Showing posts with label Speculative. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Speculative. Show all posts

12.17.2008

Anastasia

by K.C. Ball

She is my younger sister and she talks to me; always has.

When I was twelve, she told me how to talk to girls, told me all the words she knew they loved to hear; and in return, asked only that each time I spoke her words, they were the truth.

Her giggles taught me how to laugh at all the world’s absurdities; most of all, my own.

She cheered for me, the night I earned my bachelor’s degree and the first afternoon I brought home a real paycheck; cried with me the morning after I retired.

I was steadied by her words, the day I said “I do,” and she cooed with me, outside the glass, when both my sons was born.

Somehow I made it through the nights, when my sweet Miriam passed on, because my sister whispered honest comfort in my ear from far away.

She talks to me, she always has, the younger sister I have never seen; my fraternal twin, who would not wait for birth and snuck away to God, behind me, as I squirmed into the world.

And now she says that today we will be together once again.

© 2008 K.C. Ball
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.
Discuss this story at ResAliens Forum at SFReader.com.
(Picture Source: Unknown)

K.C. Ball is a retired newspaper reporter and media relations coordinator, living in Seattle; but just recently began writing fiction full-time. Ball's stories have been published in Boston Literary Magazine, Every Day Fiction, Fear & Trembling, Morpheus Tales, Murky Depths, Static Movement and A Thousand Faces. You can catch more of K.C. Ball at Now Playing In Seattle.

12.01.2008

The Little Star

The Little Star
by Nick Ozment

There is a place where stars are born, and it is very far from here, or else the brightness of that place would overwhelm the light of our own small star, the Sun.

This is a story about a star that was born in that place, who found out that though he was little as far as stars went, he had a very big thing to do. It took place a long time ago by human time, but for a star, it was only like yesterday.

The little star's name was Harbinger, which means "one who announces another's approach," though he did not know why he was named this, nor what his name meant.

Many stars are bigger than our own Sun, stars that appear to us only as white dots at night because they are so far away. There are stars so massive in size that they could engulf a thousand Earths. But Harbinger was brand-spanking new, and not much larger than a basketball.

Not long after he was born, and before he had left The Place Where Stars Are Born, he received a message from Star Maker, the special directions every star waits for before it sets out into the universe. He wasn't expecting anything spectacular, for he was very small even compared to any of the other young stars, so he certainly did not think he could do much. "Except maybe replace a light bulb that has gone out," he thought to himself. He suspected that if one were to look throughout the whole cosmos, a smaller star than he would not be found.

Imagine his surprise when the message came, and it said, "Harbinger, you have a very important thing to do," followed by directions on where in the universe he should go. However, it said nothing more than this. The shining little star was completely in the dark as to what this very important thing was.

But, wanting to do his very absolute best at whatever it might be, he quickly hurried off, out into the universe, taking time only to say a quick, excited good-bye to his caretakers and the other young stars that were still waiting for their directions.

As the light of the Place Where Stars Are Born became more and more distant, and he pressed further into the dark vastness of space on his way to the place far, far away where the message had said to go, fears began to creep into Harbinger's mind. He thought of Star-Eater, and shined a little dimmer lest that hunter of stars should find him - one lone, helpless, tiny star, light years from any bigger stars that might protect him.

Star-Eater, like all rotten villains who also happen to be great cowards, only preyed on the small and very young. With a big, older star he wouldn't stand a chance. Tiny stars, like Harbinger, he would swallow in one bite.

But Harbinger could not think of how much he feared Star-Eater for long, not when he thought of a second, far more terrible thing: The Darkness.

The Darkness was much worse. It was far more dangerous than Star-Eater, for it could swallow up the largest of stars in its inky black curtain, an expanse from which such an unfortunate star would never shine again. The star might flee for a short distance, but The Darkness would reach out and grasp it tighter and it would not get any further. The star would drown in darkness and go out like a dying red ember in a cold hearth. When one sees a falling star, that is another star that has been taken by The Darkness.

Harbinger sped forth through the universe, crossing many galaxies, each containing thousands of stars, on his way to one galaxy in particular. It was where his destiny awaited.

He was about halfway to the galaxy to which he was headed, in a particularly vast stretch of empty space, when it happened that he sensed he was no longer alone - that there was some other presence very close. A feeling came over him of fear and dread, for he sensed that something was stalking him. Timidly, he spun around like a glowing top, looking in every direction. Harbinger could see much further than people or even eagles; his eyes were as sensitive as powerful telescopes. But he saw nothing except for a large asteroid, floating silently through space many hundreds of miles away.

But then, spinning around one more time to be sure, he saw a red, fiery thing shooting toward him like a comet. He knew at once that it was Star-Eater, whose body always appeared to be burning, who had spotted him alone and helpless from a million miles away and was now pouncing on him to eat him. Quickly Harbinger looked back at the asteroid, a chunk of rock almost the size of our Moon. If he could reach that in time, he thought, he might be small enough to find some cave or crevice in which to hide.

In the blink of an eye, Harbinger shot across that gap between himself and the asteroid, and ducked down into a deep crack.

Harbinger lay there in the ditch, quivering, his light very dim. He was as frightened as you would be if you were to have a nightmare in which something was following you, then wake up only to hear the footsteps still approaching. Star-Eater was a horrible nightmare, and poor, shivering Harbinger could hear him drawing ever nearer beyond the ridge, and could hear his steady, raspy breathing growing louder, sucking in and spewing out the cold nothingness of space.

At length the noise stopped just above him. It was silent for a few tense moments, then a slight rustle caused him to glance up from his hiding spot. A taloned hand was quietly descending toward him. The claws spread open to snatch him up. Suddenly, before it could close upon him, the hand quickly withdrew, and at the same time there was a hideous shriek from above, a shriek, it seemed - of fright?

After waiting several moments and hearing nothing more, Harbinger hovered up and peered over. There was nothing but the rocky surface of the asteroid stretching out before him. Empty. Silent. Harbinger was sure the scream had come from Star-Eater, but what could have scared him off? There was not another star in sight.

Then a reassuring voice seemed to speak within him: "I am always with you." For a moment, he felt as if he were no longer floating, but in the palm of a strong, gentle hand. He remembered the message from Star Maker: "Harbinger, you have a very important thing to do."

It was all the answer Harbinger needed, and he continued on his way, no longer fearing Star-Eater.

Harbinger was nearing the galaxy where he had been directed to go, and now he honed in on one particular star, an older one that several planets revolved around. One certain planet orbiting this star Harbinger paid special attention to, because he knew it had to do with his being sent here. It was blue and green and teeming with life. Yes, that was his destination, though he still didn't know why.

He was very close to the star's solar system now, and was beginning to wonder what it was he should do next as he slowed to a halt on the outskirts of the system. It was nighttime upon the side of the blue planet that was now facing him, yet he was still so small and far away that someone on the planet's surface would not be able to see his little twinkling light in the starry night sky.

"Well, I'm here," he thought. "I'll just wait for further guidance from Star Maker."

As he bobbed up and down listlessly, Harbinger gradually began to notice something strange occurring. There seemed to be fewer stars to the left of him than there had been. And as he fixed his eyes on the ones he could still see, they gradually began to disappear too, as if something were spreading over them and covering them from his view. Sudden realization of what was happening dawned on him. In horror, he spun around and looked behind him. His eyes were not greeted with a familiar sight, a sky milky white with millions of stars. For the first time ever, he saw nothing but - darkness. Something wasn't spreading over all the other stars; it was spreading over him! The only thing Harbinger could think was why had Star Maker brought him right to the place where The Darkness would find him?

The Darkness closed in about him and engulfed him. He was being suffocated by the blackness; he could not even see his own light anymore. Then Harbinger remembered the soothing voice saying, "You have a very important thing to do. I will always be with you."

Well, where was He now?

There was nothing around Harbinger but silence; no calm, reassuring voice; no strong, gentle hand. The Darkness was all there was, he realized desperately - everywhere, all about him. No sound penetrated. Nothing stirred.

Then something deep inside him seemed to whisper, "Shine."

"But I can't," he thought.

"Shine."

"It's no use; I can't even make a little glow in this darkness. It's smothering me!"

"Shine."

"I'll give it one more try. Rrrrr! See, I can't do it!"

"Shine!"

With every ounce of commitment he had, he strained to give out one little bit of light that would penetrate The Darkness, which had extinguished many a star of immense size. He did it out of a desire to please the One who formed him more than to try to save his own life.

He felt something stirring inside him. And to his own amazement, he let forth a light that so shined it burst out in every direction through The Darkness, cutting arcs through the black cloud that held him. He felt as if a greater power, a limitless energy source, were shining through him, his little frame only a beacon through which this energy was being channeled. The light was so intense that The Darkness dispersed, and became only shadows, which crept away.

At once, he sped along toward the little blue planet that spun in its orbit around the old and yellowed star. He got into place, and again let his light shine forth.

It was not a massive amount of light; there were many other stars who shined a thousand times brighter than he. But it was enough to do the job. Because he was so close to Earth, the light of Harbinger outshone the light of all the other distant stars in the night sky. And to a small, huddled group of wise men down on the planet below, he was a sign - a sign that a great and wondrous thing had happened on that little, seemingly insignificant planet. Thus Harbinger shone, a beacon to the wise men, and a sign in the heavens that a Savior was born.

"Harbinger, you have a very important thing to do."

© 2008 Nicholas Ozment
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.
Discuss this story at ResAliens Forum at SFReader.com.

Nicholas Ozment teaches English at Winona State University. He is also an author of speculative fiction, primarily fantasy, horror, and magic realism. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in such print publications as Weird Tales, Mythic Delirium, Mythic Circle, The Willows, and online at Raven Electrick, Afterburn SF, and PseudoPod. His essay "Gandalf's Staff, Prospero's Books: The Ethics of Magic in Tolkien and Shakespeare" appears in TOLKIEN AND SHAKESPEARE: ESSAYS ON SHARED THEMES AND LANGUAGE (McFarland Press 2007).

10.09.2008

A Taste of Honey

by Fred Warren

I found the country fair by accident, a splash of color in a drab little town on the back roads. I needed material to finish my photo essay before deadline, and a healthy dose of nostalgia was just what my client wanted. The sun was bright, the breeze gentle and warm. I snapped pictures like a machine, the motor drive on my Nikon whining softly as I captured every detail:

Click. Whirr...A little girl, beribboned in yellow and blue, face pink and sticky with cotton candy, ice cream cone dripping down her arm.

Click. Whirr...A rickety old carousel badly in need of new paint, horses valiantly galloping along their circular road to the glue factory.

Click. Whirr...A scruffy clown in patched overalls sitting on an overturned bucket, greasepaint melting, nursing a fat cigar.

Perfect. The old ladies at the magazine would love this stuff. It was Norman Rockwell to the nth degree. I switched to the wide-angle lens, training it on a line of rickety booths with hand-lettered signs advertising pies, and preserves, and honey.

Honey. "Regina Honey, Homemade With Love Since 1860. $5/Jar"

I lowered the camera, caught in one of those moments when I've seen something in the viewfinder that I know, on some subconscious level, is very important but will take a little puzzling-out. I walked toward the booth, dodging a gaggle of sticky, shrieking children on the way, narrowly avoiding a tumble of comic proportions.

The black-haired woman at the honey stand looked to be in her twenties. She wore a simple calico sundress and a broad-brimmed straw hat with a sprig of clover tucked into the band. Her hazel eyes sparkled merrily as she sized me up, tiny honeybee earrings flying in small circles beneath her ears as she moved.

