The SazBlog

"Overexposure" - A work of short horror fiction

2012-01-31T23:37:00.000-08:00

"Overexposure" was composed in 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.

Overexposure

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.

Or, more precisely, as things lie, Grunnoch smirked to itself.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

“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.

“From now on, Marvin, you ask permission from me and from him before this thing comes out again, got it?” the first had said.

The embattled child had, foolishly, attempted to combat unreason with reason, serving only to fire his tormentors’ cauldrons still further.

“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.

“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.

The sight of the camera’s sudden ruination seemed to create in the small photographer a sudden animal ferocity.

“Lenny, no! Th-there’s dozens of undeveloped pictu- OOF!”

And the final battle had been enjoined in full, predictable in its outcome but gruesome nonetheless.

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.

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.

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.

“Marvin? Marvin, can you hear me?”

The beaten child lifted his head from the pavement, startled and sobbing, but said nothing.

“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?”

A nod.

“Then you shall do just that. Capture your tormentors in clear light with this new, more powerful camera. They will torment you no more.”

The boy shook his head in wonderment. “M-more powerful? How does it work? The Greyhawks said never to – “

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.

Grunnoch proffered it to him.

“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.”

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.

Watching the boy retreat, Grunnoch glowed, returning to its essential form, and retreated quickly to its own sphere, through the vanishing portal, to wait.

*****

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.

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.

Marvin knew their meaning intuitively; and he thrilled inwardly at the challenge awaiting him.

“I don’t get it, but you got it,” he’d said, running off in the direction of the playground.

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.

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.

Then he depressed the shutter, and held it down.

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.

Returning from that awful memory, Marvin picked up the camera and peered back through the knothole in the fence.

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.

Gone! All six Greyhawks had disappeared into thin air!

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!

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.

Making sure not to be seen, he ran in the direction of West Maple, where his elder cousin Barry lived.

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.

“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 science project?” That last was a dig; Barry always loved to deride Marvin’s bent for science.

“Barry, I need a picture of you, right now.”

“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…?”

Marvin had stopped short of Barry’s arm’s reach, aiming the camera at him.

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.

“Ow! What is that, some kind of electrified screen around that thing?”

“Smile,” replied Marvin, looking through the eyehole at his cousin, as he depressed the camera’s shutter.

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.

“Barry?” Marvin called, loud enough to be heard from the yard’s few hiding places. “Are you there?”

The echoing stillness contained only the sound of birdsong and a passing truck engine nearby.

Marvin’s Aunt Louise’s voice rang out, “Barry! What was that noise? Are you playing with explosives again?”

Marvin raced from the yard, hoping he’d remained unobserved, and set off to find Archie Peregoff.

*****

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.

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.

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.

Then, suddenly, an unnerving thought struck him. He had no way of obtaining more film beyond what was currently developing!

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.

“Armed and dangerous once again,” smiled Marvin.

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.

Then, finally, the very first picture he had taken, the one shot through the playground fence outside the basketball court, began to materialize.

Only Marvin couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

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.

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.

The photos continued to develop.

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.

Marvin recalled the incredible roaring boom that accompanied each of the four shots he’d taken, and suddenly knew its cause.

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.

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!

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?

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?

“Marvin, dear?” His mother’s voice called from outside the darkroom door. “Aunt Louise is on the phone. Something very strange is going on…”

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.

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.

Soundlessly, then, Marvin chose. He picked up the camera, turned it toward himself, closed his eyes, and depressed the shutter.

2012-01-14T05:31:00.000-08:00

Dave Saslav's Workout Mix Lists

Legend:

* = Avoid

** = Keeps the pulse / OK for startup/cooldown
*** = Inspires athletic thoughts, increases pace

**** = Real Calorie Burner!!
***** = All-Time Best Workout Music Award

------------------------------
Exercise songs, 16-Jan-2012
Spotify 80's Radio Mix
------------------------------
Eternal Flame (The Bangles) **
Head over Heels (Tears for Fears) **
Modern Love (David Bowie) ***
The Final Countdown (Europe) ****
Sharp-Dressed Man (ZZ Top) ****
Simply the Best (Tina Turner) **
Thriller (Michael Jackson) ****

---------------------------------
Cool-down songs 16-Jan-2012
Spotify 80's Radio Classical Mix
---------------------------------
Schumann, "Traumerai" from Kinderszenen, Op. 15
Bizet, Habanera from Carmen
Mozart, Finale (from Eine Kleine Nachtmusik)
Dvorak, Nocturne in B Major, Op. 40
------------------------------

------------------------------
Exercise songs, 15-Jan-2012
Spotify 80's Radio Mix
------------------------------
Papa, Don't Preach (Madonna) **
Fast Car (Tracy Chapman) *
Come On, Eileen (Dexy's Midnight Runners) ***
Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler) *
"Major Tom" ("Völlig Losgelöst", the German version, by Peter Schilling) ***
Smalltown Boy (Bronski Beat) ***
Little Lies (Fleetwood Mac) ***

---------------------------------
Cool-down songs 15-Jan-2012
Spotify 80's Radio Classical Mix
---------------------------------
The Lark Ascending (Vaughan Williams, orchestral)
Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring (J.S. Bach, chorus and organ)
Sonata No. 2 in B-Flat Minor (Chopin, piano)
Overture No. 2, Minuet (J.S. Bach, orchestral)
Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies (Tchaikovsky, orchestral)
Rondo Alla Turca (Mozart, piano)
Peer Gynt, "Morning" (Grieg, orchestral)
------------------------------

------------------------------
Exercise songs, 14-Jan-2012
------------------------------

Su-Susudio (Phil Collins) *****
What's Love Got to Do With it? (Tina Turner) **
Panama (Van Halen) ****
Separate Ways (Journey) *****
Last Christmas (Wham!) *
Karma Chameleon (Culture Club) *****
Power of Love (Huey Lewis and the News) *****
Sharp-Dressed Man (ZZ Top) ****

--------------------------------
Cool-down songs 14-Jan-2012
--------------------------------
Africa (Toto) *
Little Red Corvette (Prince) ***
Bette Davis Eyes (Kim Carnes) *
Heart of Glass (Blondie) **
Love Shack (B-52s) ****

Siren Song

2011-09-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

"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...!

Siren Song

by David Saslav

You probably think once the world’s been saved, thestory 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.

Take, for instance, the paramedic that nearly putevery superhero in Central City out of business, for good. That’s one story you won’t find on thedrugstore rack.

Just so you’ll realize I’m not making this up, Iam Bell Boy, fearless sidekick to A-List superhero, Hotel Door Man. Some of our recent triumphs – like apprehendingthe insidious Painful Head Lice – have been pretty well publicized; the climacticbattle with his Army of Nits got in all the rags, and deservedly so.

Sometimes, though, what doesn’t get covered inthe media is equally astounding.

Your average fan of superheroes such as Hotel DoorMan, Captain Courage, and WhattaWoman will devour the high-impact, rock-em-sock-emcomics in which we vanquish superbaddies. But maybe you’ve wondered – don’t all those exploding cars and deathrayscause collateral damage? Ever think thatmaybe us sidekicks – like Kid Crush, Starling, Grrl Power, and I – mightoccasionally require medical attention? You bet we do.

In fact, it was injuries I sustained fighting PurplePachyderm and his Elephreaks at Central Mall that got this story started. Those illegal ivory boys were goring me goodwith their Tusk-a-loosas when Hotel Door Man swooped in with the classic Minibarragethat laid them all low.

Unfortunately, sixteen bystanders got injured as aresult; a small price to pay for eliminating a major nemesis like PurplePachyderm. After Hotel Door Man uttered histagline (“You, sir, are CHECKED OUT”), a convoy of ambulances appeared outside theMall entrance. And as sidekick, I got firstdibs.

As soon as I saw the EMT, I was smitten. Amy filled out a paramedic’s uniform likenobody’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 startedblaring.

Still, the whole ambulance ride to Bronx Generalmight have been a total non-event had it not been for the fast food she waseating during the ride. It gave me anopening – I was famished from fighting!

“You gonna finish those onion rings, miss?” Ah, thelack of inhibition that only local anesthetic can deliver – even more thansuperhero costumes.

“Um… they’re cold,” she replied. “And your victims won’tbe snacking en route to the hospital.”

“My victims?”I said, stunned. “I’m not the bad guy. Hotel Door Man and I just saved Central City!”

“Tell it to MegaComix,” she countered, offering me asoggy-looking onion ring. “I’ve justabout had it with having to explain why there are no available beds at Bronx Generalfor patients because they’re taken by citizens who happened to be at the wrongplace at the wrong time when your lot showed up. And I’m going to be doing something about it,too.”

There was a light in her eyes that said “means business”; it made me start sweating profusely, even more than watching Hanta Virus and hisE. Coliconspirators descend on a crowd of hapless innocents.

“You mean a letter to the Mayor?” I offeredhopefully. “Maybe we could review ittogether. I too have some ideas about…”

“You wish!” she snapped, though she was clearly conflicted;supermasks tend to do that to women. “I’ve had to treat just about everysuperhero in town at some point, along with several hundred innocentbystanders. And while I’ve listened tothe stories about how you saved us all from peril, I’ve been doing some mentalmath on how much it’s costing the city. Way too much!”

I could feel my heart beating faster as her cadenceaccelerated. I was suddenly thinking howlong it had been since Hotel Door Man had booked one of those Free Room Nightsfor anyone but himself and one of the supermodels he’d rescued.

Then: “You may have noticed you’re somewhatimmobilized, Bell Boy.”

She was right. Having bitten into the onion ring, a strange stinging sensation was nowflowing from my lips to my extremities; the snack fell to the floor of theambulance, and as it did, she snapped my mask off and produced a smartphone.

“Just as I suspected – Jimmy Larson, ward to Piers Sutcliffeof Sutcliffe Enterprises. I take it thismeans Sutcliffe is Hotel Door Man, correct?” And as my eyes clearly confirmedher theory, her cellphone snapped a quick close-up of my shocked face.

“But, miss! Y-y-youcan’t print th-“

“Oh can’t I? I’ve got a private MyMugShots.com photo album with over three dozen ofyou mayhem masters, and tonight, after I go off shift, I send out the E-vite toseveral hundred of the city’s top journalists, fully tagged for easier cowl-to-nameidentification.”

As she leaned over me to get a second snapshot, Isomehow managed to gain control of one hand, grabbed her stethoscope, andpulled her face to mine, delivering a ten-second-long French kiss that causedher to drop the smartphone onto the ambulance’s floor. It made a sickening crash that told me that my identity, at least, was safe for thetime being.

“You have the advantage,” I murmured, suave as Icould. “You know my secret identity, butI don’t know yours.”

“I’m, I’m, I’m Amy,” she said, rearranging heruniform and gasping for breath. I’d clearlystruck a chord; her eyes had a new glow to them that gave me an advantage topress.

“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 onesfrom harm?”

She paused, ever so slightly. “Is Sutcliffe into threesomes?”

