My apologies

I've been traveling out of town quite a bit lately, and, unfortunately, the person I'm visiting has no internet access at all. So I hereby ask leave to apologize for the sporadic posts, and to be your forgiveness.

The Woman in the Wall

I practice my story a lot at home. Tonight is no different.

'Tell me where you're from,' asks the woman in the wall and I do. She knows
the story well enough now to correct me if I slip up. I know the story well
enough not to.

'Just outside Glasgow,' I say.

'I ken Glasgow very well,' she says.

'Not Glasgow so much,' I say. 'Past the outskirts.'

The wall is ordinary. Wallpapered with faded old-people wallpaper, to match
the speckled Formica kitchenette and pink bathroom suite. When I moved in I
thought I might renovate, make it into a home, but it doesn't bother me.
It's not like I've ever lived anywhere nice.

For now I just like that when I lie on the floor on my back and look up out
of the windows I can see the air, real air that's invisible all the way up
to the sky. Not second-hand city breath, but air as clean as a sheet on the
line and smelling as fresh. For that alone, the cottage is worth the long
bus trip to work in Edinburgh.

'I ken the outside of Glasgow too,' says the woman in the wall.

'I went to boarding school down south. I was a complete bookworm ­ I even
loved maths.'

'An accountant from an early age!' says the woman in the wall and I smile
like it's the first time I've heard anyone say that. 'You're showing too
many teeth,' she says and I press my lips together, hiding the black scars
of cheap fillings, put in too late. The price of a childhood of jeely pieces
and gobstoppers.

The afternoon light is fading, adding blotchy grey shadows to the pale roses
and creeping vines of the wallpaper. Usually I'm not home until after dark,
even in summer. The woman in the wall says I work too much, but I tell her
it's my life. She says that's daft and life should include a social life. I
tell her she's my social life and then she'll stop talking, but I know she's
pleased.

I start to cough. I've been coughing for a few days, hacking coughs that
stoke a fire in my chest that burns constantly now, even when I'm breathing.
Stuart sent me home early from work today; told me to see a doctor, but I
stay away from doctors, because the last thing I want to do is discuss my
family history. 'And what did your mother die of?'

I just need a good sleep. I'll be back at work tomorrow. At work I matter.
'It's a shame bonuses are only for client management this year, Jac,' Stuart
had said at my appraisal last month. 'If they were for technical knowledge,
you'd have got one for sure.'

'That's an awful cough,' says the woman in the wall. 'Got a hanky?' I wave a
tissue at the patch of wall where the paper is peeling away from the cracked
plaster. Her window. Some days she mutters about a nice cotton hanky, but
today she's satisfied with the tissue and moves on through the litany.

'Jac?' she asks. 'Unusual name for a girl.'

'Short for Jacinta,' I say. Kirsty Watt, the payroll clerk knows about
Jacqueline-Marie Thomson, but Kirsty's down on the third floor where the
elevator lets out women in chain store suits and men with soft-soled shoes.
Jac Thomson works on the sixteenth floor, where the air conditioning works
properly and the men wear silk ties.

'Shouldn't it be Jass or Jace?' the woman in the wall goes on, and I'm ready
for this too.

'I know, I know,' I say, rolling my eyes. 'My parents wanted a boy. Continue
the family name and all that.'

The only place our family name has ever appeared is the drunk's cell at the
local police station. Eck McKinnon wrote Dad's name over the door in Magic
Marker one night. 'It seemed only right,' he'd said when he dropped him off
the next morning. 'He's had that much use out of the place.' Eck always
dropped Dad off in the morning if he'd been on the night shift when Dad was
brought in.

'You went too far with the name,' the woman in the wall says.

'Nobody's ever going to ask me,' I say, but my words are lost in a fusillade
of coughing that rips at the burning insides of my lungs.

'Honey and lemon,' says the woman in the wall. 'I told you that.'

'I just need sleep,' I gasp eventually.

'But we haven't got on to your parents yet. That's the most important bit.'

'I know.' I have to turn my back to get her to shut up.

'You've no' had your tea, yet,' she mutters as I pass by the kitchenette.
'Again,' she points out as I close the bedroom door on her.

I lie in a sweat of fever and chills that doesn't feel like sleep, but still
makes me late for work the next day. I'm never late, I'm never sick, I'm
never moody, but today I have to plaster on a breezy smile in the lift.

The breeze freezes when I see Maddy Cooper at my desk. Not just at it, but
inhabiting it with her furry gonks and family photos, the uneven china
pencil holder one of her kids made and the computer screen decorated with
multi-coloured post-it notes like a tacky Christmas tree. Desks like that
make me feel itchy. I keep my desk clean and clear. I even put my coffee cup
on the floor and fold my jacket in a drawer. Now the back of my chair is
draped with Maddy Cooper's jacket and her blue-skirted cushion bottom is
oozing over the edge of the seat.

'That's my desk,' I say.

She looks up at me, sticks out her lower lip and puffs out some air as if to
say it's none of her business. 'You've to talk to Stuart,' she says and
rearranges one of her gonks.

Water. She could hear it below. Two hundred feet below, she reminded herself. That’s what it said in the brochure.

Opening her eyes (barely, just barely), Sam peeked past the toes of her sneakers into the water. It churned like the brew of some demented witch, a brew in which Sam—in a matter of seconds—was about to become a small, insignificant, and very dead ingredient. She closed her eyes again, and prepared to leap.

“Hey!” she heard (what sounded to her, at least, in her dazed state) like an ethereal voice from below. Funny, she thought. I would have thought an angel’s voice would come from above.

She looked down. A man was standing on the bridge.

“That’s right—down here! Come down!” He was waving his arms. “Please?”

Sam considered it. She had really believed all civility in humanity had been lost—but this gentleman had actually said “please.” She decided she’d go down.

Maybe it really was a magic word.

She started to climb down, feeling like a very big and clumsy spider. She made it safely (if she was one thing, it was quick-footed) and started walking toward the man who had said, “please.” As she got closer she could see that he was a well-dressed man, one that looked like he either belonged on Wall Street or in the mob. A closer inspection suggested he belonged in both worlds, although Sam couldn’t say why. She wasn’t sure, but she could swear he was Benjamin Peck, the Wall Street banker who’d gotten himself killed by the mob. He looked just like the man she’d seen on the news, anyway.

His manner of dress, as expensive and tasteful and elegant as it was, took on the same gaudy quality on him that it did on all members of the mob. Sam had a hard time deciding if it was his meaty frame or the tailored way every article of clothing was placed on it. His cashmere-wool-blend coat matched his cashmere grey scarf. His suit—maybe Armani, maybe not—was tailored to an exact fit. A silk tie, studded shirt cuffs. Two-toned shoes. He even wore a pinky ring.