"You're not from around here. Newsman?"

"Photojournalist. I'm working on an article about summer in Perth County for Snowbird Quarterly. It's almost finished."

She nodded. "It's a pity you can't capture the best things about this fair with just a camera. You miss all the sounds and smells. What's a fair without the smell of funnel cakes and corn dogs, or the sound of children's laughter?"

"I like to think those sounds and smells will come to life when people look at my pictures."

"Ah, then we're very much alike. When you taste my honey, visions of everything dearest and best will fill your mind's eye. Just five dollars a jar...a bargain at twice the price."

I selected a jar from atop the pyramid stacked on the counter, turning it over slowly in my hands. The contents had a lovely deep amber color and glowed attractively in the sunlight. "You've been at this a long time," I said, "if that's a true date on your sign."

She didn't seem offended by my veiled skepticism. "Longer than you know. It's the family business. Passed down from mother to daughter, time out of mind. We didn't begin selling our honey outside the family until 1860."

A bee buzzed inquisitively around the jar's lid. In reflex, I swatted at it, missed.

"Stop it!" The woman's voice snapped like a whip. I froze. "That's my livelihood you're about to crush."

The bee orbited angrily about my head. Reaching out her hand, the honey vendor intercepted the insect, which lit docilely upon her index finger, wings twitching, abdomen pulsing.

To cover my nerves, I snapped a couple of shots as the lady and her pet posed obligingly. "That's quite a trick. Aren’t you afraid it’ll sting you?"

"Not really. When you've been working with bees as long as I have, you begin to think of them as children. They're all my children. A little ornery sometimes, misunderstood most of the time, but mine. I know them, and they know me." She sent the iridescent little creature on its way with a gentle toss of her hand. "So, you want to buy a jar? I guarantee it will change your life."

I hesitated. The woman suddenly seemed odd, and threatening. She leaned closer to me, and something unidentifiable, a scent just outside perception, insistent and intoxicating, swirled into my mind.

I bought ten jars.

~*~


Stretched out on the hotel bed, I contemplated my fifty-dollar investment, now stacked haphazardly on the mini bar. What had possessed me? I wouldn't use that much honey in a year. The vendor was pretty, but I'd never fallen all over myself in an attempt to impress a woman, no matter how mesmerizingly beautiful, or shapely...but those eyes, and that maddening fragrance...

Steady, boy.

Perhaps her perfume contained some pheromone or musk. I'd been functioning normally until she moved in close to me. The voice of my crystal-spinning, incense-burning mother whispered in my imagination that the woman was an enchantress who had cast a spell over me, binding my will to hers.

There was also that stunt with the bee.

Maybe if I tried the honey. If it was as good as she claimed I wouldn't feel so stupid about buying ten jars of it.

I selected a jar at random, popped off the lid, and took a sniff. It smelled innocent enough, sweet and flowery, pretty much what I expected. Some rummaging through drawers produced a cellophane condiment packet containing coffee creamer, a stir-stick, and a spoon. I dipped the spoon into the golden ooze, and after a few gyrations to avoid dribbling honey all over the carpet, slid it into my mouth.

As advertised, I was whirled into a mental travelogue of all things dearest and best in my life since infancy.

...my first birthday, yellow icing smeared across my face, and Sadie, still a pup, slobbering it away, auburn fur shining in the afternoon sun...Grandpa Taylor with his bristly mustache, teaching me how to fish, battered green tackle box filled with red and white bobbers, polka-dotted bugs with hooks for feet...flying down the hill on my bike, metal-flake orange, chrome sissy bar, white-striped tires...Mom posing for me, the first photo I ever took, daisies woven in her hair, she's so pretty...cruising Jackson Boulevard in my beat-up jalopy, red and rusted, girls waving, guys laughing their heads off, I don't care...my high school portfolio, purple and gold ribbon, best in show...college graduation, lost in a sea of maroon caps and gowns, Dad shakes my hand, black suit, paisley tie, I've never seen him cry before...

It was psychedelic, panoramic, and colorific. Technicolorific. When the trip down memory lane subsided, my eyes still blurred with afterimages.

I couldn't believe it. This lady had the brass to sell drugs right out in the open, from a booth at a country fair? Whatever this stuff was, it had to be on somebody's controlled substances list. After a couple of aspirin, and some more reflection, I decided to confront the honey lady before taking any drastic action. Maybe I was still reacting to her perfume. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten that third corn dog. There were any number of logical explanations for what I'd just experienced, and it wouldn't be right to call in the cops without giving her a chance to prove she wasn't making some kind of country-fried LSD.

Besides, I wanted to see her again. I had to.

~*~


I returned next day to the fair, off the clock this time. My cameras, as always, were within easy reach. Even when I wasn't working, I was compulsively on the lookout for a good picture. I also thought I might need to document the shady goings-on at the honey stand.

The fair was mostly unchanged from the previous day. Sticky-faced girl, check. Merry-go round, check. Scruffy clown, shorter cigar, check. Pie eating contest...that was new. Fifteen little boys were buried up to their ears in blueberry filling. Beautiful.

Click. Whirr.

I sauntered over to the Regina Honey booth. She was there, same hat, same earrings, new dress...big roses this time. She laid down the novel she'd been reading, some flavor of Cartland-esque romance, and smiled brightly up at me.

"You're back! How'd you like the honey?"

"It was very...illuminating. I wanted to ask you about that. Do you blend any 'special' additives or anything into it?"

"Nothing but love, just like the sign says." She winked mischievously. "Maybe just a tiny little touch of magic."

I leaned in closer...but not too close. "Ok, Miss Regina, I'm going to be straight with you. That honey sent me on a trip like the ones my mother talks about when she's reminiscing about the Summer of Love. You've got to be putting something illegal in there, some kind of herb or chemical, and people are eventually going to find out."

She rose gracefully from her chair, smoothing the folds of her flowered dress. She didn't seem at all disturbed by my accusation. The smile was as brilliant as ever, the hazel eyes dancing. A pair of bees hummed lazily around her hat, finally alighting on the sprig of clover, an event I noted with a little trepidation. I would have sworn their multifaceted eyes were fixed on me.

"My name is Kerri Ann. And you are?"

"Bob...Bob Taylor."

"Bob, I swear to you there are no 'special' additives in my honey, natural or otherwise. The very idea is crude, repulsive, and completely unnecessary. My bees make very good honey. I collect a portion and sell it. It's that simple. I do find your reaction interesting. I rarely encounter someone so sensitive to its charms."

"Charms? It was like watching a movie of my life produced by Walt Disney! Everything was in primary colors. It was so intense and out of balance, it gave me a headache."

Her expression sharpened, as if she were evaluating me. The bees buzzed off and away. "Out of balance? What do you mean?"

"Well...I'm a photographer. My job is to create pictures that tell a story. A good picture requires good composition. I have to balance objects, light, and color, or people don't see the picture properly. They misinterpret it. They might even be offended by it."

"Offended?" She was silent for a few moments. "I don't want my honey to have that effect on people. Perhaps I need to make a few adjustments. Tell you what...why don't you come for a visit tomorrow, and take a closer look at my operation. Maybe your discriminating palate can help me make the honey better. It's a work in progress, after all."

My mother's voice began yammering about dark enchantments, ritual sacrifice to pagan gods, and bee stings.

"I...I hadn't planned to stay beyond today," I blustered. "I've got a photo shoot scheduled for a big advertising contract, and I need to set up the studio, and..."

Kerri Ann stepped closer to me. Too close. My head swam.

"Reschedule it." The smile still shone, but the tone brooked no argument.

"Sure. Reschedule. No problem," I agreed, dazed.

~*~


Despite my misgivings, I rose early next day and followed Kerri Ann's directions to her farm. She'd written them out for me in loops and curlicues on a sheet of blue pastel stationery adorned with a little cartoon bee and the caption, "A Buzz from Kerri Ann." Cute. The country road meandered through woods and rolling hills, finally ending at a white, two-story Cape Cod house bordered by a neat picket fence. Stacks of wooden boxes dotted the surrounding fields.

Beehives. More beehives than I'd ever seen before in one place. The air was literally humming with insect commerce as I stepped gingerly from my rented sedan.

Kerri Ann emerged from the house, a vision in white taffeta, not at all the beekeeper swathed in layers of heavy denim and netting I had expected. She might well have been stepping out for afternoon tea with the Queen. She met me half-way, reaching out to grasp both my hands. "I'm so glad you decided to come, Bob. Let me show you around the farm, then we'll sit and talk a while."

"Thank you, that'll be great." I started to pull out a camera, but she stopped me in mid-motion.

"I'd prefer you not take any pictures while you're here. It disturbs my bees, and I'd rather not reveal too much to the competition, if you know what I mean."

I closed the flap on my bag. "Of course. Do you need to change first?"

"Whatever for? Don't you like my dress?" She twirled about with a little giggle.

"No, it's beautiful. I just thought, with the bees and all..."

"Oh, don't worry about them. I told you, they're my children. We'll be fine."

And we were. Although a few spiraled suspiciously around me from time to time, Kerri Ann's presence seemed to provide an inviolate bubble of space about us. The clouds of bees parted to allow us passage, and she chatted merrily about their biology, their social structure, and the mechanics of making honey. At one point in the tour, she even removed the lid from a beehive and let me look inside at the frenzied, yet purposeful, activity of its inhabitants, pointing out the honeycombs and the cells where the larvae incubated. She showed me the female workers, and the male drones, and finally the long-bodied queen, attended by her own retinue of workers, busily laying eggs from cell to cell.

"So many drones," Kerri Ann murmured, "but only one queen."

As we walked back toward the farmhouse, it was my turn to talk, this time about photography - lighting, perspective, contrast, and the little tricks of the darkroom that could make a good picture even better. She listened raptly. Our hands wandered toward each other, and we walked that way for a long time.

Inside, Kerri Ann had prepared a loaf of fresh-sliced bread and a pitcher of lemonade on a little table in a sunny parlor room overlooking the fields of beehives. "This farm is huge," I remarked, "How in the world do you manage it all?"

"The bees do most of the work," she replied softly. “My mother taught me how to handle the rest. In the winter, there's hardly any activity. Everyone is sleeping, waiting for springtime."

“Do your parents live nearby?”

Kerri Ann seemed to contemplate her lemonade, running a finger around the rim of the glass. “My mother passed away shortly after she turned the farm over to me. I never knew my father, but my mother said he was a fine man. Named me after him...it’s sort of a family tradition.”

"But doesn't it get lonely here, all by yourself? You said the business has been passed down from mother to daughter over the years. You'll need someone to take over when you're gone. I don't suppose there are many available guys in Perth County?"

I was getting way ahead of myself, but I couldn't help it. Simply being in her presence was inebriating.

"Oh, I'll have my own daughter, eventually, when the time is right. I'm not worried. It's like the bees," she sighed. "So many drones, only one queen."

There were apparently more potential suitors than I'd seen in town. No matter. This was my moment. "Say, what about the honey? You talked about changing it, making it better. I'm not sure how I can help, but I'll do whatever I can."

"You've helped quite a lot already. There are ways I can introduce subtle differences - adjust the balance, as you say. I'll change the orientation and spacing of the hives and move some of them to new fields to alter my bees' diet. Little things like that."

She reached across the table to gently squeeze my hand. "You've truly given me a new perspective on my honey, and I think it will be better than ever now. Thank you."

"It's my pleasure. You know, I was wondering...ow!"

A needle-prick of pain grew into a throbbing ache across the back of my neck. Something buzzed past my ear and out of the room.