The world was again safe for mankind. Now I’m considering striking out on my own. And “Poison I-V” will make a greatsidekick, I think.

Firing Blanks

2011-08-21T22:30:00.000-07:00

Firing 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.

Firing Blanks

by David Saslav

By now we should be getting pretty close to the real action, thought Rufus.

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.

One of the babies had been dressed in hunting gear, Rufus recalled fondly.

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.

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.

"In the end, you know, folks are just out to have a good 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!"

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:

"These Dead Serious Iowans seem especially enthusiastic in getting riled up about most everything, sir."

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.

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.

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!

“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.

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!”

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.

Rufus was first to reach a stand, and grabbed a gun with gumption.

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.

Suddenly, one of the other candidates shouted, "Hey! Those turkeys aren’t real, either!"

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.

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.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF UNCLE SAM IS GOING ON HERE?"

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!

The dust settled slowly. Rufus and the others, surrounded by faux 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.

"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.

The candidates jumped as one, then ran in all directions, the colorful mops exploding noisily all around them.

NYC Midnight's 1st Annual Flash Fiction "Micro Challenge"

2011-08-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

I was placed in a group of around 50 other NYCMidnight.com contest entrants and challenged to come up with up to three stories of 100 characters or fewer, featuring the word "BREAK". Words with "break" as their root stem were not permitted, only the word "break", capitalized in any way. I used eight of the twelve allotted hours to produce these three micro-stories:

"Break a Leg, Miss Kerrigan!" the skating fan shouted from the crowd.  As if on cue, Tonya emerged.

In retrospect, Marty's plan to break up with Jo never stood a chance once they'd entered LazerLand.

"Doctor, a psychotic break!" The telepath broke Dr. Ng's hand before she could hit the kill switch.

Another Special Meal

2011-02-15T22:29:00.000-08:00

This story was written in February 2011
for the NYCMidnight.com
Short Story Writing Contest

Rules: 2,500 word limit
to be written in 8 days
Genre: Drama,
Topic: Father's Day

Another Special Meal

by David Saslav

Ray Tomlinson idled his engine in his garage for a time before switching it off. He often liked to sit there, just being part of the car’s interior space. His discerning nose could place certain smells and their locations within the cabin – his wife’s perfume bottle still in the glove compartment, he noted; his daughter’s favorite doll underneath his seat, betrayed by its face daubed with chocolatey goo.

It wasn’t just for the smells, either. Ray liked to hear out the end of a fevered opinion on NPR, or, just as well, one of his favorite Haydn Symphonies or Alice’s John Lennon CDs. Either way, it was a special moment in time he’d bestow on himself; a moment stolen in a special, private world of his own making, giving him rest from a stressful drive or a soul-deadening workday. He’d linger here, in peace, actively engaged in the coda of a Piano Quartet, or the possible effects of civil unrest unfolding (thankfully) in distant lands.

Ray was never disturbed in these solitudes; no one emerged from the house proper to find out what was taking him so long to appear in the house, following the grinding growl of the garage door’s gears. Ray had made it quite clear to his family long ago that he was best left alone there for as long as he chose to remain. And, for being granted this time, this space, this secluded chamber, Ray considered himself supremely lucky.

Today being Father’s Day, Ray switched off the engine completely and sat completely still. The radio, having been silenced much earlier, grinned at him from the dashboard. Yes, Ray reflected, Father’s Day is special. A day designed especially for men like me. Men with girls all dressed up to honor and please them!

As he ruminated, Ray decided he was the sort of man who never once felt denied or hen-pecked or shackled in any way by the women in his family. He knew some who did. But I’ve experienced only the best of all possible worlds from that perspective.

When he finally emerged from his sedan, the high, pinging tones from the dashboard alerted him that his keys were still in the ignition. Getting forgetful there, old boy....

Ray opened the door leading from the garage into a spacious, modern kitchen. The Food Preparation Arena, as Alice was fond of calling it. Although empty of people at that moment, the presence of a restaurant-sized Wolf range, with its six huge gas burners, always struck Ray as somewhat human. Ray had had the monster stove installed for Alice a few years back, as a reward for her having completed a six-month James Beard cooking class. The delicious smells of perfectly prepared meals, perfectly synchronized for succulence at the appointed time by cutting edge technology, had filled the room ever since.

Moving from the kitchen into the large dining area, he felt the simultaneous thrills of gratitude, humility, and joy as his family’s smiles greeted him from the table. Like the courses of a fine meal, those wonderful emotions prepared and served themselves to him in overlapping waves.

“Hello, my dear ones!”

“Hello, darling. Welcome home.”

“Hiya, Daddy!”

Ray took his seat at the dinner table, and looked around at the faces of his wife Alice and his daughter Lizzie in turn. As was his custom every Father’s Day for several years now, Ray took the initiative of saying Grace, using his sincerest, mellowest speaking voice:

Dear Lord, on this Father’s Day, we thank Thee for Thy gifts which you have bestowed upon us. We thank Thee for bringing us together, not just on Father’s Day, but every day that we’ve been lucky enough to share as a family, and for all of the joys in our lives, which are from Thee. We know not the number of our days, but pray Thy Grace will watch over us at all times, reminding us of what is truly important. Let us give thanks. Amen.

Ray took a first, slow sip from his water glass, signifying that another special meal had begun.

Light from the chandelier and a few fragrant candles played with the metal and glass that had been lovingly arrayed around the tabletop. Ray could make out a glint in little Lizzie’s eyes; they gazed lovingly across the table at him. She was not eating, and her fixed, intent expression clearly told Ray she had something on her mind. Ray knew from experience that she was unlikely to volunteer anything of substance without a little coaxing.

“Lizzie, dear, aren’t you hungry today?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Did you eat before I got home today, of all days?”

It struck Ray that Lizzie’s smile might have contained a tiny bit of sheepishness, though perhaps he only imagined it.

“Well, Mommy said it didn’t matter this year for Father’s Day how much dinner I ate here at the table. She said you wouldn’t get mad this year, or make me feel bad.”

“I see. She promised you that, did she, Lizzie?”

“Now, Raymond…”

Ray looked over at his wife’s plate and then beyond it, locking onto her ravishing green eyes, which shone in the light as always. But she said nothing more. Ray took her meaning – shall we really start things off that way this evening? As always, Alice was the one who best understood the intricacies of conversation, its ebbs and flows, the often rocky shoals where it passed critical turning points. She’d developed special looks for him to decode, looks that meant things like, “Proceed At Your Own Risk”, or “Slow Down”. Then there was the most intense look, still completely cloaked by innocent smile, that said “Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here”. Ray was sure those silent communiqués had saved him from much embarrassment in his day.

He turned his attention back to his daughter, who still held the same look, of hidden revelation to come, as before.

“You know, Lizzie, I believe Mommy was correct as always. I do so look forward to Father’s Day every year, it’s impossible to get mad about anything small. Especially when I’ve got presents from you to look forward to.”

A pause, then, “Of course, being able to have dinner with two such good-looking girls on Father’s Day is the greatest gift of all, to me.”

“Oh, Daddy… you’re so silly. You can have dinner with us every day of the year, but you only get Father’s Day presents from me on Father’s Day!”

“That’s very true. Maybe that’s why it’s always been my favorite day of the year.”

Lizzie’s eyes revealed that she had reached the age where she could distinguish truth from fiction, exaggeration from core truths.

“Really? Father’s Day has always been your favorite day?”

“Well, perhaps not always, Lizzie. Perhaps just since you were born.”

“That’s right, Daddy! You and Mommy couldn’t celebrate Father’s Day before I came along!”

“No. No, we couldn’t, Lizzie. You’ve got me dead to rights on that point. This home had no Father for Father’s Day until you were born.”

Alice’s voice broke in.

“Except the Good Lord, our Father, of course. He has been here always.”

Alice's voice had always reminded Ray of those large, metallic handbells they used before High Holy Day services at church, and today was no exception. He marveled, as ever, at his wife’s elegant yet curious eloquence. He fondly recalled debating her in school, where they’d met, secretly hoping to elicit one of her magically perfumed sentences, a very small number of which could dispatch his entire team to resounding defeat. He’d loved her from the first time she’d produced sound in his presence: “The proposition under scrutiny here today, gentlemen, has been debated at length, yet perhaps in some ways, truly, it has actually been discussed not at all...”

As the only male in the Debating Society who could absorb the ignominy of losing to a woman without rancor or bitterness, he stood out equally in her eyes, or so she would later confide to him.

“Mommy and I went to the zoo today, Daddy.”

Ray smiled, relishing the musical lilt of Lizzie’s voice against his inner ear. A similar cadence to Alice’s voice, when heard at the same time, but pitched an octave or so higher.

“I got to see a giraffe and a zebra, and two hippos taking a bath together. And I got to have popcorn and cotton candy and a chocolate bar for the ride home.”

“It’s little wonder, then, that you’ve got no appetite, young lady.”

“Frieda didn’t get to see the animals though.”

“Really, Lizzie? Why is that? Don’t tell me dolls are afraid to see animals in their cages!”

“No, Daddy, She didn’t get to see the animals because she got lost, and I never found her and we looked everywhere for her and Mommy even let me ask a zookeeper to keep an eye out for her.”

“I think Frieda is safe and sound and will be rescued and returned home before long for a beautiful reunion scene. Don’t you think, Alice?”

“I certainly hope so, Dear. There was certainly more than enough commotion expended by the search and rescue party today.”

Dinner proceeded too quickly.

Ray liked to entertain visions of a never-ending meal, one where time stood still, deadlines drawing no closer, small plates paired with perfect wines appearing hour after hour, satiation never arriving.

“Did you make that appointment with the roofer?”

“You know, I meant to call over there again today; but something always seems to come up as I’m about to make that call. I swear, first thing tomorrow, I will definitely make that appointment, it will not slip my mind again.”

“How can things slip in a mind, Daddy? Do they slip because they got wet and soapy in there?”

“Ah, no, Lizzie, things slip out of the mind like the sands of time slipping through your fingers.”

“Daddy, time isn’t made of sand.”

“Isn’t it, Lizzie? I wonder about that.”

“Daddy, it’s time for your present!”

“Right you are! Wait right here while I get them.”

“We’ll stay right here, Daddy.”

Ray proceeded up the stairs and into the master bedroom, where an unwrapped but unopened box lay on a decorative, leaf-shaped pillow in the center of a four-poster. The box had a card with “For Daddy” and “Happy Father’s Day” written on it in large block letters. He recognized the card from the near-infinite supply in the closet, a ridiculously expensive response to a gift made to a certain charity, years ago.

He carried the box back downstairs to the dining room table, where he gently and ceremoniously laid it next to his placemat.

“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!”

“Happy Father’s Day, Raymond.”

“Thank you both so much!”

Ray removed the box’s lid and looked down at a bright blue tie with red polka dots – loud enough to be heard clear across town. And began to cry as he always did at this moment of the ritual.

“This has been … the best Father’s Day I can remember, ladies."

