Thank you for your patience,

Aaron

Chapter 1

            Let go of all preconceived notions of death. Everything ever taught, dreamed, or believed about death holds only a candle light to the elusive truth. The complexity is even a mystery to Kurios’ left hand, the slave bound to Death.

            Death stands, alone, a ghost amongst men, on the corner of a New York City street. The buildings around him are the city’s organs and the streets are its arteries. A skyscraper is its lung and a club its mind. The flow of people and traffic are its blood. The honking horns, human voices, occasional siren, combine to form a heart beat. This city is brimming with life and only Death knows exactly how much.

            Light glistens off the streets. Yellow cabs, headlights, and the green and red of traffic lights reflect off pools of water. To Death, these colors, the very nature of life, are muted almost gray. The gentle beat of the Cities heart is distant and muffled. He is present but not on a material world in which this City thrives on.

            A black hoodie is pulled over his face so only his chin shows. His hands are buried deep into his blue jeans. Death dreads that he will have to leave the safety of the immaterial soon. The water will soak his jeans. And though his canvas shoes are surrounded with thick white rubber that covers his toes, they will not keep the water out.

            Noise echoes off the walls of an alley behind him. It pulls his focus from his shoes. The night does its best to shroud the narrow path in darkness. It’s not anxiousness that causes him to look, but more curiosity. There is something familiar about it.

            A taxi slows to a stop, just feet from him. Rain freckles the back seat window and prevents Death from seeing inside. He doesn’t need to see the passenger. The man’s beat of life gives him away. Life and it’s soon to be end sell the man out.

            The rain water trails down the window as the door swings open. A thick man of average height climbs out. He looks through the shadow of Death and into the black alley. Anxiety grips the man’s left eye with a twitch. He nervously tugs his pants up around his wide waste. Death knows this man. Derek Murkland is his name. He has been chosen by Kurios to die.

            The ring of a cell phone breaks Derek’s concentration. He shifts his weight so reach into his pocket after it. After a short search, he finds the phone, taps his finger on the face, and then holds it to his ear, “Hello.” His voice is deep.

            Derek scans around him as the voice on the other line mumbles. “I told you to send everything you’ve got and pack up for the night. There should be nothing left behind, nothing.”

           The mumble grows louder in obvious protest.

           “Henry, this was supposed to be your project.” Derek sighs, “Okay…okay…okay…I’m at the garage. Give me a half hour and I’ll be there.”

           Gratification rings from the cell then crackles and dies away. Derek’s face scrunches. He pulls the dead phone off his ear and holds it in front of his face. A few shakes fail to bring it to life. Derek bangs on it to no avail.

           Hades is about to spill over onto this man. The living breathing city around Derek has forgotten about him. He has become a dead cell to it and this is Death’s sign. He clears his throat, “Derek Murkland, it’s your time.”

           Derek’s eyes widen and he takes a step back. His hands wave to find something to brace. “Who? Who’s there?”

          “Death.” Reactions are everything but none of them surprise Death. Derek’s reaction is to run. His bulbous body disappears into the alley. This man does not understand what’s in store from him and never will in this life. Faster than a blink of an eye, Death is on the man’s heels.

          Derek’s lurches to the end and slams his weight against a steel door. Adrenaline and testosterone fills his head. It takes him a second or two to realize he needs his keycard to gain access. He reaches for his wallet and swipes it over a black box with a red light. A tiny bell rings and the door swings open. Derek barrels inside and slams it shut just before Death can follow him.

          The physical door would otherwise pose no threat to Death. However, he is a creature of theatrics. Giant white wings, of a celestial kind, spread out from his back. It only takes one powerful beat and he is in the air.

          High above the end of the alley, Death can see Derek’s destination. It’s the top of a parking garage. White lines stripe the gray concrete marking parking spots across the lot. There is only one car out at this time of night and it’s surprisingly yards away from the elevator door. Derek must have arrived too late for a good parking spot.

           Death touches down just a foot or two away from the beige town car. White wings retract into his back and like a cat playing with its food, he waits. He’s sure that Derek’s elevator is climbing upwards closer to the roof. Impatiently and in vain, Derek will struggle with his phone in hopes of calling for help.

            With a sigh, Death reaches behind his back and finds a short cylinder. He holds it at arm length and squeezes the side. The object of whips and clicks as it unfolds into a jagged stick. There is a half a second delay before a blade folds out and locks at the end turning the staff into a scythe.

           Pride courses through his chest. He remembers a time when all he had was a dagger. Though, in those times, he liked to be allusive. Now, there was a hunger to see people, talk to them, before he reaped them.

           The elevator rings and its doors slide open. A slumped over Derek grips his chest and tries to catch his breath. Death wonders if the poor man has spent this entire time struggling for air. Then, as if responding to a starter pistol, Derek rushes towards his car.

           Carefully, Death aligns himself with Derek. Step by step the barreling giant grows closer and at the very last second Death materializes. Derek slams into Death’s ridged body. The impact knocks him onto his rear but Death stands firm.

            All the red from Derek’s overheated run flushes from his face. His eyes grow even wider and his jaw rattles. Words can’t seem to escape his gawking mouth.

            Death grins, “You know Derek…you really shouldn’t run, at least not in your present condition. It’s not good for your heart.”

            Finally, Derek’s voice box crackles and words take form on his lips, “Who are you?”

            What a horrible cliché question. After thousands of years of revealing himself before people die, Death was sure one would be able to identify with the hooded stranger wielding a scythe. “Me?” Death points to his chest and bends over Derek, “I’ve already told you, I’m Death.  If you want a name: some have named me, and I do prefer, Azrael. Others call me Santa Muerte, Angel of Death, Left Hand of God, the last of us, the Grim Reaper, but I’d prefer you to just stick with Azrael.”

           Derek shivers. His heart knows the truth but his mind is trying to rationalize it away, “You’re crazy…”

          “Oh, if only I were. Then it would be implied that this very dire situation has many possible endings. The truth is that there is one ending, only one, and it is your death. I wouldn’t be here if it were something else.”

          Derek does his best to slide himself away. With every scoot, Azrael takes a step closer. “I don’t believe this…this can’t be…”

            “You know,” Azrael swings his scythe in Derek’s direction. “It’s interesting how the people of these last few decades find the truth so hard to believe. I mean here truth is standing before you,” Azrael straightens, “In all its glory and you still can’t believe in it.” Azrael taps the blade gently on the side of Derek’s head. “You all just think too much about it. It’s so black and white. I’m death, you can see me, and so I’m here to reap your soul.”

            “See, I don’t believe in your premise.” Derek shakes his head, “There is no heaven, no hell, and no soul.”

            Azrael sighs, “You can try to have a philosophical debate with me. Just know that the winner is the one left standing.” The scythe’s blade drags across the floor. Sparks fly then the blade ignites into one plume of fire. Azrael holds it in Derek’s face. “Explain this, oh great scientist, oh wizened philosopher. Want to see how long the fire will last?”

            “So then,” Either Derek believed or he decided to play along, “it’s my time to go?”

            “Bingo! Thank goodness you caught on. I would have hated to whip out the wings and prance around the roof tops like a fairy.”

            Derek rolls onto his side and tries get up. He shivers in pain, grabs his heart and rolls back on his rear. “God…” He hisses through his teeth, “Not now, I’ll do anything. Please, please, I’ll do anything…”

            “There’s no use bargaining.” Azrael tries to stabilize the man with his right foot. “It’s way too late for that now. The good news is that I’ve been sent here to give you a last chance for repentance.” He sticks his index finger in Derek’s contorted face. “You are going to die. No matter what you say. I can see the truth of things. I will know your hearts intent and your soul’s destination.”

