tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86920039208383057852024-02-11T12:32:39.576-08:00The SazBlogDavid Saslav's miscellaneous leavings...David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-91868020860547862202024-02-11T12:31:00.000-08:002024-02-11T12:31:38.370-08:00Self-Help HaikusEither make it work
In seventeen syllables
Or throw it away!
Don't fear your inner
Megalomaniacal
Narcissist – tame it!
If "judging" is bad,
Is "the use of good judgment"
An oxymoron?
Instead of warring,
Let's agree to disagree,
And build a nation!
Live for the moment!
(Just don't forget the
Ghosts from "A Christmas Carol"!)
Longer memories
Effectively sabotage
Magical thinking.
It's insanity
To expect time, on its own,
To alter outcomes.
Treat yourself like work;
Innovate and optimize –
But take your time off!
That person you're with –
The one in the room with you –
May have troubles, too!David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-51142187169744800472023-12-20T04:12:00.000-08:002023-12-20T04:12:53.862-08:00New scoreHere's my Christmas present to Melissa: <p><iframe src="https://sibl.pub/Qo_Fg8DGd" width="800" height="1055" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></p>David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-20075123807496169552020-06-02T18:43:00.007-07:002020-06-03T20:23:47.833-07:00The World is a Butterfly's Wing<div style="text-align: center;">The World is a Butterfly's Wing</div><div style="text-align: center;">(Song Cycle)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Poetry by Allen Cohen</div><div style="text-align: center;">Music by Nancy Bloomer Deussen</div><div style="text-align: center;">©1999 by Nancy Bloomer Deussen and Allen Cohen </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">An awareness arises </div><div style="text-align: center;">from within my mind</div><div style="text-align: center;">where God hides </div><div style="text-align: center;">waiting to be called,</div><div style="text-align: center;">whispering hauntingly,</div><div style="text-align: center;">"Come deeper, find me!</div><div style="text-align: center;">The world is a butterfly's wing.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Be gentle and come deeper."</div><br /><br />Decoding Spring<br /><br />There is an intelligence<br />that impels flowers to bud<br />encoded in every cell of the tree.<br />The code says, "I will flower-<br />I will leaf. I will fruit. I will seed<br />and I will create more of me.<br />I will breathe C02.<br />I will use the light and heat of the sun<br />and I will be.<br />I will provide<br />the nectar of the flower,<br />the sweet fruit and the shade of my leaves.<br />I will breathe out Oxygen<br />and countless beings will be created and flourish<br />and they will be healed and nourished by me.<br />They will help spread<br />my essence and preserve me -<br />my plan is perfect.<br />Through this giving<br />with this constant beauty<br />through these endless creations<br />in the hidden world of my seed<br />nesting in the dark passivity of the earth<br />there will be a paradise."<br /><br /><br />An awareness arises<div>from within my mind</div><div>where God hides</div><div>waiting to be called,</div><div>whispering hauntingly,</div><div>"Come deeper, find me!</div><div>The world is a butterfly's wing.</div><div style="line-height: 1;">Be gentle and come deeper."<br /><br /><br />Rebirth of Forests<br /><br /><br />Today, I celebrate<br />the discovery that<br />trees return 50 to 75<br />percent of rainfall<br />to the atmosphere<br />by respiration<br />and evaporation<br />more than seas<br />or rivers do when<br />the rain runs off<br />bare mountains<br />or plains into<br />capillary rivers.<br /><br />Those wondrous<br />ancient cultures<br />that have burned<br />their forests for heat<br />and firing pottery<br />and disappeared<br />leaving deserts<br />in their place!<br /><br />Now 15,000 acres<br />of forest a day<br />are being cut<br />from the Amazon<br />and parts of Africa and Asia<br />eliminating thousands<br />of species and diminishing<br />oxygen and rainfall.<br /><br />When will we plant<br />15,000 acres of trees a day<br />to bring back dark forests,<br />fertility, oxygen, habitats<br />for plants and animals<br />and precious life-giving rains<br />before drought and<br />desert dissolve<br />more lives and cultures?<br /><br />We are bound together<br />earth, air, water, <br />plants, animals, humans<br />one embrace, one deep,<br />long timeless breath<br />in and out; in and out.<br />Yet we tear away from<br />that all embracing caress. </div><div style="line-height: 1;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 1;"><br />An awareness arises<br />from within my mind <br />where God hides<br />waiting to be called,<br />whispering hauntingly<br />"Come deeper, find me! <br />The world is a butterfly's wing. <br />Be gentle and come deeper."<br /><br /><br />This floating, turning planet,<br />Journeying through space,<br />On an unknown, mysterious mission.<br /><br />We are one planet, one people, one world.<br />We need to care for one another.<br /><br />Here at home is LOVE.<br />In our communities is LOVE.<br />Across the borders is LOVE.<br />Around the world is LOVE.<br />This is the planet whose mission is LOVE.<br />We have known this for two thousand years!<br /><br />As we grow into the next Millenium<br />We shall achieve that goal:<br />The PLANET of LOVE.<br /><br /><br /><br />The VISION THING<br /><br />Are we at the beginning of the turning,<br />of the yearning for the dream of unity,<br />of the dawning sun of true justice,<br />of the rising direct vision of beauty and equality<br />in each other, in each race, country, religion,<br />of healing the wounded earth?<br />Is it coming in the manger, in the compassion<br />for the poorest, for the children, for the homeless?<br />Is it coming through forgiveness,<br />through knowledge applied,<br />through action that lifts us all on a wave?<br />Yes, a wave of love for the children<br />through the millennium<br />with war denied, with hunger overcome,.<br />Are we at the beginning of the turning,<br />of the yearning for the dream of unity?<br /></div>David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-61010310929483339962020-05-09T18:28:00.000-07:002020-05-11T15:43:28.597-07:00"Dream Team", a work of microfiction in 100 words"Dream Team" was composed for the 2020 NYCMidnight Microfiction (100-word) contest, on May 9, 2020. My prompt in Group 44 was to compose a 100-word romance involving yawning, with the word "dream" appearing in some form, potentially as a stem or substring of another word.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
%%%%%%%%%%</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Dream Team</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
%%%%%%%%%%</div>
<br />
Only Brenda knows my superpower: inducing yawning in crowds.<br />
<br />
Clearing rooms at parties is effortless; no one would ever suspect being dismissed to dreamland. She’s picked it up, too; she's half as noticeable. Dull "do"? Done!<br />
<br />
What Brenda doesn't know: I used it back in ‘74...<br />
<br />
…I spot her at Sophomore Soiree. Her nose eventually needs powdering; I'm praying my new trick works en masse -- and -- boy howdy! She re-enters this totally empty hall -- and stops, incredulous.<br />
<br />
I flim-flam some tale of a fete at O’Malleys.<br />
<br />
“Oh. Poo. Well, walk me home, sport?”<br />
<br />
”My pleasure...!”<br />
<br />
She, the well-known campus teetotaler!David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-76271268013102284622019-10-05T21:07:00.003-07:002019-12-25T23:26:14.948-08:00<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">"I Understand" and "One Glass Pane" are two</span> 250-word Dramas written in two distinct 24-hour periods, for <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/microfictionchallenge250" target="_blank">#microfictionchallenge250</a>, a writing contest run by #NYCMidnight, on October 5 (Round 1) and November 23 (Round 2), 2019. In addition to a randomly-chosen genre (Drama) competing authors in my flight also had to depict an action ("begging for food" in Round 1, "washing a window" in Round 2) AND include a specific word in the story ("honorary" in Round 1, "beauty" in Round 2). Because the genre draw is completely random, and not intended to repeat in this way, I capitalized on a "lucky break" and elided the two tales.<br />
<br />
This page should appear only on domain dsaslav.blogspot.com; please report other sightings to dsaslav@gmail.com.<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">
--------</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">
<div class="p1" style="font-size: 19px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 3px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">I Understand</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">by David M. J. Saslav</span></div>
</div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s2"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">I understand, Mr. Graham.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">I understand this is your first time here, and that you queued overnight in order to be here with me today.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">I understand that, having reached my somewhat poorly-lit inner room here, at long last, you asked me for medicine. You pleaded with me for sterile bandages, and food for your stricken, dying wife and child.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">And, believe me, your pleas were eloquent. They broke my heart, as did all the others' before yours. I understand.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">I understand that the sign outside my office reads: "Dr. Frederick Forster". And I know the Oath, all too well. </span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">And I understand that mine is, through some odd miracle, the only business establishment left standing after last month's horrific attack on our community.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">I understand there's no help forthcoming from outside our dying township; it's been three silent, wintry weeks since receiving any word, and we must now assume everyone else is gone.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">I understand that, at times like this, we few survivors are compelled to do whatever we can for our fellow survivors, quickly and selflessly!</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">But here is what you don't understand.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">Here is what I must explain to you, Mr. Graham, and all the other "lucky" survivors before you, lining up to beg for my help as the only surviving doctor.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;">Here is what you must try to understand: My degree is only an honorary one. <i>And</i></span><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span class="s4" style="font-style: italic;">my food is gone, too.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">So I cannot help you in any way.</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 17.9px;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white;">And I am so terribly sorry.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">*************************************************************</span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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</span><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-size: 19px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 3px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">One Glass Pane</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">by David M. J. Saslav</span></div>
</div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">Frederick Forster slumped behind his desk.</span></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">The last of the seeming infinitude of needy souls had
finally departed, empty-handed; no one left to see, nothing left to say. Nowhere left to go, really, either.</span></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">His once-muscular form nearly disappeared into the oversized
executive leatherette, here in the basement office whose subterranean depth had
somehow, miraculously, prolonged his life.</span></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">He rose, with great effort, and creaked towards the hallway staircase.</span></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">No one had seen the initial blast coming; none had escaped
unscathed. There had been no word from outside Plainsburg for three weeks. Medical
supplies had vanished first; food and clothing next.</span></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">“What kind of God lets this happen?” Forster wondered aloud, stepping
outside into the ashy courtyard. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">“The only one there is,” sang a voice from above.</span><br />
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">Startled, Forster looked up and to his left. There, atop a tall ladder, stood a small, brown-haired
girl, soapy squeegee in hand, washing the one surviving window.</span><br />
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span class="s3" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forster guessed she was maybe ten. With no sign of blast scars.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forster called up weakly, “Who are you? And w-why are you…”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t mind me,” came the nonchalant reply. “Every pane of
glass needs washing, you see. It’s a matter of remembering and preserving earthly
beauty.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
When she had finished, Forster beheld an impossibly translucent
window, dumbstruck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Our world will become clear again, just like this. See?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“But – …”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“You’ll see,” said the Child, and vanished by dissolving into
the window, leaving behind a ladder and one perfect pane of glass.<br />
<br />
<br />
@@@----@@@---@@@---@@@---@@@---@@@---@@@---@@@---@@@---@@@<br />
<br />
Part 3 (untitled)<br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Forster stood atop a ladder, staring at a spotless window of immense beauty. He could see his shadow in it. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Odd, he thought, since a sunless haze enveloped everything for miles, as it had done since the recent attacks ruined and isolated his beloved town.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
What was not just odd, but astounding, was the rest of the image filling the window. It was the city behind him, his city. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Or, more precisely, what had been his city. Before the blasts.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Forster carefully turned 180 degrees about, to behold the same, dismal Armageddon he'd seen while standing at the ladder's base. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
In the one single perfect pane, however... </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
In mirage-reflection, he saw long-vanished birds flitting, long-dead people walking, contentedly, on undamaged boulevards.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
“Hastings! Metzger! Frank!!” he shouted into the beauty. Behind him lay only ruination. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Those he beheld in the window before him either could not hear him, or could not acknowledge him.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
He moved his face closer to the window, in order to see more closely. Every detail he perceived down Somerset Road exactly matched his fading recollections from months ago. The druggist, the corner grocer, all bustle. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Reeling, Forster recalled the small girl who had preceded him at this spot, atop the ladder, washing the window and speaking of earthly beauty, preserved. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
"You’ll see,” she had said, then stepped into the pane of glass and disappeared — behind it? Into it? Through it?</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Forster couldn’t be sure.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
All he knew was that his heart sang out for the first time in weeks when he beheld the technicolor scene, occluded only by his dark, featureless shadow directly in front of him, atop one of the ladders.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Wait — one of the ladders?</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Sure enough — although he stood physically upon a single, solitary ladder, his shadow appeared on the middle of three ladders, arranged side by side.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
The one before him through the glass to his left was bright green, and had “WAS” written on it in yellow letters.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
The middle ladder was ashy white, the color of the world everywhere now around him, and displayed “IS” in letters that appeared to be scrawled by a finger into dust. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
To the right of this appeared only an outline of a ladder, or a shadow like the one his body was projecting onto (reflecting from?) the glass.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
No details could be seen within this ladder’s luminescent outline, but the words “TO BE” shone clearly, neon-like, where the ladder’s platform would surely be.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
All three surfaces were within a single pace of where he stood, and he knew he could easily stride forward, left or right, and step easily on any of them, were the glass not obstructing him. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Forster moved his hand to the pane, and querulously tried to touch it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
It wasn’t there.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
His hand moved frictionlessly through the plane of the pane, and into the reflected world.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Forster leaned his head forward, carefully, into and through.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Immediately he pulled back, and nearly lost his balance, falling to his death.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
For he'd seen only the three ladders — nothing else but blackness — once his head had poked through. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
The girl had clearly meant for him to choose, then. To follow her. But where? Onto only one? Or all three, in turn?</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Dr. Frederick Forster made his choice and stepped through.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13.8px;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
</span></div>
</div>
David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-56437345018264454002018-03-25T14:26:00.001-07:002018-03-25T18:41:58.102-07:00"Resonant Frequencies" <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
Resonant Frequencies</span></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">by David Saslav</span></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Resonant Frequencies" was written in eight days for the NYC Midnight Short Story Contest, Round 1. The challenge assignment was as follows:<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