“Why are you crying, Daddy?"

“I don’t know, Lizzie, maybe it’s because … you and your mother both look so beautiful in your dresses. You know how much I love how you look in those dresses, don’t you?

“Yes, Daddy. But you don’t cry because you like something, silly. You cry when you’re sad!"

“Yes, Lizzie, you’re right about that. I don’t know why I’m being so silly. I guess I don’t know what I’d do without you every Father’s Day."

“Oh, Daddy, you have us every day, not just on Father’s Day. We’re right here!”

“I know, Lizzie. It’s just that Father’s Day, is, well, …”

“As special as my birthday?

“Oh yes, every bit as special. You don’t grow older by a year on Father’s Day, do you?

“No, I stay the same age on Father’s Day.”

“Well, there you are.”

Alice and Lizzie were at last silent again.

Ray wiped his eyes, composed himself, and took a clean, cloth napkin and pressed it gently against the glass faces of each of the framed photographs on the table, tenderly removing even the smallest speck of dust collected there, so as to eliminate anything remotely obscuring their treasured faces, which were all that were now left to him.

Then he carefully picked them up by their frames, stacked them carefully between cloths to avoid scratches, and replaced them in a drawer, where they would patiently and lovingly await next year’s Father’s Day.

Tweet Me a Story Contest 2011

2011-01-14T09:29:00.000-08:00

NYCMidnight.com’s “Tweet Me a Story Challenge” - Group 3 Challenge Word: “MASTER”

Each story had to contain the six-letter word “master” and consist of 140 characters or less.

Approximately five hours were allotted for composing and submitting up to three “tweet stories”.

STORY 1:
--------------
"Master!" cried she, "Thou canst not die!"
"Au contraire, Hyacinth," spake he, lighting the pyre,
as his supreme powers surged through her.
---------------

STORY 2:
---------------
Joe shredded all copies of the damning photo, taking special glee
with the final one.

Then Mike yelled, "Idiot! That one was the master!!"
---------------

STORY 3:
---------------
She spent sixty years singing me her love songs. Now, her voice and
hearing gone, it's time to quickly learn sign language. I'll master it.
---------------

Comments welcome – extensive feedback is given both by judges and fellow-writers (in a private forum) on each submission, in hopes of effecting improvement in each writer’s approach to composing fiction.

David Saslav
dsaslav@gmail.com
January 13, 2010

"The Amazing Adventures of William Teller" - NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2010 Round 1 Entry

2010-09-20T08:14:00.000-07:00

This story was written in 48 hours for Round 1 of the 2010 Flash Fiction Contest held by nycmidnight.com from September 17 - 19, 2010. The twenty contestants in Round 1, Group 7 (myself included) were to write a Romance in 1,000 words or less, to be set at a bank, and to include a comic book somewhere in the story.

"The Amazing Adventures of William Teller"

“…If I could just stop worrying about Keith …” I heard my daughter Sarah say to my wife, Thanksgiving Day 1977, as they prepared the big feed together. No one had noticed me, crossing enemy lines against orders, on an appetizer sortie.

I’d nearly reached my target – a silver tray carrying gherkins – when Sarah’s remark caused me to betray my position. “Worrying? About Keith? Why?”

“Dad, do quit sneaking about!” exclaimed Sarah, turning. “Look, please forget I mentioned it – you’ve both done your parenting in spades.”

“Fiddlesticks!” I retorted, rattling serving trays as my fist met the countertop. “Come clean!”

“Well, … it’s probably nothing more than his first crush on a classmate. But he sulks, and reads comic books constantly. It’s as if he thinks having super-powers would make an impression on her…”

“Enough!” I beat a hasty retreat to the den. As I entered, I saw my four tall sons huddling around the TV, watching the Cowboy game. Keith, looking small and lonely, sat apart, lost in a comic book. Sarah may be onto something there, I thought.

Ten smart paces and two unexpected grabs later, I found myself in possession of a television remote control and a Spiderman comic of recent issue. The comic’s cover sported a garish green ghoul and a horror-stricken captive brunette, crashing out a bank window on what looked like a miniature flying surfboard, greenbacks spewing from bags marked with dollar signs. Spiderman gave chase, strands of webbing providing propulsion. Ridiculous!

“HEY! Gimme that, Grandpa!” Keith yelled.

I’d killed the volume with the remote, drawing more ground fire.

“DAD!” “For God’s sake!” “The Cowboys …!”

“Ten-hut!” I barked, summoning forth the old three-star brass instruments. I targeted Keith for stare-down; the others returned to their soundless, on-screen skirmish.

“I ever mention real-life super-hero William Teller? That guy had super-powers they don’t mention in these things.” I whacked his flimsy rag against the sofa.

“Jeez, Grandpa, you mean William Tell, and yes, I’ve heard it hundreds of – …”

“Ix-nay! I do not mean William Tell, I mean William Teller – ordinary bank clerk, nine-to-five; real-life superhero around the clock! Doing battle with his arch-nemesis to save the city and win a girl’s heart? Why, it puts this cheap crap to shame!”

I could see this last bit had hit home, piquing his interest – a couple of the football-watchers’ too – so I quickly pressed my advantage.

“Back in Pittsfield, Bill Jones was a clerk at the local Savings and Loan, counting out change and adding up figures all day. Sounds boring, perhaps, but “William Teller”, his alter-ego, had a supernatural sixth sense for scams – why, he could spot a phony set of books in the blink of an eye…!”

* * * * *

So one Spring day, the gorgeous Betty Johnson walks in and opens two business accounts at Bill’s window. He fell in love with her immediately. He kept that to himself, though - bank rules! He watched over her accounts like a hawk when she wasn’t visiting the bank, making sure her business did well. He harbored those feelings along with his secret identity for years!

When The Wire-Fraudster first appeared at the Savings and Loan, he was disguised as a normal businessman (but with an evil-looking bow-tie). With him was another fellow William knew from the Elks.

‘Henry Hawkins – good to see you,’ cried Bill.

Henry was sweating profusely. ‘Hello, Bill,’ he said tersely, ‘I’m signing these assets over to this man.’

‘Everything’s in order,’ rasped The Wire-Fraudster, grabbing several forms from Henry, and shoving them through Bill’s teller window.

Bill had no choice but to process the papers – although it meant ruin for Henry – they represented all of his business assets!

‘Are you completely sure?’ Bill whispered, shuddering as he wrote.

‘Yes,… definitely,’ replied Henry, sounding like a man threatened at gunpoint.

‘And what name shall I put down as recipient?’ asked Bill.

‘Samuel Threadgill, at your service,’ gloated The Wire-Fraudster.

All Bill could do was check identification cards, and seal poor Henry’s fate with a stroke of his powerful pen. But William Teller swore then and there he would use his special powers to prevent a repeat performance!

Once the two had departed, William Teller conducted research at the bank and the library. He used local newspapers, telephones, even the Chamber of Commerce files. Soon, The Wire-Fraudster’s evil plot revealed itself to William Teller’s keen eye. A loophole in the city’s charter, combined with a simple blackmailing maneuver, could force any small business owner to sign over everything!

Three days later, The Wire-Fraudster reappeared, with a helpless, tear-streaked Betty in his disgusting clutches.

After marching her over to Bill’s window, The Wire-Fraudster nudged her with his elbow.

‘I’m … signing … these assets over…’

Bill pretended to glance at her papers. “Why, Miss Johnson! Without Chief of Police O’Reilly here to countersign, that’s not possible!”

Both jaws on the other side of the window dropped in shock.

Threadgill composed himself first, seething mad. “Excuse me? This two-party transaction is in perfect order!”

But it wasn’t, you see. Unbeknownst to anyone, William Teller had transferred all of Betty’s assets into special accounts requiring THREE signatures to transfer – including the Police Chief’s!

Once The Wire-Fraudster realized he’d met his match, he excused himself and vamoosed, fast.

Left alone at the window, Betty turned slowly to Bill, saying…

* * * * *

“I believe I said, ‘How can I ever repay you, Bill Wheeler?’ ” I turned at the sound of my wife’s voice as she finished my story for me, Sarah by her side.

“YOU were William Teller, Grandpa?!?” exclaimed Keith, wide-eyed. He jumped up and ran over to Betty, peppering her with questions about her part in the tale.

“Keith,” I heard her say. “Your real life grandfather saved a lot of good, honest people from ruin with his extraordinary, real life powers.”

“Thanks, Dad. That was wonderful,” whispered Sarah, offering me a gherkin.

"Well of Life" - NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2010 Round 1 Entry

2010-08-15T23:25:00.000-07:00

This story was written in 48 hours for Round 1 of the 2010 Flash Fiction Contest held by nycmidnight.com from August 13 - August 15, 2010. The twenty contestants in Round 1, Group 7 (myself included) were to write a Horror story in 1,000 words or less, to be set at a wishing well, and to include a baby stroller somewhere in the story.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well of Life

The young couple took turns in pushing the stroller up the winding path. They walked in a somber silence, which the surrounding wood seemed to echo. Had this been a normal outing, he would have taken on more of the strenuous work, given his wife’s advanced pregnancy and the arduous nature of the trail.

Their footsteps barely sounded on the moss, and the wheels made only an occasional, plaintive squeak. An infant nestled within the stroller added quiet burbling noises. A stream rushed past, flowing merrily downstream, as if mocking their tedious ascent.

The small party stopped at a fork, and looked around.

He pointed to a small engraving in an old, thick tree to the left. There, an etching of a white, owl-shaped bird, carved and painted into the trunk at head height, stared out at them. A distinctive red circle glared like a forbidding desert sun from within the bird’s chest. It seemed to be glowering directly at them.

Having spotted the symbol, they began walking again, their strides taking them past the marked tree.

“Will it work, Mei-Mei?” he asked.

“It must, Han,” she replied, wiping sweat from her eyes.

“Will it be painful?”

“Who knows? According to Ling-Wu and Lak Ming and the others... Anyway, I must be prepared for anything. Let me conserve my strength, dearest.”

The woods grew denser, and darker, though it was still early afternoon.

Some startled birds, sensing their approach, flew from a tree ahead and to their right. Beyond it, the couple could finally see daylight.

Their pace quickened. The carriage began to shake and wobble precariously. The baby began crying. When they emerged from the wooded path, their eyes needed some time to adjust to the bright sun above.

Now, finally, the new arrivals could see the Well of Life, which stood alone in the middle of a round, stadium-sized meadow, surrounded by dying weeds and decrepit flowers.

“How shabby it all looks,” whispered Han.

Her eyes locked on the Well, Mei-Mei clamped a hand on Han’s arm, silencing him.

“You must remain here with Ling. I must proceed alone, as we were instructed.”

Han nodded, tightening his grip on the stroller.

Mei-Mei strode across the yellowing meadow, slowly but deliberately to where the Well stood.

Her first instinct was to look down into it, but she could not muster the courage. All sound had ceased; she waited nervously, her breathing slowly returning to normal. After a time, the distinct sound of hot water rushing, turning to steam, began to emerge from its depths.