"Oh, dear, you've been stung. Let me get some ice for that."

It hurt like the devil, but I waved her off. "It's nothing. I'm not allergic. I'll just see a doctor when I get...back..."

My vision fogged, tunneled, and went black. The buzzing returned and grew steadily louder until it filled my universe. A hot, suffocating wind blew over me, and I could feel the press of a thousand...somethings...surrounding me, pushing, biting, stinging. There was a precipice, a cliff ahead. I couldn't see it, but there was no denying its reality. The multitude carried me along in its smothering embrace and with a final shove, sent me tumbling into a black, droning nothingness.

The buzzing subsided, and light began to slowly creep in under the edges of the void. My head pounded. The light grew brighter. I opened my eyes and immediately regretted it.

Kerri Ann's voice wafted through the pain. "Are you all right? You fainted. I managed to move you onto the sofa in the sitting room. Here's some water."

I fumbled about with one hand, felt something cold and wet pressed into it, guided to my mouth. The water was delicious. I tried opening my eyes again. Better this time. I was able to struggle into a sitting position, and my surroundings gradually came into focus. Kerri Ann was there, her face worried and sad.

"You had me scared for a minute, but I think you'll be all right. You should go home."

"Yeah, maybe so. I can meet you in town for lunch tomorrow. I'll just push my photo shoot back a couple more days."

Concern and sympathy shifted abruptly to harsh impatience. "No, you don't understand. You have to go. Now."

The headache didn't help my confusion. I must have offended her somehow. "I want to spend more time with you," I protested. "You're wonderful, like no woman I've ever met before, and I think you like me too. Please, if you'll just give me a chance..."

"Bob, you must leave now. I'm sorry."

Bzzzz.

Another stray bee entered the room. Two more followed, then half a dozen. They circled around me, not attacking, but herding me out the door and toward my car. Their fellows outside joined in, myriad wings roaring furiously as they churned the air. They bumped against my unprotected face and arms, clung to my clothes and hair.

The fever dream was still fresh in my mind--I knew if I resisted, they would sting until I retreated or collapsed. The only open path was toward the car. When I reached it, the cloud of bees fell back, forming a translucent, undulating barrier that blocked any return to the house. As I slammed the transmission into reverse, I could see Kerri Ann standing on the porch in her lacy white dress, eyes downcast, enveloped by thousands of her children.

I swung the car around and didn't look back.


~*~


Six months afterward, a package arrived at my studio by courier. There was no return address on the package, but I knew who sent it. The box contained a single jar of honey. I took it home that evening and stared at it for over an hour. The honey had a lovely deep amber color and flowed smoothly as I turned the jar over and over in my hands. I finally worked up the courage to open the jar, spoon out a sample, and taste.

The honey spread through my mouth, across my tongue, and like a warm breath of summer air, memories of everything dearest and best flowed through my mind, this time in perfect color, in perfect balance, and Kerri Ann was there.

...Kerri Ann with her floppy hat and calico dress. Kerri Ann walking through the fields in white taffeta and lace, holding my hand, speaking of bees, and honey, and dreams. Kerri Ann of the hazel eyes and the shining smile. Kerri Ann with the numberless golden children who dance in the air on gossamer wings and part before her like courtiers before their queen...

"So many drones. They serve their purpose, then they're driven from the hive. Only one queen."

The vision gently evaporated, like mist, like smoke, like a taste of honey.

Pain followed in its wake. I meant nothing to her. Once I'd provided the means to perfect her honey, my usefulness was at an end, so she drove me away. There were plenty of other drones to provide whatever she needed next time.

I put the jar on a high shelf, out of sight, and never touched it again.

~*~


I remember it all, twenty summers past, as I drive through Perth County on my way to a gallery exhibition in Ottawa. The little town is still here, not so little anymore, and the country fair is in full swing. I can't say why I choose to stop. It would be so much easier to just keep driving. Slinging my camera bag over my shoulder, I trudge up the hill toward the smell of funnel cakes and corn dogs, toward the laughter of children and the music of the carousel.

I notice the carousel horses have a new lease on life and a fresh coat of paint. The same clown is there, even scruffier, chewing gum instead of a fat stogie. Little girls and boys run rampant with sticky faces of various colors. The booths are more substantial now, but they still sell pies, and preserves, and honey.

Honey. "Regina Honey, Homemade With Love Since 1860. $10/Jar"

A bargain at twice the price.

I square my shoulders, swallow hard, and walk slowly over to the booth.

Click. Beep.

The black-haired young lady behind the counter lowers her camera. A tiny diamond bee piercing her left eyebrow glimmers in the sunlight, and she grins cheerfully at my astonishment.

"Hey, a fellow shutterbug! This is the best honey in the world. Want to buy a jar? I guarantee it'll change your life!"

The name tag on her flowered blouse says, simply, "Bobbi Ann."

© 2008 by Fred Warren
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Fred Warren lives in the merry old land of Kansas with his lovely wife, three above-average kids, and two noisy dogs. He recently retired from the Air Force and now has a fun but somewhat less exciting job flying computer-simulated airplanes for the Army. Fred's stories have appeared this year in Postcards From... and A Fly in Amber, and he has several others forthcoming in Sand: A Journal of Strange Tales, Sorcerous Signals, MindFlights, and Beyond Centauri. You can find him online at Frederation and in the Liberty Hall writing forums.

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(Image Source: Unknown)

10.05.2008

Faded Embers

by Mel Bosworth

In the twilight, a brazen wind rushed over the choppy lake, battering the worn clapboard siding of the house. Brightly hued maple leaves, hapless in the gust, slapped wetly against a cracked kitchen window.

Inside, Beverly hiked up a velvet dress and brought down her heavy heel, snapping a leg off an overturned chair. She tossed the splintered limb into the fireplace while a dimpled, cast iron pot simmered over the coals. With bulbous and arthritic fingers, she tightened a shawl around her shoulders.

“I’m chilly, Richie,” she said.

It had been thirty-three years since Richie’s disappearance. Beverly never remarried and each October she faithfully drove out to the old lake house and cooked a big meal to celebrate their anniversary.

It was the same meal each year and it was Richie’s favorite: Jambalaya. The rice, shrimp and chicken were easy enough to gather, but the final ingredient always posed a problem and had to be special-ordered in advance. The local grocers fumbled with the pronunciation of Andouille sausage so it wasn’t a surprise they never carried it. But Richie always insisted. He said it kept him young.

Beverly stirred the blend with a long wooden spoon. She closed her eyes and thought of Richie.

He’d been a small, skinny man with round blue eyes and a crooked smile. Beverly was wide and strong and she liked to scoop him up and carry him everywhere. It used to make him laugh.

“I’m making your favorite,” she said, lingering in reverie. “And I made sure to get the Andouille.”

A sudden pain gripped her chest and raced down her arm. She slumped heavily against the warm stone of the hearth. For an anxious moment her body trembled. A pulsing drum beat inside her, frenetic at first then quickly tapering off. Her body stilled.

Through the front windows, a set of headlights slashed across the room and spotlighted an old picture of Richie and Beverly hung crooked above the kitchen sink. It was from their honeymoon at Niagara Falls.

Beverly wore a yellow raincoat. Richie sported a hat that read, “Richie Loves Beverly.” With thick legs planted and back arched, she cradled him in her arms. Both flaunted ridiculous, sodden grins.

Six months after the honeymoon, he vanished while hunting moose in northern Maine. Never a trace was found.

The headlights flicked off and the picture went black. Through the wind came the muted thud of a car door. Beverly waddled to the front of the house, choking a brass stoker in her beefy hand.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

But no answer came; only the whistling wind.

“Answer me or I’m calling the police!” she said, thumping the floor with the stoker.

And then a voice, small and familiar, seeped through the door.

“Beverly?”

“Richie?”

“Open up, Beverly,” he said. “The wind is mighty cold out here and I can smell Andouille.”

The stoker slipped from her fingers and clanged at her feet. She nervously flipped the latch.

A scrawny hand, assisted by a corpulent breeze, swung the door open into the room. A lean face hid beneath a timeworn hat that read, “Richie Loves Beverly.”

Her legs buckled and she collapsed.

“Beverly? Baby? Are you ok?”

Richie held her head in his lap and stroked her ruddy cheeks. Candlelight made small shadows dance mischievously around the room. Her eyes strained.

“Richie? Am I dreaming?”

“No, Beverly. You’re not dreaming.”

She tried to sit up but the hard, internal resonance of a beating drum held her down.

“Take is slow, Beverly. I’m here with you.”

The soft, sweet sound of children giggling came from the kitchen. Beverly stiffened.

“What is that, Richie? Who’s here? What’s happening?”

Richie held her hand and soothingly hushed her.

“It’s ok, Beverly. I’ve come back for you.”

“But where have you been all these years? I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I’ve been with the children all these years, baby.”

“But we never had any children, Richie.”

The giggling intensified and then stopped. Light burst into the room from every window. Beverly shielded her eyes and wept.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

He helped her to her feet. She could see him better now and he was young as she remembered him.

“You haven’t changed, Richie.”

Her hands moved self consciously to her thinning gray hair, but instead touched upon a silky thickness she hadn’t felt in decades. Richie smiled.

“Neither have you,” he said.

The deluge of light that flooded the room carried with it a piercing tranquility like love. The visceral pounding within Beverly now moved to a serene rhythm and she swept Richie into her arms.

“I knew you’d understand,” he whispered.

The children came from the kitchen carrying heaping bowls of Jambalaya. Each had straw colored hair and striking blue eyes. They were dressed in small suits and summer dresses that poorly concealed the writhing wings on their backs.

Cradling Richie as she had done years before, she followed the children to the door, moving past the glowing embers of the fireplace and the lifeless old woman who unknowingly basked in their radiance.




© 2008 by Mel Bosworth
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Mel Bosworth lives and breathes in Massachusetts. He enjoys writing, eating, rolling around in maple leaves and sleeping. He can be reached at meljb77 at gmail.com.

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(Photograph of 'Old Shack' by Connetta VanMatre, used by permission.)
(Photograph of embers by Jens Buurgaard Nielsen from Wikimedia Commons)

7.01.2008

The Battle

by R. L. Copple

They say when you're about to die, your entire life flies past your mind's eye. That's not what I'm experiencing on this battlefield - his sword in my gut, and my blade buried into his chest. Fighting surges around us. Commanders yell orders. It all dims into a pool of abstract sounds and thoughts.

Rather, a different focus emerges from the hazy chaos as life drains from my limbs. I had sacrificed my life for this? A piece of land the king wanted, which my family would never live on and my descendants would never inherit?

I had served in battle after battle for the king. I had dodged death's blows on many occasions, and never once did it cross my mind that in the next moment my life could disappear with the sea-breezes. In my head, I knew it, yes. But, it never traveled with me as a companion. It never dwelt in my house or slept in my bed. I had slid between death's fingers so many times, I didn't think I would ever get caught by the old tyrant - even though I should have known better.

Now, the tyrant had trapped me. I wouldn't escape this time, nor would I escape the purpose of my martyrdom: another's greed. It took death to bring life into perspective.

The soldier standing opposite me fixes his eyes on mine and communicates wordlessly the same realization. Life should mean something, and death should celebrate such meaning. This isn't it.

As we sink to our knees and collapse onto the grass reddened by death's pride, as the yells, grunts, and clanking of swords ring in our ears, we bond.

Enemies in life. Brothers in death. And the knowledge that the former could have been avoided.