            Something in Derek twists. “I’ve lived a good life. I have no regrets.”

            “See that’s what I’m saying!” Azrael leans in on his heel. “Be honest with yourself and do not tell me what you think I want to hear.” Azrael lifts his foot off of Derek and takes a step back. “Sure, your life started off good, most people’s do. You were born 1964 in a peaceful Iowa town. At seventeen you killed your younger brother. Your mom blamed your dad for the murder and Dad blamed her. One night’s drunken rage killed your mom and locked your dad in jail.”

            “How…” Derek heaved, “How do you know these things?”

            Azrael bends down, “Don’t interrupt. Your grandparents took sympathy on you, included you in their will and a quick house fire landed you sizable wealth. You started out by pimping out girls, some of whom were underage, and later took over a large drug cartel. You are said to be the only man who can smuggle anything into the US.”

            A noise from the elevator distracts them. There is no ring, no rush of its motion. It’s an odd noise that Azrael recognizes as the same from the alley. “Well…I’ve rambled too long as it is.” Azrael clears his throat. “Your sins stretch from here to the moon and back. If Dickens was right, you’d have a laborious chain around your neck.”

            “Why me? Why now?” Derek locks his eyes on Azrael as if he can get any sympathy from Death.

            Azrael shrugs, “I don’t know. Kurios tells me to go, to wait, and to reap. I do as I’m told, no questions asked.” His lower lip lifts above his upper. “I don’t even know anything about you until I see you. Admittedly, all your sins make it easy to justify your death.”

            Derek winces in pain. “You don’t have to, can’t you chose for yourself?”

            The thought rocks Azrael. It had crossed his mind once a very long time ago. Then, as quickly as it came it was gone. Azrael nods his head yes, “I could just walk away. Kurios gives us that option with hell as our consequence if we should die. No offense, but I don’t want to go to hell for a scumbag like you.”

            “You can rot in hell.” Derek sneers, “I don’t care who you are you can…”

            Azrael looses his playfulness and raises his voice over Derek’s. “See, that’s the sad thing about it. I’m not the one going to rot in hell.” Azrael leans his body back. He readies his scythe with the blade still on fire. “You are.”

           Like a farmer harvesting wheat, Azrael swings the scythe horizontally into Derek’s chest. As the blade cuts, flames leap from its tip and rolls into Derek’s mouth and nostrils. The cut turns to ash and disappears from Derek’s chest.

            As Azrael towers over Derek’s lifeless body, one word echoes through his mind, “choice”. He does have a choice. All angels do. He has reaped the souls of many who where banished to this earth. For some reason, he had given it little thought. The last time he could remember even considering it was in Rome when Diana insisted on it.

            The noise returns and interrupts his train of thought. All of his attention turns to the elevator. Light, as if it were trying to pierce the heat of a flame, folds and bends around the elevator. Azrael knows what this means and he readies his scythe.

by Pamela Behr (My multitalented and gorgeous wife)

There once was a Christmas cookie

Baked for Christmas day.

It didn’t want to be eaten

But didn’t know what to say.

He tried very hard to speak,

Yet it came out as a mumble. 

Alas this poor cookie

Died with a crumble.

            The forty-second floor of the Olengtangy Corporation begins with a hall of windows. Blinds are tightly shut but, through the cracks, Mike can make out desks, chairs, and the bookshelves of offices. The hall opens into a lobby.

            A receptionist’s desk sits in the center face the hall of which Mike entered. The seat is empty. It comes as no surprise to Mike that the office is vacant. In his haste to escape Ashley’s inquisition, he arrived at work an entire hour early.

            The lobby has four connection hall ways. The first, leads to the elevator. Mike imagines the others lead to various offices and conference rooms. Down one of those halls is his office. Susan didn’t take him to his office during the tour because she said it was getting redesigned.

            Inside this building, anxiety is not a problem. Mike’s mind is prepared for a day’s work and leadership. Excitement creeps in from behind his gut. Today will be a good day. He’s convinced himself of that much.

            The elevator rings behind him and he turns to greet whoever enters. Footsteps echo through the hall. A short figure takes form. The man is obsessed with watching his feet as he walks. All Mike can distinguish of the stranger is his thinning hair and bald spot.

            Not knowing exactly what to do, Mike clears his throat, “Morning.”

            The man leaps back, yells, and throws his arms into the air. “Holy…you trying to kill me?” His beady eyes are open as wide as they possibly can. “Who the hell are you?”

            Mike steps forward and outstretches his hand, “Sorry to startle you. I’m Mike.”

            Confusion sweeps over the man’s face. A spark of thought blinks in his left eye and he greets Mike with a handshake and a smile. “You’re Rick’s replacement! Good to meet you. Susan was raving about you just last night. I’m Irvin, supervisor of the henchmen.” The man let out a nasal laugh.

            “Henchmen,” An unsettling gurgle bubbles in Mike’s stomach. He can’t tell if it’s from last night’s Mexican food or the word.

            Irvin chortles a little harder. “No that’s not their name.  It’s just what I call them. They are mostly bodyguards and private enforcers with a strict don’t ask don’t tell policy and I’m not talking about sexual alignment.” The man bursts into more giggles.

           It’s unsettlingly pleasant to find some one with such a cheery disposition. Mike does his best to act like the joke was funny.

           “I’m sure you want a look-see at your office?” Irvin buries his hands into his pocket. The rattle of keys begins muffled inside his pants then rings with full clarity as they slide out from behind the cloth. “I used to have a grandmaster key.” The bald spot reflects lights as Irvin searches his keychain. “Here it is.”

           The little man holds up the master key as if it were a trophy. “They finished up some minor…modifications in Rick’s office just last night.” Irvin passes and turns down the hall to the left.

            Mike is quick to stay on Irvin’s heels. The short moment of silence is horribly uncomfortable. Mike asks the easiest icebreaker question, “How long have you worked here?”

           “Oh…” Irvin chuckles, “close to twenty years now. I don’t think I’ll ever retire.”

           “You love the work?”

           “No.” They stop at the last door in the hall. Irvin fights with the lock, “I enjoy it. It’s just idle time turns us all to dust. I personally want to die behind a desk.” The latch clicks and the door swings open. “And I don’t want the cause of death to be a bullet wound!” He roars in laughter. “Poor old Rick.”

           The room is tight. A small teal aluminum desk is in the center. Three of the four walls are covered from floor to ceiling with silver file cabinets. The fourth wall is a view of a neighboring building whose windows reflect the morning rays into the dreary office.

           Irvin claps his hands together. “They forgot a chair! I’ll give maintenance a call and get you one right away.” Irvin rounds the desk and stretches out his arms. “So what do you think of this?”

           “I’m guessing I do a lot of filing?” Mike leans into one of the cabinets. He hadn’t noticed it before but the cabinets are insulated. They look like a freezer or confection oven. “Wow, I’ve never seen these before.” Mike knocks on the side of the metal causing a muted thud.

           “These babies,” Irvin smiles real big and leans against a cabinet. “They were originally designed to keep fire out. A couple of jet planes fly into buildings and everyone wants their paper trail saved.”

           Mike lingers over one of Irvin’s words, “originally”. In that simple word is the implied meaning that there is something, other then what was intended, being done with these cabinets. “So, whatever we put in these suckers, we want to keep.”

