Jack and Rosemary

Jack had been home from work for only a little while. It had been a long day and he was slumped in his old recliner staring at, but not really watching, Brian Williams read the day’s news. Jack had pulled the delivery menu for China Palace out of the drawer in the kitchen where he kept dozens of delivery menus but he hadn’t worked up the initiative to pick up the phone and order the house special.

Jack was roused from his ennui by the doorbell being buzzed over and over again. Frowning…he neither expected nor wanted visitors…Jack rose from the recliner and padded over to the door. He opened the door and, before he could say anything, Rosemary surged into his arms sobbing and babbling incoherently.

Rosemary was Jack’s girlfriend. They had been dating for almost 14 months. Rosemary was a short, wispy girl…her head came up to the middle of Jack’s chest…with long chestnut hair and deep brown, vaguely haunted eyes; she was kind of plain and kind of pretty at the same time…plain and pretty, the way librarians and meter maids and best friends of leading female characters always were in old movies.

Jack artfully guided Rosemary into the apartment and closed the door. Rosemary continued to sob and babble while Jack held her close and stared off waiting for her to take a breath. Jack was able to make out snatches of coherence out of Rosemary’s stream of words. “My father’s going to kill me” stuck out particularly clearly.

Rosemary’s father was the only person in the world that Jack was really afraid of. Her father was a brooding, ruddy hulk with bulbous cheeks and hooded black eyes; Jack always wondered how such an enormous man could have co-created a girl as petite and delicate as Rosemary. Rosemary’s father always regarded Jack with bored contempt and Jack quickly learned not to try to get to know the man better (Rosemary’s mother, on the other hand, was pleasant enough woman who treated Jack with kindness; Jack could tell that she had once been as willowy as her daughter. Rosemary’s mother had vaguely haunted eyes as well…though they were two or three shades lighter than Rosemary’s eyes…and she always smelled of rosewater and red wine.)

“What’s the matter, Rosemary?” Jack said when she finally took a breath.

Rosemary took a step back and looked up at Jack with her liquid, deep brown, vaguely haunted eyes. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m pregnant”. And then she buried her head in his chest and started sobbing again.

Jack put his arm around her and stared off profoundly puzzled. “I’m pregnant”…Jack let the words cascade about his synapses as he tried to make sense of them.

“What are we going to do?” Rosemary gasped out between sobs.

Jack weighed the implications of that question as well. “We?” he thought. “Hmph, that is the question, isn’t it?” In the 14 months that Jack and Rosemary had been dating he had never once seen her naked below the waist…they had kissed passionately on many occasions and he had stolen longing squeezes of her breasts through her sweaters and her cotton bras; Rosemary had on rarer occasions allowed fleeting egress to her bra and she had even once let Jack fondle her breast with his left hand while he masturbated with his right.

But she had never allowed his hand to venture down below her pert bellybutton. She was a good girl she explained…just like her father raised to her to be…and she would go to her wedding bed a virgin. Jack had found that to be enormously frustrating but eventually he decided that he could live with it (it was easier than finding another girlfriend, he reasoned, and one day she would change her mind or they would get married.)

And now she was pregnant.

Jack found his voice again. “Rosemary,” he said softly, “why are you telling me this?” He was, given the circumstances, keenly interested in her answer.

Rosemary stopped sobbing and looked up at him her eyes ablaze with withering indignation. “Because you’re my boyfriend,” she said as if Jack's question was the most idiotic thing she'd ever heard. And then she leaned against him and started sobbing again.

Strangely enough, Jack couldn’t think of a credible argument to her statement at that moment.

At some point, Rosemary stopped sobbing and went into the bathroom to wash her face. Jack called the China Palace and ordered 2 house specials. After the food came, Jack and Rosemary ate in silence and then fell asleep on top of his bed still wearing their street clothes.

Four days later, Rosemary told her father that she was pregnant. Rosemary’s father came to Jack’s apartment and slammed him against a wall and, reeking of bourbon and cigar smoke and disappointment, told Jack to make it right.

Seven days later, Jack and Rosemary were married by a disinterested civil servant in front of four witnesses: Rosemary’s parents (he scowling, she smiling opaquely), Rosemary’s sullen best friend Lily, and Jack’s incredulous best friend Art. That night, in a motel near Disneyland, Jack finally got to venture below Rosemary’s pert bellybutton (making love with Rosemary wasn’t quite as magical as Jack had always imagined it would be…but it was okay enough and Jack slept contentedly that night.)

Jack and Rosemary moved into a two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away from Jack’s old apartment.

Rosemary never told Jack who the father of the baby…a bright-eyed girl she named Roberta…was. And, to be fair, Jack never asked. Jack would decide that it was probably the guy that Rosemary left with on a cool autumn day some 6 months after Roberta was born.