© 2008 by R. L. Copple
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

R. L. Copple is a father to three children, a husband since 1982, and lives in the Texas Hill Country. He has written for religious purposes but currently is editing three novels. He has been published at A Thousand Faces, The Sword Review, Ray Gun Revival, Haruah, Fear and Trembling, EveryDay Fiction, Residential Aliens, and Dragons, Knights, and Angels. His five chapter fantasy novella Infinite Realities (read my review here) is for sale and has been serialized at The Sword Review, September through December 2007. Visit RLCopple.com for more.

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3.31.2008

Crystal Clear - Parts 1 & 2

by David Rawls
The Beginning of a 5 Chapter Novella
Read the Conclusion

1


Howard Marlin, aka “Merlin the Mysterious,” noted magician and debunker of claims of the paranormal, received a phone call at 9 o’clock on a Tuesday evening. Nothing unusual there. He had received calls at such times before, usually from his agent who lived out on the West Coast and generally called just before knocking off for the day. What made this call unusual was the manner in which it began.

“Hello,” Howard greeted, evenly.

“It’s a pocket comb,” the caller said. No “Hi.” No “My name is.” Just “It’s a pocket comb.” Howard was immediately intrigued, if somewhat put off.

“Pardon me,” Howard replied.

“The object in your safe,” the caller explained. “It’s a pocket comb.”

As part of his debunking career, Howard maintained a standing offer. Anyone who could divine by psychic means the contents of his safe, which he changed every week, would receive a personal check for $10,000. Howard never worried about this money as he had received few calls on the matter and, of those, no correct guesses.

Until now. The object in his safe was, indeed, a pocket comb. Howard began to feel uneasy, not because of any coming radical shift in his view of life, however. Other explanations sprang easily to mind. Perhaps he merely picked an object that was too easy a guess. Pocket combs were not all that uncommon. He would have to pick something more obscure in the future. Worse yet, the caller may have made his successful guess by bugging Howard’s house. This could prove a troublesome invasion of privacy, especially if he ended up, Gene Hackman-wise, tearing out the walls of his house in order to find the bug.

It had to be the former, Howard concluded. He had picked too common an object and was now about to pay for the lapse with a lot of unwanted publicity towards this caller, proclaiming him a true psychic. Not to mention the $10,000.

“You can keep the money,” the caller continued, as if reading Howard’s mind. “My task is not to make money or even gain publicity. For myself, at any rate.”

“Well,” Howard began, maintaining a friendly tone in spite of his misgivings, “I must say I’m rather impressed. You have correctly identified the contents of my safe. Might I ask your name?”

“I’m Lonnie Decree,” the caller replied. “I have been given special powers by God, the purpose of which is to allow testing to convince skeptics such as yourself of His reality.”

Howard almost laughed. I know what this is, he thought. Some of his buddies down at the Wine Pantry are cooking this up. Howard made it a point not to get drunk, but he still imbibed the occasional Chablis. In all likelihood, he had a little too much last Saturday. One of the boys heard him mention the contents of his safe and is now pulling his leg.

“Darren,” he chuckled, picking the voice that was most like the one on the phone, “you really had me going there. I was almost…”

“I’m not Darren,” the caller interrupted, “or any other of your associates. If I could visit you, I could prove to you who I am and, ultimately, who God is.”

“Well,” Howard replied, attempting to keep his composure. “What does this power entail?”

“Anything you want,” Decree answered simply. He certainly was a confident sort, Howard thought. “My plan is as follows. I would like to visit you first to convince you by whatever means you think necessary of the powers God has given me. When you are sufficiently convinced, I would like for you to arrange a meeting between myself and your colleagues within the science community along with any other magicians you would like to bring along. At this meeting, I would like the group to arrive at a test of divine power which they would regard as completely convincing of the existence and presence of God.”

“So you’ve met God, then?” Howard asked. If this man had some confidence scheme going, Howard couldn’t spot it. Why didn’t I pick a more exotic object, he thought? Then, I likely wouldn’t be in this spot.

“I’ve heard Him, yes,” Decree answered. “He has explained to me the course I must take.”

“This meeting between us,” Howard continued. “Are you going to arrange for the press or should I?” Howard hoped to use this blunt a question to smoke Decree out. If he could get Decree to admit to a desire for publicity, perhaps he could get him to fess up to the rest of his plans.

“The press can come later,” Lonnie reassured. “For now, I wanted this to be just us, although if you want to include anyone else in the first meeting, be my guest. Once I convince you of the powers I have been given, we can move on to the meeting with the scientists. Once they propose a good test, then the press will be necessary for providing witness to this test.”

“One last thing,” Howard requested. “I’m thinking of a number between…”

“Thirty-six,” Decree replied immediately. “Would six o’clock tomorrow evening be convenient for you?”

Howard was dumbfounded. He hadn’t even given Decree a range of choices and Decree nailed it. Mentally, Howard tried to think if there was significance to the number thirty-six that would make it an easy guess. His musings were interrupted by the realization that he had been asked a question.

“What?” he asked, remembering the query. “Six o’clock? Yes, that should be fine.”

“Thank you,” Decree said. “I’ll see you then.” He hung up without asking for directions to Howard’s house.

Howard spent the next two hours poking around his basement where his safe was, trying to remember his exact movements when he switched out his father’s railroad watch for the pocket comb last Saturday. He gave the walls a good going over but found no miniature cameras or bugs of any sort. What is going on? Even if Decree had bugged the room, how could he have guessed the number right? Howard would liked to have held Decree on the phone longer to ask him additional questions. There are tricks mentalists use in their acts, some of which Howard himself had used. With more questions, Howard could determine if Decree was using the same tricks. Finally, exhausted, Howard climbed into bed, looking forward to the next day’s meeting with a combination of anticipation and dread.

The next day, Howard opened his door at 5:15 to greet not Decree, but Jim “Magic Man” Able, a colleague of his. The two followed each other’s work a lot and had even performed together on occasion. Where Howard’s specialty in the magic arts was sleight of hand tricks, Jim was more the “nuts and bolts” type magician; sawing a woman in half and that sort of thing. Howard had wanted someone else here when Lonnie Decree arrived, to make sure Decree wasn’t a violent type of nut. Howard also felt Jim would be helpful to spot any deception that Howard might miss. Howard let his friend in and offered refreshments. He then began to lay out the tale of the phone call from the previous night and asked Jim if he had any ideas as to how Decree could have guessed the safe contents.

“That’s a toughie,” Jim admitted, taking the tea that Howard offered. Howard had his own special brew which Jim had always liked. “Has anyone called recently to guess the safe contents, other than him, I mean?”

“No,” Howard replied. “In fact, I have not gotten a call in several months. It’s been a might slow of late. Usually, I get at least one guess every couple of weeks.”

“Huh,” Jim said thoughtfully. “That speaks against my guess, although it still doesn’t rule it out. I was thinking that one might call every so often and make a random guess in the hopes of making a correct one by chance eventually. A person could even go so far as to change his voice each time or even get several of his friends to call for him.”

“That’s true,” Howard agreed, “although if he did, he sure waited a long time to hazard a guess. Maybe patience is a virtue, to him at any rate.”

“Another trick,” Jim offered, “might be to go through your trash to guess what things you had in your house, the way a computer hacker works. For instance, if you had the wrapper the comb came in, he might guess that as an object.”

“Oh, yeah,” Howard replied. “That’s one of the things that bothers me the most about all of this – the invasion of privacy aspect.”

“Occupational hazard,” Jim noted. “Being in the public eye invariably leads to this. Add to it the fact that you are dealing with people that have nothing to lose and everything to gain from getting some kind of nod of approval from you.”

“Exactly,” Howard agreed. “That’s why I wanted you here. I plan to put this Decree through tough tests and I wanted you to watch my back, as it were, and make sure he isn’t pulling anything that I might not see.”

“You can count on me,” Jim said. “What did you have in mind?”

Howard thrust his finger in the air by way of reply. Rising from the living room sofa, he went to the hall closet and began to rummage around. Finally, he emerged from the closet and returned to the living room, carrying a boxy looking structure.

“This is something I had always planned on using in such an event,” he explained, presenting the box to Jim. “I can put this over the head of a test subject and be assured that he could not possibly see out of it. This way, I can have him guess the values of playing cards, for instance, and know that he can’t be seeing reflections or such.”

“Good idea,” Jim agreed. “As a hedge, I would make sure that you use two full decks of cards. Also, don’t announce the card by saying anything more than ‘next card.’ You don’t even want to say something like ‘number three’ because the tone of your voice may change if number three is actually a three.”

Howard chuckled. “I’m sure I got the right help for this. Those are excellent suggestions.”

Promptly at 6 o'cloak, the two’s conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

“I wonder who that could be,” Jim laughed.

“Show time,” Howard announced, heading for the door. He opened it to reveal a man of a little over six feet who looked to be in his early fifties. Caucasian, white hair, blue eyes. He was dressed in a light blue waist-length coat over a white button-down shirt. He looked fairly ordinary. Didn’t look dangerous, at any rate. For that matter, neither did Ted Bundy.

“Mr. Decree?” Howard surmised, extending his hand.

“You can call me Lonnie,” the man replied, offering his. The two shook hands and Howard motioned Lonnie inside.

“This is Jim Able,” Howard said, indicating the other man standing in the living room, “a colleague of mine.”

“I believe I’ve caught your act a few times on cable,” Lonnie said, shaking the other’s hand. “It’s right impressive.”

“Thank you,” Jim replied. “I try to give a new take on some of the old basics.”

“Jim’s a right modest sort for the entertainment business,” Howard chuckled. “He’s one of the best, though. I called him here as a safeguard because there are some tricks he’s more familiar with than I am. I hope you don’t mind.” Howard did not add that he felt the two of them could probably take Decree on if he got violent.

“Not at all,” Lonnie replied. “As I explained over the phone, this first phase of my mission is to convince you sufficiently of my, actually, God’s powers in order to arrange a meeting with some skeptical scientists. I welcome anyone who could help you verify what you will see.”

Howard took in Lonnie for a moment in silence. Regaining himself, he said, “Well, er, have a seat. Could I get you anything? Jim and I here were just drinking tea, if you would like some.”

Lonnie sat down in a chair opposite the sofa. Jim and Howard took the sofa, facing him. “Yes, I would like that,” Lonnie replied.

“Tell me,” Howard began, pouring a cup of tea and handing it to Lonnie, “how did you come about these powers? Did God visit you directly or come to you in a dream?” The tone of his voice was more one of humoring than of any attempt to gain knowledge. Lonnie, however, took the question at face value.

“In a dream, actually,” he replied. “God explained to me that he wants to give skeptics one last chance to believe. In times past, skeptics tended to be religious skeptics. They didn’t doubt the existence of gods, just whether or not a particular one was powerful or not. God could perform miracles to sway these people over to his side. Since the world is now more science-oriented than it was two thousand years ago, he felt that something along scientific lines would be convincing.”

“Interesting,” Howard remarked, taking a sip of his own tea. “That would have to be a pretty compelling dream. I’ve had some vivid dreams in my time but I don’t generally awaken with any belief in them.”

“I didn’t either, at first,” Lonnie explained. “The first person God had to convince was me. He did. I discovered the next morning that I could move things in my house by just thinking about them. It was quite heady.”

“I can imagine,” Howard said over a chuckle from Jim. “Perhaps you could demonstrate some of those powers later.” Howard actually had no interest in seeing that. Jim himself could do such stunts without any divine help.

“If you desire,” Lonnie replied. “The test I will perform will be anything you choose.”

