Always Will Be?

At a neighbourhood cocktail-party recently, I was doing my usual thing—wandering casually from group to group, wine glass in hand, smiling and nodding, overhearing and eavesdropping, trying not to engage directly— biding my time until it was time to go.

My wife, who works a room like the most polished politician, understands this about me, and seems not to worry about leaving me to my own devices.

party3

I was brought up short, however, when one fellow—an acquaintance more than a friend, but pleasant enough—pointed at me as I approached the small cluster of folks he was with.

“Here he is,” he said, “the guy I was just talking about.”  Draping one arm over my shoulders, he drew me into the circle.

“Oh, oh,” I joshed.  “This can’t be good.”  They were all smiling, though, so I raised my glass as I nodded hello.

“I was just telling everybody that I’m a regular reader of your blog,” the fellow said.  “Good stuff!  Really enjoy the articles.”

“Good, good,” I replied, nodding, waiting for the But

“But,” he said, “I’m curious about one thing.”

“And that is?” I asked, casting an eye to see if I could locate my wife.  This was exactly what I try to avoid.

He dropped his arm from my shoulder to reach for a canape on the tray being passed by one of our hosts.  Shoving it into his mouth, he said, “I don’t know how you can be such a Pollyanna optimist about things.  So much of your stuff is about the end of the world, about how we’re all going to die, about the mess we’re leaving for our kids.  And yet, you come across as confident that things are going to change.”

issuesI shifted slightly away so he couldn’t drop his arm on me again.  Everyone was still smiling, but expectantly now, wondering, I suppose, how I might respond.

“Well,” I said, shrugging, “we are going to die.  Nobody disputes that, right?  And I think we are making a mess of the planet, which may not affect us in the time we have left, but will surely have an impact on our kids and grandkids.  But you’re right, I don’t think it’s too late to do something about it.  Not quite yet.”

I gestured to the group, hoping to elicit a response.  “What do you guys think?”  A woman across from me opened her mouth, but not quickly enough.

“I don’t think anything we do makes one iota of difference to the planet,” my erstwhile friend said.  “You think blue boxes are going to solve the problem?  Most of that stuff ends up in landfills, so what’s the point?  You think changing your personal carbon footprint, whatever that means, is going to help the planet while billions of people in China and India are spewing pollution?  Please!”

We waited for him to go on.  “Here’s my theory,” he said.  “Every one of us was born into this world.” He paused for a swallow of his drink.  None of us could question his theory to that point.

“We didn’t make that world,” he continued.  “We got what we got.  Our parents called themselves the greatest generation.  They did the best they could with the world they inherited, and now we have to do the same.  Am I right?”

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“I don’t know,” I said, gesturing again to the group.  “What do you guys think?”

But the fellow was on a roll.  And I must concede, no one seemed inclined to step in.  He was compelling—even if (in my opinion, at least) a tad pompous.  I reminded myself that he was a loyal reader of this blog, and took another sip of wine.

“And we are doing the best we can,” he said.  “Nobody I know goes out and deliberately befouls the planet.  Hell, right in this neighbourhood we’ve got a group that’s adopted a stretch of county road so we can clean up the trash and litter.”

I couldn’t restrain myself.  “Where does the trash and litter come from?”

People’s eyes were shifting back and forth between us now, as if courtside.  And I don’t even like tennis.

“From idiots who don’t know any better,” he said.  “My point is that, for every ten of them, there’s only one of us who cares.  We’re outgunned.”

“What do you guys think?” I asked again, facing the group.

The same woman said, “I think there’s…”

“Excuse me, Marilyn,” the fellow interrupted.  “Sorry to butt in.  The thing is, no matter how many of us try to do the right thing, it’s not going to work.  There’s too many of them, the ones causing the problems.”

“Problems like the great plastic patch of trash in the Pacific?” I said.  “I’m told it’s larger than the state of Texas.”

trash-vortex

“Yeah, that’s a big one,” he said, waving his glass.

“Or the wildfires in California and Australia?” I said.  “Or the melting of the polar ice caps, the rising sea levels, the increase in global temperatures?  Problems like that?”

“All of those,” he said.  “You think we’re going to solve them in our lifetimes?”