It was the most logical assumption to be made from the letter Rosemary left for him with Roberta’s babysitter. Jack read the letter three times, parsing every word, and then he paid the babysitter, collected Roberta, and went home to his apartment. Rosemary’s things were all gone but she had left the apartment in pristine condition.

Jack fixed a bottle for Roberta and called Chicken Delight and ordered the 3-piece meal. He sat in his recliner feeding the baby and waiting for his dinner to arrive.

Jack and Roberta moved into a small house in the suburbs. Art and Rosemary’s mother were the most frequent visitors and the housekeeper/nanny was a matronly widow, named Mrs. Agnes Stephenson, with smiling eyes that lived a few blocks down the road.

Jack met a quiet-spoken girl named Amy at the bookstore she worked at (Jack decided that Amy sort of looked like Drew Barrymore only a bit taller and a lot less worldly-wise) and they hit it off (they had magical sex at the end of their third date.)

Amy and Roberta took to each other almost immediately (which Jack found to be a good sign...and very cool to boot.)

Amy moved into the little house a little over five weeks after she had met Jack (Mrs. Stephenson was fine with that and she continued on as housekeeper/nanny…Lily, Rosemary’s sullen best friend, who occasionally accompanied Rosemary’s mother on visits to see Roberta, was not pleased but Jack saw no reason to give her displeasure any foothold in his life...Rosemary's mother, smelling of rosewater and red wine, said she was glad that Roberta would have a woman in her life after all.)

Rosemary sent Roberta plump greeting cards…always from a different part of the country…every year on her birthday and on Valentine’s Day and at Christmastime; Jack never opened them…he put them away in a cedar box for Roberta to have, if she wanted them, when she was older.

Jack and Rosemary never got officially divorced.

Jack and Amy never got officially married but 14 months after they met they had a son…Blue…which pleased them and Roberta to no end.

Press Your Luck

Last night I dreamt I was driving a bus over hills and dales while behind me they were taping an episode of Press Your Luck (the cheesy, kinda addictive game show from the 80's)...not sure how they got all of those people in the bus but it was a dream so I just went with it.

Ahead of me in another bus the ever-avuncular Gene Rayburn was hosting an episode of The Match Game (couldn't tell if Charles Nelson Reilly was there but odds are he was...)

At one point we crested a hill and Gene's bus took a hard right and disappeared around a curve...I kept going forward. And the road suddenly fell away and we were in free fall going down what seemed like a hundred miles towards a rather forbidding plain.

"Damn," I said, "this isn't good."

Behind me a cute, chubby redhead was bouncing up and down and screaming "No whammies! No whammies!" as I tried to figure how exactly to tell the Press Your Luck audience that we were all about to die.

And then I woke up.

What does it all mean? Hell if I know. I've found it's better not to overthink these things (they're just dreams after all, right? Right... )

Namaste, y'all.

Balancers

Years ago, I wrote a short-lived comic book called Stealth Squad (we had 3 issues published and distributed nationally.) The comic originated with the artist, my friend Philip C. Lane, who came up with some of the core characters and then asked me to flesh out the concept. It was a fun time...I'm a long-time comic book fan and having my own super-hero team to play with was cool.

After we stopped putting out the comic I continued to work on the backstory that I came up for the comic's "universe". Eventually I scrapped most of the super-hero trappings and used some supporting characters that I created to tell a different kind of story in a novel called Lives in the Balance.

While finishing that novel, I went back to source material with an eye towards creating a series of short stories to tell the comic book story we didn't get to continue. The series, which was going to be called Balancers, was going to tell the story of the world changed by the sudden appearance of people with superhuman abilities. This is, of course, the basic idea of the hit TV show Heroes...hey, it wasn't an original idea when I came up with my story either :-)

I only finished the first story before moving on to other projects...one day I may go back to it (I do love the characters and I have a wealth of background material created for this universe") but for now this is the first chapter of Balancers:

BALANCERS

(featuring some characters and concepts created by Michael K. Willis & Philip C. Lane for Petra Comics)
(c)1999, 2007 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises and Petra Comics

Part 1: “The End of the World as We Know It”

The world changed utterly in a flash of light and a clap of thunder. This event was witnessed by none save a small handful of people working in a secluded complex in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. All but two of those people died in the explosion that sundered the night and reduced the complex to strangely glowing rubble.

The two survivors…battered, bruised, and glowing golden in the crisp night air…struggled to their feet looking around at what they had wrought.

The man who looked older…Dr. Robert McKinley…felt tears well up in his eyes as he glanced in horror at the ruins of his dream, of his life. The complex was borne of his blood, sweat, intelligence, and hubris. The Laboratories of McKinley and Associates had been his pride and joy, the crucible in which his honor and glories were to flow. And now it was dust and ashes.

McKinley looked for other signs of life and one name came to his lips. “Maria?” He said forlornly. He had felt drawn to Maria, his brightest and most loyal young associate, in the past several months. But the pull of his work…and the bitter taste of rare defeat that had lingered since his wife had left him for some idiot accountant who “paid attention to her”…had led him to postpone giving voice to his growing feelings.