Mei-Mei spoke into the Well’s opening.

“I have a request to make!”

In response, the rumblings grew louder, and a spume of dark red, sticky vapor emerged from the Well’s rim. The steam snaked around the layers of stone at the Well’s base.

Now the vapor turned a brighter shade of red, until it matched exactly the hue of the circles painted within the bird icons which had led them here. The Well began to pulsate, and its sounds transformed into recognizable syllables.

“HAVE YOU BROUGHT PAYMENT?”

Mei-Mei signaled to Han at the edge of the clearing, and as she did so, he held the infant girl up over his head and began walking forward.

“LIE DOWN HERE.”

When Han arrived with the baby girl, he handed her to Mei-Mei, who solemnly lay prostrate on the ground, a few feet from the Well’s perimeter. The baby continued squalling, adding its voice to the brutal noises surrounding them. Han returned again to the clearing’s edge.

Half the sky was now covered with dark clouds; the other half was clear. Mei-Mei knew the words she had to sing at the Well if her wish was to be granted. She did her best to sing clearly and beautifully. Mei-Mei sang, in the ancient dialect:

“Well of Life,
Our first child
Was not a son.
We kept to paths
Of righteousness and duty!
Now our second child
Forms within us,
And is also no son.
We implore you,
Oh most powerful Well of Life –
Endow us with Hope and Heritage!
Endow us with a Son!"

The Well’s roar grew to a deafening pitch. The dark, foreboding clouds consumed an entirely black sky. Thunder without lightning surrounded them on all sides.

The red vapor turned violet, and a smoke tendril formed and clutched both mother and infant, lifting them from the ground. As it retracted into the Well, the crying baby was pulled in, and downward, until it could no longer be seen. The sound of the baby’s crying stopped. A searing pain within Mei-Mei’s abdomen became unbearable, until at last the tendril released her, and Mei-Mei fell to the ground in an agonized heap, screaming.

“Mei-Mei!” shouted her husband, rushing to her side, holding her head in his arms.

“IT IS DONE. YOUR WISH HAS BEEN GRANTED. DEPART QUICKLY.”

And with these words, the Well vanished; all noise snuffed out like a candle. The sky mysteriously cleared; the sun shone innocently again on the clearing. Distant birds began peeping again, cautiously.

Mei opened her eyes. “Han?”

“Mei-Mei, thank Heaven, you’re…!”

Through weak tears, Mei-Mei whispered, “It is as we had hoped. Ling is gone. I am once again empty, but a son will soon be ours. I know it!”

“Glorious day, our prayers are answered!” Han began to weep. Mei-Mei smiled and rose and walked resolutely with Han to the forest’s edge, abandoning the stroller behind them.

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

Once the young couple had exited through the back door into the alley, the blood-spattered doula began the ugly chore of mopping up the mess of the back room, rinsing the long, straightened coat hanger as best she could before tossing it into a trash can. She grabbed her newly-obtained infant by its legs with a single hand, and returned to the main parlor.

DAVE PERFORMS: CONCERTS THIS SUNDAY at 4PM, 8PM

2010-04-09T17:07:00.000-07:00

DAVID SASLAV IN PERFORMANCE...

WITH THE SAN FRANCISCO SYMPHONY CHORUS
SUNDAY, APRIL 11 at 4 PM
Davies Symphony Hall, San Francisco
http://sfsymphony.org/ for tickets
IN RECITAL WITH PIANIST SETH STAFFORD
SUNDAY, APRIL 11 AT 8 PM (free)
PALO ALTO ARTS CENTER, PALO ALTO
http://fortnightlymusicclub.org/ for details
http://youtube.com/dsaslav/ for offerings from last year's Fortnightly recital

Seeing-Eye Candy

2010-03-13T18:03:00.000-08:00

Written in 21 hours following the assignment for Finalists in the NYC Midnight Short Story Contest, March 12-13, 2010. The assignment was to write a 1,000-word Romance short story involving blindness. The story was not submitted, as I did not make the Finals of this particular competition.

Enjoy!

Seeing-Eye Candy
By David M. J. Saslav

The day it all finally came together, it almost fell apart early. My master plan, worked out over several walks, nearly missed because of a sandal I just couldn’t smell. Turns out it was in the really fragrant section of the closet, someplace it had never wound up sneaking off to before. But seeing as how I’m not the type to rely only on my nose, I was able to go back and double check the route: living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, closet -- it’s always in the last place you look.

I’m Candy, and I belong to Mistress. My job is to go where she goes, keep her safe. I’ve been at this a while, and I know a good job when I’ve got one. My previous gig was with gun guys, and I spent all my time in crowds. And let me tell you, there’s a point where sorting out two-legger smells gets old. The day my two-hour howling frenzy brought everything to a standstill also bought me my retirement to Mistress, who smells the same every day.

Mistress had more than just me at first. Master was a terrific scratcher who could really pace a walk. He could keep a Frisbee in the air for half the park! Then, one day I remember he gave me an extra-long scratch, said STAY GIRL, GOOD GIRL. In a funny, quiet way, not the other way. And then he picked up the big boxes I’d been trying to smell inside, and left. I never saw or smelled him again.

Mistress did her best to keep things together, I’ll give her that much.

But there are certain things a two-legger needs one of us for, and there are certain things we need them for. And more and more, it was turning into a one-way street. The walks and food and stuff I needed were happening, of course -- no complaints there -- but when the walks she used to take after the big meals stopped happening, I knew something was up. And when the trips to the park started getting short, I sensed a problem. And then when she’d start walking funny after dinner, my job got tougher. And the night she made the howling noise all night, and wouldn’t stop no matter how I licked, I recognized the trick I’d used to change things up with the gun guys.

Fixing things was going to be tricky, since she would know if there was any deviation to the walk plan. But my harness is maneuverable in a way that lets me suggest my preferred direction, and there’s a way to tug that says DANGER THAT WAY, GO THIS WAY INSTEAD. I felt a little bad using that when I spotted the new Alpha two-legger and his oversized four-legger carrying stuff into the empty house by the park.

But I needed to see.

I could tell from his smell, the two-legger was going to be just her type. He smelled very nearly like Master! But he and his four-legger would go out before light. And then there was the problem of route. That four-legger was a "super-sprayer". It’s not hard to tell which spots are his, and you want to move on fast if you’re going to keep your lunch down. Figuring out which spots he was hitting on the way out, and which ones on the way back, that took me a while. I had to collect evidence from tall brown trees and small hard red ones over a lot of walks, then start Mistress out of her normal routine.

She’s not a before-sun type, so it had to be done gradually, a little at a time, over several earlier and earlier walks.

Finally, one day last Hot Spell, when the scents linger longest, I knew the timing was close. I heard the door slam and smelled them real fresh, just as we were rounding their corner in really dim light. The next day would be the one.

I was able to make Mistress get herself out of bed before Light, and harness me all up in time for The Big One, which would be the only chance I’d be getting. Mistress wasn’t happy, and I could tell from her tone that we would be returning to the later start time effective tomorrow. I had one chance, and hunting for that sandal nearly put us out of business.

As we rounded that corner, I saw those other two coming back at us at a run; it was my big chance. I tweaked the harness left and got a CANDY NO and then bolted right and broke free to a louder NO CANDY NO! It’s taboo to break free when a two-legger’s relying on you, I know -- but I had this one chance and I took it.

I zoomed down the sidewalk, then headed off the four-legger and got his leash tangled with my harness before their sprint up the driveway.

CANDY! BAD DOG! CANDY! COME!

It was real tough resisting orders -- my training’s top-notch -- but fortunately the four-legger had taken an interest in me and was sniffing hard, while the Alpha two-legger tried to figure out what was going on.

Mistress wasn’t going anywhere, except around in small circles, so I was relieved when she started howling at the top of her lungs. That got everyone’s attention, and the whole party moved, in a big tangle, down to where she was.

I started my whole innocent, big-eyes routine while everyone reprimanded me. I was able to keep the other four-legger occupied, while the two-leggers sorted out the confusion and sniffed each other, and Alpha made the quiet reassuring noise at Mistress. She quit howling fast.

It was all very exciting, and led to more early walks, and of course eventually we all started spending lots of time together, mostly in our house.

And let me tell you, Alpha can throw two Frisbees even farther than Master!

NYCMidnight's Creative Writing Contest 2010

2010-01-26T22:31:00.000-08:00

The following 2,500-word short story was written for the 2010 NYCmidnight.com Creative Writing Challenge in eight days, with the assigned genre of "Mystery" and the assigned theme of "used furniture". It should appear only on "The SazBlog", http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/. Please report any other copies found on the Internet to the author at dsaslav@gmail.com.

Thesaurus Green and the Case of the Missing Digits

by David M. J. Saslav

According to “Ripley’s Believe it or Not!”, Victorville is the country’s sleepiest town. Besides its four parks, two banks, and three antique stores, it has a public library, a church, and two restaurants. It’s one of those towns that seems fairly unremarkable.

But what sets Victorville apart is one very special fact – not a single crime has gone unsolved there in over ten years. According to national statistics, no town in the country even comes close to matching Victorville’s perfect law enforcement record. In fact, every single Victorville perpetrator has been apprehended within a week of committing his or her offense!

Now, very few people outside of Victorville know the secret of how this amazing feat is accomplished. But the family that lives at 1201 Elm Street knows. Captain Jim Green of the Victorville Police Department and his family live in the small house at the corner of Elm and First Avenue.

The house is surrounded by an ordinary white picket fence; Mrs. Green is the town librarian, and they have two cats, Bruce and Wayne. Being married to a librarian certainly helps Captain Green in many ways, given how many people visit the library each week – not to mention all of the interesting reading material that is to be found there!

But that is not what gives the Victorville Police Department its exceptional record in criminal law enforcement.

No, the secret to Victorville’s success is Captain Green’s son, Alvin. To his friends, Alvin goes by the nickname “Thesaurus”, because of his vast knowledge of the English language and all of the terms that can be used interchangeably among its many hundreds of thousands of words.

Now, you might think that just because someone has such an immense vocabulary, it wouldn’t make him an invaluable asset in the fight against lawlessness.

But here you would be surprised – or perhaps the word you want is “astounded”, or even “flabbergasted” – to learn how many strange and bizarre cases have turned on a mere synonym.

Yes, Victorville’s secret crime-fighting expert is Thesaurus Green, a fifteen-year-old word hound who can interpret the hidden meanings found in just about any statement taken by Jennifer Robbins, the Victorville Police stenographer.

Because no one ever gets away with crimes, falsehoods, prevarications, lies, or subterfuges in Victorville, everyone thinks Captain Green is some kind of miracle worker. But in fact, he is just a man who knows when to consult a higher power when mysteries cannot be solved using straightforward police techniques and ordinary College English vocabulary words. And even more importantly, he knows how to keep secrets!