“Er, Lonnie,” Jim asked, “what does this God look like? In your dream, I mean.”

“Jewish,” Lonnie said. “Early thirties, dark hair, dark eyes. Had holes in his hands.”

“You sound like you’re describing Christ,” Jim noticed. “Do you generally refer to Christ as God?”

“Always,” Lonnie answered simply. No elaboration was forthcoming.

“If this sounds hateful,” Jim began again, breaking the ensuing silence, “I don’t mean for it to. Why did he pick you?”

Lonnie shrugged. “I really have no idea. I’m not a particularly good or charitable person. I have faith, though. Abraham kept faith with God and it was counted as righteousness. Maybe, that’s all he required.”

“What do you do,” Howard broke in, “for a living?”

“I’m a CPA,” Lonnie replied. “I keep the books for various businesses.”

“Really?” Howard asked, amazed. “You’re not a preacher or anything, even part time?”

“Nope,” Lonnie responded. “You will recall that none of the original twelve disciples were members of the clergy. One of them was a tax collector.”

The three passed a few moments in silence. Jim had ran out of questions and Howard considered where to go next. He finally remembered his apparatus waiting in the corner behind the front door. He rose and went to retrieve the box, quite light in spite of its bulky appearance.

“Mr. Decree,” he finally began, “I wonder if your, er, powers would include some ESP, or whatever you would like to call it?”

“As I explained,” Lonnie replied, “I am willing to perform any test you would like to propose.”

“Well,” Howard said, not quite as nonplussed as he would like to appear, “what I have here is a helmet of sorts. I can place this over the head of a test subject, meaning you, and be assured that you cannot in any way see out of it. I have some playing cards over here and what I would like you to do is see if you can guess them while I hold them up. You won’t be able to see them with this on so you will need to use some supernatural source to determine the values of the cards. Would you be interested?”

“Of course,” Lonnie said, glad to finally be moving along with what he thought of as phase one. “Please proceed.”

“Jim,” Howard beckoned, “if you’ll give me a hand.” The helmet itself was a sort of clamshell with a hole at the bottom to clear the neck. Howard had even added a cushion around the neck for comfort and some cloth-covered air-holes at the back so as not to smother the test subject. The two lifted the affair over Lonnie’s had and fitting it around his neck, engaging two clasps to hold it in place. Lonnie was the only other person to try on this device besides Howard himself. Most would-be psychics that had taken him up on his various offers gave up at this point, pointing to negative vibes or some such nonsense.

“Comfy?” Howard asked, after giving the helmet a final adjustment.

“This will do,” Lonnie said simply. With this, Howard retrieved two decks of playing cards out of a nearby drawer. Within the drawer was a pen and paper which he handed to Jim, instructing him to record the guesses and the actual value of the card. Jim mouthed the words “remember, next,” to Howard. Howard understood the counsel, gave Jim a thumbs up and took a seat opposite Decree.

“Are you ready?” Howard asked while giving the two decks a good round of shuffling into each other. Lonnie assured him he was, so Howard held up the first card and announced, “This is the first one.” Ten minutes later, Lonnie had correctly guessed one hundred and ten cards, including one hundred and four playing cards, four jokers and two cards that Lonnie described as “official rules.”

2


“This is Dr. Westlake,” Terry said by way of greeting into his phone. He had been putting the finishing touches on his latest non-fiction book, a sweeping description of the rise of man in relation to other forms of humans that had existed side-by-side. Terry Westlake’s expertise was not in paleontology or anthropology, but he and his publishers had long since discovered that he could write about anything with enough clarity to appeal heartily to the lay reader. Previous efforts had been written about cosmology, probability, topology and, his own specialty, quantum mechanics. Usually, he stayed home to write these but it was such a nice lightly clouded day that he decided to bring his work to his office overlooking the campus of the University of Colorado.

“Hi Terry,” a familiar voice greeted.

“Howard?” Terry asked before the other could continue. Terry and Howard Marlin were debunkers from way back and had become good friends due to the mutual interest. They had appeared on numerous talk shows and documentaries together and made a good team; Terry by explaining the science or lack thereof behind various claims and Howard by showing how some remarkable things could be done using purely natural means.

“It’s me,” Howard confirmed. “I haven’t chatted with you in a while. How are things going out there? You almost finished with that book you were working on?”

“Almost,” Terry replied. “I’m done now but there are always rewrites and edits. What about you? I caught your act on one of the late shows last week. That was remarkable.”

“Well, thank you,” Howard said. “I may have something more remarkable than that for you.”

“I’m all ears,” Terry said, his interest piqued. “What’s up?” Howard replied with a description of the previous two day’s events, elaborating on the precautions he had taken to assure there was no fraud and then told of the successful tests. He went on to tell of additional tests that followed the accurate card guesses. Decree had even boiled tea in a cold cup by thinking about it, evidently. Frankly, Decree had left Jim and Howard stumped.

“That is strange,” Terry agreed. “I’m sure two experienced magicians like yourselves should have been able to catch something. You say you couldn’t figure any of it?”

“No,” Howard admitted. “It was the impromptu manner he went about it. Most effects require some amount of preparation. He didn’t seem to prepare for anything and was able to perform everything we suggested.”

“Wow,” Terry enthused. “That’s pretty amazing. How do I fit into this?”

“Well,” Howard replied, “Decree made a rather unusual request. He had called this demonstration in front of Jim and I ‘phase one.’ Now, he’s wanting to move onto ‘phase two.’ He would like to meet an assembled group of scientists and skeptics for the purpose of performing an experiment.”

“Such as?” Terry asked.

“Anything,” Howard explained. “Anything the group would choose.”

“You’re joking,” Terry remarked. “What’s his goal in all of this?”

“That’s where it gets rich,” Howard answered. “He says he wants to provide scientific proof of God – his reality and his power.”

At this point, Terry started to feel like his old friend was pulling his leg. He wondered briefly if Howard had the phone bugged, preparing to play their conversation on some TV show. Howard had never done such before and, anyway, it would be too much like joining “the other side.”

“You’re serious,” Terry said after a pause.

“Dead serious,” Howard replied. “I admit it’s hard to believe. When he guessed the contents of my safe two nights ago, I spent probably two hours going over my basement, trying to figure out how he could have determined that. Last night’s tests frankly blew me away.”

The feeling of leg-pulling began to subside. Howard actually sounded quite serious. Howard was never taken in by the various hoaxsters he had come across, even the ones that the mainstream press found the most remarkable. Whatever this Decree did, it would have had to be something astounding.

Briefly, Terry considered who all he could get to attend such a meeting as Howard proposed. It would depend on what Howard meant by “anything.” Anything as in anything at all? Or anything as in anything within well described boundaries. What would even prove the existence of God, for that matter?

“Terry?” Howard asked, breaking the lengthy pause.

“Sorry,” Terry replied. “I’m just putting together a list of people. Where do you want to have this meeting, anyway?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Howard said. “I suppose we could have it out there.” Out there being, of course, Colorado. This would require Howard travel from his home town of Cincinnati. “Decree hadn’t actually mentioned a preferred site. I would need to ask him. For that matter, I don’t even know where he came from to show up at my house.”

“Hey, Howard,” Terry asked, “what exactly does ‘anything’ mean? Did he elaborate on that? The choice of people to get will depend on what conditions he imposes on this, er, test.”

“All he said,” Howard explained, “was that it must be a test that would convince you and other skeptical scientists of the existence of God. Beyond that, he didn’t say, although I would expect he would want you to propose something that is impossible according to the laws of physics.”

“Hmm.” Terry mulled a moment. “Maybe we would need to round up a general group of scientists covering several fields. I think I may save you the trouble of traveling. A lot of people I can think of are on the east coast, so Cincinnati would probably be as central a venue as any to meet. I know some people at the university there who could set us up a meeting place.”

“Then you’ll do it?” Howard asked, hopefully.

“I will,” Terry answered, “as long as you can assure me that this is no joke. A lot of people are going to have to take time out of their schedules and travel and what not. I wouldn’t want to lead them on a wild goose chase.”

“I can assure you,” Howard assured. “If Decree does for you what he did for Jim and I, I think you’ll be amazed.”

After further discussions concerning logistics, Terry hung up. That was a strange call, he thought. Now the problem was how to convince his colleagues to come to this unusual meeting. “Hi, doctor. Would you like to come to a seminar on proving God?” Such an invitation wouldn’t even convince Terry to come.

Still deep in thought, Terry gathered up his manuscript and slid it into a cardboard box. His last task with the computer was having it print out a mailing label with his publisher’s address on it. Once this printed out, he peeled it off, slapped it onto the box and exited his office, turning off the lights and locking the door behind him. Students passed by and gave him greeting. He greeted back automatically but his mind was still on the bizarre conversation with Howard Marlin. Entering the elevator, he punched the button for the first floor.

He decided he would try to invite one scientist from each of a variety of disciplines. Time was, he had the usual physics elitism, assuming physics was the only science and the rest was just bookkeeping. His field of quantum mechanics, however, put him in contact with a lot of chemists, so he gained respect for their field as well. Since writing about a variety of other subjects, he had managed to find an appreciation for a lot of disciplines.

Mark Stapledon was high on his list. Mark taught at the University of Virginia and was a renowned paleontologist. Mark had written a few books himself to popularize the field, not that it needed any. Everyone likes dinosaurs. A man out to convince scientists of the existence of God, which probably meant proving the Bible was correct in all particulars, would have to face the evolution thing sooner or later. Terry doubted that Mark could propose any good experiments but he could at least ask some very probing questions.

Don Stafford, the astronomer and cosmologist, also came to mind. Ditto for him in regards to experimentation, but also ditto that he could ask good questions. Don worked at Greenbank Observatory in West Virginia. The two of them wouldn’t have much traveling to do, at any rate. Maybe the three of them could convince this Decree guy of the impossibility of his task and he would withdraw his offer. A smaller group would at least be less embarrassing for the fellow.

The door to the elevator opened and Terry began subconsciously to head for the parking lot until he remembered the package under his arm. Once at his car, he opened the door and tossed the package into the passenger seat. He then started the car and headed for the university post office.

At the post office, he went in, package in hand. After paying the necessary postage, he returned to the car and headed for the freeway and home, all the while mentally going over potential participants. He also mulled back-ups, in case he couldn’t find anyone else to come to the meeting, which was highly likely. It was not just the weird nature of the whole thing. A time would have to be chosen that coincided with everyone’s schedule, which became more difficult with each added participant. Another reason to keep the roster to a minimum, he thought.

Once having settled on the group, the next thought he mulled was what type of experiment to perform. Did Decree really mean anything at all? Terry supposed that would mean he was looking for something that was an impossibility; something that only a deity could perform. Terry could think of hundreds of things, in all likelihood. Making the building they will be in disappear and reappear one minute later. Moving the moon to half its distance from earth and replacing it. Surely, Decree did not think he could stand up to suggestions like that? Anything, indeed. The more Terry thought about it, the more he was sorry he agreed to set this up. It looked like such a waste of time. He would really have to pull in a bunch of favors to get any attendance at all.

© 2008 David Rawls
Original fiction debuting at ResAliens
Read the Conclusion
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Crystal Clear - Parts 3, 4, & 5

by David Rawls
The Conclusion to a 5 Chapter Novella
Read Parts 1 & 2

3


Terry had been busy the last week. He finally managed to get his chosen group together, more or less. Mark Stapledon had agreed to attend. Don Stafford could not but sent a graduate student, probably to break her in to the endless meetings she would be attending during her career.