“Maybe not in our lifetimes,” Marilyn said, quicker off the mark this time.  “But we could at least make a concerted effort.  Are you saying we should do nothing?”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” the fellow protested.  “I’m just saying we got what we got.  We didn’t ask for it, we just got it.  There’s five billion people on the planet, or whatever, and the planet can’t sustain that.  Not forever.  All we can do is what we can do.”

No one could dispute that last statement.  The question, though, is whether we will do what we can do.

“So, here’s the question then,” Marilyn persisted, on her own roll now.  “Will we do whatever we can do?  Or will we just bury our heads in the sand?”

The fellow’s wife, drawn by the sound of his voice, was at his elbow now, smiling brightly.  “George, there’s someone over here I want you to meet.”

He smiled down at her.  “Okay,” he said, “but let me say one last thing first.  Everybody knows we got problems, nobody’s arguing that.  My point is, there’s nothing we can do about them that’s going to make any difference to our kids and grandkids.  It’ll be up to them to deal with the world they live in, just like we had to.”

“So, you’re saying it is what it is?” I asked.

He nodded emphatically, setting his empty glass on a table.  “Exactly!  It is what it is!  Always has been, always will be.”  And with a cheery smile, he allowed himself to be escorted away by his wife.

“Always will be?” Marilyn said.  “I wonder.”

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As I nodded goodbyes and wandered off in search of my own wife, I wondered, too.  We know how it’s been; we know how it is right now.  Is this how it always will be?

What do you guys think?

I Haven’t the Time

I haven’t the time for anger or rancor,

Or grumbling, self-pity, or frown.

Though life may be slipping like candlewax dripping

‘Neath flame that is melting it down.

I can’t deign to hate it, to fight or debate it,

Death is what it is and that’s sure.

I know I must see it, for I cannot flee it,

It’s out there, so I must endure.

death

I haven’t the time to wish it were diff’rent,

For wishing just won’t make it so.

Yes, life can be strange, but nothing will change

Its seasons, its to and its fro.

We rise on the tide, and hope to abide

Its ebb, its washing-away.

For we get what we get, and death will not let

Us decide how long we will stay.

 

I haven’t the time to dwell on life’s finish,

‘Though I know it lurks, that’s certain.

When all has been said, I still look ahead

To life’s next opening curtain.

Adventures await through each unlatched gate

I encounter along the way.

The past is the past—so quickly it passed—

But it’s not where I want to stay.

gate2

I haven’t the time for life’s yesterdays;

Too many tomorrows still call.

At each dawning morn, I feel I’m reborn,

Unburdened by death’s mournful thrall.

To life’s joyous strain, I sing the refrain

Of one who is freed from all fear.

Death’s voice is keening, but without meaning,

For I am immersed in life here.

 

I haven’t the time to worry and fret,

To waste whate’er days I have left.

I’m opening doors, I’m dancing ‘cross floors;

I don’t sit alone and bereft

Like people who cry, and moan, asking why

Their lives are so misery-filled.

I’m out and about with a joyful shout

That death’s spectre has not yet stilled.

 

I haven’t the time to wait at death’s door,

Afraid of its opening creak. 

Life’s not about shrouds and gathering clouds,

And the grim reaper’s dreadful shriek.

The very best way to keep death at bay

Is to live my life to the hilt.

So, I choose to spend my life ‘til the end

Pushing on—that’s how I am built.

hiker

I haven’t the time for anger or rancor,

Or grumbling, self-pity, or frown.

Life’s about living, getting and giving

Full measure before it winds down.

When that day is nigh, as ‘twill be by and by,

I hope it will be widely said,

That as man and boy, I strove for the joy

Of living until I was dead.

Two Resolutions

“Okay, you first.”

“Me?  Why me?”

“You don’t want to go first?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.  It’s just that I’d like to have a say in deciding.”

“Okay, no problem.  You want me to go first?”

“You can if you want to.  Or, I will…whatever.”

“Jeez already, make up your mind.”

“My mind?  Why’s it me who has to make the decision?”

“You don’t.  But one of us does or we’ll never get through this.”

Silence.

“Okay then, you can decide.”

“You sure?  In that case, you go first, like I said in the beginning.”

“Yeah, because you don’t want to, right?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.  I already told you that.  But one of us has to, and you told me to decide.  I chose you.  Why are you making such an argument out of this?”

Me?  How come it’s me who’s arguing?  Takes two to tango.”

arguing

“Okay, look, I’m not arguing.  All I’m doing is trying to get us started.  If you want me to go first, I will.  If you want me to go second, I will.  Just tell me what you want so we can get going on this.”