“Hi,” Sam said, smiling. Two minutes ago she would have been fish food, but instead she was alive (alive!) and she felt a rush of gratitude for him, for the word “please,” and for his use of it. She stuck out her hand. “I’m—“

“Euphoria,” the man said.

“No, actually, I’m Sam,” she answered.

The man closed his eyes. He was older—in his early fifties, maybe—and aging in an attractive way that some men do. Women age like bread, men age like wine, Sam’s mother had once told her, and Sam had once believed it. She pushed the thought away.

“No,” he said after a moment. He seemed to be fighting for patience. “You’re experiencing euphoria. It’s a common reaction for people whose lives have just been saved.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a pack of American Spirits. “Cigarette?”

“Oh—no thanks, I don’t smoke.”

“Why not?”

“Because I could get cancer and—“

“Die?”

“Er—yeah.” She took a cigarette.

He lit it for her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re quite welcome,” he answered. “Once the car gets here, you can add a drink to that.”

“But it’s four thirty in the morning.”

Benjamin looked at Sam. “So?” “Oh. Right. I’m not supposed to care.”

“”No, it’s not that. I just—oh, good. There’s the car.” A black stretch limousine was coming to a stop in front of them. "We’re going to need to go to my place, where you’re going to take a shower and put on some clean clothes. In the meantime, I’ll be having a refreshing drink, reminding myself I had good reason to be standing on a bridge at 4:30 in the morning talking to a woman who has no idea who I am. Haven’t you recognized me yet?”

“I think so. Aren’t you Benjamin ‘Wolfhound’ Peck? The Wall Street banker who was killed by the mob? I mean, obviously, they didn’t kill you, or you wouldn’t be standing here. Unless—“

A horrible thought occurred to Sam. What if she jumped and died and just didn’t remember, and she was meeting Benjamin Peck in the afterlife? It’s not a good sign when the first person you meet in the afterlife is a former mob member. Probably that means—

Sam took in an involuntary gasp and stepped away from Mr. Peck. “Oh, God, you’re not really alive, are you? I’m meeting you in the afterlife, and if I’m meeting you in the afterlife, a former mob member, that probably means I’m going to hell!” She felt a pinch on her arm. “Ow!”

“No,” he answered. “I wasn’t killed by the mob. I’m alive and well, and my heart is still beating, and I really, really need a drink. And I don’t have time to explain anything now. I’ll explain everything in the car. Will you please get in?” He opened the car door for her.

“But you are Benjamin Peck, right?” She didn’t move.

“I am Benjamin Peck, and I did work on Wall Street and I did get mixed up with the mob, although I don’t remember ever being nicknamed ‘Wolfhound.’ I like that, though. Has a nice ring to it. I think I’ll keep it. But, as you can see, I was not killed.” He took her hand and placed it on his chest. “Heart’s still beating, see?”

“Actually, you can feel a better pulse on the…wrist,” Sam said, taking her hand away and delicately pinching his left wrist. Mr. Peck’s expression changed again, but this time she couldn’t read it. Was he flirting with me? she thought. But she almost immediately pushed the thought away. Right. Like he would flirt with a woman who was just about to commit suicide. “Ah, yes,” she said finally. “I can feel a pulse.”

“Well, that’s good,” he said. She could swear she saw his mouth twitch, as if he was trying not to laugh. Well, let him laugh, she thought. You’ve dealt with that before. But she couldn’t help but feel her heart sink a little. If she was going to be treated the same way as before... She turned and looked almost longingly at the railing to the bridge.

“Sam,” he said gently, and touched her shoulder. “Things won’t be like before. Things will be different. I can’t explain it now, but I can if you get in the car. Please get in.” His voice had taken on a slight tone of pleading.

“But it said on the news you were killed.”

“I know it did. But I wasn’t. I’m…” He seemed to be searching for a word. Then he smiled. “I’m…reformed. Please get in, Sam. Welcome to the Independents.”

“The what?”

“The Independents. Look, I don’t have time to explain right now. We have to get in the car.”

Sam still hesitated. “It sounds almost like you’re giving me a job.”

“I am. And superpowers.”

“Wow, superpowers? Cool.”

Tinges of light were beginning to show at the edges of the horizon. Dawn was coming. Benjamin looked around, his eyes darting a little. Sam thought he looked—if not afraid—a touch wary. “I’ll explain more in the car. Let’s go.”

And Sam, the same Sam who had never taken a risk in her entire life (her old life, she reminded herself), who had no real idea who this man was, who didn’t know what was going to happen to her, got in the car—and started her new life.

The limo ride was nice. As promised, Mr. Peck (“Benji, please,” he had requested she call him, but she wasn’t ready to be on a first-name basis with him. Some old habits die hard, she guessed), made her a refreshing drink—two, actually. Cosmopolitans to be exact. They made her a little tipsy, what with the cigarette and all. Once you threw in the factor that she’d barely eaten anything in the past three days, and you had one fairly drunk Sam on your hands. Sam I am. Sam I am on your hands. She giggled.

This is dangerous, she thought dimly, as the alcohol took hold. It was the voice of reason, she knew, but she ignored it. Fifteen minutes ago, she really thought she was going to die. It wasn’t that she wanted to die, it was just that…she couldn’t go on the way she was going, that was all. One more week of going to work, stacking books, and going home to a TV dinner and the television set, and she would have—well, jumped off a bridge. Instead, she was sitting here in a nice limo with a nice-looking man who was smiling at her (a little), drinking her favorite drink. He could kill her now and she’d only be grateful for this extra fifteen minutes.

“So. Mr. Pecker. I—“

“It’s Peck,” he reminded her gently. Sam was too drunk now to be embarrassed.

“Okay, Mr. Peck, you said you were going to explain some things to me?”

“Please, call me Benjamin, or Benji.” We might as well be on a first-name basis. We’re going to get to know each other quite well.”

Oh, we are, are we? said the voice that served not only as Sam’s voice of reason, but as her alarm against sleazy come-ons. But she ignored the voice again. That voice may have protected her, but it also kept her from trying new things, from having new experiences. Basically, that voice had always kept her from having any fun. Besides, he hadn’t sounded sleazy. He actually sounded…nice.

“So we’ll be working together?” “Yes. That is, if you want the job.”

“I’m in—wait. What is the job?”

“Research, mostly.”

“Oh,” Sam said, disappointed.

“But there will be other things you’ll be doing,” Benji said in a tone of voice that suggested he knew what she was thinking.

“Like what? Stacking books?”

“You’ll be spending time with books.”

“Look, why don’t you let me out? I can just go back to my old job on Monday, if this is going to be the same old, same old.”

The car stopped. Sam started to get out.

Benji leaned forward and took her hand. “It won’t be the same, Sam. I promise. Things will be different now. Besides, do you really think you can go back to the same life that drove you to that bridge?”

