Insert 9

July 2

The mask constricted the face and it was the fresh air that the Combatant liked… not the smell of garlic in the air, all the time. The tightness of the air. The breathing, the dirt and mud in the trenches. The dirt and the blood. Always dirt… always gas and always blood.

It’d been that way for thirty-two days, from the beginning of the mortar rain. The rain… the smell… the screams… Bass, baritone, tenor… falsetto. Always screams, then silence. Many whines carrying the mustard and the chlorine, then the crack of explosions. The screams… The silence.

And the colours, in fog. Burnt sienna… Brown, and more brown. The bursting reds and oranges and more oranges. And white lights. And smoke, white, grey, blue, black… And the screams. Limbs lost, red and flesh. Lives snuffed. The cause and constant prime gone, over boundaries.

It’s really the Pawns who are stuck in the trenches, moving slowly forward and backward… on the checkerboard dirt… Brown and red through the yellow fog, and gas masks.

The Knights and the Rooks watch from their distance and grin at the explosions of friendly fire. And the Bishops praise the intervention of higher power… and their Majesties wait on their thrones of bones, wrist-waving, subtly, to the masses in the trenches, all waiting for the next whine, the next explosion… the following falsetto oratorio, stuck on a single note.

And the Combatant listens to the whine of the incoming. Comrades and fellow soldiers, and fighters wait, and listen… The whine shrills. Two medics are rushing by, down through the maze of the trench. A polluted white of a uniform and the gritty red of a cross stop with kits.

“You’re hit?” mumbled through a rubber filter.

“I won’t move!”

“I have to tend to this one over here.”

“Please let me stop the flow.”

The whine prolongs. The incoming has increased. A pounding and a shrill, a cacophony of shouts and screams, and soldiers and medics running through the trenches, flashes in a haze. The stink of the garlic increases.

“Check.”

“Be damned, you’ve forgotten the rules.”

“In nomine Patris. Follow with a volley from behind.”

“This cushion isn’t very comfortable.”

And an incessant beat thumps in the head of the Combatant. And the Medic holds the Soldier’s hand. And the blood flows, and the sounds have stilled, but the lights keep flashing. And the gas keeps rolling, enveloping, and stopping the bugs in its wake. And the Soldier catches a glimpse of the Bishop wiping the hands of the Majesties.

And the Medic keeps holding the Warrior’s hand. And the Soldier asks

“Is it time yet?”

“No.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

And another whine begins its crescendo, coming from the east. A series continues, two, three, five, eight, too many. The night sky is orange. A Halloween sky and the contrails of the rockets web and mirror the haphazard paths of the trenches in the mud. The explosions multiply and burnt screams echo in the turns of the trenches.

“I have you now.”

“But you’ll sacrifice your Rook?”

“I’ll sacrifice; I’ll execute every piece just to beat you.”

“And we eat of the Body, and we drink of the Blood.”

“You are the Hero.” The Combatant whispers to the Medic.

And the Medic sponges the Warrior’s forehead. The Warrior doesn’t move.

The Warrior is sitting peacefully in a field. The sun is shining and the dog is lying in the tall grass. A breeze drifts from the north. A lone osprey circles slowly above and a faint tone of a cello catches the ear. The green of the field gently folds into the azure of the sky. The Warrior floats.

The Medic fixes the gas mask. Two plumes of yellow fog rise up from the Warrior’s trench. Two plumes the shape of wings.

“You are the Hero.” The Medic closes the kit and covers the youth’s face.

“Checkmate.” The Knight shouts exuberantly. Their Majesties get up out of their thrones, fluff up their cushions and leave the room. The Knave shuts the door.

And the game repeats, again, in trenches filled with dirt… and blood… and bones of youths. Fodder for Flanders. Fertilize the red glory of blood-red poppies.