“Oh, so now I’m the one who’s holding us up?

“I didn’t say that.  But I need to know how you want this to go.  I’m ready to start, but you can go first if you want to.”

“Right, so it is me who has to make the decision!  Just like I thought!”

More silence.

“Okay, let me try again.  It’s not you who has to make the decision.  I said I’d decide who goes first because you said that’s what you wanted, and I chose you.  But, since you have a problem with going first, I will.”

“Who says I have a problem going first?”

“Well, apparently you do or you’d have started by now.  I’ve already suggested that three times.”

“Suggested?  Is that what you call it?  Telling me I have to go first, like I shouldn’t have a say in it?”

“Look, I’m not telling you to do anything, okay?  I’m inviting you to go first.  Or second, if that’s what you prefer.  Just make up your mind or we’ll be here all day.”

“And that’s my fault?  Seems to me you’re the one who’s trying to control everything.”

Prolonged silence this time.

“Look, for the last time, I don’t care who’s in control.  I just want us to get started on this, and obviously somebody has to go first.  Who do you want that to be?”

“You’re asking me to decide?”

“Yes…please!”

“Meaning you don’t want to.”

“Jeez Louise!  Okay, I’ll decide, and I’ll go first.”

“So, now you’ve changed your mind, right?  ‘Cause earlier, you said I could go first.”

“You want to go first?  Please, be my guest.”

“Your guest?  So now I need your permission to go first?”

More silence.  Gritted teeth this time.

“No, you don’t need my permission.”

“I mean, you’re not the boss of me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Okay.  So now that we got that settled, you can start.”

new year

“Yes!  Thank you!  Finally!  Here it is then, my New Year’s resolution.  I resolve in 2020 to be more patient with everyone I meet.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, that’s my first one.  I have some others, but now it’s your turn.”

“Why are we doing them one at a time?”

“It’s called sharing!  I share one of mine, then you share one of yours.”

“Yeah, I guess, but we could do your whole list, right?  Before we do mine?”

Silence again.  Hostile now.

“You don’t like that?  You’re determined we have to take turns?”

No reply.  The beginning of a snarl.

“Okay, already, I’ll read mine.  Sheesh!  You don’t have to be so grouchy!  Here it is, and I hope it makes you happy.  You ready?  I resolve to try very hard this year to be less argumentative.”

Open disbelief.

“How’m I doing so far?”

A Christmas Story

On a cold park bench, enveloped in stench,

Slumped a woman—haggard, old,

With long, straggly hair, face wrinkled with care,

Clothes ragged—shivering, cold.

As I passed her by, idly wondering why

She was there, and whence she came,

She disturbed my cheer as Christmas drew near.

A mystery—and a shame!

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But one little lad approached her, quite sad,

Stood quietly by her side.

They spoke not a word—least not that I heard—

And the woman softly cried.

The boy bowed his head and something was said

Between them.  What could it be?

Then after a while, with a tearful smile,

She lifted the boy to her knee.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

He offered the hag a gift from the bag

He had purchased for his Mum.

A porcelain cup from which she could sup,

That had cost a tidy sum.

And from his worn purse a coin he disbursed

Into her scarred, bony hand.

It wasn’t too much, but oh, it was such

A gesture—humble, yet grand.

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So I stole away, embarrassed I’d say,

Compared to that little lad.

I hadn’t stopped there to show her some care;

He’d given her all he had.

When he left the crone on the bench alone,

Dark came to subdue the light.

The snow gently fell, I heard the church bell,

As day surrendered to night.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

At Christmas Morn’s dawn, the old hag was gone,

As quickly as she’d appeared.

I heaved a great sigh as I hurried by

To the church that I revered.

But on my way back…on the bench, a sack,

Tied gaily in Christmas wrap.

On the card, the name of the lad who came

To sit on the woman’s lap.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

He opened it up and pulled out the cup,

Ablaze now, silver and gold.

Reflecting the light, it blinded my sight—

My terror could not be told.

I fell to my knees, immediately seized

By shame for how I had erred,

Ignoring the crone, bereft and alone,

When my love I should have shared.

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Though it sounds absurd, in my head I heard

The Lord’s voice, loving but stern—

You have been measured; I am displeasured.

Now you must listen and learn.