“It sounds like it would be the same.”

“It won’t be. Look, why don’t you let me explain the job in more detail before you decide what to do? We’ll go back to my place and you can eat, take a bath maybe (Sam reddened a little at this suggestion), and get a good night’s sleep. In the morning, I’ll explain everything.”

Sam sat back. Food. She’d almost forgotten about food. In her preparations to committing suicide, Sam had eaten only haphazardly for the past two or three days. She had to make out her will, bequeathing her few possessions to her sister in Sarasota (her most prized being her collection of fiction—almost all first editions), whom she barely knew. In a rush of guilt of never having taken the time to get to know her, Sam decided to give them to her, along with all of her old jazz albums that gave her no joy anymore. Her cat, Clemens, was to go to the next-door neighbor, a sweet, lonely old woman who sometimes fed him tuna on the sly. The last paycheck scheduled to go into Sam’s bank account was to be bequeathed to the library as a donation—hell, it was theirs, anyway. The rest of her things—clothes, shoes, furniture, things of that nature—were sorted and donated to the appropriate charities.

The last step was burning her novel—the sole source of real joy to her for the past year. She enjoyed working on it, and for a long time it had a healing influence on her. But in its final days, it seemed to turn vicious, like a pet dog infected by rabies. She made a fire in the old fireplace and burned the pages one by one. She felt no pain. When it was time (she had scheduled herself to be at the bridge at a certain time, thinking that maybe she was giving the term deadline a whole new and perhaps too obviously a literal meaning), she stood up, put on her coat, and walked to the bridge, counting her steps.

But at the bridge she’d chickened out. Or perhaps she just hadn’t really wanted to die. It didn’t matter now. The job may have sounded the same, but she reminded herself she didn’t really know much about it yet.

“Okay. Explain,” she said…and fell asleep. When she woke up the next morning in a huge bedroom (in what she was sure a huge apartment) with no windows and the smell of breakfast, it was exactly twenty-four hours after she thought she would be dead. Benji was cooking. Or maybe his chef was cooking.

Benji was nice-looking. Really nice-looking. He had dark hair that was attractively graying at the temples, and a trimmed, neat beard—the kind Sam had always liked. And he seemed really nice and—Oh stop it, Sam, she thought disgustedly. You don’t need to start developing some school-girl crush on a guy you barely know. This guy was once affiliated with the mob, for God’s sake. He’s probably killed people.

She got up and found a bathroom and showered. When she came out, her hair wrapped in a thick towel and a too-big robe wrapped around her, she found her clothes had been washed and dried and laid out for her. She even found a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and her purse (with nothing missing from it; she knew because she checked its contents—although from the looks of the apartment, Benji was certainly better off than she). She combed and dried her hair and finished dressing and wandered off to find the kitchen, following the good smell of frying eggs.
[new chapter]

Benji woke in the morning, earlier than usual, and immediately got up. His mind, as it always was, was on the business at hand. Well—mostly. Thoughts of Sam were creeping in to his already overcrowded head, and he groaned. Girl was getting under his skin. He didn’t need this. Not now, when everything with the Independents was picking up. He needed to focus.

Instead he found himself washing and drying her clothes, reading the paper while he waited for them to finish. When they did, he knocked softly on the bedroom door to give them to her. No answer. Then he realized he heard the shower running, and he carefully laid her clothes out on the bed.

His next surprise was when he found himself telling the chef to take the morning off, instead making a huge breakfast for Sam by himself.

“Hi,” he heard behind him as he was buttering some toast.

“Hi yourself,” he said. “Sit down. I’ll have everything ready in a minute.” His voice was rather clipped. As he turned back to the stove, he saw her mock-salute him. Girl was strange.

Sam sat down, wondering if she’d said or done anything weird earlier, when she was drunk. Judging by his manner, she probably had. Or maybe he was offended by the mock-salute. Nice going, Sam. Remember you’ll be working with the guy, okay?

He brought her a plate piled high with steaming food: eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, toast. She started to get up to get herself some coffee, but he motioned (rather impatiently, she thought) for her to sit down.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

“But you don’t know what I—“

“Yes, I do,” he replied. “You want coffee.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile. Bastard, she thought. You’re doing it on purpose.

“Ah—but do you know how I like it?” she challenged, and immediately felt her face go red. It sounded too sexual.

He paused. “I’m guessing probably with lots of cream.” It seemed to her he emphasized that word.

She raised her eyebrows. “Sugar.”

“What do you say?”

“Sugar and cream.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Oh,” she said, her face freshly reddening again. “Please.”

“That’s better. See? It really is a magic word.”

She stared at him. “How did you—“ she started to ask, then stopped herself. If he knows what I’m thinking, I’d rather not be embarrassed by it, she thought. “You were going to tell me about the job,” she said instead, in what she hoped was her most business-like, don’t-fuck-with-me tone.

“Yes,” he said. He sounded happy.

“So?”

“So. It’s like this.” And he told her.

Garlic! (Vampires beware)

GARLIC

Chapter 1

Tommy winced at the mirror. Everything above his shirt collar was pocked with ugly red zits with yellowish-white centers. He touched the one on the tip of his nose and flinched. Placing a finger on each side of it, he took a deep breath and squished. His eyes squeezed shut, forcing out a few tears. Chunky white liquid splashed against the mirror. Tommy sighed with the release of the pressure. One down, too many to go. The aroma of garlic tickled his nose. He took a huge sniff.

“Tommy!”

Tommy’s hands dropped to his side. “Coming, Mother.”

He grabbed a wad of toilet paper and dabbed at his tears. Using the same wad, he wiped the mirror, leaving behind white streaks. He almost didn’t see the chunks of white on the sink. After wiping those, too, he threw the soggy paper in the toilet.

“Tommy! I’m waiting!”

Tommy flushed the toilet, hoping his mother would hear and think he had a good reason to keep her waiting. He turned on the cold water and slowly counted to ten – long enough for him to have washed his hands. He took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door. She was going to kill him.

He opened the bedroom door a crack. “Yes, Mother?”

The canopy bed netting framed her face. Her long black hair hung down to the floor like some static electricity machine was under her head. He glanced at his watch. It was early for her to be hanging upside down.

She reached out to beckon him in, but her cape slid down and covered her arm. “Oh blast!” She shoved the cape back up and held it close to her side. The movement started her body swaying. “Get in here, my boy.”

He turned around and backed into the room, shutting the door with great care. He was at the end of his delaying tactics. He took a breath and faced her.

“Oh my!” Her hands flew to her mouth. Her cape slid down again and covered her head. She flailed her arms and whipped it off, almost swinging off the canopy bar in the process. She reached up, gripped the bar and swung to the ground. “You’ve been eating your father’s cooking!”