Insert 8

May 16

Dark chocolate eyes peer just an inch above the wall… Bullet-ridden and pocketed, the wall in recent decay, secrets the child’s body … The child, coughing with the dust, now has asthma… and the child just looks across the street… Doors and windows are gone, everything’s coated in a beige powder… and the child stares…

A trail of dark blood… dried… splatters the wall… A hand reaches lifelessly out from the doorway… The arm covered by a blue burqa, blackened with dirt… no rings, no polished nails… two broken… A trace of dried blood on the wrist… and flies… And the child watches… The dusk hinges on the traces of the moon orb…

The strings of cellos sound from down the street… Apocalytica … Quutamo… faintly… and the child turns it’s head to the sounds… and then quickly back again… to across the street… waiting for the hand to move… Holes and small craters own the street and the occasional pile of sand proves that the desert is gaining… once again…

There’s smoke in the air… and the acrid scent of rubber and shadows are lengthening… The child doesn’t remember the time that the air was smokeless… The child keeps watching… and listening… Up the street a cat steals searching for a morsel. And the constant beat of Quutamo… and the solitude of cello music… And the cat stops… The child catches the quick stop and lowers head behind the wall… And the hum of the cellos in the upper reaches catches the air…

The child breathes, and gasps for clean air… and begins to rise… And now the child’s burnt pool eyes go over the wall’s up-most tier… and the child pauses… The cellos still resonate. The child wonders where everyone is gone. The adults have gone away... except the one laying down in the empty stairwell across the street. The child keeps watching the cat... They know how to find something to eat.... The cat can find something to eat.... When are the adults coming back…?

They took the big ones. The ones that could hold the guns... And the cellos begin to crescendo...Apocalytica… and the cellos are carrying the birds... the ones that have disappeared. And then the child sees the boot in the middle of the street. The shoe laces untied, a large brown boot... and left behind... Could there be another one? The child thinks that a new pair of boots would help clambering on the rock piles and through the destroyed buildings...New boots would help protect its feet... and help it to pick through the bomb strewn cars and other bits and pieces... The child looks down the street for the second boot.

A single cello is now playing and focusing the melody on some distant place. A haunting sound continues... The sun wanes behind the skeleton of the small grocery store that once thrived at the corner down to the left. The child snaps its head, quickly in the direction of the grocery store. There is a movement... a sound above the cello…

An elderly figure appears from behind the wall of the grocery store... slowly... cautiously... The figure pauses... the figure looks to the right, and to the left. The old person motions behind. Another old person, draped in black appears from behind the remnants of the wall. The old people are silent. The cat scampers to the empty stairwell and disappears behind the burqa on the ground. The child keeps its eyes on the old people... The child scrunches down. The child knows it must not move... The child knows it must not make any sound.

The cellos begin to rise. The music is soft in the distance... and begins to slowly step, to progress, to rise... the beat of Quutamo blends with the scrunching of the feet as they move slowly from the corner across the street. The child covers its ears... Four shoes are getting closer... closer. The sun is gone. The darkness covers the child.

The child uncovers its ears and listens. The scrunching has stopped. The cellos have stopped. The Quutamo beat matches the child's heartbeat. A hand reaches down and gently rests on the child's head. The child startles... but has no fear. The child turns to look upward... The Hero smiles... The Hero takes the child's hand and helps the child to rise... The Hero lifts the child up over the decaying wall... The Angel reaches over... The child hugs the Angel...

A single cello note resounds... an explosion destroys the remaining grocery wall. The Hero lifts the child... turns to the left and starts to walk down the street. The Angel follows.

Insert 7

May 9

The green bus beeps, and beeps again as it backs down the driveway. The new driver is attentive to the charges and looks in the rearview mirror… one of those big horizontal types. It's a must to survey all the inside, and to check the Naugahyde seat occupants. The driver looks at the new clock on the dashboard, and adjusts the microphone.

“People… Dears… This trip should take about an hour, if we don't run into any traffic problems. I hope everyone's attended to what they needed to before we got onboard. Please wait till we get there before you ask me any questions. I need to concentrate… We have to get all of us there, safely…"

And the bus driver looks forward… looks back, looks left, looks right… and looks in the rearview mirror. The green bus beeps, and beeps again, and the bus backs to the road.

The bus driver shifts into forward and proceeds down the road. Today the bus driver has 15 charges. Fourteen of them have both hands on the seat in front, holding for the rest of their lives, holding on.... holding hard. The ancient veins, purple, on the backs of their hands. Thirteen don't smile. Two, the Hero and the Angel are grinning. They've been there before. The Angel turns to the Hero and smiles.