At dinner, usually over the garlic bread, Captain Green will produce from his tattered, brown briefcase a simple-looking, eight-and-a-half by eleven sheet of paper with some typewritten words on it. This will usually be someone’s sworn statement, and he will read it aloud to his wife and son. By the time the dishes are cleared for dessert, Thesaurus Green, will have managed to rephrase at least six of the suspect’s word choices, usually in ways revealing the presence or absence of criminal intent.

And, lo and behold – arrest warrants invariably follow the very next day!

Thesaurus Green never says anything to anyone about his behind-the-scenes role in keeping Victorville crime-free. He doesn’t want to appear different or smarter than the other fifteen-year-olds. A certain noun phrase, “police collaborator”, is part of his near-universal vocabulary, and he doesn’t want that reputation!

So Thesaurus remains content in assisting whenever his father asks for help interpreting the official statements from his brown briefcase. Which is frequently!

But even Thesaurus Green does not solve every case in a single sitting.

Last year, one of the town’s most high-profile felonies had everyone stumped, and for days it appeared like the perpetrator might actually evade detection permanently. The police were stymied when a body was discovered in Evelyn Park one Sunday evening, curiously missing all ten of its fingers! No suspects had been identified in the grisly slaying, but it was pretty well understood why the fingers were missing.

The victim, “Bling” Crosby, was the town’s richest man, known for wearing very expensive jewelry, including exquisite rings on each finger. Some said just the adornments on Crosby’s left hand alone could have saved the Victorville High School Marching Band when it lost its funding. But “Bling” Crosby was not a generous person. He would shout, “these rings won’t come offa mah fingers – I’d need a wrench to get ’em off – and I don’t own no wrenches!” And he would cackle, heartlessly.

Needless to say, no one liked Crosby, especially once the school lost its beloved marching band. And because of that, nearly everyone in Victorville was under suspicion. But, of course, no one would actually admit to wanting to see him dead – at least not in so many words!

By Tuesday dinnertime, Mrs. Green was getting quite worried about her husband’s appetite. Since the body’s discovery, in fact, and the Victorville Gazette’s front page story Monday morning complete with color photo of both of the victim’s hands, the entire town’s appetite had taken a turn for the worse.

She asked her husband over the garlic bread: “Isn’t there anything Alvin or I could do to help, dear?”

“I doubt it,” muttered Captain Green. “Ever since that darn story ran, we’ve gotten nothing but calls and letters complaining that it’s taking us too long to arrest someone. You know, I think this town may have had it too good all these years, thanks to Alvin!”

“Don’t say that, Dad,” countered Thesaurus. “Perhaps you should say instead that the town has grown acclimated to its safety record. Something will turn up soon, I bet.”

“Thanks,” said Captain Green. But his typical enthusiasm in learning a new vocabulary word from his son just wasn’t evident.

The next night, however, before Mrs. Green could even bring the garlic bread to the table, Captain Green had unlocked his brown briefcase and set it on the table.

“Son, I think we may have something for you to, er, …”

“Ruminate over, Dad?”

“Yes, that’s it – ruminate over! This anonymous note turned up at headquarters today.”

“Have some garlic bread, dear,” said Mrs. Green. It was customary not to discuss etymology until the garlic bread was served.

“Yes, dear,” sighed Captain Green, clearly getting very impatient.

Once the pleasant fragrance of garlic bread had filled the dining room, and everyone was munching happily, Captain Green showed his wife and Thesaurus the mysterious note that had been dropped off at the station earlier that day. On a plain sheet of paper, using letters that had been cut from a magazine, the note read:

1, 2, GUESS WHAT YOULL UNCOVER, 8, 9

1, 2, BY SEARCHING ANTIQUE ROW? 8, 9

“My word, whatever could it mean?” exclaimed Mrs. Green, a puzzled look on her face.

“And even more baffling, why those darn numbers at the ends of both lines?” said Captain Green.

“Dad,” exclaimed Thesaurus, “I don’t think it’s the numbers themselves, it’s what’s inside them - two sets of five missing digits!”

“Good gracious, I think Alvin’s right!” said Mrs. Green, turning pale as she counted off the numbers three through seven using her right hand.

Captain Green, however, was beaming bright red. “Now, why didn’t I catch that? It’s got to be the clue we’ve been looking for! Good work, Alvin!” Thesaurus smiled the enigmatic smile he reserved for those occasions when helping his father find just the right interpretation of a crucial clue. “Son, you and I are going down to Antique Row to look at some used furniture tomorrow!”

“Sure thing, Dad! Mom, need any help wordsmithing the note for my teacher?”

“No, I’m pretty sure I can manage that on my own, dear,” Mrs. Green said with a wry smile.

The next day, Wednesday morning, Thesaurus Green and his father walked down Third Avenue, where Victorville’s three used furniture stores are.

As they approached the first shop, Captain Green cautioned his son. “Now, Alvin, stay by me, and keep your eyes and ears open for anything!”

“Absolutely, Dad!” agreed Thesaurus.

As they entered the first establishment, they passed under a sign that read:

Rose’s Refurbishing

Fine Used Furniture

Established 1974

Rose Carver looked up from behind a cash register when they walked in. Except for Rose and her cat, Curly, who was purring happily on the counter, the store was empty. “Well hello, dears! How can I help you boys today?” she asked with a big smile.

“Well, now, Rose, how have you been, and how’s Randy?” responded Captain Green.

“I’m just fine, myself, but Randy has been out of town since the weekend. He’s in Centerville for the big furniture dealers’ convention, and he thought spending the weekend there beforehand would be nice. I’ve heard nothing from him in five days.”

“I see,” said Captain Green. “Has anyone out of the ordinary been by since the, well, since the…”

“Since the inexplicable conundrum transpired?” Thesaurus supplied the needed euphemisms, a little too enthusiastically.

“Well, no, not really,” said Rose. “There were some archaeologists who came in Monday, looking to set up a temporary residence in town. They purchased the living room set from that corner, and paid in cash. But other than that, business has been pretty slow, eh, Curly?” Curly just purred, happily.

“Archaeologists, eh?” said Captain Green. “Did they mention their research goals?”

“Why yes, they did,” replied Rose. “They’re searching for the ancient Native American burial ground that has been rumored to be located about five miles outside town.” She pointed behind her, to the North.

Captain Green looked around the store thoroughly, then led Thesaurus back outside, saying,
“Thanks very much, Rose – please get in touch if you hear from Richard, or see anything suspicious.”

As they entered the second store, Thesaurus looked up and noted its sign, which read:

Jocelyn’s Jems

We Buy and Sell Antiques, Used Furniture, and Sundries

No Reasonable Offer Refused

Jocelyn Albrecht, an elderly lady with stern glasses, was speaking with a middle-aged couple near a chestnut bureau.

“Look, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. All these items are on consignment. The owner will not lower the price. Now is there anything else in the store that might be to your fancy?”

The couple looked at each other with eyebrows raised, and left.

“Now, what – oh! Police Chief Green, it’s you!” The storekeeper’s previously intimidating demeanor suddenly disappeared.

“Mrs. Albrecht, we’re sorry to trouble you during business hours, but I’m investigating the curious unsolved case of Mr. Crosby’s death, and I need to ask you some questions about it.”

“Well, I never!” blurted Mrs. Albrecht. “I can’t possibly be a suspect, can I!? Why, I wouldn’t hurt a fly! You know my bark is a lot worse than my bite… I just keep my nose to the grindstone…!”

Captain Green glanced at Thesaurus, who looked back helplessly at his father. The proprietress’ use of clichés and meaningless banalities gave him nothing, verbally speaking, to go on.

Captain Green continued. “Mrs. Albrecht, which of your items arrived here in the past few days?”

“Well, as it happens, it’s that furniture set on consignment I was just showing to that couple who wouldn’t know a bargain if it bit them on the nose!”

“Mind if we scrutinize its contents cursorily?” asked Thesaurus.

When Mrs. Albrecht just stared, Captain Green said, “I think my son means, can we look over the furniture a second?”

“Why on earth didn’t he just say so? Suit yourself, but you’re wasting your time!”

A careful look over the beds, mattresses, bureaus and nightstands revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

As they left, Captain Green left clear instructions to call with anything that could help.

The third and last store on Antique Row sported a sign that read:

Uncle Burt’s Place

Spare Parts ’N Used Furniture

All Newly Reupholstered!

Burt Styles and his wife Daniella were on opposite sides of the store when they entered. Mrs. Styles was quietly reupholstering a chair while her husband shouted into a telephone.

“I don’t care what Harcourt says, the ending stays! If I’d wanted a flashback at the end, I would have written one in. But I didn’t!”

And then, after a pause, “Oh, really? And when have I ever turned in anything to you requiring even a single edit?! Leave my words be!” He slammed the phone down, fuming angrily, without even noticing the two newcomers.

Mrs. Styles rushed over. “Please forgive Burt’s outburst, he is really quite a perfectionist when it comes to his writings...”

“Darn right,” said Mr. Styles. “I didn’t graduate summa cum laude from Princeton, make a fortune with three best-selling books before retiring here to Victorville, just to have this one ruined by illiterates and -”

Captain Green interrupted him. “Sorry if my timing’s bad, you two, but I have to ask you some questions about Sunday’s murder. Have either of you noticed anything that could help?”

“Get real,” snapped Mr. Styles. “I am way too busy repairing antique furniture and trying to get a book published to pay attention to such things.” Mrs. Styles looked as if she had something to say, but a glare from her husband kept her silent.

“Dad, I have a question,” said Thesaurus. “Which of the store signs on Antique Row has been painted most recently?”

“Ours, of course!” boasted Mr. Styles. “We just had it down yesterday to advertise all these re-upholstered items!”

“Everything in the store’s been reupholstered this week,” Mrs. Styles added.

“Dad, I know who killed ‘Bling’ Crosby, and I have a good idea where you’ll find his missing fingers and rings!”

WHO WAS THE KILLER AND HOW DID THESAURUS GREEN KNOW?

(See the last page for the solution to the Case of the Missing Digits.)

=====================================================

The Solution to the Case of the Missing Digits

When Thesaurus Green found out the Styles’ sign had been repainted the day before, he realized Daniella Styles had altered it before it was re-hung, and then wrote the mysterious note to the police in hopes of ridding herself of her violent, overbearing husband. The sign’s use of ’N, and the note’s use of YOULL, were both missing apostrophes – something Burt Styles the author never would have approved! By secretly “whiting out” apostrophes in the note and sign, Mrs. Styles was trying to clue the authorities that her husband had hidden “SPARE PARTS IN USED FURNITURE” – the single remaining apostrophe in the sign now stood for an “I”, not an “A”!

Of course, just as the anonymous note had hinted at, ten of the re-upholstered chairs and sofas, once “uncovered”, revealed the dismembered fingers sealed in air-tight plastic. The ten precious rings were found in Burt Styles’ safe.

The Victorville Police had solved yet another case – once again, with some timely assistance from Thesaurus Green!