Genre: Romance<br />
Topic: Allergies<br />Character: Music Teacher</span></span></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maximum Length: 2,500 Words<br />
Contest Time: 382 hours (eight days)<br />
---------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></h2>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Resonant Frequencies</span></h2>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Elise sneezed as soon as she opened the door. Pollen count, she thought. Must be getting worse every day. She checked her smartphone as it began crooning Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons”. And a new appointment during lunch. She sighed. No rest for the wicked on the road to fame and fortune! Hefting her knapsack, she began the six-block walk to Conservatory Hall and Professor Magalian’s Cello Repertoire class.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Igor’s phone, a mile away, vibrated silently in his jacket, draped over the unused music stand in the corner. He ignored it. That’ll wait until this cadenza’s done. He knew that no one had ever heard one like his, and it was likely to draw as much passionate ire as cheering. An atonal passage in the heart of a Beethoven Violin Concerto! He again felt that feeling, that frisson mixture of triumph over Zoltan and the conservatism he represented, alongside the simultaneous desire to please his fellow ex-patriate, mentor and teacher since childhood. Several minutes later, he retrieved the phone and saw the calendar icon flashing, begging him for his attention. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Mme. Polinsky requests honor of your presence. Precisely 12:30. 547 Bistritzky Place” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He knew of the general neighborhood and the street, named after one of the Conservatory’s founders, but having no appetite for mystery, and better things to do, he tapped “Decline”. Just as the invitation disappeared he saw the name </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">“Zoltan Magalian” alongside his on the invitee list.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Shit!” He quickly dialed the Faculty Office. “I-is Professor Magalian there?” he stammered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“I’m afraid he’s lecturing, Igor,” replied Peggy, the faculty administrator. “Can I help you with anything?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Can you tell me where he is spending his early afternoon, Peggy? I’ve lost the invite…”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Sure! Let me check his calendar…” Igor heard the sound of a book’s pages rustling. The Luddite! he thought. “Well, Igor, it’s hard to make out his handwriting, but it looks like 547 Bistritzky Place”. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Thanks so much, Peg!” he replied, grabbing a pencil and scribbling the address down on the back of his Beethoven score.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">**********</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Elise arrived at the appointment ten minutes early, and stood at the door awhile. She had no idea what lay in store, but if Professor Magalian had arranged it, she had faith. After knocking, a butler out of another century opened the door and showed her to an anteroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After carefully resting her cello case just inside the threshold, she looked around her. Glass-topped display cases of precious Russian artifacts were everywhere – colorful and exquisite little boxes — Could those be real Faberge’s? she wondered, incredulous. Then, as she sat on a velvet divan, she took in the wall across from her, bedecked floor to ceiling with autographed headshots of some of the great legends of musical history, including the heroic Vladimir Polinsky, whose violin playing had astounded millions around the globe back in… Was it nineteen-something or eighteen-something? She struggled to recall when another figure entered the room. Good Lord, not Mischa Scheinfeld! What’s he doing here!? The flambuoyant and egotistical violinist was the talk of the campus – his reputation both as enfant terrible (as well as brilliant violinist) resounded throughout every student dormitory.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Igor rested his violin by the cello case and sat across the room from the girl, whom he recognized vaguely from the halls of the Conservatory. He’d paid her no mind then, and he attempted to do the exactly the same now, and began humming his new cadenza.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At exactly 12:30, a maid entered and led them and their instruments down a hallway to a cold but spacious music studio. Not one, but two grand pianos sat under the stern gaze of a Beethoven bust, atop bookcases filled with scores and oversized books. By the piano, two stands and two chairs, in piano trio formation. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The maid pointed to a coat rack by the room’s entrance, and instructed them to tune their instruments carefully, “in preparation for Madame Polinsky’s arrival”. Igor and Elise glanced quickly at one another, then did as instructed, Elise sounding the A-below-middle-C on the inward-facing piano, then tuning carefully and with mounting curiosity as to who exactly they would soon be meeting (and where on Earth is Magalian??) The two stands held the violin and cello parts to Brahms’ great C minor trio. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After they’d tuned, and waited several minutes, Igor rose, let out an exasperated sigh, and began pacing the room, violin in hand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And was confronted by three walls, covered floor-to-ceiling with great artworks, concert posters, and dozens of inscribed photographs – including an imposing portrait of scowling Scheinfeld, his magic violin inserted under his chin. And the fourth wall, where towering bookcases held ancient reel-to-reels and LPs indicating dates and venues of performances with every conductor, major orchestra and chamber ensemble imaginable. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Suddenly, from behind him: “Young man!” came the high-pitched yet commanding bark from the doorway. “Were you not instructed to sit and tune your violin?” There stood in the doorway a petite, grey-haired woman of indeterminate decades, suffused in black velvet and priceless pearls. Igor, recovering from his composure, debated whether to defend himself after Madame Polinsky's “arrival”, possibly pointing out her own lateness. Then he thought better of it, retaking his seat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Serves you right, thought Elise. And your great Protector Magalian nowhere to be found!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mme. Polinsky waited until all was still, then gave the two a half smile and proceeded to the inner piano, and opened her own Brahms score on the music stand. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Without turning her head toward them even a degree, she spoke. “As you both are highly recommended to me by Magalian and other teachers at Conservatory. We now begin rehearsal.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“But Madame Polinsky! At what tempo!?” Elise blurted, then sneezed, then blushed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Madame waited three long counts, then turned to her with a steely gaze. “Young lady! You are perhaps allergic to Allegro, or do not know what means ‘energico’? With me, then!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Eyes wide, Igor silently sympathized with Elise. Then, by way of cueing the other two, raised his bow heavenward. The huge crashing opening c-minor chord they produced rattled the windows. A struggle for primacy ensued, with all three instrumentalists seemingly trying to drive the same ship. Amazingly, the ensemble’s tempo was under control by the fifth note of the piece, and somehow stayed together from then on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After sixty seconds, Brahms’ tender second theme in noble E-flat Major took the stage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Incredulously, Igor and Elise matched exactly in their soaring resonant octaves, demonstrating Brahms’ great unrequited passions. As they inclined their bodies towards one another, they seemed to be offering their matching, resonant vibratos to one another – directly into the other’s soul. Throughout this most romantic passage, the room’s chill was completely forgotten. Madame Polinsky, sensing this, dropped her volume down to a whisper. In this way, awestruck, they proceeded to the end of the first movement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“And now, children, we go back to Bar 1 and begin to work.’’ </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">*******</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After the rehearsal, the butler appeared again. The two aspiring students were led to the street in a speechless daze, gazing at one another in ways well-familiar to Mme. Polinsky. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Edna reflected with satisfaction on the striking similarity of Igor’s beautiful legato slides with her late husband’s. But, of course, Magalian was my beloved Mischa’s prize pupil. Mischa procured him tenure here at the Conservatory, and he in turn brought the young man… </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She had also heard similar expressive slides in Elise’s cello playing. It brought back memories of hundreds of concerts across the world which she and her husband had played together, alongside the top cellists of the day; each note carefully honed with mutual love and passion over hours of practice. It had all to these talented youths in a heartbeat! Such was the genius and talent of the young violinist now under Magalian’s wing! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Edna’s ebullience over her two new discoveries lasted for several thrilling moments, but was then overcome by the old, dreadful feelings of great loss and pain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">*********</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Over the coming weeks, Elise and Igor placed themselves together frequently in the great palace on Bistritzky place. And their feelings toward the Madame, Brahms and each other evolved with every rehearsal, ripening into a deep and intense mutual admiration.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Soon both realized the greatest moments of their young lives to date are were the ones spent together with Mme. Polinsky, practicing chamber music. Each time they would straggle with their instruments to the nearby deli café and reflect, with exceedingly few words, about what had just taken place. Soon Igor offered to swap his violin for Elise’s cello on the walk back to Conservatory. Their lives now revolved around these shared experiences.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Edna was now a familiar mentor and sensed the intensity of Igor and Elise’s evolving relationship beyond the notes they played in her studio. Frequently she was reminded of her own career with Mischa, and the deep vacuum of loneliness would again creep in, alongside the realization she not really loved, at all, since his death. The trail of resin dust which billowed forth from the string players’ bows as they played was, to Edna, the dust of memory.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Over time, Edna became allergic to visitors other than Igor and Elise. These intrusions on her reveries and practice time. Her infrequent appearances outside her home into her dowager social circles now ended. Only rarely did she permit people to come and perform with her in her living room studio. Even phone calls made her feel faint and tired. Her life was becoming too difficult to bear, outside the great music which sustained her. Life for Edna grew dark and even music, after a time, could not bring back the light.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">*********</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Several weeks later, after an especially rapturous rehearsal, Igor insisted on a performance of the Brahms at Conservatory Hall, and Mme. Polinsky, mesmerized by what she mistook for her late husband’s imperious tone, agreed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As the concert date grew near, however, she began to doubt that she could even leave her home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When Igor appeared by himself to walk her to the Hall, she experienced an intensity of feeling to the young violinist so deep and fervent that she wobbled perilously beside him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Madame Polinsky!” shouted Igor, grabbing her arm. Edna was aware that these two young people were in love, and that she simply would never be more than a minor navigator in their musical lives. Her real love, her husband was gone forever and would not return… She had lost her partner and the one person that shared her real feelings to music forever. Igor could not replace him, and should not be asked to do so.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As they took their places on stage, Mme. Polinsky could barely look at her playing partners, their smiles radiating toward each other with the love she had brought to them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">They are always touching, even when sitting far apart from each other, thought Edna bitterly. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Edna returned Igor’s delighted smile toward her as he and Elise tuned their instruments, but at great emotional cost. When Igor smiled at Elise, it was if he were throwing her a rapturous kiss in front of her… Edna performed the Trio in a blurry haze, without even noticing the passage of time or the wildly enthusiastic applause from the assembled audience. All remarked backstage that it was one of the finest performances of the work they had ever heard – and some had even heard her play it with Mischa!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">**********</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The concert now over, trio rehearsals became unnecessary, and Edna found she now missed Igor’s presence at the rehearsals so much that she called him three days later to inquire if he would like to read through some violin and piano sonatas with her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Igor’s feelings were split between flattery and irritation, as he had returned to preparing for his solo career with Magalian. The trips to Bistritzky Place led me to Elise’s love, he mused, but he still felt deep down that one day his destiny was to take his place as soloist in front of huge orchestras around the world, performing Concertos. Why else did I make the arduous journey to America after Magalian? Nevertheless, he agreed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After one session playing through Grieg’s C Minor Violin Sonata, she discontinued the invitations. He appears at my studio for duet practice with his cellist! she thought bitterly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Elise, so young and loving – encouraging Igor now in a different way, by sitting on Madame’s couch, throwing him those wretched glances of love and passion as she played with him. Once she even spoke to give him a bowing suggestion and received a horrified stare from Madame. Edna, who had always dominated all rehearsals since Mischa had died, gave her such a withering glance in response that she stood and left the room silently.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">**********</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In her final days, Edna found that she preferred to live alone, without visitors, and cut herself away from all humanity, including her young chamber music partners. The intrusions of warmth and friendship come at too great a cost in pain! What I lost must never be lost again!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The rest of her days were spent listening to her recordings with Mischa, reading from the scores she had performed from with him, and barking orders at her maid and butler, who eventually left for another position. She receded once again to darkness and loneliness, and never performed again, As she communed with her husband’s photograph staring down at her, she could still feel the same passion that the young couple had developed under her tutelage, starting from the very first time they had visited her studio. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She naturally followed their careers, obtained and listened critically to their chamber music recordings and read their glowing reviews alone, in solitude. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Once in a while a letter from the happy couple would find itself on a small silver tray by her chair. Saccharine accounts of about their continuing successes, both as soloists and together as founding members of the “Bistritzky Trio” – in honor of you and where it all began, Madame! How can we ever repay you? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The unopened letter found by her maid, unopened on her still lap, was addressed by their four-year-old son, Mischa.</span>David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-6881832638514794882017-05-04T08:43:00.001-07:002017-05-04T08:43:15.034-07:00Start Taking Names!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/W1-eiOZ3WZM" target="_blank">https://youtu.be/W1-eiOZ3WZM</a><br />
<br />
A protest round by David Saslav<br />
Lyrics: "Start taking names! Remember! Start taking names of those who vote against our civil liberties and human rights!"David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-76640683249765148432016-11-20T21:34:00.000-08:002016-11-20T21:38:36.380-08:00Original Atrocious Pun - beware!Original Atrocious Pun alert! Do NOT read on unless you are well strapped in:<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
It was the final round of the cupcake challenge on Food Network, and one of the contestants, Brad, made the mistake of throwing a dozen oranges into a high-speed blender, then pouring the resulting pulpy mix onto his chocolate cupcakes as though it were a glaze.<br />
<br />
Naturally, he was instantly eliminated, the moment the judges had taken the first bite of Brad's soggy, orange drenched creations.<br />
<br />
Staring at the "confessional camera", Brad was asked if he'd learned any important life lessons.<br />
<br />
Brad shrugged sadly, thought about it for a moment, then replied:<br />
<br />