In all of your town, just one boy I found

Who took time to pay Me heed.

He came to My aid, together we prayed

In My hour of greatest need.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

With sorrowful face, I asked for the grace

Of forgiveness, mercy, love.

His next words were clear, they rang in my ear,

Admonishing from above—

Take care how you treat the poor in the street,

They, too, are My children, you see,

And whate’er you do unto these wretched few,

You do it also to Me.

 

 

I’m Hungry!

“I’m hungry!”

That should be such an innocuous phrase, here in our land of plenty.  For me, it heralds a trip to the refrigerator, perhaps the snack cupboard, to address the niggling pangs between meals.

Mind you, a moment or two on the weigh scale would indicate I am certainly not going to perish imminently if I don’t satisfy the urge.  But I still complain, and I still nibble away.

scale

Sometimes, though, I wonder what it would be like if I lived in a currently-emerging country, maybe in sub-Saharan Africa.  What would the phrase mean to me in that case?  Could I blithely traipse to a snack cupboard, to a well-stocked fridge, to stanch the cravings?

Obviously not.  Were I there, I might not even have access to safe drinking water.  But unlike those poor unfortunates, I am blessed to live in a providential country, overflowing with nature’s bounty, where no one ever has to go hungry.

Except…except, that’s not really true.  People do go hungry, even here.

The United States is one of the wealthiest nations on the planet by almost any measure.  Among the thirty-four members of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, it ranks first in average household income, and leads the world in household spending.  The standard of living sits solidly in the top twenty countries.

However, the gap in household wealth from highest to lowest is larger today than it has ever been.  In 2018, American households held over $113 trillion in assets. If that amount were divided evenly across the population of 329 million, each person would have over $343,000.  But we don’t live in a co-op, and that is not going to happen.

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More than thirty-eight million Americans live in poverty, earning less than twenty-six thousand dollars a year.  The median annual income in America in 2018 was more than sixty-three thousand dollars, so there is a significant gap.  And of course, that number is a minimum.  Many families making much more are still considered low-income by most experts, and many have difficulty making ends meet.

Of the number living in poverty, thirty-seven million struggle with hunger daily, including thirteen million children.  When they say, “I’m hungry!”, it has real import.

According to the United States Department of Agriculture, this struggle means they have limited or uncertain access to enough food to support a healthy life.  Their families make choices between food and housing, between food and medical care, between food and utilities, between food and transportation.

Breakfast programs in numerous school districts provide relief to hundreds of thousands of children, except during holiday periods, of course.  And both government and community organizations also provide assistance, such as the Supplemental Nutrition Access Program and the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children.

food stamp

Still, the number of children crying, “I’m hungry!” hovers around thirteen million.

One of the reasons is the slow recovery for the poorer segment of the population from the economic crash of 2008.  This group was demonstrably the last one for which life improved after the economy began to rise.  Even when the wage-earners in the group found jobs, they were often paid only minimum-wage or slightly higher.

The Economic Policy Institute, an independent, non-profit group studying the impact of economic trends and policies on working people in the United States, found that between 2000 and 2015, wages for the bottom earners were flat or declined, and that the preponderance of gains occurred among the highest earners.

This is the time of year when I—comfortably ensconced in front of my television, nibbling on the snacks I fetched when I realized I was hungry—see heartwarming ads portraying people coming home for the holidays.  The snow is gently falling as they mount the porch steps to a house adorned with twinkling Christmas lights.  When the door is thrown open, they are engulfed in hugs and kisses from those already there, laughing and talking in front of an open, festive fire.  They are not among the lowest wage-earners.

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Indeed, it is a scene right out of Norman Rockwell.

I never see ads out of Charles Dickens, however.  I never see anyone like the Cratchit family, huddled around a miserable hearth, trying like Tiny Tim to find cheer and joy in the season.  But they’re out there.

For me, and perhaps for you, “I’m hungry!” is such an innocuous phrase.  For others, it’s a desperate cry for help.

I wonder what else we can do.

Assailed from Within

For six months of the year, I am blessed to live in a beautiful home in the south of Florida.  The house is nestled up against a golf course, fronting on a safe street in a lovely, gated community.  Granted, it is not among the grandest of homes in size and extravagance, but it is certainly more than I might expect to have.