The Great “Tweet Me a Story Challenge” of December 2009

2010-01-13T05:31:00.000-08:00

NYCMidnight.com’s “Tweet Me a Story Challenge” - Group 2 Challenge Word: “trap”

Each story had to contain the four-letter word “trap” and consist of 140 characters or less.

Approximately five hours were allotted for composing and submitting up to three “tweet stories”.

    * STORY 1
    ---------------
    Shot 1: fairway. Shot 2: sand trap. Shot 3: still in trap. Shot 4: still trapped! Shot 5: same trap. Shot 6: trap [...] Shot 173: China!

    * STORY 2
    ---------------
    He left the lift first. She passed him at room 713, then led him by perfume and leg to 717. A trap! The door jammed tight behind him.

    STORY 3
    ---------------
    What a fire trap. I followed a light after hitting my head, down this hallway with no exits or windows. Wait, is that real fire ahead!?

[* = story was selected by NYCMidnight.com judges for the semifinal round of 25 stories, chosen from between 50-75 overall entries in the Group 2 “trap” challenge flight.]

Comments welcome – extensive feedback is given both by judges and fellow-writers (in a private forum) on each submission, in hopes of effecting improvement in each writer’s approach to composing fiction.

David Saslav
dsaslav@gmail.com
January 13, 2010

Holiday Epiphany - Absorb, Don't Reflect!

2009-12-21T18:20:00.001-08:00

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Say, here's a thought for the Holiday Season. I was driving around amidst frenzied holiday crowds just now, when I was struck - not by another motorist, thankfully, but by an epiphany of sorts; I thought you all might appreciate it. If not - no big deal, just hit delete and return to your holiday shopping.

Anyway, as I was standing in mall store lines and navigating over-crowded intersections, I got to thinking about how our culture imposes this nearly universal deadline on all of us at this time of year -- "last day to mail packages to arrive by 12/24!" as seen at the Post Office, for instance -- and how stressful most of us consider it, and with ample cause.

In the last 48 hours I'd just witnessed -- in person -- a man being escorted from a large chain bookstore while yelling, "I WISH YOU WOULDN'T DO THAT", amazingly slow traffic, outrageously long lines at two airport security checkpoints and a Post Office, aggressive scrambling for parking spaces, and some severe angst and panic over "The Deadline That Looms Before Us All" -- emanating from seemingly everywhere around me.

And suddenly this thought occurred to me - what if, at least once a year, I could become an ABSORBER of angst instead of a REFLECTOR thereof? Would I possibly be aligning myself more closely with the "True Spirit of the Holidays"? In other words, as the people around me make inconsiderate or oblivious decisions in public that adversely affect me -- decisions which would ordinarily spark an angry or stressful response in me -- could I (should I?) simply ABSORB that stress, smile, and recycle it into something a bit calmer, somewhat akin to a tree absorbing CO2 and producing oxygen?

Just yesterday my 72-year-old mother claimed that she possesses the ability to control her own blood pressure at any given moment. Could I perhaps fortify myself, too, maybe just one or two weeks out of the year when blood pressures all around me seem to be universally rising as one?

Mere minutes after this thought occurred to me, a van with an oblivious driver, through a subtle but needlessly aggressive move that doesn't bear explaining here, caused me and several cars behind me to miss a light cycle in a mall parking lot. We all therefore remained stuck in the parking lot for several additional minutes, with this guy's big, white, uncaring, unmarked vehicle standing directly in front of us, blocking our ability to escape one of the more stress-inducing mall parking lots in San Francisco -- and costing us more time away from the comfort and relative sanity of the "home fire".

"Well, here you go, David," I said to myself. "Here's your first opportunity to put this little epiphany of yours into some form of positive action!"

So, rather than fuming about it, or honking, I tried on a smile. It didn't fit very well at first. And while waiting for the next light cycle to arrive, I tried on some happy-ish thoughts about an upcoming choir concert I'd be singing in and all of my friends planning to attend it. Suddenly -- a tall, well-muscled, bearded guy, who was stuck in one of the cars behind me, one of the other drivers being victimized by the white van owner's inconsiderate driving, ran past my side mirror.

I watched in slow-motion amazement as he rushed up to the white van, which was still blocking all of us, then reached back and delivered a powerful, overhand blow to the side of the white van's exterior, then ran back past my car to where his car was idling behind me. A scary moment indeed, seeing him pass my car door both going to and coming from delivering his overt, violent, and loud protest.

Of course, I couldn't help but recognize this as the diametric, polar opposite reaction to the one I had been occupying myself with during the same enforced idleness and delay.

Once he finally made a move, the white van's driver made several more bad driving decisions in the space of a hundred yards in exiting that mall, taking lots of loud, angry honking from other cars as a result.

Boy, thought I, he sure deserved all the scorn and abuse he just took from his fellow drivers - but none of it had come from me!

Possibly resulting from all the time I'd spent singing with Lutherans recently, it suddenly struck me that one man's two-thousand-year-old imprecation to a totally barbaric society to "turn the other cheek" whenever struck may have been an important call to us as a species to evolve - one which requires us to change how we react to those small, everyday, non-violent grievances as well as those larger, more overt societal wrongs.

As far as I know, no one in San Francisco is getting punched in the face tonight, but there certainly is a lot of road rage, honking of horns, whacking of vans, and other cathartic forms of stress release going on in plain view in front of me.

Could the run-up to the Holiday Season be the one time we all get to communally measure -- under a fairly universal, externally-imposed deadline -- the degree to which we have evolved as a peaceful species over the past 2,000 years -- by opting not to respond outwardly to shared communal stress?

OK, forget "Peaceful". But, in this time of war, with an economy that is wilting after nearly a decade of post-traumatic, stress-inducing shocks, would it be possible to try out ABSORBING some of the stresses of others without reflecting it all right back at them, and without passing it along to anyone else you come across?

I think maybe, if I can master that one over the next few Holiday Seasons, I may be ready to move on to the more advanced problem often referred to as "Spreading Peace".

Have an Absorbing Time This Holiday Season!

David Saslav
San Francisco
December 2008
------------------------------------------------------------------

Moving Forward

2009-09-23T15:33:00.000-07:00

A 1,000-word short story by David M. J. Saslav

Written over 48 hours for the final "Flash Fiction" round

of NYC Midnight's 2009 Creative Writing Challenge:

to write a Fantasy set at a car wash, featuring a kitten

[For more on the contest, go to http://nycmidnight.com/]

------------------------------------------------------------

Moving Forward

You ever get that sensation of moving backward, when you’re not, in a carwash? Or maybe it’s forward – who knows? Either way, it’s unsettling. You’re sealed in like a mummy, the scrubbing machines are screaming, and your mind plays tricks on you. You notice things you wouldn’t, otherwise.

But you probably never had time stand still on you during a wash like I did once.

You know Gus’s Gas’n’Go down at 52nd and Rayburn? I always go there, they got lots of pumps, good nozzle pressure, and an English-speaking owner with a cat and a little kitten that’ll lick your hand once you’ve paid for your beef jerky (but not before). And when you want a carwash, it’s only three bucks, five for “deluxe” and seven for “the works”.

You never really know what “the works” is, do you? With money being tight, I never splurge. I mean, it’s not like bird crap is gonna bounce off the “complete exterior waxing”, right?

But one day, after pumping gas, the screen comes up with another carwash option I haven’t seen before. “CHOOSE ONE”, it says:

REGULAR - $3
DELUXE - $5
THE WORKS - $7
SUPREME BEEING - $50

Double-take. “SUPREME BEEING”? Give me a break. If it just says “SUPREME” or spells “BEING” right, or goes for $9, you’d figure it’s some new fancy marketing scheme for charging more for tire wax, right? But $50 for “SUPREME BEEING”? Give me a break. Someone’s gotta explain.

I go into the store and look around for the owner; no one’s home. Just the cat and the kitten, and they’re none too helpful.

So since I just got a bonus, I decide to risk it. Receipt pops out, and I drive over to the carwash area. As I’m keying it in, I notice the “SUPREME BEEING” code printed on the stub:

4 U 2 C Y

Which could actually be a sentence. I’m pretty good at figuring out those vanity plates, so it jumps out at me – I kind of figure it’s part of the deal. Part of you says it’s random, no meaning behind it, but another part says, Wait, it could be a prize code. The expensive scratcher tickets win better prizes, after all, don’t they?

So when I hear, "PLEASE DRIVE FORWARD SLOWLY TOWARDS THE LIGHT”, I roll on into the carwash structure. As soon as my front wheel rolls up onto the platform, the light turns red and I hear, “STOP – TURN ENGINE OFF – ROLL UP WINDOWS”.

Now, ordinarily, I turn on the radio and let my mind wander during carwashes, but I’m not tuning out so quickly this time.

I intend “2 C Y”!

The giant brush contacts my car and starts rolling over it, suds drowning out the outside, with that deafening roar everywhere…

It’s coming back over the hood from the rear, the nozzles clearing the soapiness, when it happens. That jolt you get as your car moves forward, or the platform moves and you don’t, or whatever.

But this time, right at that moment, the light turns white, my door pops open, and everything stops. The voice booms, “FEEL FREE TO EXIT YOUR CAR AT THIS TIME” And that’s it. Nothing else, just dead stillness. All the noise, all the activity, everything, stops. I get out of the car, thinking something’s malfunctioned.

But it’s not like that.

There’s water droplets hanging suspended in the air, with soap bubbles forming little rainbow spheres all around them. And though everything’s all wet, no drips! And no sound anywhere. Just stillness.

I don’t want to leave my car unattended, but the longer I stand there, the less happens. So I walk back to the pumps, and – more nothing, everywhere. There’s a dozen cars in suspended animation, going all directions through traffic lights – well, ok, NOT going through them – and a dozen birds frozen in mid-flight overhead. One of them’s actually dropping a mid-air load onto a Mercedes!

I go back into the convenience store, the kitten’s a statue, caught mid-stride walking across the counter. The mother’s halfway out the automatic door, which isn’t closing.

No one’s around to see, so I try to sneak a Slim Jim from the box at the counter, but it won’t budge. It’s like the only moving molecules in the universe are mine.

And I suddenly remember one of my favorite dreams, where time’s standing still. I finally get all caught up – on chores, books I want to read, projects at work, – even get a little ahead, so that when time restarts, I’m this genius, inventing things other people would’ve needed more time to come up with.

And I realize this could actually count as “supreme being”, except in my mind it’s spelled right, and it’s not all capitalized, either.

But the problem is, nothing will budge at all, not even the magazines. If I’d seen it coming, I’d’ve photocopied textbooks and left the pages lying face up, so I could read them all at my leisure. But right now, I can’t even pick up a magazine!

So after what feels like a long time (but only to me, I guess), another thought hits me. What if time never restarts? Hell, I’m aging, and no one else is? If this goes on for months or years, I could grow old and die before the kitten ever makes it across that keyboard! And only I can make any noise from now on…?

So I race back to the carwash keypad, and re-enter "4 U 2 C Y".

Still. Nothing.