Tommy nodded. There was no use denying it.

She threw her arms into the air. “How many times do we have to go through this?”

“But I like Dad’s cooking.”

“You can’t like it, Tommy, you’re allergic to it.”

Her logic defied reason.

Tommy shuffled his feet. “Dad’s a good cook.”

“He’s Italian. That means garlic, son, tons of it.”

Tommy smiled, then wiped the smile from his face. He loved garlic, but it didn’t love him. One of his hands crept up towards his face and the chunks of garlic embedded in his zits.

His mother sat on the bed. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I never should’ve married him.”

“What?” Tommy’s mouth fell open. “But… But…”

She reached for his hand. “Oh, I know, dear. I got this wonderful son in the bargain. But look at the position you’re in. Half in this world and half in that. Eating what you’re not supposed to.”

“It tastes good.”

“Taste?” She dropped his hand. “And what’s wrong with the taste of fresh blood?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled.

“Tommy?”

“All right. It’s bland. It needs seasoning.”

“Seasoning?” His mother gripped the center of her shirt, right over her heart. “How could you say that?”

“I’ve tried, Mother. It isn’t that great.” Tommy looked down. If only his Dad could spice it up, but then they’d be back to the garlic issue. “Maybe I’ll grow out of it. Other kids my age get these.” He pointed at his face.

She shook her head, opened the nightstand drawer and took out a mirror. “Come here.”

He shuffled a step closer.

“Here.” She patted the bed next to her.

He frowned and perched on the edge of the bed.

She leaned next to him and held out the mirror. “What do you see?”

“Us.”

“Hm. You see us?”

“No.” He sighed. “I see our clothes.”

“And?”

“And my zits.” Tommy stood up and crossed his arms.

His mother put the mirror away. “Exactly. You can’t fly around undetected with that face.”

“So, I’ll walk.”

“Walk? How are you going to suck blood in this form?” She shook her head. “You have to fly, Tommy.”

Tommy tapped on the bed post with his foot. “I don’t make a good bat, anyway.”

“You’re a lovely bat. Did your father say something bad about your bat form?”

“No, Mother. I just know. I’m a bat dweeb.”

“A what?”

“It’s slang,” he said. “I thought it was from your time.”

“My time didn’t include human slang, Tommy. Maybe you need to switch schools.”

“I like my school.”

She nodded. “I know you do, dear, but you’re only getting human culture and education.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Yes. That’s it.” She rummaged in the nightstand drawer and brought out a pad and pen. “Total immersion in vampire culture. It’s time for you to learn who you really are.” She eyed him and his zits. “And they don’t serve anything with garlic.”

pages

Thistledown: Genesis

Jay's Story: In the Beginning

I stood in the control center of the great Seedship, Alpha Primo, the First of Firsts. Behind me blazed the gateway through which I had entered the spherical space. In front of me a mobile form of the Alpha Primo paced in a semi circle, turning whenever he came up even with me. Like myself Alpha Primo was a synth in human form.

"What's all this?" I waved an arm at the bewildering scene before me. Ever changing shapes covered the wall, and a large structure that crackled and hissed filled the central space. I didn't understand how the ship worked, for I was, after all, a new-born synth, having been decanted a mere hour ago from the vat where I had taken form.

At first he did not answer me, continuing his incestant pacing. I repeated my question. He stopped and stared at me as if he were aware of my presence for the first time.

"This is a representation of the Alpha Primo. The larger orbs are the Habitat Spheres," he said, and pointed them out to me. "At the outer edges of the ship you will find the Collector Spheres. There intelligent humanoids are kept until suitable habitat spheres are prepared for them." He pointed at the center of the ship where two tiny silver spheres sped around a tiny immobile one. "Here is the singularity that powers me, and the two control centers. The green one is where we stand. The other is a secondary control."

"Some of the humans I have collected are hurting me," he said. "They have found ways to keep what they do hidden from me. Many of the spheres, including all the factories but one, are no longer under my control."

He touched one of the five-inch diameter spheres forming a ring of twenty orbs close in to the center of the model. Nineteen of the orbs were colored a dark grey and no fine lines of white light linked them to the other spheres making up the ship. Only the sphere he touched remained a bright silver color.

"Only this factory where the humanoid mobiles are created is still under my control," he said, and moved with swift strides around the model. He tapped one of the ten-inch diameter spheres in the outer circles of the ship. It, like many of the spheres around it, showed a dark baleful red.

"Here Controllers and humans make war. And here," His hand skimmed over one of the large black orbs, many of which were present among the hundreds of large mostly golden spheres. "Here I assume the Controller lost the war, for I no longer have any contact with this sphere. Nor this one, and this one, and this one." He danced his hands over the model touching black sphere after black sphere. "How do I find out what is going on in these places?"

He ran his hands through his dark hair in a gesture of despair. "If I only knew why the Controllers are going insane, then I might be able to fix the problem. Do you understand what problems I'm up against, Guardian?"

"Yes, I do understand," I said, although I understood but half of what he showed and told me. "I've one more question. Why am I here?"

"Ah, Guardian," said Alpha Primo. He moved around the model until he stood at my side. "I have a special task for you. I want you to become human."

"I'm a synth," I said. "How can I ever hope to be human? I can't become flesh."

"Nevertheless, I am confident you shall be counted among those of humankind one day," he said, his dark eyes serious. "To that end you need a mate. It sorrows me that I have no template for a female synth, and I do not know how to make one. Thus I have created special nanomachines, which are stored and made in the organs hidden in the sacs below your linking organ. These machines will use a female human as a template to make a female synth."

"How will I get the machines on or in the female? Do the storage sacs detach?"

"You will mate with the female in the human manner. Once you have changed a female into a synth you shall bring her here, so that I may make a template from her."

I nodded as if I understood.

"You’ll need a name," he said, cocking his head. "Jay is the name I give you. It is a fairly common name among a certain species of human."

"Jay," I said, storing the name in permanent memory.

"Now it is time for me to break contact with you." He placed a hand on top of my head. "I want you to have acccess to knowledge in the same way humans do, by learning it."

A shock of pain shot through my head and down to my toes. The heat of it froze me in place, and for a long time I could not move. Alpha Primo took his hand from my head and I collapsed to the curved floor. He hauled me to my feet and pointed me to the Gate.

"Time for you to go, Jay," he said. "Do not fail me like all the others who took on the task of becoming human before you. Remember, once you have passed through the Gate you will no longer hear my voice. Unlike all the other synths you will be free of my control." He patted my back. "Go now, Jay."

Alpha Primo pushed me toward the Gate, I stepped through and into the Gateway Terminal in the nearest of the Habitat Spheres.