           Irvin continues to grin as a woman’s voice offers the answer. “Quite the opposite.” Susan’s stilettos announce every step as she moves into Mike’s view. Immediately, Mike notices the pineapple in her right hand. “They’ve been redesigned to burn their contents without risking the entire building.”

           The sight of Susan snaps Mike back to his conversation with Ashley. Mick immediately notices her figure wrapped in a pen stripped suit jacket and matching slacks. The pants hug her thighs and hips. Because of her bust line, her jacket parts wider than intended.

           Like a loyal husband, Mike’s thoughts return to the cabinets. They don’t stay their long and then are back to Susan. He struggles with himself for a little bit then snaps back into the conversation. “You want to burn all your documents?”

           Susan sets the pineapple on the desk and sits on the corner. “Thank you Irvin for showing Mike his office.”

           “You’re very welcome.” Irvin reads her gratitude as a sign to leave. As he passes Mike he nods, “It was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other pretty quickly.” Irvin disappears down the hall.

           There is a moment of silence. Susan’s lips curve into a smile, as she pushes the pineapple across the desk towards Mike.  “I bought this for you as an office warming present. I enjoy the symbolism of the fruit. That and I tried giving away wine on the first day but employees abused it.”

           Like a boy on a schoolyard, Mike buries his hands into his pockets. “Thank you, I love pineapple.”

           “You’re welcome.” She folds her hands on her lap. “I want you to plan on a meeting at ten-thirty. It’s one of these fluffy idea spring board meetings. We all just sit around and pitch ideas. Come prepared to be put on the spot.”

           “All of the management staff will be there?”

           “Yes.”

           Mike nods and scans the room. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about and my job exactly?”

           “Get right to the point.” Susan climbs off the desk and walks to the opposite side. Metal grinds against metal as she opens a drawer. “This bottom drawer will keep your current assignments. Right now, you are without a computer so I need you to just read them.” From almost out of nowhere, Susan plops an armful of folders onto the desk.

           Mike cautiously steps closer. Anxiety has started nibbling again. He can’t believe how comfortable he had become of routine. All this change is going to give him a heart attack.

           Susan flips open the first folder. Her eyes take their time locking with Mike’s. “You’re primary job will be managing, for lack of a better word, the blackmail and extortion.”

           Blood rushes to Mike’s head. His long face feels like it’s so far from the ground that he can feel the earths spin. The experience reminds him of a carnival ride that cost him his corndog back in the summer of sixty-nine. “Aren’t blackmail and extortion illegal?”

           “Mike, that’s why I prefaced the words with the phrase, ‘for lack of a better word’. What you do is a lot like those things but is perfectly legal.”

           The tall cabinets around him start in him a panic of claustrophobia. “I’m not sure how you can have almost extortion.”

           “You can.” Susan’s smile turns faintly demonic. “Whenever the person you are blackmailing, has committed a crime that could cost them their life or end with some hefty jail time…well you can think of it as a public service if you were to turn them in.”

           She lifts the first page on the file to reveal a picture. “A common mistake of many caught blackmailers is that they try to use something ethically wrong instead of criminally. If we, the blackmailer, threaten to expose, let’s say a politician’s affair, than that is illegal. However, if we threaten to provide the police with all the detailed evidence that the said politician killed his or her wife than we will be completely ignored by the police and media in favor of the juicy murder trial.”

           “Yeah…but…” Before Mike can finish his thought, Susan continues.

            “Take a look at this photo.” She spins the picture around. It depicts a man engaging in sexually explicit acts. Both the faces of the man and woman, though she looks more like a girl, can clearly be seen. On the corner is a time stamp four years old.

            Mike pushes the photo back. “Why are you showing me this?”

            Disgust must have been plastered on his face because Susan replies, “You better get used to looking at photos like these. This man is a school superintendent. The girl is his daughter. At the time this photo was taken…” Susan looks up from it to check Mike’s disposition, “Well…she was underage…”

            “That’s horrible!”

            “It’s downright disgusting.” Susan tucks the photo and sheet of paper back into the folder. “But…because of this little folder, the superintendent is funneling millions of dollars a year to our education research division.”

            “Wow…so some good comes from it.”

            “We make a profit.” Each of Susan’s steps towards Mike seems intentional. “I’ve forgotten what it means to be naive. No…research is rarely effective. It takes very little data and progress to make research look legitimate. You’ll meet Amber later. She’s the one who writes all of our research material. She does a fantastic job.”

            Susan pats Mike on the shoulder. “Don’t forget about the meeting at ten-thirty.”

            “I’ll be there.” Mike swallows then a question hits him and he blurts it out loud, “So my job will just be reading and organizing files?”

            “That and…” Susan steps back into the path of his vision. “Managing the dozen or so detectives that gather that information, striking deals with people like that superintendant, and the occasionally on the site visit.”

            Six bullet holes and the faceless Rick pop into Mike’s head. “Is that how Rick died? One of those on site visits?”

            “No!” Laughter shakes Susan from head to toe. “He died because his wife found out he was cheating on her, found his six shooter strapped to his chest, and unloaded the barrel into him.” Susan pats him on the back. “Don’t worry; we know what we’re doing here.”

            The stiletto heels melodically click as she disappears down the hall. Thoughts of Ashley’s potential anger bounce around his head. In many ways he’s relieved that Rick was killed outside of the job. In other ways this entire situation made him dizzy. Well, it’s the situation or the spinning earth.

          The morning sun shines into Mike’s bedroom. Its brightness bleaches the already white four walls. His wife Ashley is not one for decorations. Everything in the room has a purpose. An oak dresser stands next to a matching bathroom door which is a few steps down from the walk in closet.

          No pictures hang on the walls. There are no shelves of trinkets. Ashley won’t even allow a lamp or television set. It’s clean and sterile like so much of Ashley.

          Mike slides off the bed onto the cream carpet. Its color is as bland as the walls and the black comforter with red sheets. The fibers in the carpet still resist. Its age is only two years so his unusual connection with gravity hasn’t matted it down.

          The youth of the carpet reminds him of his recent repainting of the walls. Every year Ashley makes him repaint all the walls in the house. Every year his desire to do so dies a little more. He chuckles to himself. Some days he forgets his wife’s obsessive compulsive nature.

         His shuffling feet carry him to the bathroom. The lights blink to life upon his entry. This room is no different than the last. White walls, white sink, white toilet, black shower curtain, and black towels hung on wooden towel rods. Even the linoleum matches the color of the carpet. No pictures hang on the walls. There is only one wooden shelf to hold Ashley’s cosmetics. Aside from a mirror over the sink, the rest of the walls are bare.

         Mike climbs into the shower and turns on the water. Ice hits his skin at first. It brings him to life and then it slowly warms. He developed this habit as a child. It started as an act of impatience. Now the act is comforting.

         The shower is quick and he dries himself with a black towel. His postshower pampering is just as short as any other mans. A quick shave, pulls a comb through his thinning hair, and he places his heavy glass on his near bridgeless nose.

         “What have you done?” The words escape his lips with only a whisper. This recent stint of joblessness has bred in him distaste for himself. His gut is too big, his hair is too thin, and he is too old. That’s just him.

         His vision shifts to his sleeping wife. Her lump on the bed twists under the comforter. Ashley is a wonderful person; it’s just that he has grown so bored. He loves her, wants to hold onto her, but there is just this emptiness when he sees her. It’s as if he is looking at this cold house.