I think harder, then try:

O K I C Y

and suddenly everything starts up again. Cars zooming around again, birds swooshing, the cat’s running out of the store, the noisy brushes pick up right where they left off.

After the carwash finishes, I hear: “PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR CAR AND PROCEED FORWARD, SLOWLY”.

Shaking my head, I get back in and drive forward, turn right, and rejoin the flow of traffic.

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

Renditions Music Services 2009 Events Calendar

2009-09-16T04:55:00.000-07:00

Sunday, Sept. 27, 2009 at 3PM

Menlo Park, CA
Melissa Smith performs original piano compositions of David Saslav and others
(by invitation only - email us at dsaslav@gmail.com if interested)

************
click here to return to top of events listing

November 6, 7, 2009 at 8PM
November 8, 2009 at 2PM

Davies Symphony Hall, SF
Dave sings with the San Francisco Symphony Chorus
All-Rachmaninov program including "The Bells"
Call (415) 864-6000 or visit http://sfsymphony.org/ for tickets

************
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Saturday, November 14, 8:00 PM

St. Francis Church, 152 Church St. SF
Dave sings, w/ Dr. David Schofield's St. Francis Choir:
The complete Richafort Requiem

************
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Sunday, December 13, 2009, 3:00 PM

St. Francis Church, 152 Church St., SF
Dave sings, w/ Dr. David Schofield's St. Francis Choir:
A Concert of Carols (possibly including an original choral composition by David Saslav)!

************
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Sunday, December 20, 2009, 3:00 PM

Kenwood Community Church, Sonoma
Dave sings, w/ Dr. David Schofield's St. Francis Choir:
A Concert of Carols (possibly including an original choral composition by David Saslav)!

************
click here to return to top of events listing

Scroll down to read more of the Sazblog...

Heinrich Wilhelm Flaustenbach

2009-08-26T10:45:00.000-07:00

Heinrich Wilhelm Flaustenbach

A short story by David Saslav
© Renditions Music Services 2009

This page should be found only at http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/ - please report all other representations and copies to the author at dsaslav@gmail.com.

This story was submitted to the 2009 “Flash Fiction” Creative Writing Competition held by nycmidnight.com on August 23, 2009, 48 hours after the challenge parameters were issued: compose a short (1,000 words or less) comedy short story set in a music studio, featuring at some point a Zip Loc Bag.]

Synopsis: The rise of social networking sites in general, and Wikipedia in particular, have managed to rescue this little-known German pioneer of early musical instruction techniques from near-total obscurity, while simultaneously allowing us to reflect on how fortunate we are that more of his principles and “learning devices” have not survived the test of time.

Won’t you please consider making a contribution to the Wikipedia foundation at wikipedia.org today?

--------------------------------------

Heinrich Wilhelm Flaustenbach__________________

From Wikipedia, the free Internet encyclopedia

Heinrich Wilhelm Flaustenbach (Born Leipzig, 15 January 1807 – Died Hamburg, 6 May 1882) was a music educator, flugelhornist, and perhaps the foremost and most-feared children’s m usic pedagogue in 19^th-century northeastern Germany. His father, Heinrich Johann Ludwig Flaustenbach (author of Harpsichords of Middle Europe – A Complete Taxonomy) was also a music educator and scholar, as well as an experimenter in the non-traditional use of musical scores. The elder Flaustenbach is perhaps best known for his unsuccessful early 19^th-century attempts to use pages from oversized oratorio scores of German High Baroque composers as cheap wallpaper for the homes of lower-middle class German families.

It is believed that the imposition of reams and reams of musical wallpaper in Flaustenbach’s earliest environs may have had a significant formative impact on young Heinrich Wilhelm, and had a causal effect on some of the more remarkably unfortunate episodes that would mark his adult life.

Biography________________________

Flaustenbach started his musical studies at the age of 12 and assisted his father in his musical wallpapering business. He also studied children’s behavior, materials science, and mechanical engineering, publishing a work on the study habits of fellow students (“Communal Sharing Among University Students of Stolen Answers to Upcoming Examinations”) while at Hamburg University (see ‘Publications’, below).

Soon after graduation from University (1829), Flaustenbach, apparently rudderless, founded the Kindermusikpädagogikstudiumgesellschaft (“League of Scientists for Studying Children’s Musical Instruction”), and began recruiting. Hundreds of new-fangled instruments were being introduced each month; and with each seemed to come a new instructional approach from self-proclaimed “experts”, foisted thoughtlessly upon the minds and fingers of Hamburg’s youth.

Flaustenbach began identifying, describing, classifying, and in many cases “improving upon” these methods, thankfully recording only a few of his original experiments for posterity. [Talkative by nature, his beer-hall rants and boasts about teaching techniques are thought to be largely responsible for their survival through diaries and oral history.]

One of his very few published papers, “On the Efficacy of Simultaneous Practicing of Various and Several Musical Instruments by Multiple Students” (1831) led to a vociferous debate (which nearly devolved into fisticuffs among the brawnier musicians in attendance) at the Musikverein in Vienna, Austria, and is thought to be responsible for the strict isolation of students from one another while practicing on their instruments today.

Flaustenbach’s music studio, from all contemporaneous accounts, resembled something closer to science laboratory than traditional music studio. Upon giant scaffoldings hung large, multi-tentacled contraptions whose purpose would not have been immediately obvious. [One of these contraptions is thought to have ended the piano career and led to the insanity and eventual suicide of Robert Schumann in 1856.]

Flaustenbach’s most prized invention was a large wooden dowel attached to a spring on the side of a piano keyboard. Known as the “Musikalischefehlerverhinderer” (“Musical Mistake Preventer”), it featured an instructor-held controller that could be triggered to ensure swift, high-impact contact with any desired extremity of recalcitrant or impertinent students at the precise moment they began committing musical or behavioral transgressions. [It is also perhaps the contraption of Flaustenbach’s with the longest-lasting legacy, as his gift of the invention to Pope Pius IX in 1849 led – through a series of significant simplifications and miniaturizations – to its current modern-day descendant: the ruler on the knuckles used widely by Catholic nuns.]

Flaustenbach’s other inventions included an electromagnetic current-based “chain-link enforcement” system which ensured fulfillment of minimum practice session times, and a breath-control device for singers which involved exhaling and then rapidly sealing air into a large pouch placed over the head and neck. Its widespread popularity and near-100% fatality record are largely believed to have led to the postponement of the premiere of Richard Wagner’s opera, Lohengrin in 1850, due to unavailability of qualified choristers. The pouch, roundly condemned by nearly all subsequent voice teachers, did however find its way into mainstream Western culture, serving as an early prototype for Zip Loc™ resealable bags.

Flaustenbach’s death in 1882 resulted from a venture into dangerous and pointless sports (1880-1882). Jumping off a bridge while riding a horse attached to the bridge by a cord whose tensile strength and plasticity he had grievously miscalculated, both Flaustenbach and the horse’s nitrogen-infused bodies were dredged up from depths of nearly 100 feet below the surface of the Kellersee, Berlin’s deepest lake. At inquest, the death was ruled to have been the only known case of “The Mare Sadist’s Bends”.

Following his death, Flaustenbach’s sheet music, laboratory, and behavioral contraptions were bequeathed to the 'Musikhistorischesmuse um” in Vienna, on condition that all items remain sealed away for 30 years. Flaustenbach probably made this stipulation due to the appointment of Matthias Rolfe, a self-taught music pedagogue, as the museum’s director. [Rolfe frequently criticized Flaustenbach’s techniques and paraphernalia, though he tended to ignore the inherent dangerousness and potential damage to students’ psyches, dwelling more on the devices’ color schemes.]

In the years following Flaustenbach’s death, his work was championed and continued by his English wife Henriette Samuelson Flaustenbach (1829-1915), whose translation of Flaustenbach’s favorite phrase “Üben macht die ewige Narbe” (“Practice Produces Permanent Scars”) led to a more widely-known and somewhat-gentler expression among today’s educators of children.

Other, less successful, attempts to carry on Faustenbach’s legacy were made by former collaborator Friedrich Wilhelm (“Fritz”) Stuppenheim (1858-1891) – albeit briefly, as Stuppenheim’s life (along with all of Flaustenbach’s original research papers) was cut short during a public demonstration of Flaustenbach’s experiments in the use of fire as student motivational tool (cf. Great Viennese Fire of 1891).

Publications__________________________

FLAUSTENBACH, H.W. 1828, “Communal Sharing Among University Students of Stolen Answers to Upcoming Examinations”
FLAUSTENBACH, H.W. 1831, “On the Efficacy of Simultaneous Practicing of Various and Several Musical Instruments by Multiple Students”
FLAUSTENBACH, H.W. 1863, “Treatise on the Origins and Types of Student Tantrums”
FLAUSTENBACH, H.W. 1879, “Servo-Mechanical Advances in Achieving Near-Total Focus Among Children of Sufficiently Tender Age”

The Destination Merchant

2009-08-09T12:58:00.001-07:00

Challenge: write a story in under 1,000 words.
Timeframe: 48 hours
Genre: Fantasy
Venue: A Travel Agency
Object appearing in story: a lobster

[NYCMidnight.com's Flash Fiction 2009 contest, Group 4, Challenge #2]

The Destination Merchant

by David Saslav

“If we are facing in the right direction, all we need to do is keep on walking.”.

–Buddhist Saying

CHAPTER ONE

Vonn’s cloak began fluttering as if with excitement as she steered her octocorn towards the bazaar’s entrance. “Now that’s unusual,” she mused, having slowed down once off the main road from Annilai. And no wind to explain it, either, she noted. But beyond these observations, it left her mind, replaced by her shopping list.

Having visited the bazaar several times now, the trips no longer held any novelty for her, as she knew they did for others. In fact, were it not for certain items required by her immobilized sister, Vailessa, Vonn would have had no interest in attending. Her own needs were simple and required less effort to acquire; impractical or fanciful desires were as yet unknown to her.

With just over half the items purchased, though, her normally predictable mount lurched left, down an aisle between two unremarkable booths. Before she could chastise the animal, though, she noted with surprise that her own arms seemed to have tugged the reins that way, without her awareness. Ahead of her now lay an unfamiliar, new booth with a strange sign, reading:

DESTINATION VESTMENTS

Vonn wondered at its meaning, which annoyed her – she detested unnecessary complexities. Her initial instinct was to harangue the bazaar’s organizers for allowing incomprehensible vendors into this simple marketplace. But on approaching the counter, her cloak again began its strange stirrings, as if caught in a vigorous forest breeze.

“Ah, so your vestment has brought you here, has it?” cackled the stooped, graying man behind the counter before she could becalm her garment. “It would appear to have been constructed somewhere in the Eastern Mountains, I would say.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” retorted Vonn. “This cloak was my sister’s before her acci-…” Vonn stopped herself short of divulging intimacies to a stranger.

“And where did your sister obtain it? Did she once venture beyond these provinces?”

“Well, yes,” admitted Vonn. “Vailessa was part of an exploratory expedition to the East once, several years ago.”

