Entries in "fiction"
The Turtle God
Thousands of years ago, when humans weren't yet imagined, turtles lived peaceful and prosperous lives in and around the world's lakes and oceans. They spent their days in the usual turtle ways: swimming, eating, lounging on the beach, sharing gossip and making new turtles. For a time their lives were easy. Food was abundant, but predators were not.
Alas while the turtles were minding their own business, some of the earth's other creatures were evolving. Small harmless lizards spawned larger and larger offspring. They evolved into a variety of shapes and sizes, many of which had hearty appetites and large pointy teeth—sharp teeth seemingly designed to rip through fresh turtle flesh.
Beaches once renowned for soft sand and snack-laden tide pools became popular fast food restaurants for dinosaurs. Being slow afoot, turtles were the top-selling item on the menu. Tired of watching their loved ones being devoured, and fearful of their own imminent mortality, the turtle elders gathered together to plan their defense strategy.
Some species chose to spend more time in the deep ocean—far from the dinosaurs reach. Others hid in caves and other locations difficult to find. Yet all of the turtles knew that they still had to spend some time in the open—if for no other reason than to lay their eggs. To protect themselves, they posted sentinels outside popular beaches to shout warnings when a dinosaur approached. This worked well for the turtles on the beach, but not so well for the sentinels. Unable to retreat in time, their warning calls became dinner bells—rare was the turtle who lived to stand duty more than once.
The turtles were easy prey for a variety of reasons. They moved slowly on land, they weren't used to predators and they were easy to chew. The elders recognized this, but they didn't know how to overcome the obstacles. They tried prayer, but heard no answers. They dug deep moats, which the dinosaurs crossed with ease. They rubbed themselves with pungent herbs and oils—in order to repel the predators—but found the dinosaurs actually preferred turtles in marinade.
As the shamans tried to work their magic, the engineers their defense systems, and the scientists their potions, a young turtle, named Terry, stared sadly into a tide pool. A microcosm of the world, the small pool was rife with activity. Larger animals ate the small one and hard shelled creatures ate the soft ones. “That's the problem,” he thought, “out here, in this world, we're the ones who are small and soft. If we had shells, like the crabs and scallops, we wouldn't be so easy to eat. That's it! We should grow shells; we just need to learn how.”
With a solution in mind, Terry waddled excitedly to the cave of the elders. “Shells!” he yelled, “We have to grow shells to armor ourselves. Instead of hiding in caves we can hide in our very own shells.”
“Did you just decide to grow your tail? Is your nose the result of a whim? How do you propose to grow a shell?” asked the village chief.
“With magic and science.”
“Our magic is strong.” Said a shaman. “But to create such a spell we would need to know what the shell should be made from and the shape it should take.”
“I could study the other shelled creatures and come up with the ingredients to make a sturdy shell,” one of the scientists replied.
“And we can come up with a design that will be both strong and light,” responded an engineer.
Excitement in the cave grew as the turtles started developing their plans. The chemists and materials scientists analyzed various ingredients, the engineers focused on shape and structure, and the shamans began writing a spell that would invoke the appropriate growth. Within six months they were ready for beta-testing.
The shamans began with a visit to the tide pools. There they cast spells upon jellyfish and watched as the gelatinous creatures grew armor and sank under the weight. The spell seemed to work, but they had to test it on a turtle to know for sure.
Testing would be dangerous. If the spell didn't work correctly the turtle could be disfigured or even killed. They had lost so many to the dinosaurs, they didn't want to chance losing another in the experiment. The village chief called for volunteers. Many discussed the idea—bragging of their potential heroism—but in the end, all but one had an excuse for not volunteering. That one was young Terry from the tide pool.
“It was my idea.” He said. “The rest of you worked hard to put the project together, so let me be the one to test it.” His mother cried and begged him not to, but she too realized it would be better to die in service than as supper.
Hugging his mother goodbye, Terry followed the shamans into the cave, where they lit incense and began their incantations. Many hours went by as the villagers waited to see what would happen. Finally lit merely by moonlight, Terry emerged from the cave and the others shouted out in astonishment.
