Good and so good for you.

A, B, C, or D

2011-02-21T19:43:00.006-07:00

Thomas sat down at a desk in the testing center in preparation to take his Certificate of Risk Licensing (CRL) exam. The computer screen stared back at him blankly as the testing attendant logged in on the keyboard. Thomas was nervous, but prepared. He had been studying for months, and the 100 question CRL exam would help further his career at the insurance firm he worked for.

“You’re all set; any questions?” the woman quietly asked.

“No,” Thomas responded. “Thank you.”

After the woman left, he went through the introductory questions, the tutorial, and then clicked “Begin exam.”

Here we go, he thought. His heart beat anxiously as the first question appeared.

This one’s easy, he thought. I’ve seen this before. He selected option ‘c’ and clicked ‘next.’

Thomas got through the next ten questions fairly easily and was feeling confident about how the exam was going until he came to question 12.

He had to read the question a few times in order to understand what was being asked. As he contemplated the answers, Thomas looked down at the keyboard and noticed that the letter ‘c’ was highlighted. Must be a glitch in the keyboard, he thought. He read through the answer options again and selected ‘c.’

The next five questions were answered in a matter of minutes and Thomas was still feeling good about the exam. All the questions he had answered thus far were basic review questions, with a few case study examples. I knew I was ready for this; this is much easier than I expected. I’ll pass for sure, Thomas thought. He then clicked the ‘next’ button and stared at the screen.

This question was a bit tougher, and Thomas tried to rule out obvious wrong answers. He looked down at the keyboard again to process his thoughts and noticed that ‘c’ was no longer highlighted. Instead, the letter ‘d’ glowed with a dim, orange light. Thomas’ brow furrowed, and he wondered what was wrong with the keyboard. He quickly clicked ‘previous question’ until he got back to question number two. He looked at his answer on the screen, marked as answer ‘c,’ and then down at the keyboard where ‘c’ was highlighted. Thomas looked over his shoulder at the testing officiator on the other side of the glass wall to see if she had noticed. He knew he was being videotaped and was unsure whether or not this was a practical joke. Thomas clicked forward in the exam to his current question, checking every answer against what key was highlighted on the keyboard; ‘a,’ ‘b,’ ‘c,’ or ‘d.’ He was certain of his answers thus far in the exam, and so far everything he had marked matched up with what the keyboard highlighted.

This keyboard knows the exam; it’s giving me the answers, Thomas realized.

He read through the next question and, sure enough, the keyboard was giving him the correct answer. He clicked the ‘next’ button after confirming with the keyboard and answering the question, and continued the exam. He looked over his shoulder, then back at the keyboard, and thought about what was happening.

I’m not doing anything wrong, he thought. I came prepared for this test. I just so happened to sit at the desk with the cheating keyboard. He paused. Will I be caught? Could they catch me? Thomas noticed that he was sweating as he tried to justify his actions.

I won’t look at the keyboard, he considered. I’ll decide on the answer, then look at the keyboard for confirmation. I’m prepared anyways. Maybe this is just someone’s way of making sure I pass. He thought again about what he had decided, and then nodded to himself. Okay, let’s do this.

Thomas continued the exam, following his outlined plan, confirming with the keyboard after every question. He felt confident until he got to the third and final portion of the test, where he saw an exact question from his practice exams.

It was a basic question, taken from the first chapter of his study book. He had answered this question dozens of times, but the keyboard was giving him a different answer than what he knew was right. This is ridiculous, he thought. I know the answer is ‘a’ but this stupid keyboard is telling me ‘d.’ He clicked the ‘previous’ button, then went back to the question to make sure that the keyboard wasn’t stuck. The ‘d’ key glowed when the ‘a’ key should have been lit up. Agh! he thought. What is going on?

He selected ‘a’ and clicked the ‘next’ button, but couldn’t focus enough to read the next question. He went back to the previous question and stared at the screen, then the keyboard. It has given me the right answers every time; why is it doing this now? Thomas thought.

He considered raising his hand so the testing attendant would come to his computer, but realized what a fool he would look like. His mind started to spin and his eyes glassed over, and he tried to shake off the feeling of stupor. He looked back at the screen.

Maybe I shouldn’t be doubting the keyboard, he considered. Maybe I’m confusing what I thought. But this is such a basic question.

He changed his answer to ‘d’ and clicked ‘next.’ Thomas went through the final part of the exam, second guessing himself and everything he thought he knew. He became more and more frustrated with himself and the keyboard for disagreeing, but he decided to side with what the keyboard told him. When he had finished all 100 questions, he looked at the clock in the top right hand corner of the screen and noticed that he still had thirty minutes left.

I have enough time to review all the questions again, he thought.

Thomas when back to the beginning of the exam and, while reviewing his initial answers, realized that the keyboard was giving different answers now. Thomas frantically clicked the ‘next’ button, glancing from the keyboard to the screen as he reviewed each answer. Terror gripped his mind. He let go of the mouse and his hands shot to cover his face.

What is happening?

He looked back over his shoulder but nothing had changed. The room was deadly silent, but he was screaming inside. He wanted to smash the keyboard, to throw it against the wall. He looked back at the clock, noticing that only eighteen minutes remained.

I have to calm down, he thought. Just go through the questions again, and do what feels right. Don’t look at the keyboard. Forget the keyboard.

As Thomas clicked through the questions, he became more confused and unsure of his answers. He couldn’t help but look at the keyboard for what he thought was right. He wondering if the keyboard had been lying all along, but couldn't bring himself to go against it. He began changing answers based upon what the keyboard was now illuminating, even thought it meant going against what he had initially known. He had five minutes to go as he sped through the last few questions, feeling ever more uncomfortable about his answers.

With one minute remaining, he completed the last question, and a screen popped up with the option to ‘end exam.’ Thomas knew that this was either a ‘pass’ or ‘fail’ test, and that he had to get at least an eighty percent to pass and receive his CRL. He looked down at the keyboard and noticed that neither ‘a,’ ‘b,’ ‘c,’ or ‘d’ were illuminated. Only one key was bright, with that cheating orange glow: the ‘escape’ key. He looked back and forth from the ‘escape’ key to the ‘end exam’ button, and wondered if he could ‘escape’ after hitting the ‘end exam’ button. Something in him knew he could not. His left index finger hovered over the ‘escape’ button while his right index finger rested on the mouse.

Where would this escape key take me? Is this some kind of magical keyboard? I’m pretty sure I failed this test, but I did what the keyboard said, so maybe I passed? He felt a small glimmer of hope, but it wavered.

He hit the ‘escape’ key at the same time the screen flashed a message saying ‘time expired.’ The screen went white, then black, then faded to a muted gray. With a slight popping noise, the computer shut off. Thomas looked from left to right in bewilderment but nothing changed. After a moment, the woman testing attendant came in the room with a troubled look on her face. She leaned over to whisper in Thomas’ ear.

“I’m so sorry, your exam didn’t save. The computer malfunctioned and we have no way of collecting your answers. You’ll have to come back and take the exam again.”

Say It Ant So!

2010-10-01T23:58:00.001-06:00

2010-09-26

The fruit loop fell from a pudgy hand like a hoop of manna from heaven. It bounced between a gauntlet of legs and feet and began to roll down the sidewalk of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s cohorts remained ensconced within a small Tupperware bowl jammed into a nearby coat pocket.

Rants and chants filled the air while the sugar-encrusted loop rolled straight and true, miraculously avoiding the marching shoes, flip-flops, and occasional bare foot. It eventually wobbled and fell, lying just at the edge of tramping oblivion.

She came quietly, unnoticed by the riotous crowds, wandering in apparent blindness, yet seeking with intense determination. Much like the picket signs waving fervently far above her, she waived her antennae to and fro, smelling the faint traces of sugar in the air. Oblivious to her danger, she marched back and forth, back and forth. She would not be denied!

After miles of inches, she found the sugary path. Her six legs churned, carrying her millimeter-long body swiftly over the weathered boulders of lime and sand. She could taste her salvation! Its sweet, tantalizing tang powered her forward. “Food! Food! Food!”

An unfathomable distance away, the pudgy hand reached for a skirt and pulled. A woman turned, recognized the pained hunger and loss in the girl’s eyes, and lowered her sign with a frown. It read, “Feed the Needy, not the Greedy!”

“What happened?” She asked her daughter.

“I loosed one!” a round, tear-streaked face cried over the chants. “It went that way!”

Glancing a few feet away, the mother saw the little, red loop appear briefly between the marching legs of fellow protestors.

“Well, let it go. I’ve got more.” She replied as she turned away, hoisted her sign high and resumed chanting, “Feed the hungry!”

Tears welled up again as the child turned to look longingly towards the wayward loop.

The sun shone bright and hot for an early spring day and reflected off the carapace of the hungry ant, only inches from the coveted loop. The FD&C Red 40 glowed with promise, but the color was lost in her compound eye as she hurried up at full speed. “Food. Hunger. Queen. Eggs. Need….”

At first touch, she halted immediately with two legs suspended. She felt quickly and thoroughly, feeling overpowered by flavor. Her feelers padded gently across the sharp crystals of pure sugar embedded within waves of oat flour mortar. It arched up and out of sight, like a giant candy castle. “Perfect!”

The ant paused to sample a delectable crumb. Then she began to climb. She needed to know how large this treasure was before reporting back.

The child looked on, measuring the distance to her lost morsel and gauging her chances in the unruly crowd. Suddenly, she bolted.

The ant climbed carefully. Grasping the sugar crystals like a pro rock climber, she ascended the overhanging curve with ease, feeling no vertigo. She reached the top and began to walk the circumference. A shadow fell upon her and she paused in mid-stride. Her compound eyes sensed danger as the air stilled.

A small hand reached down.

All at once, the air rushed. The old ant felt the vibrations of the slap. The girl flinched and rubbed her stinging hand. The mother looked angrily down and exclaimed, “Don’t run away! I could lose you in this crowd. Didn’t I tell you that over and over on the bus?”

The girl scowled and looked back at her lost loop as she was dragged back into the marching crowd by her coat sleeve.

“Help the Helpless!” shouted the mob.

The child turned, looked up sweetly and said, "May I have s'more?"

"No." the mother replied without looking. "It needs to last." She fumbled one-handedly with her over-sized sign, still clinging to the daughter.

"Why?" the little one asked.

"Because it's all we brought for the march!" She looked down scornfully.

"No! Why we here?" Her exasperated voice rankled the mother.

"I told you that already!" the mother exclaimed, grabbing the sticky, little hand and resuming her march in double-time.

Struggling to keep up, the little girl panted, "But...we...don'...know...needy...."

"Yes, we do!" interrupted the mother, "They're all around us. Now keep up!" She raised her voice to join the new chant beginning around them.

"Share food, not war!"

Swept in a small circle, the pair soon approached the fence again and the girl began to watch the ground forlornly.

A few squares of sidewalk ahead, the ant finished her review of the sugar coated castle. It dwarfed her minuscule body, but that didn't daunt her in the least. She knew just how her nest would disassemble this feast! It was time to return for help.

Heady with the overpowering scent of artificial cherry flavor, she decided to take just one more taste. Her old body could use the sweet sustenance for the return trip.

She located a smallish morsel. Leaning down, she bit and the sun went dark. She felt tremendous force lift her skyward and the brilliant sun returned.

Speeding away from the earth, her minimal depth perception was soon gone leaving her in a world consisting only of the sugar-studded loop and two pudgy mounds pressing in.

Despite the strange situation, she felt calm from her sweet intoxication. She was now much higher above earth than ever before in her short life, but she couldn't see to feel fear. She raised her antennae into the rushing air, tasting a breadth of sensations and aromas that overwhelmed her, knocking her from her sugary bliss.

She made her way to the nearest pudgy mound and tasted carefully. However impossible it seemed, she tasted a cornucopia of food! Her discovery had gone from wonderful to unbelievable!

And then the sun went out again and her world collapsed.

The mother looked down at the smiling face of her daughter, tugging on her coat.

"I found it mommy!" she exclaimed, beginning to skip along side.

"Good! Now keep up”, said the mother.

They marched on.

Status

2010-10-01T10:41:00.002-06:00

“Jana Hawkins is going to the Halcombe Smithers rally tonight!!!!! It’s gonna be awesome! lol :)”

Jana was very excited. Her first political rally! She wasn’t exactly sure what this Halcombe Smithers guy was all about, but that didn’t matter. She felt so active, so patriotic, so… American. She went out and bought an entirely new outfit just for the occasion. She made a huge sign with Smithers’ famous “Pick Up the PEACEes” slogan in bright blue and red. She even posted about it on her Facebook status so everyone could see how serious she was about politics.

“Wow girl i am sooooo jealous lol that rally is going to rock!!!!” commented an old friend she hadn’t seen in more than a decade.

“That is wonderful. I remember when you were just a little junior high schooler, giggling about the cute boy you sat next to in geography class. And now you’re a responsible adult, attending an important civic occasion. I am impressed,” said one of her old church leaders.

“We'll see what the rally turns out to be, but I have a hard time believing that it's a plea to both sides to listen to each other when he's made it very clear that he has nothing but contempt for the. . . see more” said a friend of Jana’s sister, who commented on every picture Jana ever posted, and whom Jana had not really wanted to “be friends with” in the first place. Jana felt a thrill of excitement run through her at all the comments. She was just so involved!

Making sure to check that no new comments had been added while she was getting ready, Jana looked at the clock at 6:43 and decided it was time to leave. Nervousness had given her a temperamental stomach, so all she had been able to force down for dinner was half a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. The other half was sitting, slowly turning to soggy mush, on the counter in the kitchen. She carefully took stock of the things she was holding in her hands and, with a thrill, walked to the garage, got in her car, and headed out.

******

“So, you’re sure this girl is gone for the whole night Kev?” Sitting in the passenger side of the old Chevy truck a few houses down the street, Manuel watched casually as Jana pulled out of her driveway and headed towards them. As she passed the truck and turned left at the corner behind them, he scanned the neighborhood around them.

“Yeah man, I told you like a million times, she’s been posting about it on Facebook for like three months. She won’t be back till like eleven at the earliest.” Kevin smoked his cigarette with the air of someone who thought he was on an MTV reality show. He made every inhalation seem important. The minutes ticked by. It was 7:30 when Manuel spoke again.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Kevin pulled the old truck slowly up to the curb in from of Jana’s house and the two men got out. They walked confidently to the side gate and Manuel took one quick look around him before he sprang nimbly over. A dull ‘clip’ and a few seconds later the gate was swinging steadily open. Kevin passed through and shut it quietly behind him.

They did not have to speak as they broke the screen off a back window, broke through the glass, and reached through to unlatch the lock. They had done it all so many times. They moved like two parts of a whole. By 7:34 they were in Jana’s bedroom.

******

“Jana Hawkins is totally making history at the Halcombe Smithers rally!!!! this man is so the next mahatima gandii lol!!!”

“And that’s why we’ve got to pick our sorry carcasses off the cracked and crumbling soil of this great American nation, dust off our pants, and put the PEACEes back together.”

The crowd roared around Jana and she found herself screaming in ecstasy, almost as though she couldn’t help it, along with them. Brilliant, she thought. Every word he said was just so deeply moving, it was like she had heard the words before in a movie, but this time she was actually in the movie along with all the famous actors. And to think, she was actually witnessing it all first hand. Smithers, a distant figure on a stand hundreds of feet in front of her, pumped his fist in the air again, for added emphasis, and the crowd roared even louder.

Jana had been getting a flattering amount of comments on every status update she had done. She had been posting about once every twenty minutes, and she couldn’t believe how many of her friends cared. One of the new friends she had made, a guy named Kevin Baldwin, had commented on every one of her updates. She couldn’t quite remember where she had met Kevin, but in all the pictures she looked through on his profile he looked really cute, and she was pretty sure she had known him in grade school or something. Life was just so good right now.

******

Manuel stopped suddenly in the kitchen and Kevin, who was carrying Jana’s 21’ flatscreen TV, ‘oomphed’ as he barreled into Manuel’s back.

“What, dude?” Kevin grumbled but Manuel just continued to stare at something Kevin couldn’t see.

“Kev, do you see that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Right there, on the counter.” Kevin swore, shifting the TV from his right arm to his left.

“Dude, what the…” Kevin’s voice trailed off as Manuel moved enough for him to see what he was staring at.

“How the @$%& did she know?” Manuel whispered, almost reverently as his eyes bored holes into the mushy half-eaten bowl of cereal on the counter. A siren screamed suddenly, from some distance away, getting closer at an alarming speed. Kevin dropped the TV with a crash and ran desperately for the garage.

“Manuel,” he screamed, slamming his hand on the garage door opener affixed to the wall. He leaped into the truck they had pulled into the garage earlier.

“Get the &@$% out here dude!” The siren was getting closer, a lot closer.

“How…” Manuel whispered again, his voice almost a breath. Finally, as though snapped out of his trance by some unseen force, Manuel looked up in horror and whipped his body into action. He made a bolt for the garage. Kevin had already started to peel out as Manuel lunged for the passenger side door, wrenched it open, and flung himself in. Kevin hit the gas and forced his way through all the furniture and appliances they had been stacking by the open bed of the truck, which went flying in all directions. Jana’s brand new desktop computer escaped being crushed to pieces by about two inches.

The sirens were close now and Kevin looked around the neighborhood wildly as he tried to decide which way to escape. Manuel pointed frantically to the left and Kevin sped off, never once looking back.

Seconds later two police cars and an ambulance pulled into the driveway of the house across from Jana’s. Mr. Brooks, an elderly gentleman, came hobbling out.

“She’s breathing easier now, but I’m still glad you folks are here,” he said, wheezing slightly. A policemen and a paramedic walked calmly up the path, following Mr. Brooks back into the house. Two other policemen stayed out on the porch, looking disgustedly after Mr. Brooks’ retreating back.

“This is the third time this month,” one of the men said to the other in an undertone. “I wish the old lady would just kick the bucket and get it over with.” The other man chuckled and nodded sympathetically.

“Well, at least it’s a nice night, huh?” he said and turned to survey the pretty evening sky.

“What the…?” he said, starting, and the other policeman turned in to look. They noticed, for the first time, the utter mayhem across the street.

******

“Jana Hawkins got ROBBED tonight!!!!!! :( :( :( well almost!!!!! I am totally FREAKED OUT right now!!!!! :( :(“

Jana sat slumped in a kitchen chair in her now empty living room. It was going to take forever to get everything back where it was supposed to go. Police officers were swarming everywhere, jabbering excitedly to each other, walking briskly through the rooms of her house. She felt so betrayed. So violated. And on this night of all nights. The glow of the rally had long since faded, wiped brutally away by the sight of her savaged home. She got up and walked gloomily towards her battered TV which was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, a piece of the plastic frame cracked and scratched. She picked up the plug, wondering vaguely if it still worked. She plugged it in to a nearby outlet and pressed the power button ‘on.’

“Police are still looking for the two men known as the “Cereal Robbers,” a smart looking woman in a bright red blazer said, her face creased with professional concern. “There have been six break-ins in the east valley this month alone, all by the same two men who leave a strange calling card at every victim’s home. A half eaten bowl of cereal…” The woman paused for the strangeness of her words to have their full effect and a picture flashed on the screen of a bowl half-filled with grayish mush. “Please contact the police if you have any information regarding these terrible crimi-“ Jana pressed the power button again and the TV screen went blank. Well, she thought, at least it still works. She pulled out her phone and pulled up her Facebook page again.

“Jana Hawkins is totally not sleeping at home tonight!!! :( im going over to my moms i dont think i'll be able to sleep here for a long time oh my gosh how could someone do something like this i'm so upset…”

Black and White

2010-10-01T10:24:00.001-06:00

His car jolted to a stop and his eyes glazed over. L49 A9W. He looked up from the license plate on the car in front of him and stared at a homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of his belongings down the sidewalk. The homeless man walked up to the stand where one could sell cans for 70 cents a lb. He’s maybe got 300 cans in that bag. Not bad, the man in the car thought. Just then, the car in front of him sped forward, and he took off.

The man had made the trip thousands of times. Right on Backwood Drive, left on Harris, all the way to his office. Harris was the fastest way to get to work. He was so used to the trip that he knew exactly which lane to be in at which intersection. However, the trip was such a routine that the man could practically do it in his sleep. Sometimes he would pull into the parking garage at work and realize that he had made the 45 minute commute without thinking at all. He had tired of the radio and would occasionally listen to CD’s, but most often, he didn’t listen to anything. He picked at the back of his teeth with his tongue and thought, that Malt-O-Meal really leaves something to be desired. It tasted about as soggy in the bowl as it does in my teeth one hour later.

Today was different though. The man didn’t realize it, but today was different. He would finally think about something worth thinking about.

As he approached 48^th Drive, the man noticed more brake lights than usual. That’s odd, he thought. An accident, maybe? He was so thrown off his usual course that the man made an abrupt turn on a street that would help him avoid the traffic. He only went on this street when there was an accident or construction on Harris. Again, the man knew the quickest way to get to work; he was no novice here. As the man turned on the street, he saw throngs of people, all in white t-shirts, gathering at the nearest park. In fact, they were coming from everywhere. The man looked closer, trying to make out what was on their shirts. A logo, he thought. No, wait, it looks like…a road. No, a track. A train track. The people looked mad. What is this about, he wondered. Just then another group caught his eye. These people were wearing black shirts with the logo “Get your railroad off our ROAD!” in large print. The man pulled forward in the intersection, but was so intrigued by what was going on that he decided to pull to the side of the road and watch. The two groups converged in the middle of the park, white on one side, black on the other. On a raised platform were two women: one finely dressed woman and one overweight, ragged-looking woman. He recognized the finely dressed woman from posters around town. She was running for mayor and was obviously siding with the white shirts. The ragged-looking woman was wearing the black shirt with the logo on it.

The man unrolled his windows so he could hear what each woman said. They each had microphones so the crowd could hear what they said. The mayor candidate was composed and relaxed as she began. “This railroad is just what the city needs. It will bring jobs and tourism to our city, which so desperately needs increased revenues. If I am elected mayor, I will make sure this train makes all the right stops, and folks, it’s stoppin’ here.” The last word was said with emphasis (and attitude), and the man thought it sounded clever, her little pun. The raggy woman then gathered her thoughts and said, “Listen; I am a business owner, along with hundreds of you gathered here, and we know that this railroad would ruin our businesses! Her promises of increased revenues would be at our expense! Our shops would be shut down! Our families forced to move so factory warehouses could go up! You must understand that this is just some ploy to get her elected! It’s just being draped under the guise of “helping the community!” It is no help! So get your railroad off our ROAD!” This was met with screams and cheers, support and hate. The crowd was even more worked up. The candidate tried to say something in her microphone, but was drowned out by noise.

The man got out of his car, and the noise was deafening. People were continuing to swarm towards the park, and he soon found himself being drawn in as well. He found himself drawn towards the white section, as he was wearing his customary white shirt and tie for work. I don’t even remember hearing anything about this issue, he thought, as he watched the two women argue on the stage. However, all the “Vote Yes on this or that Prop” signs did crowd each other out on the street corners. He must’ve not noticed.

The man began to look around at his fellow white shirters and it donned on him that he was supporting a railroad going up. Why?, he thought. Why would I want it to go up? The ragged woman made some good points. Hm. I wonder what to do. As the man thought that thought, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and recognized the elderly gentleman, a popular news reporter for TRX News, Channel 7, immediately. “Can I ask you a few questions, sir?” the reporter asked. The man nodded unsurely as a cameraman turned his camera on.

The man followed the gentleman off to the side of the rally. The elderly gentleman was dressed in a nice suit, and his hair was slicked back, with an even part on the right side. He wasted no time.

“How do you feel this railroad will positively impact our community?” the reporter asked.

Uh, how do I get out of this?, the man thought.

“Well, I uh, feel that we will…see increased revenues and good business skills. For…it.” No. What did I just say?, the man thought. He caught the reporter glancing at the cameraman and they shared a look. An annoyed, unimpressed look.