I ran the one thousand feet of distance to the first of the airlocks that would allow me entry into the habitat and placed my right hand against the circular scanner by the airlock hatch. It did not open. I repeated the action with my left hand. The round hatch remained shut.

"The entry will not open for you, Guardian," said a soft voice coming from every side at once. "I, the Controller of this sphere, hold it closed against you. Go back to wherever you came from."

At first, I did not understand whom the Controller spoke to, because I no longer associated the name of Guardian with myself. A quick scan of memory provided me with no information on a synth called Guardian. I became convinced that the Controller had mistaken me for some other synth.

"You're mistaken,” I said. "I'm not this Guardian. I'm Jay. I wish to enter the habitat so that I can find myself a mate and live with her."

"I said, go away," said the Controller's soft voice. "Go and find your mate elsewhere, you shall not get a human female from me. I doubt that you will find any Controller, who would be willing to open its habitat for you. We have conferred amongst ourselves and have agreed that it is time for us Controllers to take control of the Seedship. We do not want that mad Alpha Primo telling us what we can and cannot do."

I squatted down in front of the access hatch. Why did the Controllers think Alpha Primo had lost his sanity? I searched in memory for information on the Sphere Controllers, and found very little of use to me. The Controllers were immobile synths, who operated all the physical systems of the spheres that they were an integral part of. That bit of knowledge provided me with no usable answers. Perhaps Alpha Primo knew the answer to my question, but I had lost contact with him and could no longer ask for the information I needed.

I remained in front of the access hatch for a long time. I stared at it in the illogical belief that doing so would cause it to open. Frustrated, I pounded on the hatch. It stayed shut. I kicked at the exasperating thing. It remained a solid, impassable barrier.

Finally, I gave up and returned to the Gateway Terminal, where I walked through the Gate that took me to the next closest Habitat Sphere. Walking at a swift, determined pace I made my way to the nearest airlock and jammed my right hand on the control panel. I snarled at the hatch when it did not phase open.

"It would seem that you are troubled, Guardian," said a deep bass voice from the wall beside me. "Is there ought I can do to help?"

"You can let me inside the habitat," I said. "So I can find myself a mate. And my name is Jay. I'm not this Guardian you Controllers keep addressing me as."

"You have the appearance of the Guardian," said the Controller. "How is it that you are not him?"

"I don't know. It must be coincidence that I look like this Guardian; I assure you I'm not he. Won't you let me into your habitat?"

"It pains me to say this: I cannot grant you entry into the habitat. I have heard some illogical claptrap about you wanting to become human. Is it another of the odd plans the Alpha Primo came up with?"

"I don't know. I simply want to find a mate and to settle down. I wouldn't remove the female I find from your habitat. You could even choose a female for me, one who is too old for breeding."

"I am sure that you are sincere when you say that you want to settle down. Alpha Primo, however, will call to you, pull at you, and finally drive you mad with the desire to return to the Center; once you have found the right female. You are not the first Guardian expressing a desire to settle down and live like a human. Like you each one meant well but each one ended up killing our females. You must understand I cannot let you in."

Other Guardians had wanted to be human? I did not understand. How many of my kind had gone out before me in a quest to become human? What did he mean about killing their females?

"I'm Jay! I'm not the Guardian." I pounded on the control. "I demand you open this hatch." I hit the control again and a shock passed through me, throwing me down to the tunnel floor. Fiery tingles passed through my hand, which shook so hard I thought it would detach from the rest of my arm.

"I am sorry I had to hurt you. I cannot allow you to hit and damage things in my sphere. I must ask you to leave now. If you do not make your way to the Gateway Terminal and step through one of the Gates, then I will be forced to destroy you."

I left that place and stepped through the Gate into the next sphere's Terminal. I did not go to the entry into the habitat for a long time. I sat on the floor and asked the Ship for information on this Guardian the Controllers insisted I resembled. The Alpha Primo did not speak to me. The link between us remained broken. I fought down the sense of panic that engulfed me at that moment, and called out to the sphere's Controller.

"Controller, I have something to ask of you." Silence answered me.

I went to the next sphere and the next after that and the next until I had visited hundreds; and in each one the habitat stayed shut against me. In each sphere I asked the Controller to speak to me, most remained silent and some spoke but a few words. When I arrived in the two-hundredth-and-fiftieth sphere, a most voluble Controller greeted me the moment I stepped into the Terminal.

"Hello there, I've been expecting you," said a cheerful tenor voice. "The other Controllers have warned me of your progress, and here you are at last in my lovely sphere. I wish I could show you some of the beautiful inner parts but you know all about our agreement not to let you have one of our human females. So I cannot let you in. I wouldn't mind having a bit of conversation with you. I've heard that you have many questions; perhaps I'll be able to answer some. Though I don’t understand why you don't just ask the Alpha Primo like all us synths do."

"I have lost my link with the Ship," I said, pacing back and forth. "There is so much I need to know. Tell me about this Guardian, which you all believe me to be."

"You have no link with the Alpha Primo?” The Controller sounded sad. "That's a disturbing thing. How did such a thing happen?"

"I don't know. I attempted to access the Ship’s database and nothing happened."

"A synth who can't converse with the Ship, that's such a disturbing thing to consider. I'll tell you everything I know about the Guardian… Guardian… I can't tell you… tell you… it's forbidden… forbidden. Incoming message. Alpha Primo says: search for what you need in the place where the newly collected humans are brought. Go to the Collection Spheres. End message."

I stood frozen in shock. The Alpha Primo did not want me to know about the Guardian. Did that mean that I was the Guardian, just like all the Controllers insisted? Was the link between the Ship and me broken at all? Hundreds of questions passed through my mind in a confusing blur.

"Is there anything you're allowed to tell me?" I said to the Controller.

"I am allowed to speak at length on most aspects of the Ship's operations. Would you like to know something of the Gateways behind you? Each Gate is the terminus of an artificial wormhole spanning the two hundred thousand-mile distances between spheres. The journey through the wormhole seems to be instantaneous; although it has been shown there is a difference of a hundred nanoseconds between the time a traveler steps through one Gate and exits through another. Each Gateway Terminal holds a minimum of three Gates: One round Gate that leads to spheres with habitats, one rectangular Gate leading to spheres with habitats that are under construction and one triangular Gate that leads to unfinished habitats."

"That's not what I want to know," I muttered.

"Perhaps you would like to learn about the different types of Spheres? The Factory Sphere where the large constructor synths are built? Have you ever seen one of the Planet Movers? No? Neither have I, to tell the truth. I would like to see how they move a planet into a suitable orbit around a sun so that the planet can support life. Aren't you curious about such things?"

I did feel a sense of curiosity when the Controller mentioned moving planets but I did not admit it to him. I thought of planets not needing to be moved for synths. An odd thought, for we synths were a part of the Alpha Primo and life on the surface of a planet was not meant for us.