“Maria!” He called more urgently, mocking echoes of his plaintive cry filling the air.

The man who was indeed older…a man who called himself Anthony Reade…regarded McKinley with a measure of pity and an empathy he was loathe to give free reign to. Life was so short for them, he thought idly, and then he bent down to the prone body of the woman Maria. Reade had noted the unspoken attraction between McKinley and Maria…he had found it encouraging that the voluptuous curves of the raven-haired beauty had not been lost on his otherwise myopic associate. “She is here,” Reade said somberly.

McKinley, his clothes in jagged tatters, stumbled across the rubble as Reade cleared the broken mortar, wood, and bricks off Maria’s lifeless body. He knelt beside her, his mouth agape and mute, his eyes filled with tears. He took her into his arms and hugged her close. “…no…” he said, finding his voice. “She’s dead…”

Reade stood up, his dark eyes filled with tears of their own despite his best efforts to maintain his composure. He put his hand on McKinley’s shoulder and held it there while McKinley’s body convulsed with silent sobbing.

Reade looked around at the rubble…at the slowly dissipating glow that surrounded them and the ruins of the lab…and then he looked up into the night sky. “They’re all dead,” he said softly. He cursed himself for a fool and felt cold dread seize his heart as he contemplated the possible results of his actions. “They’re all dead,” he repeated with a gravity that made it certain that he wasn’t just talking about Maria and the others who had worked with them in the lab.

Reade stopped and listened intently. The insistent wail of sirens let him know that the explosion had indeed been noticed despite their remote location. The authorities were coming with their questions and their accusations and their inability to comprehend the magnitude of the crisis that had just been created. Indeed the magnitude of that crisis was only just beginning to sink him with Reade himself.

Reade shook off his dread and replaced it with a growing resolve to undo what they had done. If they could. To do that in a timely fashion, he knew that he had no time for bureaucracy…he had more time than he deserved but the rest of humankind did not.

Reade shook McKinley’s shoulder. “The authorities are coming, Robert,” he said urgently. “We have to go.”

McKinley, still consumed by his grief, looked up with uncomprehending eyes. Then he shook off Reade’s hand with an angry shrug. “I’m not going anywhere,” he sobbed. “Maria’s dead…everybody’s dead….it’s all my fault…”

Reade, knowing they had precious little time to wallow in grief or debate, lifted McKinley to his feet with surprising ease. “We don’t have time for this!” he said sharply.

McKinley, again startled by his associate’s remarkable physical abilities, was stunned into silence for a moment. Then he slapped away Reade’s arm. “We have all the time in the world, Reade!” he wailed angrily. “It’s dead…the dream is dead…all these bright young people are dead…everything’s dead!”

Reade narrowed his right eye and shook his head. “That statement may be more true than you know and we are the only ones who can do something about it.”

McKinley frowned quizzically but then put any questions he had aside and turned away. “Go away, Anthony,” he said looking down at Maria’s body, “it’s over.”

Reade reached his hand out and touched the back of McKinley’s head. Reade concentrated silently for an instant and McKinley stiffened, his eyes going blank, and slumped backwards.

Reade hefted McKinley effortlessly, cradling him in his arms. “No, my friend,” he muttered, “it is not over. Somebody has to save the world and since we’re the ones who put it in danger, we’re the ones elected to fix things.”

Reade walked off towards the nearby woods carrying McKinley’s comatose form. He glanced back at the bodies in the rubble and sighed heavily. “We have to make it right,” he said resolutely. He walked into the darkness of the forest as the sirens drew closer to the ruins of the laboratory. We will make it right, he thought, we have to. Then he drew his perceptions inside and searched for the One Thousand. The Balance is ever, he chanted to himself earnestly, the Balance is all.

Six Days Later

The pratfall wasn’t really a surprise…I lived inside my head so much that I often forgot that I was living in the world and bumping into and over people, places, and things was an everyday happenstance…that I awoke six days later in the hospital was, on the other hand, something of a surprise.

The doctors and nurses fussed and poked and prodded and waved lights in my eyes and, with a discernable (and, to my way of thinking, wholly unprofessional) amount of bemusement in their eyes and tones of voice, told me that I would be okay as I long as I remembered to watch where I was walking from then on. I thanked them and filled out the telephone book thick stack of insurance forms; I gathered up the get well cards (leaving the balloons and floral arrangements behind after noting down who sent them) and my iPod and wandered back into the world (from wheelchair to taxi seat to the cool solitude of the recliner my Dad had given me when I moved out of his house and into my so-called adult life.)

Carrie, my ex-girlfriend who had discovered she was a lesbian after we broke up (though she swears it wasn’t because of me…and I choose to believe that), had watered my plants and fed Giacomo (the haughty black cat who deigned to share living quarters with me) and collected the mail and the newspapers…in some ways, Carrie was a better girlfriend after we broke up than she was when we were together.