"Bakers can't be juicers..."David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-84878739456069242072016-10-12T18:44:00.008-07:002016-11-19T08:03:07.806-08:00February, 2017 - Republicans Rule in Congress, White HouseComing soon...!David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-69334556140969808052016-09-11T20:11:00.001-07:002016-09-12T08:09:42.153-07:00"Ladder-Climbing": A Most Profound Sermon<div>[Editor's Note: To read the short story, "Disco Lives!" go to <a href="http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/2016/07/lives-original-short-story.html" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/2016/07/lives-original-short-story.html</a>]</div><div><br></div>The following sermon was delivered by Debie Thomas, Children's Minister at Saint Mark's Episcopal Church, on August 28, 2016. The Gospel reading of the day was from Luke 14, in which <u style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jesus attends a banquet at the home of a Pharisee:</u><div><font color="#330000" face="Georgia"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><b><i><u><br></u></i></b></span></font><div><br></div><div>"<span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">In my research for this sermon, I found a quote from the </span></span><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Catholic wr</span></span><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">iter and mystic, Thomas Merton, that I'd like to share with you. He writes, </span></span><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">"</span></span><span class="s4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">People may spend their whole lives climbing the ladder of success only to find, once they reach the top, that the ladder is leaning against the wrong wall.”</span></span></div><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">As uncomfortable as those words might make us, I think they sum up the message of today's Gospel reading. So I want to begin by asking myself and you, these questions: What ladders are we busy climbing? What versions of success are we striving towa</span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">rds? And </span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">who</span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">m</span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> are we climbing </span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">over to get to the top?</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">In today's Gospel, Jesus is at a dinner party. Now, whatever other nice things we might say about him -- </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">he was a wise teacher, he cared about justice, he had compassion on the poor</span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> -- we can't honestly say that he was a polite dinner guest. </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Though he received and accepted many social invitations during his ministry, he rarely got through one of those evenings without inciting some drama. Once, he interrupted a meal altogether to receive a scandalous footwashing from a distraught woman. Sometimes he ate with dirty hands, or shared a table with disreputable people, or drank more than his enemies considered appropriate. He was like that uncle you're obliged to invite to Thanksgiving dinner each November -- the one you sit in front of the turkey and cringe at, because you just </span></span><span class="s6" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">know </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">that at some point before the pumpkin pie is eaten and the coffee is served, he'll do something to humiliate you.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">That was Jesus. He </span></span><span class="s6" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">said</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> things. Blunt, embarrassing things that no one cared to hear.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">On this particular occasion, we find him in the home of a Pharisee. A leader of the Pharisees. As the scene opens, everyone in the room has their eyes on Jesus -- hoping, perhaps, to catch him in some gossip-worthy faux pas. But what they don't realize is that he's watching them even more carefully than they're watching him. If I'm imagining the scene correctly, Jesus's fellow guests approach the table and immediately begin to jostle, shove, and elbow each other. Not in obvious ways -- these are, after all, classy, dignified people, and they'd never want to appear</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> crass in public. </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">But under the polite surfaces of things, Jesus sees quite clearly that there's all-out warfare going on. Because this dinner party is not about fine food and lively conversation. It's about soci</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">al climbing. It's about power and prestige, </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">and the key question on everyone's mind is, "Who is the most important p</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">erson here? Is it me? </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">I </span></span><span class="s6" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">need </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">it to be me." </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Some cultural context might be helpful here. In ancient Israel, who sat where at a dinner party conveyed status just as clearly as who has the corner office, or the fanciest car, or the poshest zip code, or the most "likes" on Facebook. Not unlike today, the people in Jesus's time organized their lives around all kinds of subtle and not-so-subtle status symbols. And one of those symbols was the seating arrangement during meals.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Hosts would use seating as a tool of power. So, for example, if you were hoping for an advantageous marriage match for your daughter, you'd throw a huge party at your house, and give the hoped-for groom's father the seat nearest you, the seat of honor. Conversely, if you were angry at someone, say, a business partner who had gypped you, you'd invite him to your party, but then give him a seat at a remote end of the table, far away from the center of things. In this way, seating served as a form of social currency. Sometimes it served as a weapon. </span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">For me, having grown up in a tight-knit Indian community, this is not entirely strange; I actually find it familiar. When I was growing up, we had strict rules around who ate when and who was seated where during meals. If people come over to my parents' house for dinner, the men always ate first, older men before younger o</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">nes, and only after they'd had</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> their fill and left the table, would the women sit down to eat. Now, within this hierarchy, there was another one. If</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> the guest list included </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">prominent</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> people from</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> the church -- elders, deacons, pastors, guest preachers -- they </span></span><span class="s6" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">definitely</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> ate first. In fact, having first dibs at the table was an honor that "men of God" expected to receive, and we would never bring shame on our family by refusing them.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Or, </span></span><span class="s6" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">usually</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> we wouldn't. My father tells a</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> fun </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">story about this from his own childhood in rural India: My grandparents were devoted members of their church, and it sometimes happened that elders and preachers would spontaneously show up at their home for lunch after Sunday services. Food wasn't always plentiful in those years, and it wasn't easy to cook for a lot of people at once in my grandmother's primitive kitchen. But the rules of hospitality dictated that the "men of God" eat first, so my father and his sibling</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">s had to wait for lunch on Sundays.</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> Only when the honored guests had left would my grandmother cook </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">a second round and feed the children</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">One </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Sunday, when my father was only </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">four years old, this very thing happened. A whole group of Very Important People filed in, and the kids were told to go outside and play -- eating would have to wait. To put it mildly: my father did </span></span><span class="s6" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">not</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> find this arrangement pleasing. He spent an impatient hour barging into the kitchen over and over again and pestering my grandmother. "Is it time yet? Is it time yet?" And she kept </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">chasing him out, saying, "No, not</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> yet. Go play." </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Finally the poor kid just plain lost it. Marching into the dining room where the guests were relishing their second helpings, my father stuck his little hands to his hips and yelled, "Get out! Hurry up and leave so I can eat!"</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Knowing how honor-bound my grandparents were, I'm guessing my father got a very serious talking-to that afternoon. But whenever he tells me the story, I insist that Jesus would have been on his side. Jesus would have </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">fed the children </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">first.</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> In fact, I believe that if Jesus had been at my grandparents' house that day, he wouldn't have sat with the VIPs at all. He would have chosen the kids' table. </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Because</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> that's essentially what he s</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">ays to his fellow diners at the Pharisee's party. </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Knowing full </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">well the social rules of his culture</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">, he </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">refuses to play by them. Instead, he</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> calls for a revolution. Not a revolution of arms and bloodshed, but a revolution in table manners. </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor," he exhorts his fellow guests. "Go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, 'Friend, move up higher.'" "For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted." </span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And if that isn't radical enough, Jesus turns next to his host and continues: "When you give a luncheon or dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. Then you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you." </span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">I don't k</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">now this for sure, but my guess is, the room falls dead silent at this point in the story. </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">There it is, the Embarrassing Moment from th</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">e Embarrassing Uncle. Why did Jesus</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> have to open his big mouth? </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">We had our schmoozing strategies all worked out! We were finally making some headway up the ladder! Why did he have to speak up and ruin everything?</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sometimes, I think we find it easier to accept Jesus as a friend, a healer, or even a Savior, than as a countercultural revolutionary who calls out our very way of life. </span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">And w</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">hat way of life is it that he calls out? The rat race way of life. The way of life that has us perpetually scrambling for the top spot, the top grade, the top pay. The way of life that leads our kids to believe that their worth lies in how many extracurriculars they excel a</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">t, how many AP classes they cram into their schedules</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">, how many gadgets they own, and how many elite colleges they get into. </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">The way of life that reduces</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> socializing into networking, ambition into obsession, and community into competition. The way of life that says, "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours." The way of life that calls vulnerability weakness, and tells us we need to look the best, be</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> the best, and own the best -- </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">all without apparent effort. Because the point is not simply to </span></span><span class="s6" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">be</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> perfect. The point is to make perfection look easy. T</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">he point is to never let anyone</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> see us sweat. </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">T</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">he truth is, very little in our </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">culture rewards or supports the kind of humility Jesus advocates in today's reading. Whether we're talking</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> about</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">the corporate world, </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">entertainment, politic</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">s, sports, or even religion, we in the U.S </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">have</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> developed</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> an unhealthy admiration for the loudest, the biggest, and the greatest. Whether we recognize it or not, we are known around the world for idolizing the superlative. Sometimes I wonder what would happen to our national discourse and our mental health if we banned the word "best."</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">I'm not saying it's a crime to work hard, or to have high hopes and expectations. I'm only saying that there are dangerous </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">problems with our "ra</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">t race" way of doing life -- t</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">he first </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">being that it's based on a lie. And that lie is </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">scarcity. The people who elbowed each other out of the way at the Pharisee's house did so because they were terrified of scarcity. "What if there isn't enough to go around?" they feared. Enough approval? Enough prestige? Enough attention? Enough love? What if no one n</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">otices me? What if I'm </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">expendable? What if, despite all my </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">grueling efforts, </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">I end up being ordinary?</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In our culture, I think scarcity can be summed up in the phrase "Not enough." I'm not cute enough, thin enough, smart enough, good enough. "I didn't get enough sleep." "I don't have enough time." "I didn't get enough done." Even before we wake up in the morning, we're already inadequate. </span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Jesus's response to the lie of scarcity is a promise of abundance. You don't have to scramble in my house, he says, because God's table is very big, </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">and it has seats to spare. So please s</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">top pushing and shoving; this</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> is</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> a feast, not a wrestling match.</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> And the joy you are so hungry for is not where you think it is -- over there among the Important People. The joy is where </span></span><span class="s6" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px; font-style: italic;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">I</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> am -- where God is. Among the weak, the poor, the powerless, the disenfranchised.</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">The second problem with a jostling, scrambling way of life is that it diminishes us, and distorts our humanity. If I'm busy trying to outshine you at work, or comparing my parenting to yours, or resenting your </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">flawless </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">hair and </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">pricey </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">clothes, or shoving you out of the way in my haste to chat up somebody I consider more important, then I'm not seeing you for the miracle and the mystery God created you to be. I'm not h</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">onoring you as a member of the Beloved C</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">ommunity. I'm not learning how to wash your feet, bind </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">your wounds, or share your fears and sorrows.</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Because here's the thing: there is no end to the game of who is "in" and who is "out." Exalting ourselves is an endless, thankless task; it wears out our souls and drains </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">away our</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> energy. It's not a game we can win. As our reading from Sirach puts it, "Pride was not created for human beings." This mad s</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">cramble is not what we were designed</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> for.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And so in today's story, Jesus calls for the most radical solution imaginable: Opt out. Step away. Don't play the game. </span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Instead, favor the ones who cannot repay you. Look for the angels on your doorstep. Prefer the poor. Choose obscurity. Why? Because your anxious scramble for greatness will only lead to more anxiety, more suspicion, more frenzy, and more loneliness.