Fiction: Their Serene Majesties

Once upon a time, in the faraway land of Arevnia, there lived a handsome king and a beautiful queen. Their Serene Majesties lived in a strong, beautiful castle set midway between the top of a beautiful mountain and a beautiful valley with a long, beautiful lake that trailed off beautifully into the distance. And all their people loved them, and they were very happy.

Just not with each other.

Theirs was a match made in, at best, one of Heaven’s slums, where the Protestant work ethic had never taken root. Heaven’s management held to a strict policy of “no comment” on the matter.

They had loved each other well at first, and had gone to the altar full of joy. Shortly thereafter, however, they began to notice little habits and idiosyncracies and one strained nerve led to another, as will happen. Passion’s flame flickered and faded and they then saw each other in the light of cold wax and charred wick and took a dim view of the subject. Rather than live and let live and love, as wiser couples learn to do, King Arvid and Queen Shelly took counsel of General Grant near Spotsylvania Courthouse and fought it out on that line all summer. And into the fall. And winter…

Continue reading “Fiction: Their Serene Majesties”

Fiction: One True Man

“Let me be certain I understand you,” the president said. “You are arguing against prosecution.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” he said.

“Even though we have clearly identified the lawbreakers and have ample evidence to prosecute and gain convictions.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” he repeated.

“You’ll need to explain why again.”

“Mr. President,” he began, “I firmly believe it is in everyone’s best interest to simply move on from this point; my colleagues and I all agree on this. We don’t wish to wallow in the past. The people are tired of this matter and want to put it behind them.”

“How can we possibly do that?” the president cried out.

“Mr. President, those at the top who organized it all are gone. There is, obviously, a new administration in power and we know that similar things will not happen. To hold these people accountable for the things they were ordered to do would be unfair. They were doing their jobs to the best of their abilities, and even though matters went much further than any of us would have wanted, prosecutions won’t change what has happened.”

“What about the simple, old-fashioned concepts of law and order and justice?” the president demanded.

The other man sighed slightly. “Sir, those are very high-minded ideals, but many of us believe following them blindly is not pragmatic at this time. These men who could go on trial were among the brightest and most capable. If we prosecute them, it will send a signal that government service is dangerous and no place for bright, capable people.”

“These men have lied, have sanctioned torture, and have had people killed. That doesn’t deserve a response from our legal system?”

“Mr. President, we greatly fear that any prosecution could establish the precedent for a new administration taking revenge on the previous one every time there is a regime change. It would be politically destabilizing.”

“The people we’re talking about prosecuting deserve their day in court to plead their cases,” the president replied, “and the rest of us deserve to see that no one, no matter how highly placed, is above the law. Tamper with that and you tamper with the foundation of civilized society.”

“Mr. President, again, these are fine ideals, but…”

“But nothing!” the president fumed, and he slammed his open hand down on his desk. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit! The trials will go forward, as scheduled, in Nuremberg. And I hope I never again see the day when any official of the United States would shy away from our sacred responsibility to justice. Get the hell out of my office!”

The defeated bureaucrat slunk out of the Oval Office in the direction Truman’s finger pointed.

“How do people get into government without understanding its most basic functions?” Truman mused. “I can only hope this pusillanimous attitude doesn’t spread.”

Fiction: Noisy Neighbor

“Maddie! You’ve just gotten here and already you look like it’s time to go home. What’s the matter?”

“Emily, I hardly got a wink of sleep last night. You remember how I’ve told you about that old lady who lives next door to me? The widow?”

“Yes?”

“The one who always turns up her radio, or turns up her TV because she’s half deaf and can’t hear it. Well, I’ll tell you this! Everyone else in the building can hear her radio or her TV.”

“Oh, dear. Was she at it again last night?”

“I’m telling you! She’d been up and down with it throughout the evening, and I’d have to bang a little on the wall. ‘Mrs. Kevitz!’ I’d yell. ‘Mrs. Kevitz! Turn that racket down over there!’ And just as I’m settling in and going to sleep, I’m getting Danny Thomas yelling at his bratty son on a rerun of that old Make Room for Daddy!”

“Oh!”

Continue reading “Fiction: Noisy Neighbor”

Fiction: Accept Our Condolences

Marla started working her way through the pile of mail that the girls had been stacking up on the end table. It was mostly sympathy cards, of course. The electric bill, punctual as always. A reminder from her dentist that it was time for her checkup – as if she cared about her teeth after losing the man she’d loved. And an envelope bearing the name of a local law firm. She opened it.

“Dear Mrs. Furst:

“Please accept our condolences on the sudden death of your husband, Jacob. He was quite pleasant to know and we were pleased to have done some work for him shortly before his death.

“Enclosed is a bill for services we rendered before his untimely demise, in the matter of the divorce proceedings he was about to initiate. Needless to say, these arrangements had not been completed, nor had he finalized his new will to include his son, Samuel, by Ms. Torie Champel, whom he was planning to marry at a later date. She has retained our services and you may expect to hear from us again regarding that matter and Samuel’s share in the estate.

“All payments are due 30 days after the date on the invoice.

“Again, we are sorry for your loss.

“Sincerely…”

Fiction: Easter Bunny

Nothing like getting up for sunrise Easter services to make for a long day, Ruth thought. It wasn’t such a problem even a few years ago, but now…

Her niece, Clio, and Clio’s husband and two girls came over to take her to church. As always, the service was beautiful, although Ruth was a little distracted.

They went back to Clio’s home afterward for a big brunch and the children explored the goodies in their Easter baskets. Clio drove her Aunt Ruth home about 1 p.m.

“You’re a little quiet today, Aunt Ruth,” Clio said, keeping her eyes on the street.

“Am I? Well, perhaps.”