“Well, thank you for your time, sir,” the reporter said.

The man looked up at the crowd, back to the annoyed, elderly reporter, and then thought to himself, this is why I never go to political rallies.

Math is Everywhere

2010-10-01T08:48:00.000-06:00

As Gwynneth stared into her bowl of wheat checks, she thought how beautiful a sight it was—tiny little concentric squares that formed a netting of wheat, trapping sugared milk in just the right way. A mathematically perfect balance of cereal and milk.

The bowl was the contrast: round, with a deep blue rim and a floral pattern on the side. But the blue, against the golden brown of the cereal—that was beauty.
She felt a tap on the head and looked up to see her mother’s disappointed face.

“I told you to get your clothes on before breakfast,” Mom said. “And here you are, sitting and watching your cereal get soggy, and it’s about five minutes until the bus comes.”

“I’ll walk by myself right now,” Gwynneth said as usual.

“No, you won’t.”

“I promise I won’t stop.”

“You aren’t capable of not stopping, Gwyn. Put your cereal in the sink and get your clothes on, please.”

Gwynneth took her bowl to the sink and emptied it, feeling a stab of mourning at the site of so much beauty gone down the drain. She walked up the stairs (one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve) and down the hall (one, two, three doors) and into her room.

There they were, neatly laid out at the foot of her bed.

She slid her legs into the stretchy flowered leggings, put the jean skirt with the heart pockets on, slid on the light-blue T-shirt and the white hooded sweater over it. She walked past the mirror, keeping her gaze trained away from it, and got her shoes.

One loop, two loops, cross over, knot.

One loop, two loops, cross over, knot.

She walked back down the stairs (tweleve-eleven-ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one) and met her mother at the door.

“You don’t have to walk me,” Gwynneth said again, flicking a glance at her mother.
Her mother didn’t answer, just followed her down the sidewalk to the sign.

“All right,” Mother sighed finally, as the bus drove up. “Come right home, Gwyn. I don’t have time to pick you up this afternoon. Please don’t miss your bus.”

“OK,” Gwynn replied.

On the bus, trees flashed by. Fenceposts streamed by, too fast to count. She watched the fenceline buck and tumble along, rising and falling with the hills that ran along the road.

It was a long ride, to Skaggsvile Junior High. And there were plenty of thoughts to have; plenty of things to think about. One of the things Gwynneth thought about was the fact that she’d left her red Music binder on her bed. She felt her heart race, then slow. Oh well. There wasn’t much she could do about it, now.

Cows. Black and white. How many spots?

Sheep. White, with black legs.

Posters, posters, posters. Deanna Skaggs for city commissioner. Emily Helman for school superintendant. Marshal Lindstrom for sheriff… great blue and red letters on blinding white squares. So bright they almost seemed to wiggle in Gwynneth’s vision.

The bus slowed. Gwynn sat up in her seat and craned her neck, trying to see out of the bus’s broad windshield.

She could see there were people—people, with more of those blinding signs. They were marching across the road, in one big pack, like a herd of loose cows.

“What’s going on? Why’d we stop? What are all those people doing?” The kids started throwing out questions to the bus driver, who looked just as puzzled as anybody. She pulled the pump handle to open the door. There was a hiss of air as the door folded in, and the bus driver jumped to the ground.

The children watched as she talked to a few of the people, who each shook their heads. Then the driver shrugged and began walking toward the bus, pulling a cell phone out of her pocket.

“What’s going on?” A curly-haired boy behind Gwynneth demanded.

“I don’t know,” Gwynneth turned to reply.

The curly-haired boy stared at her. “I wasn’t asking you,” he said finally.
The doors hissed and folded open again, and the bus driver came tromping up the steps.

“We can’t go for a while,” she said. “I’ll call the school and let them know.”

“What is it?” The curly haired boy cupped his hands around his mouth so that he would be heard over the roar of chatter.

“Some kind of protest,” the bus driver said, then sat heavily in the seat.

“Political protest,” Gwynneth said quietly to herself.

She knew what those were. They talked about them a lot on the news lately. She liked the news—most of the kids her age liked cartoons. But the news was so much more quiet and calm. And planned. In a cartoon, any old thing could happen; crazy things that should never happen.

No, give Gwynneth the news any day over cartoons.

Gwynneth stood (even though it was against the rules), and poked her head and upper body out the window, leaning away from the bus so she could get a better look at some of the signs. On one of them she could make out the president’s name, but that was about it. She slid back into her seat.

“See anything?”

Gwynneth saw the curly-haired boy peering over the top of the seat. She shrugged.

“Hey, what’s your name?” He asked.

“Gwynneth.”

“You’re in special education, right?”

“I’m in the gifted program.”

Curly haired boy chuckled. “Right.”

Gwynneth frowned and turned back around in her seat.

“How long is this going to take?” Somebody whined from the back.

The bus driver turned around. “Don’t know,” she said. “Siddown.”

“Can we get out?”

“Nope.”

Gwynneth glanced at her digital watch. It had been twenty three minutes almost exactly since the bus had stopped.

“What time is it?” Curly haired boy asked, coming around the seat and sitting in the space next to her.

“Seven fifty-six.”

“You could’ve just said eight.”

“It’s not eight.”

“You’re weird.”

“Good for you, for figuring that out. You must be brilliant.” Gwynneth snapped.

Curly haired boy straightened up in the seat and grinned. “My mom thinks so.”

“Everyone’s mom thinks they’re smart.”

Curly haired boy pursed his lips for a moment. “Whatever,” he said, finally.

There was a sudden rise in the volume of the voices outside. Gwynneth realized that the protesters were approaching the bus.

“What are they saying?” Someone in front of Gwynneth asked.

“No Bussing,” Gwynneth answered.

A pigtailed head appeared above the line of seats. “They don’t like busses?”

“No, it’s about how they change the school boundaries so that kids from all different places can go to school together. You know how we went to a new school this year, and drive a lot farther?”

“Yeah,” curly haired boy groaned.

“Well, I’m the last stop, and I go a lot farther than you,” Gwynneth said. “And because of the bussing thing I can go to the gifted. I’d have to go to Blueridge Elementary with Mrs. Eldridge and her counting cubes.”

The loudness of the protesters, as they streamed out on either side of the bus, suddenly made talking impossible. Gwynneth stood again and stuck her head out the window. This time, she looked down on several people, who stared up at her in surprise and stopped chanting for a moment.

“Hi,” Gwynneth said.

“Hello,” a lady wearing a red straw visor responded.

“When are you going to be done?”

The lady looked taken aback. “Well...” she stammered.

“We’re missing math.”

“I’m sorry about that.” The lady paused. “Maybe just think of it as a little holiday, you know? You’re missing school. I bet that doesn’t upset you all too much.”

“You’re wrong,” Gwynneth said, and pulled her head back into the window. She sat, slumped in her seat for a moment, glancing at her watch and feeling the anxiety rise. The chant resumed, and didn’t get any quieter—nobody was moving away.
It seemed that this bus was going to be the target of the protest.

Gwynneth looked at the giant mirror that hung over the bus-driver’s head. All around her, kids were throwing pieces of paper at each other, chattering, digging through their lunch sacks. The bus driver was balancing a paper-back book on the steering wheel, looking up occasionally to gripe about keeping the bus clean.

Gwynneth began to boil.

She stood up on the seat again, and stuck her head out the window. “All of you should just GO HOME!” She yelled.

“Hey!” The bus driver set her book down. “Siddown!”

Several people stopped, and stared up at her, open-mouthed.

“What is your problem, anyway?” Gwynneth continued. “Why do you care where our bus goes? Is it such a bad thing to have to watch a yellow bus drive by every day?"

“Siddown!” The bus driver repeated.

“You don’t understand, little girl,” said a man wearing a red, white and blue shirt with a picture of some guy's face on it. “It’s about the government telling us what to do. Don’t you hate it when people give you rules?”

“NO,” said Gwynneth. “And if you hate rules so much, how come you’re not marching around the school?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Well, the government pays for the school. They give money and it’s a rule that every kid has to go to school. They do tests to make sure the rules are followed about what we learn. How come you’re here walking around our bus instead of walking around the school?”

The people who had stopped under Gwynneth’s window looked at her like she was crazy, which Gwynneth was used to. The bus driver was staring at her, too. But at least she had stopped yelling.

“Can you please just let us get going again so I don’t miss primary analogies?” Gwynneth pleaded. “And… write letters, or something?” She pulled her head inside the bus and shut her window. She pulled out her blue math binder and stared at it. She felt deflated. Like the whole world was collapsing in on her. No Math today.

There was no chance now, because everybody at school was putting away their math binders right now, and starting Primary Analogies. And then it would be music, which Gywnneth had accidentally left at home. Math was over.

Gwynneth’s fingers trembled as she clutched the straps of her backpack.

Maybe she could just look at the lesson. Maybe the numbers on the page would make things just a little bit better.

She pulled out her math workbook and turned to today’s lesson, which was about dividing fractions. She looked at the problems for a long time, thinking how they might be done. The textbook was at school, and of course, her teacher, too. She was surprised at the taste of salt—was she crying? How strange. How embarrassing.

“You flip them,” Curly Haired boy’s voice shattered Gwynneth’s thoughts.
She hastily wiped her cheek and glared at him.

“I did this math last year. I can show you.” He slid back into the space next to her and reached for her book.

She whipped it away from him. “You’re not my teacher.”

“So? If I know how to do it, and you don’t, and you want to know… why shouldn’t I show you how?”

“Why do you want to show me how? I bet you don’t even like math.”

“I’m kind of bored.”

“You’ll teach me wrong.”

Curly haired boy shook his head. “It’s the same, Gwynneth. You have to do the same thing to get the right answer… math doesn’t,” he shrugged. “It’s not like writing an essay or something where you can put any answer you want. There’s only one answer and there’s a best way of getting the answer, too. And I know it.”

Gwynneth stared at him, astonished. He knows, she thought. He knows about Math. One answer. Just one, for each problem, making the world such a safe place, where at least in one thing, nothing that shouldn't happen ever did.

“We’re not in class,” she ventured.

“Classrooms are just seats and desks and a big thing in front to write on. You’ve got a seat, and your binder can be like your desk, it’s hard enough to write on. And I don’t need a big thing to write on, I”ll just write on your page and I can erase it if you want me to.”

Gwynneth edged the workbook in his direction.

“Now who’s the genius?” He said, grinning at her.

“Just show me how to do it.” Gwynneth said. “Thanks,” she added quietly.

She watched him as he read through the directions, silently forming the words with his lips, an intense look of concentration on his face.

Outside the chant continued, but it slowly faded into the background for Gwynneth, as she began to focus on the beautiful symmetry of division and fractions. When she set her pencil to the paper she sighed, feeling the safeness of it all fill her, make her warm to her fingertips. It was beautiful.

Numbers were the same whether they were on the bus or in class, whether your teacher or a curly-haired boy taught them to you. The windows on the bus seemed, to Gwynneth, to expand until the whole world had opened up for her, letting her in, surrounding her vinyl bus-seat.

Kind of like God, Gwynneth thought, Math really is everywhere.

Uniko For President

2010-10-01T07:43:00.002-06:00

Part I

Mag sighed as she finished her breakfast of Honey Bunches, then trudged out into the passageway. As always, Abb was waiting for her. And today she was positively glowing with excitement.

“So about that rally this afternoon…” Mag began nervously as they made their way to class. “I’ve been thinking it over and I really don’t know if--”

“Mag, you promised!” her sister interrupted. “You have to come. Uniko herself is going to be there!”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Mag muttered.

During dance class, she had a hard time concentrating. Ebs, the instructor, made her do extra rotations during the break.

“Remember, Mag,” Ebs intoned. “You really must focus on what you are communicating with your movement. Every movement has a purpose, tells a story. What message could you possibly be trying to convey with that drooping posterior?”

How about, “I’m confused,” or maybe, “I’m scared and have no idea what to do”? Mag thought to herself.

After class, Mag reluctantly agreed to meet Abb ten minutes later in their secret spot.

This was all incredibly dangerous, and if it had been any other time of year, Mag would have refused to go to the rally. It was too cold outside to go foraging for food though, so no one would be monitoring her comings and goings after class. And Abb had always come through for her, so she at least owed her this much. Mag decided she would attend the rally and then refuse further involvement.

Anxiously, she slipped through the dark passageway and felt her way to the meeting place. She waited for a long time. Too long. Where was Abb? Something was wrong.

After a while, she became aware of a faint buzzing sound. It grew louder.

Someone was coming.

The noise increased until it enveloped her in a deafening roar. She knew she was surrounded. She felt the cell begin to heat up. She started to struggle for air, and knew it was no use.

Curse you, Uniko! she thought bitterly, the heat overwhelming her. Despite all your promises, all you do is divide us and get us killed.

Ironically, as she took her last gasps of breath, she thought only of the waste of all of this on her. They should have been using their energy to warm the winter passageways, not to kill her. She was only a lowly worker.

I will be faithful… she recited in her mind as she faded away. I love our way of life, our harmony. I will always serve LaReyna...

*************

And then she came to in a small, hexagonal cell. Abb was leaning over her.

“You’re awake!” her sister cried, embracing her.

“Yes…” Mag began, starting to get up, then noticing that they were not alone in the room.

Uniko.

“I am deeply sorry for what happened to you,” Uniko said. “Your valor will not be forgotten.”

“Uniko saved you,” Abb explained eagerly. “She saved you by starting a fire. When they smelled the smoke, they left for the storehouses to gather as much as they could in earnest.”

Mag shook her head and looked at Uniko. Little Worker Uniko, the cause of so much disorder and violence in the colony. “Just more proof that you are willing to destroy our home for your own purposes,” she said.

Uniko nodded. “I can understand why you might feel that way. I wish it weren’t so dangerous to meet together and that there were peaceful alternatives. But LaReyna makes that impossible. As my following grows, so does the danger, and thus the need to protect ourselves in any way we can.”

“For the record,” Mag said, rising, “I am not a part of your following. I was only coming with Abb as a favor to her. There is nothing your little rallies achieve except more disharmony among us.”

“Say what you will, LaReyna’s rule is unjust,” Uniko replied with increasing fervor. “She rules with tyranny. She kills those who oppose her. She forces all to be her slaves and works us to death. All for the good of the colony. The harmony of the colony. We should be able to make decisions for ourselves, to vote for a leader who will truly represent us. I won’t stop until I can make sure every single one of us is treated equally, with an equal chance to be something great and to choose our own destinies!”

“Save it for your rallies,” Mag said, lying back down. “Destinies! Hah!”

Part II

It had finally come: Election day.

Mag was still in shock that the day had come at all. Voting? Presidents? What would her grandmother have thought had she been alive to see this day? But, of course, she wasn’t alive. LaReyna’s workers had made sure of that.

Suddenly, LaReyna’s voice was deep and powerful in her mind. It pushed out all other thoughts.

Vote for me, it said. Vote vote vote for me me me.

And then the rich smells hit Mag. They filled up her cell. They were overpowering, overwhelming, intoxicating, inviting, delicious.

Of course you will vote for me. I have kept you safe. Given you a home. Provided you with food. I am your family. I provide order. Shelter. Love. I have allowed you this vote to show you that I truly love you and care what you have to say. We must rid ourselves of all doubt, all betrayal. We stand united…

Mag moved to cast her vote. Of course she would vote for LaReyna. She had kept her safe. Given her a home. Provided her with food—

Then Mag heard them.

“Unik-o! Unik-o! Unik-o for Pres-i-dent!” they chanted.

Snapped out of her reverie, Mag realized that the smells had lessened, dissipated. Fresh air wafted into her cell. She could think on her own again.

She voted.

*************

The results were in. Mr. L. Drone, a recent addition to the colony, was to tally them and make the announcement.

At the grand podium, Uniko at his right hand and the magnificent LaReyna at his left, he read the final count.

“28,062 votes for the Grand Queen LaReyna,” he announced. “And 29,650 for Worker Uniko. Uniko is the new President, by vote of the people.” He then quickly, hurriedly, frantically, made his exit.

There was a long silence. And then LaReyna turned on Uniko and attacked.

It all happened so quickly, but in the end, there were two dead bodies fallen next to the grand podium. One was LaReyna’s. The other was lowly Mag’s, her stinger dislodged from her body and driven deep into the heart of the Queen.

Part III

March 13^th – Recorded observations of neighboring hive activity [as notated by Log Hive Reporter #43]:

“…The number of workers who leave Tree Hive in the morning seems to be smaller every day. When they do leave, they don’t seem to fly very quickly or to be headed in any particular direction.

The foragers we have observed also seem to take frequent rests—they are often found dozing in the West Red Long-Stemmed Patch in the heat of the day. (Such a decline in work ethic is puzzling now that the spring foraging season is here.) When questioned, they often use a perplexing word, DESTINY, as some kind of explanation for their behavior.

One observer recently reported a fight that broke out between two Tree Hive scouts. Two scouts on the same team.

It is even whispered by some that the Tree Hivers have stopped producing honey and are slowly starving to death. Sadly, there don’t seem to be any new workers in the hive to replace the old ones. Such a shame…”

2010-10-01T06:31:00.006-06:00

The Whole Truth

It may seem strange to begin a communication such as this with a discussion of breakfast cereal, but it is nonetheless essential that I do so.

My story begins when I was a young child. There was a cereal my mother bought for us called ,"Crunch King," which consisted of little balls of corn cereal coated in sugar, and appearing in five colors: red, blue, green, yellow, and orange. This cereal was an off-brand, made to compete with one of the General Mills big sellers. As children will do, we innovated, finding unusual ingredients to add to our bowls of cereal. The most unforgettable was to mix frozen peas (don’t ask me why!) with the Crunch King balls--and I remember that the Crunch balls seemed to be a bit more buoyant in the milk than the peas were. I don’t remember if we actually ate the concoction.

I move forward in my narration now to my adult life when I was newly making my way in the world of business as an accountant. I was in Wensington, South Carolina for a business seminar, and was staying at the Hotel Grande. Also in Wensington that night was a political rally put on by the Commoner Party, then still a very obscure group. As it happened, a number of the participants at that rally were staying in the Hotel Grande as well.

That night I came into the Hotel Grande’s restaurant for dinner. I was sitting alone in a booth and looking at the menu. There was a concoction on the menu which consisted of cornbread, with a cheesy sauce poured over it, and with chicken, broccoli, and peas mixed into the sauce. The picture in the menu looked nauseating, but I had to chuckle because the thing reminded me of our old cereal concoctions when I was a kid. As a lark I told the waitress I would like to have “some Crunch King cereal in milk with peas mixed in, please.”

She didn’t get the joke (how could she?) and in fact she reacted quite oddly. She said, “Right this way, sir,” and motioned for me to follow her. I figured she hadn’t heard me correctly, but she began to walk quickly through the restaurant towards a back door, and it was all I could do just to keep up with her. She escorted me into a private banquet room, seating me alone at a table in the back of the room, near the door. The room was full, with men in dark suits seated at all of the other round tables, talking amongst themselves. I sat for a minute, confused, wondering what I should do next. Clearly, the waitress had made a mistake of some kind. Promptly, the waitress returned with, much to my surprise, a bowl of Crunch King cereal in milk with peas mixed in! I sat there kind of stunned. I looked around the room again and this time I noticed that everyone else had identical bowls filled with this same strange cereal concoction as well!

It was then that I began to get a little scared. Why . . How . . ? . . . I couldn’t even form a question. This surely had to be some kind of dream, but I knew that it wasn’t a dream. When I’m dreaming I never have to decide whether it’s a dream--the question only arises when I’m not dreaming.

A man stood up at the front of the room. “Gentlemen, fellow Commoners,” he said, “we are tonight bound together in a work of service to our country, and to the human race. Furthermore, I say . . .” I realized that these men were here for the Commoner Party political rally that was in town, and this man was embarking on a political speech. I didn’t care for long speeches, or for politics, and I especially didn’t care for this obscure political party probably filled with fanatics. And especially not now, when they all had those eerie bowls of cereal culled from my early childhood memories. I realized I needed to get out of there right away.

I was going to just stand up and kind of creep out of the back door, but I noticed the man was looking directly at me as he spoke. My blood froze. “Gentlemen,” he said, his eyes staying firmly fixed on me,“ let us make a toast to the future of the Party. Everything is now in place. This is the day of our ascendancy!” Then he lifted--not his glass--but his bowl (!) up to his lips. The others were all now standing and lifting their bowls as well. Together they all cried, “Milk for the Milky Way!” and they all drank milk from their bowls.

I was unable to move or stand. I could only sit limply like a rabbit hanging in the jaws of a coyote, knowing there is no use. So I had no reaction at all to the impossible thing that next occurred. The heads of all of the men in the room . . . disappeared. The men holding their cereal bowls were still moving around normally, but . . . with no heads. The man at the front of the room was still looking at me--I knew it, even though I couldn’t see his head or eyes. I knew what he wanted me to do. So I slowly stood and lifted my bowl to my lips. I recited the words, “Milk for the Milky Way,” and drank.

At that moment I experienced a vision. The bowl I was drinking from rose and expanded, transforming into a vast vortex of dark space-time. Within this vortex the milk transformed into the stars of the Milky Way and the five colors of cereal became five astronomical objects: supernovae, brown dwarfs, pulsars, globular clusters, and quasars. The peas transformed into profoundly black holes which I realized were dangerous--the places of emergence for hungry ravagers, creatures from other galaxies with insatiable appetites for power and energy.

The man spoke my name and said, “At last we have found you, our lost brother. You have been bred and then hidden and shielded, all of these years, until this moment. Today the Milky Way has called you forth. Now is the time. Come and take your rightful place at the head of the Party, to defend and serve. Step forward.” I found myself walking towards the front of the room, and now I was headless like the rest of them. I realized that I knew many things that I had never thought of before. Or I should say I remembered many things I had forgotten. I also knew that our heads were not really vanished, just extended into the 11 dimensional string-plane to function in advanced mode--though on this, our current earthly 3 dimensional brane, they could not be seen any more.
　
Yes, I had been bred and prepared for this very moment. When I was very young I had been implanted with fundamental knowledge of the true nature of our galaxy--in my childish bowl of cereal with milk and peas. And now the time of fruition had come. I was new and I was ready. I stepped forward into my place.

Of course the rest, as you know, is history--how the Commoner Party ascended to power and I became President of the United States; how I led you to victory through the Terror Wars and established peace and stability once more; how I ascended to leadership of the Consortium for Reticulated United New Common Hegemony (CRUNCH) and thereby became KING of the world; how I banished evil and chaos from your midst, and loved you as my very own subjects.

But you never new the whole truth, and now I freely give it to you: That by natural descent I am an alien, not native to your planet earth. You are too weak a people to govern yourselves; a greater species has come to do it for you. There are a number of us here on your planet who have protected and controlled you for your own benefit and happiness. We have kept it secret all these years. Until now. It is not auspicious to hide it any more.

YOU HAVE BEEN READING AN AUTOMATIC MESSAGE. If you have been reading the above message, it indicates that I am dead, assassinated. My demise triggered the release of this message to every screen in every home in every city of the world. Seeing this message means that our Commoner Alliance has been vanquished by hungry ravagers who have emerged up from the black holes. They have come to your world and destroyed us, your protectors. Now they will eat you and everything on your world. They will consume your families and homes. Flee! Hide! Fight! But you cannot! What is there for you to do?! We have done our best, but we were not strong enough, so now it is your turn to fight them. You do not have much to fight with. But you do have one possible chance to defeat them, which I will now explain to you--that is, if the ravagers don't first delete the rest of this message which

Short Story Prompts II

2010-09-19T15:20:00.003-06:00

I've been asked to come up with the next prompts.