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">But l</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">et me be clear: there's nothing easy about Jesus's teaching here. When we dare to gather at his table, we're actively protesting the culture of upward mobility and competitiveness that surrounds us, and that is hard, counterintuitive work. Like any spiritual discipline, it requires patience, and lots of small, daring choices. To eat and drink with God is to live in</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> constant</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> tension with the pecking orders that define our boardrooms, our college admissions committees, our church politics, and our presidential elections. And that can be tiring. But if we stick with it, if we choose humility and hospitality over pride and stinginess, then over time, the craving to be the best, have the most, and win at everything, will slowly but surely die away. </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jesus asks us to believe that our behavior at the table matters -- because it does. Where we sit speaks volumes. Whose attention we crave, whose approval we seek, whose humanity we ignore -- these choices reveal the stuff of our souls. </span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">So. </span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">What ladders are we busy climbing? What versions of success are we striving towards? Who are we scrambling over to get to the top? </span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">Christian theologian and activist Brian McLaren writes, "The Spirit of God</span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> always </span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">leads downward. Downward in humility. Downward in service. Downward in solidarity. Downward in grace. You don't find God at the top of the ladder; you find God through descent. There is a t</span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">rapdoor at the very </span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">bottom, and when you fall through it, you fall into God."</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;">May we</span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> dare to</span></span><span class="s4" style="line-height: 16.799999237060547px;"><span class="bumpedFont15" style="line-height: 25.200000762939453px;"> do so.</span></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br></p><p class="s9" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; line-height: 21.600000381469727px; margin-right: 18px;"><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><div><br></div></div>David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-37866497469162627112016-07-26T17:25:00.001-07:002016-08-06T18:40:43.842-07:00"Disco Lives!" - an original short story<div class="s2" style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Disco Lives!" was written in 48 hours, on July 23-24, as part of the NYCMIDNIGHT FLASH FICTION CONTEST of 2016. The challenge given me and my fellow contestants in Group 42 (highly auspicious) was to compose a science fiction story of 1,000 words or less, set primarily in a dance hall, and featuring (somewhere) a lottery ticket. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This story is authorized to appear only on the website blogspot.com, in "The SazBlog", aka http://dsaslav.blogspot.com - please report unauthorized versions to dsaslav@gmail.com</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">(c) Copyright David Saslav 2016</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Disco Lives!</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Somewhere, somehow, disco lives. And the Charleston, and the jitterbug, and the gavotte and the gigue. And several far odder dances, ones which no member of the human race will ever attempt, ever even see.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">As terpsichorean memes flit through each youthful generation in turn, causing the various dance crazes, few notice the origination points of each “next, new step”; those weird and suggestive generational gyrations so mortifying to (non-dancing, “unhip”) parents. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Think Elvis. Think “twerking”.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">And those who do notice tend not to remember clearly the first time a “Shimmy” or “The Egyptian” or “The Lindy Hop” was attempted in a public dance hall; also faded from memory are any explicit references to their innovators, the dancers of slightly uncommon appearance who first executed these daring and unusual moves.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">These are the visitors.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">More specifically, these are the intergalactic visitors from Gamma Lambda IV, a race of shape-shifting deaf-mute nomads who communicate – much like Terran bees do – only through rhythmic bodily waggling.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">It is no accident that these communicative acts appear normal to each planet’s host species, as Lambdan utterances take place while inhabiting normal-looking, unassuming bodies, always within the confines of specially-designated communication areas, known to the Lambdans by a term roughly translating to “hyperportals”.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">GraffitiLicious, Chicago’s hot new North Side hip-hop lounge, is one such hyperportal.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">GraffitiLicious, like dance halls, ballrooms, and the discotecques of yesteryear, serve migrant Lambdans as interplanetary junctions where they can “shimmer in and shimmy on” . Only after their interstellar Transits have safely completed are they capable of passing messages back and forth in their highly distinctive and visual fashion.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">For example: "We… We have finally won the lottery, GrrZll," said Mnndrr - a Lambdan utterance misinterpreted as a standing backflip with two mid-air twists, cheered on wildly (and soon to be replicated) by a group of scantily-clad hip-hop dancers who observed them.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Once every ten thousand Jnnkees, around thrice a Terran decade, a randomized drawing is held from the list of hundreds of billions of Lambdans, displaced at the Great Termination, when Gamma Lambda IV was destroyed by a meteor strike and resulting climatic cataclysm. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Lambda IV’s High Technology Commission, armed with sufficient warning but little else of any defensive value, responded with the only thing it could come up with to preserve their species.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Lambdan scientists had already developed technology that enabled them to observe other species from across great distances; other planets' inhabitants' shapes, mating habits, and social rituals. Then, in the kind of mad rush only impending species extinction can produce, they found a way to create a sort of landing pad on connected planets. And, using their sun, the young star Gamma Lambda, as a power source, they were able to solve the final complexities of matter translocation of Lambdans between these “hyperportals”.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Travelling between two points, and settling at the terminus, however, are two very different things.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">"Mnndrr, can it be so!? We are finally permitted our choice of permanent residence on an Established Planet? Our days of Perpetual Transit are finally over?" … And thus a new rhumba/hip-hop combo maneuver was born on Earth.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">"Indeed, GrrZll, at long last we are permitted to settle!" … This conveyed as a pirouhette followed by several short balletic leaps, inspiring dozens of young Chicagoans to reproduce it.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">"MnnDrr, my love! No longer will we be forced to translocate ourselves every three Jnnkees," noting her skin's hue alongside that of her partner’s.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Ever darker and darker, over the course of four Earthly hours, Lambdans change color imperceptibly to the human eye, until the Transit Sequence auto-initiates, whisking the whirling migrants away to yet another colonized planet, another native dance hall, another hyperportal. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Years before, Lambdan sociologists had put the finishing touches on a universal framework for assimilating into “advanced” cultures – ones where knowledge of other inhabited planets had already formed and would spark peaceful, welcoming responses. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">These, as it turned out, were vanishingly, tragically, few in number.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">And so the Lambdans, a species with fairness woven so deeply into molecular code, desperately devised a Lottery system so that the few settlement spaces available on these worlds would be randomly assigned, fairly allotted. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Days before the meteor hit, each Lambdan was given the choice: either accept oblivion as a corporeal being, or secure a lottery ticket and enter continuous interstellar travel mode. A friendly neighboring planet in the galactic neighborhood, Tau Sigma VII, agreed to host the several million Lambdans who won the very first Lambdan Lottery drawing. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Tau Sigma VII also took on the task of hosting the giant database of Lambdan identities, and agreed to conduct the perpetual drawings on a random basis, as new host planets were identified and new immigration quotas negotiated by Sigman emissaries. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">In this slow but fair way, mated pairs of Lambdans - once in a blue Terra Sigma VII moon – could be granted respite from their eternal star hop and inhabit a planet for the rest of their natural lives.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Now it would appear that MnnDrr and GrrZll have shimmered out, off to another place, as they have done together so often before.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Only this time, their hop through space will terminate on a world that is their own; now, at last, they can dance the night away, under whatever moonlight there is.</span></div>
David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-78812380149562995732015-08-04T12:51:00.005-07:002015-08-19T17:26:32.159-07:00"Nuts!" A Short Story"Nuts!" was written in 48 hours for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2005 Contest, Round 1<br />
<br />
The challenge assignment was as follows:<br />
<br />
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Genre: Romantic Comedy<br />
Location: A Private Island<br />
Challenge Element: A Walking Cane<br />
Length: 1,000 Words<br />
Contest Time: 48 hours<br />
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<b>NOTE: THE FINAL ENTRY WAS APPENDED AFTER THE CLOSE OF THE CONTEST, AND WAS NEVER PRESENTED TO THE JUDGES. THANKS TO FELLOW CONTESTANT "TELERA" FOR THE SUGGESTION, EVEN THOUGH THE WORK NOW EXCEEDS 1000 WORDS!</b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Nuts!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>Lara Mayes<br />
</i></b>Day 5: Dear Diary.
In shock. Like literally. Both
kinds!!! After four days recovering at Stinky General who should come visit me
but this hunky guy like six feet five saying his names James and how hes from
the Plantation Nut company and how bad they all felt when they heard I’d
reacted to one of their supposedly “peanut-free” products, and how they want me
to be a contestant on a top secret new show called “Four Hotties and a Nutty Billionaire”
on some island off Mexico and then he gave me a new hi-tech superfast epi pen
free. I don’t think Ive ever signed a form faster! So epic!! If the Billionaire
picks me I’ll be in all the zines, maybe get my own reality TV show??? And if
James is the Billionaire <u>I’D SO DEFINITELY</u> do him!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>James Jelliford</i></b><br />
Lara’s so amazing – we totally clicked! Soft, satiny cheeks, blue eyes and long
flowing blonde hair. Kinda like Ariel,
only with legs. Of course I could only see her upper half in the hospital bed. But man, what an upper half! When I told her about the reality show on the
private island and gave her the ePeanutPhrine, those eyes shone like the steel
marbles I used to have. I think she’s into me too, because she asked whether I’d
be there, too. She didn’t ask questions
about the release form, either. And she gave
me her cell number, and hung a huge, sly smile on me! Mission totally
accomplished! Hung with the posse at
Mike’s place afterwards, but unlike the other three, who were ok-looking, I didn’t
mention Lara to any of the guys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>Mister Peanut <br />
</i></b>The plan progresses.
Young Jelliford has obtained releases from all parties; no additional
disclosures about the recent labelling miscue need emerge, and all have
unwittingly agreed to be references for the new device. Now to put on a <i>faux</i> show, and convince them all to cavort on camera. Concoct a consolation prize, gin up some
klieg lights, and roll film! The ePeanutPhrine
Pen simply can’t miss with sexy young spokespersons. Everyone wants to be safer
and more desirable these days. What a coup for the Plantation Nut empire!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>Lara Mayes<br />
</i></b>Day 1: Figures
Id lose my epi pen first thing. On the yacht to the island, James was playing
hard to find; he told me he had duties onboard even though hes clearly into
me. I was trying to follow him up an icky
ladder to pool level when I half-slipped on one of the rungs. I heard the pen fall out of my sweater
pocket, bounce off the ladder, and go “SPLASH” in the ocean. Dang! Hope I don’t need it.<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>James Jelliford<br />
</i></b>Lara and the
three other girls assembled on Plantation Island for several hours now; Mr. P’s
nowhere in sight. When he shows, he’ll find the five of us lounging in one of his
super-luxe cabanas with drinks, flirting.
I haven’t told anyone about my being the “Billionaire” yet since I’m
actually only a pretend Billionaire! Lara said she broke up with her boyfriend
from her hospital bed, even though it technically wasn’t his fault about the
peanuts in the candy bar. Just a
convenient excuse to end what wasn’t working out anyway. Now, how can I make my
move without getting in trouble with Mr. P?<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>Lara Mayes<br />
</i></b>Day 2: The cameramen
are filming me more than the other girls, I think! And Im the only blond! I think Ive got a great chance to win whatever
the prize turns out to be! Though James
is still playing it pretty cool around me.
I hope Im not wrong about him being the Billionaire!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>Mister Peanut<br />
</i></b>Observing the
youthful activities from my secret viewing compartment below the structure, in
preparation for the surprise. And yet…
The sight of one of the young beauties is having a very strange effect on me. I’ve not felt such yearning in so very long! But what is happening to me? Feeling faint… blacking out… No! Not you again! Down, down I say!! Down!!! <b><i><br />
<br />
Dr. Güber<br />
</i></b><i>At last! The salty taste of freedom! That fool Peanut managed to suppress me in
this shell for a decade or more, but his latest surge of impotent lust has
enabled me to crack through; I’m free to roam again! That fair-haired one shall
be my first conquest. Onward, through
the passageway!<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>Lara Mayes<br />
</i></b>Day 3: This
has all been so nuts. (Pun intended!) Last thing I remember from yesterday, this
horrible looking, huge dark Mr. Peanut character comes out of a trapdoor in the
cabana floor while I’m not looking, grabs my arm and starts dragging me towards
the trapdoor. He actually smelled like Moose-Munch and didn’t appear anything
like Mister Peanut does on the Plantation candy wrappers. I tried to scream but
started choking instead. James was running
to help me… then I blacked out!<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">James Jelliford<br />
</span></i></b><span style="font-size: large;">Man, I’ve
never seen anything like that before. It
looked like Mr. P., only he’d added eighteen inches, and those spindly little arms
and legs of his were actually <i>ripped</i>. He was tricked out like Iron Man (“Magnesio”,
maybe)? His normal effete-looking
monocle looked like Cyclops’ visor, and his walking cane glowed like a lightsaber. He grabbed Lara; all five girls started
screaming. I lost it – along with my job, probably! – I karate-kicked the cane in
half; he spun and tripped over a table. I
caught Lara, and set her on a chaise. I picked him up, still half-dazed, and
threw him down through the trap door. We
heard a loud “thud” and that horrible sound of cracking shell. Someone handed me an ePeanutPhrine pen to keep
Lara breathing; I carried her over to one of the unused beach houses on the
island. Good thing the fridge and bar
here are both pretty well stocked. Lara’s
been breathing well for hours, and is “very appreciative” of the rescue. Sure hope no one stumbles upon us here anytime
soon!</span></span><b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></b><br />
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<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Lara Mayes</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Day 41: OMG its been so much fun for us here on the island!!! </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Jim is so cute!!! Once he </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">killed the "psycho peanut" with his bear hands and took over the empire by declaring himself "KING PEANUT" its been pure lux paradise here. Well after I recovered from the attack anyways. The camera crews have been selling access to our "exclusive private island skin videos" to some Satellite TV station called </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">IsleBeBack so were both gonna be rich - so sweet! He may not have been a real billionaire when he got me here but he likes saying now he is worth a gazillion and change in future earnings. (Though he wont say if thats less or more than a billion???)</span></div>
David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-19066895738715214342014-08-21T16:48:00.000-07:002016-11-19T08:12:08.712-08:00Cryptic Crossword Puzzle Solving<div style="text-align: center;">
<u><b>Cryptic Crossword Puzzle Solving</b></u></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(as found every month at the back of Harper's magazine)</div>
<br>
[Disclaimer: All clues are my original creations, and I take responsibility for any errors.]<br>
<br>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>INTRODUCTION</u></b></div>
<br>
Solving Cryptic Crosswords require you to peel off one end of each clue (front or back) to leave behind a standard crossword puzzle-style clue. The part you peel off can be of several types, and it's up to you to figure out where the "peel point" dividing line is, and the type of word play involved in the non-standard clue type. <br>
<br>