Despite its safe, secure location, the house is subject to various threats from time to time, almost all due to the whims of nature.  It sits in the path taken by a number of hurricanes over the past few years—Charley, Wilma, and Irma since the house was built in 2004.  Only minor damage was inflicted by each of those, fortunately, but the risk remains.

Flooding, loss of power, and compromises to safe drinking water are other external hazards, usually as a side-effect of those hurricanes.

However, the most insidious threats to the integrity of the house come not from outside, but from within.  The greatest danger is from mould, whose major causes are humidity and condensation, which can arise from leaks, poor ventilation, and general dampness.  Once it gains a foothold, it spreads rapidly.

Almost as bad is the threat from termites.  Working from the inside out, they can do a great deal of damage before they are ever detected.  The signs are there, of course—stiff windows and warped doors, papery or hollow-sounding wood, termite droppings, small piles of sawdust—but these are easy to miss in the early stages of an infestation.

Both mould and termites can destroy the structural integrity of a home from the inside more surely than any external threat.  Vigilance is required.

I find this analogous to the situation faced today by the remarkable nation of which Florida is a part.  This grand experiment in democracy, self-proclaimed as the greatest nation on the face of the earth, does face threats from outside its borders.  It has engaged in two wars with foreign adversaries on its home turf (1775-1781 and 1812-1815, plus a civil war from 1861-1865), but recent attacks have come mainly from terrorists, both foreign and domestic.

With what is widely assumed to be the strongest military capability in the world, it seems safe to say the country will not likely suffer an invasion from any foe.

But what of the threats from within?  The nation proudly touts itself as the leader of the free world, based on the pillars of its foundation.  What are those, and where might they be found?

The US Constitution of 1789 begins with these words—

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union,

establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common

defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty

to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution…

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It has been amended and revised many times since then, but its basic premise has never altered.  Among its most important pillars are: freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, the right to bear arms, freedom from unwarranted search and seizure, the right to due process of law, and voting rights.

Its whole purpose was famously summed up in 1863 as ensuring that… government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

No foreign threat has been successful, so far, in efforts to thwart the intent of the framers.  The greatest reason for this is that generations of elected representatives from both legislative and executive branches have honourably carried out their sworn oath to…support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic… [and] well and faithfully discharge the duties of [their] office…

It’s called integrity.

Is that changing, I wonder, in front of our eyes?  Has personal interest—whether political or financial—become more important to some than defence of the Constitution?  Has political partisanship on the part of some trumped the notion of duty to country?  Has the job of some elected officials become, not to carry out the will of the majority of the people, but to curry favour with wealthy lobbyists and sponsors so as to ensure re-election?

lobbying

The answers are for each American to decide for her- or himself, I suppose.  But it is worth noting that, although some of these threats are being mounted by foreign interests, they are being encouraged and implemented by some from inside the nation.

Even the strongest tree rots from the inside out.

Benjamin Franklin, when asked by citizens what sort of government the delegates to the Constitutional Convention of 1787 had created, answered, A republic, if you can keep it.

We shall see.

A Worship of Writers

You’ve heard, I’m sure, of a murder of crows, a herd of cows, a gaggle of geese.  You know of prides of lions, packs of wolves, and barrels of monkeys.  You may even be familiar with a conspiracy of lemurs, a parliament of owls, and a convocation of eagles.

Almost every animal species has its own collective name, which is sometimes shared with other species.

Humans are no exception.  We recognize band of brothers, pack of thieves, circle of friends.  We may find ourselves from time to time as part of a flock of tourists, a panel of experts, or, sadly, a cortege of mourners.  And there are many more I have learned only recently—sneer of butlers, feast of brewers, helix of geneticists, and one I especially love, slither of gossip columnists.

To my surprise and delight, I have recently been invited to become one of such a collective—a worship of writers.  I had never heard the term before, though I have long worshipped the art of writing.

lost generation1

We meet once a week to read our responses to a writing prompt, each response no more than a page-and-a-half, and to offer constructive criticism of each other’s work.  The responses are posted on a private blog, if their authors so choose, for all to enjoy and ponder again.

The prompt for this week, the first one for me, is separation.  Each of us must write something to reflect that notion, knowing it can have many interpretations.  Here is my first endeavour—

*  *  *  *  *  *

“There’s no easy way to say this, Harold,” the man behind the desk said.  “So, I’ll come right out with it.  “It’s been decided that we’re letting you go, effective today.”