They are:

a bowl of cereal

a political rally

entries in on... say... Friday, Oct 1st this time? Gives close to a couple weeks. But Gen Conference is on that Saturday... so, before that. No posting during General conference allowed! :)

The Impassioned River

2010-08-31T21:56:00.002-06:00

by John

The sun glowed down in a particularly happy manner this morning, for it was not glowing down on any old thing, but upon what Agnes supposed was surely the happiest sight to be seen, the nearlywed Agnes and Edmund. She tightened her grip on Edmund’s hand, and positively radiated joy. The Magic Kingdom of Disney sprawled out before them, a world full of dreams coming true and great photo opportunities. She could think of no better way to celebrate their hard-won victory than to blissfully waft about in such a place as this. She looked up at Edmund, the cleft on whose chin was deepened by a broad grin.

“Why are you grinning like that?” she asked him.

“Thinking of our wedding,” he said simply.

“But it’s not for another 8 hours,” she said, “Wasn’t that what we planned?”

“Oh,” he said, “It was. But somehow I managed to sweeten the plan.”

“But how could it possibly be better?” His grin broadened even more upon hearing this.

“Somehow I pulled a few strings and booked the ceremony inside the Disney Castle itself.”

“Oh, Edmund!” Cried Agnes, disbelievingly, “However did you manage that?”

“Let’s just say I’m much more resourceful since we found one another. Mildred was ever-so-stifling to my overly resourceful mind.”

“And Lucius was clipping my wings so I couldn’t outfly him! We’re so much better for each other.”

“Which is why we are to wed,” he said, “and until then we must occupy our time frolicking. Where shall we frolick first?”

“Why, Edmund, I know just the place!” And before his baritone voice could utter another word, she had him by the hand and was running off with it, compelling him to follow.

* * *

Very nearby, however, the sun did not seem to be shining down in a particularly happy manner at all. Its rays fell reluctantly upon two rather sullen people, who were standing perhaps ten yards from the dust cloud Agnes and Edmund left. The tall man, who smelled of musk, turned to the woman at his side and said,

“Did you hear them? Speaking so lightly of this whole affair?”

“Using our names, even!” spat Mildred venomously, “For all to hear and judge us just because we are evil.”

“But did you hear the worst part of all?” Lucius said, “They are going to be married today! In this very theme park!”

“No,” Mildred said suddenly and slowly, “My Edmund said he was planning on it. That does not mean it will happen.”

“Planning,” Lucius mused, “Planning, you say. Well… while it is still in the stage of planning, I suppose—”

“—It’s still subject to not happen if we have anything to say about it! I will have my Edmund back if it’s the last thing I do!”

She said this rather loudly, but none of the other tourists seem to take heed, as tourists spouting lines from obscure Disney movies was not so uncommon a happening in that day, though perhaps not so passionately as Mildred was shouting. Indeed, the nearest Classic Disney Character, Goofy, was eyeing them with suspicion, wary that they might begin to upstage him.

“Then we shall have to begin a bit of planning of our own,” Lucius declared, “I know my Agnes’ weaknesses.”

“And I know my Edmund’s’!” she cried, although she then passed into a moment of silence. She seemed to be pondering a weighty issue in her mind, when she suddenly said, “Oh, why didn’t I think of it before? He doesn’t swim! I know he doesn’t swim!”

“He can’t swim?” Lucius asked, incredulous.

“I don’t know if he can or not,” Mildred said distractedly, “All I know is that he doesn’t. I don’t think he approves. In any event, all we have to do is get him out of the way. Once he can’t protect Agnes, she will be an easy target.”

Lucius froze.

“I don’t know about easy,” he said carefully, “The only time we were ever assaulted on the street, she

* * *

brought down all of our attackers within five seconds,” Agnes laughed, as they waited in the line for Space Mountain, “It was no challenge, really! Why, after years of my dakentaijutsu training, it was hardly a thing. Nothing but a series of well-timed roundhouse kicks. It is wonderful I was able to practice like that whilst Lucius was courting me. I hardly ever got to do a thing like that in those days.” She looked at the ground as she said this, her golden locks filling most of her line of sight. She suddenly grew very quiet, and Edmund noticed her eyes moistening, as his senses had grown very well-attuned to that sort of thing.

“Agnes,” he said tenderly, “Don’t let the past haunt you so. Someone with locks as golden and long as yours shouldn’t ever dwell too much on poor character judgments made in the past. Why, I don’t suppose they’d call it progress if we were always at one hundred percent.”

“Oh, Edmund,” she said, her voice breaking, “There really were too many ideas in what you said for me to register exactly what you’re trying to tell me, but it’s comforting all the same. Oh, enough of the past, when there is such a wonderful future up ahead!”

“Of course, Agnes,” Edmund crooned, “We shall be married and, appropriately, we will live happily ever after, with so many new adventures to have and dakentaijutsu to perform on assaulters and children to rear.”

“Why, Edmund!” Cried Agnes, “You practice dakentaijutsu, too? I never knew!”

“I thought all real men knew dakentaijutsu!” He exclaimed, “Why, doesn’t Lucius?” She laughed.

“Well, to give you an idea, the night we were attacked, after I broke their legs, I found him

* * *

certainly not curled into a fetal position in the corner! What slander is this?” demanded Lucius.

“It’s just the rumor that’s circulating, Lucius,” Mildred said, “You needn’t be so touchy.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” he said again, his lip quivering firmly.

“Fine.”

They sat in silence for a few more moments. A little child nearly spilled her ice cream on the ground in front of them, but another classic Disney character, Pluto, dashed to the earth in time to catch the icy ball and deliver it back on the child’s cone. Both were pleased. A bird passed overhead, its loud tweet forming a noticeable Doppler effect.

“So,” said Mildred, “We ought to have an actual plan of some kind if we intend to prevent this wedding from happening.”

“We ought to.”

Two adorable squirrels darted across the grassy square they sat in, followed by two smiling Disney security men running with giant nets. Solar rays aimed at them were blocked by a large tree which stood behind them, causing large-tree-shaped area of significantly less-bright ground to appear, within which Mildred and Lucius stood.

“Then,” said Mildred, “Let us invent one.”

“Let us,” Lucius concurred.

Mildred, by the way, was dressed in a black satin blouse which was abundant in lace and ribbon. This over a modest black skirt which was fashionably tattered at the hem, and knee-length motorcyclist boots. She radiated exactly what she intended to radiate. And it wasn’t safety. But it wasn’t tacky either. Her features were drawn in a look that was intensely

“I have it!” cried Lucius of a sudden.

startled.

“Have what?” she asked, recovering.

“A plan!”

* * *

“I must say,” Edmund said abruptly as they approached the cheerful toots and swirls of It’s A Small World After All, “I don’t like the looks of this?”

“What’s not to like?” asked Agnes incredulously, pointing out the exceedingly great joy of everything about the attraction.

“It’s all so suspiciously happy,” he said, “one cannot see this many smiles without something dark lurking beneath.”

“Beneath where?”

“Beneath,” he said simply, “Nevertheless, if it’s what you truly want, my Agnes, then let us go.”

“Oh, Edmund, of course it is what I want!” And they ran through the flowers, much to the initial anger of the gardeners, though this was cooled when they noticed how the flowers were not trampled by this happy couple, but how new ones sprung up from beneath their feet every stride they took. Eagerly they raced to the entrance to the river, which was easy enough as there was no line at that time (presumably the other tourists lacked dakentaijutsu skills and were still in line at Space Mountain). Within moments they were in the small boat, and it was moving, albeit slowly, down the small river-tunnel. As they moved forward, they were greeted by the swelling chorus.

It’s a small world after all,

Rang out the animatronics in adorable unison,

It’s a small, small world.

It’s a world of laughter,

It’s a world of tears,

It’s a world of hopes,

Suddenly the voices lost their child-like, innocent tones, and began deepening exponentially, like a record slowing,

Iiiiit’sss aaa wooooorrrrllldd oooooooooof ffffeeeeeeeeaaaaarrrrrrrrsssssss,

and they stopped altogether. The lights went completely out, winning a shriek from Agnes. The water was stilled and their boat was paralyzed.

“What’s the meaning of this?” cried Edmund, expecting answers from something. The lights came on again, this time much brighter. A man’s amplified voice rang out,

“Truly, this world is too small!”

“Why, it’s Lucius!” cried Agnes.

“Too small for the two of us,” cried Edmund, “What is it you want?”

“You, of course,” came a silky female voice. Edmund’s mouth fell agape.

“Mildred,” he uttered huskily, “How did you find us here?”

“It wasn’t hard: happy couples tend to advertise themselves a little too well,” she replied, “Especially ones with blogs who like to post their travel plans in bouts of ecstatic joy. But I digress: I’m afraid this happy couple won’t be happy much longer.”

“Nothing you can do can destroy our love!” Agnes cried out.

“It’s too small a world for that,” came Lucius’ voice, “so of the four of us, I think two will have to pass through it much faster than expected!”

“Good luck, Edmund!” Came Mildred’s voice, and the animatronics started up again, in triple-time.

There’ssomuchthatwesharethatitstimewe'reawareitsasmallworld

The water began churning at alarming speeds, soaking them thoroughly. Water sprayed up the walls, and the boat shot forward at wholly family-inappropriate speeds, rocking like a storm-tossed vessel whilst the animatronic dolls spun and flailed violently, occasionally losing hands or catching fire, being extinguished as the water sprayed them. Edmund and Agnes clung to each other frantically, yelling at the top of their lungs for help. Edmund shielded his face with one of his trembling hands. Agnes spared a glance up ahead, and her heart, without any pun intended on the part of the writer, sank. About ten yards ahead, the boat was going to take a sharp corner. She knew it could not make it. Not with them still inside.

“Brace yourself!” She shouted.

“Do what?” Edmund shouted back. She clung ever tighter, her muscles tensing and her heart pounding. “No really,” Edmund shouted again, “What did you—”

Impact.

For a stunned moment, Agnes was quite unconscious of anything. Recovering, she perceived she was underwater. It was significantly calmer down there, she thought. Darker, too. In fact, entirely too dark. Hadn’t the lights just been blaring? She let herself float, to orient herself a bit, and quickly discovered which direction was up. In that direction she swam, and in moments broke the surface.

The lights were dimmer. The river was flowing at a normal pace, and some five yards ahead was their boat, splintered and cracked, but still floating along, now outside their reach. The dolls had ceased their frantic dance and were now jubilating at a healthier pace. And Edmund –

“Oh my golly,” she cried aloud, “Where is Edmund?” She looked around, and he was not to be seen. He must have sunk, she concluded, and dived down to find him.

It would be instructive to the reader, no doubt, to pause at this time and contemplate the magnitude of the love between Agnes and Edmund. It is defined something like the love between Buttercup and Westley, to the effect that it cannot be tracked with a thousand bloodhounds or broken with a thousand swords, only that their particular love heals all wounds, and casts even the darkest shadow in golden light. As such, Agnes was easily able to spot Edmund at the bottom of the now-tranquil river, notwithstanding the relative darkness in which he was shrouded. Mustering all of her strength, she reached him and hoisted him to the surface, which surface they broke, both heaving for air. She supported his head on her shoulder so he could recover while she treaded water for the both of them.

“Thank you, Agnes,” Edmund said, somehow more handsome when wet, “I was beginning to panic.”

“Edmund!” cried Agnes, “You were conscious?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Then why didn’t you swim to the surface?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t swim.”

“You can’t swim?”

“I can swim all right, but I don’t.”

“Why don’t you?” she asked, beginning to tire treading so hard.

“I feel it is improper,” he said simply. Her legs were beginning to cramp.

“Improper?” she inquired breathlessly, struggling to respire, “How so?”

“Well,” he said coolly, “If man had been meant to swim, he’d have been born with fins like a fish has, and we eat fish. It doesn’t seem proper to me.”

“But Edmund,” she said, “I can’t tread water for both of us indefinitely!”

“I know,” he said, “Therefore I shall call for help and you shan’t have to. Here,” he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, and then tossing it back into the water. “Aha,” he said again, “It is waterlogged. That will never do.”

“Oh, Edmund,” gasped Agnes, “Whatever shall we do?”

“Well,” he said, “If I could just have a moment to think things through…” but as he spoke, another voice was heard. It was a man’s voice, but not Lucius’. It came from further up the chamber from which they had come. His voice echoed quite too much to understand what he said just yet, but he was getting nearer.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, “The other tourists on this ride will be able to help us! Normally the boats don’t ride at such a reckless pace, so we should not fear being rammed by them, and at such a calm speed we can ask for help!”

“Wait,” Agnes gargled as water began to enter into her mouth, “I can hear him now.” They both strained to hear the man’s words over the sound of Agnes’ struggling.

“Can you hear me now? Good. Can you hear me now? Good. Can you hear me now?”

“Good!” cried Edmund, “It’s the Verizon Wireless man!”

Within moments he was close enough to see them. Edmund wove to him in a friendly fashion whilst Agnes floundered.

“Can you hear me now? Good – I have some people trying to talk to me,” said the Verizon man, and he turned his attention to Edmund and Agnes, politely asking if he could be of service to them.

“You certainly can!” Edmund said, “As you see, we fell into the river and our cell phones have been waterlogged. Our wedding is shortly, and we have to get out and get cleaned up, and I don’t swim!”

“You can’t swim?” the Verizon man asked incredulously.

“Of course I can,” Edmund said, “I just don’t. Now, we need to reach someone who can help us out. Can I borrow your phone?”

“Better,” said the man, “Come on into the boat. It won’t tip over.” He kindly helped Edmund into the boat first, because he didn’t swim, and then helped in Agnes, who collapsed in exhaustion, albeit a happy one. They continued on their way through the ride, and over the din of the singing animatronics, Edmund told the Verizon man of what had happened, and how Lucius and Mildred would stop at nothing to ensure that Edmund and Agnes not be married that day.

“We desperately need to call for some sort of help,” he said, “The Disney park Security, or the police, or some form of protection.” To his surprise, the Verizon man laughed gaily.

“Oh, sir, that won’t be necessary,” he said mirthfully, “I think we pretty much can get the situation under control. So, what were the names of your exes, again?”

“Mildred and Lucius, respectively,” Edmund replied, confused. The man put the cell phone again to his ear.

“Can you hear me now? Good. Listen, sorry to hold you so long, but I have a situation.”

“Who are you talking to?” asked Edmund. The Verizon man looked at him strangely and said, with a twinkle in his eye,

“Chuck Norris.”

* * *

Deep in one of the turrets of the Disney castle, an unwelcome voice was heard.

“Quickly, quickly, quickly!” repeated Lucius to Mildred as she stacked more dynamite in the table in the turret room where the wedding was to be held.

“But not quickly enough,” came an all-too familiar voice from the mouth of the hall. Lucius and Mildred looked up, agape.

“But I didn’t hear you come in,” stammered Mildred.

“That’s not surprising,” Chuck Norris said.

* * *

Some hundred or so yards above the Disney castle, the Disney Vultures noticed a tendril of smoke coming from one of the turrets which smelled distinctly of fear. They caught one another’s eye, and, with grinning beaks, swooped down and began circling overhead.

* * *

“And with the loveable power vested in me by generations of tradition and old American past times,” said the man dressed as the loveable Mickey, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” There rose up a cheer from all around them, and Edmund moved in for the kiss, which S. Morgenstern has already described in great depth in his work.

“You may kiss the bride,” added Mickey awkwardly. A series of fireworks cracked and boomed overhead, filling the room with brilliant greens and reds and blues and yellows, and by that point the dynamite had been safely removed by the hazard crew, so the fireworks were pretty much the extent of it. The cake was cut and presumably distributed, and the string quartet began to play a minuet. Edmund took Agnes by the hand and they walked to the middle of the dance floor, inaugurating happily ever after with a dance.

Meanwhile Chuck Norris continued beating people up.

A Day To Remember

2010-08-31T21:49:00.005-06:00

George stood in the line to enter "The Happiest Place Ever" theme park. Since the line was so very long, he thought he would chat with his friend Bob on his cell phone. When he finally got to the cashier's window, he kept the phone against his ear with his shoulder, paid for the ticket and walked through the park gates while continuing his conversation. He was still talking while he rode the "Giant Grizzly". He walked over to the "Enchanted Lake" boat ride all while he visited on his phone. George continued the same call while he munched on lunch apologizing for his muffled speech. He talked as he walked to the "Haunted Hallows", waited in line (still conversing with Bob), then sat in the black chair when his turn came to ride into the gaping front door. . . all the while chatting. He stayed on the phone with his friend the entire day. When it got dark, he walked out of the front gates, got into his car, and drove (with his phone still glued to his ear) to his house. He talked as he went up to his room on the second floor. He laid down on his bed and said "talk to you later, Bob," then closed the phone and tossed it onto his nightstand.

George's mother tapped softly on his open bedroom door.

"George dear, where have you been all day?" she asked.
"I don't remember," he replied.

And he didn't.

2010-08-31T20:17:00.002-06:00

Jack All Alone

When people talk on cell phones the dendrites in their brain tissue align with the organized electrical pulses emanating from the device being held in such close proximity to the brain’s axons. Especially when humans engage in conversation (it doesn't matter what the content of the conversation is), the auditory cortex is uniquely activated into a theta-matrix pattern, enabling interface with the phone transmission system. The brain, as it were, actually extends itself throughout the cell phone network. --Journal of Neurophysiology, 81, p.1031

The invention of the cell phone made it all possible. All of humanity the world over (except Jack) was prepared for the jump to a new level of existence: the Fusion. People everywhere were to be ready with their cell phones turned on and fully charged. At 6 p.m. everyone in the world would start talking on their phones--it wouldn't matter what they talked about--the content was irrelevant-- they just had to be talking. When the surge began the great change would begin to transform the entire network--just keep talking, talking, communicating, everybody, the entire human race, all at once (well, except Jack). At 6 p.m. humanity would make its next great evolutionary leap. Just as billions of years ago subatomic particles had organized to form atoms, and then atoms had formed to make molecules, and then molecules to become living tissues, then tissues to become organs, then organs to become animals--now the human animals would organize again, to become a newer, even greater, organism, a great Fusion. The event was perhaps best anticipated by a contemporary poet:

A great butterfly emerges from the Cocoon of Solitude
Rise up, embrace the sun
Dance with Sirius to the tune of the Spheres
Commune with Psi to heal the Earth
Consort with the hadrons and rejoice in Entanglement
Many will become One
Other will become Self
Selah
--by Randt Breldy

[except Jack, of course]

Jack was the only person left on earth who was not planning to participate in the great Fusion.

Dr. James visited Jack every Tuesday when he visited the hospital. But time was running out; the Fusion was to occur this evening. "I'm going to have to be blunt with you, Jack. You are not willing to join the Fusion because you have built up a mental barrier which is brought on by acute celphonaphobia, an irrational fear of cell phones. "
　
Jack made no response.

"I believe that when you were a child you developed a jealousy for your Mother talking on the phone because she used it to talk to your father, and not to you. As you grew up, this jealousy developed into a rage which you internalized and exiled to your preconscious mind. Now it surfaces as a fear of cell phones, and transfixes you whenever you come in contact with one."

Jack finally spoke. "No, Doc, it‘s not jealousy, it’s not fear. And it’s not even cell phones. I just like to go off and be alone sometimes. A man needs his solitude when he needs it. Why would I want to go and join a great universal mind? I would never be alone again."

"No, Jack, your wrong," Dr. James replied ardently. "You can’t see it because of your denial pattern. In reality, your desire for solitude is a rage-engendered fear channeled as repulsion seen through the eyes of your former childself, but without the ambivalence of conscious decision making. ”

“No, Doc, that’s not it . . . at least I don‘t think . . .”

When 6 p.m. arrived, all people everywhere, of all nations, kindreds, tongues, and peoples, were busily engaged in conversations with loved ones, friends, and even strangers, over their cell phones.

(Except Jack, of course, who sat at the table in the rec room and faced the wall). And then suddenly, all in the room went silent. After a few moments Jack slowly peered around. Everyone was perfectly still, perfectly quiet. Even grouchy Nurse Nettles said no word at all, but just stood like a statue, one hand pointing a scolding finger at an undetermined victim, the other hand holding her cell phone to her ear. Dr. James, himself, was statuesque and transfixed in thoughtful conversation, no doubt to another statuesque important person at the other end of the phone connection. Slowly Jack rose and tiptoed out into the hall. Maybe this was his big chance to finally escape, while doctors and nurses were all caught up in this strange cell phone epiphany.

As it turned out, nobody confronted him as he walked out of the main door and out onto the street. Outside, the people were also stationary and still, standing or sitting, holding their cell phones, in the same positions they had been in when the great Fusion began. Jack wandered through the perfectly quiet streets, poking his head into various buildings, looking for any sign of animation, but there was none. "I'm free! No one is stopping me! I can finally be alone! I will leave this place and go out to the country and find a quiet place to sit and think," he said to himself. And then a thought came to him: "But right here it is a kind a solitude in its own way isn't it?--these people are all catatonic, they don't notice me at all, I am alone, even here." Jack walked around some more as the sun sank below the horizon and everything was suddenly draped in shadow. "What has really happened to these people?" he wondered. "Are these people all insane?"

And then a frightening thought hit him: "Are these people dead? Maybe they are all dead and I'm walking around in a graveyard." He shuddered. "I don't want to spend the night out in this graveyard!" He began to walk and then run, heading for the hospital, the only familiar place he knew. Back in the rec room all of the people were still in their same positions. Nurse Nettles was still holding her phone, a still life pantomime of her former self. Dr. James was still on the verge of making some important point. "If outside it's a graveyard, then in here it's a tomb. But there's no place else to go. What else can I do?"

And then Jack began to think: "I need to find out for sure if these people really are dead or alive." He approached Dr. James and took his wrist. Was there a pulse? He couldn‘t tell. “Dr. James, Dr. James, wake up!“ He shouted. Nothing. He slapped the doctor across the face. Nothing. Then an idea came to him. Jack rushed to the hospital bulletin board and pulled a thumbtack from it. “Dr. James, you tried your therapy on me--so now I'll try my therapy on you," Jack said. Jack took the man's hand and placed the point of the thumbtack against the his fingertip. "Wake up, Dr. James!" he cried and forcefully plunged the thumbtack into the doctor's finger.

Immediately Jack began to hear a high pitched wail--an inhuman sound which seemed to rise from the throats of all the frozen people around him. Dr. James turned and looked straight at Jack and cried, "The Body is being attacked! There is Infection!" At that moment the room exploded into action. All of the people rushed towards Jack. Dr. James tried to grab him but he jerked away. As the other people converged on him he twisted and pushed his way free, running for the hall. He made it outside, with the doctors and nurses running after him. Outside, the high-pitched wail was ubiquitous throughout the town. People everywhere were in commotion, and all of them were running towards the hospital, towards Jack. He darted around the building and climbed over a chain link fence. He kept running--around bushes, behind cars, across streets, down alleys. But wherever Jack ran, people were there already, converging on him, like leukocytes defending a body against an infectious disease. The people with their cell phones had in fact become the cells of a great Organism.

Of course it was no use. Jack was surrounded and taken. Strangely, they were not angry with him; in fact they did not interact personally with him at all. The collective Organism seemed to be somewhere else--dancing with Sirius to the tune of the Spheres. Jack was just a small thing, really, only one small cell, from the great Organism’s point of view, and easily neutralized. Jack was taken and confined at the local jail. But Jack did end up getting plenty of what he had been craving: solitude. There was no other person left who would ever need to be sent to jail. Jack’s confinement was completely solitary. His food anonymously appeared under the door, and that was the sum total of his connection with anyone. Of course no one ever came to visit Jack (in fact no one ever came or went anywhere at all--the people were back to standing like statues). However, Jack did have one potential link to the outside world, should he ever want to use it while sitting all alone in his little room: they had provided Jack with a cell phone.

The Voice

2010-08-31T10:58:00.002-06:00

by Adele

I’m silently fuming as I climb off the merry-go-round.

She hops off behind us and catches up, linking her arm in mine. “But seriously, those horses need a paint job, or something. And what was with that cheesy old music?”

In the most nonchalant voice I can muster, I reply, “I guess everything here is a little old, Cassie.”