With the exception of the <u><b>very last character of a clue</b></u>, pay no attention to any punctuation in a cryptic clue, they mean nothing and are just there to throw you further off the scent. 99% of cryptic creators give you the length of the word(s) in the answer, e.g., (9). Unlike regular crosswords - the creator must give the solver the placement of all hyphens and word breaks as part of the clue. So if the solution is "STAND-UP COMEDY", the clue would have (5-2, 6) at the end of the clue.<br>
<br>
Hyphens and capitalization are not clued, though Harper's always gives tells you how many proper nouns, foreign words, and obscure words are included in each puzzle. And sometimes where they appear. ("13D is uncommon", for instance)<br>
<br>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>CLUE TYPES</u></b></div>
<br>
Clue type 1: Double Synonyms - both sides of the line are standard crossword clues. Typically two word clues. These are somewhat rare<br>
<br>
Example CT1: <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: magenta;">Claim "Yes" (5)</span></span> ==> <b><span style="color: magenta;">RIGHT </span></b><br>
<b><span style="color: magenta;"><br></span></b>
[<span style="background-color: white; color: magenta;">Claim "Yes"]</span><br>
<br>
Clue type 2: Anagram - The other side of the line consists of all the letters you need to form the answer and a "tip off" that this is an anagram-style clue. Typical words that convey this are "disturbed", "scrambled", "confused", anything which conveys entropy or chaos.<br>
<br>
Example CT2: <span style="color: magenta;">Crazy Don, slam DC fast food restaurant (9) </span>==><span style="color: magenta;"> <b>MCDONALD'S</b></span>David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-73113625211198882022014-03-20T18:04:00.001-07:002014-03-21T08:51:26.435-07:00"Divergent"<div>
This month's issue of Harpers Magazine reveals a truth-is-stranger-than-fiction tale of a University of Chicago study that correctly predicted the death of a particular human being on the dark, drug-infested streets of the South Side. Inputs were many and involved Stephen "Freakonomics" Leavitt, who continues to show us patterns driving our choices and their inexorable, predictable consequences. In the end, the unfortunate youth hung with the wrong faction, and placed honor to that faction above his own life's blood. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And from the Unbelievable Coincidence Dept.: "Divergent" hits the big screens of Hollywood tomorrow: the factionalized dystopian Chicago presented to us in this new major motion picture gives us a rather squalid extension view of today's compartmentalized subcultures, not gang insignias - factions that have evolved based on received wisdom, tradition, hereditary or learned instincts, at the expense of diversity and acceptance of differences. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The understated historical reasons for such an outlandish means of societal organization are buried deeply within a young-girl-coming-of-age tale, and are only vaguely alluded to from the viewpoint of the teenage protagonist, Beatrice, in the novel on which the new film is based. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Achieving peace" is the nominal stated goal, the idea being that within factions it is easier to achieve cross-societal detente than it is in mixed "us and them" configurations, with their invariable messy clashes in heterogeneous social circles on random street corners. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
From the HarperCollins Children's (!) audiobook I just finished, the author Veronica West seems intent on preaching socioeconomic diversity and teaming as a strength to be nurtured by our leaders, in opposition to mindless sectarian tribalism and absolute purist tendencies. All good so far as that goes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Her putative factions, though -- "Abnegation", "Dauntless", "Erudite", "Candor", and "Amity" --besides failing abysmally the "Consistent Parts of Speech Test", also strike me as fairly arbitrary avatars (and therefore stereotypes) for certain religious orders and sects (Quakers, Mennonites, Buddhists, Jews, et. al. on one hand, and reckless, thrill-seeking militant street gangs on the other) -- "The Fight Club" meets "The Hitler Youth" as it were. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Competitive and often sadistic "initiation trials" leave many would-be tribe members faction-less (and ostensibly homeless) - a fate depicted as worse than death. "Faction Before Blood" appears as a universal mantra devised to minimize interfactional fraternizing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The timing? Both the data-predicted murder and the novel have 2012 datestamps. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Naturally the factions in "Divergent" prove unstable and unsuccessful in preventing the war they were devised to allay, turning what could have been a probing lesson in social planning, government intrusion, and fair division of labor and wealth for the next generation into a Hollywood-ready cookie cutter screenplay for "Generation Xbox". </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nowhere to be found in this world is any social media, free press, music or arts, professional sports stadiums, twelve-juror trials, or democratically-elected leaders. Or education as we know it today, to help ameliorate societal ills - though somehow tattoos, paintball, ziplining, and virtual reality simulations - oh! and even computers, elevators and toasters - HAVE made their way from today into this future, along with cliques, rivalries, and redemptive teenage love on the down-low (in the off-hours between initiation trials only, of course). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hope that the point of "Divergent" - that well-rounded, well-educated civil societies rely on each of their citizens to be candid, dauntless, amicable, self-effacing, *and* erudite, each in turn and in moderation, while keeping in check the signs of decadent excesses both in themselves and others, is not lost amidst the simplistic vilification of power-hungry zealot-traitor characters and the (literally) mindless zombie violence which clearly enabled this screenplay to be considered "Fine Hollywood Material" two years after its publication. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In short, "Divergent" stops well short of providing a new "Animal Farm", "1984", "Fahrenheit 451" or "Brave New World" for Millennials now coming of age and facing hard questions about who should lead America to its future. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That crucial treatment will apparently have to wait a multi-million dollar blockbuster sequel or two. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And several more predictable, preventable deaths in Chicago, apparently. </div>
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<br /></div>
David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-21714390431105632232013-11-06T20:15:00.003-08:002013-11-06T20:28:05.706-08:00 “A Spirited Defense” <div style="text-align: center;">
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">by David M. J. Saslav</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>A 1,000-word ghost story set in a hotel bar featuring a pair of sunglasses</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Written in 48 hours for the 2013 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest </b></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><i>This story should only appear on the SazBlog, http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/ - any other publication is not authorized.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bella goes floor-to-floor searching for three or more of
them. The first she spots easily, under a bed in 1017. "Boo," he grins.
<i>You'll be of no help</i>, she thinks – <i>sinister, small, unwilling to respond</i> <i>when spoken to </i>– and with time fast spilling
away, she hurriedly moves on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Such hunts would ordinarily be made easier by the fact that
the remains of egos tend to glow in <i>bas
relief</i>, like faces within the small, focused squares on the tourists’ camera
screens. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">But she's on the fourth floor, scanning a large suite, when a relatively
young one she hadn’t noticed pops out at her from an armoire’s built-in safety
lockbox. "No fair, you peeked!" laments the child. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"And just how could I do that?" Bella chides.
"You chose an impenetrable hiding place with a secret locking code." <i>Come to think of it</i>, Bella realizes, <i>this one shouldn't have been able to get in
or out of such an enclosure, if I couldn’t see her. Some unfamiliar metal they’ve started using,
perhaps</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"I’m Bella. You're
needed downstairs. Join with me at once." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"The spirit is willing, the flesh is weak!" comes
the response. "I'm Myra. As in, 'Myra-sistance-is-futile'!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Engulfing
Myra's youthful exuberance adds tempo to Bella's pace.
Bella also notices quite a few peppy clichés and childish puns suddenly added
to her thought stream. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">After unearthing an older, languid, closet-hider from the penthouse
and incorporating her with little resistance, Bella can find no others on any of the
hotel’s once densely-inhabited floors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Usually a few of us in the bar," intones the
nameless newcomer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Yes! The bar!"
pipes Myra. "Let's go there!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bella realizes she's now out of options. And time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Flowing together downwards and into "The Schooner",
they spot several of their own kind immediately. "The imbibing of
spirits" is an apt phrase, as it turns out. "Like the porch lamp to
the moths!" bubbles Myra, who’s never been here before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"More like a slow strip-tease in the red-light
district," adds the older one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Either way, dozens of shadows dance furiously here, whirling
their way hungrily amongst the lost souls of the living as they pour alcohol onto
wounds of all kinds, dimming their defenses; low lavender lighting lubricates the
ghostly choreography. <i>But human souls enthrall their spirit-world invaders
reciprocally</i>, Bella muses; <i>none of
these drunken dervishes will be useful here, either</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Whoa, check out the one with the Shades!" squeaks
Myra with alarm. "That black aura!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">A tall, dark-haired man with curly hair wearing expensive sunglasses
is nursing a Rum Collins. To his right slumps a shapely brunette in her
twenties. She emanates a fading gray aura,
nearly indistinguishable from the air that surrounds her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">A pair of balletic dancers swim majestic figure eights
around the two, giving Mr. Shades the wider berth, then sprint toward the trio.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"About time you got back," despairs the first. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"She's nearly finished, I'm afraid," moans the
second. "How many did you bring from above?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Three and free!" exclaims Myra. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bella adds, "The rest of the hotel’s deserted. Those
with a choice, and all the Transitioners checked out long ago."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The pair of drunken dancers respond dolefully, in unison. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Well, the three of you will have to do it by yourselves, then. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Get to it!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Right. Myra,”
commands Bella. “Get that girl’s lights back on!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Myra-suscitates!" and in one fluid motion she
splits out, speeds over, and inhabits the drugged brunette, whose left arm
suddenly shoots out, knocking over her shotglass, spilling ounces of awful, cloudy
fluid entirely onto her companion’s lap. The empty glass shatters on the floor with a sound like two colliding cars. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Dammit, Chrissy!" hisses Shades. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Ooh....sorry... Mr.... Polson," she manages. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nice work,
Myra!</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The bartender hands Polson some tiny square napkins, but he snaps
back, "Yeah, right. This'll need the blowdryer in the men's room. Keep her
here, willya?" And leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">After he’s disappeared, the languid one says, "I got
this part. Similar money changed hands over me, near my own end." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bella sees her sad companion detach and float slowly toward the man and the girl at the bar. Suddenly, lifted
by an unexplained draft, the bill wafts up and out of reach, out of sight of
the flabbergasted, flailing bartender beneath it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Myra seems to be making some progress within Chrissy, who is now
staggering to her feet on wobbly legs that seem unsure where to take her. The bartender extends a hand and grabs Chrissy's
arm, steadying her but also restraining her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>My turn,</i> thinks Bella.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bella swims off well to the left, then directly through the
bar, positioning herself across from a group of three middle-aged Japanese tourists
husbanding several glasses and bottles between them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">And materializes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bella's ghastly face, horrifically slashed eight floors up
and eighty years ago, has the desired effect on the three incredulous patrons.
Their terrified screams precede the sound of shattering glasses, cleared off the
bar by the men’s reflexive gesticulations, each scrambling to keep his frame
and sanity upright. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The distracted bartender releases the girl and heads over, swearing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Perfect.</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her five seconds of daily opacity spent, Bella rejoins
Myra, this time inside Chrissy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Now, let’s get us some fresh air – fast!" shouts Bella.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"O-outside the hotel?" quavers Myra, unsure. "I've n-never g-g-gone..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Myra! You know what
happened upstairs? To you, to me, to the
others? Well?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Yes, b-b-but I need to s-s-stay ..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Listen! Those things are about to happen here, again,
if we don't help. Worse things, maybe.
Things you never grew old enough to learn about. You and I are the ones who can
prevent it. Right here, right now. Roger?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">On a shared cue, they steer Chrissy forward, away from the
bar, out through “The Schooner” entrance, past the front desk, and out of the
hotel, where a cab stand awaits. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">As a cab rolls up, at that precise moment, a hundred-dollar
bill floats downward, coming to rest on Chrissy's heaving, recovering chest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nice teamwork</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">, thinks Bella. <span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-66231522584610131462013-09-26T23:26:00.004-07:002013-11-06T20:16:52.995-08:00"Final Report"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><b>"Final Report"</b></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">by David Saslav</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">"Final Report" was written in 48 hours for the first of four rounds of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2013 Contest. My group of writers was assigned the romance genre, the setting of an apple orchard, and a fake mustache as the item to appear somewhere in the story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">This story should only appear on the SazBlog, http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/ - any other publication is not authorized.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Final Report<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Final Report. John Branca, Private Investigator<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Client: Peter Harmon, Subject: Anna
Harmon<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Friday, September 23<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />04:48PM – Subject may have
recognized me outside motel room. Surprise encounter while I purchased pistachios from vending machine; may have made me from line at Nordstrom earlier. Fortunately engaged Disguise #7 earlier in day: half-inch sideburns, mustache, wig. Continued observation, but with additional
caution. Two spottings maximum limit.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />05:15PM - Subject turned on TV – is he coming? <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />05:43PM - Checked out of hotel, steaming
mad; four straight no-shows. Waited
several minutes, then effected entry into the room. Pad by phone had scratch marks, from furious note written on top page, since removed. Pencil-traced what was left to reveal, “Behind
Granny Smith Fruit Stand HWY 2 @1”. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One? As in, that night? The following afternoon? So I had no choice but to conduct another all-night
stakeout. Any other case, two weeks in, I’d probably just turn in what I already got. But it was way too late for
that, for me, now; I was way beyond “professional curiosity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Saturday, September 24<br />
</span></u></b><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />12:45AM - Granny Smith’s grocery store, tiny, middle of
nowhere, out Highway 2 past mini-mall. Store in front of large apple orchard. Took
position in rear with infrared camera and far-zoom mic, climbing up a sturdy
tree; waited.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">12:55 AM - Two sets of headlights pulled
into side lot, one after the other, and killed their headlights fast. Two figures carrying flashlights walked
behind store, halfway to orchard, within range of my mic. Audio transcript follows</span></b><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">:</span></b><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Subject</b><i>: Mark, all this
sneaking and dodging – I’ve had it, I’m done.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Contact</b><i>: Christ, Anna, can we kiss
first, and talk logistics later?</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Subject</b><i>: No! I’m through with the
redirections and missed appointments and all your out-of-the-way locations.