“W-what?” I stammered, shifting from one foot to the other.

“You know we’ve been consolidating for some time,” he said.  “Rightsizing.  It’s been decided that we can no longer afford to carry your department.”

“But…but what about our readers?” I asked.

Staring at his hands folded carefully behind the nameplate in front of him—Don Mountbank, Managing Editor—he said, “Ruby will escort you out.  You can take your personal belongings, of course, but nothing else.  HR will be in touch with the separation details.”

Ruby, the fat security guard, moved next to me.  I wondered why she’d been there when I first entered the office.  Now I knew.

“Don, wait, this is crazy,” I said.  “I’ve been with the paper for thirty-eight years.  Longer than anybody.  This is all I know.  I’m a news-guy!”

Still not looking at me, Mountbank said, “Harold, this is very hard on me.  Don’t make it even worse.  Nothing you say is going to change a thing.  It’s been decided.”

I felt countless eyes following us as Ruby walked me through the newsroom to my cubicle.  Everything of my own was in the knapsack hanging on the back of my lopsided chair.  I didn’t even open my desk.

At the employees’ door, Ruby said, “Sorry, Harold.”

The door banged shut and I was on the street.  After almost forty years, the separation took no more time than that.

o – o – o – o – o

That was three months ago.  I’m back in the newsroom today for the first time since.  The few people still left, when they see me coming, bolt from their chairs, ducking, running.  It’s not me they fear, of course.  It’s the Winchester 94 I’m carrying, my deer-hunting rifle for more than twenty-five years.

It’s the first thing Don Mountbank sees when I burst into his office.

“Harold!  What the hell…”  He pushes his chair back from his desk, seeking to separate himself from whatever might be coming.

The young reporter he was meeting with rises slowly from her chair, hands splayed in front of her.  She’d been hired shortly before my employment was terminated.

“Mary?” I say, checking my memory.  When she nods, I say, “Sit down, Mary.  Right there.  Take out your phone and record everything that happens here.  Audio only, no video.  Got that?”

She nods again, eyes wide, and takes out her phone.

“Harold, what the hell are you doing, man?” Mountbank says, his voice cracking.  “This is crazy!  You know what will happen when the police find out?”

“Shut up, Don!” I say.  “This is hard enough on me as it is.  Don’t make it worse.”

His arms are raised now, as if to shield himself.  “Harold, listen, you know it wasn’t personal.  I tried to save you.  I went to the wall for you.  It wasn’t my decision.”

I point the Winchester at him.  “Looks like you’re up against the wall again, Don.”

And then he soils himself.  Both Mary and I lean back involuntarily, as if we can separate ourselves from the smell.  Before he can say another word, I shoot him twice, once in the left knee, once in the right hand.  The sound is louder than the flat Crack! I’m used to outdoors, the smell of cordite more pungent.  He screams, writhing in his chair until he slides to the floor.

I turn to Mary.  “This is your story to report,” I say.  “Your exclusive.  We’re going to leave now, you right in front of me.  If you do exactly as I tell you, I won’t hurt you.  Understand?”

She nods again, phone clutched tightly, and we head back to the deserted newsroom.  As we approach my former cubicle, four police officers appear at the far end of the room.  Ruby is with them, pointing at me.

POLICE!  PUT DOWN THE GUN!

Mary and I freeze, the Winchester pointed at her back.

PUT DOWN THE GUN!  PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!

Mary raises her arms.

“Mary,” I say softly.  “This is your story.  They’ll try to take it away from you, but don’t let them.  You’re part of this, not separate from it.  You report it, understand?”

When she nods, I say, “Okay, start walking away from me.  Go slowly so you won’t scare the cops.  You’ll be fine.”

When we are sufficiently separated, I take my finger off the trigger.  The cops don’t see that.  All they see is me still pointing the rifle at Mary.

SIR, PUT DOWN THE GUN!  NOW!

But I don’t.  Instead, I pivot towards them, the Winchester in firing position, no finger on the trigger.  I’m struck immediately, three times, four, five, driving me backwards…

I’m on the floor…I see the ceiling tiles…the fluorescent lights…one is flickering…

Now I hear Mary screaming…

My chest hurts, it hurts…

And now…

*  *  *  *  *  *

I don’t expect my new writer friends to worship the piece, but I’m eager to hear what they think of it.  This is going to be fun.