“But I didn’t want to go” pipes up Number 2C.

“Me neither” echoes Number 1B… “I’m gonna miss my Price is Right…”

The green bus rumbles on….

"You should have a lot of fun today. We're going to the circus. We’ve got front row seats for everyone. There’ll be balloons and popcorn and there’s cotton candy. There will be clowns and acrobats and highfliers in purple sequined tights. They're going to entertain you. This show is just for you."

And still, only the Hero and the Angel smile… The deep recesses furrowing to the twinkle of their eyes… They like the circus… Any circus… Fantasy dreams of days when they went as children, with eyes-wide… and circles of cotton candy sugar round their mouths… The Hero especially loves cotton candy… but only the pink type… Not the type with the new-fangled dyes… The Angel likes the mustardy hot-dogs… in steamed buns… with sauerkraut… and relish… not the sweet type… the sour type relish…

And the bus bumps twice as it crosses the tracks on the road… The trip’s taken about 50 minutes and there are about 30 more minutes to go… to get to the Coliseum… and the Circus…

“Is that a cow?” asks 3A, “Why are we going to a farm?”

“Nope, silly… We’re being obliged to go to a circus… We had two smell choices, cow manure, or elephant manure” responds 3D…

“I voted that we just stay at home,” chimes Number 2B… “I don’t… I’ve never liked the circus… The poor animals… and all those runaways… and thieves… and gypsies…”

“Make sure your money is hidden” announces 1C… 4C and 4D nod their heads in unison, in silence…

“Dears,” over the intercom, “please don’t get yourselves tired. Think of the fun we’re gonna have. Think of the horseback riders… and the clowns in the little cars…”

“Screw you… you clown… I’d like to shove you into one of those little cars!” Number 3B is getting red. The veins on 3B’s throat are beginning to stick out… more than usual… The Angel reaches over and pats 3B’s shoulder… The veins retract…

“I still don’t see why we have to do those things they want to do? No-one ever asks me… I, too, am going to miss Price is Right…” Number 3B is calmer now…

The bus jolts to a stop. The passengers jerk forward. The Hero falls from the seat. The Angel reaches out and helps the Hero back up…

“Sorry about that, Dears. The lights, over on this side of the County always seem to change much faster… Won’t happen again… Everyone alright? Good!” And the Green Bus jerks forward…

“We will be there, at the Coliseum, at the Circus, in a wee bit. Everyone please, please relax.”

“I’m going to Poplar Bluff” announces Number 4C “My baby lives in Poplar Bluff. I can’t wait to see my baby…” The Angel smiles approvingly at 4C, and nods…

“Do you think you could hold my two dollars for me?” Number 1D asks 1C… “There are too many pockets on these shorts… and I’m always losing things in them… The pockets have to have holes in them…”

“No problem.” responds 1C…

“Are we there yet?” 2A touches 1A’s shoulder… “We should be getting there…”

“I can’t see anything in this seat… The bus driver person is in the way… I can’t see… And these seats are sticky… too sticky…”

The Hero’s right hand twitches, and the Hero smiles at Number 1D…

“Dears we’re are going to pull up near the front entrance… Please gather up your belongings…”

“I didn’t bring my belongings…” squeaks Number 3A… “Why did I have to forget my belongings?” The Angel reaches forward a gently squeezes 3A’s shoulder… and strokes the nape of Number 3A’s neck…

“Once we’re at the front entrance, I’m going to let you all out… You’ll please wait just to the left of the front entrance. You will wait for me… I will just have to go and park the bus… I will then come right back to you all and then we shall go on into the Circus… I should only be a couple of minutes…”

“What did the bus driver person say? I can’t hear what the bus driver person said. I don’t think the new battery is working too well?” whines Number 1A… “What did the bus driver say?”

The Green Bus bounces over a speed bump… Number 3D is jumped from the seat. 3D’s head bumps on the side of the bus.

“Are you okay, dear?” asks 4D…

“I’m not your dear!” retorts Number 3D. “I’m nobody’s dear! And I’m fine… just fine!!!”