“They've turned him into a rock,” one yelled. “No, I think he's a giant coconut,” said another. “Whatever he is, he's moving,” said his relieved mother.
“It's bloody brilliant,” shouted Terry. “It's lightweight and I can move almost as easily as before. If something comes near I can just tuck in my legs and head and I'm invincible!”
“Did he say he's invisible?” I still see him, murmured a skeptic in the crowd.
“Really it's great. The shamans tapped on my shell and tried to get me out, but they couldn't. It's totally safe in here,” responded Terry. “And know what else is cool? If you pull in your head and start singing, it echoes.”
Once everyone had inspected the shell and determined it safe, the shamans proceeded to cast the spell on all of the turtles. The next day when the dinosaurs came to dine on the beach they were surprised to find that the turtles had disappeared and what looked to be a bunch of rocks stood in their place.
After that the turtles lived peacefully for thousands of years. Terry's name was passed down the generations, first as hero, then as God. By the time more clever predators—such as humans—arrived, the story was long forgotten, but the turtles continued to pray to the benevolent god, Terrence. Coupled with the magic of the shamans, the prayers transformed Terry from a memory into a powerful deity. The turtles say he spends his days swimming across the sky to watch over them—damning their predators, while casting favors towards those who protect them.
Like many myths this one may not be true, but next time you see turtle soup on a menu, it may be wise to order something else.
Who's been in my office?
My fiction skills have become a bit rusty, but all this talk of magic creatures gave me an idea. So here goes.
Someone's been in my office. I first noticed it two weeks ago when I saw that the Rottweiler puppet and voodoo doll had been moved from the windowsill to the bookcase. A few days after that, I found strange indentations in the walls. They were similar to nail holes—left after removing a picture—but shallower and more conical in shape. Also they were each only one foot above floor level. That seemed too low for even a leprechaun to be hanging paintings.
Given the usual disorder in the room, it was a wonder I'd noticed at all, but last Monday I stumbled upon, or rather stepped into, something that could not be missed, a fresh pungent pile of dung. The pile was the size of that which you might find behind the back end of a small spaniel. But, as I cleaned it off the bottom of my shoe, I noticed that the smell and texture reminded me of horse back riding. Had someone brought a miniature pony into the office? Had they defied the pet ban, which I, however sadly, obey?
If they were going to defy the ban, why couldn't they just introduce me to their pet instead of leaving me with a pile of pony poop? Flustered, I asked around the building, but no one else had seen anything unusual. On the off chance that some stray creature was on the loose, I called security, but without an actual sighting of the beast, there wasn't much any of us could do.
That afternoon, with the scent of barnyard still lingering in the trash, I decided I needed to know more. I took the trashcan over to my friend Jon in biology and asked him if he knew anyone there who could analyze the dung to determine the species. A few days later I got an e-mail saying it seemed equine in nature, but appeared to have been eating grasses native only to India. Apparently these grasses aren't normally imported as livestock feed, so this information didn't get me any closer to solving the problem.
Trying to forget about my mysterious visitor I got back to the tasks at hand. But the next day, after lunch, I found more dents in the wall. This time I also found bits of debris on the floor. Upon closer examination I saw that the bits weren't broken drywall, but something harder, more akin to ivory. They looked like they'd splintered off a sculpture, but I couldn't find anything else that looked like it was made from this substance.
Curiosity piqued yet again, I took some samples over to the Cleveland Museum of Natural History and asked a curator friend if we could examine the substance more carefully. He brought in another expert and together they determined that the bits had a molecular structure almost, but not exactly, like that of a Narwhal tusk.
Needless to say, each new bit of information has brought more confusion than the last. Yesterday I found some red spatters near the dents in the walls, but at this point I'm not sure I want to know what that could be.
Today I think I'm closer to postulating a theory. When I started typing this on my Macintosh, I noticed a clicking sound coming from the other side of my desk. I looked over to see the keys on my PC moving up and down, as though a ghost were typing. A few weeks ago this might have seemed startling, but these days anything seems possible.