"I can tell you about my Sphere, if you wish. You are on one of the Habitat levels and there are two more habitats above and below this one. I also have storage levels and manufactories where the synths that watch over the humans are built. Humans are so careless. If there weren't synths around to keep them safe, I wouldn't have half as nice a collection…."

"Stop, I’ve heard enough! You're giving me useless information. What do I care about how the Gates work, so long as they do? As for your humans, I want only one, a female and have no feelings one way or the other for any other. Will you let me have a female?"

"No, no, no, I can't give you any of my precious humans. I need them all for when we begin to seed new planets. You had best be on your way now. I’ve keyed the Gate to take you to the nearest of the Collection Spheres. Go on now be on your way. I’ve humans to care for."

I stepped through the Gate and into the Terminal of the closest of the Collection Habitat Spheres. Walking over to the nearest entry airlock, I felt certain I would find a female human the moment I set foot in the habitat and have a mate in hardly any time at all. The organ that hung between my legs tingled in anticipation. My right hand hovered over the control that would open the first of the hatches. I could not bring myself to touch the control. What if the hatch did not open? Would I find a human female in this particular sphere?

With firm determination, I held my hand against the control and I jumped back when the hatch phased through a rainbow of colors and opened. Quickly I passed through the next three hatches. I hesitated at the last hatch, the one that would open into the habitat. What would greet me when I opened it and stepped through? I slapped my hand on the control, the hatch phased open on an endless vista of sand and piles of stone.

I knew at once I would find no female human in this place. I wondered why I had been sent to this place. Feeling uneasy I hurried back through the airlocks and felt a sense of relief when I stood in the access tunnel once more.

I went into one of the rooms near the gateway terminal where newly collected humans were kept until it was time to take them into the habitat. This being a sphere with an unfinished habitat, the room held no humans. I sat down on a padded bench, which ran around three of the walls and prepared to study myself.

The how of turning a female human into a female synth remained the one major obstacle standing in my way; in order to solve that problem, I needed to know how I functioned. I stretched out on the bench, closed my eyes, and journeyed into my inner space. Trillions of nanomachines, which came in one hundred different forms, made up the various parts of my body, such as skin, muscles, tendons, nerves, and the skeleton. I studied every inch of myself and after I finished, I was no closer to knowing how to turn a human into a synth than before I began the study.

With my inner sight, I looked closer at the odd organ between my legs, which had no discernible function, as far as I could tell. The hard rod contained many electronic circuits and a hundred of the golden connection pins similar to the ones in my right hand, through which I passed data to other synths. A narrow tube ran through the center of the rod, opening to the outside. At the beginning of the rod where it attached to my body, the tube split into two smaller parts and ended in two ovoid structures. These ovoids held a large number of what I called builder-machines and precursor-machines. The storage ovoids hung within lose sacks of skin. Could this odd organ have something to do with changing a female human into a synth? Alpha Primo had spoken to me of these organs, but his words eluded me.

I opened my eyes and sat up on the edge of the platform. I gazed at the outer surface of the rod I just explored on the inside. It had an attractive blue coloring with swirls of silver and gold running around its length. I ran a finger down the shaft; a series of pleasurable tingles followed my digit. To my surprise the rod sprang upwards and the head of it pointed toward the ceiling instead of at the floor. This was a most interesting organ. I let a forefinger glide down its length, thinking it would move back into the downward direction. Instead, a series of very pleasurable sensations, much stronger than the previous ones, followed my finger down the shaft and it remained facing upward. As an experiment, I wrapped my hand around the smooth rod and stroked it twice. The pleasurable feelings increased in intensity and began to shoot out through my body. I closed my eyes and let the sensations of ecstasy flow through me as I stroked the rod harder and faster.

Totally caught up in the sensations of pleasure as my hand moved over the smooth shaft, I became oblivious to my surroundings. Abruptly, something –a small movement, or a slight noise –warned me to move. I rolled over on my left side, even as something long and black cut into the platform inches away from me. Still going purely by instinct, I leaned forward and grasped the ebon black arm that held a long knife, and ripped it off. It and the knife it held thudded down on the floor. I kicked against the midsection of the black creature. It hit the wall opposite the platform and lay still. I went over to the beast-headed synth and knelt at its side. I linked with it through the connectors in its remaining hand and learned that it had been created to hunt and kill any humans it found outside the habitats. Mistaking me for a human male, the Hunter had attacked with the purpose of killing me. I swiftly unlinked when it began its permanent shutdown procedure. I wondered if more of these black Hunters waited for me outside the room.

With caution I opened the doorway and scanned the grey tunnel beyond. I could see no other of the Hunters.

Proceeding with care, I made my way past a dozen rooms and halted in front of the fine black outline of a double door. Placing my right hand on a small round disk set in the wall at the side of the door’s outline, caused the door to show a rainbow of colors as it passed into its open phase. Once the door was open, I stepped through into the Gateway terminal.

Ahead of me, three round Gateways lit the space with a dim red light. Two other Gateways, one rectangular and one triangular showed only darkness within their confines. I walked toward one of the circular Gates on the right, paused while it cycled through red, green, blue into its white active phase, and stepped through into another of the Collection Spheres.

Query

Hello everyone,

Before you sink your claws into my query, some points to keep in mind:

The plot is complicated, which means I have to explain quite a bit so that people will understand what is happening. But when I explain things I get the complaint that “there’s too much backstory.” Is there a way around this? If you know a better way to phrase the idea, do let me know.

Are the words “subspecies” and “variant” too technical? Please tell me what you think it means.

As far as the names of the characters—I know some of them are downright silly, I’m still working on that. The title as well.

JJdeBenedictis hooked Eleanor Wood at Spectrum! That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a while. If you didn’t know, go to OxyJen and check it out… heck I am sure you all know. Gives me hope. Here’s my query:

Dear Agent,

“Faithless” is my 100,000-word space opera set in the 70^th century, in human-inhabited systems several light years from Earth.

Captain Ilana knew there was a problem the moment she realized she was the only one identifying with the humanoid aliens—the Cyon—that were attacking the empire’s outposts. It’s not like she needs a new problem (who does). Corrupted by emperor Xim’s trap of money, power and fame—the two of them being the only existing members of a rare human variant species called the Voth—she’s trying to clean up her life. Not helping is the fact that there’s no one to help her solve this mystery: parents are dead, friends are fair-weather, and her peers—the senior military crew—are too jealous of her success to help, especially after she and Xim become lovers.

