh and brassy, not the soft light of midmorning through lightly rustling curtains, but the inquisitive light that demands to know where you were last night and what exactly you thought you were doing. On second thought, it wasn't the light, it was his girlfriend Carrie who wanted to know these things. Either way, in depth analysis had somehow skipped his to-do list this morning, replaced by sleep, rehydrate, and regurgitate, most likely in that order.

The noise went on, like angry bees trying to get into his skull through his ears, he opened his eyes again and noticed that it was coming from his girlfriend. Hadn't she given up yet? Apparently not. He noticed that she had large breasts which got him thinking that maybe he should make some attempts to be civil. "Mmammph" he managed to get out before she started in again.

Memories began to eke their way insidiously into his conscious mind, tearing noisily through the amnesia of state dependent memory. He remembered a girl who wasn't his girlfriend, and two guys who were friends that seemed to want him to go home with this other girl. He recalled stolen kisses in the back of a car (it may well have been his) and a slap at some other point. He couldn't really say it if was before or after. The scent of perfume had been laying innocuously in his nostrils until this point but it decided to make itself known as a bit of punctuation behind the memory. Inwardly he groaned. Outwardly too.

Up on one arm now, he confronted the wraith who continued to verbally assault him. It appeared that combinations of words such as "Um... nothing" and "I guess I could have" seemed not to be helping his position. He closed his mouth for a moment and willed wise words to come to him. The wise words were still asleep it seemed and she began again.

"I can't believe you would do that to me, don't you know how humiliating it's going to be? I have to face those people again Mark, what am I going to say? They know you left with a woman last night, and they know that I know..." the dialogue seemed to be destined to continue in this manner for quite some time. It was time, time to employ the secret weapon. Summoning the powers of concentration and cheap beer, he focused, gurgled, and let loose with a powerful fart, one with both duration and substance. "Jesus, you're so immature. We'll talk about this later" and then she was gone.

Settling into the embrace of the slightly sweat soaked sheets, Mark approached Nirvana once more, sneaking in through the back door.

Two hours before, the curtain had come down amid the thundering din of 3000 cheering patrons, watching for the last time the drama that was "Hamsters." The off Broadway production had finally run out its welcome. Dwindling revenues had seen Christopher Cross replaced with Robert Johnson, and that had, in turn, brought about the ultimate demise of a venerable piece of American theatre.

Jorge watched as the bristles picked up a thousand bits of plastic hair from the floor, reminders that the Bonoducci theatre was now absent one tenant. The actors and actresses were out at Club Nevermind, pretending to enjoy the evening with cheap champagne and expensive drugs, in the back of each mind the thought that they were now unemployed.

Jorge worked out from the dressing room to the main theatre, this would be his last time here too, but janitors didn't have such a difficult time finding work. Somewhere in this huge city there was room for a man willing to clean up after others. He heard a mewling coming from somewhere inside the theatre, like the whimper of a newborn kitten seaking it's mother's milk. He looked up and saw Johnny St. Limont sitting third row center, weeping uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry Jorge" he choked out between sobs "I didn't think anyone was here." Johnny had been a stalwart for over a year, son of the lead actress and an aspiring actor, someday the kid would go somewhere Jorge thought. Many nights the kid had picked up empty containers of popcorn as Jorge swept the floor beneath the seats, he hated like hell to see the kid crying now.

"It's all over Jorge. Mom has to find something new and so do I, the Bonnoducci was where I went when life got to be too much. Where am I going to go now?" Johnny's voice strengthened as his monologue gained steam.

"You will find a place Johnny L" Jorge began. "Let me tell you a quick story. Ten years ago, a young man set out from Chile to find his way in the world. There was a boat that brought him to New York and a cab that took him to Broadway. Suddenly, all the pictures that he had seen as a boy came to life, the streets are alive with memories, maybe not my memories, but you can feel them if you try. Life is a series of conclusions, but there is only one ending that is forever. Grab life and embrace it, for only then will you feel like you truly are alive." Jorge picked up his broom and began to sweep again.

Johnny sat thinking, no longer crying over the loss of "Hamsters." What Jorge had said didn't make a hell of a lot of sense. He scratched his head and decided to head home, he'd have to pour his mother into bed tonight he was sure, might as well get to it while the night was young.