The Green Bus comes to a stop. All passengers are jolted forward… then back…

“We’re here. Make sure you’ve got your belongings... And we’ll now all, slowly… there’s no rush… slowly get off the bus… Remember you’re all to stay together at the left side of the front entrance. I’ll park the bus… and I’ll be right back… Slowly… please, slowly… Please there’s no need to rush…”

The front door of the Green Bus squeaks open… A calliope is hissing and plunking a tune from 1911… Oh You Beautiful Doll…and there are balloons… All colors, many, many balloons…

“Okay Dears, slowly… slowly… Watch the steps… slowly… Don’t push… There that’s it down the steps… And just go over there, to the left, by the entrance, by the ticket booth…”

“Oh! You beautiful doll… You great big beautiful doll… Let me put my arms about you…” croons Number 1B…

“Hush up and just go… Move on down the step… I wanna get out of here…” bemoans 2B…

Everyone files off the Green Bus… to the left of the entrance… and form a circle group right next to the ticket booth… A young Redhead peers through the window… and begins counting the group…The Green Bus leaves…

“I’ll be right back… Now you dears just stay there… and wait for me…”

“What does that bus driver person think we are… a kindergarten class? We should all grab our tickets and just go in… Let’s leave the bus driver person out here, alone… without us…”

“If you ever leave me, how my heart will ache, I want to hug you but I fear you’d break…”

“Hush up, Ethel Merman… or should I say… Nelson Eddy”

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! You beautiful doll!!!

“Okay, I’m here… And now, Dears… Okay everyone gather round… Let me just count all of you… Make sure we’re not missing anyone… Two, four, six, eight, ten… twelve, fourteen, and me fifteen… That’s not right! Should be fifteen-plus-one-more, me… That’s sixteen! Two-four-six-eight-ten-twelve-fourteen-fifteen… We’re supposed to be sixteen… Who’s missing? Who are we missing? Okay, hang-on… Everyone got off the Green Bus…”

“Did you check beneath the seats?”

“There was no one in the bus when I parked it… Who’s missing?”

“Well, I’m here…”

“They haven’t come to get me yet… so I’m here…”

“I just can’t wait to visit my baby in Poplar Bluff… My baby knows that Charlene… The Charlene dear from…. What’s the name of that show? You know the one with the ladies and the one black man who design things?”

“Designing Women!!!”

“My baby knows the Charlene lady from that same TV show.”

“But I know I couldn’t have lost one of you… This is serious! Who’s missing? Did anyone see if anyone wandered off?”

“They’ve all been waiting here since you let them off the bus… The Green Bus…” added the Redhead from the ticket window… “I didn’t see anyone take off… Definitely not into the Big Top… without a ticket… and I’ve got all your tickets here.”

“Okay… I know you dears all got off when I pulled up… Okay, everyone come over here and line up… Let’s see… You’re Number 1A… and you’re 1B… 1C and 1D… Numbers 2A and B… Number 2C… and next is Number 2D… Where’s 2D? Are you 2D?”

“No.”

“Are you 2D? No, you’re not 2D… Where’s 2D? Has anyone seen 2D? I have to go back to the Green Bus… right now… I have to go find 2D… You Dears wait here… I’ll be back when I find 2D… Just wait here. Do you mind watching after them?”

“Don’t mind… but I’ve got a job to do… taking tickets, and all” states the Redhead…

The bus driver person runs off…

The Hero and the Angel look at each other… and smile… faintly… The Angel takes the Hero’s hand and they head on over to the marquis tent… The calliope wails…

“Oh! You beautiful doll!”

Insert 5

April 29

“But that planet is just in the orbit of Gliese 581… And if I get on the next ship, it’ll only be twenty-point-five light years to get there…” The Skater pulls on one boot. The dog watches, and thumps its tail…

“I’ve got to figure out how to get on.” And the dog licks the Skater’s hand. The Skater gently pushes the dog away. Clips and buckles are closed and tautened … Laces pulled; the first skate is secure, as expected…

“I don’t want to remain on this planet much longer.” The second skate is positioned and the left foot inserted… The Skater pulls… The dog barks… The dog knows that it wants to go…

“Gliese 581… It is a sun… and it has planets…” The Redhead nods.

“I really want to get there… I want to be a colonist.” The Skater stands up, and rolls to the front door. The Skater checks the stereo clock. 8:13 a.m.