         Black is the color of his suit of choice for his first day at work. He slips into it while inside the closet. He likes changing in the closet. He’s never really thought about why until now. He guesses it’s because there is wall of color around him.

         Ashley takes liberties with her wardrobe. She has a rainbow of colors to choose from. Most shirts, pants, skirts, and dresses are solid with few embellishes or designs. However, her choice in colors knows no boundaries.

         The final touch to Mike’s outfit is his holstered firearm. He straps it to his chest then is through the white hall, down the characterless stairs and into the kitchen.

         Probably his second favorite place in the house, the kitchen holds a life all of its own. A tall stainless steal fridge matches the stainless steal sink which in turn matches the stainless steal oven. They are each trimmed in black, but very little, which matches the countertops. The cabinets are oak, the same gentle oak that trims the walls and doors.

         With no other distractions, Mike breaks the nights fast with a bowl of cereal. By the time he finishes his second bowl, Ashley, freshly showered, enters the kitchen purse in hand.

         She’s tall, at least as tall as him with heals. Her hair stops at her shoulders and bangs stop above her eye brows. Its ebony sheen comes from a bottle. Her age is showing on her face and her body has long been neglected. The chubbiness is comforting to Mike. All the anorexia in the media has him disgusted.

         “Morning honey,” As she greets him her red lips curve into a smile, “Are you excited about your first day of work at a new job?” Not waiting for an answer, she hovers to the fridge. “I’m excited for you.”

         In all actuality, Mike is nervous. He’s not quite sure why. It’s hard for him to remember ever being nervous about a job or career or much of anything. But this job, something about the interview and the tour, fed a long ignored creature of anxiety.

         The thud of the grapefruit onto the table snaps him back to Ashley’s question. Her lavender perfume mixes with the citrus of the fruit. It’s not at all pleasant. She huffs, “Well?”

         “Yeah…yeah…”  Mike focuses on the bowl now only filled with milk. “I think it’s going to be good.” That’s what he’ll keep telling himself. “There’s a lot of opportunity to move up.” Coincidently, he learned during the tour, that he is replacing the recently dead William Klondike who was found with six bullet holes to his chest. 

         “Well that’s good to hear.” Ashley turns her attention to the cupboard and finds a can of coffee grounds. The can clutters on top of the countertop then she returns to the cupboard for the coffee maker. Its stainless steel body hisses as she drags it from its cubby. “So what exactly are working on?”

         Mike swallows hard. He hasn’t given her any details so far and has had to find every excuse to change the subject. “I work with people.”

         She chuckles to herself and works with the pot. “You told me that last night. I want some details. What will you are doing with these people?”

         “Well…” The truth is that the tour was really a blur. Susan mentioned Mike’s predecessor and he blacked out. Not that he fainted or anything but he just kind of retreated into his own little world. “There are a number of departments that require accountability. I need to make sure budgets are on track and the work is getting done.”

         Ashley turns to make eye contact with him. “You are all too familiar with that.” Her face lights up in a bright smile. “So you are experienced.”

         “Susan says I’m more than qualified for the job.”

         “Susan?” Her smile fades. The glow dies back and Ashley’s entire body faces him. “You didn’t mention a Susan.”

         Susan, the powerful businesswoman, Susan, the well dressed and attractive boss he is now employed under. He had failed to mention that Susan? “Oh, yeah, she is my boss.” Mike tips the bowl of milk into his mouth. The rim eclipses his wife. Every last drop slides down his throat.

         The bowl lowers from his point of view revealing his much closer wife. Where as before she was a safe yard away, now she is but inches. “Is this Susan attractive?”

         “Aren’t we a little old to be worrying about these things.” Mike half laughs and carries his empty bowl to the deep stainless steal sink. The facet squeaks but not loud enough to drown out Ashley.

         “We’re never too old to worry about these things. All your jobs so far have been with men. Even your secretaries were men. I don’t know how I feel about you working for a woman.” The gurgle of the coffee pot is followed by the drip of fresh java.

         Mike mentally growls. Why does he have to deal with this today? He’s already nervous enough. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Mike turns around to find Ashley in his personal space. He wraps his arms around her limp body, “She has nothing on you.”

         “So, she’s ugly?” Ashley’s muffled voice through his blazer. “Uglier than me?”

          “Uglier?” Mike grips her shoulders and pushes her to arms length. “You’re not ugly.”

         “I’m fat.” Her eyes round into the shape of a sad puppy.

         Mike used to wonder why women put men through the torture of reassuring feigned self esteem. Now, he methodically replies, “Not at all. Sure we both need to lose a little weight but we aren’t disgusting slobs.”

         The reassuring words take their normal course and Ashley returns to her coffee. “Just remember, we’ve been married too long and been through too much to make any stupid mistakes now.” She sighs, “So what does your company, Olengtangy Corporate, do?”

         “A lot of things.”

         “Give me more information than that. Are they a drug company? Are they into sales? What is it that they do, exactly?”

         “Yes.” Mike hopes the answer will be good enough but knows that’s not true.

         “Yes” She turns her back to the counter. A white coffee cup rests in her hand. “You mean all of the above?”

         Mike turns his wrist over to look at a watch that isn’t there. “They are a jack of all trades sort of company.” He reaches into his pocket and finds his cell phone. The time is sixteen after seven. It’s late enough for him to act like he’s in a rush. “I got to go. Don’t want to be late for work.”

         “Okay?” Ashley holds out her cheek to be kissed and Mike complies. “I’ll see you after work then?”

         “Yes ma’am.”

         “Meatloaf good?”

         “Yes ma’am.” Mike steps into the yard but catches Ashley’s heavy sigh before the door closes. The questions wouldn’t normally bother him, but he hasn’t exactly chosen a “normal” profession.

         He tries to step towards his blue Mercedes but gravity holds him in place. The frames on his nearly straight bridge start to slide. He quickly pushes them back up. The plague of desperation has a hold of him.

         A faceless man with six bullet holes in his chest is sprawled out in his mind. He tries to push it away. It dissipates and gravity lets go of his right foot. The left foot won’t budge.

         Then Susan pops into his mind. Her curvaceous body is a lot sexier than he remembers. The suit skirt she was wearing is shorter. She’s got a devilish grin on her face.

         Mike shakes his head. He knows that those thoughts put were there by Ashley. He takes a deep breath. The bite of anxiety loosens around his stomach. It’s the first time in his life that he doesn’t seem to be following life blindly. No, he’s being dragged by it.

         His left foot slides across the concrete steps. Each foot steps over the other and he is in motion. He buries his hand into his pant pocket in search of his keys. They knock around and rattle. Under his breath he mumbles, “God! Don’t let me have a midlife crisis.”

            She clings to the dirty matted hairs of the mule. It hurts too much for her to move and she hopes the mule decides to stay put. Her mama told her stories about labor pains but she could have never imagined their magnitude.

            A smile curves her mouth. Her hand comforts her belly. It feels as hard as a rock. She whispers to it, “Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay. Papa will be right back. He’s gone to find us a place to stay.”

            A pain shoots through her abdomen, rounds her midsection, and then climbs up her back. Her face contorts in pain. “Okay, so he’s not technically your father.” She catches her breath. “But he will be.  And he’s worked very hard to take care of us.”

            She tries to focus on the empty alley where Joseph disappeared. A small light shines across the cracked walls of shouldering homes. She rubs her tummy and asks, “You think he loves me? I think he does. I can’t believe he risked everything for me…for you and me.” She chuckles to herself, “Though, I bet the scornful eyes would have been a lot rougher than this trip.”