Giacomo sauntered over to the recliner in the aloof way that only cats can truly make work and, without ceremony, he jumped up into my lap and curled up in ball and went to sleep. As “welcome back” expressions went that was pretty good for an imperious cat like Giacomo and I put my hand across his jet-black back and smiled to myself.

Being in a coma had been pretty much like being awake…I had replayed the triumphs and tragedies and slights of my time on Earth…and I found myself laughing in the same places and crying in the same places and feeling sorry for myself in the same places over things days and weeks and years and decades past.

The theater in my head goes back over the same ground so often that it’s sometimes hard to separate the now from the then. And yet the show goes on…and the old tears and smiles and sighs and whispers become the new tears and smiles and sighs and whispers…and living inside my head stays a constant part of living in the world.

I went back to work a few days later (Carrie and Andi, Carrie’s girlfriend, picked me up because the doctors had said it would probably be best if I didn’t drive for a week or two and took me to the office.) Joan, my boss, spent a good twenty seconds (something of a record for her when it came to non-work related matters) inquiring about my health before she handed me a stack of work and left me to it.

My co-worker Deborah, who sometimes seemed to be positioning herself to be my future ex-girlfriend, took me to lunch and told me how she had spent a fair number of hours at the side of my hospital bed knitting and reading, drove me home and came up to make dinner (Giacomo acted like he liked her…more than he usually acted like he liked me…thus giving his approval for her to be my future ex-girlfriend; Carrie would be less enthused for some reason but Deborah would stick around just the same.)

The coma hadn’t completely shaken my habit of living inside my head…lifelong habits are not put to rest with six days of seemingly blissful unconsciousness…but it did seem to put it in more perspective (and the pratfalls, as a result, became easier to avoid…that’s something anyway, right? I chose to see it as a good thing and moved forward…though still often looking back…from there.)

in the new year...

in the new year...

may the wind always be at your back and the sun always shine brightest when you most need the light...

may you always have an abundance of love, laughter, and song to soothe and satiate your soul...

may you have quiet spaces and soft tears whenever your soul needs healing and your heart needs to surrender to the blues for a brief spell...

may the angels always know where to find you and may the devil frustrate himself to no end trying to intrude upon the everyday wonder of your journey...

in the new year...

may you know boundless joy and fleeting sorrow...may you never grow tired of the laughter of children or the colorful stories of those who have been here longer than you have...

may you know the comfort of friends, the warmth of family, and the sweet passion of lovers...

in the new year...

may you know love...
may you know wisdom...
may you know magic...
may you know peace...

namaste, y'all...and happy new year.

a Christmas prayer

As reindeer fly into the dreams of children of all ages

and the faithful kneel remembering the Christ child’s birth,

may you know peace and joy and passion,

may your dreams have wings and your heart be ever true;

may you dance with golden butterflies and lazy breezes,

may you sing with rainbows and thunder and blues in the night…

may you know peace and love, joy and passion,

may ever you know the bittersweet song of the universe…

may you know peace…

may you know peace…

amen.

Tomorrow in Baghdad

Despite her name, Mary did not really believe in miracles. She believed in love and in hope. She believed in God and her family. She believed in her country and her husband. But she didn’t really believe in miracles.

Christmas had been warm and cozy…her parents and her sister and her friends had gone out of their way to make it so…to distract her with the joy of the holiday…and as she finished washing the last dish from the scrumptious meal everybody had contributed to, Mary couldn’t help but smile gratefully.

But even though she couldn’t completely shake off the melancholy she felt deep down. She had dared to hope that her David would be able call…he told her it was not at all a sure thing but, despite knowing better, she had dared to hope just the same.

The days and nights since he had left were terribly, terribly long and lonely but she knew that they would be…she’d been through it before. The holiday season had come before she knew it and, being who she was, she threw herself into it though it felt more bittersweet than she would have liked.

Mary’s heart jumped expectantly every time the phone rang that Christmas Day and though the expressions of love and friendship were welcome she found herself crestfallen…it was love but it wasn’t David.

The hours passed and she made peace with the fact that David would have called on that Christmas Day if he could have…she knew that with all of her heart. But the Christmas night had almost slipped away…it was quarter past 11 PM as she dried her hands and shut off the kitchen light. It was still Christmas in America but it was tomorrow in Baghdad.

Mary slipped into the warm nightgown David had somehow managed to send along with other treasured gifts…she hoped that her box had gotten to him…she prayed that he was safe and well as he patrolled that faraway desert land…she wished, despite herself, that he had been able to call on Christmas Day.

Mary slipped into her lonely bed and was just about to shut off the light when the phone rang. Despite the disappointments of the day, she still dared to hope. Mary picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Howdy, ma’am,” a deep, chipper, faraway voice said.

Mary smiled and fought back a tear. “Hey, sergeant,” she said in a small, creamy voice.