Oddly, Terry himself did not attend, at least in the flesh. Instead, he had enlisted the help of another colleague of his, Dr. Steve Miller (no relation) who was the head of the chemistry department at the University of Cincinnati. The department had a communications room, as most universities did, where equipment could be set up to allow off-campus people to participate in meetings of just such a sort. Steve had set up the monitor and link in the communications room while Terry had set his own up back in Colorado. He could see them and they could see him, so it was mostly like he was there.

Rounding out the group, Howard had brought his own retinue. Lonnie Decree was there, of course, as was Jim Able. Howard had also brought along Lisa Moss, a structural engineer who lived down the street from him and thought it would be fun to sit in on this session. Other uninvited professors of various disciplines had showed up in the room anyway, primarily to see what all the fuss was about.

Tentatively, Howard rose from the chair he had taken behind a table at the front of the room, which was a standard theatre type classroom. Chairs rose in progressively higher tiers toward the back of the room. Howard almost felt as if he was there for a performance. The performance today would not be his. He was not used to yielding the stage to another act but, in this case, he would be more than willing. He gave a quick survey of the room and then looked over at Steve who was making final adjustments on the monitor which displayed the visage of Terry.

“Hi Terry,” Steve said, activating the voice module. “Can you hear me out there?”

“Very well. I’m ready when you are.” Satisfied with the settings, Steve nodded to Howard and took a seat in the front row. Howard cleared his throat. In his entire career, he had found being in front of an audience an easy experience, with never a trace of stage fright to impede him. He could almost get a case of it now.

“Thank you, Dr. Miller,” he finally said. To the rest of the audience, he continued. “First, let me just say thanks to all of you for agreeing to attend this meeting. I would especially like to thank Terry there for getting all of you together. Let me now introduce myself and these gentlemen with me. My name is Howard Marlin, but I go by the stage name Merlin the Mysterious. I’ve had some fame as a magician but people who know me at all probably know me more from my attempts, successful I would add, to debunk claims of the paranormal. Jim Able here, also known as Magic Man, is also a magician. Some would say better than I but we won’t debate that today.” The quip brought some welcome laughter from the group. Feeling a little more at ease now, Howard continued.

“Dr. Westlake on the screen here I am sure you all know from his many books. He and I have also appeared on a number of TV shows together discussing the paranormal. My part was always to debunk and Terry would give the scientific viewpoint. As part of my investigating claims of the paranormal, I have always had a standing offer to give anyone $10,000 who could correctly identify the contents of a safe I have at home using only paranormal means. No one has ever been able to claim this money, at least, not until last Tuesday. Mr. Lonnie Decree, here, did so.”

Howard indicated the man behind him and suddenly became self-conscious about being too stagy. The feeling passed and he continued the introduction. “Not only that, but the next night, in front of Mr. Able and myself, he performed several, er, miracles that we were unable to explain by our knowledge of magic and how effects are performed. Mr. Decree referred to this as ‘phase one.’ Phase two is this meeting here and, with that, I will now let Mr. Decree explain to you what he wants.”

Some in the audience briefly considered clapping while Lonnie arose. When no general applause was forthcoming, they let it drop. Howard took a seat behind the table in the front of the room. Lonnie arose and, after a brief look around, began to speak.

“Hello and thank you for attending this meeting. Mr. Marlin may already have explained this to you but I will reiterate my goal for those of you who haven’t heard. Quite frankly, my mission is to perform an experiment that will prove to skeptical scientists the existence and personal nature of God.”

Some jaws dropped in the room. The curiosity seekers had not heard this. Lonnie allowed a moment of silence for his last statement to sink in and continued. “Last week, God blessed me with a variety of powers and gave me instructions to seek out skeptics and put myself at their disposal to perform an experiment. Any experiment. I started by guessing the contents of Mr. Marlin’s safe, as he told you, along with guessing the values of playing cards and levitating various objects.

"These are all trivialities to our God. He has given me much more power than that; enough to perform any task proposed. I will point out at the outset that there are conditions. However, these conditions are not to make a task plausible but merely to make it universal. You see, God is not interested in performing a series of parlor tricks for a small group of people. He wants a test that will be witnessed by everyone on Earth, one that not only you scientists will find impossible but so will the general population.”

The announcement was followed by a few seconds of additional silence, quickly broken by a barrage of questions. Terry let out a gasp. Howard had not given him any inkling that the proposed experiment was to have global reach. If this guy was a scammer, he certainly was a gutsy one.

“What kind of powers do you have?” one of the students asked over the general roar. “Could you tell what I’m thinking?”

“Right now,” Lonnie replied, “you’re thinking of Deborah Nye, a girl you knew in junior high.” The audience turned to observe the student’s stunned expression. “The problem with that kind of experiment is it is germane only to you. No one else in here knows whether or not I’m right or if you aren’t a plant. Actually, the Amazing Kreskin can perform such acts and does not claim any psychic powers to do it.”

“He’s right,” Howard spoke up. “And I have to admit that there are things Kreskin does that I myself haven’t figured out. But, as Mr. Decree says, he does not claim any psychic powers.”

“What about levitation?” another student asked. “Could you make this desk float?” Promptly, the desk floated, bringing a round of applause from the assembly.

“This is still trivial to God,” Lonnie continued, “and pretty much trivial to these two gentlemen behind me. Whatever experiment is proposed cannot look like a magic trick.”

“This may sound silly,” inserted Mark, “but I’m a golf fan and I would be interested in seeing if someone could actually score an eighteen in eighteen holes of golf. Eighteen holes in one would be an impossibility to me. You could set up with the PGA to perform this on the last day of one of the major tournaments.”

“God would allow me to do that,” Lonnie replied. “However, I would make a few points. First, scoring eighteen holes in one is unlikely, not impossible. Most holes have had at least one ace scored on them at some time or another, so eighteen is within the realm of possibility. In the second place, the only way this would be generally shown to the world is on TV and the vast majority of the population of this planet has no TV. Not a very global reach. Thirdly, anything shown on TV is subject to being faked, so most skeptics wouldn’t tend to believe what they are being shown.”

Mark nodded his head with a snort. The man had made good arguments. He obviously wasn’t going for cheap stunts.

“I have a question if I may.” The voice had emerged from the phone link below the TV monitor. It was Terry, of course. “The thing I am not understanding is why would God choose to prove himself in this way? He would only have to appear in that room there and let us question him for us to believe. Why is faith always such an issue with religionists?”

Lonnie briefly regarded the TV screen and then glanced over at Susan Thatcher, the stand-in graduate student for Don the astronomer. “Miss Thatcher, how big is the universe?”

Susan, for her part, was taken somewhat aback by the sudden query. The question was not hard but Susan did not recall being introduced to Decree, as indeed she wasn’t. How did he know her name? “We can’t really tell. The visible portion is 42 billion light years. That’s not counting all we can’t see beyond the horizon.”

Turning back to the screen, Lonnie countered Terry’s question with another question. “Do you really expect that a God big enough to make all of that would fit in this room?”

“Well, no,” Terry admitted, “but I would expect that God could make a human manifestation of himself to be here.”

“He tried that already,” Lonnie chuckled. “It didn’t go that well.”

With a smirk, Terry shook his head. “I guess I walked into that one. But, consider the ancient Israelites. If we are to believe the Bible, God established a presence with the Israelites on a daily basis as they were wandering through the desert. Surely, God could do the same with us.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Lonnie noted. “God’s daily presence with the Israelites failed to instill them with a lot of faith, even though they were highly religious. By religious, I mean that they were inclined to believe in gods and such, much more so than we are today. For all that, they still turned back at the border of the promised land, awaiting another generation to have the faith to enter.

"But let’s examine what you propose a bit further. If God established a presence with us, as you put it, would you really believe? I mean, would you believe that this is the God who created the entire cosmos? Might you not suspect he is some alien being from another planet that has vastly superior technology? What would convince you otherwise?”

“I guess I can concede that point,” Terry admitted. “Even so, if either God or a superior intelligence had led the Israelites through the desert, surely some of this superior intelligence would have been made manifest. It seems that all we got out of it is a lot of vague rituals.”

“Perhaps,” Lonnie replied, “but that’s not all. What about standards of cleanliness in a culture that never had any thought of the cleansing action of water? What about dietary standards for a people who had no knowledge of what trichinosis is? What about the prohibition of drinking blood to a people with no knowledge of germ theory and blood borne pathogens? Or sabbatical years to a people with no concept of crop rotation? It would seem to me that the Jewish law abounds in precepts that were far in advance of what was generally known at the time.”

“But,” Terry objected, “how are we to know that those laws are the product of a higher intelligence? They might just be the Jews own standard practice of thousands of years ago and they lucked upon a few that have positive health effects.”

“They weren’t their standard practices,” Lonnie explained. “For instance, God commands several times that the Jews are to keep a Sabbath of the land every seven years and a further one every fifty. The Bible nowhere records that this was ever done and one of the reasons for the Babylonian captivity was to allow the land to rest. Further, God commanded the Jews not to multiply to themselves wives. One man and one woman is all God ever intended. Yet, the Bible is replete with men who ignored this bit of divine advice.”

“I think what he is trying to get at,” Mark began, straightening up in his chair, “is why is this God so subtle. In fact, I don’t see why the question of what proof we require should be asked at all. Surely, an all-knowing God would know what it takes to convince us of his existence, right?”

“God gave you something called freedom of choice,” Lonnie said. He was a little more at ease now, what with talking to an actual person instead of a TV screen. “What you think you would require as proof is at least as important as the proof itself. Rather than have God brainwash you, which is essentially what you’re proposing, he would rather demonstrate some power to you to convince you.”

“Why now?” It was the TV screen once again. Terry continued, “There have been nonbelievers throughout the ages. Why has God suddenly developed this desire to prove himself?”

“To prove a point, actually,” Lonnie replied, as though the thought suddenly occurred to him. In fact, it had. He was getting his replies from elsewhere. “One incontrovertible fact of life is that, in this world, there are believers and nonbelievers. Regardless of what God does or has ever done, there will be believers and nonbelievers. God’s story of Lazarus and the rich man leads to such a conclusion.”

“Now wait a minute!” Mark, incensed, straightened up even more. “This is the same garbage we hear out of psychics all the time. All you paranormals ever say is that we scientists cannot ever participate in your belief system because we are nonbelievers. Science is not about belief and nonbelief. It is about proof. Let God offer us actual proof, proof that can be scientifically verified, and we’ll believe. That’s how the game is played. Anything less is fairy tale.”

“That’s fine,” Lonnie insisted with a raised hand. “I came here today to ask you to propose something. Propose to me whatever it would take to make you a believer, if such is possible.”

“Mr. Decree,” Terry started with a chuckle that was more intended to break tension than communicate humor, “there are any number of impossible tasks we can propose.”

“Can you really?” Lonnie chided. “I don’t think so. You have collapsed the world into quantum mechanical statistics, where anything is possible, no matter how remote. It’s not like the old days, wherein Velikovsky could say that the planet Venus emerged from Jupiter before settling into its current orbit. You knew immediately that this was quite impossible because the rules of celestial mechanics forbid it. Now, quantum mechanics forbid nothing. There is even a quantum mechanical chance that one of us here will wake up tomorrow on the planet Mars, however remote. And that’s how it goes with nonbelief. Everything that contravenes your view of the world is a coincidence or within the realm of theoretical probability.”

“Not necessarily,” Terry differed. “It’s a common misconception that quantum mechanics, due to its statistical nature, is a somehow imprecise science. But actually, it leads to results with predictable levels of precision.”