            The pain hammers into her. It’s nauseating. She takes a deep breath and continues, “I would have thought that delivering the son of God would have been a little…easier. I guess you are a baby after all; you’re only doing your duties.”

            Mary rubs her belly as she watches the light in the alley go out. A tall silhouette of a man emerges from the blackness. His head is down and his hands are balled into tight fists.

           The shade steps into the street. What little light there is illuminates him. Joseph lifts his heavy head. A look of anger fills his face but it quickly washes away. His mouth pouts and his eyes contort. The beard on his long strong face twitches as he parts his lips to speak, “Mary, are you well? You’re flushed.”

           Mary tries to speak but a contraction knocks the wind out of her. She grips onto the mule below her and tries to answer, “I’m…I’m fine, but we need to find a place to rest.”

           Worry reclaims Joseph’s expressions. He looks over his shoulder with urgency. “Mary, I’ve been to so many inns tonight and none of them have any room. Feeling desperate I asked a Samaritan. He says he’s got a stable. But there is a chance…”

           “No,” interrupts Mary, “The warmth of hay and the roof of a stable are better than the back of the mule.”

           Joseph rounds the mule’s head. His brown eyes lock with Mary’s, “Are you sure?”

           The pain attacks again. Mary leans forward in hopes to find some relief. “I don’t think we have the time to debate.”

           Joseph’s broad carpenter’s hand grasps Mary’s thigh. Even though he doesn’t understand what she’s going through he does his best to empathize. “I’ll have to carry you.”

           “I can handle the mule,” Mary protests. “I’m sure it’s only a little ways.”

           “Don’t be stubborn.” Joseph holds out his arms for her, “You’re not too heavy for me to carry and I will be easier on you than the mule.”

           Any other time Mary might have fought but the pain is intense and all she can think about is rest. She swings her legs around to Joseph’s chest. He helps her slide down and lifts her in his arms. Her head cradles in one arm while her feet cradle in another. The fear and loneliness fade away. There is safety in his arms.

           They move into the black alley with the mule in toe. Mary moans in pain, “I wish God would show me a little mercy. I am carrying His child.”

           Joseph laughs, “How much more mercy do you need?”

            “I don’t know.” Mary thinks about it. “A warm bed would be nice.” As if an answer to prayer, Joseph bends down through an open door. The flicker of a single torch lights the room. The air in the stable is considerably warmer than outdoors but tainted with the scent of hay and feces.

            Mary squirms to be let down and Joseph complies. Her feet hit the ground and pain shoots through her abdomen. Instinctively, her hand reaches to comfort the child. “It’s okay. We’ll rest in a minute.”

            The ache amplifies as an answer. Mary does her best to breath. Around her are the huffs of cattle, the cries of sheep, and the neigh of a goat. Joseph clears two sheep off the center of the floor. They sulk into a dark corner.

            Hay flies into the air as Joseph kicks it into a pile. He grabs some and piles it into a bed. The pile is bigger than what it needs to be. Joseph rushes past her and disappears outside. He returns with some clothing and skins. As carefully as possible he arranges them on the pile of hay.

           Finished, he stands next to it with a look of boyish pride plastered to his face. “Well it’s not the greatest bed but it’s warm.”

           Mary does her best to smile. A lump forms in her throat and it’s hard to breath. This is not what she dreamed of. She’s far from home, tired from traveling, hungry, and a week worth of grime is caked on her hair and skin.

           The tears in her eyes start to well. She can feel them. Instead of a wedding day and a marriage home, she’s given a dirty stable. Instead of a joyous birth with her mother by her side, she has to stare into the eyes of farm animals.

           Thoughts of her family bring another flood of emotions. They did their best to believe her but most of them were far from understanding. Looking her father in the eyes was the hardest. Not because she was ashamed but because he was. Their detachment the last few days before she left was miserable.

           The floodgates open and the tears roll down her face. Joseph is quick to her side. His hand rests on her lower back and he takes her by the arm. “I’m sorry, I can find something better.”

           “No…” Mary barely utters the words. “It’s wonderful.” Her stomach contracts and she doubles in pain.  Joseph ushers her to her bed. The hurting forces her thoughts of despair to the back of her mind. It’s maternal nature; she’s ready to have a baby.

           Poor Joseph knows nothing about delivering a child. He is only a carpenter. Wood is cold, heartless, an object to be subdued. He is overcompensating. Strength is his enemy. Pure and total fear grips him. At first it makes Mary uneasy but she can’t think of much for long before she returns to her contractions.

           The delivery seems like it takes forever. Mary repeats over and over again, “Dear God please! Please!” Sometimes she prays for the baby’s birth, and then prays for Joseph, but she prays for herself last.

           Finally, the cry of the child marks the end of her suffering. Confusion clears and her baby is in her arms. That maternal nature kicks in. The tears subside. She has a baby to protect, to love. Joseph’s hands are strong again. They grip her shoulders. Together, they are alone. The entire world’s back is to them.

            A King, wrapped in swaddling cloths, rests in Mary’s arms. The roof that protects them isn’t a palace. It’s not the warmest place. The smell is nauseating. But Mary has done her best. She has provided everything she can for this King. She has given Him her blood and body.

           Exhaustion takes a hold of her. As she stares into the round face of her child she feels that this is a perfect birth for any King.

            A giant monitor glows the picture of a city. Buildings reach into the heavens. Their opal windows reflect the strong rays of light. Round cars, trucks, and vans weave between the bases and a few fly in the air. Their paint is of solid bright reds, blues, greens, purples, and yellows. Silhouettes man the wheels and fill the vehicles with passengers.

            Shorter buildings spread out like plains to the right and left of the shot. There are a few roofs with gardens, a few with air units lined up in a Stonehenge, and even fewer completely bare. The shot rotates and a man fills the screen. 

            A red helm with white trim covers his head. Dark shades prevent the camera from capturing his eyes. The shot pans back. The man is wearing gray armor with bright red gloves which match his rounded boots. The boots stop at his knee and the toe ends in a point. A yellow scarf is wrapped around his neck. The wind bites at the scarf’s ends.

            The man’s lips curl into a half grin, “Dr Light, I’m surprised you were able to find me so soon. I figured ripping that GPS device would keep you busy for a lot longer.”

            Dr Thomas Light steps into the glow of the screen. His aged hands grip the edge of the monitor’s ledge. Keys from a digital keyboard light up above his grasp. His eyes are aged. A white beard hangs from his chin and matches his full head of hair. He sucks in his gut, “Proto…come back to the lab…”

            White blurs into the red of Proto’s helmet as he shook his head. “All the pain I went through to get that stupid device removed…You’d think I’d return to you just because you asked me to?”

            “No…” Light clears his throat and does his best to straighten his back. Bones crack and join a chorus of beeps as Thomas plucks at the keys. Each tap lights up the panel. “I was going to give you one last chance to return home.”

            Words scroll from the left of the screen and end at the right. They blink a question, “Activate kill-switch: Y?” Dr Thomas Light hovers his index finger of the projected “enter” key.

            Proto sighs and stretches his right arm out in front. Yellow lights trail across his forearm. Like a pianist, Proto drums on the lights. His hand retracts into his glove, gray flowers out of the cavity and locks to a circular cone resembling the exhaust of a jet engine. “Doctor, why don’t you pull up the positioning device of your wife’s car?”

            Curiosity and fear rush over light. He taps a few keys with his left hand while keeping his right safely above the enter key. A box blinks on in the corner of the monitor. It’s an aerial view of the city. Traffic snakes between the buildings. A little red car highlights in blue. It’s sandwiched between a moving truck and a convertible.