You’re either leaving her or you’re not.</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <b>[Pause.]</b> <i>Well? Which is it?</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Subject</b>: <i>What
about you? You’re still with …</i></span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She must
have thrown an apple as something hit him square in the leg in mid-sentence, and
rolled in my direction.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I sent up a silent cheer as he yelped in pain.</span><br />
<ul>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Subject (yelling):</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>Stop
it! I’ve told you a million times, the pre-nup means I’m screwed if I take off without
something else lined up. That was your
job, remember?</i> <i>Line something else up.</i></span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">God, why did Harmon have to hire me?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">His wealth and advanced
age must’ve produced a ton of well-justified paranoia about his stunning young
wife. If only he could have hired some other damn PI!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">1:08AM - Shouting and a tussle; Contact chased Subject into orchard; caught her five feet directly beneath my branch. Dark orange moonlight enabled me to remain unseen. He grabbed her, slapped her hard; Subject fell against tree, slid to ground, whimpering. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Jesus! How could such
an obvious low-life attract a beauty like Anna? Her boredom with Harmon must have served as some kind of rocket fuel to her heart, Mark clearly nothing more than a flashy distraction to her...<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">1:10AM - Contact advanced further; I jumped off branch and fell on him like proverbial piano from seventeenth floor window. Contact knocked unconscious; my fake mustache
and right sideburn flew off my face at impact. As I handcuffed him, Anna let loose
with a scream.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">JB</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>Useful things,
these handcuffs. He won’t be hurting you again.</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>Who
the hell are - ? Why were you up - ? Hey, you’re the guy from the motel – you’ve
been following me! You a cop or what?</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">JB</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>Anna, yes,
I’ve been following you. I’m John – John
Branca, and your husband Peter’s been paying me to follow you around, prove you
were having an affair.</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>That
rat bastard! He proves I’m seeing someone, he can discard me like an old shoe
and withhold the shoelace!</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">JB</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>As in, the
pre-nup?</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>How
did you know – oh sure, you’re watching and listening, both. You finding my affairs real entertaining,
Branca?</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">JB</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>Anna, listen
to me – both these guys are dirt compared to you! I don’t even need to run a
check on this one here, he isn’t even worth my trouble. Tell me, he play rough like
that before?</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>N-not
quite as bad as that.... </i> </span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She rubbed her bruised apple of a cheek, and continued:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna: </span></b><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Boy, you really did
save me, Branca, kinda like Tarzan swinging out of that tree, didn’t you?</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She flashed me a million-dollar
smile that melted my heart all over, for the umpteenth time that week.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>These yours?</i></span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She’d
picked up my stray sideburn and mustache from beside her on the ground, and got
back to her feet.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What a woman!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">JB</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>Thanks so much. Look, God - please call me John, will you?</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>John, right, ok. Th- Thanks so much for saving me, John.</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Me</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>Anna, look, I’ve
got money put away from this line of work, and I can keep slime like this far
from you. Would you let me provide you
with, um, free bodyguard services?</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>You’re
funny, you know that, John? </i></span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She gave me her hand to hold -- sending me to the harvest moon -- then:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><b style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna: </b><i style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And I’m not sure, but you may actually be cute, too.</i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><i style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Does any more of your
face come off?</i></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I'm sure I blushed, as I shed the remainder of Disguise #7.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Me</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>Anna, this is
me, the whole me, and nothing but me. This whole case, I’m getting this steep sense
we’re supposed to be together. Let me take
you away, where it’s safe.</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>You
have any idea what you’re getting into with me?</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Me</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>Probably not. Here’s
the thing: I head back to your place, your husband gets one of two possible reports
from me.</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: <i>Sounds
like you’ve got me over a barrel. What’ve I got on you, John?</i></span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I pointed at
Mark, now slowly coming around.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Me:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>This goon’s phone
number, Peter’s number, whatever. I ever fail you, they’ll both take real delight
getting even with me for this, won’t they?</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anna:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>You’re
right, we’ve got each other right where we want. Look. I’m
famished, and nothing's open this late...</i></span></li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Me: </span></b><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Guess again. There's an open bag of motel pistachios in
my car…</span></i></li>
</ul>
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[Transcript ends; report archived; never
submitted.]</span></i>David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-12351383138039942792013-01-12T15:49:00.001-08:002013-01-12T15:49:51.207-08:00<b>"Win With Weth 2012" Contest - Prize-Winning Haiku</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>Is Doctor Zoidberg</i></b><br />
<b><i>Ever going to pass "GO",</i></b><br />
<b><i>Or just eat Boardwalk?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
This haiku just won a brand new Monopoly Futurama Edition in the "Win With Weth 2012" Contest - my first-ever prize-winning poem!David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-25226148443174984492012-12-13T17:36:00.004-08:002012-12-27T12:38:11.704-08:00<h2>
New Bianagrams from December 2012:</h2>
<b><br /></b>
<b>"No personal response, no sale!"</b><br />
- note this does feature the word "no" twice but is so tasty I felt the exception was justified.<br />
<br />
<b>"Bounded last -- but not least!"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Strong leads aren't gold."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Support p</b><b>rospects </b><b>to cause loyalty." </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Curse most customers!"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Lord, champions open new world machines!"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Instant coffee isn't constant, is it?"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i><br /></i>
<i>What is a bianagram? Read more about them here:</i><br />
<b><a href="http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/2012_06_01_archive.html">http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/2012_06_01_archive.html</a></b><br />
<br />David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-59926218238348708452012-09-11T10:04:00.000-07:002012-09-11T10:04:17.742-07:00"Mom" - A Poem With Very Short Words<i>Inspired by feelings of melancholy I experienced while reflecting on my mother's recent 76th birthday, and a very short memo I received via Skype the other day, I fashioned this poem out of words no longer than three letters, using the memo itself as the poem's first line.</i><br />
<br />
<b> Mom</b><br /><br />Yes, we are in the old one now<br />The day is old, we are old<br />And I am old and sad.<br />And Mom is not by us now.<br /><br />My boy and I are not too bad off - Oh,<br />But try, if you can, to say, sir,<br />How we can get in our car and go<br />To the era of sky and sea, to her.<br /><br />Mom was, for all of us, the way.<br />She had us; we had her.<br />She was our sun, our sky<br />Day by day by day by day.<br /><br />Our bus to the zoo!<br />Can we go to the sea?<br />Our car to the sky!<br />Let me! Let me!<br /><br />We had her, and all was joy.<br />She was the one to lug a bag<br />She was the one to cry and hug<br />For me, and for my boy.<br /><br />Yes, we are in the old one now<br />The day is old, we are old<br />And I am old and sad.<br />And Mom is not by us now.<br /><br />(c) 2012 David SaslavDavid Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-92067623426753469142012-06-20T08:41:00.002-07:002019-11-20T03:44:47.448-08:00"I disavow vowel deals" - Introducing BianagramsWhat is a Bianagram?<br />
<br />
In June 2012, I invented a new form of lexical construct called the "bianagram". Related to anagrams, they involve using only pairs of letters to form interesting sentences and phrases.<br />
<br />
Unlike with anagrams, though, where you are prohibited from adding or re-using letters, bianagrams involve not only re-arranging, but also nearly always <b>adding </b>additional letters as needed to form the sentence or phrase, stopping only once it consists exclusively of letters in pairs. <br />
<br />
Thus, while "PETER A." can be anagrammized to "REPEAT", the <b>bianagram requires adding a "P", "T", "R", and "A" </b>to the<b> </b>original six letters, since they have no paired counterparts. Adding additional pairs of letters to the mix (say, two "S"es and two additional "E"s), you can form the required (sensible, grammatical) sentence, as in, "A trap! See, Peters?" <br />
<br />
Notice that because "PETER A." started with two "E"s, it was not necessary to add any "E"s to form this <b>bianagram</b>, though we chose to do so in the end.<br />
<br />
Additionally, since <b>acronyms, abbreviations, and initials are not allowed in bianagrams, </b>"TRAP PETER A." is not a bianagram, even though all letters in it appear in pairs (2A, 2E, 2P, 2R, 2T). Creating a valid bianagram in this case actually requires rearranging it to "Peter, a trap!" or, with the help of additional letters, in this case the 2E's and 2S's above, "A trap! <b><u>See</u></b>, Peter<b><u>s</u></b>?" Thus, one <b>bianagram</b> can evolve naturally into another, simply by adding or removing pairs of identical letters. You're not done until you are satisfied with the elegance of the sentence or phrase you've produced (and all letters are used in pairs, of course).<br />
<br />
So you might ask, legitimately, whether just a word (or name, or phrase) and its anagram used together to form a sentence constitute a <b>bianagram</b> or not, without any letters added; and the answer would be "Yes, so long as no acronyms, abbreviations, and initials are used in the final construction." An example might be the "mirrored bianagram":<br />
<br />
"Desserts," Anna stressed.<br />
(2A, 2D, 4E, 2N, 2R, 6S, 2T)<br />
<br />
<br />
You might also ask if <b>bianagrams </b>require names to appear in them - they do not. Any set of words forming a legitimate sentence or phrase consisting only of letters in pairs counts as a <b>bianagram</b>. See the fourth example below.<br />
<br />
Here are some examples of <b>bianagrams</b>, to get you started:<br />
<br />
"Man, animal, Ali!"<br />
"Man, animal, David Saslav!"<br />
"Wild, Melissa -- mildew sails!"<br />
"I disavow vowel deals."<br />
"Have a fun one forever, Hun!"<br />
"Mimi and I dance as sad dice"David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-49159806022547464072012-04-17T08:49:00.003-07:002012-04-18T12:42:13.540-07:00Open Letter to CEO of Wyndham HotelsOpen Letter to Stephen P. Holmes, Chairman and CEO of Wyndham
Worldwide, one of the world’s largest hospitality companies including Wyndham hotels:<br />
<br />
April 17, 2012<br />
Dear Stephen,<br />
<br />
The cost to Wyndham of replacing large groups of disaffected customers is greater than replacing a known-faulty water boiler, which on several occasions over the past year has apparently prevented all showers in your Indianapolis Wyndham property on Executive Dr. from generating any hot water to guest bathrooms for the first half of the morning.<br />
<br />
By this point, six months and multiple identical incidents later, I would be surprised if your properties garner any repeat business from business travelers (a hardy bunch that can withstand the depredations of travel on several fronts but require a hot shower and a good cup of coffee to start each day on the road).<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
David Saslav<br />
dsaslav@gmail.com<br />
http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-29333987734381849982012-01-31T23:37:00.000-08:002012-03-06T07:03:39.828-08:00"Overexposure" - A work of short horror fiction"Overexposure" was composed over a span of eight days as part of the first round challenge for the 2012 NYCMidnight.com Short Story Challenge. The challenge for my group of contestants was to write a horror story in 2,500 words or fewer, featuring a theme of bullying, and a photographer.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Overexposure</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Grunnoch crept slowly forward, toward the small, quivering form. Slowly, and with anticipation, without fear. For although neither could it see the thoughts of humans, nor those of any other living creatures in the physical sphere, it knew full well that this one posed no threat, as things stood.<br />
<br />
Or, more precisely, as things lie, Grunnoch smirked to itself. <br />
<br />
Having witnessed the two elder boys attacking the smaller one with debilitating blows, taunts, and gibes, it suspected that he would be ripe for recruitment, and bear a fine yield. As always, it was merely a question of selecting the proper enticement in the time available. <br />
<br />
Time was of the essence, of course, for it could not maintain the integrity of the portal that separates Here from There, not for long, anyway. Not without outside assistance.<br />
<br />
Circling the sobbing, shaking boy, Grunnoch noticed the shattered camera, much of its film protruding, exposed to air. Grunnoch examined it more closely, recalling the recent scene of senseless, youthful violence that had just transpired.<br />
<br />
“Taking pictures of we Greyhawks is gonna cost ya, punk,” one of the two pursuers had yelled. They had chased down and surrounded the smaller one, whose careful, two-handed grip on his camera had impeded his running speed, dooming his attempt at flight. Suddenly, an arm twisted and held fast evinced a painful shriek; the camera dropped, breaking.<br />
<br />
“And I don’t see nearly enough coin in his pockets, Lenny,” the other had added, having turned the small boy’s pockets inside out as the first one continued to restrain him with his malicious, superior strength.<br />
<br />
“From now on, Marvin, you ask permission from me and from him before this thing comes out again, got it?” the first had said.<br />
<br />
The embattled child had, foolishly, attempted to combat unreason with reason, serving only to fire his tormentors’ cauldrons still further.<br />
<br />
“I didn’t mean n-n-nothing by it, guys, it was just s-s-some shots for a Sentinel article about the school p-playground, I-I-I,” he’d managed to say, between sobs.<br />
<br />
“Shut your hole!” the one called Lenny had responded, imparting further pain to the boy. Wresting the camera away, Lenny had flung it into a nearby wall, rendering it inoperable. For good measure, he had pulled the film from the camera, exposing it to killing sunlight.<br />
<br />
The sight of the camera’s sudden ruination seemed to create in the small photographer a sudden animal ferocity.<br />
<br />
“Lenny, no! Th-there’s dozens of undeveloped pictu- OOF!”<br />
<br />
And the final battle had been enjoined in full, predictable in its outcome but gruesome nonetheless. <br />
<br />
From where it lurked, Grunnoch had easily identified its candidate as the three had approached – a distinctive fragrance combining fear with impotence, rage with resentment. <br />
<br />
Few in Grunnoch’s time had ever produced such strong and redolent scent as this. It felt confident that the temptation of redemption and revenge would prove sufficient here.<br />
<br />
After the two bullies had abandoned their hapless victim, Grunnoch had created a temporary portal, slipped through, and assumed human form, molding itself quickly into a figure of authority, an adult in uniform. One whose voice it knew the young one would find comforting at this critical juncture.<br />
<br />
“Marvin? Marvin, can you hear me?”<br />
<br />
The beaten child lifted his head from the pavement, startled and sobbing, but said nothing.<br />