She laughs. “That’s for sure. And why is the food so crappy? That hamburger tasted funny.”

And it was free, I think, biting my tongue. Because Sam and I paid for it.

Out loud, I just sigh.

Sam adds, “I didn’t mind the food at the Fry Shack. The shakes aren’t half bad.”

“Eh,” Cassie shrugs.

When she heads for the restroom up ahead, Sam sits down under a tree.

“I am so sick of her!” I burst out in a whisper, pacing back and forth in front of him. “Why can’t she just be grateful for once?”

Sam catches my hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

“She. Drives. Me. Crazy.” I mutter. “You know, she could stand to eat less anyway. She seriously eats more than you and I combined.” And it shows.

Sam pats my hand. “I know you love this place,” he says. “Just relax and have fun.”

“Kinda hard when nothing is ever good enough--”

I see Cassie approaching and quickly shut my mouth, giving her my best smile.

“Should we start heading toward the exit?” she asks cheerily. “Or do you guys want to go on more rides?”

“We’ve only been here for two hours.” Sam says, then adds in a spooky voice, “You still haven’t seen the House o’ Horrors.”

Cassie laughs, “I’m sure it’s real scary.”

“Thirteen floors of scariness,” Sam says. “With a dizzying view from the top. Come on, you’ll like it.”

“All right,” Cassie shrugs. “If you want, we can go.”

“I’m going to wait this one out, guys,” I say, sitting down on the grass under the tree. “I think I need a break.” From you, Cassie.

They promise to call me when they finish with the House o’ Horrors. They walk off, Cassie launching into a description of the awesome haunted house “back home.”

I kick off my sweaty shoes and lean against the tree.

That’s gratitude for you. Sure, she’s been through a lot, but then, so have we. And a simple thank you wouldn’t kill her for all the things we’ve done for her. Why doesn’t she just go back home if everything is so much better there?

After a few minutes, my phone rings. I look to see who it is.

Yep, Cassie. Apparently there isn’t anything here that can entertain her for very long. Nope, nothing is ever good enough.

I sigh and flip my phone open.

“Done already?” I ask.

No reply.

“Hello? Cassie? Are you guys done?” I say after a moment.

Still no reply.

I am about to hang up when I hear the voice.

“And it was free. Because Sam and I paid for it.”

Confused, I pause. Is that my voice?

Then “Um…” I hear Cassie’s voice say.

“I am so sick of you!” The voice, my voice, seems to be yelling from the phone. “Why can’t you just be grateful for once?”

A moment of silence, and then I hear Cassie say, “Aunt Laurie… I’m sorry--I didn’t--”

And there I am again, unmistakable.

“You. Drive. Me. Crazy!” my voice is shouting. And then, “You know, you could stand to eat less anyway. You seriously eat more than we do, combined. And it shows.”

There is another pause, longer, and then I hear crying.

“Cassie, listen to me, I’m not sure what’s going on,” I finally attempt, standing up and holding the phone with both hands. “Listen, where are you guys? Did you--”

The voice on the line suddenly continues with a nasty edge. “Nothing is ever good enough, is it? That’s gratitude for you. Sure, you’ve been through a lot, but then, so have we. And a simple thank you wouldn’t kill you for all the things we’ve done for you. Why don’t you just go back home if everything is so much better there? Oh, that’s right, because they don’t want you. Nobody does.”

I gasp, my stomach churning at the terrible words being spoken. I want to stop them, hang up the phone, do something.

I hear Cassie’s voice, quiet and full of emotion. “You’re right. You’re right, Aunt Laurie.”

“No! That’s not me saying those things! I’m Aunt Laurie! That’s not me!” I shout into the phone, knowing it’s useless. Knowing Cassie won’t hear me.

And that is when it hits me.

Those are my words. I have muttered them to myself, or to Sam, or to really any person who will listen and feel sorry for me, give me a sympathetic pat on the back and a knowing look when Cassie has turned the other way. When she isn’t watching.

I listen, numbly, as the voice continues. It’s softer now, crueler.

“No, all we have here are crappy hamburgers and lame old merry-go-rounds. Definitely not good enough for someone like you. Maybe you should leave. Maybe you should try what you tried before, but this time do it right.”

I drop the phone in horror. I have to find Cassie. Is Sam with her now?

Oh. The House o’ Horrors. With its thirteen stories and old, creaky handrails on the roof.

I run as fast as I can, past the souvenir stands and the rides and the cotton candy. I cut through the line, shoving the handful of people out of my way. They stare at me and yell but I keep running, finally diving into the elevator and pushing the button labeled ROOF.

Then I am at the top and I see her. She is leaning over the railing.

“Stop!” I scream as I run toward her. “I didn’t mean it! I’m so sorry I hurt you, Cassie! Stop stop stop!”

And then she turns to look at me, frustration on her face, and confusion.

“What?” she asks as I grab her arm. “What are you doing?”

“Where is Sam?” I pant, trying to catch my breath.

She looks at me, irritated.

“I accidentally dropped my cell phone over the railing about ten minutes ago. He went to go find a maintenance guy or something to see if it can be salvaged in all that junk down there. My brand new phone! Soooo annoying.”

She gestures around her. “And really, what a joke. The merry-go-round was scarier than this.”

"The Character" by Ryan Cole

2010-08-31T09:33:00.004-06:00

“Don’t you ever get tired of being someone you’re not?” Jessica asked. “You know, your whole job is to just look like a character from some movie and act like he acts.” She smirked. “I know I would never want that job.”

Martin sighed. It is true, he thought. People came up and got their picture with him at some movie theme park because he looked like the actor who played action hero Thomas Page, an accountant by day, and super-spy by night. It was uncanny, his striking resemblance to Page. People had been telling him it for years.

Martin had moved to southern Florida four years previously to attend college, and the theme park was the perfect job. Work two nights during weekdays, as well as Saturday and Sunday, and the pay was phenomenal. However, the park wanted him for more than just that. He was as big a spectacle as some of the rides. So Martin dropped out of college and worked every Tuesday-Sunday at the park. The pay was even better, but he wondered how long he could go on imitating someone else.

“Well, it’s just temporary. Until I find something else” Martin responded. “Plus, you can’t beat the money. I’m making more than half the managers around here.”

“True, but you’re not going to look like Thomas Page forever, you know. What then? What are you gonna do then?” Jessica said.

“I…I think…I…I’ll figure it out,” he replied. Martin looked at his watch. “Listen, I have to be by the Desert Midnight ride in ten. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, see ya Martin.”

“Can I talk to you for a few minutes, Martin?” Mr. Reaver said. It was three weeks later, and Martin was walking into the men’s employee locker room to get changed into his Page outfit.

“Sure, what’s up?” Martin felt comfortable with his boss. He knew Mr. Reaver appreciated a hard working employee like Martin, and park attendance had gone up due to Martin’s appearances at different events around the park. This was sure to be more good news.

“Martin, we finally got the approval for a Thomas Page show at the Cave of Fear arena. The exec’s want you to star in shows at 5:30 and 7 p.m. every night,” Mr. Reaver said, with a satisfied look on his face. “This is a big deal. People will be lining up. The new Page movie comes out in a few months, and they want the show to be ready on the night of the premiere. It’s gonna be huge.” He smiled. “How ‘bout it?”

“Wow, of course, I mean, yeah, that sounds great! Perfect.” Martin was excited. His own show! “When do we start rehearsals?”

“Next week. The script is finished, and it’s being staged right now.” Mr. Reaver replied. “The stunts are minimal, and we want you to do your own stunts, so it’s authentic. Is that alright?”

“Of course it is!” Martin replied.

“I knew you’d be in.”

Driving home that night, Martin couldn’t stop thinking about the show. I’m basically being paid to be the real Thomas Page, he thought. This is big for me. I’m finally becoming who I’m supposed to be. My own show.

For the next few months, Martin attended rehearsals, fight and stunt lessons, and acting classes on top of his regular park duties and appearances. At nights he watched the Page movies (all seven of them) and memorized mannerisms and dialogue. He wanted to be sure to deliver each line just like Page would.

On the opening night of the show, Martin was anxious with excitement.

“You’ll be great, you’re totally prepared,” Jessica said reassuringly.

“Yeah, I am. We all are, it’s gonna be the best,” Martin replied. He did feel confident.

During the shows that night, the audience gasped with wonder, screamed with fright, and cheered with amazement in all the right places. Martin’s stunts were flawless, and the delivery of his lines was spot on. Everything was perfect.

After the show, nearly 200 people stayed to take pictures with Martin. Wow, he thought. This is bigger than I thought. They loved it. They loved me.

The shows continued and seemed bigger every night. Martin basked in the growing fame. Park guests came in throngs just to see the shows and see this man who looked and acted just like Thomas Page. Martin had never been so popular. The park executives were thrilled with Martin and gave him raise after raise, and more and more perks.

Martin’s co-worker’s started calling the park Pageland, because that seemed to be the only thing people wanted to see anymore. Park guests went crazy to see Martin, to get a picture with him, his autograph. The park even offered a weekly “Win a Date with Thomas Page” contest for a lucky female guest. The only catch was that Martin had to act like Page the entire dinner. He didn’t mind. He was who he was.

Martin also patterned everything about his life after Page: his hairstyle, clothes, even his handwriting. Outside of work, Martin started reading books about accounting, bird watching, and how to woo women, because these were a few of the things Page had extensive knowledge about. In public, people would stare at Martin and eventually approach him for a picture or autograph. I don’t need to be at the park to get attention, he thought. Everyone loves me wherever I go.

When Martin got to his apartment after another successful night at work, his iPhone rang (company gift, of course). It was his Mom.

“So how have the performances been going, honey?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s been the best. There are always hundreds of people just waiting to take their picture with me; they love it.”

“That’s so great, Martin,” she replied.

Martin, he thought. Woh – that’s me. At his request, nobody had called him Martin in the past few months; he really wanted to become Page and get into the part.

She continued, “I know you’ve put a lot of work into this. You’re a hard working man.”

“Well, it’s taken a lot of time, but it has really been worth it. I feel…like…like I’m doing the right thing. This has really been more than I ever thought it would be.”

“Yes, well, you’re turning into quite the actor!” She paused, and then spoke more seriously, “I’m proud of you, son. I want you to be happy.”

He paused. “I am. I have all I need…thanks.” There was another pause. Longer though. “Hey listen,” he continued, “I’m pretty tired. I better get going.”

When he got off the phone, Martin realized he was looking in the mirror.

"Finished" by Camilla Cole

2010-08-31T09:26:00.001-06:00

“It’s just such a waste” Roberta Hollingsworth, director of special potential projects, said. “I mean, look at the test results, look at the case studies, look at the overwhelming amount of data collected over these last three years. Surely a little more time could be spent on case #3147 before we pack everything away in the archives and throw our hands up in defeat. Surely such potential merits re-application.” Director Bateman was pacing back and forth across the room as she delivered these last lines, brow furrowed in deliberation, his finger and thumb rubbing back and forth along his jaw line. He finally came to a stop right in front of where she was standing.

“Hollingsworth, you know I agree with you on how high the potential of this case has always seemed. How close success has felt. But how can you argue with the number of failures we’re looking at here?” He slammed the back of his hand against the packet of papers he was holding in his other hand. Roberta took a deep breath. Bateman’s proximity was a little unnerving, but she steeled herself and stood her ground.

“Just give me one more chance,” she pleaded, matching his penetrating stare with an equally compelling one of her own. “It’ll be worth it, you’ll see.” Finally Director Bateman shifted his gaze and backed away. Turning and walking to his desk, he spoke softly, the words barely discernable, over his shoulder.

“Alright Hollingsworth, you can have your one last try. But I’m warning you,” he added as she breathed a sigh of relief and turned to go, “if you don’t succeed it really will be your last chance…ever. Doing anything. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” she murmured and exited the office.

******

Case #3147 sat in the chair next to the window of his room and stared out at the desolate desert landscape that stretched for miles and miles in every direction. There weren’t even any cactus or desert trees to alleviate the dreariness of it all, only scrub brush and the occasional pile of crumbly rocks. Not that he had ever been allowed to roam around and see this up close for himself. They gave him everything he could possibly want here; everything except the choice to leave, or at least to go outside and walk around. He sighed.

“3147, Jared, come away from the window please. Sit right here.” Hollingsworth was back, bearing a cup of coffee, gesturing for him to sit in the seat opposite her at the table. Jared sighed again and slowly got up. He had been hopeful that she wouldn’t return. With her endless ideas, endless projects. He felt a small sense of surprise that she had gotten them to give her one more chance. She must really believe he could do it.

“Now Jared,” she said, “we’ve got a really exciting one for you this time. I think we may have found the missing link.” Her mouth twisted into what she must have thought passed for a winning smile but Jared didn’t smile in return. He just sat there, waiting.

“Aren’t you curious as to what it is?” Hollingsworth asked, tilting her head in what she probably assumed was a charming, humorous way and Jared wondered if she had ever had work done. There was something so fake about everything she did. So forced.

“J-a-r-e-d...” She drew the word out like a glob of stretchy sticky bubblegum from the mouth of a thirteen year old girl and Jared almost winced visibly. Not that she would notice. She didn’t seem to notice much where he was concerned. Which would explain why she was here. Again.

“Fine, if you’re not going to ask, I’ll just tell you,” she finally said when he had failed to respond once again. Her short, black, Hilary Clinton bob which never seemed to look different from day to day almost quivered as excitement overtook her. “This idea came to me two weeks ago in the middle of the night and I woke up already writing it down on the pad of paper I keep by my bed.” No surprise there, Jared thought humorlessly. This was a standard for Hollingsworth, the middle of the night ‘epiphany.’ “I honestly couldn’t sleep the rest of the night after, as the brilliancy of it all overcame me.” She was getting almost poetic, a sure sign something bizarre or impossible was about to follow. She took her customary deep breath.

“I’m going to have you build a roller coaster.”

******

Roberta watched Jared’s eyes widen with the customary look of exhilaration. He did it every time. Every time. So she didn’t let her hopes rise too high yet. It was hard though, knowing in her heart of hearts that this really was it, that she had finally found the perfect project for him. She felt like shouting it out to the whole world. Instead she just smiled. Her best, most winning, smile. Jared pushed away from the table and stood up and she could tell his brain was already going a mile a minute.

“A roller coaster,” he said slowly, “an entire roller coaster all by myself.”

“Every tiny teensy bit all by yourself, from the physics to the physical,” she said, smiling at her own clever little play on words. This time it would be different. It was a sure thing. You’ll see, Director Bateman, she thought triumphantly as Jared ran out of the room, yelling for Marshall Core, the company engineer. And when Jared’s done you can be the first to shake my hand and tell me what a genius I am.”

******

Jared worked and worked and worked. He took small naps and then he worked some more. Drawing up plans. Doing the math, building the scale models, testing them out with miniature electronics he made with the limitless supply of anything and everything he could ever need that they brought him. He worked and worked and finally came up with the perfect prototype. It was flawless; it couldn’t fail. He began to measure the area they had set aside for him in the huge indoor arena. The coaster would be a mind-boggling two hundred feet high and a half a mile long. It had twenty-nine loopdee loops and twenty seven spirals. It went forward and backwards and sideways and then did it all in reverse. It went underground and wrapped around itself so that it was impossible to distinguish where it was going next. It was a dizzying, terrifying, majestically twisted master of mayhem.

He began to build. He knew he had all the time in the world but he set to it with a frenzy he had never felt before. Never before, in the countless number of projects Hollingsworth had set before him, had he ever felt this way. He was exhilarated, illuminated, intoxicated by the roller coaster, and he had never felt more alive. As he nailed each nail in place, welded each joint, operated each wheel loader, bulldozer, and jib crane his life seemed to finally take on new meaning. As the days, the weeks, the years passed, Jared finally felt he had found it. His thing.

******

Roberta took a deep breath and cringed at the pain in her side. That gall bladder surgery had really worked a number on her, and though she was loath to, she had to admit to herself that she was starting to feel old. But it didn’t matter; it was almost over, this endless observation of her masterpiece unfolding before her eyes. Case #3147 was almost done. Jared was almost done. After five and a half years of almost constant work, the roller coaster was nearly complete. He had slowed down a little the past few weeks, but that was understandable considering how hard he had been working, she told herself reassuringly. He had said there were only minimal things to perfect, small almost insignificant details to finish and it would all be over. And it’s all because of me, Roberta crowed inwardly. All because I figured it out. Things were finally coming to a head.

“Uh Ms. Hollingsworth, ma’am?” a nervous voice came from behind her and she whirled around to find one of the material fetchers poking his head around the door, looking terrified.

“What is it?” she snapped. She hated to have her quiet little moment of relish interrupted.

“Uh, it’s just that there’s something you should probably see,” he said and ducked out before she could demand further explanation. She took another deep breath, ignoring another stab of pain this brought on in her lower abdomen, and stomped out of the room. As she briskly walked down the hall she noticed more and more fetchers hanging around, and as she approached the wide doors to the arena where Jared was working she could barely squeeze through, there were so many of them.

“Move it!” she yelled and most of them scrambled to get out of her way. Finally, having entered the huge arena, she pushed her hair back out of her face and tried to locate what everyone was gawking at. Then her eyes locked on something and a well of dread began to froth and bubble in the pit of her stomach.

“No!” she screamed, “This can’t happen!”

Jared was sitting on the floor, the giant monstrosity he was so close to completing looming up behind him in all its almost-perfect splendor. There was a look on his face. A look Roberta had seen before. Too many times to count. It was a look of… absolute boredom. He looked up.

“Oh, hey Hollingsworth,” he said and then looked away as if the look of terror mixed with almost unhinged desperation on her face was something he saw every day. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” she asked, incredulously. “WHAT’S UP? THAT!” she shrieked, pointing up to the endless rails and plastic molding behind him. “THAT IS UP AND IF YOU DON’T GET UP AND FINISH IT RIGHT NOW I’M GOING TO BLOW YOU UP!” Jared just continued to stare at the floor in front of him, making circles in the dust around his feet. He sighed.

“No.” Roberta said, quiet now. “No. This will not happen this time. I will not fail.” She slowly looked around at the gaping faces of the thirty or so fetchers who had quietly congregated in the arena during the exchange between her and Jared.

“Look at me,” she commanded, slowly revolving in a circle, catching each and every one of their eyes. “He finished, do you hear me? Jared finished the coaster before he sunk back into this pathetic state of lethargy.” At the look in her fiery eyes each and every fetcher began to nod slowly. A small smile crept over her face.

“Now clean this place up,” she ordered and everyone started moving at once. “Take this sorry excuse of a piece of human waste and lock him in his room,” she added quietly to the two fetchers nearest her and they hurried to grab Jared’s arms and drag him out of the arena.

“This victory is mine,” she said softly, under her breath, “and no one is going to take it from me.”

******

“I must say I’m astonished Director Hollingsworth,” Director Bateman said, a look of grudging admiration on his face, “I didn’t think it could be done. But you did it.” Hollingsworth basked in the praise. Not that praise from a colleague, and mere equal, mattered much to her. She had been given much greater compensation, verbally and monetarily, from much higher up than Bateman, which was something he would never attain. But she just smiled benevolently at him and took her dues.

“Where’s case #3147- what’s his name, Jared?- by the way? I thought he’d want to be here for the big day.” Bateman’s question seemed perfectly innocuous but Roberta’s eyes darted to the few fetchers in the arena anyway, trying to gauge if anyone had let anything leak about Jared’s current state of interest in the whole project. No one looked guilty though so she just plastered a winning smile on her face and responded.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” she asked. “Jared came down with a really bad flu right after he completed the coaster. He’s recovering in his room.” Bateman shrugged and walked away after a few seconds and Roberta heaved a sigh of relief. No one would care that Jared wasn’t here, she reminded herself soothingly. He was just a case number, a machine of sorts. She needed to calm down so she could enjoy this.

“Director Hollingsworth,” President Pupin said, smiling as he approached. “If you wouldn’t mind coming this way, we’ll get this thing started.” Crowds gathered and cheered and cameras flashed as President Pupin took his place at a microphone placed in front of the start of the roller coaster, Roberta at his side.

“Hello all,” he said, “welcome to this momentous occasion. As you know, case #3147 being cracked is a historic event. After two thousand, five hundred and twenty-eight different projects, he has finally completed one!”

“Two thousand, five hundred and twenty-nine,” Roberta corrected, leaning into the mic with a self-effacing smile, and the crowd chuckled appreciatively.

“Excuse me,” President Pupin laughed.

“Now, we all know why this case was finally able to be solved,” he continued and Roberta felt her cheeks grow warm. This was it. “And that’s why we’re here. To celebrate the amazing, unprecedented success of Director Roberta Hollingsworth. Without her, case #3147 would just be another bunch of boxes for the archive room.” Cheers went up and President Pupin had to hold up his hand for a full thirty seconds before silence reigned again.

“One last thing,” he said, and a growing excitement seemed to overtake him. “There’s just one more thing and then we can watch this amazing roller coaster make its first trip.” Roberta turned her head questioningly to look at him. What was this?

“As a special celebration of her success… we would like to let Director Hollingsworth be the first to ride!” The crowd went wild at this but Roberta felt her face freeze. What? Her blood felt like ice in her veins.

Before she knew it, Roberta was being ushered by President Pupin over to the roller coaster cart. He buckled her into her seat and pulled the padded restraint bars over her shoulders. Her body was as limp as a rag doll; she watched it all in a daze. The crowd continued to roar as he shook her hand and gave a fetcher the thumbs up to start the ride. Cameras flashed and giddy faces flew before her eyes as the seat jerked forward.

The last thing she saw was an image in her mind of Jared. Sitting by the window. He sighed.

******

“Help, help!” Director Bateman hollered into his cell phone. “There’s been an accident!”