“I’ll see you when you get home later this afternoon. I’ll be back in the house in about 20 minutes…” The Redhead nods.

The front door is opened. The Skater steps out… off the stoop… and begins a roll down the front path. Down the driveway, the skater steers, unsteadily toward the parked SUV… The Skater rounds the SUV, applies the right foot brake… and glides warily down the sidewalk… A quick right… and down the neighbor’s driveway… and onto the road.

An osprey flies overhead… some small rodent in its beak… on its way to its nest and its mate follows behind… two quick screeches… It trails its mate to the Cypress conservation area… Breakfast for the two of three hatchlings…

“I wonder what it would be like to be one of the first colonists on Planet New World. If the sun is red, does that mean I could live longer?”

Picking up speed the Skater lifts left leg and skate, and then right… At the corner the Skater rounds to the left. The Shepherd, tied in the nearby year, barks its welcome… and then turns twice, and lies down under the oak…

The Skater breathes, at the beat of the wheels, as each skate clicks to the pavement. Early morning sprinklers create a slalom course… slick black ice… A neighbor, in a robe, and disheveled hair drags a plastic recycling bin to the curb. The neighbor nods. The Skater waves in passing.

The Skaters rounds to the left and continues down the stretch. No cars, SUVs… down to the stop sign… The young teens are waiting at the corner… The 8:26 School shuttle… Maroon jerseys and beige chinos… The Redhead nods at the Skater’s passing… Seven youths… books and knapsacks… The Skater notices the shuttle at the end of the street… about three minutes from the corner…

In passing two dogs bark… The sun blinds the Skater, steering to the shaded side of the street… And the Skater continues…

“I could volunteer to farm… the virgin undiscovered land… Begin a new thanks celebration. Wonder if yellow corn grows under a red sun? It would take too long to ship it back to this Earth… The corn would only provide for the new colonists… Red corn… maybe? A new John Smith, a new Pocahontas… Oh, and if there are others already there, what then? Take me to your leader…” The Skater nods to the elderly couple out for their morning constitutional… The Hero nods back… The Angel holds the Hero’s hand… The Skater passes and banks to the right…

Squirrels scurry across the Skater’s path… One… Two… Three… Rats with fuzzy tails… flee the squishing of miniature wheels… One and Three rush to a scrub oak…leap… and spiral to the crown… Number Two’s confused… Pauses… a brief moment… turns back, and beelines to the closet oak on the opposite bank of the black river… Number Two zips up the bark… And the Skater glides by, chuckling…

The Skater continues on down the street… Breathing… Breathing… taking in the early morning… Now the Skater’s catching a right turn… Down the street, another right turn… Left, then right, then left… Then right…

Up the street the Skater sees the elderly couple, again… The Skater closes in on them, gliding silently, swishing… The Angel notices the Skater, smiles and nods… The Hero’s arm shakes… The Hero nods… and grins … The Skater speeds by… The Skater nears the intersection… At the road, the Skater banks to the right… and continues… left over right… right over left…

The Skater nears the house… The Skater jumps to the driveway and glides up to the front path… The Skater stops at the front door… The dog barks a welcome… jumps at the screen… The Skater removes the right skate… and takes off the sock… The Skater removes both wrist guards… and bends down to unhook the clasps on the left boot… The Skater takes off the left boot, grabs the right one, and opens the door… The dog jumps to greet the Skater…

The Skater enters the room… 8:46 a.m.… and heads down to the computer room…The Skater takes chair at the desk and signs in… The Skater’s head lowers… The dog curls down on the floor at the base of the chair. 8:47 a.m.

Spammed - A Lot

Please be fore-warned... If you are a PC or Internet neophyte please DO NOT open any referenced link name or address referred to in the body of this piece. I didn't, so I can not tell you what the pictures look like, nor can I tell you if there were any viruses lurking at the end of the links... I circumvented all that, in the way I checked out the information... Enjoy...