“Merry Christmas, pretty girl,” David said, “thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?”

“No,” Mary said, “I knew you would call if you could…but it’s not really Christmas for you anymore…”

“Yes it is, sweetheart,” David replied warmly. “It’s still Christmas where you are….it’s still Christmas at home.”

Mary sighed softly. “Yes it is,” she said, “yes it certainly is.”

Mary, despite her name, still didn’t believe in miracles…but she still believed in hope…she believed in love…she believed in her husband…she believed in God and her country…and, on that night, she believed in Christmas magic.

The Dinosaur Boy (a Christmas Tale)

Suddenly, there was an awful roar. It was a roar that shook the entirety of the house. The dishes in the cupboard rattled and quaked. The windows of the house vibrated, threatening to shatter out of the most terrible fright. The big beautiful fragrant Christmas tree, with its sparkling lights, swayed ominously, seemingly ready to topple with a mighty crash at the very next terrifying roar.

The dog cowered in her corner and the cats scurried away to parts unknown.

And the man chuckled...trying to pretend to be afraid but unable to maintain the deception for very long.

And the woman smiled and snapped a photograph. Then she put the camera down and advanced with hugging and kissing in mind.

James the Dinosaur Boy sighed impatiently and rolled his eyes as his mother kissed his forehead and told him how very cute he was. “No, Mommy,” he complained, his blue-gray eyes flashing exasperation, “dinosaurs are NOT cute!”

He shrugged off her hug and tried to find himself again. “And they do not get hugged!” he added resolutely.

James’ father laughed heartily and sat back in his favorite chair. “He’s got you there, honey,” he said brightly.

Undaunted, James’ mother stole another lingering hug. “But my little dinosaur boy IS so cute!” she protested, her eyes a-twinkle with maternal pride.

James the Dinosaur boy sighed again, a bit heavier than before, but resigned himself to the fact that his parents...for all their undeniable wisdom...would never understand the ways of dinosaurs like him.

He roared again and stamped his feet. But that was okay, he thought...he loved them both more than anything else in the whole wide world so if they didn’t really understand about dinosaurs (like him) well, that was okay.

James’ father got up from his favorite chair and came over and lifted his son up.

“Careful, Daddy,” James offered helpfully, “you really shouldn’t sneak up on dinosaurs like that...”

“Sorry about that, Dinosaur Boy,” his father replied seriously. “I’ll be sure to remember that next time. But right now it’s time for all good boys...” James rolled his eyes up and his father smiled and added, “...and all good dinosaurs...to be in bed.”

“Why?” James asked, struggling in his father’s gentle but relentless grasp.

“Because it’s Christmas Eve, silly,” his mother said with a warm smile. “And because Santa Claus won’t come if you’re still awake.”

James glanced at the collection of brightly-wrapped presents underneath the stately tree and shrugged. Santa Claus...James the Dinosaur Boy shook his head but didn’t bother to tell them that dinosaurs don’t believe in Santa Claus.

He gave up his struggle and allowed himself to be carried to his room. He was content in the knowledge that it was only because it was his parents...the only humans he would allow to treat him that way...that he had allowed himself to be captured. (Dinosaurs, of course, always ran free...except when it was cold outside and then they didn’t mind having their pajamas and hot cocoa and snuggly blankets and, truth to be told, even the occasional maternal hug.)

James the Dinosaur Boy endured being made to brush his fangs but declined the new “Star Wars” pajamas in favor of his favorite, well-worn “Jurassic Park” ones.

He endured the kisses from both his father and his mother...though, of course, that mushy stuff tried the patience of a respectable dinosaur like him...and watching the lights go out while wondering what sleep would bring.

Christmas Eve or not, dinosaurs had dinosaur dreams, of this much he was certain. Santa Claus? James seriously doubted that Santa Claus knew anything about dinosaurs.

And then, slowly but surely, he slipped into sleep.

The world fell away and James found himself floating. This most certainly surprised him because he was certainly not a winged dinosaur. But he was nothing if not a boy who dealt with things as they came along and so he floated along content to wait to see whatever this journey was going to bring.

Suddenly he heard sleigh bells and the rush of a cool northern wind and, sure enough, he fell into a sleigh beside a fat, white-bearded man dressed all in red.

James the Dinosaur Boy, ever polite, nodded and said, “Hello, Santa.”

The old man, completely unsurprised by James’ sudden arrival, glanced over.

“Hello, Dinosaur Boy,” he said in a bright, kindly voice. “How are you on this fine Christmas Eve, lad?”

“I’m fine, sir,” James replied. “Though I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“To see the world,” Santa said without hesitation. “Even dinosaurs have to know that they are part of the world, of course.”

James the Dinosaur Boy, impressed by the old man’s understanding of dinosaurs, smiled and nodded. He looked down at the world below. The lights of the cities and towns were sparkling bright and welcoming as the magical reindeer pulled the magical sleigh.