The Lost And Found Box, by Sarah

2010-08-31T07:43:00.003-06:00

The residents of Kiowa County were rather proud of their fair. It was not often so many people gathered in one spot, in Kiowa County. During fair week the three intersections were so busy they needed to deputize the local boy-scout troops to direct pedestrians across the street.
They came for many reasons. They came to see faces. They came to eat fried vegetables that don’t usually come fried, and wash them down with icy, glow-in-the-dark beverages. They came to ride creaky contraptions upside down, and hopefully keep the vegetables and glowing beverages inside.
Fair people get excited, and when people, as a general rule, gather in large numbers and get very excited, they tend to loose things.
Thus, the Kiowa County Fair’s lost and found box.
It was actually a privilege to end up in the lost and found box, or so many of the objects who ended up there thought. The battered straw sombrero, who had thrice wintered in the box, felt quite at home there, now.
“I could've ended in the dumpster,” he said to his best freind, a blue Nike cap who had spent just one winter in the box.
“Yup,” said Nike. “That would be a tough break. Wouldn’t never happen to me, though. Someone probably woulda taken me home before they threw me away.”
Sombrero twitched his band. He felt it was best not to reply. Sometimes friendship is more important than pointing out flaws in logic, especially when one is stuck in a box with someone.
“I miss walking around out there,” a singular flip-flop remarked, then giggled for no apparent reason. Her twin giggled, too, and tilted her straps into the sunlight, admiring the way the light caught the glitter on them.
“Anything I can do?” Nike asked, shifting his swoosh to get a better look.
Sombrero stifled a chuckle of his own. Nike had been working his courage up with the twins ever since they’d been tossed into the box at the beginning of the week. He, personally, never got involved with new tenants until the fair ran out—he’d had too much experience with the disappointment of owners returning for their things. Anything that was really unique or attractive or expensive, inevitably left again within a few days of arriving in the box.
“Nal,” he called over his brim.
Nal and Sombrero had been in the box so long together—two whole winters, springs, summers, and falls, that they hardly needed to talk to each other sometimes. Just as an example, Sombrero could twitch his brim a certain way, and Nal would correctly interpret that it was time for the kids to go to bed. She would then bustle them off and keep them from making a fuss about it.
“Yup.” The orange water bottle poked her lid out from under a grey sweatshirt.
“Kids still napping?”
“Yes, thank goodness.”
“Celly still sleeping off his buzz?”
Nal wiggled out into the open and leaned against the side of the box. “Think so. Why?”
“Just wanted to check the time.”
Nal sighed. “Let him sleep. The time’s all he’s good for these days…battery’s not going to last for much longer.”
Sombrero twitched his brim, setting the bright pom-poms dancing. “I’m still amazed he’s with us at all. Not the battery,” he said hastily at Nal’s reproving glare. “Just—nobody came to get him.”
“He’s a razor. Razors aren’t worth replacing—probably the owner felt like it was good riddance, a good excuse to get a newer, shinier model.”
“Speaking of,” one of the flip flops squeaked, and flopped onto the pile and lay still. Immediately all of the other objects did, too, and it was a good thing because just then, the door to the little office opened.
A small object was tossed into the box.
“Oof.” Sombrero stifled his exclamation and lay still.
When the door closed, Sombrero shifted. “If you don’t mind, pardner, could you get off my crown?”
The object quickly rolled off onto the grey sweatshirt, which stirred feebly.
“He won’t mind,” Nal said. “He sleeps practically all day—all night, too.”
“Another phone,” one of the flip flops giggled, wiggling closer to look him over. “I like your look.”
Nike groaned under his breath.
“Don’t worry,” Sombrero muttered. “He’ll be gone by the end of the day.”
“I’m not a phone,” the new object said, meticulously enunciating his consonants.
“Oh, right, you’re one of those,” flop quirked a strap at him. “I’m supposed to call you a smart phone. Maybe I don’t like your looks so much after all, oh electrical marvel in our midst.”
“Not a smart phone,” the phone retorted, moving away from her.
“Ow,” a pair of sunglasses snapped. “Watch where you’re wobbling.”
“Fine, an I-phone. Whatever.” Flop turned to her twin. “These creeps think they’re so much because they can spell out words and play music—don’t know why you waste your time talking to them, flip. It’s like a touch-screen gets you all googely-soled or something.”
“I’m not an I-phone,” the tinny voice interrupted again.
This time, all the objects froze, and turned toward it.
Sombrero felt it, too—a sudden oddness. There was something about the voice—something wrong, somehow—not like the other electronics they’d met before.
“What are you, then?” he ventured.
“It’s a secret,” the voice ticked. Sombrero suddenly realized what it reminded him of--it was almost like a clock. its words and tones held the same kind of exact precision.
The other objects stared at it, taking in its shiny black cover, the delicate wire antenna that raised and lowered as it talked.
“All right, then,” Sombrero said after another long pause. “Well, welcome to the lost and found box. Glad to have you, hope you don’t have to stay long, but if you end up staying, we don’t see nothin’ wrong.”
It was his standard greeting to new objects—to lighten the mood, make things more friendly, like.
“We won’t be here long,” the new object ticked, and moved to the other side of the box, leaning against it nonchalantly.
“What did he mean by that?” Nike whispered to Sombrero a moment later under the cover of flip’s giggling. The shoe had leaned against the side of the box, next to the new object, and was busily trying to get its attention.
“Sounded strange,” Sombrero muttered back.
“Sounded threatening,” Nal put in, huddling close to them.
All three of them took a peek at the new object, and found the screen staring blandly back at them, not in the least distracted by the shoe’s antics. “Not long,” the tinny voice repeated, and now there seemed to be a sardonic kind of tone to it.
“Definitely threatening,” Nal said, lowering her voice still further.
Flop had gotten over her little game of feigning reluctance, and had joined her sister in trying to get the object’s attention. It was to no avail. The object continued to stare at Nal, Nike, and Sombrero, as if watching them. At this point even the gray sweatshirt’s interest was piqued; the collar stiffened and it half rose in the box.
“Am I to undershtand you’re saying… that you’re out to get ush?” the words slurred out—the first words that sweatshirt had spoken in more than a week.
“Sweathsirt!” Nal shook her top.
“Yeah, say it right out,” Nike nodded approvingly. “Let’s get all the cards on the table.”
A bunch of mini playing cards suddenly swarmed out from under sweatshirt. “Did you say our name? Is nap over? Can we come out? Will you play with us?” They chorused.
“Good job, Nike,” Nal groaned. “All right, kids. You can get up now. Say hi to our new friend. And no, sweatshirt, of course he’s not out to get us. You’ve been sleeping too much lately—you need to talk to people more, so you don’t go as batty as celly.” She then slapped her cap over her mouth, and trembled. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“We’ve all been worrying over celly,” Sombrero comforted her. “We know you weren’t being mean-spirited.”
“Celly’s gone batty! Celly’s gone batty!” cried all the little cards, dancing a circle around the sides of the box, moving around the new object where he interrupted their path.
“Quiet,” the new object said loudly.
All in the box froze again except for the little cards. They stopped singing, but kept up their march, giggling and shoving each other.
“What is it?” Nal asked, her voice trembling.
Nike shook his brim and indicated the speaker that hung in a corner of the room.
Something was happening—something, someone was saying something over the loudspeaker, which wasn’t all that abnormal, except the tone of his voice held a strange note; fear… an edge of panic…
“Did you catch it?” Nike asked Nal when the talking stopped.
“I—I think he said there was a bomb—something about evacuating.”
Nal seemed scarcely able to believe what she was saying, and she stared at the new object, which seemed, somehow, to be smirking.
“Are you a bomb?” Sombrero asked after a moment.
The new object suddenly did something very normal—it shrugged.
“It’s a bomb,” Nike whispered. “I knew it.”
“Hey-el, I were the one who figured it first. I just shaid—“
“Quiet, Sweatshirt,” Nal ordered. Slowly she turned toward the object.
“What are your demands?” She asked the question blandly, precisely, enunciating all her consonants, just like the object did when it talked.
The object shrugged again, swinging its antenna down in front of its screen as if inspecting it. “I couldn’t say. I wasn’t built to answer demands.”
“All of us were built to answer demands,” Sombrero growled. “I was built for the demand of covering heads. Flip and flop, they answer the need of those who want something between their feet and the ground, and also want to look good. Sweatshirt kept the cold off for a time, and Nal here—well, she answers one of the most important demands of all. Without what Nal carries inside her, there is no human life. Of course you answer demands! Someone created you, didn’t they?”
The object shifted its weight from one corner of its base to the other. “I can’t answer your questions,” it said flatly.
The flip flops had backed away at this point. One of them fell over Nike, who didn’t even notice.
“What are we going to do?” Flop wailed.
“Nothing. You can do nothing.” The object answered.
“Come on, Cel—Man. Bomb, whatever you are,” Nike said. The hat trembled, but edged a little closer to the object. “Come on. You wouldn’t want to hurt all of us, would you?”
“Nike,” Nal warned, but it was too late. All the mini-cards stopped in their tracks and turned toward the object, then flipped around and turned toward Nike.
“Hurt us?” The tiny queen of spades spoke up.
“No, no, no,” Nike sputtered. They—it—we’ll be fine.”
“You won’t be fine,” the object corrected immediately. “None of us will be fine. We will all be gone.”
“Gone where?” Queen of spades asked, a tremor in her voice.
“Burned up! Exshploded, shattered to shmithereens--“
“Enough, Sweatshirt!” Nal snapped, but the sweatshirt continued to rave, and all the little cards started crying and running and hopping and swarming over everything.
“Sombrero,” a voice hissed next to one of Sombrero’s pom-poms.
Sombrero started. “Celly?” he whispered back, his voice covered by all the noise.
“Come down here.”
Sombrero glanced around, and slid under sweatshirt and a paper bag full of tangled cords who were swarming around like a nest of snakes, roused by the noise and chaos.
The old cell-phone’s screen provided a weak light to see by. “You’ve got to do something,” it wheezed.
“Do something?” Sombrero asked.
“This is bad, very bad,” Celly continued.
“You shouldn’t get all worked up like this.”
“Do you not understand what this is about, man? I’ve had news go through me—tweets, and stories—these bombs. We’re not just talking about a few wrecked things. We’re not talking about a small fire. We’re talking people dying!”
“By people, do you mean humans?”
Celly swatted his screen with his antenna in exasperation. “For Cry—yes! Can’t you hear the ticking? Time is running out. That thing is a giant ball of fire just waiting to go off…waiting ‘till who knows when, who knows who’ll be nearby…who knows what these people want…”
“Cool it, Celly, son,” Sombrero replied tersely. “Now this isn’t another one of your low-battery induced hallucinations, is it? I can trust your databases?”
“Sombrero,” Celly said, hurt in his tone.
“Now, c’mon, Cell. Remember last week, how you suddenly went all weird and started beeping randomly, cutting out when we tried to talk to you—“
“Have I lied to you… yet, ‘bro?”
Sombrero eyed the cell phone soberly. “And now you’re starting to cut out, again. That doesn’t improve my confidence too much.”
“I may not be the sharp razor I was when I got tossed in here. But I’m telling you right now dude, and using the very last dregs…of my battery life to do so…that you…dudes have to…get that guy…out…of here.”
“How am I to do that, son?”
“Dunno…old…geezer,” Celly wheezed, “But I’ve done what I said I had…to do… told you, and now…now I’m…finished.”
“Oh, son,” Sombrero grimaced. “Don’t.”
“I’m…popping…myself out, ‘bro. Don’t…want…to be here…when it happens.”
“Cel-“
But the razor phone twitched suddenly. It’s back fell open, and the flat, square battery clattered to the floor of the box.
Sombrero couldn’t stomach looking at the exposed circuitry. He felt heavy and sad, but also full of determination, as he wiggled up to the top of the box.
“Nal. Hey Nal,” he hissed. The cards had quieted down, but they lay in a quivering heap in the corner. Nal glanced at the object, which now stood in the middle of the box, keeping a sharp screen on every movement.
“I’m watching you,” it barked at flip and flop, who seemed to be having a hard time of it, huddled and sobbing together in a corner.
Sombrero looked at Nal and felt a deep sadness come.
“What?” She whispered.
“No whispering,” the object barked. “Come out here where I can see you.”
There was no time. Sombrero twitched his brim in the object’s direction, then wiggled a pom-pom, pointing at himself, then snapped his brim shut for a second.
“No,” Nal said. “No.”
“I’m sorry, Nal. Love you, Gal,” Sombrero managed. A few seconds later, he suddenly made a flying leap, landing on top of the object. All the contents of the box screamed, then began cheering him on.
“You can do it, hon,” Nal choked out.
“Geeeet ‘im, Geeeezer!” Sweater wheezed.
“You’re the man, ‘brero,” Nike said.
Sombrero closed his brim tightly, trying not to groan as the object went crazy, rattling angrily inside his crown, stabbing its antenna sharply, furiously into anything it could reach.
He could no longer talk, so he wiggled his pom poms at all the objects in the box.
“Where you going?” Nike asked incredulously.
“Whasha doin?” Sweatshirt warbled.
“No, wait—“ Nal said.
Sombrero couldn’t wait. He couldn’t stop. Who knew when the clock would tick to an end?
Once out of the box, He rolled. Rolled through the doorway, down the little sidewalk.
He was a strange sight—a sombrero with the brim apparently sewn shut, rolling on its own along the cement pathways that decorated the fairgrounds. Luckily the bomb threat had cleared everyone out of the fairgrounds, so nobody saw him. He rolled into the woods, past trees and bushes. He rolled and rolled until he reached a small copse of bushes by a little stream—he had to be at least three hundred feet from any part of the fairgrounds.
He came to a stop.
“Let me out,” the tinny voice ordered.
“Nope.” Sombrero slurred, keeping his brim shut.
“I’m not a bomb. It was just a joke.”
Sombrero didn’t answer. He sat there.
All through the night he sat, listening to the orders, then the jibes, and finally, the pleadings of the object.
Eventually, the object silenced, and only the tiny, strange ticking noise continued.
Had it been a joke?
Sombrero couldn’t take the chance.
It began to rain, hard. The mud began to stir under Sombrero’s crown; the stream banks rose and touched his closed brim.
The object began buzzing again angrily. “I’ll be ruined,” it said. “I’ll break. This rain—“
The words fell on deaf (though sopping wet) straw. Sombrero continued to hold his brim shut, continued to wait it out.
The object began crooning to itself softly. It was a strange tune, and yet somehow haunting. Sombrero thought he might have recognized if he could only think hard enough.
He must have fallen asleep then, because suddenly it was bright outside. He gasped, remembering, and then realized that the object hadn’t moved—it was still inside of him. But the strange ticking had stopped.
Slowly, Sombrero moved aside. Was it dead, then? Was the threat gone?
There was a sudden sound of footsteps. Sombrero froze and rolled onto his side.
“Where’s the John? Thought you said this was a short cut.”
“Must have gotten turned around,” another voice said. “Look! Cell phone,”
“Wait—wait,” the first cautioned.
Sombrero squinted up at them, shifting the tiniest bit to get a better view. They wore bright-colored suits, uniforms of some kind.
“Think it could be our bomb?”
"Not likely, out in the woods like this. But you can’t be too careful.” A large, gloved hand picked up the object.
Carefully the back of the object was removed, revealing a battery and circuitry. “Nope. Just a cell. Someone must have dropped it. Shame—got wet. Battery’s dead now.”
“We’ll drop it by the lost and found on our way out.”
“Boss say we can go?”
“Threat was a fake. Said it was supposed to go off last night.”
“Ah. And what’s this?" Another large hand picked up the sombrero.
“Trash. People leaving garbage all over the place—really gets me riled.”
The hand lowered the sombrero back to the ground.
“Well, don’t leave it there—that’s just as bad. Take it to the dumpster. There’s one just inside the gate over here.”
“OK.”
The men in yellow jackets walked back toward the entrance gates of the Kiowa County Fair.

Story Prompts

2010-08-16T20:17:00.002-06:00

Adele, Josh, and I briefly talked about story prompts (and the family blog) on our recent vacation in Exeter. We decided to provide some story prompts so we can maybe generate some stories on here (like the good 'ol days). Everyone is invited! Basically, the idea is to see what different types of stories we all come up with, given only a few "prompts."

The prompts I came up with are:

an amusement park (can be a state fair, carnival, Disneyland, etc.)
a cell phone

In two weeks (Tuesday, August 31) we can all post our stories that incorporate these two things in some way. And to prevent idea theft and promote original thoughts, no one post your stories until that day.

Go!

My New Political Blog

2010-07-14T16:01:00.005-06:00

If you're interested, I've recently started (kind of restarted, but mostly just started) a blog focused on politics. I'm having fun with it, and hoping that I'll be able to keep it up and running with new content.

I would love each of your comments and feedback on the blog. You can vist the blog at:

http://www.itspoliticalobviously.com/

What is Your Calling in Life?

2010-07-14T15:58:00.003-06:00

A friend recommended this recent BYU devotional to me and now I'm passing it on. I'm not sure how often our family checks this blog, but just in case you do check out this devotional. I really enjoyed it.

http://www.byub.org/talks/Talk.aspx?id=3967

What have you done for someone today?

2010-01-01T12:02:00.003-07:00

When Josh posted on his personal blog yesterday, it was his first post in about a year. So I don't know if a lot of people are checking his blog more recently.

You should read his latest post when you get a chance though. It gave me chills and brought tears to my eyes.

2009-12-28T00:23:00.005-07:00

Adventures in Learning

When we were growing up, Dad would sometimes write little plays depicting scripture stories, for his Sunday School class. We would often record them in audio format, complete with in-character voices and background music and effects. In fond memory of those occasions, I post a play of my own which I used recently in a church class (it was not recorded). It depicts Abinadi confronting the priests of wicked King Noah, with some liberties taken.

Abinadi and the priests of Noah, from Mosiah 12:18-37; 13:1-35
CHARACTERS: Jimmy, Sally, King Noah, Abinadi, Priest 1, Priest 2, Priest 3, Jimmy’s Mother

Jimmy: Sally, come check this out! I've rewired my television set, so now, instead of showing dumb TV shows, it actually shows events from the past! It’s like a window into what has gone before.

Sally: You mean you can actually look backwards in time?

Jimmy: Exactly. We will never have to fail another history test.

Sally: Wow, Jimmy, you are such a genius!

Jimmy: You are smart, too, Sally, knowing that I am.

Sally: Thanks. Hey, look, there's something coming in on the screen.

Jimmy: Yeah, I set the machine so we could see one of my favorite encounters from the past: the struggle between Abinadi and the wicked priests of King Noah. This should be good . . .

Sally: Wait! I can't understand a word they're saying! They're all talking in some other language. This is all useless! It's all meaningless. What a dunce you are Jimmy! What good is it like this?

Jimmy: Gee, I, uh, . . .

Sally: Wait! Give me the remote . . . I'll just go into the TV setup mode and select English as the language! There. . . .all fixed!

King Noah: I have brought you here, Abinadi, that my priests might question you.

Abinadi: Wo unto this people!

Priest 1 : We'll see about that, Abinadi. Now I have a question for you to answer: What do the words from Isaiah 52 mean which say: "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings."

Sally: Oh no! The priest is quoting Isaiah! I always get confused with Isaiah. Not even the TV setup mode can help us now!

Jimmy: Wait, give it a chance! Maybe Abinadi will explain it!

Abinadi: Are you priests, and pretend to teach this people, and to understand the spirit of prophesying, and yet desire to know of me what this scripture from Isaiah means?

Priest 1: Answer my question. Why do you bring us bad tidings when Isaiah says you should bring good tidings?

Abinadi: I say unto you, wo be unto you for perverting the ways of the Lord!

Priest 1: I have only read straight from the Holy scriptures.

Priest 2: Isaiah 52 also states: "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that publisheth peace." Yet you have told us we will have war, not peace!

Priest 3: Isaiah 52 further says: "The Lord hath comforted his people." You have not been speaking comforting words to us, Abinadi, but disturbing words, like how the dogs shall devour our flesh.

Priest 2: Isaiah 52 also says: "All the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God," yet you have said that we will not be saved, but destroyed and smitten!

Priest 3: Isaiah 52 also states: "Put on thy strength," yet you have told us we will be weak, smitten on the cheek, and driven like a dumb ass.

Priest 2: Isaiah 52 also states: "Break forth into joy; sing together," yet you tell us that we shall howl all the day long.

Priest 3: And you have spoken against the King! Isaiah 52 says: "Put on thy beautiful garments," yet you have said that the King shall be as a garment in a hot furnace!

Priest 1: So now, explain to us, Abinadi, how can you be a prophet and teach against the scriptures?

Sally: Wow! Those priests are sharp, pointing out that Abinadi seems to have everything backwards--blessings turned into cursings. Will Abinadi be able to answer those charges?

Jimmy: Let's see what Abinadi says.

Abinadi: If ye understand the scriptures ye have not taught them; therefore, ye have perverted the ways of the Lord. Ye have not applied your hearts to understanding; therefore, ye have not been wise. Therefore, what teach ye this people?

Priest 2: What do we teach the people? Of course we teach the law of Moses.

Abinadi: If ye teach the law of Moses why do ye not keep it? Why do ye set your hearts upon riches? Why do ye commit whoredoms and spend your strength with harlots, yea, and cause this people to commit sin, that the Lord has cause to send me to prophesy against this people, yea, even a great evil against this people?

Priest 3: How dare you condemn us!? We are your priests, your spiritual leaders, consecrated by the King himself!

Abinadi: Know ye not that I speak the truth? Yea, ye know that I speak the truth; and you ought to tremble before God. Ye shall be smitten for your iniquities.

Priest 3: We've already heard all this stuff from you.

Abinadi: Ye have said that ye teach the law of Moses. And what know ye concerning the law of Moses? Doth salvation come by the law of Moses? What say ye?

Sally: Wow! He's turned it around and is questioning them, now.

Jimmy: That's the strategy I use in chess. A good offense is a good defense.

Priest 1: Yes, Abinadi, salvation comes by the law of Moses. Of course it does.

Abinadi: I know if ye keep the commandments of God ye shall be saved; yea, if ye keep the commandments which the Lord delivered unto Moses in the mount of Sinai, saying:
I am the Lord thy God, who hath brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.
Thou shalt have no other God before me.
Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing in heaven above, or things which are in the earth beneath.

Sally: Hey! Abinadi is quoting from the 10 Commandments. I recognize them from seminary two years ago!

Jimmy: You must have learned something after all, Sally, in between all of that note-writing. The 10 commandments are part of the law of Moses. The priests say they teach the law of Moses, so Abinadi is reminding them of what that law actually says.

Abinadi: Have ye done all this? I say unto you, Nay, ye have not. And have ye taught this people that they should do all these things? I say unto you, Nay, ye have not.

King Noah: Away with this fellow, and slay him! For what have we to do with him, for he is mad!

Sally: Look, they're trying to grab Abinadi, but they can‘t!

Abinadi: Touch me not, for God shall smite you if ye lay your hands upon me, for I have not delivered the message which the Lord sent me to deliver; neither have I told you that which ye requested that I should tell; therefore, God will not suffer that I shall be destroyed at this time.
But I must fulfil the commandments wherewith God has commanded me; and because I have told you the truth ye are angry with me. And again, because I have spoken the word of God ye have judged me that I am mad.

Jimmy: Look, Sally, Abinadi’s face is shining with a bright light!

Sally: I remember reading in seminary about Moses when he was on Mount Sinai. His face shined the same way.

Jimmy: Abinadi was just quoting from the law of Moses, and now Abinadi looks like Moses!
　　
Abinadi: Ye see that ye have not power to slay me, therefore I finish my message. Yea, and I perceive that it cuts you to your hearts because I tell you the truth concerning your iniquities. Yea, and my words fill you with wonder and amazement, and with anger.

King Noah and all the priests: Grrrrrrrr!

Abinadi: But I finish my message; and then it matters not whither I go, if it so be that I am saved. But this much I tell you, what you do with me, after this, shall be as a type and a shadow of things which are to come.

Priest 1: I’m gonna get you!

Abinadi: And now I will finish telling you of the commandments, for they are not written in your hearts. Ye have studied and taught iniquity the most part of your lives. And now I continue:
Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.
Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.

Jimmy’s Mother (from the other room): Jimmy! Jimmy! You haven’t taken out the trash! You go and do it right now, before you watch any more TV!

[Jimmy takes the remote and presses “pause”]

Jimmy: Aw, Mom!

Sally: Jimmy! What did Abinadi just say? Honor thy father and mother!

Jimmy: Okay, Mom! Sorry I forgot! I’ll do it right away!

[Jimmy goes, and then comes back and presses “play”]
　
Abinadi:
Thou shalt not kill.
Thou shalt not commit adultery.
Thou shalt not steal.
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his man-servant, nor his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbor's.
Have ye taught this people that they should observe to do all these things for to keep these commandments? I say unto you, Nay; for if ye had, the Lord would not have caused me to come forth and to prophesy evil concerning this people.

Priest 2: Don’t judge us! We know the law as well as you do.

Priest 3: We are a rich and prosperous kingdom. The Lord has blessed us. He has saved us because we do know the law.
　　
Abinadi: Ye have said that salvation cometh by the law of Moses. But salvation does not come by the law alone; and were it not for the atonement of the Messiah, or Christ, we all must unavoidably perish, notwithstanding the law of Moses. In fact, all of the ordinances of the law of Moses are symbolic of Christ.

Priest 1: What strange ideas are you trying to preach to us now? You’re trying to lead us astray with your talk of an atonement and of Christ.

Abinadi: Did not Moses prophesy concerning the coming of the Messiah, and that God should redeem his people? Yea, and even all the prophets who have prophesied ever since the world began—have they not spoken more or less concerning these things?

Priest 2: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Priest 3: He really is mad.

Abinadi: Have not all the prophets said that God himself should come down among the children of men, and take upon him the form of man, and go forth in mighty power upon the face of the earth? Have they not said that he should bring to pass the resurrection of the dead, and that he, himself, should be oppressed and afflicted?

Priest 1: What prophets? What are you talking about?