<br />
“Now, Marvin, listen to me,” said Grunnoch in a practiced, authoritarian tone. “You would like those who harmed you to be brought to justice, correct?”<br />
<br />
A nod. <br />
<br />
“Then you shall do just that. Capture your tormentors in clear light with this new, more powerful camera. They will torment you no more.”<br />
<br />
The boy shook his head in wonderment. “M-more powerful? How does it work? The Greyhawks said never to – “<br />
<br />
Taking care to ensure the boy didn’t notice, Grunnoch had transmuted the broken camera into a new, silvery form, with several shiny knobs and dials on its back. A large, oval-shaped flashbulb extended from its top, and a sturdy strap with a small, sealed pouch extended from hooks on the camera’s side.<br />
<br />
Grunnoch proffered it to him.<br />
<br />
“Marvin, take this; it is indestructible and carries great power, one which will give you total invincibility as you capture the images of those who have harmed you.” <br />
<br />
After the boy had taken the camera, and the usual moment of infusion and transformation, he comported himself quickly. “I don’t get it… but you got it,” he said, and fled quickly.<br />
<br />
Watching the boy retreat, Grunnoch glowed, returning to its essential form, and retreated quickly to its own sphere, through the vanishing portal, to wait.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<br />
When Marvin had grasped the odd-looking camera from the strange man, he had sensed a strange energy coursing through him. It had a warm, healing, empowering feeling to it. All of a sudden, it no longer hurt where the Greyhawks had pummeled him repeatedly. He no longer felt anything, actually, other than strength and a kind of powerful giddiness he’d never experienced before. <br />
<br />
Looking down at the controls on the new silver camera, he saw they were laid out logically; they required no manual, no explanation or labeling. <br />
<br />
Marvin knew their meaning intuitively; and he thrilled inwardly at the challenge awaiting him.<br />
<br />
“I don’t get it, but you got it,” he’d said, running off in the direction of the playground.<br />
<br />
When he reached the playground, Marvin positioned himself behind a fence, which opened onto the basketball court, and spied through a small knothole. The Greyhawks were in full assembly there, playing three against three, Lenny and his evil lieutenant Vince shouting instructions to the others as they squared off against one another.<br />
<br />
Marvin placed the lens of the camera against the opening in the fence, and, peering into the camera’s eyehole, made sure all six Greyhawks were in proper focus.<br />
<br />
Then he depressed the shutter, and held it down.<br />
<br />
Where he’d been expecting a mere flash and a click, though, Marvin felt more of a shuddering roar and a boom as the camera’s strange flashbulb erupted. The camera dropped from his hands, landing on his right foot. The sensation he’d felt as the picture was shot resembled what he’d felt last summer while visiting Grandpa on the airplane. Just as it was about to land, in a rough and turbulent rainstorm, lightning had struck one of the wings, or very close to it. Marvin had never been more certain he was going to die than at the moment that incredibly loud, jarring combination of sounds and sensations had rattled through his small frame. Even his parents had looked shaken, as had everyone else on board that miserable flight.<br />
<br />
Returning from that awful memory, Marvin picked up the camera and peered back through the knothole in the fence.<br />
<br />
To his surprise, the basketball court was empty. The basketball had fallen from its mid-air trajectory, and Marvin watched as it bounced to a halt, then rolled off the court’s edge.<br />
<br />
Gone! All six Greyhawks had disappeared into thin air!<br />
<br />
Marvin couldn’t believe the scene before him. They had all simply disappeared as he’d snapped their picture! But how could it be? A camera can’t affect its subject. Marvin knew enough about photography to be sure of that, except with the light of the flashbulb. And yet, the facts remained: the gang had been there when he depressed the shutter, and gone once the picture was taken!<br />
<br />
The loud noise had caused a crowd to form, made up of nervous, shouting adults and confused children. Marvin returned from his reverie, and realized he needed to be elsewhere. <br />
<br />
Making sure not to be seen, he ran in the direction of West Maple, where his elder cousin Barry lived.<br />
<br />
Barry was in his backyard, frying ants with a magnifying glass. That was his favorite hobby, whenever Marvin wasn’t there for him to pick on instead.<br />
<br />
“Marvin,” yelled Barry when he spotted him running across the yard toward him. “What are you doing here, twerp? Can’t you see I’m busy doing a <i>science project</i>?” That last was a dig; Barry always loved to deride Marvin’s bent for science.<br />
<br />
“Barry, I need a picture of you, right now.”<br />
<br />
“What?” Barry stood up, smiled cruelly, and began cracking his knuckles. “And then you’re gonna sell me that camera for ten cents, aren’t you, Marvin…?”<br />
<br />
Marvin had stopped short of Barry’s arm’s reach, aiming the camera at him.<br />
<br />
Barry was too quick, though; he reached out to snatch the camera. His hand got no closer than six inches, though, before he retracted it with a yell, and began waving it gingerly back and forth.<br />
<br />
“Ow! What is that, some kind of electrified screen around that thing?”<br />
<br />
“Smile,” replied Marvin, looking through the eyehole at his cousin, as he depressed the camera’s shutter.<br />
<br />
Once again, the loud, booming noise erupted and shot through Marvin, causing him to lose his hold on the camera. Barry was no longer anywhere to be seen.<br />
<br />
“Barry?” Marvin called, loud enough to be heard from the yard’s few hiding places. “Are you there?”<br />
<br />
The echoing stillness contained only the sound of birdsong and a passing truck engine nearby.<br />
<br />
Marvin’s Aunt Louise’s voice rang out, “Barry! What was that noise? Are you playing with explosives again?”<br />
<br />
Marvin raced from the yard, hoping he’d remained unobserved, and set off to find Archie Peregoff.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<br />
Two hours later, Marvin found himself lost in another reverie while pouring out the developing solution in his basement darkroom. His parents were upstairs watching television, as usual.<br />
<br />
Nine of them, gone! Permanently, he hoped. Nine of his worst nightmares, vanished with the press of a button. The entire Greyhawk gang, his cousin Barry, Archie Peregoff (who had been making a habit of stealing his lunch money of late), and the old, menacing shopkeeper at the corner store. He had caught Marvin stealing a lousy pack of baseball cards the previous weekend, grabbing his hand painfully. Said he’d be reporting him to his parents the next time they were in the store. But his parents hadn’t mentioned the incident yet, so he guessed they hadn’t gone there since then. And now, of course, no one would be saying anything to them or anyone else about it, ever. <br />
<br />
As Marvin lay the film in the developing tray, he counted four exposed frames. There were twelve unused frames. Ordinarily, Marvin liked to wait until all the pictures on a roll had been shot before developing them, but in this case, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Plus, the camera itself gave no indication of how many shots were left to take, so he couldn’t predict when he’d run out. He vowed to count carefully to sixteen before returning to the darkroom. <br />
<br />
Then, suddenly, an unnerving thought struck him. He had no way of obtaining more film beyond what was currently developing!<br />
<br />
Unless the stranger who’d given him the camera reappeared at some point to replenish his camera, his little payback crusade was finished! He let out a small sob. Then he remembered the small pouch hanging off the camera’s strap. Opening it quickly, he found another roll of film, exactly the same as the first. With a manic glee, he opened the camera, placed the new film inside, and re-closed it with a snap. <br />
<br />
“Armed and dangerous once again,” smiled Marvin.<br />
<br />
Now his attention returned to the photographs developing in the dim purple light of his darkroom. There was still no trace of whatever the camera had picked up on any of the four shots. Marvin’s scientific mind began to take over, wondering whether the camera had worked at all, and what could take these pictures so long to develop.<br />
<br />
Then, finally, the very first picture he had taken, the one shot through the playground fence outside the basketball court, began to materialize. <br />
<br />
Only Marvin couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. <br />
<br />
Pictures typically take a few minutes to develop; from the start of the process to the end, the subject of the photo gains outline and clarity over that entire time. The image in the photograph stays constant, other than in its resolution.<br />
<br />
This camera’s pictures, on the other hand, were playing out like a slow-motion movie sequence as they developed. The six Greyhawks were there, underexposed, with the basketball in flight from one pair of oversized hands, arcing ever so slowly, second by second, toward the basket. It was as if several thousand exposures had been taken in the split second the shutter was depressed, and the process of developing them was replaying that split second.<br />
<br />
The photos continued to develop.<br />
<br />
As the ball reached the top of its trajectory, another form suddenly appeared in the sequence, seemingly out of nowhere. It descended from the top of the frame, and resembled a huge, hideous spider, bigger than the basketball court, only instead of legs, this thing had what looked more like gnarled tentacles with suction cups that reached down and covered the heads of all six boys simultaneously. It reminded Marvin of the program he’d seen on TV of a giant squid devouring its prey. It had appeared from nothingness, through a crease in the sky. <br />
<br />
Marvin recalled the incredible roaring boom that accompanied each of the four shots he’d taken, and suddenly knew its cause.<br />
<br />
All four pictures began developing, and Marvin saw the same horrifying creature in all four, a slow-motion descent from the crack in the sky, the sickening, extending tentacles ensnaring the subjects within a frame or two. The ensnared victims were then pulled up into a giant maw of a mouth that had appeared on the creature’s underside. The helpless victims disappeared into it quickly, bodies writhing. <br />
<br />
Then the beast began disappearing into the same fissure that had produced it, though now engorged with its human prey, leaving only the empty background of each scene. As he stared down in shock, all four pictures flashed to white. Overexposed – that should not have been possible!<br />
<br />
Marvin was paralyzed with revulsion. What had he done? By taking pictures of his mortal enemies, he had consigned them to an ungodly and horrifying death. He couldn't believe it. How could such a thing exist anywhere in the Universe?<br />
<br />
As the minutes passed by, Marvin began to shake uncontrollably. His mind was racing. How could he ever atone for what the monstrous being had done?<br />
<br />
“Marvin, dear?” His mother’s voice called from outside the darkroom door. “Aunt Louise is on the phone. Something very strange is going on…”<br />
<br />
Marvin turned towards the door, and contemplated facing his parents. Impossible. The horror of what he had seen in the darkroom tray burned his memory like fire. <br />
<br />
He tried to say something, but he could form no words. No thoughts, other than the terror of existing in a world where such an awful thing could enter. Beckoned, as it were, by Marvin.<br />
<br />
Soundlessly, then, Marvin chose. He picked up the camera, turned it toward himself, closed his eyes, and depressed the shutter.David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-29361155547162269912012-01-14T05:31:00.000-08:002012-01-16T19:06:41.653-08:00<u><b>Dave Saslav's Workout Mix Lists</b></u><br />
<div style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: purple;">
<i>Legend:</i></div>
<div style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: purple;">
</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<span style="color: purple;">
</span></div>
<div style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: left;">
<i>* = Avoid </i></div>
<div style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: left;">
<i>** = Keeps the pulse / OK for startup/cooldown</i><br />
<i>*** = Inspires athletic thoughts, increases pace </i></div>
<div style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: purple; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: left;">
<i>**** = Real Calorie Burner!!</i><br />
<i>***** = All-Time Best Workout Music Award</i></div>
<br />
------------------------------ <br />
Exercise songs, 16-Jan-2012<br />
Spotify 80's Radio Mix <br />
------------------------------<br />
Eternal Flame (The Bangles) **<br />
Head over Heels (Tears for Fears) **<br />
Modern Love (David Bowie) ***<br />
The Final Countdown (Europe) ****<br />
Sharp-Dressed Man (ZZ Top) ****<br />
Simply the Best (Tina Turner) **<br />
Thriller (Michael Jackson) ****<br />
<br />
---------------------------------<br />
Cool-down songs 16-Jan-2012<br />
Spotify 80's Radio Classical Mix<br />
---------------------------------<br />
Schumann, "Traumerai" from <i>Kinderszenen</i>, Op. 15<br />
Bizet, <i>Habanera</i> from <u>Carmen</u><br />
Mozart, <i>Finale </i>(from <u>Eine Kleine Nachtmusik</u>)<br />
Dvorak, <i>Nocturne</i> in B Major, Op. 40 <br />
------------------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------ <br />
Exercise songs, 15-Jan-2012<br />
Spotify 80's Radio Mix <br />
------------------------------<br />
Papa, Don't Preach (Madonna) **<br />
Fast Car (Tracy Chapman) *<br />
Come On, Eileen (Dexy's Midnight Runners) ***<br />
Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler) *<span class="long-title" dir="ltr" id="eow-title" title="Peter Schilling - "Major Tom (Völlig Losgelöst)" (using "2001" footage)"> </span><br />
<span class="long-title" dir="ltr" id="eow-title" title="Peter Schilling - "Major Tom (Völlig Losgelöst)" (using "2001" footage)">"Major Tom" ("Völlig Losgelöst", the </span>German version, by Peter Schilling) ***<br />
Smalltown Boy (Bronski Beat) ***<br />
Little Lies (Fleetwood Mac) ***<br />
<br />
---------------------------------<br />
Cool-down songs 15-Jan-2012<br />
Spotify 80's Radio Classical Mix<br />
---------------------------------<br />
The Lark Ascending (Vaughan Williams, orchestral)<br />
Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring (J.S. Bach, chorus and organ)<br />
Sonata No. 2 in B-Flat Minor (Chopin, piano)<br />
Overture No. 2, Minuet (J.S. Bach, orchestral)<br />
Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies (Tchaikovsky, orchestral)<br />
Rondo Alla Turca (Mozart, piano)<br />
Peer Gynt, "Morning" (Grieg, orchestral)<br />
------------------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------<br />
Exercise songs, 14-Jan-2012 <br />
------------------------------<br />
<br />
Su-Susudio (Phil Collins) *****<br />
What's Love Got to Do With it? (Tina Turner) **<br />
Panama (Van Halen) ****<br />
Separate Ways (Journey) *****<br />
Last Christmas (Wham!) *<br />
Karma Chameleon (Culture Club) *****<br />
Power of Love (Huey Lewis and the News) *****<br />
Sharp-Dressed Man (ZZ Top) ****<br />
<br />
--------------------------------<br />
Cool-down songs 14-Jan-2012<br />
--------------------------------<br />
Africa (Toto) *<br />
Little Red Corvette (Prince) ***<br />
Bette Davis Eyes (Kim Carnes) * <br />
Heart of Glass (Blondie) **<br />
Love Shack (B-52s) ****<br />
<br />David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-90245766117695826412011-09-25T21:10:00.000-07:002012-11-16T08:29:56.061-08:00"Siren Song" - A Short Romantic Comedy"Siren Song" was written on Sunday, September 25, 2011, in under four hours, as part of the NYCMidnight.com Flash
Fiction 2011 Writing Contest. My sub-group's challenge was to write a
romantic comedy of 1,000 words or fewer, set in an ambulance. An onion ring also had to appear somewhere in the story. Although contestants are given forty-eight hours per story, I was not motivated this time around like I usually am; my prior story, "Firing Blanks", submitted last month for the first round of this contest challenge garnered no points whatsoever, and essentially eliminated me from the overall contest, regardless of how well "Siren Song" fares. Still, it was a chance to write my first romantic comedy... so I did. You get to be the judge as to whether I should have spent those four hours practicing my putting instead...!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Siren Song</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by David Saslav<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You probably think once the world’s been saved, the
story fits neatly into those five-color panels in your graphic novels. I’m here to tell you otherwise. A lot of really major stuff happens off-screen,
and it’s every bit as important.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Take, for instance, the paramedic that nearly put
every superhero in Central City out of business, for good. That’s one story you won’t find on the
drugstore rack.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Just so you’ll realize I’m not making this up, I
am Bell Boy, fearless sidekick to A-List superhero, Hotel Door Man. Some of our recent triumphs – like apprehending
the insidious Painful Head Lice – have been pretty well publicized; the climactic
battle with his Army of Nits got in all the rags, and deservedly so. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Sometimes, though, what doesn’t get covered in
the media is equally astounding.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Your average fan of superheroes such as Hotel Door
Man, Captain Courage, and WhattaWoman will devour the high-impact, rock-em-sock-em
comics in which we vanquish superbaddies.