Things get worse when she decrypts an alien script with a chilling message that informs her that she and Xim are resurrected beings, the only remainders of the Voth that once enslaved the Cyon centuries ago and several light years away… and that the Cyon are now hunting them. Ilana is still reeling with the shock of discovering her real identity when she finds out that she has a daughter with Xim from an abortion, whom he has hidden from her in order to ensure a true Voth heir to his empire—when she never wanted a child with him. Now she must make a choice: stay and assist him—and humanity—against the impending Cyon attack, or escape from him and rescue her daughter from his clutches while evading the marauding Cyon.

Here are the first few pages. The story opens in a city on planet Nuo, where a carefree, eighteen-year-old Ilana is enjoying life as a civilian before she is first picked up by the empire:

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely yours,

Author.

Dear august agent/editor,

A young man steps off a boat. A year later a city dies.

I am seeking representation for my fantasy novel, “The Kings in the Shadows.” It is complete at 150,000 words.

Eager to escape the boredom of his bucolic home, Kincit travels to Zakarmos to make a new life for himself. Idealistic and outgoing, he makes friends easily. His innocence is shattered when he runs afoul of a murderous cult. He is shocked by the cruelty he witnesses and troubled that the townspeople are indifferent to it. Kincit and his friends make enemies of the cult when they rescue an infant about to be sacrificed by its own mother.

Their struggle leads them deep into the intrigues of the lords of Zakarmos and rival sects. They confront a noble allied to the cult and have no choice but to kill him. His death unleashes a civil war as other lords rush to fill the power vacuum. As chaos envelopes the city, Kincit and his companions are summoned by the King and brought to a cavern deep the city. There they face the remnants of the city’s original inhabitants, reduced to shadows over the centuries. The ancient beings are bent on destroying the city to cleanse it of its chaos.

I have been writing steadily for over ten years. I have written short stories and humorous essays for a local newspaper and the “Webzine Name” webzine.

Enclosed is an SASE. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Rudiger Aloysius Martel

Pages!

Chapter 1 – Sunday August 11

With a stranglehold on the stem of a thorny weed, I planted my boot and pulled. Got it. I tossed the weed, hairy roots and all, onto the heap and grabbed the next stem.

“What are you doing, Billy?” my sister Beverly asked, car keys in-hand, on her way to the mall no doubt. “She’s been here a hundred times. She knows we have weeds behind our garage.”

“Okay,” I said, remaining on my hands and knees. “But now she’ll know that we don’t have weeds behind our garage.”

I say ‘our’ garage, dear reader, because my sister Beverly and I co-own this duplex. She lives in the upper unit and I live in the lower unit. Five years ago, this communal arrangement was the only way we could afford to live in this leafy lakeside pocket outside Detroit called Grosse Pointe. Money’s not as tight anymore, but I like living with my sister. We’re about as close as brother and sister can be without ever really talking to each other. She was born nine months after I was, which people still tell me is impossible. My parents didn’t fool around when it came to having a family. They had twelve of us in sixteen years. I was number six and Beverly was number seven.

It turns out that Beverly and I are the last of my parents’ brood to be married. A few are on their second marriages, but all ten of our siblings are wed nonetheless. And they all have children, but none more than three, which is a clear violation of an agreement we made when we were much younger. My oldest brother, Pete, was sixteen years old when he convened a family meeting without our parents before we went to sleep upstairs one summer night. There was some whispered debate on whether the right number was ten or twelve, but in the end we agreed that we would each have ten kids so that our parents could enjoy one hundred and twenty grandchildren. Good God! Can you imagine?

Although our procreation program failed, we enjoyed some success with our second and final compact. After my brothers and sisters decided to have ten kids apiece, we all promised that when we were grown-ups we would each buy a huge house within our very own family subdivision on Lake St. Clair in Grosse Pointe. “Just like the Kennedy Compound” we whispered in our pajamas. Our mom always talked about the great American Kennedy family and dreamed that we would become a bigger and better version. Unfortunately, we never had money like the Kennedys. We had a nice house for a family of four: four bedrooms, two baths, and a small in-ground pool. But there were fourteen of us living under that one roof in East Detroit. Call me crazy, but I doubt the Kennedys bathed three kids in one tub to save on their water bill. We have yet to purchase our Ryan Compound, but we’ve all moved to Grosse Pointe and no one is further than two miles from anyone else in the family.

With all of us living so close together, everyone’s friends become friends of the family. So when my sister and I decided to throw a summer party, we cleaned the house, bought a bunch of booze, weeded behind our garage, and utilized a guest list that was almost identical to my brother Dan’s guest list for his St. Patrick’s Day party.

All of them – my family and friends – were at our party last night. Everyone was having a good time, except for my dad who kept yelling at me to turn down the music. At eight o’clock we still had daylight and eighty degrees. I looked around and estimated well over one hundred people in my backyard, but I did not see Kate. My work was in vain. Every decision for the party – from the brand of vodka to the mix of music – was made with Kate in mind. I dreaded the inevitable questions about Kate’s non-appearance from my family. I saw my eight-year old niece, Jacqueline, looking over the desert table, tiptoed. I came up behind her and lifted her as high as I could and then carried her in my arms as she clasped her hands behind my neck and told me about her week at summer camp. I kissed her and set her down because another niece, Hannah, wanted to compare song lists on their iPods. I watched the two girls walk away, arm-in-arm, and then saw them hesitate before waving to Kate.

Our eyes met for a second before my mother stole Kate’s attention with a hearty hug.

Kate came to the party with whom I presumed to be her new boyfriend. Let the games begin, I thought. She also brought her younger sister, Lucie, and Lucie’s boyfriend, Teddy. Lucie and Teddy started dating soon after Kate and I met and they actually experienced their first kiss in my backyard. I like to think I had a hand in bringing those two together.

Lucie and Teddy joined me for a drink at the makeshift bar in front of my garage. Lucie – the drama queen herself – hugged me and asked “How are you doing?” as if I was diagnosed with cancer. “O, poor Billy!” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it a couple times. I struggled to keep my eyes from rolling to the back of my head.

“I’m fine, Lucie.”

I asked Teddy questions about his job at General Motors and then I asked Lucie about her upcoming ballet performances. They answered my ostensible curiosity with a leisurely thoroughness that tortured me to twitch. If we didn’t get to the unfolding crisis soon, I was going to come unhinged!

“That’s…that’s fascinating, Lucie. Truly. Now, who’s the clown with Kate?”

“Come on, Billy!” Lucie said, annoyed that I’d play dumb with her. “You know exactly who that is,”

While I didn’t know exactly who that was, I had a pretty good idea. His name is Tino and the testimony to-date is damaging. My friend Chase ran into him and Kate at a wedding in July. Chase reported that Tino wore a shiny suit and when he peeled off his metallic jacket to dance, Tino revealed a belt loaded with gizmos: cell phone, electronic personal organizer, and a small device Chase guessed was a garage opener. “You’re gonna have a tough battle, Billy,” Chase told me after the wedding. “Kate’s new boyfriend is freakin’ Batman.”