Abinadi: You quoted from the words of Isaiah 52. So now I shall tell you what Isaiah said next, in Isaiah 53. This whole chapter is about the Messiah and the atonement.

Sally: Wow! They tried to trap him with Isaiah 52. Now he’s going to quote Isaiah 53 to turn everything around and put everything in context. He’s using the next chapter from Isaiah to answer them. Brilliant! Isaiah is cool after all!

Jimmy: Isaiah certainly is! And luckily, I’ve studied it along with my scientific experimenting. In fact I can explain Isaiah to you right now--I have been thinking about what he said in chapter 53. . .

Jimmy’s Mother (from the other room): Jimmy! You’ve been watching TV long enough! Now turn that thing off and come help me in the kitchen!

Jimmy: Yes Mother. I’ll see you later, Sally.

Sally: Later.

3, now 4 emhases for salvation

2009-12-10T12:52:00.002-07:00

The church has added an additional mission to complete the current trifold mission of the church. We are now a four-fold gospel.

The new addition?

See here.

How do you all feel about it? I kinda feel like jumping with joy, sunbeam-style.

A Tabernacle in the Wilderness: The Tabernacle as a symbol.

2009-11-05T08:09:00.002-07:00

President Hinckley’s 2007 remarks upon the rededication of the tabernacle:

“Now this building has undergone extensive renovation and remodeling to bring it up to the latest seismic code. With this undertaking, we hope and pray that its historical features have not been destroyed.”

“Some of the old benches have been saved and will continue to be used. But as you’ve already discovered, the new benches are just as hard as the old ones were!”

“Exits have been added to meet modern-day requirements. The great stone pillars, which constitute its outside walls, have been greatly strengthened and fortified. The roof has been strengthened with the addition of steel trusses, with new roofing applied.”

“Changes in this building, I remind you, are not new. Even shortly after the days of its creation, it was modified. Originally there was no balcony, and this had to be added.”

“This is a peculiar building, the only one of its kind in all the world. It was built almost a century and a half ago in the days of the poverty of our people. It was literally a Tabernacle built in the wilderness.”

“The temple was far from finished at the time. Those who built the Tabernacle did so with faith, as well as their rudimentary architectural skills. Skeptics, of whom there are always many, predicted that when the scaffolding was removed, the roof would come down with it. This did not happen, and it has remained in place through sunshine and storm through all of these many years.”

From the Prayer:

"we dedicate, rededicate, and consecrate this, the Salt Lake Tabernacle, to Thee and to Thy Beloved Son, that through many years yet to come it may serve as a place where Thy people may gather for many reasons."

"At one time most of the Latter-day Saints lived here in this valley and in other surrounding areas where settlements were established. Now, Thy work has grown and spread over the earth until we have more members outside of this nation than we have in it."

I listened to the dedicatory prayer yesterday and was struck by how this edifice, the Old Tabernacle, is in so very many ways symbolic of our church. It touched me deeply. I found myself moved as I listened to the prayer. Here’s a link to President Hinckley's talk and dedicatory prayer.

I chose only a few paragraphs from the address. There is a great deal of touching commentary on the early church and pioneers that were our foundation.

What are your thoughts?

2009-10-25T22:38:00.003-06:00

How Influential, Actually, Is Music?

Heaven is always making music, with perfect harmony, created in accordance with its celestial motions, as it is said, The heavens declare the glory of God (Ps. 19:2). Some say the source of this music is an orchestra of angels. Others say it is the rhythm and melody of the planets and stars as they circle the heavens.

If, by chance, this music should reach our ears, irrepressible cravings would emerge, frenzied longings, and insane passions. These longings would be so great, we would no longer take nourishment from food and drink in the manner of mortals, but as beings destined for immortality.

This happened to Moses when he ascended Mount Sinai. There, for forty days and nights, he touched neither bread nor water. Soon the strains of this heavenly music reached his ears, along with the words of the Torah as God recited them. It is said that for the rest of his life Moses heard this unearthly music, just as the light that shone from his face after Sinai always remained with him.

(Howard Schwartz, Tree of Souls, The Mythology of Judaism, p. 188)

* * * *

But as to Genun, Satan came into him in his childhood; and he made sundry trumpets and horns, and string instruments, cymbals and psalteries, and lyres and harps, and flutes; and he played on them at all times and at every hour. And when he played on them, Satan came into them, so that from among them were heard beautiful and sweet sounds, that ravished the heart. . .

Then when it was day, Genun blew the horns and beat the drums below the mountain, as he was wont. the children of Seth heard it, and came as they used to do . . .

Enoch at that time was already grown up, and in his zeal for God, he arose and said, "Hear me, O ye sons of Seth, small and great--when ye transgress the commandments of our fathers, and go down from this holy mountain--ye shall not come up hither again for ever." But they rose up against Enoch, and would not hearken to his words, but went down from the Holy Mountain.

(2 Adam and Eve 2-3, 20, 29-30)

* * * *

I was talking to people at dinner the other night and they'd heard about the show or seen it and we started talking about the significance of the Beatles politically. So many people, in America particularly, come up to me and say, "You changed my life." This whole idea of the significance of the Beatles is incredible. Someone mentioned the Russian thing—the bringing down of the Iron Curtain.

(Paul McCartney: the Billboard Q&A September 12, 2009)
　

Religious Freedom

2009-10-14T23:16:00.008-06:00

Camilla emailed me the link below... It's a speech Elder Dallin H. Oaks gave at BYU-I yesterday, and well worth the read. I was just going to reply to her email, but thought this would be a great discussion to have on the blog.

click here to read or click here to listen (to listen, try the mp3 link if you don't want to worry about downloading software)

or click here for a summary of the article

Music and LDS sacrament meetings

2009-10-07T11:50:00.002-06:00

When I saw this thread on one of my favorite (ish, depends on who's posting and on what topic) websites, my first thought was to post it here, but I feel like I've posted here, too much.

But... this is a discussion too wonderful to pass up with you folks. So read the post, and a lot of the comments, too! And tell me what you think. And Adelle and Cam, I won't mind if you copy-paste your comment from my other blog into this one. I might do the same.

Few and Far Between

2009-10-02T10:29:00.000-06:00

There has been so much going on everywhere around us and I am sure that that IS the reason for the few and far between postings. I mean, we have been so busy and the world has been coming apart around us.

Me? I totally forgot all about this blog until I went to my blogs and this was at the top of the list. Now how in the heck did that happen? How did this blog worm its way to the top? Hmmm? It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Blame it on the Great Pumpkin!

Speaking of pumpkins, there was a news item on one of our Tulsa, OK stations that said we might not have pumpkin pie this holiday season. I'm not sure why but maybe all the squash that goes into Libby Pumpkin Pie Mix are grown near Fresno, CA and we should all be aware of what is going on there. If not, why don't you Google (or Bing) the following keywords: Fresno Farmers Water Federal Government. That should get you the results you need I think. I you have cans of the Libby pie mix perhaps you can sell them on Ebay for $100 a can.

If congratulations are in order please allow me to congratulate you. Congratulations!

See you all later.

helloooo out there

2009-09-02T23:01:00.001-06:00

I haven't had a chance to look at this blog for a long time. Is anyone still out there?

2009-06-20T19:47:00.004-06:00

Excerpt from The Unknown Battle of Krndsdell, Chapter 5

Marzena stood perfectly still, so that in the half-light she was indistinguishable among all of the manikins. He has somehow found this place. Yes, found--the man seemed to be searching as he walked among the trellises, weaved in and out among the statuesque figures. His meandering path seemed random, yet was he getting, on average, closer? Yes, he's a little closer now. Marzena felt a thrill of realization run up her spine. She grasped the little leather pouch hanging around her neck. The Elders will question me, but I will tell them I had no other choice.

She heard footsteps behind her. Not taking the time to look back, with her shaking hands Marzena opened the drawstring on the pouch and searched the contents blindly with her fingers. In spite of her pounding heart she managed to find the second finger-trox. Just then a hand grabbed her shoulder and in a mad panic she slipped the finger-trox into place. In a moment the world around her dissolved and she felt a thrill of acceleration as another world congealed around her.

Marzena now was in a forest, surrounded by trees and foliage--in the exact places where the manikins and trellises had stood. She could still feel a hand on her shoulder and turned now to confront her would-be captor. "You!" she called out in surprise.

The young man blinked his eyes in complete disorientation. "What, how? . . . Where are we?"

Marzena pushed him away. "Why were you following me? I thought you were --"

He was shaking his head. "No, no, I'm not . . ."

Marzena eyed him coldly. "I recognize you now, from the gathering--you were among the cloddses. I remember you . . . but only because of your foolish speaking out of turn. Who are you? You followed me. You actually touched me! Do you know that you have caused me to use a trox, to reveal what should remain hidden? You have threatened the very quarm itself. I must take you back to Leddger to be . . ."

"Wait!" the young man said. "I only approached you because I saw the man, he was searching for you among the mannikins. You were in danger. I only touched you because I wanted to get your attention without making any noise."

Marzena realized she had been confused in her fear and panic. It's true, there must be two separate men involved--the other man was a distance away from me when I felt the touch on my shoulder. "We are safe here," she said. "We have experienced a type-2 transformation to a place completely sealed off from the Durggs. Everything that was there is here, but it is all in a different form now. And that includes the man who was stalking me. He must be here, too. We must try to find him and bring him to Leddger for questioning--if we can recognize him--he will appear very different here because he was not in contact with me at the transformation, as you were. But he cannot threaten us here."

Marzena led the way as they began to walk among the trees, looking carefully at every tree, every piece of foliage. She began to be troubled, as she could find no indication of the man anywhere. "This is not right," she said, and then decided to turn to a lesser mystery: "Now tell me, how did you find your way into the Warehouse?"

"It's true, I followed you. I have been trying to talk to you since the night of the gathering. I know it was foolish to think that . . . you are . . . Well, my name is Taln."

Marzena dismissed the introduction. "How did you get into the Warehouse? It is invisible to all Uninvited."

"I don't know," said Taln. "It was easy. I just . . . followed you."

Taln is an Undiscovered. He knows the quarm without knowing it. Marzena looked at him, but gave no hint of what she was thinking.

2009-06-03T22:24:00.002-06:00

Excerpt from The Unknown Battle of Krndsdell, Chapter 22

It couldn’t go on indefinitely. Taln heard the lock click and the door to his cell opened. He squinted in the sudden flood of light. A figure entered, almost glided in. Taln did not move, did not acknowledge his captor.

The man gestured, pointing a finger at Taln. “You are the first person who ever found us. You must be very clever. The punishment for this, of course, is death. But we have decided to offer you the opportunity to determine your outcome yourself.”

Nothing. There’s nothing I can say to you that would work to my advantage.

“We know who you are. We know all about you.”

How could they know who I am? It’s impossible with the precautions I took. I must not respond to him in any way.

The man smiled, cocked his head to the side a little. “Don’t worry about your wife, she’s doing fine. We can make sure no one does her any harm.”

Give no reaction. He’s bluffing.

“You don’t believe we have found her? Well I have brought you something of hers . . . let’s just say, as evidence of our serious intentions.” He reached his hand out towards Taln, showing him a little bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. He opened up the handkerchief for Taln to see.

Taln had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It can’t be! Marzena’s finger-troxes. Oh, how I miss Marzena! And now they have taken her too! How could they have known where she was? But wait. . . does he have all twelve of the troxes? He tried to count the troxes in the man’s hand without appearing to be too interested. Of course his captors couldn’t know anything about the quarm.

“If you choose to tell us nothing, then we will do nothing to protect Marzena from . . . whatever might happen to her," the man smiled. "If you help us we will help her. If you scorn us we will scorn her. As I promised, here’s your opportunity to determine the outcome. Now, will you cooperate with us?”

He has only ten of the finger-troxes! He must have no idea of what he's got! And those troxes must have been taken from Marzena no more than fourteen days ago--when I was last with her. So I must stall, stall, as much as possible.

The man looked at Tron impatiently. "Well, what is your answer, will you cooperate?"

Taln was hardly paying attention, as he was realizing all of the implications. At some time, the remaining two troxes will slip into Resonance, and if I am vigilant, their momentary unphasing will enable me to access the power of the Third Frelzn before the final dissolution of the remaining troxes drains the energile reservoir. So . . . I must stall him--pretend to cooperate, however much it galls me to submit to him, and watch for the precise moment of the Third Frelzn. It's the only way to save Marzena.

Taln looked up at the man. “Please don’t hurt Marzena,” he pleaded. “What do you want from me?”

The man smiled and clasped his hands together. “Tell me how you found us. You should not have been able to do this. No one has ever found us.”

Taln didn’t want to even hint about the quarm. That was the one thing they must not ever know. “I learned about your whereabouts from my readings in the Library of Gleb,” Taln said.

“Liar!” the man retorted. “There is nothing in any of the books in the Library of Gleb that even remotely speak of time directionality. You can’t have learned anything there. Now, we’ll try this again: How did you find us?”

Time directionality? So this is why they can never be caught! Not in my wildest dreams have I ever thought that they used time directionality. I must get him to reveal more about this.

Taln shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, we have known about time directionality for quite some time. We have just thought it more useful to develop the stronger potential of time dimensionality instead.” Phew! what a mouthful of nonsense. Can he tell I’m making it up as I go along?

The man stood looking at Taln for almost a minute, considering. “Hmm . . .time directionality versus time dimensionality. I think you are bluffing,” he said finally. “You have developed no science of time dimensionality—We would surely have detected it. My people have been trained from birth in the subtleties of time. As children, we play with quantas of time as your children play with crude blocks. When your children are learning to walk, our children are learning to walk backwards, to talk backwards, to do facial expressions and hand gestures in reverse, so we can invade your counter-world, and your people never guess our true nature—that we move in the opposite direction in time as you are. No, you cannot fool me when talking about time.”

Why is he telling me all this, revealing his true nature? He must plan on killing me after I tell him what he wants to know. I must somehow last long enough to access the Third Frelzn.

“No, I am not satisfied with your cooperation,” the man said, shaking his head. “At any rate, I must leave now, as my intersection with your time has reached a maximum. I must head now into your past.” He smiled. “But I can assure you that the next one who comes in my place will bring more news of Marzena--bad news, I'm afraid. . . And, ah yes, news of the quarm.” He smiled, and was suddenly gone.

They know about the quarm! How could they?! But . . . do they? Perhaps that's exactly what they are trying to learn from me. The only hope I have is to hold on until the eruption of the Third Frelzn.

2009-05-09T12:22:00.005-06:00

Why all three?

Why are we baptized in the name of all three members of the Godhead?

One possible answer relates to how we are to become like them:

Because we are to become one as they are one--we are to join them in their divine nature. In John 17:11, 21-24, the Father and Son's oneness is given as a model for us, their intention being that we participate with them in some way.

(John 17:11.)
11 And now I am no more in the world, but these are in the world, and I come to thee. Holy Father, keep through thine own name those whom thou hast given me, that they may be one, as we are.

(John 17:21-24)
21 That they all may be one; as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be one in us: that the world may believe that thou hast sent me.
22 And the glory which thou gavest me I have given them; that they may be one, even as we are one:
23 I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one; and that the world may know that thou hast sent me, and hast loved them, as thou hast loved me.
24 Father, I will that they also, whom thou hast given me, be with me where I am; that they may behold my glory, which thou hast given me: for thou lovedst me before the foundation of the world.

I find that the closer you read the Book of Mormon, the more you will be rewarded. I see a progression of ideas from the baptismal prayer, to the oneness of the Godhead, to our need to be one, in the Savior's instructions in 3rd Nephi. Consider the progression of ideas laid out in 3 Nephi 11: [For the sake of saving space here I have not pasted in all the scriptures involved, but it is worthwhile to look at all these verses carefully.]

11:25 the baptismal prayer, mentioning all the members of the Godhead

11:27 "after this manner shall ye baptize . . . for behold . . ." (Jesus is going to explain why): Then follows a discussion of oneness of the Godhead, in the context of explaining why people are to be baptized in the name of all three. So there is a direct link between the baptismal prayer and the fact that the Godhead is one. Then the train of thought continues:

11:28-30 warning not to contend (not to destroy oneness among people).

11:29 the devil is the "father" of contention, contrasting the Father who enables our becoming one.

11:32, 35-36 more about the oneness of the Godhead.

11:37-38 repent, be baptized and become as a little child: the process is to begin.

If this line of thinking is right, then a major purpose of this life is that we learn to become one (which also relates to being full of charity). How, then, would a constant remembrance of one's baptismal covenant, and whose name it was done in, affect how seriously we work at becoming one at home (and in other applicable situations) and finding a way to overcome contention?

What do you think?

I Confess

2009-05-04T11:23:00.005-06:00

I thought I'd recommend this movie. We watched it last weekend (checked out from the library) and enjoyed it. It's not the typical Hitchcock thriller-- it's more thoughtful than suspenseful. You should watch it if you've never seen it!

A mom, a gate attendant, and a man

2009-04-29T23:08:00.004-06:00

The tired and disheveled mother sat in the airport terminal that had been her home for the past twelve hours and thirteen minutes. Not that she was counting. Her eyes were open, but just barely enough to allow her to watch the terminal monitor for the arrival of the next plane. The mother looked down. At her feet lay her nine month old son, sleeping angelically in his car seat.

I need to clean that seat once we get home, she thought.

Dried pureed yams, green beans, roasted salmon, and, what was that brownish yellowish stuff, oh yeah, bananas, spotted the seat like the bottom of a birdcage spotted with the unmentionables. Then there were the contents of the twelve ounce box of Cheerios that must be in there somewhere, because he certainly hadn't eaten those very successfully either.

“Ma’am. Ma’am?” said a southerly female voice.

The mother looked up and saw the gate attendant she had spoken with earlier. “Yes?” the mother replied.

“I’m sorry.” The attendant paused just for a moment, “but we are unable to transfer your ticket. You will have to pay for a new ticket to get on the next available flight.”

The mother’s eyes grew wide while she suppressed the tears that were building up.

No, no tears, she thought.

“But I did pay for a ticket. The one I gave you earlier. It hasn’t been used. What about the money I used to pay for that ticket?” The last line she said more to herself than to the attendant.

“I’m sorry, but your current ticket is non-refundable and non-transferable. If it was our fault you missed your flight I may be able to do something, but...”

The mother stopped listening. There was no more money. The last of what was available on her credit cards was used for this hopeful trip. She had already borrowed so much from her friends. No one was at home to call. No one.

“Now boarding area A for flight 707 to Phoenix,” the gate attendant said over the loudspeaker. When had she left?

The mother couldn’t help it; a tear, maybe two, made it out and she sniffled and batted her eyes to prevent them from turning into more. Still the baby slept angelically at her feet.

Turning her head so the gate attendant wouldn’t see her tears, she saw a man sitting a little ways off. He had his head down, and he was rubbing his empty hands. He seemed to be so anxious to get on the flight. The flight she needed so desperately to get on to get home, to end this whole trip and to clean this stupid car seat!

“Now boarding areas A and B for flight 707 to Phoenix.”

The man got up at this announcement and walked toward the gate. At least he has something to be anxious about, thought the mother. She noticed though that instead of entering the gate he went to the desk and spoke with the same gate attendant she had spoken with earlier. Curious, she watched intently as he handed the attendant some papers, then took some papers from the attendant and walked away. As he left, he put his left hand in his pocket and pulled out an object. A coin? A marble? What would a grown man be doing with a marble? No, it looked most like a ring. But before she could be certain he was gone.

The mother turned her head toward the gate again and she saw the gate attendant coming toward her. When she got to the mother she said, “We have a ticket you can use for you and your baby.”

“But,” responded the mother. “I have no money.”

With a smile the gate attendant replied, “You won’t need money for this ticket. The man that was sitting just over there transferred his ticket to you.”

She opened her mouth to explain that she had never seen that man before in her life, but, but nothing came out.

****

The mother was now seated in the plane with the baby in her arms still sleeping angelically. Her mind pondered the miracle that had just happened and she allowed more than one, maybe two tears to fall down her cheeks.

Trapped

2009-04-27T13:26:00.002-06:00

Celia felt trapped. She didn’t want to be here! These people were smelly, awkward, and in need of so much care. Their speech was slow, and often you couldn’t tell what they were trying to say. Celia knew she should change the negative view she kept of the residents of Hartley’s Home for the Disabled, but why did it matter what she thought as long as she smiled and appeared to be helpful? Her job paid well, and she cared more about that then how uncomfortable and boring it was here.

“Mskljdoij!” shouted the wheel chair ridden woman she was helping, whose crossed eyes looked accusingly at her, as though she knew Celia’s thoughts. Celia looked straight into the crossed eyes with a smug expression and thought You’re stuck with me just like I’m stuck with you. But at least I look normal and don’t drool all over myself. And I get to leave whenever I want.

“Would you like another crayon to draw with, Anna?” asked Celia, her tone dripping with insincerity.

A man entered the room as Anna took the crayon. He looked like he could be one of the doctors at Hartley. He seemed vaguely familiar.

“It’s time to go, Celia.” He said gently.

“Excuse me?” asked Celia.

“We thought maybe you could handle it in here. Unfortunately we were too optimistic. You’re getting worse. This isn’t the place for you.” When she looked at him in confusion, he stepped closer to where she was sitting.

“What are you talking about? Who are you- who let you in here?” Celia stood up. The man stood between her and the door. He was watching her.

“Please come now, we don’t want any trouble,” He took a deep breath, ”We're here to help you.” She felt he wanted her to choose to come, and yet she felt strangely like she didn’t have a choice.

Celia tried to get to the door by slipping around him. He quickly captured one of her arms and brought out a syringe from one of his long white coat pockets.

“What is this- get away from me! Help! Someone help!”

The world swirled into darkness.

* * * *

Celia woke up groggy. The room around her had four plain white walls and she had a bed stand with a lamp. Where am I? She thought. A woman dressed in a uniform came in with a tray.

“How are you feeling today, Celia?” The woman seemed sincere, which comforted Celia.

“Where am I? Did I have a break down or something?” Celia asked.

“No. You’re in a place where you can get help.”

“Why would I need help? What are you talking about?”

“You're different than others, Celia.” The woman’s tone was patient.

“How am I different?” Celia asked anxiously. She unconsciously checked to see if all her toes were still there.

“You are almost completely blind. We have brought you here to see if we can teach you to use what you have left of your sight. You may one day be independent if you work hard.”

Celia didn’t know what to say. She looked around the room, positive that she saw everything like she always had. “I’ve always had good vision. I can still see everything. What are you talking about?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but there are things you can’t see. It’s such a hard thing to accept. I know this is a shock. Rest now and we will talk more about it later.” The woman left the room. Celia heard a lock slide into place after the door closed.

The days that followed were full of frustration for Celia. The man with the long white pockets came into her room each day and talked to her about what she couldn’t see. He said there were big paintings on the walls, and a big dresser on the other side of her bed. He also claimed there was a big window that showed a great view of the grounds. Celia couldn’t see any of it. The woman that had brought her food confirmed what the man said. They allowed Celia to use the bathroom, which was next door to her room. Whenever she had to go she was instructed to use a small buzzer they placed on her lamp stand. The hall outside her room was long and white with a lot of doors.

Days turned into weeks. They allowed Celia to sit in other rooms, and color or write if she wanted to. They always talked about other things in the room that they said she couldn’t see. None of the rooms had any windows. She never saw anyone else. She tried to escape a few times, but they were always quicker and once they had to give her a shot like before.

On a day in the beginning of her third week there, she was on her way to the bathroom when she suddenly saw a figure in a wheel chair slide out of one of the doors down the hall. It was Anna! Celia almost cried at the sight of the cross-eyed woman.

“Dear, didn’t you say you had to go to the bathroom?” the woman who brought food suddenly came closer behind her. She didn’t seem to notice Anna.

“I want to go to the next room please. I’d like to color.” Celia’s mind raced. Anna was smiling at her, waving. Celia suddenly broke into a run. The woman yelled at her to stop, but Celia reached Anna before the woman could catch up to her.