“I disagree,” Lonnie countered. “Quantum mechanics is a theory that is a vague enough box to allow anything to be fit into it. Your theories of cosmology are getting so complex that they will one day be the same way. You will have precise theories that tell you essentially nothing.”

“Our theories are complex,” Terry explained, “because the phenomena they describe are complex. This is one of the reasons why I don’t believe in a God. Nothing in our theories requires one. I would expect that if there was a God, there would be contrived pattern in our theories. A signature, if you will.”

“Let me ask you this, then,” Lonnie addressed the TV. “Would you agree that a cornerstone of scientific thought is that the universe is describable by math? I mean, if it isn’t, a lot of you people are doing a lot of work for nothing.”

Terry shrugged. “Sure. I would agree with that statement.”

“And you’re familiar with Kurt Godel’s theorem,” Lonnie continued, “which says that any system of math that is complex enough to be useful will always start with assumptions that cannot be proven within that math.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Assumptions demand an assumer,” Lonnie concluded. “You guys who figure out the math didn’t think it up originally. Someone else had to. There’s your signature.”

“Hold on,” Mark interrupted, hands up. “There’s where you religionists always make a big leap. Merely because some agent came up with the math that describes the universe doesn’t mean that agent is personally interested in us. You would have us jump from what could be any complex entity to some guy with a white beard that sits on a throne above us.”

“The beard I saw was black, actually,” Lonnie quipped. “He was rather swarthy, too. He looked like your typical first century Jew. Anyway, you don’t think that an agent that was intelligent enough to create all of this would lack the curiosity to be even interested in how his creation turned out?”

“We don’t even know what this agent is,” Mark shot back, “or whether it even possesses anything like curiosity.”

“That’s why he sent me here,” Lonnie said, taking a seat on the table behind him. Arms folded, he continued. “God wanted me to offer you proof that he is, as you say, an agent possessed of curiosity in his creation. Propose something.”

The statement was followed by several moments of silence, not all of them thoughtful. Mark inwardly seethed. He had argued with religionists before and usually got the better of them. He had never met someone with such a matter-of-fact sort of faith, as if his god could really do anything.

Terry, for his part, actually mulled over possibilities. Frankly, Decree had a point. What in reality could a deity do to prove his existence? It would have to be something “out of the box” in the extreme. Terry had not been prepared for this. He expected Decree to fold under cross examination or fall back on the usual “We don’t do tests.” He recalled one of the popular psychics a few years back on one of the TV shows that Terry had been secretly invited to. The psychic had tried a similar tactic or, apparently, inviting the audience to propose any test, all the while imposing so many rules that there was actually only one test that would satisfy all of the criteria. Terry pointed this out, much to the chagrin of the psychic. The man fell back by saying the usual, “I cannot perform amid such unbelief.” Decree had not even ventured this defense, yet. Did he really intend to go through with this charade? And if so, how far?

The group argued further among themselves. Lonnie’s only condition was that, whatever the test turned out to be, it had to be something the whole world could witness. Eventually, Mark proposed a test. It was clearly impossible. The group waited with anticipation.

Lonnie, to the stunned silence of all, merely said, “Okay.”

4


Luckily for me, Howard thought, Lonnie was taking care of all the publicity himself. Lonnie had a big job ahead of him. First, he had to get word out to pretty much the entire planet concerning his plans. Moreover, he had to get people to take him seriously.

Could he really do it? Howard sat in his easy chair watching the new celebrity on one of the many news shows he had appeared on in the last few weeks. He had not promised to perform this great miracle right away. There was considerable preparation to be accomplished and he wanted time to ease the fears of a world that would be rather discomfited if Decree did what he said.

Provided he could do it. The whole thing seemed so unreal to Howard. Over and over, he mulled the tests Lonnie had performed in his mind. Was there a mundane explanation for what he had witnessed? Neither he nor Jim could think of one, even with all their experience in the magic business. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a mundane explanation. Lonnie might have been a magician of the first order, able to fool even others in his trade. If that were so, why then proceed on to this obviously impossible task?

Then, it hit Howard. Publicity, of course. Even if, or rather when, he failed, his fame would be firmly established. Being an entertainer, Howard was all too aware that one’s whole career rode on getting the headlines. Lonnie, just starting out, had figured out a way to get the headlines on a grand scale. Of course! That was it! Howard was surprised at himself that he hadn’t thought of it before.

“Now, let me get this straight,” one of many newsmen was asking him yet again on Howard’s TV. Newsmen were a hard-headed lot, he thought. Always asking the same questions, never quite listening to the resulting answers. “You say that God has given you the power to actually carry out this test.”

“Precisely,” Lonnie assured him. If Lonnie had ever become impatient with all of the meaningless questions, he sure didn’t betray it. “In fourteen days, God will make it happen. The time has been given us to prepare for this event. I urge all your listeners not to be frightened. They will be perfectly safe.”

“And where did you get the idea for this test?” the newsman asked. “Did God tell you he would do this?”

“No,” Decree explained. “God merely commanded me to ask a group of scientists to propose a test. The actual test was proposed by these scientists, chief among them Dr. Terry Westlake and Dr. Mark Stapledon.”

Howard winced at the dropping of names. The thing was, in Howard’s profession, bad press was better than no press. In Westlake’s profession, being tied up to a colossal folly such as this could damage or even end his career. He had not talked to Terry since the brouhaha started. Howard wondered how he was weathering this and how he planned on proceeding. An hour later, he had his answer.

The phone rang. It was Terry.

“Hi Howard. I hadn’t talked to you in a bit. Are you keeping up with all the goings on?”

“Yeah,” Howard replied with a trace of exasperation. “You can’t hardly avoid it. It’s practically on every channel. The guy’s a great PR agent. I’ll give him that.”

“Are the things he did for you at your house really that compelling?” Terry asked.

Howard paused a while before answering. “I guess so. I just don’t know. Jim or I either one could not explain how he did what he did. Still, I about fell out of my chair when he so casually agreed to Mark’s proposal. It’s one thing to do little parlor tricks, as he puts it. To do this, well, that’s just insane. I really don’t understand what he intends to get out of it, apart from a colossal amount of attention, which he’s got already.”

“Have you heard anything from him since the meeting?”

“No,” Howard said. “Not directly. I’ve just been following him on the news. I guess he’s been quite busy making his round the world trip to warn everybody. I don’t know where he gets the wherewithal to do all that. He must have a great accountant. How, er, are you going to play this, if I may ask?”

Howard heard a long sigh over the phone. “Well,” Terry finally said, “I was toying with the idea of denying any knowledge of it.” The news item Howard saw on the TV an hour ago botched that up, Howard thought. “I guess the best thing I can do is play it straight. Religionists and scientists have been having increasing run-ins with each other of late, what with the Kansas evolution thing and what not. When asked, I plan to say that I will be setting up equipment to monitor the, uh, event and I will be urging fellow scientists to do likewise. That way, when he fails, people won’t look on us like we’re against faith or anything. I’ll just explain that science is about what can be proven, not what people wish to assume.”

“What kind of equipment would you set up?” Howard asked, half chuckling. The chuckling was returned from the other end of the line.

“Well,” Terry said, somewhat sheepishly, “it has made for a good thought experiment, anyway. If someone was actually going to do this, it would depend on how he intended to do it. I mean is it going to happen all at once or in stages? I will allow the press to show me setting up a camera and some infrared sensors which I will explain will tell us more about the experiment. I will also mention any of my colleagues that I can get on board with this. Several different vantage points would be good, after all.”

Another pause ensued. Howard broke it, in a furtive tone. “Any chance he can do it?”

“No,” Terry replied, vehemently. “Here’s the deal I have always had with religion. Why does God seem more remote the more we learn about things? Decree said that a god that could create this whole universe would be curious as to its outcome. So why isn’t he? I would think he would be a daily presence. I would think he would be more inclined to keep us from killing each other, if he’s as loving as people make out.”

“Now that you mention it,” Howard replied, “that would have been a good question. I wish now someone had brought it up at some point.”

“Exactly,” Terry agreed. “I keep hearing that God cares about his people and can change lives and all. I just don’t ever see him doing it. The bloodiest wars in history were fought in the name of God. Why didn’t he stop any of them? Even on a personal level, any religious person would have to concede that, as an example, the divorce rate among religious people is pretty much the same as among nonbelievers. Where are the changed lives in all of this?”

“Maybe that will be his encore,” Howard said. “After he performs this great miracle, maybe he’ll let us in on the meaning of life.”

“If he performs it, you mean,” Terry countered, cynically.

“Well,” Howard replied, “one thing’s for sure. We’ll know in two weeks.” “True,” Terry agreed, laughing.

5


It was the day of, well, the Day. All over the world, due to Lonnie’s tireless efforts to get the word out, people were staring and waiting. Some were shut up in their houses, too scared too face the prospect what was to come. Others, children especially, were out in their yards and local parks eager for the final minutes to count down.

At 10:00 a.m. EDT, it would happen. That’s what Lonnie had said, at any rate. Lonnie was very emphatic about that. No one would be harmed. In spite of what everything was supposed to look like, everyone would be perfectly safe.

People waited. The various polls that were taken suggested that the waiting was mostly without much faith. There were the various atheists and agnostics who believed nothing would happen, of course. They still waited out of curiosity and to prepare themselves to say “I told you so” when it didn’t happen. Buddhists, believing as they did that God is a machine more than a personal deity that could be communicated with, waited anyway. Muslims, chagrined that a professed Christian would claim to communicate with the One, waited also. Catholics and Protestants, dismayed that a man would claim such power from God for an obvious publicity play, waited as well. One just never knew.

Dr. Terry Westlake, for his part, had chosen an open spot on the campus of the university and invited the media to witness him setting up various pieces of equipment. Howard Marlin had taken the opportunity to fly out to Colorado to join him. Marlin’s career was, after all, about publicity. He was not going to pass up the chance to get in on some, especially since he himself was instrumental in the whole business.

Lonnie, after being on the news constantly for the last two weeks, had disappeared. Speculations abounded as to where he was to perform this great miracle. Some suggested that he was probably out in the Atlantic somewhere, which would make the time wherever he was to perform his miracle high noon. Just before he vanished, he had been in the Atlanta area, leading some to think he would initiate the event from atop some notable point, such as Stone Mountain. I-85 and I-20 became jammed at this speculation, at least, more so than usual. Park attendance skyrocketed but no Lonnie was in attendance. Some members of the press had become dismayed at the lack of access to Lonnie as he initiated the miracle. Talk was already pretty rife that Lonnie had gone underground to watch the results of his great hoax.

“Science is not about the same things faith is about,” Terry was explaining to the assembled media as he finished the last adjustments to a camera that he had set up pointing at the ground. He had also laid out an infrared camera and a gamma ray detector. The gamma ray detector was there for looks only. He did not want to give the press the impression that he was less than serious about all of this. At two minutes till eight, he would fire up the video camera and leave it on until a few minutes past eight, at which point further footage of the green but uninteresting lawn of the commons should be superfluous.

“Faith is about the things you can’t sense,” he continued. “In fact, the way the rules of faith are generally laid out, it seems that God does not want people having an easy time believing him. He seems to prefer, if you will, that people not have a scientific basis for their belief. Science, on the other hand, is about what can be sensed and tested. This test that Mr. Decree has proposed is the first instance in recent history where faith has offered something science can examine. I would not want to pass up the opportunity to examine it to the fullest.”

“So you believe that Decree can do what he claims?” a woman from one of the networks asked.