“Everybody is part of the world,” he said, “even us dinosaurs.”

The old man laughed heartily...sounding for all the world like James’ father when he did so...and spurred his reindeer on. “Just so, lad,” he said. “Just so.”

They rode in silence for a while and then James said, “I’m happy to know that you’re real, Santa, but I really should be on my way...”

Santa arched an eyebrow. “Oh really? Where are you off to?”

James the Dinosaur Boy had no answer for him. “I’m not sure.”

Santa reached over and patted his head. “Good answer, lad. Maybe you should stay with me. Being an elf is a very good thing. Maybe being an elf on Christmas Eve is what you’re supposed to be now.”

James had to admit that the offer had its merits but he shook his head. “Thank you, Santa, but I don’t think that dinosaurs make good elves.”

Santa laughed happily again. “Maybe not, lad,” he said merrily. “But the offer is always open...” And with that, Santa began to laugh merrily and the sleigh took a deep plunge and James floated up and out of it.

“Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” Santa cried out as his sleigh disappeared down into the bright city below.

James the Dinosaur Boy waved. “Merry Christmas, Santa Claus,” he said to the wind, somehow knowing for sure that his words would reach the old man.

James floated higher and higher but he knew no fear (dinosaurs know many things but fear is not among them, of course.)

“Good evening, James,” a pleasant voice said suddenly and James turned to see a proud and beautiful eagle soaring alongside him.

“Good evening, Mrs. Eagle,” James said, recognizing his old friend. “I’m a dinosaur.”

“Of course you are, dear,” she replied pleasantly. “But where are you going on this fine Christmas night?”

“I’m not sure,” James admitted, “but I’m sure I’ll know when I get there. Where are you going, Mrs. Eagle?’

“Home to my family,” Mrs. Eagle replied, “Christmas is a time for families.”

“Even for eagles?”

“Of course, James,” Mrs. Eagle said patiently, “for eagles...and human beings...and even dinosaurs...up here you can see the world and know, for sure, that we’re all just a part of it...all of us important but no more important than any other part.” James nodded but said nothing.

“This is where I go down, James,” Mrs. Eagle said as they crested the mountains and headed over a lush forest. “Would you like to come home with me for Christmas. Being an eagle is a very good thing indeed. Maybe being an eagle on Christmas Eve is what you’re supposed to be now.”

James had to admit that the offer had its merits but he shook his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Eagle, but I don’t think that dinosaurs make good eagles.”

“Maybe not,” Mrs. Eagle said warmly, “but the offer is always open, of course.” And with that she turned and soared down towards the forest. “Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” she called behind her as she disappeared into the lush living forest.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Eagle,” James called out on the moonlight, knowing that his words would reach the beautiful bird.

James the Dinosaur Boy floated up higher and higher, the world becoming smaller beneath him.

“Hello, James,” a musical voice said. James turned to see a golden angel sailing down from the heavens towards him.

James, ever polite, nodded and said, “Good evening, Miss Angel.”

“Do you know why you’re here?” the angel asked.

“To see the world?” James offered.

The angel smiled. “You’ve already seen the world, Dinosaur Boy,” she said softly. “You’re here to see the universe,” she said pointing up to the star-flecked expanse of the endless sky. “We’re all a part of the universe...and the universe is a part of us...it’s all part of the grand design.”

James the Dinosaur Boy nodded...he understood, but he didn’t really understand. But somehow he knew it wasn’t important that he understand it all just then.

“Are you going to invite me to go with you?” James asked the angel. “Do dinosaurs make good angels?”

The angel smiled brightly. “Of course they do,” she said. “But no, it’s not time for you to become an angel...it’s time for you to head home, it’s almost morning and Christmas cannot begin until you are back there.”

And with that, James began to slowly descend back to Earth.

“Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” the angel called down as she began to rise back up towards the sky.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Angel,” James called out to a shaft of starlight, knowing that his words would reach up to the very heavens themselves.

James the Dinosaur Boy fell softly down...passing mountains and trees...cities and towns...countless souls waking to countless Christmas mornings...ending up, finally, right back where he started...in his house, in his room, in his bed...a dinosaur in snuggly blankets and “Jurassic Park” pajamas.

And then there was morning’s light and he was awakened by his parents on a clear Christmas morning.

“Hey, kiddo, gonna sleep all day?” James’ father said warmly.

“No, Daddy,” James said, rubbing his head and throwing off his blankets. He stretched and stifled an urge to roar.

James’ mother fussed with his hair and knelt down and kissed him. “And what is my little man going to be, today?” she asked.

James thought about it for a minute...sorting through all the things he could be and was...an elf, an eagle, an angel, an important part of the world, and a vital part of the universe, a little boy loved by his parents...and then he stretched again and smiled a shy, sly smile. “I’m going to be what I am, Mommy...” he said impishly. “...a dinosaur!”