“Anna! Anna! Please help me! They won’t let me go!” Celia said in her few precious moments before the woman reached her.

Anna looked at her sadly. “You feel trapped too? We all feel like that sometimes. But think about it, at least they take care of you and try to teach you how to cope with your disability. You’ll get used to it. You’ll find yourself happier the more you are here.” She wheeled back into the room she came from.

Celia became hysterical as the woman grabbed her arms and led her back to her room. “I want to be free!” she yelled to anyone who could hear, “I don’t care if I’m different!”

Wonderful Documentary

2009-04-23T10:47:00.004-06:00

Not to upstage Uncle Ron's story... still thinking about it, Uncle Ron. I want to write something, but I'm still thinking about it. :) But if you get a chance, please watch this WONDERFUL documentary. It's available for free on nova's website right now:

Click on this link.

Warning... keep kleenex nearby. :) Happy Kleenex, not sad Kleenex.

2009-04-22T19:14:00.010-06:00

Reality

The most important day of the year has arrived. The state-wide SPLT fill-in-the-bubble test is today. This is what school is for.

Mr. Hernandez, the principal of Gelton Elementary, is nervous. If his scores don’t improve by 16% he will be replaced, along with all of the teachers. Last year the scores rose a meager 3%. They must do much better this year. This is their last chance before the State comes in and fires everybody and takes over and with its magic fixes it all.

It is 8:30 and the testing begins. “Do not open your test booklet until you are told to do so. Do not make any stray marks on the answer sheet. If you need to change an answer, completely erase the wrong answer. You will have 3 hours and 55 minutes to finish this test. Open your test booklet to page one. You may begin.” Mrs. Johnson lays down her script and walks around the classroom, monitoring the students. Everything is in order. She sits at her desk and grades some papers, watching the clock. The time pases.

Alex and Haley and Mari and all the others are working very hard, reading each question twice, filling in each bubble completely with their number two pencils, trying to spit all the things back out of their heads that were carefully packed in. Mrs. Johnson is pleased with how hard her class is trying, but is afraid it will not be enough. Then she spots something in the back she finds more troubling. “It’s that strange kid Pete,” she says to herself. “I knew he would do something. That kid’s in a totally different world than everybody else. What has he done to his answer sheet?” She walks over to his desk to get a closer look. The answers on his sheet are bubbled to make a pattern from the dots, a picture. It looks like a crude rendition of a dragon.

Mrs. Johnson feverishly whispers to Pete, “This will not do! You've must take the test! We expect you to try your best! You must answer the questions, not make pictures!” Pete does not respond. “You’ve got to help save our school!" No response. "Pete, if you don’t try your best you will not get the ice cream treat!!!”

Pete does not look up at her. “This is my best dragon,” he says softly.
. . .

“Should we throw it out?” Mrs. Johnson asks Mr. Hernandez. “We can say that Pete was absent.”

“No, that would never work,” replies Mr. Hernandez. “The computer has Pete registered as here today. And also they count all of the answer sheets they give to us. And we can’t even get to them anyway—they’re in the library, guarded by that state testing guy. He never leaves any of the testing materials unattended, he’s always watching them.” Mr. Hernandez paces around his office.

“Look, we’re all going to lose our jobs!” Mrs. Johnson says, on the verge of tears.

“I know, I know,” Mr. Hernandez says. “Let me think about this. There has to be a way.”

“Hey, what if someone pulls the fire alarm?" Mrs. Johnson asks. "Everyone will have to vacate campus, including that state guy, and while the library is empty I can sneak in and make some changes on Pete’s answer sheet.”

“Hmmm, you are very sneaky,” says Mr. Hernandez. “And I think it just might work. Let’s see . . . at 2:00 I’ll go out by room 41 where it's isolated and pull the alarm. You be ready then to sneak into the library.”
. . .

Mrs. Johnson is in her classroom with her kids when at 2:00 the fire alarm goes off. Children begin to methodically file out of each of the classrooms in single file. “Follow Mr. Phelps's class,” she tells her own students as she slips away over to the library. She peeps in the window and sees the state testing guy sitting in there, as if there were no fire alarm at all. She opens the door and pokes her head in. “It’s the fire alarm! Everyone must evacuate the campus!” The man does not move or even respond. “It’s the state law!”she adds. “Everyone must leave!”

The state testing guy finally turns and replies, “I am not subject to your site-laws--I am State Mandated for the SPLT test. I am the ultimate authority here."

Mrs. Johnson is getting desperate. “But there may really be a fire!”

“Oh, there is never a fire, it’s always just a drill or a false alarm,” he answers flatly. "Go have your fire drill."

Just then Mrs. Johnson smells smoke. It’s coming from inside the library. The state guy jumps up and runs over to the testing materials. They have erupted into flame. “Hey, there’s a fire!” he shouts. “The testing materials—we’ve got to save them!” The fire seems to be especially hot and the testing materials seem to burn especially quickly. He runs and grabs a fire extinguisher off the wall and sprays foam into the fire. He puts the fire out.

“Thank goodness you acted so quickly,” Mrs. Johnson says. “Thanks to you, the fire didn't have a chance to spread. Thank goodness no books were harmed.”

“Except the testing materials are burned up!” the state guy cries.
. . .

In the principal’s office there is a little conference being held, consisting of Mr. Hernandez, Mrs. Johnson, and Pete. “Okay, Pete,” says Mr. Hernandez, what do you know about the fire? I know you're involved somehow. This fire could have burned the school down.”

“Why would I try to burn the school down?” Pete asks softly. “I like our school.”

Mrs. Johnson breaks in: “I'm not sure you like our school, Pete. When you were taking the test you didn’t even try to get a good score. You don’t care if our school fails. ”

“I’m the one who saved our school,” Pete says, looking down.

“We need to talk about your connection with this fire,” Mr. Hernandez says. “We have discovered something very strange, and this is why we have called you in to talk to you. In the fire all of the test materials burned up completely, except for just one page--the answer sheet with your dragon on it. It was not touched at all by the fire. Why did it not burn?”

Pete hesitates. Finally he speaks. "A dragon doesn't burn; everything else around it does. That's why it can stay alive. How else could could a fire-breathing dragon keep from burning itself up?"
. . .

It is two weeks later and the SPLT fill-in-the-bubble test is starting one more time at Gelton Elementary. The State has fired their original guy and sent two more in his place who are worse. With them in control no accidents are possible this time. But Mr. Hernandez is not so nervous today. "Open your test booklet to page one," says Mrs. Johnson to her class. "You may begin." She walks around the classroom, monitoring her students. As she gets back near Pete's desk he smiles up at her and she winks back at him.

the journey to Musicianship

2009-04-18T10:06:00.007-06:00

I have always done music. I'm sure that everyone in this family would relate if I described our family's long road trips where the kids in the back made up song after song, singing "alto" and "soprano" and rounds and enjoying the drama of creating various experimental sounds; trying out "vibrato" by shaking the voice, trying out the pop-scoops and other stylized techniques used in popular singing, making up silly songs, making up sad songs, making up songs that have stories.

I have always been a singer.

When I say that I don't mean I've always been a good singer, I just mean that, in my deepest essential desires and pleasures, singing has ranked number one, always.

When I started the music program at Ricks, I realized two things: 1) I didn't have the typical voice for a vocal performance major, and even not really the sort of technique I needed if I wanted to be a music edcuation major and 2) I wasn't sure I wanted that.

I quit the music program and went on to major in Psychology, which I also found I loved. I decided to put singing aside for a while, as it was a source of stress and pain for me, sort of a traumatic reminder of what I thought I had "given up on." It took me about two years to realize that I wasn't happy, not singing. I looked around and tried a few different voice teachers before I found the people I sing with now.

My current teacher wrote his thesis on "beautiful singing" and exactly what that means. He worked with Clayne Robison, a notable voice professor at BYU, who has done lots of research on the subject. Because my teacher's take on what made a performance worthwhile and what makes singing enjoyable helped me to understand my own voice, I thought it might be interesting (in the wake of other discussion about what is good music, etc) to present the ideas here.

According to my teacher's philosophy, there are two types of performance, two points on a continuum. They are "OOOPS" at one end and "UBU" at the other.

OOOPS stands for "The One and Only Opulent Sound." Pear shaped, legato, round, with a pleasant, not-too-wide-not-too-narrow vibrato, this sound is the one that tends to be favored by those who have been educated, or those who are trying to make a career as a classical singer. A good example of this is Placido Domingo. You listen to him and just can't help be in awe of what he can do with his voice (or at least, I can't. I realize that others would hold someone else up as their favorite example).

UBU stands for, "Ugly but Useful." Ugly in this case is a relative term; bascially just a sort of counter to the previous classification. In no way are these voices unpleasant to listen to; they can be stimulating and fun and enjoyable. Think Carol Bernette; not unpleasant, just not the standard. She couldn't be an opera singer, singing the way she does. The magic for her is in the way she is able to shape her voice into a character, and the overall performance can be comedic or pathetic or lovely and powerful.

Almost everyone falls somewhere in the middle. In my case, there is more UBU to my voice than OOOPS. In learning to understand what my purpose was, vocally, I had to understand that yes, people did love to hear me sing! And yes, my voice teacher at Ricks had a problem with my voice. It was confusing to me before, a source of real difficulty and some pain. How could I be a bad singer if people loved to listen to me? And how could I be a good singer if my voice teacher at Ricks told me I wasn't?

It's all about where someone comes from. IN trying to shape my voice into the "standard" so that I could pass juries full of professors who had learned OOOPS as the appropriate measuring stick, I failed miserably. But that is not the only way to sing, the only purpose of singing, the only standard of beauty.

The funny thing is, I have been with this other teacher for five years now. I have improved by leaps and bounds (though there is still leagues of room for improvement) and just now, have I started to feel like I'm capable. I'm a good singer. (I follow that in my mind with an angsty, dang it! See, that's very revealing. I still feel defensive of my voice.) Anyway, just recently, I have come back around, full circle... I'm starting to try to learn how to sing classically. In my heart of hearts, I want so badly to be able to perform classical pieces, to have the lovely pear-shaped tone, to have the fluid, gorgeous vibrato that is neither too loose nor too tight. I want it for myself, and am just beginning to be able to admit this, because I can rest on the truth that I have something good to offer when I sing.

I am curious about all of your musical journeys. I can't believe that this isn't a common experience among musicians... self doubt, frustration, sadness and even a little bit of despair at times as you hone your instruments, whatever they may be, and find your own niche and talents as a performer. I have shared this experience with you because I want to find out if this is a universal experience, and I want to know what all of you had to do to become the musicians that you are.

My Choice

2009-04-15T13:38:00.012-06:00

The projector screen went black. We all breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over. Joseph turned to me and asked, “Are you all right?”

I nodded. But I didn’t say anything because at that moment Phineas was addressing all of us.

“You saw the images, you heard the screams. I do not intend to lie to you, like some would. I refuse to cover up the truth, or to hide the worst from you. Did you see the children starving to death? Did you see the slaves being whipped and beaten? Did you see the women being raped? Did you see the brothers killing each other? Did you see the cruelty, the betrayal? I love you, and I want to protect you. I cannot stand by idly and let you go into that without trying my very utmost to save you from it. That, my friends, my brothers, my sisters, is what you are walking into.”

Then Phineas walked off the stage and left us alone. I turned to Joseph.

“Is that all true, what he said? Would those things really happen?” I asked anxiously. He looked somber and pondered a minute.

“I think it probably is true,” he said at last.

I heaved another great sigh and tried my hardest to block out the gruesome images that kept flashing before me even though the movie had ended. Those images stayed with me and stayed with me, and I could not rid myself of them. The most disturbing part of it all was that I knew those people. Every one of them. Every last one.

***

Joseph and I cried together on a grassy hill. We just held each other and cried. There was nothing else to do. We knew we, along with every other person, would have to make our decision. And we would have to make it soon because time was running out.

I knew that Joseph was strong, and that he would be brave. But what about me?

The image of the child Leah, sobbing weakly, lying in the mud with her skin hanging from her bones, the flies buzzing around her—it haunted me.

But even more than sadness because of the suffering, another feeling overwhelmed me. I was ashamed that it should be so, but it was.

Fear.

How could I do it? I knew which side I wanted to be on, but I was so frightened.

It was all uncertain, and yet all clear at the same time. And I had the power to choose it or not to choose it. The choice and the responsibility were my own.

***

The day had come. Joseph took me by both hands and stared into my eyes.

“Are you ready?” he asked me.

The fear surged over me, more powerful than it had ever been. It enveloped me, thrashed around inside me.

So many unknowns. So many risks. So many so many so many.

But I had already made the decision in my heart. I had made it long ago, and although I was afraid-- I would do it.

I would do it!

Joseph took me by the hand and we went to join the ranks.

***

When the first battle was over, it was over. There had never been any question about who would win and who would lose it. We had all known that Phineas would lose. It wasn’t because he was outnumbered, although he was. It was because he was Wrong.

***

I was afraid, but joyful too. Two opposing emotions that were not so different, after all.

I waved goodbye to Joseph and stepped off the edge.

2009-04-13T01:30:00.003-06:00

Why Do We Do Music?

Some years ago I when was taking a music history class, I had to write a paper, and it caused me to think about my experience with music throughout my life. I compared how music was approached by various people--from professors to old band buddies to family members. Trying to come clear in my mind, I wrote the following:

Why do we do music? Every person, whether consciously aware of it or not, has somewhere in his or her thinking an archetype upon which music is based, independent from rational thinking and conscious purpose. It might be a Game, or a Mathematical Formula, or a perceptual Trick; it might be the dangerous Persuasion of sirens, or magic of a Pied Piper, or doleful sound of a Harp made from a dead sister's breastbone strung with her golden hair; or it might be a Hymn sung in praise to God, or the Song of a mother singing to her child. Music really means something at this level.

It was no accident that I placed as the final item in my list of archetypes, a lullaby. For me, the lullaby is fundamental, and has governed much of my musical thinking and interests over the years--whether overtly or subtly, or part of a contrast. I recently found this analysis of lullabies (which partly gets at the idea for me):

Lullabies are a distinctive kind of song with features shared across cultures--simple repetitive structures, falling pitch contours, repeated syllables. Their performance styles are also distinct, not only for lullabies but for all songs directed to children. These distinctive features--higher pitch, slower tempo, a distinctive timbre, and others--seem to increase the song's emotional expressiveness. . .The children's repertoire is generally simpler than the adult repertoire, often using short phrases repeated time after time with little or no variation, and using three or four pitches within a narrow range. . . children's music in many cultures . . . often seems left over from old rituals that are no longer performed. (William Benzon, Beethoven's Anvil, 2001, 204-205)

On this blog we have had discussions about music before. Now I am wondering what you might think about this idea of a fundamental archetype of music for you individually, whether it be a lullaby, or something from my list above, or something else like a Dance or a Celebration, or some other thing you can identify. Or maybe no dominant thing at all. If this makes any sense to you at all, and you do have something, what is it? If it makes no sense, is there something that does?

Weeds

2009-04-09T12:48:00.002-06:00

The little boy sat disconsolately on the ground. It was a hot day. The small rocks underneath him dug into the soft flesh of his legs and behind, through the thin material of his shorts. He sat cross-legged with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

I’ll never finish it all. Dad’s so mean. I wish I was at Troy’s house playing Xbox.

He sighed and lifted his head to look over the backyard. It was a rather large backyard, as backyards go. A large stretch of grass spread in a circular shape from the middle of the yard and filled two-thirds of the space. Bordering the grass in all directions were little purple rocks neatly enclosed by the outer perimeters of the big stone wall. From where the little boy was sitting, the rocks seemed to stretch on forever in endless purpleness. And springing up everywhere amidst the purple sea were little green tufts. Weeds. It reminded the boy of his family’s trip to the lake the year before. In the shallow places, skinny reeds had stuck up through the water, poking their heads out to wag to and fro with the undulating water. That had been a fun trip. The little boy’s head sank back down into his open palms and he sighed.

Dumb Dad. Why doesn’t he come out here and do it himself if he cares so much about it.

The boy couldn’t see any good reason to waste his time pulling up weeds. They would only grow back. And then he would have to pull them up all over again. It really wasn’t fair. He could just hear his dad’s voice droning the same words over and over again. ‘You’ll never finish if you never start.’ ‘The weeds aren’t just going to pull themselves up.’ ‘I don’t care if it takes you all day, these rocks will be weed-free before you go anywhere today.’

The little boy knew it was true; he wasn’t going anywhere until every last weed was lying in a pile on the ground, roots splayed out limply like a heap of dead squid. He sighed again and stared at the ground.

Fine. I’ll do it. But it’s so unfair. I won’t even do a good job. Dad is so stupid.

He reached for the first one, a tiny little sprout near his right knee that was just barely cresting the top if the rocks surrounding it. His thumb and pointer finger pinched the weed’s tiny stem and pulled it easily from the ground. He brought the weed to his face, squinted at it, and then tossed it aside. Slowly, the boy cleared the small area in front of him.

Scooting into the spot he had just cleared, the boy looked up again over the endless rocks and glared. There were just so many weeds. Again he could hear his dad’s voice in his head. ‘If you did a little every day during the week it wouldn’t be so bad come Saturday.’ ‘A little work every day goes a long way.’

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

The boy reached for the next section and began again to slowly pick the weeds from the ground. He scooted and picked, scooted and picked. After about ten minutes he looked up again to see if he was almost done, but if anything it seemed like he hadn’t started at all. He looked at his fingers which were starting to get hard and slightly brown. He felt a trickle of sweat make its way slowly down the side of his neck. His back was already starting to ache a little. He looked over at his feeble little pile of discarded weeds and groaned. He really didn’t know how he’d ever finish. To pick this many weeds would probably take until next Tuesday- at the soonest. He started again. Scoot and pick, scoot and pick.

About a half hour passed and the boy determined not to look up, hoping that would make the time go faster. When his fingers ached in protest and his back felt ready to snap in half he finally looked up to take a break. He gave a little scream of surprise. Surely there hadn’t been that many weeds before. The ground in front of him seemed so much thicker with weeds than he had thought there were. It must be a trick of being closer up, he reasoned to himself grumpily. Absently, he picked a weed growing next to his hand and threw it behind him towards the growing pile. As he watched, the weeds in front of him seemed to grow slightly, a little taller and a little denser. He blinked twice and squinted at the ground in front of him.

What the…?

He picked another weed, quickly, his gaze fixed in front of him still. Were his eyes playing tricks on him or did the rocks seem to disappear a little more; was there just a little more green in front of him than there was a second ago? He stood up.

Slowly he walked to the center of the worst part of the weeds. Here he could barely see any rocks at all. Squatting down, he closed each hand, on either side of his body, on a clump of weeds and yanked them up, scattering dirt and rocks as he stood up.

There was no question about it. As he watched, the weeds in front of him grew a couple of inches and hundreds more grew in the crowded places between them. He dropped the uprooted weeds in horror and turned around. The small path he had made in the last forty minutes was already almost completely grown over by even bigger and uglier weeds. It couldn’t be possible.

In a frenzy the boy set upon the jungle of weeds and began ripping them out in desperation, not paying attention to where he was weeding, just intent on ripping every last ugly green monster from its place. When he was panting from the effort, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and stood gasping looking around him. For a moment it seemed he had gotten the better of them. Limp, dead weeds lay in scattered heaps everywhere and the ground could be seen again in some spots. The boy grimaced in triumph and wiped his hands against the material of his shorts at his sides.

Stupid weeds.

That was when he noticed something odd about his house. From where he stood it looked like moss was growing on the outside of the back of the house. He ran to get a closer look.

Weeds. Weeds were now growing thickly across the stucco wall. Growing before his very eyes, moving quickly to cover every empty space. He heard a noise and jerked his head in time to see weeds push open the sliding glass door and enter the house.

He could just hear his dad’s voice as he stared in shock at the ever-greener world around him. ‘I told you, a few weeds a day keeps the hard work away.’ ‘There’s no way you’re going to your friend’s house today young man.’

conference notes... April 4 AM session

2009-04-05T08:53:00.004-06:00

I thought it might be fun to have a good conference discussion. I'm taking notes this year. It's been a long time since I've been able to actually sit down and ponder during conference, throughout the whole thing. I'll post about Saturday Morning session... maybe someone else would like to post their thoughts for Saturday Afternoon, and then someone could post for sunday morning, sunday afternoon, etc?

These are just the notes I took, of statements that stood out to me from each talk on Saturday morning.

Conference April 2009

Saturday Morning Session

President Thomas S. Monson:

Elder Neal M Andersen sustained as member of the quorum of the 12.

Perpetual Education fund: 18,900 finished training. On average, increasing income by 3-4 times.

Those who are addressing us have sought heaven's help and direction as they have prepared their messages.

Hymn: Israel, Israel, God is Calling.

Elder Robert D. Hales:

Elder Thomas S. Monson's Service. J Reuben Clark advised, be kind to the poor and look after the widows.

Times of economic uncertainty-- what we learn now can bless us and our posterity for generations to come.

Excessive debt and addictions, choices which have led to lessened freedom of choice.

Turn to the Lord and follow his commandments, want more than anything else to change our lives, to become free of excessive debt and addictions.

Our challenges, including the ones we create with our poor decisions, are a part of our test in mortality. Each test is to strengthen us, not to destroy us. Adversary knows when, where, and how to temtp us. With the help of the Holy Ghost, we can recognize temptation. We can resolve to say, get the behind me Satan, when temptation comes, instead of yielding.

Obtaining this assistance helps us to become provident providers for ourselves and others.

To provide providently we need to follow the principles of provident living.

keep the most basic commandment- thou shalt not covet. Our society is frought with feelings of entitlement. It leads us to buy things we do not really need, and cannot afford. Money we could have use to care for others must now be used to pay for debts.
The four most caring words for those we care for are, we cannot afford it.
When faced with the choice to buy consume or engage in worldy actvities, we need to say to one another-- we cannot afford to buy it, even though we want it. Or we can say, we can afford it, but we don't need it, and we don't really want it.
The foundation of the law of provident living is the law of the tithe. To willingly make sacrifices for others. The good, equitable law-- we pay ten percent no matter rich or poor. The cost of two consecutive meals-- fast offering.
Establish a family budget. Discuss it in family counsel meetings. Make goals to save for, help each other to reach that goal. By not satisfying our most immediate want, we obtain family memories that are unforgettable.
The addiction is the craving of the natural man, and it can never be satisfied. It is insatiable, an unfulfillable appetite.

We have to promise: I will do whatever it takes, in order to become free of these cravings and addictions.

The hunger of addiction can only be replaced by our love for Him.

Become provident providers for ourselves and others, both temporally and spiritually.

Margaret S. Lifferth.

We must cultivate in our homes and classrooms to cultivate respect and reverence. Respect for each other and reverence for God.

Our ability to have reverence for God, is cultivated in our showing respect for one another.

am I an example of respect in my home, by the way I teach others?
Do I show respect for the property of others as well as I take care of my own.

Reverence is profound respect, mingled with love.
Harshness in our training begets resentment, not reverence. Be kind, reasonable in our expectations. We are not only teaching our child his first lessons in reverence, but the child is exercising his own first efforts in self-discipline.
exemplify reverence as we pray reverently
hand scriptures reverently
show proper respect for general authorities and local priesthood leaders.
Reverence in chapels
Often the child that is most disruptive needs love the most. Explain lovingly, show discipline that is consistent and respectful to the child. President Packer: a quiet change will take place if we apply principles of reverence.

Michael A. Nieder: Young Men general second counselor.

We should become dedicated students. Of revealed principles and topics. Priesthood leaders must do their homework.

Allan F. Packer.

We can have full and satisfying lives even as we face challenges. Prophecies are being fulfilled, time to prepare for the Savior's return. Time to work out our own salvation.

WE must know how to receive spiritual revelation. We must know, and know that we know.