Glute mingled intimately with the igneous outcropping, slowly absorbing energy transmitted from the center of the world and happily humming songs millions of years old to himself. He generated the music quite ingenuously, squeezing bits of the rock in harmonic sympathy with the note he wished to produce. The sounds waves that were produced reflected off of the surrounding hills and and ate them most enthusiastically upon their return.

Down in the valley, Dirk Durain sat with his hands clamped over his ears, pushing through a box of items that could generously be called tools, looking for earmuffs. The hideous crunching of rocks above sounded like nails on a chalkboard amplified to the level of a rock and roll concert. A pang of nostalgia swept through him for a world that he would never again see. He found the earmuffs and got back to setting the blasting charges.

The shock wave tore through Glute's outcropping and he ate the force of the wave hungrily, missing some of the peaks out of surprise but making up for it with the reflections. He mentally burped and began a slumber that was likely to last for thousands of years. A staccato series of pops brought him out of his reverie quickly, Dalume was in trouble. He was fully alert in nanoseconds, vibrating rocks meaningfully after he had determined the cause of his interruption.

Dirk heard the dashes through his earmuffs, the hideous wailing had given forth to a new sort of enigma, the sound of an obvious code. Banging behind him was answered by yelping rocks above. He set the switch on his pressure suit to "record" and waited for the inhuman conversation to settle down. With a final "eep" from above, nothing more was said and Dirk began drilling the hole for the next charge.

Glute pondered Dalume's message for a bit. Parts of her energy had been overwhelmed and had drifted away, no longer sentient and incapable of being reabsorbed. She was at 2/3 of her sizable atomic weight and each blast tore off a little bit more. Glute remembered glorious days of corporal joy, spent locked in Dalume's embrace. He tried to think of a way to help her.

Dirk was surprised by the sound behind him. He turned to see a pulsing light, living within the rock itself. He was even more surprised when it spoke to him. "I say old chap" began the rock in a very civilized manner, "I do appreciate the energy but could you tone it down just a bit? Parts of me seem to be vanishing." The lights winked out.

Dirk didn't remember starting to run, but there he was, running as fast as his spacesuit would allow in 1/3 g. His earmuffs lay on the ground by his abandoned buggy as the rocks began once more to sing.

A slant of late afternoon daylight played on the open drawer of the desk, illuminating some areas and casting others in shadow. The rest of the sunlight continued on it's way, washing over the desk chair and carpet, and falling just short of the end table. A bit of it remained behind to illuminate the manuscript peaking from the open drawer.

Marian sat down at the desk and smiled out the window, not seeing the overgrown trellises and unkempt lawn. Her eyes were ten years younger, surveying a world of well tended gardens and secret nooks where a 12 year old girl could grow up and ruminate on the secrets of life without being an active participant. In her brief moment of daydream, she could hear the voice of her Uncle calling to her as she ran with Rusty back from the stream "Sweet Mary! Dinner is ready!"

Her gaze clouded quickly when she remembered what had brought her back to Hudson's Grove. Her Uncle had been her only family for 16 years, she could scarcely remember her mother (Uncle Leo's sister). She had no recollection of her father at all since he had been gone since she was two. Funny, she had never bothered to find out why he left. Now Uncle Leo was gone, she was brought back from school by the horrible news and the sad realization that they had grown apart when she left and now the time for coming home was gone.

A tear dripped down her cheek and landed on the manuscript in the half open drawer. A few moments later her eye followed it and stopped on the title of the paper "Mary's Sonnet, by Leo Hudson" Her heart skipped a beat, and her hands trembled slightly as she lifted the pages to read. Her uncle had always told the funniest stories when she was growing up, she realized now that he never referred to a book, they came out of his amazing mind fully formed.

The sun was down before she knew it, the pages blending one into the other. Marian was far away, in a place where her Uncle still lived and showed her wonderful animals she couldn't imagine and places she couldn't envision. It felt as though he was right there with her. The story wound through time and space, taking it's time getting to the point. In fact, the story itself was the point. Finally, her tired eyes betrayed her and she slept on the couch where she had settled in to read.

Morning brought the day of the funeral, but she was strangely buoyed. She carried the manuscript with her and smiled for the last time at the man who had written it for her. She knew that his words would now always be with her, his memory was only a walk to the bookshelf away. Uncle Leo had known that he would not always be there for her in life, but he had taken the time that she would never have to know a day without his presence.