“I know; it’s not the same.”

Ruth smiled a little. “Nothing is ever the same, dear. Even in our most carefully practiced traditions, something changes, whether large or small.” She sighed. “This latest change, though, is harder to get used to. The hardest one since Mother and then Father died. I’d had years of small changes, or of exciting changes, like your girls coming along. Losing Esther…” She trailed off.

Continue reading “Fiction: Easter Bunny”

Fiction: Corner Pocket

Jeff stared as the second hand on his watch ticked away another hour, winding his mind tighter and tighter.

There was a morbid fascination with watching the seconds of one’s life tick away irrevocably. People did it in all sorts of ways, not realizing that was what they were doing: microwave oven timers, a New Year’s Eve countdown. Whenever someone would say something like, “I’ll see you in two weeks,” what it really meant was, “When two more weeks of my life are over, then I’ll see you.” When someone said, “I wish it was the weekend already,” it meant, “I have no use for the days of my life between now and then.”

Every deadline, every scheduled event was a way of keeping track of more of life going by.

Jeff was entering the fourth hour of watching the second hand grind away the moments of his life. There would not be a fifth.

And what, really, was the difference between watching the time tick by on a wristwatch and what his mother and grandmother were doing? They had gone to the church to pray, and they had doubtless been saying the rosary for as long as Jeff had been watching his watch.

The results would be the same.

Few had seriously considered a threat from the stars. That was the stuff of science fiction. And politicians define as “a waste of money” anything that doesn’t immediately pay off for them personally. Thus, no deep space early warning system, and no countermeasures for asteroids taking aim at humanity’s only home.

This one was special, too: it wasn’t going to hit the Earth. Not directly. It was going to hit the back side of the moon at just the right angle to smash it and rain continent-sized missiles down on the planet.

Jeff continued to stare at his watch. After the long vigil, it finally read 6:18.

This, the scientists said, would be the moment of impact in orbit.

Only moments to go now, Jeff knew. And he sat in his home, shut away from the praying and the crying and the screaming, watching the second hand of his watch. His mother had given him the watch as a high school graduation present only the year before. A simple inscription was engraved on the back: Psalm 90:12.

It had been his late father’s favorite verse and Jeff hadn’t had to look it up: “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”

The loudest and last sonic boom Jeff would ever hear shattered the silence. And the windows. And the planet.

Einstein told us that God doesn’t play dice with the universe, Jeff thought just before he died. But he does play billiards.

Fiction: Folding Money

The police sergeant closed the door to the interrogation room and waved the other man to a seat.

“Now, Mr. Legier, as I said on the phone, I believe we have found your missing wallet which was stolen from you five weeks ago,” Sergeant Kaplan said. If you could just describe it for me, please.”

“Certainly. It’s a simple brown bi-fold wallet. Rather well used; it’s not new. It had my name in it.”

“Anything … unusual about it that might help further identify it, Mr. Legier?”

“Well, not really,” he said, and paused. “I mean, it had my driver’s license and grocery store club card and library card and such things.”

“So there’s nothing, shall we say, peculiar … at all … about this wallet? Mr. Legier?” Sergeant Kaplan lowered his head and looked over his glasses at Mr. Legier. His eyebrows were up in his hairline and there was great meaning in his stare, which Mr. Legier understood.

“Well, it …” He stopped. “It makes money,” he admitted quietly.

Continue reading “Fiction: Folding Money”

Fiction: Open Mic Night

“And next up for Open Mic Night at Barney’s Cantina is … whoa! I have no idea how to pronounce this person’s name. Just give a big hand to whoever this is and maybe she’ll tell you.”

A light shower of applause greeted the young woman as she took the small stage in the bar and grill. A couple of men whistled at her and she looked in their direction and smiled.

She was about 5 foot 5 with long, wavy blonde hair and a perfect hourglass figure. The top three buttons on her blouse were unbuttoned and she seemed to enjoy leaning forward just a bit. Her skirt was short enough to attract equal attention.

“Good evening, Barney’s!” she called, and was rewarded with cheers and more whistles. “My name is Mwffu Tywnx, but you can call me Muffy if it’s easier. Not like we’re going to get to know each other real well anyway … as my people are going to conquer the Earth tomorrow and enslave every last one of you.”

Continue reading “Fiction: Open Mic Night”

Fiction: Wish Fulfillment

The apartment door opened and closed. Emily set her purse down and hung her coat on the hook. When she walked into the living room she stopped cold at the sight of an unfamiliar woman sitting in the rocking chair.

The woman looked down at the cat in her lap. “See? I told you she’d be home soon.” She looked up at Emily. “I haven’t been here long, Ms. Ware; just long enough for Ribbons to get comfortable.”

“Who are you?” Emily asked.

“Please don’t be frightened, Ms. Ware. I’m here to help you.” And she smiled a friendly little smile. “My name is Paula.”

Continue reading “Fiction: Wish Fulfillment”

Fiction: The Master of Rusbridge Manor

Dr. Sir Jonas Clark Sheppy stood on the balcony of Rusbridge Hall as the sun set and reveled in being master of all he surveyed.

Well, to the river, anyway, he amended. His neighbor’s property began on the other side of the bank. Still, Rusbridge Manor was a pleasant piece of land, complete with tenant farmers working the acres surrounding the demensne. Sheppy had purchased the manor from the Rusbridge family, which had fallen on hard times due to the riotous style of living its last heir had finally fallen victim to.

There was also, he recalled sourly, some question as to how much the master of the manor he really was. Not quite out of sight was the corner of a barn, almost as ancient as the hall itself. Sheppy didn’t think much of the barn and had voiced his thoughts on it to his estate manager, Pocock.

Continue reading “Fiction: The Master of Rusbridge Manor”