            Light’s wife, son, and daughter are in that car and they are less than a mile away from Proto. In a rare bite of anger, Thomas grits his teeth, “What have you done?”

            “Nothing…yet…” A red vortex swirls inside the cannon that is now Proto’s right arm. His face fills with a devilish grin. “But in less thirty-two-point-six seconds they will be in range of one of Dr Wily’s more brilliant inventions. You remember your old university roommate?”

            “Clearly adding an A.I. system to a robot was a mistake. I should have taken a lesson out of classic science fiction. Goodbye Proto.” Light slams the enter button. The number ten flashes on the monitor and begins a countdown.

            Proto breaks out in hysterical laughter. “You don’t even wait for me to finish.” The laughter fades, his expression sags, and the shades disappear into his helmet. His eyes are a silver pupil with square and boxy red veins running from it. “Give me the honest truth. Why’d you really refuse to fix my defective power source?” Proto slams his hand on his chest.

            The monitor countdown displayed a large number five. Thomas sighs, “Because all humans have a life span. I felt that you would be more human if you could…” A sorrow washes over Thomas. He looks up into the bright number three. “die…”

            Proto stretches his arms out and spreads his legs. His left hand clenches into a fist and he yells as loud as he can, “I am not HUMAN!!” The shot zooms back. The timer displays the number one, there is a hiss, and then an explosion mushrooms from Proto’s chest.

            Red gelatin ichors drip from the hole in Proto’s chest. He falls to his knees. Black wires and fiber wire dangle in the cavity. Proto looks up to the camera with his robotic eyes. They glow brighter. “I found the kill switch when I pulled out the GPS. You can’t kill Frankenstein’s monster that easily.”

            There was another bang and Proto’s right shoulder detonates. Wires lash out; black ash smears across face, and knocks the right side of his jaw from his skull. The right side of Proto’s face sparks and twitches. With his left hand, he rips the remains of his jaw off his face, and then reaches into his throat.

            After a struggle, Proto pulls his hand out. His voice changes to mechanical monotones, “I may not have enough juice to get very far…but I’ve got enough to finish what I started.” Proto uses his left hand to lift the cannon on his right arm. There is a whirling and the light around the arm warps and elongates the image.

            Doctor Thomas Light taps an ear piece inside his right ear. The line rings. “Please Proto…don’t do this…”

            “If you were so hell bent on making me human…” Proto’s left eye narrows. Some of the red ichors seep out of the corner of his eye. “Why couldn’t you have given me a name?” The power building in the cannon releases and soars out of the camera shot.

            “No, no, no!” The ear piece continues to ring. Thomas slams onto the aerial view of his wife’s car. The view fills his monitor.

           There is a click on the receiver end of the phone. “Hello.” It’s the gentle voice of his wife Sharon. In the background, he can hear his kids Brock and Rollanda, who they call Rolly for short.

           Something chokes Thomas. He can barely find the words to speak. Then the rocket enters the corner of the screen. Thomas pounds the screen and yells, “Get out of the car now!” The rocket rushes to the blip that represents his family. The blip is replaced with a wave of yellows, reds, and blues. The moving truck is shoved forward and the convertible is flipped back.

           The GPS blinks out and the monitor goes black leaving the doctor in total darkness.

            Mike straightens his glasses. His near bridgeless nose makes it impossible to keep the thick frames from sliding down. Life cursed him with a long face and body. Because of this he seems to have a greater connection with gravity. His forehead, smile, eyes, and glasses, more than ever, seem hard to keep raised.

            The door to the office swings open. Mike fights against the spin of the earth to open his eyes wide and match them with a smile. The room is far from special. Bright cityscape shines behind the wide oak desk in front of him. A tall skyscraper blocks half his panoramic view.

            Shelves line the walls. They are peppered with various self help books. There is a statue or two of elephants.

            Mike stands and turns to face the new door. The new arrival and owner of this office is tall, close to six feet. Her hair is tied back. A black suite jacket fastens up her mid section and a matching skirt stops above her knees. She is broad, strong, and her age is showing in her neck in face.

            Their smiles greet each other first then Mike holds out his hand, “Mike Greene.”

            Long fingers curl around his hand and she shakes, “Susan Williams. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The hands separate and she opens her palm. “Please sit.”

            As Mike crouches to the chair he notices the manila folder in her arms. His resume is long but not long enough to warrant a folder. She rounds the desk and sits in the opposing chair. Joy twinkles in her eye.

            The twinkle only soothes Mike for a minute. He’s too tense. Unemployment runs out in a week and his job search has been unfruitful. Right now, as the tall in charge business women sizes him up, he’d be glad to manage a fast food franchise.

            “Your resume looks outstanding.” Susan lifts the side of the folder. Mike’s resume rests on top. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised to see some one of your caliber applying to our generic add in the paper.”

            Mike nervously chuckles, “The prospect sounds good.”

            “Desperate times…” She winks and returns to the resume. “Nearly fifteen years in upper management?”

            “Yeah,” Mike clears his throat. “The company was bought up and all management was downsized.”

            “I see.” Her eyes drift to the page. “They fired you because?”

            “Essentially, they fired those of us who’d been there too long.”

            “A regular revolution.”

            “I think that was their idea.” Mike shifts in his seat.

            Susan flips a few pages. The resume blocks any view. “Let me tell you a little bit about this job. You will be managing a group of thirteen to twenty four people. There will be job performance reviews, some accounting, weekly sometimes daily reports, and plenty of desk work.”

            “I can handle that.”

            She closes the folder. “I don’t doubt you.” Her eyes lock into his. “Do you own a gun Mr. Greene?”

            “I do.” Heat rises up his neck. A few hairs twitch in anxiety. “It’s my dad’s old 9mm.”

            “Not bad. You keep it loaded?”

              Curiosity worms its way into Mike. He doesn’t know why the interest in fire arms. “I do, for protection. My wife doesn’t like it but it’s not like we have any kids in the house.”

            “Oh really?” Her eyes widen and she sits back in her chair. “They’ve all grown and moved out?”

            “No, no…” Mike drops the volume of his voice, “Ashley, my wife, is barren.”

            Susan clicks her tongue against the back of her closed teeth. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

            “It’s okay…she has plenty of nephews and nieces.”

            Susan rests her left hand on top of the manila folder. “Are you comfortable with concealed weapon licenses? Because we ask all of our employees to bring a weapon with them to work and keep one within reach at all times.”

            Mike swallows hard. “I’m…I’m perfectly okay with that.”

            “Good.” Susan digs her thumb fingernail under her index finger nail. “Would you humor me and do a little word association?”

            “Sure.”

            Her fingernails slide apart and pop as they separate. “Tell me the first phrase or word that comes to your mind when I say the following: Production.”

            “A movie.”

            “Good,” She smiles, “Mob.”

            “God Father.”

            “Nice…Henchmen”

            “Super villain posse.”

            Susan bursts out in laughter. “Very good. Now, corporation?

            “Hegemonic workplace.”

            “Hmm…” She nods, “Different but I like.”  The folder shifts under the weight of her arm. She leans over the desk. “I will be frank. We offer the best pay and benefits out of anyone. Here at Olengtangy Corporate, we treat you like family. We take care of our own.”

            “That’s good to hear.” The corner of Mike’s lip rises to a smile. “That sounds really good.”