The door into the side of the mountain was very old and very well hidden. The two boys looked at one another in amazement when they determined what it was. "How shall we open it?" asked one. The other said he wasn't sure. They stared at the object of their intense desire for quite some time after first trying the stubborn knob.

"Perhaps we could blast it open" Kyle suggested. Ben said that it sounded good but they had no explosives. "Maybe we could hook up a tractor and pull it down!" Kyle said with conviction. Ben said that the idea sounded good too but they lacked a tractor, a rope, and any idea of how to drive one. The boys sat dejectedly for quite some time as the summer wind rustled their hair.

Finally Kyle stood up. "I'm going to knock" he said seriously. Ben supposed that it couldn't hurt. The two boys approached the door and gazed at it for a long moment before Kyle reached a tentative fist forward and knocked at the door, once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

At first there was nothing. Not a sound emanated from the side of the mountain and it seemed as if all the birds in the woods were suddenly very silent. Finally, from deep below the mountain itself, a rasping grate of a noise began, softly at first and then growing louder. A "peg peg" of something wooden sounded on the other side of the door and a small window opened on the top. A bleary eye peered down at them malevolently for a moment and then the window banged shut.

For several more moments, Kyle and Ben stood mute, unable to flee but unwilling to talk. Then, the rusted hinges on the door began to creak and groan from long disuse. A musty smell of old leaves and unused places wafted towards the boys, not entirely disagreeable but strange carried on the warm summer breeze. When the door was open more than a crack, a withered old head stuck out, looked first one way, then the other, then straight at the boys.

"What do you want?" asked the crone. "We just... that is... we..." Kyle began. Ben agreed amicably enough. The head stared at them for a moment and then the corners of the mouth started to bend upward. Soon it was overtly smiling. "Why didn't you say so? Come in for cookies! We don't get many visitors out this way." The offer seemed good.

Kyle was just saying "thank you for inviting us in" and Ben was agreeing in his most polite voice when the heavy wooden door slammed mercilessly closed. Turning quickly, the boys noticed that the cave looked a lot like Grandma's house. "I bet you missed Grandma's cookies" she said. "Yes Ma'am" Kyle agreed. Ben nodded vigorously, thinking about chocolate chips.

The late September sun filtered through the trees overhead sending shafts of light to connect heaven and earth. Over the sun dappled sidewalk shuffled an old pair of converse low tops, scuffed and worn at the toe, the right one trailing loose shoelaces, safety losing out to the shear repetition of retying the shoes over and over. Bobby Cannell looked at the shoes as they guided him home, unwilling to look at the trees or the shafts of sunshine or the path he was following, unwilling because somewhere out there Kurt Kushman was waiting for him, waiting and watching.

It had become almost a ritual on the way home from school. Kurt would pick a different place every time, he lived a few doors down from Bobby and had to walk the same route. Kurt would jump out and say something sarcastic and sooner or later Bobby would be eating yellow snow or have a nosebleed or be $1.20 poorer. Kurt was very clever in dreaming up his next humiliation, Bobby had never yet been let off with the same fate twice. His big brother Ronny was supposed to walk with him every day but he had basketball practice and Bobby was willing to chance his fated encounters with Kurt over waiting for his brother to get done dribbling and flirting.

A rustling in the bushes tipped Bobby off that he was about to get his lesson in humility for today. Oddly enough, the rustling stopped when a small baby deer stepped out onto the path, looking even more pathetic than Bobby. It was limping on one small forehoof and it bleat a pathetic note to the boy. Just as Bobby was determining what this new chain of events held for him, another rustling in the bushes marked the entrance of his nemesis Kurt on the scene.

Kurt's eyes were strangely aglow, he spoke quickly amid gasping breaths "She's all alone, her mom is dead in the woods, she has a limp but she's quick, I've been following her, we've got to do something, she's an orphan!" The string of words flowed out of the boy mixed with excitement, Bobby was immediately caught up in the situation.

"We have to get her to Doc Mulland's place, let's try to herd her over there" Bobby said, forgetting for the moment that he was the boy that always got punched. The two kids set out behind the fawn, coercing it with gentle hands, imploring it to keep moving, finally nearing their destination. The veterinarian met them on the back steps of his barn/office and told them they had done the right thing. With an anxious backward stare they said goodbye to their new friend and promised to visit after school tomorrow.