The typing continued unabated until a few moments ago. But now I can see that someone has been writing. Onscreen is a poem entitled, "Beware the virgin huntress." It's written in rhyming couplets and has something to do with medieval forests and bloodletting. I'd share it with you but it's rather sappy.
It has however given me some ideas. What sort of equine creature would have a tusk and live in fear of a virgin huntress? The only thing that comes to mind is a unicorn.
This one is apparently invisible, rather small, and possessed of magical qualities, but what other explanation could there be? Also, now that I know there is a magic unicorn in my office, how do I make him leave? I don't think the animal warden is trained for this sort of thing.
Reality Bytes: Part 3
And here is the original final episode:
Scene: Our now familiar dark-haired announcer/host stands under a spotlight in what appears to be an otherwise dimly lit parking lot.
Host: Well America, with almost 25% of known viewership logging in, the votes are final. In tallying the votes and reading viewer comments we came to some interesting conclusions. What Americans want to watch and what Americans want to do is not always the same.
We saw a small but exuberant percentage of the population express an interest in following the life of a Mafia hitman on the job. It is no more surprising that these viewers--flirting with the dark romance of the Sopranos and the Godfather--would choose this than that none of them expressed an interest in being on such a show.
The prison show proved popular as well with many of you wishing to compete. One viewer, concerned about her qualifications as an upstanding citizen wondered if she would be disqualified for having a speeding ticket.
Some of you, though not many (fans of Friends perhaps), liked the idea of putting a group together in a house that the winning couple could keep the if they married. One jaded reality show viewer pointed out that these marriages never seem to happen anyway.
Many of you wanted to participate in An Apartment Apart. The idea of being locked alone in an apartment with tools, supplies and limited access seemed like a lot of fun--an entertaining vacation. Yet not as many of you were willing to watch someone elso do the same thing.
And finally we come to Fundamentalist Temptation. None of you voters volunteered to play this game. It may be that there weren't many right-wing Christians in our viewing audience. It may be that these more conservative viewers didn't wish to tempt fate. We have no way of knowing. What we do know is this. America is a land of voyeurs--voyeurs who like to watch others struggle with free will. Well America, as the snake said to Eve, here is your apple, all you have to do is take a bite. Welcome to Fundamentalist Temptation!!!
Voiceover disclaimer: The producers of this show wish to assure our viewers that we respect the values of people of all faiths and practices. Each contestant was subjected to a battery of tests, administered by psychologists, to ensure they were mentally and emotionally prepared to face this challenge. Each contestant signed a waiver disclosing that they have a full understanding of the nature of the competition and of the potential for embarrassment.
Scene: Garden lights come on revealing a path through a well-manicured garden. Interior lights come up to reveal the windows of a gothic revival mansion. Above the door in Flashing Neon the sign reads "Welcome to Gomorrah." Six chauffeur driven sixties-vintage pink Cadillac convertibles drive up to the path giving us our first glimpse of the contestants. One at a time the guests are greeted by our host and sent up to the house.
Car one: Betsy from Massachusetts, a clothing buyer for Filenes Department Store whose hobbies include rollerblading, glass-blowing, and teaching Sunday School.
Car two: Stanley from Hoboken, a successful businessman who owns a chain of Chevrolet and Saturn dealerships. When not working Stanley enjoys raising orchids and serving as a deacon at his church.
Car three: Nancy from New Orleans, a social worker committed to helping women who've fallen prey to drugs or prostitution to find new hope and new lives. Nancy believes that years of working the streets of New Orleans have prepared her to resist any temptation.
Car four: Luke from San Diego, a professional surfer who spends half the year chasing waves around the world. Luke feels his travels are a gift from god and give him the opportunity to pursue missionary work around the globe.
Car five: Candace. Unbeknownst to the other contestants, Candace has built an empire producing tasteful pornographic videos designed to entertain men and women alike without promoting the degradation of women. She has also recently launched a series of educational sex manuals meant to build erotic empowerment through awareness of body and spirit.
Car six: Carl is a retired Mafia hitman who found redemption through Christ while in prison and now devotes his time to mentoring young men whose life situations would otherwise make them more vulnerable to criminal pursuits.