Spammed – A Lot

“The most important medical discovery in ages” came to me personally… Jim Smith… just to me… Three times… First at 8:28 am… Once at 8:46 am… Three times by 8:57 am… Must be real, real important news… The Most important of all medical discoveries… and announced, just to me… and by email…

And my email trash gatherer caught the first one… and slammed it into my Trash Folder… But my email trash gatherer obviously, can only handle a thirty percent efficiency rate… The other two ended up in my Inbox… just waiting… just daring… Daring me to open them up…

And as I’m putting fingers to keyboard… two more… the exact same… “The most important medical discovery in ages” just announced their arrival… 9:14 am… and 9:17 am…

I checked Google News… No earth-shattering news… No medical discovery. Even did a search… for the most important medical discovery in ages… A closed-quotes search… And Google’s reply…“Did not match any documents…”

Now I try Yahoo… It has something… produced by the same closed-quotes search… The number 1 and number 2 results begin in Arabic… Sorry, I don’t read Arabic… At least, I think it’s Arabic… And then the word “wawtec”… and I don’t know if “wawtec” is English or what… And in the preamble for my result number 1, the subject is “The most important medical discovery in ages”… Surprise… Surprise…

But there are two bccs, backcopied email addresses… Looks like someone else is getting the news… eldessie@charter and jennzanaglio@yahoo... I wonder if those two emailers are prepared for “the most important medical discovery in ages”

And where is this “norcrosscouncil.org”… They appear to have sent one of “the most important medical discovery in ages” emails… They seemed to have the answer… or maybe they were just duped… and caught on some random-generating-spam-creation-program…

But what’s “wawtec”… Never heard the word before, if it is a word … So back to my trusty search engines… Merriam-Webster doesn’t have an answer… Dictionary.com neither… Wikipedia states that no results are found… (Just means that whoever invented the word hasn’t yet updated the addition of “wawtec” to Wikipedia.)

And it’s Ask.com that amazes me… The first result of my Ask.com search is a link to Jobs… This link invites me to search for full- and part-time jobs in Florida’s Treasure Coast Area… Okay I live here… and it’s very smoky, very … The next two links are for job searches… Maybe “wawtec” is some sort of career in the hydro-technical arena? Maybe?

The next Ask.com link is titled FastServers Technical… and I don’t think that the person who provided this link is too, too happy with FastServers Technical… I quote… “This server sucks”… I’m not hyper-linking to that website… Not really interested in that poor soul’s issues with FastServers Technical…

It’s at the sixth link I pause… and take a deep breath… No, I’m not going to hyper-link… but I can now see a tie… A tieback to the Arabic script I found on the first two results of my Yahoo search for “The most important medical discovery in ages”… The sixth Ask.com link has three words that immediately catch my eyes… “Riadh” (spelled incorrectly) and “Saudi Arabia”… And then I see the word of the country “Saudi Arabia” repeated in the seventh and tenth links…

But it’s the words “Images of Beheaded Man” in the hyperlinks of the sixth and the seventh search results that really take my breath… And I, who don’t do so too often… stop… and pray, quickly… And ask “What have we got ourselves into?”

I began this morning, feet on the floor… Fed the dogs… Turned on my PC… Noticed 40 emails received since 2:00 am… Took my morning meds… Then dressed to go roller-blading… I roller-bladed four blocks… and the smog plumed in… I returned to my house, took off my rollerblades… and sat down at my desk… I had decided to write a comedic piece on spam… a comedic slant to the tons of spam I receive every day…

I began… looking online for “The most important medical discovery in ages”… which became a search for “wawtec”… which turned up Arabic… Then Riyadh and Saudi Arabia… and then “graphic images of beheaded man”… Oh, my… but it is the tenth Ask.com result that frightens me… “War of 2 Worlds”… and I turn my PC off… And I didn’t find the most important medical discovery in ages…

Insert 6

May 2

A pounding on the front door… The dogs begin a cacophony of yelps and growls… and yaps…

“Come outside! Quickly, come outside!”

“Hush up… Hush up.” I put a bookmark at page 15. Stephen Elliott’s article Surviving a Month Without Internet…this May and June’s copy of Poets & Writers. I get up and go to the front door weaving through the erratic dances of sixteen legs…

“Look at the smoke… It’s another one.” And we move to the end of the driveway…

“Another one? Arson? Any one home?”

“I can’t believe there is that much smoke.”