The way home was filled with chatter about what would happen to the deer and if they should tell someone about the dead mother in the woods and what they should call their new friend. When Bobby got home, he watched Kurt walk on down the path, still talking to himself about deer names, and Bobby felt vaguelly cheated. He turned in to his house with his money in his pocket, his capillaries untapped, and a great sense of confusion about what would happen to the one constant in his life. For the first time, he had no one to hate.

Wrapped tightly in the fog like a cocoon, Wispy Willow slept a light happy sleep. She dreamed of waving gently in a summer breeze, bird bedecked branches bustling busily as swarms of swallows sang and twittered. If she had had lips, they would have crept ever so slightly upwards in the corners with the memory. As it was, she pumped sap with a contented rhythm.

Elmer Elm listened to the constant cacophony of Wispy's happy sap and shuddered to himself in disgust. He had been around long enough to know that all was not right in the enchanted woods. If he had lungs, he would have called out to Wispy to keep that claptrap to herself lest she rouse an angry spirit. Deep down, he just wished that he could sleep more himself. After 170 years in the same place, sleep came hesitantly or not at all.

The bright sun finally poked from beneath a veil of clouds and greeted the trees. Wispy turned her branches towards him and even Elmer felt a little better as the photosynthesized sugars reached his roots for storage. Maybe the evil he had been sensing was just in his head, the fantasies of an old tree. Maybe there was only good in this w.... wait, what was that?

A rumbling rent the still morning air like a shotgun blast. It was the backfire of an old truck, lumbering it's way up the mountain. What could this turn of events mean, wondered Elmer? Soon he had his answer, two men parked the truck in his shady glen and looked eagerly around them. They saw an orange wisp of plastic on Wispy's trunk and began to unpack.

"BZZZZZZ" went the angry sound of the chainsaw as the men limbered it up. They topped it with fuel/oil mixture and revved it, then advanced on Wispy. Elmer could feel her terror communicated through the ground like shock waves. No, this couldn't be happening! He really hadn't wanted her killed for keeping him up! The other trees looked at him reproachfully, surely they couldn't think he had anything to do with this?

The saw began to clear scrub brush from around Wispy's base. As the men advanced on her, another truck drove into sight. The man inside beckoned frantically to get their attention. He shouted and pointed and all three jumped into their vehicles and sped away. Whew! thought Elmer, what a narrow escape!

Wispy gradually calmed and Elmer grew warm with the fact that she was safe. In fact, he was growing VERY warm. He looked at the sun and was surprised to see it almost obscured in something, not a cloud exactly. Was that smoke he smelled? Elmer began to think that perhaps this was a very bad day indeed.

On the outskirts of town, a cliff jutted up over the landscape. It ruled the scene for miles around, a leftover from the last mountain building era, perhaps, or maybe a gift from a benevolent supreme being, delighted to give his subjects a spot to make out. Either way, the cliff was the perfect place to park on a mid summer's night with your best guy or gal. Tonight, the attendance was particularly good.

A row of older chevies and fords had their nose to the guardrail, looking like horses eager for the race to begin. Their windows were in
various states of steaminess as the outside coldness did battle with the moist heat from within on the battlefield of glass. A few of the cars squeaked slightly as motion inside set up harmonic vibrations in the shocks. Into this scene of adolescent hormones, a dark shadow crept.

There were no street lights here, conveniently enough, and the moon was a cold sliver 8000 miles away. Still, the shadow's passing seemed to steal the light from the darkness itself, making it darker and colder. Certainly only evil could have such an effect on the night. The shadow passed one car, hesitated for a moment, and then moved on. It appeared as though the shadow was searching for the right one.

Inside an 83 celebrity, Bobby Thomson and Susie Katrone were busy exploring their newfound desires for each other. Several of Susie's buttons were undone and Bobby's jeans would probably never come clean from the oil they were now sitting in on the floor. His breathing became ragged as Susie continued to explore his body in youthful fascination. Suddenly, there was an intense beam of light and an unwelcome tap on the window. Cautiously, Bobby rolled down the window to investigate.

The light absorbing shadow followed the man back to his Toyota pickup with the little Pizza Hut light on top and they rode back into town.

"Oh Bobby, you think of everything!" Susie gushed as she continued her explorations between bites of meat lovers.