“And I imagine you never saw her wear this particular garment before then, now, did you?” pressed the merchant. When Vonn said nothing, he continued magisterially. “Your path now opens; your cloak has served its purpose in bringing you here. Have you given thought to your next Destination?”

“Such gibberish!” snapped Vonn derisively. “I am neither Seeker nor Mercenary, but a simple courier of scrolls and potions. I attend to magicians, alchemists, and wizards, who direct me elsewhere with their potions and instructions, then back to Annilai. Nowhere else.”

“My child, you misunderstand. I meant, have you given thought to where you would like to travel next? Where your heart is leading you? You are, after all, at Destination Vestments. Our wares serve both as garments and guides; you need only specify a desired destination, select the appropriate costume to replace your current one, and off you go.”

“Incomprehensible old fool,” Vonn muttered, and turned to finish her chores before the bazaar closed. The octocorn complied, but within a half a staff’s length from the counter, she suddenly felt her cloak cinching itself extraordinarily tightly around her, forcing all the breath from her lungs, immobilizing her. Gasping, Vonn’s hold on the reins loosened, and the octocorn returned to the strange booth and its bemused proprietor. Vonn’s cloak released its vise-like grip on her and resumed its fluttering.

“You would be well advised not to try that again,” said the old man. “Your garment’s magical, and its Final Destination has now been reached. You’d need command of forces well beyond my own to wrest it from this place. Now stop your struggling, and come select a new outfit.”

“B-but I have no destinations in mind!” Vonn stammered, her sense of place and propriety profoundly shaken.

“Not to worry, child,” crooned the merchant soothingly. “You may also allow the garment to guide you forward, based on desires unearthed from your deepest consciousness. That’s a very popular option these days.”

And with that, he gestured at his merchandise, a long, winding rack of astonishingly beautiful cloaks, robes, wraps, and tunics, all glowing imperceptibly, humming and fluttering in non-existent wind. Each sported exotic drawings of faraway places and things – castles, darkling dragons, an underwater scene revealing half-hidden aquatic creatures – seahorses, mermen, a lobster.

“But I cannot afford a new cloak!” protested Vonn. “I live simply with my sister, who would be unable to accompany me. How would she know my fate?”

The merchant smiled patiently.

“My dear girl, your current cloak is all that’s required, in trade. Just take the Destination garment of your choice to that changing area, and replace your current one with it. Then be on your way, telling no one of this. As for your sister, she too has clearly patronized Destination Vestments in her day, and will recognize your new clothing for what it is. Having lost her own ability to roam, we will provide for her from now on, as you will see on your return. No Destination is direct, mind you. Your first leg will be back to Annilai, where you will simply bid your sister farewell. Your new cloak will ensure your passage and progress towards the Final Destination through its oscillations.”

Vonn, having dismounted without volition, stood dumbfounded, all attempts at flight firmly defeated by her sister’s cloak, which fluttered happily within reach of the others. From this spot, she was headed nowhere but straight to the changing area in the stall’s rear.

“By when must I choose?”

“This bazaar closes shortly, and I begin the next leg of my own journey, as my own tunic leads me.” A faraway look crossed the merchant’s face.

Again without warning or conscious thought, as if watching herself from afar, Vonn saw her own hand reaching out to grasp the aquatically-themed cloak.

“Fare thee well,” said the merchant, after she had changed and remounted the octocorn. “Perhaps we shall meet again.”

Vonn departed the bazaar and rode back to Annilai at a speed she’d never before thought possible.

CHAPTER TWO

Time stood still as Vonn flew. Never before had she felt such exhilaration impelling her forward as from the cloak she now wore. Her octicorn felt it too, clearly, for they seemed to ride at twice the usual travelling pace.

Already passed Driscoll Downs, and then Farraday Fields in record time, until at last the Darkstone Forest loomed to the right; Annilai and home lay just beyond it. Vonn shuddered slightly as she always did whenever they passed this forbidding wald, for reasons unknown to her.

Suddenly, without warning, her octicorn veered off course with a jolt, in the direction of the Forest! The cloak’s intentions were quite clearly palpable; Vonn’s very thoughts of returning to the byway were being nullified by the cloak, which somehow cinched tighter in intimation of the breath-depriving consequences for attempting to resist. Had she not felt so buoyant from the high-speed ride on the byway, she might have quavered.

Now, they were yards from the forest entrance, and now – inside! Penetrating into the gloomy blackness of Darkstone Forest petrified Vonn, but to her horror, the octicorn did not slow. To the contrary, it seemed if anything to speed up, as if racing along a favored track. Dodging trees at a frightful pace, leaping over fallen logs which seemed to attempt to reach up and snare them in the misleading light, Vonn could barely suppress a shriek of fear.

But before her lungs could even prepare a sound, it seemed, everything came to a halt.

How it could happen so, without Vonn being hurled from her mount, she had no idea, but the cloak held her fast in her saddle, although they had gone from light speed to dead stop in an instant.

Too startled to yell out, Vonn heard the sudden silence broken by a piercing animal screech, other-worldly and malevolent – whatever it was was twice the size of Vonn’s octocorn, and it was flailing uselessly to free itself from the six forward horns now embedded deep into its back.

Finally taking in what was taking place around her, Vonn realized her steed had plunged headlong into the back of one of the dark forest’s most feared and deadly forces - a black amador! Within seconds the beast was dead, the octocorn having disengaged a moment before the giant killer toppled headlong into a stand of towering frando trees, felling them all.

Once the crash of the fall had subsided, all was quiet again, save a quiet whimpering sound coming from the forest floor.

“Cillesa? Cillesa? What has become of you, Cillesa?” came the plaintive cry.

From the sight of the man before her, it was clear that the amador had wrought significant damage to him in the moments leading up to her arrival.

“Cillesa!” he now began calling, with more and more vigor.

Vonn dismounted and began tending to the injured man. His tunic had been ripped and torn in several places, and he bled profusely.

“You’re going to live, sir.” Vonn spoke confidently, as if her words could by themselves overcome such injuries. And sure enough, no sooner had she spoken, but the man’s wounds began to heal. Within an astonishing several seconds, he was back on his feet, stretching, his hands exploring non-existent wounds, marvelling at the absence of evidence of his recent mauling.

“I am in your debt, young lady, and wish to thank you for your magic healing spell!” he said.

“I am no magician,” replied Vonn. “And you have my octocorn to thank as much as I for the destruction of the amador - for it was he who rammed and killed the beast that was attacking you.”

“Whether mount, or rider, or both, my continued life owes itself to your actions. Where is my daughter, Cillesa?”

“I do not know she of whom you speak. Was she with you when you were …”

“Indeed. My daughter, Cillesa, whom I remember bidding flee as I distracted the black amador. She is undoubtedly in peril somewhere in the forest – we must find her, quickly!”

And to her astonishment, the man jumped up onto Vonn’s octocorn and made as if to ride on into the forest. Vonn quickly grabbed the reins and joined him on the saddle.

“I am Vonn of Annilai; what sort of girl are we looking for?”

“I am Kurash, and my daughter Cillesa is the fairest, most beautiful creature in the land, and will one day rule this entire land. If you can help me find her, I shall richly reward you. Cillesa! Cillesa!”

And with that, they plunged deeper into the deadly wood together.

rachmaninov arrangement

2009-04-23T11:05:00.000-07:00

Rachmaninov arrangement of "Vocalise": Check out the Rachmaninov Vocalise, Op.34, No.14 -performed by Akiko Suwanai and Phillip Moll - in this nifty arrangement for violin and piano!

Closeup of Office Photograph

2009-04-09T12:56:00.001-07:00

Closeup of Office Photograph
Originally uploaded by dsaslav

One of my panoramic shots of San Francisco recently won an office contest and is now being displayed prominently and (nearly at scale!) at my workplace...!

Me and My Photo

2009-04-09T12:53:00.001-07:00

Me and My Photo
Originally uploaded by dsaslav

One of my panoramic shots of San Francisco recently won an office contest and is now being displayed prominently and (nearly at scale!) at my workplace...!

Now where did we park!?

2009-04-09T11:54:00.001-07:00

Now where did we park!?
Originally uploaded by dsaslav

Taken outside the Long's drugstore on El Camino Real, Redwood City, CA this morning...

Mystery Choral Quiz

2008-02-27T18:54:00.000-08:00

Okay, fans of great choral music - Let's try "Name the composer of the choral works"...!

Mystery Choral MIDI #1

John Ireland
John Bennet
Hubert Parry
Josquin Desprez

Mystery Choral MIDI #2

John Ireland
John Bennet
Hubert Parry
Josquin Desprez

Mystery Choral MIDI #3

John Ireland
John Bennet
Hubert Parry
Josquin Desprez

Mystery Choral MIDI #4

John Ireland
John Bennet
Hubert Parry
Josquin Desprez

Mystery Choral MIDI #5

Johannes Brahms
Peter Cornelius
Felix Mendelssohn
Franz Schubert

Mystery Choral MIDI #6

Johannes Brahms
Peter Cornelius
Felix Mendelssohn
Franz Schubert

Mystery Choral MIDI #7

Johannes Brahms
Peter Cornelius
Felix Mendelssohn
Franz Schubert

Mystery Choral MIDI #8

Johannes Brahms
Peter Cornelius
Felix Mendelssohn
Franz Schubert

Email your answers to me here!

David

The Disney World Sessions

2006-12-18T19:29:00.000-08:00

You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling (Lichtman and Saslav)
Hotel California (Saslav and Lichtman)

The SazBlog

"Overexposure" - A work of short horror fiction

Siren Song

Firing Blanks

NYC Midnight's 1st Annual Flash Fiction "Micro Challenge"

Another Special Meal

Tweet Me a Story Contest 2011

"The Amazing Adventures of William Teller" - NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2010 Round 1 Entry

"Well of Life" - NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2010 Round 1 Entry

DAVE PERFORMS: CONCERTS THIS SUNDAY at 4PM, 8PM

Seeing-Eye Candy

NYCMidnight's Creative Writing Contest 2010

The Great “Tweet Me a Story Challenge” of December 2009

Holiday Epiphany - Absorb, Don't Reflect!

Moving Forward

Renditions Music Services 2009 Events Calendar

Heinrich Wilhelm Flaustenbach

Heinrich Wilhelm Flaustenbach

A short story by David Saslav © Renditions Music Services 2009This page should be found only at http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/ - please report all other representations and copies to the author at dsaslav@gmail.com.

Won’t you please consider making a contribution to the Wikipedia foundation at wikipedia.org today?

--------------------------------------

From Wikipedia, the free Internet encyclopedia

Biography________________________

Publications__________________________

The Destination Merchant

rachmaninov arrangement

Closeup of Office Photograph

Me and My Photo

Now where did we park!?

Mystery Choral Quiz

The Disney World Sessions

A short story by David Saslav
© Renditions Music Services 2009

This page should be found only at http://dsaslav.blogspot.com/ - please report all other representations and copies to the author at dsaslav@gmail.com.