Host: Here they are, six people from widely different backgrounds with nothing in common but a belief in redemption through Christ and the heartfelt conviction that their faith will prevail, and allow them to leave the show with the million dollar grand prize. In the course of the next few weeks they'll be exposed to temptations of the tastebuds and of the flesh of gambling and of alcohol. But most of all they'll be tempted by greed. Let's go see how they're settling in.
Scene: Host walks up path and enters house. Camera pans across living room as scantily clad waiters and waitresses proffer champagne, caviar, crabcakes, single malt scotch, handrolled cigars, and themselves to our nervous contestants.
Host: I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome you all to Gomorrah. As you know, you'll spend the next few weeks resisting temptation in the hopes of winning the million dollars. But what you don't know is that there are two prizes. The person who resists temptation, who stays most true to the practices of his or her individual church will receive a check for one million dollars made out to the charity of his or her choice. The grand prize winner, the person who will receive a million-dollar check for him or herself, will be the one who most clearly succumbs to hedonism. You have faith, you have free will, and now the choice is yours. Welcome to Fundamental Temptation.
Scene: Closing credits and scenes from upcoming episode in which the six contestants are placed in a hot tub and offered a challenge. The producers will send $10,000 to the church of the first contestant to remove his/her bathing suit.
© Copyright 2003 Heidi A. Cool. All rights Reserved.
Reality Bytes: Part 2
In my last posting I promised to publish a new ending if I received new feedback, but as that didn't happen, instead here is the original second episode:
Scene: Studio soundstage. Our never before seen dark haired male announcer stands poised under a spotlight.
"Welcome back America! Since last week's episode approximately 13% of you have logged in to cast your votes for the reality show that you think we should produce. Back in the green room our five writers are waiting for your verdict. Let's listen in."
Scene: Room with conference table buried in fresh fruit and five brands of bottled mineral water. 5 Writers sit or pace whilst discussing the potential outcome.
Barry: Courtney, I wouldn't get your hopes up about that Fundamentalist Temptation business. This country is getting more conservative by the minute. I don't think they'll want us poking fun at good Christians.
Courtney: Oh, come on, lighten up, what do you care, you're an atheist. Besides if they play by their own rules, they'll maintain their dignity. And if they cave into their temptations, well then they weren't that devout in the first place.
Stan: None of them will want to compete anyway. They'll think it is a mockery of their religion.
Michael: I don't know about that. There are always a few who emulate Job. You know, the type who are sure they can withstand anything. And what are a few prostitutes compared to death and disease.
Nadia: It doesn't matter. I think they'll vote for my idea. I think they'll prefer to watch individuals stuck alone in apartments. Every viewer can feel more like a peeping Tom this way.
Cut back to stage.
Announcer: Well ladies and gentleman, I've just gotten word that the rest of the show will be pre-empted for an address by the President. Since we'll have to wait until next week to reveal the winner, we've decided to keep the polls open. So login now (ballots are now closed) to submit your vote. Come back next week to learn who won and to view the pilot episode.
Cut to Presidential Press Conference.
George W. Bush speaks for 10 minutes about the urgent need to go to war.
Cut to national newsroom.
Various newscasters debate the effectiveness of the President's speech.
Cut to Coors commercial involving scantily clad twins and simple loud music.
Da da da da dunh do do do dee dum
Bright colorful graphics circa 1978 Peoria come onscreen to announce the local news.
Newscaster Mark: Welcome to channel seven's news at 11:00. Tonight in Parma, police are still looking for the bomber bank robber.
Newscaster Stacey: And in National news the President gave another plea for the country to back him in Iraq.
Newscaster Mark: What do the latest polls say Stacey.
Newscaster Stacey: As of this morning 58% of the public is behind the President, assuming a U.N. resolution is passed.
Newscaster Mark: I guess we'll have to wait and see what happens. And on the home front another reality show fakes us out. Joe Millionaire and The Bachelorette both left us dangling this season, and now the latest reality show. "The Reality Show" does the same. Viewers expecting to learn who won were disappointed to discover they'll have to wait another week.