A bullet thudded hollowly on the side of a long vacant building. From it's staring eyes, I followed the length of my assault weapon, knowing I would never find the lone sniper holding my troop at bay. The only chance I had was to run for it, launch a grenade, and hope like hell I didn't get hit.

"Cover me, David!" I yelled with a tone to my voice that even I didn't recognize. It was a long ways from Dubuque, I thought as I lurched out of the back door and worked around to the street. Was it only 6 months ago that I had said goodbye to my folks and headed to basic training? Turns out, it had been a bad move.

You could have told me it was a lifetime and I'd have believed it, it sure seemed like another world to me. I thought about high school as I bellied down in a ditch to try to remain covered. A bullet coughed dust just ahead of me and some got in my eye.

Delores was quite a looker, back in my senior year! Her letter telling me that she was marrying Bobby Joe Hardaway came as quite a surprise, especially after I had spent everything I had made in 5 months on an engagement ring and had Bobby Joe give it to her. Bad move.

Compounding my heartache was the misfortune that had overtaken my family. Dad was gored by a bull, the first redeo clown to die that way in Texas. Jumping out of the barrel was a bad move. Roy fell off a cliff he was excavating for the government, just turned and fell right off the scaffolding! Bad move.

Mom's run in with the law had made all the papers. Holding up a police station turned out to be a bad move. All these thoughts raced through my mind as I stood up in the middle of the street. Turns out, it was a bad move...

The rusty hull of the old freighter shone in the lights of the diver's sled. He first saw the gaping hole, showing where the ship had met with its untimely demise. Around the wreck was the debris of a commercial vehicle, various cans that had held solvents, some unidentifiable bits of metal, trash. Not a very impressive assortment to signify that man had once conquered the seas in this vessel!

Inside the hull, the temperature was cooler, he could feel it through his suit. The sun never shone here and the inhabitants were a bit annoyed with his intrusive light. Undaunted by the doleful glares of the fish, he swam forward, the first cognizant creature to ply the halls of the ship in 40 years or more.

The galley came first, a twisted maze of metal, tables, and carnage. A few of the crew had been caught dining, it seemed. Of all the things a man could be doing when he died, eating seemed the most human. The bulkhead was agape, showing the living quarters down the hall. He ventured into one and was immediately sorry he had done so. 40 years and many fish had not been kind to the sailor still trapped in his loft.

The engine room brought up the rear, messy machinery that still appeared to be trying to power the stricken vessel, caught in mid stroke and dying every bit as gracefully as the Captain must have 5 decks above. The water had apparently entered here first, no one was left to tend the machinery, even in death.

On the way up, he stopped at the recreation facilities, there was still a void near the top of the room. Apparently, he had not been the only one to find it although he would be the only one to leave it. He looked at the ping pong tables and a scattered deck of watery cards. His fins stirred some of them up, 3 aces disintegrated before his mask.

On the bridge, the true story was told. The Captain was buckled into a seat in front of the radio. He had honorably served the vessel and her crew, he could not have know that the radio never sent his cries for help all those years ago. A few lost souls kept him company, dutiful officers to the end.

As he neared the surface, the diver turned for one last look at the empty hull. There was no treasure here, at least nothing he could spend. Her final words were not as grand as those of the Titanic, not as mystical as a pirate ship, the only footnote the freighter would write in the history books was a warning. "The sea is no place for the faint of heart."

In the early 2010's, I was lucky enough to be a trusted confidant of the president's wife. When she wasn't sleeping around or smoking crack, we would often sit on the verandah of the White House and throw water balloons at the secret service men below. Silly sods that they were, they had to stand there and take it! No wonder one of them eventually killed her.

I remember my first discussion with her highness, it was just after the inaugural ball and she was tanked. I held her head high above the toilet as she released hors deuvres back to water from which they came. Later, as she drank water and smoke unfiltered Camels, she began to tell me about her life.

When she was growing up the Congressman (her father) was rather strict. He insisted on sending her to an all girls school to keep her pure. Luckily, his guilt for missing her formative years also gave her an allowance sufficiently high that she could employ groundskeepers to come up occasionally and get it on. The money also paid for beer and weed, with the leftover funds endowing a chair for the University and a degree for her.

Out in the world, she abruptly shacked up with a lawyer with much more ambition than brains. Together, they quickly scaled the ladder of politics until they were poised on the brink of the big one, the Presidency. Her father and her husband sometimes had to dispose of a contractor, gardener, or personal trainer when the blackmail got too expensive but this stage in her life was relatively tame.