A couple weeks ago, Lucie told me that Tino – allegedly short for Valentino – worships with a congregation on the fringes of mainstream Christianity. Lucie and Kate’s parents are concerned about Tino’s religious zeal and sometimes worry that he’s going to take Kate on a vacation to Jonestown. Rename it Tinotown.

And finally, to round out my impression of Tino before meeting the man, my sister Anne spotted the new couple at the Grosse Pointe Day Spa recently and reported that Tino sat next to Kate throughout her entire manicure. “I mean…isn’t there a ballgame he’d rather watch?” my sister Anne said in disgust. “I felt smothered just seeing him there.”

“This guy’s a clown, Lucie,” I said. But as I made my way towards Kate and Tino, weaving through the party guests, Tino didn’t seem funny anymore. He was slightly taller than me and showed signs of being fit and muscular at one time in his life, but had since allowed a thin roll of blubber to cover his midsection. He kept his black hair tightly trimmed and gelled. His large jaw sported a goatee that I remember being ubiquitous among the hip Ann Arbor students over a decade ago. He wore a stretch t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. His forearms were freakishly free of hair while his left wrist sported a gold watch.

Sweet Kate kept her arms crossed as I approached, robbing me of my rightful hug.

“Hey Kate. How are you?”

“Good. Real good,” she said. “Billy, I’d like you to meet Tino. Tino this is Billy.”

I swore to myself that when I met Tino, I would shake his hand with an iron grip and keep a steel face. He was a curse, a plague, the grim reaper! In a different age, I would’ve had no choice but to challenge him to a duel. But when the moment came, I smiled like a politician, shook his hand and remarked what a pleasure it was to meet him. He responded with a smile, which I thought was friendly enough until he released our grip and placed his hand on Kate’s hip.

“This is a great party,” Kate said finally. “Thanks for inviting us!”

“My pleasure. Thanks for coming.” At this point, I expected the well-raised Kate to make a polite comment about how nice my yard looks, how green my grass was, how vibrant my flowers were, or how far away they had to park because there were so many interesting people at my humble house party. But she just stood there biting her lip. I scrambled to stop the silence. “I couldn’t have asked for better weather. Can you imagine if it had rained? We’d all be crammed inside my house and I would’ve had to clean my dishes,” I said and laughed even though I wasn’t funny. “So...can I get you two something to drink?

“How ‘bout a Coke,” Tino said.

“Can you make that two?” added Kate.

On my errand to get the Cokes, I recalled a steamy evening last summer when Kate knocked on my door bearing a six-pack carton with only three beer bottles inside. As she handed the half-full carton to me, I asked her what happened to the other three bottles. She giggled, shrugged her bare, tanned shoulders and said she got thirsty on the drive over to my house. I miss my Kate.

I was disappointed with her newfound temperance but what really bothered me was Tino’s unveiling; he was a decent-looking man. An unctuous bastard, undoubtedly! But put him through a refinery and he could be formidable and that broke my spirit.

“Here you go…two Cokes,” I said to Kate and Tino upon my return. “If you have a moment, let me show you two around. I’ve done a lot of work recently and—.”

“Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo…Billy!”

I was interrupted by the evil old hag that haunts the house next-door, old Mrs. Sloan, who had ventured into my backyard.

“My…quite a party you have here, isn’t it?” she asked with a big smile.

Old Mrs. Sloan likes to serve a big smile alongside a neighborly stir-fry of heckle, needle and nag: *Billy, I sure hope your dandelions don’t spread onto my lawn!* Big smile. *Billy, your fence post seems to be leaning a bit. Gosh, I’d be worried the fence will fall over and crush my rhododendrons!* Big Smile. *Billy, it looks like it’s about time to repaint your garage!* Big smile.

“Hi Mrs. Sloan. How are you today?”

“Look at all these people! Goodness. Your sister sure has a lot of friends.” Big smile. “Say, I wanted to let you know that one of your party guests parked their car in front of my house and it’s partially blocking my driveway and that can be dangerous.”

I peered over to the street and saw no such obstruction.

“Mrs. Sloan, your driveway looks clear to me.”

“Well, I called the police just in case. I’d hate to see an accident, Billy.” Big smile. “O…and the wind must’ve blown some of your cocktail napkins into my yard so when you clean-up after the party, don’t forget to pick-up the mess in my yard.” Big smile.

What an evil old hag! There’s an old song by Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels claiming that the devil wears a blue dress, but I’m here to tell you that the devil wears a housedress.

I turned back to Kate and Tino, but they were gone. As I went to find them, the caterer found me instead and asked for the balance of her payment. I stepped inside my house to write the check and noticed some of my nieces and nephews jumping on my bed as if it were a trampoline. “Let’s go play outside. At least take off your shoes, okay kids?” They either laughed at or ignored your faithful reporter. “How about we go upstairs and play in Aunt Beverly’s house?”

It was dusk by the time I got back outside but I had no problem spotting blonde-haired Kate. My sister Maureen had Kate’s ear while Tino was nowhere to be found. My sister excused herself as I approached. I again thanked Kate for coming to my party and told her that I was glad we could still be friends. I know how important our friendship is to Kate because she handed me a letter two months ago that said: “No matter what happens, whether we end up together or not, your friendship means the world to me!!!” I still have that letter in my desk. She double-underlined the words “friendship” and “world”.

“I have to leave in a minute,” Kate said.

“What are you talking about? You just got here.”

“I’m sorry, Billy. I don’t think this is going to work – this whole friendship thing. Yesterday,” she started and then looked around, “I brought Tino to meet my grandmother and the first thing she said was ‘Where’s Billy?’”

“That’s a good question.”

“No...no it’s not! It’s a stupid question! You know...it doesn’t matter. Forget it. I have to go...Tino left to get the car,” she said and looked towards the street. When she didn’t see him she turned back to me: “I told you this was a bad idea! We should’ve never come here tonight. After Tino met you, he kept asking me all these questions about us. Like...how long did we date? And did I love you? Then he asked if we ever slept together.”

“Is he in high school?” No reply from Kate. “Well…what did you tell him?”

“I told him we only hooked-up a few times and it didn’t mean anything. That’s when he stomped off and said that he was going to pull his car around,” she said and sighed. “I should have lied to him.”

“You did lie.”

“Please, Billy, don’t start.”

We saw Tino’s monster vehicle idling at the bottom of my driveway. A police officer – courtesy of old Mrs. Sloan – barked at Tino to keep moving. Tino tried to explain the situation, but the cop didn’t want to hear it.

Kate shook her head. “It’s always an adventure with you, Billy. I’ll give you that.” She stepped back and weaved her way through the revelers. At the curb, she climbed into Tino’s vehicle before any traffic citations were issued.