“And I had just put the oil in the pan on the stove. Part of tonight’s supper. Fried okra… the family’s favorite. And I just went to the computer room to check on my emails.”

“Would you believe it? This is the third oil-in-the-fry-pan-on-the-stove-fire in the past 20 years, in just this circle of 19 houses.”

“Watch out… here comes fire truck number two… and three.” And music is blaring from the party house across the street…

“And there’s number four, and number five…”

“Glad they built that new station down round the corner.”

“Didn’t make no difference though, the house still’s gonna be a mess…Just look… the flames are coming out of the roof…”

“And I’m so stupid… I had to answer that email… It was so important. And then I checked my blogs… And then the alarm started to ring… loud… Real loud. I ran to the kitchen… Too, too much smoke… I had to get out… Find the dog, and get out…”

And the neighbors are now coming from both streets… The Latina and the Shadow… Wedges and tight, tight short-shorts… A sleeveless undershirt… and a Bloody Mary…

“What happened? A grill blows up? Did everyone get out?”

“Think so… The rest of the family is still playing golf.”

“They couldn’t find the two cats… but the dog’s okay…” The elderly couple makes their way across the street.

“This one’s not as hot as the one down the street a year-and-a-bit ago… But the house’s a gonner. And there’s so much smoke. It smells like Sonny’s Bar-B-Q!”

The Hero and The Angel stand holding hands in the shadow of the yellow fire truck… standing on the sidewalk… The Angel nods to the Latina… The Shadow answers a cell phone…

The fire-people have the hoses going… Steam’s now rising… and the orange flames are blackening the new roof tiles… Children come running… A number of youths ride in on their bikes… Neighbors are making their ways to the confusion.

“Has anyone seen my cats? I don’t know if they got out.”

“Here, why don’t you sit down? You can use this chair.” The Angel helps the old dear to have a seat… The Angel smiles reassuringly.

“Has your family been contacted?”

“Not yet… and I feel so, so stupid… I really did not have to answer that email. Puppy, stay here. And the children just moved out on Friday. What station are the fire-people from?”

“Number 47… The new one nearby… and around the corner… Try not to worry, too much. What’s done is done…” The Angel pats the old dear’s shoulder.

“But we didn’t take out any insurance on the house, when we moved in six months ago.”

The Angel walks back to the Hero, who’s listening to the next door neighbor chatter nervously… They watch the two fire-persons walking between the two houses, swatting at errant sparks… A third fire-person is hosing the outside wall of the neighboring house…

“You’d think they’d bloody well turn off that music… out of respect.” It was the royal homeowners’ association president and vice-president… They now had made their appearance…

“I’m going over to demand that they turn it off…”

“Don’t bother… That’s them there standing by the one in the front row seat…”

The Angel is now holding the Hero’s right hand… They cross the street… and walk away from the smoke and the noise…

“What’s de numbur of dis house?” the Latina asks…

“I think it’s 247.”

The house continues to smoke… The flames have hidden below the roof top. The Red Cross volunteer runs over to the fire-person who has fallen down, still holding the hose that had been dosing the neighbors’ wall… Two other fire-persons rush over… The hose is turned off. A child points to the Hero and the Angel in the distance… A cat is following them…

An ambulance blares its way up the crowded street.

Insert 4

April 22

The group boards the train at the Poplar Bluff Station. They lived at the end of Matt Lane just down a bit an’ outside Poplar Bluff… Two-point-four miles from the Amtrak Station, at South Main Street… Five of them… Hippie-gypsies… and they’d been waiting since about lunchtime… Sandwiches and long-teas, sun-made and poppy cake… Five kaftans… billowing cotton, ankle-length… five shades of green and beige and touches of sallow-rose… Four knapsacks and a guitar… A basket with fresh ham-rolls and cucumber salad for supper, on the train… all from the 60s, leftovers… Flowers-in-their-hair… Elder youths stuck on rerun…

It was May Day… with their one-way tickets to San Francisco… One-way, $213.00… each…

Time 4:16 p.m. Fourteen minutes to pull-out…

“All aboard...”

The group squeezes up the three steps and slides the right door of the coach-car… It’s the third car… Their Club Car…

“Make sure we get four-plus-two.”

“Across from each other...”