When the election came, it was no surprise that her man won. She had groomed him well and his performance was outstanding. The flights around the world, huge parties, and illicit kickbacks were just starting and the first lady was delighted. Finally, here was a life worthy of her talents!

It all started to fall apart when the cocky young comedian came to play the White House on New Year's Eve. She was indiscreet when she invited him for a house tour and he seemed well educated in her lustful ways. The next day, his threats were real, his case was strong, and his stature was sufficiently high that he could not be eliminated.

When the photos began to appear in a popular men's magazine amid allegations of infidelity, she really hit bottom. It seemed like no amounts of pills and booze could fill the bottomless pit of her dispair. It came almost as a relief when she asked me to help her end it all. With just the right amount of coercion, the secret service man was all to happy to snap and kill her. And now I am first lady.

Twice the shotgun blasted, and twice the bullets found their mark. The tires screamed from the scene ahead of frightened screams from two older women walking by the alley, they strained to see into the darkness, afraid of what they might find but their eyes drawn inexorably towards the almost certain carnage. The wail of a distant siren came closer, the cruiser's spotlight showed the wreckage of a once proud life.

Two blocks away, I was holding court in my office, the parrot in his cage showing his usual eagerness to say dirty words while I fed him crackers from a bag. My case load had been surprisingly light since Guy Malthias got 20 to life, I guess bad news travels fast in our business. The knock on my door startled me, it took a second to remember the correct response "Yeah, it's open" said in a tough Brooklyn accent.

She was as pretty as a picture, all dolled up in red, not looking trampy but real pretty. The hat set off her face, it seemed a part of her image somehow and she wore it like a crown. She flounced into my life like she owned the joint and I did nothing to dispel the image. My feet hit the ground in a flash, the chair spouting off with springs in need of oil and 30 less pounds sitting on them. "Mr. Riggs, I need help." Her voice sounded like a slow running stream cascading over mossy rocks, bright and sassy with an undertone of authority.

"That's my business Miss..." the words died on my lips as she stared at me, sizing up my medium frame with the few extra pounds and few less hairs than most guys my age. Evidently I would do.

"Mrs. Mrs Chadwick." I knew her name now and I knew that she was trouble, not from anything tangible but from the look of panic that lurked just beneath her gaze, the look of someone hunted by an unseen and unknowable hunter.

"Why don't you start from the beginning Mrs. Chadwick." I offered her a shot of scotch from my bottom drawer and was surprised when she accepted it, I was happy that Guy Malthias had paid his tab in 20 year old high test instead of the rot gut he got caught selling to teenagers.

"It's my husband Mr. Riggs. He's dead and they think I killed him." I let the words sink in for a minute before I asked the obvious question.

"Did you?" I knew in a second that it was the wrong question, but I needed to know. The answer didn't change my fees much, but it sure as heck changed what I had to do.

"No Mr. Riggs, I loved my husband. I haven't slept in two nights thinking about what went wrong. I woke up Wednesday and he was dead in the alley in back of our house. Shot dead." The facade of self control broke then and she cried like a dame that didn't have a friend in the world. Who knows, maybe she didn't.

The knock at the door was insistent. "Riggs, we know you're in there and you've got Mrs. Chadwick with you. This is detective Swann, don't make me break the door down." There was nothing in his voice that suggested it was an idle threat.

As they led her out in handcuffs she gave me a beseeching look that would have turned a block of granite into jello, I knew right then that I was in deep. As I got my car keys and headed down to the station with her, I was struck with a memory from this morning's Times. My door had opened and the woman known as the Black Widow had walked into my life. It was my job to make sure she walked back out...

	Women are from The Crab Nebula 7/00	Follow the Light 1/6/00
Dial "R" for Riggs 10/14/99	A Story About My Dad 8/2/99	Music Magic 7/25/99
The Hesitant Woodsman (7/9)	Placebo Effect (classic 7/9)	Responsibility 6/27/99
Bad Move (classic 7/9)	Captain of the Deep (classic)	President's Wife (classic 7/9)
Happenstance 6/13/99	Age of Innocence 4/14/99	Going Up 3/19/99
Two Days in Paradise	Telefurbies	Vapor Man
Scenes from a Playhouse	The Tongues of Mountains	Present
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