“I don’t have an opinion one way of the other,” he lied. “I merely say that we will soon know whether or not Mr. Decree can do what he says.”

The questioning turned to Merlin the Mysterious and his beliefs. He repeated his account of the tests that Lonnie had performed for him and Jim Able, adding only that what Lonnie did was sufficiently mystifying to warrant further investigation. He also allowed, however, that Lonnie may be merely a magician of the first order, able to fool other seasoned magicians. He briefly noted that this would be an excellent opportunity for Decree but didn’t dwell on the issue. In his business, Howard had long since learned that it does not pay to tick too many of a certain type of people off. This included believers.

The wind picked up some and was rather crisp. Howard had worn a light sweater but could have used something a bit heavier against the chill air. Not to worry, he thought to himself. This would soon be over and he could head back to the warmth of Terry’s office. At least the weather was nice in general. A few clouds dotted the skies but that was all. Howard wondered how many people worldwide were standing out in rain, waiting for this event.

The minutes ticked away. Soon, it was thirty seconds until something was supposed to happen. In spite of himself, Howard could feel his breathing becoming labored, as if, subconsciously, he really expected something to happen. Oh well, he thought. Even he was not immune. It was okay to speak against voodoo from the comfort of one’s New York office. It was quite a different matter when surrounded by Haitian darkness.

Eight o’clock arrived and Howard found himself staring at the ground. His vision suddenly seemed to be getting foggy. Or, was it the ground? Surely not, he thought. But, slowly, the ground began to fade. He could hear Terry doing something frantic. Looking up, he saw Terry bolting for the cameras, excitedly making sure that they were recording. It was true! The ground was fading! Soon, he could see several feet down. All around him, people were letting out fearful whoops. Some were running for trees, cars, anything that would keep them from falling.

But there was no need. Underneath his feet, Howard could feel the ground, still firmly in place. It was just becoming invisible. A touch of nausea swept over him as he could soon see fifty feet into the earth. Even he had a desire to grab onto something. There was no visible object nearby, so he dropped to his knees, attempting to steady himself on the invisible earth. Now he was 200 feet above the steadily receding surface between visible and invisible. The ground had long since turned from a dirty brown to a rocky gray. The surface kept receding, picking up speed as it went. Evidently, Lonnie had wanted people to get used to the effect before accelerating it.

All around him, the area started to glow as the receding surface finally broke the magma that exists under everywhere. Howard had to shade his eyes. He glanced up, noticing the incongruity of buildings, cars, trees and people seemingly hanging in the air. He could hear Westlake chattering on his cell phone, determining if others of his colleagues were getting the same view. They were, too. Everyone was. All over the world, people let out shouts as the ground receded faster and faster into the earth. The light got steadily brighter as the demarcation surface fell further, revealing the mantle, the outer core and, finally, the iron inner core of the earth.

Then, the light vanished. For the people on the other side of the world, the light was replaced by a new light – the sun, as seen straight through the earth. Howard fought back more nausea. He was now suspended over blue sky – the blue sky of the other side of the planet. He forced himself to look out the side, toward the horizon. No horizon was in evidence, however. He could make out the bottoms of various buildings and the extensive root systems of trees as they faded into the distant blue. Below him was still the vast eerie blueness. He closed his eyes, trying to regain control of his stomach.

An eternity later, heart pounding, he managed to open his eyes. The blueness began to fade. In just a few seconds, he could see brown coalesce, then green. The sharpness of the blades of grass returned. The event was over.

6


Several months later, Howard was driving along Interstate 75 after having finished yet another interview in Atlanta on the Event and his role in it. Lonnie Decree, for his part, had not been seen since. No one had any inkling of his whereabouts and Howard could not recall ever asking him where he lived. In all likelihood, the police had ran the name Lonnie Decree through their NCIC and found no such individual. Howard had been kept rather busy of late attending frequent interviews and had no time to pursue a missing persons case.

Howard’s career had picked up well. In fact, it was better than he expected. Most of the requests for his time were not even magic anymore. Everyone wanted to know about the mysterious Lonnie Decree and Howard was only too glad to tell them what he knew, for $10,000 an engagement.

Howard still kept in touch with Dr. Westlake, who also rode the crest of the Decree wave. He, too, had numerous requests for speaking engagements, which he used to give his views on the Decree event and, not coincidentally, to plug a new book he rather hurriedly wrote on the subject. Terry found himself to be a sort of bridge between science and the faithful, even though he repeatedly said that, until the Event had been thoroughly studied to determine its cause, no pronouncement should be made as to whether it proved the existence of any deity or not.

No natural cause was forthcoming from the scientific world, although speculation was rife. There were some proposals that a combination of gravity waves from distant neutron stars had managed to intersect on the earth, changing its refractive index. Chemists, for their part, were examining ways to making substances clear through various chemical reactions. Some psychologists had even proposed that Decree had engaged in some sort of mass hypnosis by unspecified means. If he did, he sure managed to get to the whole world. People in every country across the globe had reported the same effect. The earth had slowly, layer by layer, become clear and then, twenty-one minutes later, became opaque once again.

Howard continued up the interstate, about half-way between Atlanta and Chattanooga. He had been noticing his car running a bit rough for about a half hour but chose to ignore it. Suddenly, the rough running turning into shaking. He apparently had a flat. Slamming his hands on the steering wheel, he guided the car into the breakdown lane. Coming to a halt, he exited the car to inspect the problem. He was right. The right front tire had gone almost completely flat. Howard cursed, heading for the trunk to retrieve the jack. He also got out the temporary tire which would only allow speeds of 50 mph. Howard looked ahead on the highway, hoping there was some good sized town before Chattanooga. If not, the trip there would be long indeed.

After a bit of scratching his head over the proper way to assemble the jack, Howard finally began pumping to raise the car. Then, he took the tire iron and began loosening one of the lug nuts, realizing too late that it would be better if the car was on the ground for this – the tire spun freely. Another muttered curse emerged from clinched lips as he lowered the car once again. He was so wrapped up in his task that he did not notice the other car that had pulled ahead of him in the breakdown lane and was now slowly backing up to him. The vehicle finally stopped and a man emerged.

“Hi,” an oddly familiar voice said amiably. “Need help?”

“Lonnie?” Howard asked, startled. “Is that really you?”

“Yep,” Lonnie confirmed. “It’s me. It looks like I arrived in the nick of time.”

“My graces,” Howard enthused, now less concerned about the tire. “Where have you been? You pulled a disappearing act that could have beat anyone in my business.”

“Well,” Lonnie chuckled, “I thought it best to separate myself from the actual event. I was not the cause, after all. People down through history have confused too much of what God does with the people who were merely his agents. Why do you think God planted Moses so deep?”

“You think this whole thing was a sign of God?” Howard asked with a return chuckle.

“How could it not be?” Lonnie countered. “It happened at your request on your schedule. Your whole group quite agreed that it was impossible, did they not?”

“At the time, yes,” Howard replied. “Now, there seems to be some doubt. Merely because you did not expect to see a result does not make it impossible, after all. There is some speculation that it was some kind of gravitational wave that changed the refractive index of the earth as it passed through.”

Lonnie laughed at the explanation. “That was precisely the point that I was making in the classroom that day. Science can always come up with an explanation, even if it consists of the fact that man does not possess the intellect to understand everything. Either way, you can’t prove God by a parlor trick.”

“So your God failed,” Howard snorted.

“No, indeed,” Lonnie explained. “Lazarus and Dives, you see. There are two kinds of people – those who are inclined to believe and those who aren’t. God knew this ahead of time. For the believers, God provided a rather terrifying reminder of His presence. For the nonbelievers, this is just another incident that they have to bend over backwards to deny. Same as always.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Howard rebutted, feeling impugned.

“I would. It’s even true in scientific circles. Scientists like to believe that, once they have contrary evidence to a theory, they modify or abandon the theory and propose a new one. That’s okay if the theory is just a fleeting guess as to how something works. However, let that theory be something a scientist has based his whole career on. He will in no way abandon it in spite of any contrary evidence. To do this would be to watch his whole career go down the tubes. No, I’m afraid that the true source of the progress of scientific thought is that old entrenched scientists die and are replaced by young ones with new ideas and less vested interest.”

“That’s what this is to you?” Howard asked with a trace of chagrin. “How is this a vested interest? What scientist wouldn’t be thrilled at incontrovertible proof of the divine?”

At this, Lonnie gave out a hearty guffaw. “You must be joking. Some scientists wouldn’t be thrilled for the same reason any nonbeliever wouldn’t be thrilled. For if God exists, then the Bible is his word. That means he is keeping account. It’s a rather scary thing to know that you’re not as free as you thought you were.”

“I suppose that doesn’t scare you, then,” Howard deadpanned.
“
Nope,” Lonnie countered. “Trust me. God is actually rather lenient. As gods go, he has the lightest load. He doesn’t require human sacrifices. He doesn’t even require animal sacrifices anymore. He requires your life, though. All gods do. God just happens to give far more satisfying gifts than the various false gods like money or drugs.”

“So your god is a loving sort,” Howard said. He had wished to push this point before. He now had his chance. “So why, then? Why does your God allow his human creatures to suffer. Why does he allow them to commit heinous acts in his name? For that matter, why does he allow innocent babies to suffer and die? For the Bible to be the Word of God, it is curiously silent on this point.”

“No it isn’t,” Lonnie countered. “’Be ye holy as your father is holy.’”

“Huh?” Howard retorted. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” Lonnie replied, matter of factly, “what does it mean to be like God? God has knowledge of both good and evil. He consciously chooses good for its own sake without promise of reward or threat of punishment.” Howard still wore a confused expression, so Lonnie pushed on.

“Consider three worlds. The first one has no evil. All people love each other. All people look out after each other. All people love God. The people of this first world are good people, but they are not like God. They are good only because that’s all they know. Now consider a second world – one of rigid justice. Good people are instantly rewarded. Bad people are instantly punished. The people of this world will be good, but not like God. They will just want to be rewarded and avoid punishment. Consider a third world – this one. Good people sometimes suffer. Evil people sometimes flourish. Only in such a world will people learn to do good for its own sake. Only in such a world will people learn what it is to be holy.”

“That’s all well and good,” Howard objected, “but, according to the Bible, good people do go to heaven and bad people do go to hell. Seems to me like there is still going to be rewards and punishment. That conflicts with your holiness theory.”

“Does it now?” Lonnie chuckled. “”In the kingdom of heaven, the last shall be first and the first last.’ Jesus said that several times. One of the times was just after he told the parable of the guy who paid all his workers the same wages regardless of how long they had worked.”

Lonnie thought for a moment, then continued. “When God gave his life on a cross 2000 years ago, he didn’t get any reward for it, at least, nothing that wasn’t already his anyway. He did it out of love. He wants us all to be that way.”

The two stared at each other for a minute, divided as it were by an unbridgeable gulf. Howard broke the silence. “Well, I must be getting back to my task if I’m to get anywhere tonight.”

“I understand,” Lonnie said with a smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Have a good day.” With that as his parting words, he entered his car and eased back onto the highway. Howard watched his car disappear in the distance. I could turn your argument around, he thought. What would convince you that God doesn’t exist? With a sigh, he dropped back onto his knees to resume work on the tire. What he saw startled him. The tire was now quite full of air. Howard would not need to replace it.

Howard bolted back to his feet, giving a long last look up the highway. Did this really happen? He couldn’t really tell anymore. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream.

© 2008 David Rawls
Original fiction debuting at ResAliens

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