“And a table…” The compartment door slams…

Midway, down the center of the rose and magenta compartment are four-on-the-right and two on the left… All with hideaway tables… The Hippie-gypsies steer right to their space… The Couple, catty-corner to the two-set-on-the-left, frowns… A young Redhead smiles at the group and relaxes into a game of Mario Bros…

“Lyndsay, you and the Dristane store the knapsacks and the basket overhead. I’ll just take the guitar out of the case and put the case up, on top.”

And the group appears to be settling down. Three take their seats… the guitar on the right and the other two on the left. The Couple is whispering. The beep, beep from the Gameboy chimes… 4:24 p.m. Down a bit on the right side of the aisle a Latina with black Shirley Temple curls, and wedges, listens to a cell phone…And everyone is talking…

The compartment door slides open, again… The Hero and the Angel move into the car. Voices lower… Heads turn… And heads look up… The Redhead and the Latina smile… The Hero and the Angel move to the vacant seats, on the right, above the Hippie-gypsies… across from the Couple… They sit… The Hero’s arm tremors slightly… and the Hero breathes quietly… and the Angel moves in close…

Lyndsay and Alpha are sitting together in the two-on-the-left… Both have taken out books to read… One hardcover and one paperback… Five hours time to St. Louis. The first leg of the return… Lyndsay is reading Carl Limbacher’s Hillary’s Scheme… Alpha flips through a worn copy of Stephen Baker’s treasure, How to Live with a Neurotic Dog… Jonna and the Dristane have dismantled chair tables and set out a deck of fifty-one and a hand-drawn Ace of Spades… And the Other polishes the face of the guitar…

“All aboard…” And two quick jolts… The Conductor pockets a silver time-piece, and closes the slider… and moves on through the compartment… 4:29 p.m. and two more jolts… 4:30 and the Amtrak moves out of the Poplar Bluff station… Good-bye Charlene… Good-bye Linda…

The Redhead continues his Mario trek and freezes his hands on the Gameboy… and breathes… The guitar bumps and the Other grabs forward to steady it… and looks up to the overhead… and then out the window… The Station house has moved to the rear and the empty warehouse buildings sidle on by…

Five hours to St. Louis… Five more hours to Kansas… and then thirty-five hours and twenty minutes to Los Angeles… and still another five more hours to San Francisco… A long train ride…

The Angel had dozed for the past couple hours. The Couple is still whispering… giggling, and squinting their eyes, occasionally … They’ve round-robined the Latina, each of the five Hippie-gypsies, and the Redhead, and they stop at the Hero and the Angel… And the Conductor opens the slider, and moves into the compartment, and announces…

“Tickets, please…” The Conductor produces a silver clipper punch-thing. Questioning the person by the slider first…

“Ticket please.”

“Thank-you, to Bakersfield…” The Conductor clips…

“Ticket, please?” The Conductor addresses the Hippie-gypsy group…

“Tickets, please?” The Other hands over an envelope, number 10 size, opened… The Conductor rifles through the packet and clips five times… The Conductor hands the envelope and packet back to the Other…

“One way to Emeryville, California?” the Conductor addresses the Couple… Both nod… and pass a ticket… The Conductor clips once.

“Snap!” cries the Dristane, and Jonna frowns…

The Hero rises… and moves out of the seat and forward to the door on the left… The Hero enters and shuts the door… An Occupied sign slides over Vacant… at 7:30 pm… The Hippie-gypsies are passing round ham rolls… fresh from this morning… made last night… and cucumber salad… A thermos of sun-tea passes around… with small paper Dixie cups… five, one for each… and napkins… recycled paper…

Lights streak by… White interlaced with smudges of red and yellow… and grimy oranges of sunset through the left windows…

The Hero re-enters the compartment… A shaky hand struggles to close the levered handle… The Hero steps foot… before foot, and cautiously balances to make it back to the Angel and the seat… The Hero slips… The Hero’s hand reaches out and grabs onto Jonna’s shoulder… The Hero steadies and smiles at Jonna… Jonna smiles back. Jonna’s eyes close…

7:47 pm… An hour and 13 minutes left to St. Louis. The Hero sits. The Angel takes the Hero’s hand… It doesn’t shake.