But maybe you’ve wondered – don’t all those exploding cars and deathrays
cause collateral damage? Ever think that
maybe us sidekicks – like Kid Crush, Starling, Grrl Power, and I – might
occasionally require medical attention?
You bet we do.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In fact, it was injuries I sustained fighting Purple
Pachyderm and his Elephreaks at Central Mall that got this story started. Those illegal ivory boys were goring me good
with their Tusk-a-loosas when Hotel Door Man swooped in with the classic Minibarrage
that laid them all low.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Unfortunately, sixteen bystanders got injured as a
result; a small price to pay for eliminating a major nemesis like Purple
Pachyderm. After Hotel Door Man uttered his
tagline (“You, sir, are CHECKED OUT”), a convoy of ambulances appeared outside the
Mall entrance. And as sidekick, I got first
dibs.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As soon as I saw the EMT, I was smitten. Amy filled out a paramedic’s uniform like
nobody’s business, and her eyes put MantisMan's hot girlfriend, Marybeth Wilson’s, to shame. I could tell she was taken with me too, when she inserted the I-V drip into my arm and the sirens started
blaring. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Still, the whole ambulance ride to Central City General
might have been a non-event had it not been for the fast food she was
eating during the ride. It gave me an
opening – I was famished from fighting!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />“You gonna finish those onion rings, miss?” Ah, the
lack of inhibition that only local anesthetic can deliver – even more than
superhero costumes.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Um… they’re cold,” she replied. “And your victims won’t
be snacking en route to the hospital.” </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“My <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">victims</i>?”
I said, stunned. “I’m not the bad guy. Hotel Door Man and I just saved Central City!”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Tell it to MegaComix,” she countered, offering me a
soggy-looking onion ring. “I’ve just
about had it with having to explain why there are no available beds at Central City General
for patients because they’re taken by citizens who happened to be at the wrong
place at the wrong time when your lot showed up. And I’m going to be doing something about it,
too.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There was a light in her eyes that said “means business”; it made me start sweating profusely, even more than watching Hanta Virus and his
E. Coliconspirators descend on a crowd of hapless innocents.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“You mean a letter to the Mayor?” I offered
hopefully. “Maybe we could review it
together. I too have some ideas about…”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“You wish!” she snapped, though she was clearly conflicted;
supermasks tend to do that to women. “I’ve had to treat just about every
superhero in town at some point, along with several hundred innocent
bystanders. And while I’ve listened to
the stories about how you saved us all from peril, I’ve been doing some mental
math on how much it’s costing the city.
Way too much!”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I could feel my heart beating faster as her cadence
accelerated. I was suddenly thinking how
long it had been since Hotel Door Man had booked one of those Free Room Nights
for anyone but himself and one of the supermodels he’d rescued.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then: “You may have noticed you’re somewhat
immobilized, Bell Boy.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She was right.
Having bitten into the onion ring, a strange stinging sensation was now
flowing from my lips to my extremities; the snack fell to the floor of the
ambulance, and as it did, she snapped my mask off and produced a smartphone.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Just as I suspected – Jimmy Larson, ward to Piers Sutcliffe
of Sutcliffe Enterprises. I take it this
means Sutcliffe is Hotel Door Man, correct?” And as my eyes clearly confirmed
her theory, her cellphone snapped a quick close-up of my shocked face. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“But, miss! Y-y-you
can’t print th-“</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Oh can’t I?
I’ve got a private MyMugShots.com photo album with over three dozen of
you mayhem masters, and tonight, after I go off shift, I send out the E-vite to
several hundred of the city’s top journalists, fully tagged for easier cowl-to-name
identification.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As she leaned over me to get a second snapshot, I
somehow managed to gain control of one hand, grabbed her stethoscope, and
pulled her face to mine, delivering a ten-second-long French kiss that caused
her to drop the smartphone onto the ambulance’s floor. It made a sickening crash that told me that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> identity, at least, was safe for the
time being.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“You have the advantage,” I murmured, suave as I
could. “You know my secret identity, but
I don’t know yours.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m, I’m, I’m Amy,” she said, rearranging her
uniform and gasping for breath. I’d clearly
struck a chord; her eyes had a new glow to them that gave me an advantage to
press.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Amy, I’ve fallen in love with you. But if we’re to mean anything to one another,
all superhero identities must remain secret. How else can we protect loved ones
from harm?”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She paused, ever so slightly. “Is Sutcliffe into threesomes?”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The world was again safe for mankind. Now I’m considering striking out on my own. And “Poison I-V” will make a great
sidekick, I think.</span></div>
</div>
David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8692003920838305785.post-16358054991956339302011-08-21T22:30:00.000-07:002012-09-11T10:05:14.190-07:00"Firing Blanks" - A short work of political satireFiring Blanks was written in under 48 hours for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2011 Writing Contest. The group challenge was to write a political satire of 1,000 words or fewer, set at a gun range. A mop also had to appear somewhere in the story.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Firing Blanks</b></span></div>
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by David Saslav</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">By now we should be getting pretty close to the real action, thought Rufus. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Six hundred miles since leaving “ornery Oklahoma” that morning, they'd driven the "Bob Rufus for Prez” RV through “cranky Kansas”, stopping in Sedalia for the Missouri State Fair, then proceeded through the rest of “mad-as-hell Missouri” and across the border into “irate Iowa” around noon. They’d stopped only for strategic photo ops, bouncing babies and posing with fed-up folks in hunting gear at Elks Lodges, IHOPs, and parks along the way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the babies had been dressed in hunting gear, Rufus recalled fondly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">His carnival barker-like style of right-wing radio shock-jockery had gone over extremely well all tour. Troops by the thousands signed up for his “Fight to Defend the Second Amendment" from enemy encroachment in DC.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After riling the last few Missourians, they were back on Highway 35 heading north. Rufus decided to address his “true faithful” – comprised of aides and sympathetic press travelling with him – before they reached their main destination: the Iowa pre-caucus fair, where a field of ten or so Republican wannabes would be winnowed to a more manageable five or six.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"In the end, you know, folks are just out to have a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i> time at these events, eat corn dogs, and win prizes; we gotta keep ‘em riled up about the mess in Washington. In fact, we gotta make ‘em fester more than anyone else, or the heat wave’ll carry someone else to Washington instead. Denying us the pleasure of the big-time butt-kicking we’ve been promising these last few months!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The team – including a half-dozen recent college graduates from solid Southern schools – smiled, nodded, and scribbled notes approvingly. One of them, an eager ROTC aide named Myron, spoke up:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"These Dead Serious Iowans seem especially enthusiastic in getting riled up about most everything, sir."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Rufus shot back: "And I have made my living fanning such flames into actionable fires, both live-on-air and off – I’m not firing blanks!" Satisfied with the chorus of assent that ensued, Rufus went back to reading the latest Ann Coulter book. He was pleased to note Coulter was now quoting his ‘Firing Back’ call-in show, airing every night on True Americans Radio affiliate stations nationwide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The oversized thermometer taped to the wall in the R-V's kitchen area moved higher up the "heat" line daily; today it was well into the "Red-Hot" region. This meant advance scouts were encountering some truly lathered-up citizens ahead. Myron had come up with the idea for the graph, and its name: “U.S. Incenses Statistics". Of course, the chart had to be covered whenever outside reporters came aboard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, the R-V rolled into a grassy parking lot outside Des Moines, swung past a sign (mis)reading “CANDIDATE’S PARK HERE”, and sighed to a stop. A crowd of journalists gravitated to its large double door. Moments later, the smiling presidential hopeful emerged, followed by his retinue. Rufus, a sprightly forty-six and 6’ 6” tall, retained plenty of energy in his step; he was sure going to need it to fight off the pack of rabid Republicans vying to take out the impotent incumbent next year. The eventual nominee would find smooth sledding to the White House – easy as shooting fish in a barrel!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hell-LOW, Des Moines!” he shouted to the assembling crowd, smiling and waving vigorously as he stepped down, flashbulbs popping everywhere. He allowed Team Rufus to be escorted by a balding fairgrounds official towards a check-in pavilion, then on to a day of corn dogs, turkey shooting, and Iowan rabble-rousing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">About two thousand handshakes later, a huge loudspeaker, placed at the center of a field in the northwest corner of the fairgrounds, erupted. “ATTENTION, POLITICOS! NOW THE REAL FUN STARTS! HEAD THIS WAY, GRAB YOUR GUN OF CHOICE IN THE CENTER OF THE FIELD OF TURKEYS, AND GET READY FOR SOME FINE SHOOTING!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Rufus and nine other right-wing hopefuls strode quickly to the center of a huge field where, at the far end, several dozen turkeys appeared to be resting near some rifle stands. A safety berm had been placed well to the right, and, a hundred yards to the left, a big red barn smiled. The crowd, well behind them, swayed to thunderous country music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Rufus was first to reach a stand, and grabbed a gun with gumption. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">To his amazement, what he had thought was a rifle was actually a plastic toy gun. Rufus dropped it like a hot potato, staring dumbly at it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Suddenly, one of the other candidates shouted, "Hey! Those turkeys aren’t real, either!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Sure enough, having gotten closer, Rufus could now see the turkeys were actually a bunch of line mops, handles planted deeply, their business ends fluffed and painted in fall colors to resemble large turkeys.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Of all the stupid stunts these Midwesterners had prepared as election season entertainment, this was by far the weirdest, thought Rufus. He summoned up his shrillest, angriest radio voice and bellowed at the spectators well behind him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"WHAT IN THE NAME OF UNCLE SAM IS GOING ON HERE?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As if on cue, the barn on the left began falling forward. Upon hitting the ground, great clouds of dust shot in all directions. The barn had merely been a giant stage prop!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The dust settled slowly. Rufus and the others, surrounded by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">faux</i> turkeys, could now discern a well-spaced line of figures, standing in what should have been the center of the barn. Young men and women, dressed in hunting gear and wearing noise-cancelling headphones, were aiming real rifles haphazardly into the field where the candidates stood.<br />
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"NOW, LET THE GREAT 2012 TURKEY SHOOT BEGIN!" boomed the loudspeaker. The first shot rang out and hit one of the mock turkeys by Rufus. Apparently coated with tannerite, the mop produced an extremely loud BANG when the bullet hit. The crowd went nuts; the music from the loudspeaker surged in volume. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The candidates jumped as one, then ran in all directions, the colorful mops exploding noisily all around them.</span></div>
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(c) 2011 by David Saslav<br />
<br />David Saslavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08186990487845970465noreply@blogger.com0