James’ mother smiled and shook her head. “How silly of me,” she said, tickling his belly and making him giggle despite himself (dinosaurs usually don’t giggle, of course, but he could make an exception for Mommy.)

They all laughed and James’ father lifted him up off the floor and carried him out to the Christmas tree.

- for Jamie (always and forever my favorite dinosaur boy) -

More Christmas stories can be found here: Christmas Annex

A blog entry on Christmas music can be found here: Neverending Rainbow

Grey (an excerpt from an unfinished play)

When I was a young man (so very many moons ago) I occasionally experimented with writing plays. The following was the beginning of a three-act play that I never finished (a lot of the themes and characters found their way into stories in one fashion or another.) I found it while going through some files. Fair warning: there is adult language in this piece.

SCENE-

A disarrayed bedroom and kitchen. Malcolm Kendricks is draped across the bed (which is off to the right of the stage near to a door which leads to the bathroom), not completely covered by the jumble of blankets and sheets. He is snoring. Loudly.

On the floor next to the bed is an overturned ice-bucket, an overturned tumbler, a legal pad, and several balled-up sheets of yellow paper. On the bedside table is a bottle rum (three-fourths empty), a digital clock-radio (the time is 11:59), an ashtray, and a half-empty pack of Salems.

Centerstage in the foreground is a u-shaped desk unit with a personal computer on the left side (the screen is still on), a battered manual typewriter on the right side, and in the middle, a pair of glasses, a lamp, an ashtray, and a telephone connected to an answering machine (the "message waiting" light in blinking.) Just beyond the desk is an unpainted wooden cabinet with a stereo system and several dozen compact discs and cassettes haphazardly "filed". On top of the cabinet are a half-dozen stuffed animals of various sizes. Next to that is another unpainted cabinet jammed from top to bottom with books and magazines.

To the left is a small kitchen with a small stove, a microwave oven, and a refrigerator. The sink is filled to overflowing with glasses and dishes. Between the desk and the kitchen is a door with a mailslot in the middle. Today's mail is piled up on the floor (it includes several large manilla envelopes, bills, and a smaller, bulging envelope with no postage or return address.)

The clock changes to 12:00; it is Noon and the room is suddenly filled with the tinny sounds of a nondescript rock song. Kendricks groans and pulls the sheet up over his head.

KENDRICKS: ...uh...Jesus...shut the hell up!...

(Kendricks rolls over and slams down the mute button on the clock. It falls silent. He sits up looking with sleepy disinterest at the mess on the floor.)

KENDRICKS: Malcolm, I do believe that you are hungover...

(Kendricks rises and wobbles against the edge of the bed.)

KENDRICKS: Yep. You are definitely hungover this morning, son...

(He laughs and stumbles into the bathroom. The phone rings twice and Kendricks' recorded voice can be heard.)

KENDRICKS (from the tape): This is Malcolm. I'm not home...or maybe I am and I'm just being anti-social. In any case, you haven't reached the party to whom you wish to speak. Leave your name and number (you know when) and I'll talk back at ya sometime later. Bye.

(A short, sharp beep sounds and then the pitched, insistent voice of Elizabeth Morris can be heard as Kendricks walks unsteadily back into the room wearing a robe.)

MORRIS (from the phone): Malcolm, it's Liz, are you there?...damn...look, Mal, the publisher is on my ass about those revisions! They need them yesterday! I'm this close to getting the deal closed, Mal, so please, don't pull that temperamental artiste bullshit right now, okay? We need this article to show them what we can do so they'll green light us on the book. Call me as soon as you get in, 'kay?

KENDRICKS: Fuck you, Liz. "We" ain't gonna do anything, I'm the one who has to write the goddamn thing...

(He crosses the room to the kitchen and extracts a mug from the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. He fills it with coffee from the pot on the stove and places it in the microwave. He crosses the room again pausing to place a disc in the CD player. The room fills with Bach's "Air on the G String". Kendricks shakes a cigarette from the pack on the bedtable and lights it. The microwave beeps and he trudges back across the room humming absently, and decidedly offkey, with the music. He takes the now-steaming cup of coffee out of the oven and gingerly sips at it.)

KENDRICKS (looking over at his desk for the first time): And now, dear friends, to work.

(He glances at the pile of mail by the door.)

KENDRICKS: But first, a word from our sponsor...

(He scoops up the mail and drops it onto the desk. Seating himself, he rewinds the answering machine tape while he sips the coffee and takes long drags on his Salem. The answering whirs to a stop and then the first message begins.)

RICK (from the tape): Mal, ol' pal, why'd you leave so early, dude? It's still a happenin' party...and that hot little Mexican babe has been lookin' for you...

RICK (laughing lecherously): I guess she wants to find out if what they say about you nig...black guys...is true! C'mon back, man, this party's gonna be going on all night and it needs some "soul"! Check you later, dude!

(Kendricks grunts and sips his coffee thoughtfully. The machine beeps again.)

