15 Friday Feb 2013
Posted in Short Stories
The Science Fiction writer Robert Sheckley nailed down the reason why armed drones in the sky are a mistake in his short Science Fiction work titled Watchbird, in 1953.
This is easily read in one sitting, and can be found in various formats at the Gutenberg Project at the following link:
23 Sunday Sep 2012
Posted in One Less Traveled, Short Stories
For the old tom, it had started like any of the last thirty days. Food, water. Quiet parents restraining the hands of overly anxious children. The gentle holding and petting by those who loved cats, even a battle weary, tooth and nail scarred, but solid old tomcat like himself. He had even lost half his tail in the door of a previous lifetime.
It was a hard life, being discarded after a youth with filled bowls of milk, cozy blankets, and toys. He was a tough survivor. Mice feared him, cats were wary, and the felines, they adored him. Occasionally, a caring person would tender some milk for his raccoon sounding purr. Things were rough, but he grew to enjoy this existence. He was, after all, like any other cat – aloof and independent.
It was toward evening when change put that odd kink back in his tail. The keeper, shook his head at him, as he did the others, sorrowfully saying that it had to be this way. None of his other cell-mates ever came back.
The chance for another life came when that closed door, suddenly, became open. He darted through to the front of the shelter, bounding out the open window and into the sunlight of tomorrows.
He frisked his way scatter-shot across the busy street, then proceeded to the park he knew so well. Small rodents underfoot, and birds everywhere.
Before he arrived, he was tempted to chancing another bowl of warm milk, or even perhaps some cheese. This boy, who called to him was unlike most of the others, soothed him. Stroking under the chin. Behind the ear. Fingered reassurance.
The boy took him to one of those tall buildings filled with people, noise, rats and roaches. The stairs were more to his liking; but, he had been in an elevator before, never for quite so long.
The boy took him down the hall to his home. There was yelling behind the door. He smelled other cats. His mouth watered.
“Hi Mom, Dad.” Friendly, unlike the other voices. The big one raised his louder. “Not another cat!” “But Dad!?”
“I said NO!” He was scruffed by those unforgiving hands. “This will teach you!” With that, he was thrown out the window. He tried to catch himself, but he just flailed, his claws finding no purchase.
He fell.
He fell.
Then, he relaxed. Cats were always good at relaxing, even at the worst of times.
Body limp, he landed on the sidewalk. Thump!
He was fine, he felt. Mostly so. He pulled himself together. A bruised thigh. A chipped tooth. His breath, ragged from the forced exhale. His half-tail, twitching from adrenaline.
“Wow,” he heard. “Where’d you come from little fella?” The man was ragged, smelling of the street, looking as rough as . “That was quite some fall!”
“Here, let me help you. Easy, now.” He was slowly picked up, pet tentatively. “You seem to be in pretty good shape, considering. You can stay with me for a while, if you want.”
He was carried down the street, enjoying the calming voice and his hand of attention. “I think I’ll call you Thomas. Thomas O’Malley. Like in the movie, Aristocats. Yeah, Thomas O’Malley, Malley is my name too!”
Now living his next life, he was unused to this homeless kindness. The man seemed helpful enough. He’d stay with him for a while, then take his leave. Cats just aren’t pack animals like those other animals. Besides, this man smelled of tuna and provolone cheese.
Note: No cats were injured by the writing of this story. That being said, cats often do survive falls from great heights. Look it up, or perhaps read here.
03 Sunday Jun 2012
Posted in One Less Traveled, Short Stories
Tags
bank robbery, Dreams, evil, Good, good deed, Philosophy, random act of kindness, short fiction, virtue
“It was a bright, sunlit place; and there I was with some ordinary folk and the few holy accusers. There was nothing special about either; they all looked the same. Yet, the few I knew where there to condemn me in their tribunal of light. I sat with the judge peering before me. I stood before him, naked and so black of form that the boundaries of self were indistinct and blurry. I was only a dark nothing in the general shape of a man, except for my eyes. As my only visible detail, they were solid and gleamed of the purest white. I was being told that I must do this thing. A deed that would make me darker than I was. Yet, this deed contained within it a seed of goodness, a goodness that would not purge my self of the darkness, nor diminish it in any way, but still allow that seed to predominate…”
At this point, Ern awoke with a start. He had had this dream before, and he was quite confused as to its meaning. How could something be so evil, yet be good at the same time? He also felt this dream had somewhat to do with his origins and who he was. While he felt the memory of his past haunted him, it truly was a ghost that retreated if he peered too closely.
He had fallen asleep on the park bench where he had sit to rest and watch the children at play. He heard sirens in the near distance, and wondered if that was the cause of his awakening.
He also had the powerful urge to piss. The urge was too strong to make it to the nearest restroom without embarrassment. Because he was a homeless man, he had little cause for ceremony; therefore, he walked stiffly up the path a bit, and ventured into the bushes to relieve himself.
He thought it odd that the sound of the police were coming towards the park. There were shots close by. As he finished with a zip, a man came crashing through the brush and collided with him, knocking them both in a tumble to the ground.
When Ern sat up, he saw a hooded man in sweats, holding a black duffel over one shoulder, and a gun in the other hand, shaking. The man seemed scared witless.
“Are you okay, my friend?”, Ern asked. He had befriended many types of people in his lifetime, and the man didn’t seem threatening with his gun.
“Uh … yeah. You didn’t see me, okay?” He glanced nervously back the way he came in fear of his pursuers.
Ern visibly relaxed on seeing the other’s apprehension. “I know you want to run; but, can you tell me who is chasing you and why?”
“My family is starving. I lost my job, I’m about to lose my house, I robbed a bank.” He blurted this out, almost in tears at saying the bare truth. He scrambled up to flee.
“Wait!”, Ern shouted. “I can help you.”
The man paused, unsure as hell that he had heard correctly.
“You are about my size, change your clothes with mine, then you can place your money in my pack, and I’ll become you.”
A look of hope washed over the man’s face. They quickly changed clothing and bags, minus contents. After changing, Ern thought about shoes for a moment. He had a pair of raggedy sandals versus the other’s pair of running shoes. Words echoed from his clouded past, “I mean seriously, how often do you really look at a man’s shoes?”
“Now hand me the gun,” Ern stated. “Then, wait in here for a while, till it quietens down, and go take care of your family.”
Ern had lived in this city for a while. Having covered the streets on foot, he knew he could evade the police. As he quickly pondered his way of escape, he wiped the gun clean and then placed it squarely in his hand. He grabbed the duffel in the other, and turned to leave.
“Wait,” said the other, “Who the hell are you?”
“Nobody, really. You can call me Ernest. Take care of your family. Homelessness doesn’t suit you well.”
With that, Ern ran out of the brush.
His new friend sat bewildered by this strange turn of events. A few moments later, he heard shouting. Then, gunshots. The sirens blared again, and diminished with distance. Silence. It was the most beautiful silence he had ever experienced. He stood up, a freer man, and walked the miles back to his home, his wife, and his children.
The next day, he learned from the paper that somehow the bank robber had eluded the police, that nobody had been injured, and a single partial print had been left on the discarded gun. “That seemed intentional,” he thought.
In the months that followed, he pulled his life together and fixed his financial woes. The money he used to do so was never really noticed, and never really missed, for the presses never slowed their printing.