            “But to work here you have to throw off preconceived notions about many things. The first being henchmen. Now of course we call them Marketing Officers. It sounds much better, but you’re no fool. They will appear to be henchmen and at time, thugs.” Susan arches her left eyebrow.

            All of Mike’s thoughts gravitate towards her word game. Then the obvious thought ushers in that this company could be into the business of an illegal nature. The heat spreads across his body.

            “I know what you’re thinking.” Her eyes narrow. “Henchmen equal illegal activity. But that’s simply not true. The beauty of our government, any government, is that it lends itself to certain fallibilities. The more any state tries to govern the more opportunities for exploitation. Mind you it could be viably illegal if we understand the actions with a self-governing or ethical worldview. But we aren’t.”

            “I um…” The desperate need for a job and money eat away in Mike’s head. All he can hear are squeaks and caws blurting from her open mouth.

            “Essentially, we look for loop wholes, exploit them, advocate for them, and if things look tough we change our strategy or even abandon one loop whole for another. Do you understand?”

            Mike shakes his head no. Sweat beads on his upper lip. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”

            “Thank you for your honesty.” She stands and straightens her suit skirt. “Sadly this job is something you have to experience to understand. I will be more than willing to give you a tour, help you understand what we do, but I’ll need a commitment from you. I guess the question I have for you is how desperate are you and your wife for money? Desperate enough to do some morally questionable things?”

           “Well…” Desperation is a plague. Purely carnal, it feeds on fear. Mike is afraid of losing his house, his car, his wife. He loves all of those things. It’s a love so deep that he cannot part with. Mike swallows hard and hesitantly says, “I’ll do it. You did say it was all barely legal.”

           “Fantastic!” Susan’s mouth curls into a devilish grin. “I think you’ll do a lot of good around here. Why don’t we take a tour of the office? I want you to get an idea of what we do here.”

           Mike’s body feels like it weighs a million pounds. He tries to stand but is pulled back to his seat. “I’m not going to be asked to kill anyone?”

           “No.” Susan bursts out in laughter. “That’s ridiculous. It’s against the law to murder others, unless…” She shakes her head. “Well it’s not an issue you’ll face. We aren’t the mob.”

           “Okay.” His heart is not reassured. Fighting against the earth’s tug, Mike stands to his feet.

           Susan passes him, opens the door, and beckons him to lead the way. “Believe me Mike. It won’t take you long to realize that there is a lot of unlawful things you can do without breaking any laws.” She roars in laughter.

           Desperation chokes Mike. There’s nothing wrong. He’s just overreacting. At least that’s what he will keep telling himself.

         We’re in the middle of a bright and empty room. There are no pictures of landscapes, no sofas for rest, and nothing warming except the bright light. White almost swallows the host. His dark skin creates a yin yang to the suffocating room around us.

            His tree trunk arms stretch out. The smile across his face takes on a Cheshire cat quality as his eyes grow bigger. “Welcome!” His voice booms off the cliff walls.

          I ask the obvious question, “Where am I?”

          His right hand balls into a fist and he places it over his heart while the left disappears to his back. “You are in the metaphysical reality known as conception. It’s the purest bliss for every man. This is the very moment your sperm meets egg and creates life.”

          My molars have a mind of their own. They start gnawing on the side of my cheek. It’s a painful nervous tick. “This isn’t a dream.”

          The host shakes his head. “Of course not.”

         “Excuse me…but this is all a little hard to believe.”

         “Of course it is. The truth is that every man experiences this very moment. Most forget it as if it were the spurring of their sub consciousness.”

         I shift my stance so that the weight is over my right leg. “What’s the purpose?”

         “So many questions.” The host stepped aside. A charcoal waist high table stood behind him. There is a small white cube on top. “A few thousand years ago, God decided that it’d be nice to give his beloved the opportunity to have a hand in the fate of their children.” The host rounded the table. “Its main purpose is so that you understand the challenge He faces everyday. If you ask me, I think he has a sick sense of humor.”

          I take cautious steps to the table. The inside of my cheek is getting tender. On the table top rests a single white die. It’s one of those casino dice. Six black spider eye dots gaze up at me. A chill climbs up my spine and burrows into my skull.

          The host’s hands grasp the side of the ebony table. His right thumb anxiously twitches in anticipation. “The destiny of your child is decided by the roll of this die.”

           I’m knocked back. “Destiny decided by a die roll?”

          “Is it that hard to believe?” With his right hand, the Host tips the die onto one corner. “Genetics, the way of this world, they all contribute to a finite possibility of what you’re child will grow up to be? I think that’s why people are obsessed with babies. To most people, a baby symbolizes innocence. A baby equals a potter’s clay.”

            “They are…Its how we raise them that determines the course of our children’s life.”

            The host’s head rears back in a roaring laughter. The walls shake. My knees knock. His face turns red and returns its focus to me. “I’m sorry…” He tries to catch his breath, “I’m sorry…No matter how often I hear that reaction it still hits my funny bone. The faith you people put into the pseudo science of psychology is…well comical…” He continues to chuckle to himself.

            A taste of blood fills my mouth. I bit too hard. My tongue massages the newly formed hole. “I agree that there are some genetic qualities and predispositions but the love of a parent and the support of a community can change all that.”

            “What a horribly romantic idea. It’s wrong but beautiful. Nothing decides the fate of your child except this…” The host holds the six sided die in front of my face. “There are varying degrees to the seriousness of each side and the love of a family can lessen the corruption in a child’s heart but you’re ignorant to believe you can redeem them from this destiny. There is only one who can but refuses to.”

            “I don’t…” He shoves the die in front of my face. Three black dots reflect the image of my dumbstruck face. I try to wipe the look away but it’s stuck.

            “You don’t believe? That doesn’t mean it’s not true.” The host huffed. “Reality doesn’t wait for your executive order. Now, to the dice roll. I’m not going to go over all six possibilities. Just give you an idea. Are you paying attention?”

            I nod my head yes. The disease of disbelief sours my stomach.

            “Good.” He slams the die down. A snake’s eye faces the ceiling. “If you roll a one, you will get a sensitive kid who will overcome his or her pain with a sexual addiction that probably will end in a homicide or mass murder.”

            I can feel the blood draining from my face. The hole in my cheek stops seeping. “So it’s not for sure that he will murder some one?”

            “He or she, there is no gender yet and, while they may not actually kill someone, they may toy with the idea all the days of their life. If you roll a four…” The die clangs on the table top. “Your child will be plagued with sloth. They will shrink away from work and responsibility. A six will give you a smart child but despite their intelligence they will only be able to turn it inward and think solely of themselves.”

            “These are all negative…” I hold out my hands and search the empty room as if another option will avail itself. “What about a loving child that works their best and succeeds without a catch?”

            The host nods his head and stiffens his back. “Possible, but they require you roll a seven. Unfortunately, you only get one six sided dice. That’s too bad really. If you had another dice you’d have a greater chance to get the perfect child.” He shrugs and holds the die out on his open palm. “Roll.”

            Anxiously, I take the die. There is heaviness to the tiny cube. An ethereal voice tells me to run. Just get out of this entire mess. Then I realize there is no where to run. I have to open Pandora’s Box if I’m going to get out. I close my eyes, shake the die, and let it fly.

            There is a patter across the table top. I open my eyes in time to watch it roll off the table and bounce twice on the bleached floor. Three black dots, the same that confronted me with my visage just seconds ago, point to the heavens.

            The host roars in excitement. “You’re having a boy!” He steps around the table and holds out his hand for a handshake.