CLAUDIA KENDRICKS (from the tape): I hate these machines! Uh, this is your mother, big guy. I just, um, wanted to remind you that we're all getting together at Aunt Sadie's tomorrow at 3 and that everybody's expecting that you're going to be there. Call me in the morning, okay? I love you.

KENDRICKS (softly): Shit...

(He starts sifting idly through the stack of mail as the beep sounds once more.)

LAUREL PAULSON (from the tape): Hi, baby, it's me.

(There is a moment of anxious silence.)

LAUREL: I'm sorry I couldn't go to Rick's party with you but I had some things to think about...

KENDRICKS (frowning): Do tell.

LAUREL: ...I...I'll tell you more later...in a way more comfortable for me...I love you...

KENDRICKS (nodding): Do tell.

(The machine beeps again.)

MORRIS (from the tape): Malcolm, it's Liz...

(He shuts the machine off.)

KENDRICKS: Yes, Elizabeth, I heard you before.

(He removes the message tape from the machine and tosses it into a desk drawer; he rifles through a number of tapes and puts another one in the machine. He glances over at the computer screen and shrugs. He picks up and opens one of the manilla envelopes.)

KENDRICKS (reading): "Dear writer...thank you for submitting your poem to us. Unfortunately, it does not meet our current editorial needs..." Yadda, yadda, yadda...

(The phone rings again.)

KENDRICKS (from the tape): Gracious good evening or afternoon, y'all, this here be Malcolm talkin' at ya. Ain't here right now. Holler at me when you hear that tone-thang and I'll hook ya up later. Peace!

(The beep sounds.)

MORRIS (from the machine): That's a very...um..."ethnic" message, Malcolm. And since you've changed the message, I presume that you're home so pick up the phone please...

(Kendricks sighs and presses the speaker button.)

KENDRICKS: Mornin', Liz.

MORRIS: It's afternoon, sport. Where the hell have you been?

KENDRICKS: Sleeping.

MORRIS: Christalmighty, Mal! What're you trying to do to us? You've got to get that article done so that I can get it to the publishers. They're very interested in the subject and I'm almost positive that we can get a contract and an advance for the book...maybe a series of books...out of them!

KENDRICKS (yawning): Uh-huh.

MORRIS: This is what we've been working for! A book about one African-American's learned outlook on the future of his race...the destiny...the pitfalls. Your essays will stir a fire in literary circles unlike anything since James Baldwin and Richard Wright were alive!

KENDRICKS (ruefully): Little Negro in Slumberland...

MORRIS: I'm sorry? I didn't quite get that...

KENDRICKS: Nothing, Liz. Look, I'm almost done with it, I'll bring it down to you tomorrow morning.

MORRIS: Great! I'll call the publisher and arrange to see them tomorrow afternoon.

KENDRICKS: Have you had time to look at my poems yet?

MORRIS: ...uh, not really. Listen, Mal, I know you like writing this stuff but, as your agent, I keep telling you that there's no market for it...stick to what sells, kiddo, and we'll be going gangbusters!

KENDRICKS: Yeah, yeah, yeah...

MORRIS: Keep your energies focused towards that article now. Don't let me down, kiddo.

KENDRICKS: Have I ever?

MORRIS (laughing warmly): No, you're an angel. And I'm going to turn you into the hottest African-American writer on the face of the planet, just you wait and see!

KENDRICKS (wryly): My heroine.

MORRIS: That's the spirit, tiger!

KENDRICKS: But let's make that "black writer", okay? I'll wait awhile before adding all those other politically correct syllables...

MORRIS: ...uh...we'll talk. Now get to work! Call me later, 'kay? Ciao.

KENDRICKS: Yeah, live long and prosper.

(He presses the speaker button again. He turns and faces the computer screen again.)

KENDRICKS: Jesus, I'm too hungover for this...

(He stops and rubs his eyes. Then he laughs a low, sardonic laugh.)

KENDRICKS: C'mon, boy, what would James Baldwin and Richard Wright do?

(He starts to type, slowly at first but picking up speed as he goes. He shakes his head and chuckles again.)

KENDRICKS: ..."African-American"...Jesus...

(He types on, picking up his glasses and getting more and more involved in what he's doing.)

Thanksgiving

Giving thanks…

for sunshine and rainstorms,

for laughter that warms the night and soothes the soul,

for tears that wash the day and gives wing to heartache…

giving thanks,

loud and strong, soft and sweet,

for strong quiet men and sweet happy girls

and children who dance ‘cause there are a thousand tomorrows…

Giving thanks…

for hummingbirds and wildflowers,

for lovesongs and daydreams and requited passion,

for pain and sorrow, joy and forgiveness, hope and faith…

giving thanks,

reverent and free, humble and bold,

for the wisdom to remember all our yesterdays,

and the strength to embrace all of our bittersweet tomorrows…

Giving thanks…