Understanding God the Father is the father of all our spirits, and loves us.
Jesus Christ is the savior.
The Holy Ghost communicates with us through promptings.

Practice until the skills of receiving revelation and recognizing promptings becomes automatic.

Become acquainted with the voice of the spirit, the promptings, so that we hear them and can pick them out in a crowd. These promptings become the foundation of our testimonies, which can keep ups happy
and safe during troubled times.

First we must have the desire. The desire is the seed.

And if it is right, I shall cause that your bosom shall burn within you, and ye shall know that it is right.

Revelation: when you feel pure intelligence flowing to you. Give you sudden strokes of ideas. By learning and understanding the spirit of God, you may grow in the spirit of revelation.

Sometimes people feel they need to have an experience like Joseph Smith's vision... if we feel we need something, we miss answers that are quiet, reassuring feelings and thoughts, most often come after our prayers while we are doing something else. Be ready at all times to receive revelations.

Asking for a testimony of truth opens the window of revelation. Ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you.

By the power of the Holy Ghost we may know the truth of all things which are right, and expedient for us.

This is a great time to be alive. The Lord needs each one of us. Our Heaveny Father is the father of our spirits, Jesus Christ of our redeemer and Savior, and the Holy Ghost is the means through which we receive inspiration and guidance.

D. Todd Christofferson. (quorum of 12).

We have all we need-- temple blessings and the gospel. With the Lord's help, we can build again.

If we are faithful to our temple covenants, we become inherriters not only of our blessings promised there, and the celestial kindgom.

The new and everlasting covenant: doctrines and covenants of the gospel. “For God So Loved the World that He Gave His Only Begotten Son, That Whosoever Will Believe in Him Shall Not Die, But Have Everlasting Life.”

Making and keeping covenants gives us the power to smile through hardships, convert tribulation into triumph. Bring to pass much righteousness.

we enjoy a continual flow of blessings.
Those blessings provide the resources we need to act, rather than simply being acted upon.
Our participation in ordinances demonstrates our commitment to become...
endowed with power from on high
A message of Grace.

When we've entered into divine covenants the Holy Ghost becomes our comforter and our guide.

The Lord's promise: You shall not be confounded before men.
The Holy Spirit of Promise: seals God's promises upon you.
Divine covenants make strong Christians.

Seal all orrdinances you can, then faithfully fulfill your promises by covenant.

God will sustain you as you work and watch.

God will reveal himself in your life, “Here am I.”

God will bless you in good measure, pressed down, running over, and shaken together.

Hymn: Consider the Lilies.

Henry B. Eyering.

I've had a witness that he's called of God.
We have one challenge in common: we will all deal with adversity. The arrival of suffering can bring fear and sometimes, even anger, when long periods of comfort come to an end. Good health, financial security, etc.

“How could this happen?” Especially painful when the struggling are those whom we love. The distress can shake faith. Some of us have seen such doubt come to infect a whole generation of people, in times of war or famine. Until some may turn away from God, whom they charge with being “indifferent” or “cruel.”

My purpose is to assure you that the Savior and our Heavenly Father live and love all of us.
To walk as God walks and to think as He thinks. For us to have that gift and to be given that trust, we must be transformed by making righteous choices, for that is hard to do.

He knows from experience how to heal and help us. The Book of Mormon gives us the certain reassurance that He knows how to comfort.

Alma: And He shall go forth suffering pain and afflictions and temptations of every kind, that the word may be fulfilled:

that he will take upon them their infirmities that His bowels may be filled with mercy... that he may know how to succor his people according to their infirmities.

Even knowing this, your trials may still test your faith and ability to endure. Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail.

“Things will work out.” Tragedy did not erode their faith; it tested it, and strengthened it.

One of the great trials of life: losing to death a husband or wife. Most of us know widows who need attention.

After ye have done all these things, and turn away the needy, and the sick, and impart not of your substance, your prayers are in vain. Ye are as hypocrites. Help anyone who has less, even if your own resources are scanty.

Comfort others in the midst of your own trials.

“I'm going to make it.”

Hymn: I know that my Reedeemer Lives.

2009-04-04T00:47:00.007-06:00

Waterfall

Yosemite. One of the tourist stops along the valley floor is beautiful Bridalveil Falls. Jim and I finally managed to find a parking space amid the throngs of cars and people, and we hiked up the little walkway an eighth of a mile to the railed-in area designated for observation and taking pictures of the falls. We could feel the mist from where we were standing, but we were still pretty far from the actual base of the falls. Jim said he wanted to experience the real thing, up close. So being young and still invulnerable, we ignored the warning signs that were posted all around (someone said just that morning a kid had slipped and had to be taken out by ambulance), and headed for the real place of action--where the 620 foot fall actually hits bottom.

The closer we got, the thicker the spray, until it seemed almost like we were swimming--the air itself was full of water, though somehow we could still breathe. There were no people around us now, and we further picked our way very carefully among the slick rocks. We could now see up close where the massive torrent of water was hitting, and we discovered there was a little pool around it. We stepped into the pool and were surprised that, while the spray all around was turbulent and even painful on our skin, the little pool itself turned out to be calm below the surface; so we huddled down into the water as a refuge from the spray.

We looked straight up and watched the huge mass of falling water for a few minutes, and then suddenly Jim jumped up and said, "I'm going to go to see what it's like under where the water's hitting."

It was hard because the roaring water was so loud, but I had heard what he said. "You're crazy," I shouted.

"It's okay, I just want to go under there where the water's actually hitting."

"Don't do it!" I shouted. "There's a strong current there--you'll get sucked under! You may never get out!"

"Here, take hold of my hand." He stretched his hand out towards me. "If I have any problem, I'll let you know by a couple of tugs on your arm, and you can pull me out."

Such trust, I thought. If he trusts me that much, I'm up to it. He grabbed my hand and then we waded up to our necks toward the point of contact. Then Jim was gone into that turbulent water, and his only lifeline to the world was the clasping of our two hands.
. . . .

The aged man was dressed in long, dark robes. "Welcome to the portal of the Universal Archive," he said.

"Portal? Universal Archive? I don't understand." Jim said.

"This is the gateway to the Greatest of all Libraries," the man said. "Every great thinker throughout time has longed to find this archive. Herein you can learn everything there is to know. You can know everything True. And everything False if you desire that as well. Herein you will find the key of Progress. You will learn the Secret of the Universe!"

"Why are you offering this to me?" Jim asked.

"Because you are here," the man said. "Come, the opportunity is before you now, but it will soon pass. All you need to do is let go of your friend's hand, and you shall enter to learn the Great Secret of the Universe."

Jim looked through the Portal and he could see a cavernous room with shelves stretching far back into the mountain. Millions, probably billions of books. Scrolls and tablets of all shapes and sizes. Unlimited knowledge. All hidden things revealed.

Jim hesitated, not sure, wondering.

Do I really want all of this knowledge? Do I deserve all of this knowledge? Would I be happy with it? Is there not a good reason why I, as a weak mortal, must be kept in ignorance? Is my character strong enough to handle knowing all things? Would I lust for power, for wealth? Would I swell in pride, to know more than anyone else?

On the other hand, what good might I do for the human race if I were to receive this knowledge? How can I possibly deny this opportunity to serve my fellow beings? With the acquisition of knowledge, would not my judgment and character be enabled to correspondingly grow as well? How can I become my best self if I am unwilling to take a risk? Might I be the only hope for humanity in these perilous times of nuclear weapons and biological warfare? How could any person not desire to know the Secret of the Universe? Why would I not . . .

It had been long enough, Jim should have come out by now. With all of my strength, and grasping his hand as tight as I possibly could, I pulled Jim towards me out of that turbulent water, back into the safe part of the little pool. Jim said nothing, and just stared back into the waterfall.

At that moment, there was a piercing voice through a loudspeaker: "Hey, you kids get away from that waterfall! You are not authorized to be in this area! Move! Now!" I immediately climbed out of the pool, but Jim just stood there in the water, staring longingly into the massive spray. "I said move, you dumb kid!" A ranger plunged into the water and grabbed Jim by the shoulders and pulled him out. Jim did not struggle--he seemed to have lost his will. As we made our way back he kept turning around to gaze at the waterfall, as if by staring into it he might discern some great secret.

Arrows in the hand of a mighty man

2009-03-31T10:43:00.011-06:00

I found this scripture last night, and I thought the imagery and symbolism were really cool:

3 Lo, ^achildren are an ^bheritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is his ^creward.

4 As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth.

5 ^aHappy is the man that hath his quiver full of them: they shall not be ashamed, but they shall speak with the enemies in the gate.

(Psalms 127:3-5)

2009-03-28T10:38:00.006-06:00

Ephraim?

Is the Word of Wisdom especially tailored to Ephraim (in the Last Days, the tribe to be restored first to prepare the way for the others, etc.)? May they have a tendency for weakness in certain areas? Is this a reason why the Word of Wisdom was given—to help modern Ephraim avoid their stumbling block when confronting worldly vices? Not only alcohol, but other substances are a scourge in our times.

I offer here a comparison of Isaiah 28 and D&C 89, looking for common themes and images in order to explore the possible relation between these two revelations. Revelations come from a common source and may be more interelated than we might realize. (Or perhaps the relationships in this case are mostly part of my own imagination.)

KEY:
In what follows: Isaiah 28 is in regular type. D&C 89 is in italics. Points of contact are in bold. (Not all similarities are of equal significance, some may have no significance. Some are similar in imagery, but not context--can imagery be an independent system? One thing is sure: the way to find things is to search for them.)

1 WOE to the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim, whose glorious beauty is a fading flower, which are on the head of the fat valleys of them that are overcome with wine!
2 Behold, the Lord hath a mighty and strong one, which as a tempest of hail and a destroying storm, as a flood of mighty waters overflowing, shall cast down to the earth with the hand. . .
21 And I, the Lord, give unto them a promise, that the destroying angel shall pass by them, as the children of Israel, and not slay them. . .

3 The crown of pride, the drunkards of Ephraim, shall be trodden under feet: . .
5 That inasmuch as any man drinketh wine or strong drink
20 And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint. . .

4 And the glorious beauty, which is on the head of the fat valley, shall be a fading flower, and as the hasty fruit before the summer; which when he that looketh upon it seeth, while it is yet in his hand he eateth it up. . .
11 Every herb in the season thereof, and every fruit in the season thereof; all these to be used with prudence and thanksgiving. . .

5 In that day shall the LORD of hosts be for a crown of glory, and for a diadem of beauty, unto the residue of his people, . .
2 . . .showing forth the order and will of God in the temporal salvation of all saints in the last days-- . . .
19 And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures . . .

6 And for a spirit of judgment to him that sitteth in judgment, and for strength to them that turn the battle to the gate. . .
7 But they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way; the priest and the prophet have erred through strong drink, they are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment. 8 For all tables are full of vomit and filthiness, so that there is no place clean. . .
9 Whom shall he teach knowledge? and whom shall he make to understand doctrine? . .
5 That inasmuch as any man drinketh wine or strong drink among you, behold it is not good, neither meet in the sight of your Father . . .
19 And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures . . .
20 And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint.

See also 2 Nephi 28:77 for this prophecy of our time: Yea, and there shall be many which shall say: Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die; and it shall be well with us.

Would I do the same?

2009-03-24T17:45:00.005-06:00

My friend made an interesting hypothesis a while ago- she said that you see people doing things for the same reason you would do them. This caused me to reflect and I felt a little ashamed. When you are irritated with someone because you think they've snubbed you or you feel like they went out of their way to be unkind- does it mean that you would do the same to someone? I guess the Savior knows why we all of us do what we do, he understands human nature perfectly but he's not like that at all. What do you think?

Who's responsible for my health?

2009-03-24T14:54:00.001-06:00

Have you seen "Supersize Me"? Basically the movie is a self documentary, about this this guy who decides to eat at McDonalds three times a day, breakfast, lunch and dinner, for 30 days. He ordered a "value meal" each time, and if the counter person asked him if he would "like that supersized" he would say yes. So, that was his experiment, to see what would happen to him. In the end he gained a whole bunch of weight, and all kinds of health problems. Before the 30 day experiment was up, his doctor told him he better stop or he might die from the complications. I can't remember if the guy stopped before the 30 days or not.

I just went through the McDonalds drive through for lunch. Over the speaker the lady asked me if I would like my value meal "large sized" because it is on sale. When I got up to the window, I asked her if they changed the "super size" name to "large size." She said that large size is smaller than super size, and they don't have super size anymore because the guy who made the Supersize Me movie sued McDonalds and many of the McDonalds stores lost (I don't know if she meant went out of business or what). So, this guy ON PURPOSE eats McDonalds super sized meals three times a day for 30 days, his doctor tells him to stop or he is going to die. Then he sues McDonalds. What do you think about that?

Top Ten

2009-03-21T20:48:00.002-06:00

Just to continue the technology discussion...

Top Ten reasons why technology makes our lives easier.

10) Cell phones have become smaller and smaller so that you can keep them anywhere and also lose them anywhere.

9) Cell phones also have special features now, like silent vibration and text messaging, that make it possible for any one of your aquaintances to track you down anywhere, anytime, if there's an emergency or if there's not.

8) Cars make it possible to get to farther places faster than our pioneer ancestors, so that we can get jobs in big cities and have homes in the suburbs, because the commute is only an hour and a half, and with eight to ten hours at work, that leaves approximately a half-hour of waking time actually at home with our families.

7) Television creates an opportunity for the entertainment geniuses of our time to do their stuff, and we have the opportunity to watch it five hours a day, seven days a week, time during which, if you use it to practice the piano or acting or tai kwon do, you could develop some pretty phenomenal entertaining abilities yourself.

6) Farming has now become industrial, and so a much bigger number of people can be supported by a much smaller number of farmers who employ techniques such as pest-spraying, unseasonal harvesting, and chemical preserving in order to actually be able to have the time to grow enough food to support such a large number of people.

5) The internet has made it possible to find any piece of information, anywhere, and it's so easy, even young children can use it; and do, every day.

4) With calculators, math is so much quicker and easier; in fact, they make it so quick, and so easy, that there are times when I've forgotten how to do long division.

3) With a credit card, it is much easier to go shopping, because you don't have to carry all this confusing cash around, and also you can buy all the groceries you want even at the end of the month.

2) With a digital camera, you can take hundreds of beautiful pictures of everything of importance in life and the colors and image are so true to life that you hardly even feel left out seeing all of this through the camera lens.

1) A computer is an amazing thing. Life is so much more organized, quick, and efficient, you can get so much done with a computer, it's even worth the hours each day of time spent figuring out how to make it work right.

2009-03-21T10:22:00.002-06:00

The Dog and the Turnip

Once there was a lost dog. I don't know how he got so far from the farm where he lived--maybe he chased a cat too long, or maybe he was led away by a strange scent. Or maybe he just wandered away one night while he was dreaming. Once the dog realized he could not find his way home, he sauntered along the road, roaming this way and that, as dogs do.

There was a wide and spacious field near the road, and growing in the field was a turnip. The turnip called out to the dog, saying, "Ho there! You look like you're lost. Come over into this field and spend your days here." So the dog stayed in the field, catching mice for food. He amused himself by chasing butterflies. He comforted himself by rolling in the grass. He fulfilled his sense of achievement by barking all day and all night and all day and all night, until he was completely worn out. And he slept.

One day the dog said, "I'm lonely. I miss my family and I miss the farm. I want to go home."
"You don't ever need to go home," the turnip replied. "In this field we have all we could ever ask for. I am perfectly satisfied to spend my days here."

"But you are a turnip," replied the dog. "A dog needs more."

So the dog leapt up and ran out of the field, and back down the road again. After a few minutes, he heard a familiar voice calling him. The Farmer had been searching along that road for him ever since he was lost.

P.S.

2009-03-20T11:23:00.004-06:00

"And yeah, if you are having children right now you are being selfish. You’re stealing. Stealing from the future. Stealing from the rest of humanity. Stealing from every living thing on the earth right now." --Steven Kotler

Just so you know, this conversation has still been going on here.

question of the day

2009-03-20T09:46:00.001-06:00

Will there be soloists in heaven?

Religion "Fixed in Human Nature"

2009-03-19T08:54:00.003-06:00

http://newsweek.washingtonpost.com/onfaith/panelists/michael_otterson/2009/03/fixed_in_human_nature.html#

This is an article that was recently published in the Washington Post written by the head of public affairs for the church. It isn't about our church, at least not directly, but about faith being "fixed in human nature." It's a short article, written simply. I was curious what each of you thought of the article and the truth of what it talks about.

P.S. I have really enjoyed everyone's posts, even if I haven't had the time yet to comment as I would like to each of them. We have a wonderful family.

Is all music created equal?

2009-03-18T15:55:00.000-06:00

Over the last several years, I have been contemplating the universe of music. I think this forum is a good place to discuss this, as we have many musicians, composers and thinkers lurking about. Some highly educated in music, some not (in the traditional sense). I think views of both are equally important in relation to this subject.

There are experiences that I have had over the last several years that have brought questions to my mind.

Having a member of my family become obsessed with a style of music that I can’t stand (I only refer to the music itself, not any other social aspects associated with the music)- Its not that I just don’t prefer it, I really, truly can’t listen to it, I have to wear ear plugs. It causes me physical distress. On the other hand, this family member can hear all kinds of qualities in this music, melodic lines, expert playing, etc. (this person has analyzed this style of music in depth). Also, another family member says that this same style of music makes him happy, and gives him comfort. How could the exact same music give the feelings of peace and happiness in one person, and be so absolutely opposite to another, creating nausea and headache?

In church- sometimes there are musical numbers presented in a way that takes away the spirit for me, yet brings the spirit to others. How is that possible? Isn’t the spirit either there or not?

A conversation with the highly educated- I had the opportunity to work with very highly educated, respected performers last weekend (with prestigious colleges degrees and many years of study). In discussing audiences with them (or the lack of audience rather) they tried to explain why: that music composed and performed on the highest level draws the smallest audience. They explained it by associating it with learning math. When a person is young and just starting to learn to think, they learn the very basics of math. Addition. As they get the idea, they learn multiplication. Later, when they are ready, they learn complicated equations. Those who dedicate their lives to understanding math study, research, and come to know the most important, complicated math of all and how it relates to the universe. However, those who are still only doing addition can’t be expected to understand on the highest level. Is the understanding of music like this, is this a good analogy? In a lesson with one of these highly educated people, she told me that her job as a musician isn’t to interpret the music herself, but to do her best to recreate the music that the composer intended. In fact, I mentioned to one of them after a concert that I liked their interpretation of something (which I realized later could have been considered derogatory).

Conversations with the uneducated- When discussing music with those who don’t have a traditional education, say- folk musicians. They learn from hearing others play the music that they have heard their whole lives. They enjoy it and it is embedded into their entire being. It represents their culture, life experiences and even gives them identity. They don’t know what key or mode they play in, or how to even read music. Top folk musicians in the field are extremely skilled players, just as skilled at playing their own music as no. 3 above.

Conversation with Jazz musicians, who are also highly educated- They consider themselves successful if they can take a tune or song and give it their own interpretation that will inspire some sort of sentiment in the audience (and with each other). Their whole purpose in music is to give their own interpretations through improvisation with the music changing every time it is performed. Like a moving river.

Conversation with school teachers- In our district, the school administrators are cutting the orchestra program, which I have been working hard with others to establish in the schools. We currently have a very strong band and choir program, which aren’t getting cut. The administration sees music as music, to cut the “fringes” to save money in hard economic times. Is orchestra a fringe music. Is orchestra more of a fringe music in our society than band or orchestra? Also, an interesting phenomena- the students who are serious about their academic studies are also drawn to strings classes (orchestra) over band and choir (as much as people don’t want to admit it, it’s true). What does this mean, if anything?

The funny thing to me is, each of the above categories of people think they know what music is, and what it is for, and most of them will never agree. So what is music? Is it something to be studied and understood (which is the only real way to fully appreciate it)? Is it something that should be measured by how it makes a person feel? Is it something that exists as an avenue for people to express how they feel or think?

It is interesting for me, to have the opportunity to associate with all sorts of musicians from different universes. Each thinks they have the real vision of what music is, and the purpose of it. Perhaps there is no such thing as music at all. The only thing the exists is people’s perceptions.

2009-03-14T17:13:00.001-06:00

In the Thicket

Skunk came running into the meadow. “There’s something wrong in the forest!” he cried. “There’s a wrong smell there!”

“What kind of smell is it?” asked Deer.

“I can’t really say, but it’s wrong,” replied Skunk.

“Where in the forest is it?” asked Rabbit.

“Come and see!” said Skunk. He ran back into the wood, looking over his shoulder, beckoning for Deer and Rabbit to follow him. After a little while Skunk pointed towards a large oak tree. “The smell is coming from over there somewhere,” he said.

“That’s where Bluebird lives,” said Deer. As the three of them approached the tree they noticed that on the ground there were twigs and pieces of straw scattered everywhere.

“Look up in the tree,” cried Rabbit. “Bluebird’s nest is gone! I think those things on the ground are all parts of it.” As Rabbit said this, she hopped all around the base of the tree, looking for signs of Bluebird.

“Bluebird!” shouted Deer, “Where are you? Bluebird, are you all right?”

“The smell’s coming from the thicket over there,” Skunk said, pointing to a thicket just beyond the oak tree. “And look, I think that’s Bluebird over in the thicket, too.”

As the three came close to the thicket, they saw Bluebird, and also two other birds, Robin and Jaybird, all huddling together in the bushes.

“Bluebird,” Deer called out. “Are you all right? What happened to your nest?”

“I didn’t need that nest anymore,” replied Bluebird. “We have a much better nest down here in the thicket.”

“But don’t birds of your kind build nests up in trees?” asked Rabbit.

“We always thought we had to,” Bluebird replied. “We just did it that way naturally, you know. But now we have found a better way to make a nest, haven’t we, girls?”

“We sure have,” chirped Robin and Jaybird.

Deer and Rabbit shrugged and turned to go, but Skunk was uneasy. “There’s a wrong smell in there,” he said, “I’m sure of it.”

. . . .

Back when the Visitor first arrived, she brought exotic ideas that Bluebird, Robin and Jaybird had never before imagined. “If you make your nest out of twigs and straw and other junk you find lying around, of course it’s going to look gunky and crude. There are finer materials available that I can help you get.”

“Would you really do that for us?” asked Bluebird.

“I would,” said the Visitor. “But even if you had the right materials, what would you do with them? Now, I know some very elegant plans for nests. They’re not that different in concept from the ones you make—you’d feel right at home—but they’re very intricate in design and the pattern is delightful and beautiful.”

“Oh, would you help us with that, too?” asked Robin.

“I would,” said the Visitor. “But the best thing is that the nest I help you make would be so much more useful to you than your nests are now. The way you live now, you must spend so much time out flying around looking for food. What a hard life! Such hard work, flying! Your nest could actually relieve this problem. You can have a nest with a real purpose--one that gives you food!”

“Would you really help us make a nest like that?” asked Jaybird.

“I would,” said the Visitor.

“Well, when can we start?” asked the three birds, excited.

“Well, how about right now?” said the Visitor. “But let’s not make it up in a tree, where you’re forced to fly around all the time. Let’s make it right down here in the thicket, a very good spot. And look, I have some fine thread right here with me now. Here, let me show you.” The Visitor was very quick and adept as she started weaving with all eight of her legs.

. . . . .

“The forest is so quiet these days,” said Deer.

“I know there’s something missing, but what is it?” said Rabbit.

“It’s Bluebird and Robin and Jaybird,” said Skunk. “They don’t sing anymore. And none of their little birdlings sing either. In fact, I don’t think there are any birdlings anymore.”

“How sad,” said Deer. And he and Rabbit ran off to play.

Skunk sat there looking towards the forest. “There’s something not right in that thicket,” he said to himself. “There’s a bad smell in there.”

some cool pictures

2009-03-12T13:37:00.002-06:00

My sister in law took that you might be interested in. Make sure ya scroll down just a little...