            I return the shake and in seconds the excitement washes away the fear of the number three.

            “If you would have kept the die on the table you’d be having a girl. You wanted a boy?”

            “I did…I did…” A boy, I am going to have a boy. We will throw the old pig skin around after school, watch baseball in the summers, and be good friends. “This is great…” I catch a glimpse of the three dots pointing at me. “What does the number three mean?”

            “Those?” The host let go of my hand and bent over the die to get a better look. “A three, you’re son will be extremely rebellious, reject you, the family, and all you’re ideals. His stubbornness will mark success in the business world but cause loneliness in his relationships. That’s fantastic!”

            The anxious disease turns my stomach again. “That’s not fantastic…that’s not what I wanted at all…”

            “Really?” The host scratches his head. “I know a lot of parents who would be glad to sacrifice a relationship to wear their child’s success on their sleeve.” The host shrugged. “Oh well, try your best.” He punched me in the arm. “Maybe psychology will shape him into the friend you never had.”

            The three black dots remind me more of tombstones. They swirl into the white and blend away in gray. I hope I remember this moment.

by Aaron Behr

            The edge of the dawn creek shimmered with the glow of the moon. Around the brook, trees, a hundred years old, stood with pride. Their branches stretched up to the blue night and to the stars millions of light years away. Leaves danced on the branches and swayed to the rhythm of the wind.

            Water hummed the melody of the wind’s song. All together, they created a night orchestra for the two old men on the river’s bank. The same moonlight reflected off the men’s pale skin.

           Richard, the taller of the two, clenched his cane. Seventy-two years weighed on his face, yet he was an infant in comparison to the land that stretched before him. He had seen his share of life, love, wars, and loss. The bags under his eyes held the memories of a life well spent.

            Carl hunched over his knees. He was smaller and older by a year. The world they clung to had aged him as well. Arthritis plagued his hands and feet. Stubbornness prevented him from carrying a cane. He struggled through the pain of this trek for he too had shared in the life, love, wars, and loss of Richard.

           A twig snapped as Richard took a step closer to the water. The cane dropped and bounced on the damp earth. “Are you ready to swim?”

          “Dear Lord Richard!” Carl’s rasp voice struggled to find volume, “We shouldn’t be traipsing through the woods at four a.m. and we most defiantly should not be swimming in a muddy river.” Like the twig, Carl’s back snapped and popped as he stood upright.

           “Ah, I thought for sure you’d be excited by the adventure.” Richard slipped off his loafers, dropped his slacks, and pulled off his shirt so his tank top remained. “Strip, we’ve got to swim.”

           Carl followed Richard’s example and started to undress. “We’re going to get pneumonia and die. I want you to realize that.”

          “Damn you Carl, after all these years you can’t trust me…” Richard waded out into the water.

          “Yeah…right…” Laughing, Carl dipped his socked feet into the water. A chill climbed up his tired joints. “How about the cute little Filipino, captain of the football team, all those positions where I had to play second fiddle to you? If I remember correctly they all started with the words trust me.”

           Richard plunged his head under the water and popped it back up. “How long you going to hold onto those things?”

           “Richard, I’m in the middle of a cold creek, without my teeth, and with no clothing on. This is not how I envisioned my death.”

           “And how did you envision it.”

            Carl chuckled, “With a gorgeous gold digger by my side.”

            “You’ve got no money…” Richard stood upright and trekked to the shore. “And you had a gorgeous wife once.”

            Mud squished between Carl’s toes as his feet touched the river floor. “We both did once.”

            “Eh…I should have listened to my father. He told me marriage to Susan was going to be a disaster.”

            Water splashed as Carl emerged onto the shore. They both stood on a small island. There was only enough room for them to stand. A small bush filled the center. Bright red leaves like flames covered the tree. Long narrow thorns wrapped around yellow oval berries.

            Carl’s mouth dropped, “I’ve never seen one of these before.”

            “Me either. I’ve paddled this creek for a long time, and it wasn’t until I was swimming in it a few days ago, that I found it.” Richard carefully plucked a berry from the bush. “Don’t get jabbed by the thorn.” Then he popped the berry in his mouth.

            “What are you doing?” Shock filled Carl’s face. “You don’t know if they’re poisonous.”

            Richard’s jaw rotated as he chewed on the berry. “For some one so close to death you sure are afraid of it.” Sighing, “If you’re afraid, just watch. The proof is in the evidence. Mind you, these berries taste awful.”

            The bags under Richard’s eyes twitched. They lifted and tightened. The spots on his pale skin spread and merged into one another until his skin was a youthful glow. His nose and ears shrunk. Streaks of brown coursed through the gray hairs on Richard’s head, and then an entirely new head of hair blossomed.

            In a matter of seconds, a twenty something Richard stood in the baggy clothes of the seventy two year old man. A grin stretched from ear to ear. “Do you want to eat one now?”

            Carl could hardly believe his eyes. This was a dream. There is no way in physical science that a man could turn back his age. “I…I…”

            “Just eat one you thick headed moron!”

            Careful not to touch the thorns, Carl reached into the fiery bush and plucked a berry. He rolled the oval ball in his fingers, then, without another thought, tossed the berry into his mouth. It tasted bitter. His first compulsion was to spit it out but quelled the urge and smashed the berry between his gums.

            It seemed to take on volume in his mouth. He swallowed. The juices of the berry left thick ichors in his throat. A tingling sensation washed over his body. His fingers cracked into place and the arthritis subsided. His back straightened.

            Teeth, long absent, broke through his gums. The pain was excruciating. Blood filled his mouth. He swallowed it and lifted his hands in front of his face. The skin grew taut. Spots vanished from his skin. The tone was dark and rich again. “I…I…can’t…

            “Believe it.” Richard stretched, “Me either.”

            The air smelled better. The light shined brighter. All around Carl the world had opened up again. It all seemed fresh and new. Vigor, long lost, coursed through his veins. He could feel his heart beat. It felt like his chest was going to burst.

            Richard stepped into the water. “Come on, we’ve only got a day. It all wears off during your sleep.”

            “Like some stupid fairytale, we turn into pumpkins on the strike of midnight?”

            “I don’t know,” shrugged Richard. “But we have an entire day of youth ahead of us so lets not waste it.” Richard shot across the river.

            “Wait!” Carl yelled after him. “Why don’t we just take an armful of berries with us?”

            “Can’t, they shrivel up and rot the minute you leave the island.”

            Carl put cupped his mouth, “And that doesn’t worry you in the slightest.”

            “You’re slowing me down.” Scooping his clothing and cane into his arms, Richard disappeared into the woods.

            “Wait!” Carl dove into the cold water and swam after Richard. It only took him a blink to get to the other side. He grabbed his cloths and darted for the car. It was incredible to have his sense of balance again. He could jump, run, and duck without the anxieties that it would be his last.

            Branches whipped against his arms, legs, and chest. The floor underneath him stung his feet. The pain was different. It was invigorating. For so long, all he had known was the dull constant pain of age.

            He broke the tree line and made his way to the Buick on the side of the road. Richard was already climbing in. The doors clicked as they unlocked and Carl slid into the passenger side. He was barely out of breath. “Where to?”

            “I say…” A glow beamed from Richard. “We eat a breakfast high in cholesterol then visit some young twenty something’s”

            The thought of a woman reeled Carl back. A typhoon of emotions and urges surged through his entire body. “Holy cow! How’d we survive like this?”

            The car roared to life. “You mean the hormones? I have no idea but I’ve missed them!”

To be continued…