Newscaster Stacey: But sometimes no news is good news. The show is keeping the polls open so if you've not yet voted for your favorite reality show you still have time. Just log on to (ballots now closed) to cast your ballot.
Newscaster Mark: I'll be casting mine tonight right after our show.
Newscaster Stacey: Me too, Mark, me too.
Fade to commercial.
© Copyright 2003 Heidi A. Cool
Reality Bytes
I've been a bit remiss in writing new stories over the past two weeks, so I decided to run an old one. I wrote this in 2003, e-mailed it out to a bunch of folks and included an online voting mechanism. Later I finished the story based on the voting results. As an experiment I thought I'd repost it and see if I get different responses. I'll then use those to write a new ending. -Heidi
Scene: An expensively illuminated, yet starkly decorated conference room. Tired of paying exorbitant fees to license reality television concepts from Great Britain, five writers have gathered around a table to brainstorm new ideas of their own.
Barry: O.K., you know how popular crime shows are these days? Well here's what I see, we hook ourselves up with five mafia hitmen and equip them with hidden cameras. Then America watches as the hitmen track down their victims and silence them forever.
Stan: Interesting, but I don't think legal will go for it.
Barry: Why not?
Stan: Too derivative. It sounds too much like that movie from the 70's in which game show contestants were hunted to death on television. We might have to pay to use it.
Barry: But that was government sponsored, our guys would be from the mob, freelancers. I think it changes everything.
Michael: I'm sick of all these shows in which they put a group of strangers together in a house, on an island, on a quest, etc. Why don't we just go into some bar or coffeehouse, find a big group of friends and put them in a house together?
Stan: What "Friends meets Real World?" is it unique? What challenges will they face?
Michael: The challenge will be getting along in a different environment. We'll buy a really nice house in the city where they all live. Everyone will go about life as usual except that they will be under 24 hour surveillance. The prize will be the house. But there is a catch. America will vote for the most popular male and female houseguests. The winning pair can keep the house, but only if they get married and stay married for 12 months. And of course we'll leave the cameras in place for the whole time.
Nadia: Interesting, I wonder if they would go for it. But instead of putting a bunch of people together, what if we separated them? Let's make 12 people live in isolation. Each person will be locked into an apartment. Food will be delivered through a dog door. Each apartment will be furnished with a bed, art supplies, woodworking equipment, tools, and a computer. The contestants can go on the web to learn how to use their tools but they can't e-mail or message anyone except the other contestants.
Michael: Do they know the other contestants?
Nadia: No, they'll get to know each other online. They'll be lonely, so they'll reach out. Here's the competition, each person gets points for everything they create using the art supplies, tools, etc. We'll need a team of celebrity judges to award the points. Whoever has the most points after two weeks wins $300K. But here is the trick, the contestants lose a point for every minute they are online. So they have to ration their computer usage.
Michael: And America doesn't have a vote?
Nadia: No, that's the biggest twist of all.
Stan: I think we've come up with some great ideas so far, but let's see if we can think farther outside the box. What if we take 12 law-abiding citizens, real upstanding folks with not even a traffic ticket between them, and we imprison them in Alcatraz. We hire guards, serve them prison food, the whole nine yards.
Barry: Do you think they'd let us rent the place? They'd have to close it to the public.
Stan: Sure, the government needs cash. And we leave it open. It will be a big drawing card; tour groups can come through and visit them! Prisoners will be paroled for bad behavior and the last one in lock up wins.
Michael: What if we put them in a real prison? We could see if any of them go bad. Maybe even get a research grant.
Stan: We'd have to ask legal.
Courtney: That law-abiding citizen thing gives me an idea. What if we take a group of fundamentalist Christians and house them in a Nevada Bordello for 30 days. There won't be any customers, but the contestants will be surrounded by beautiful hookers, handsome gigolos, slot machines, craps tables, fine wine, etc. Whoever doesn't fall pray to their temptations wins.
Stan: Do people still use the word gigolo? What if the winner is the one who caves in to the most temptations. That's a pretty big challenge. Of course we can't tell them until they get there or they won't sign up in the first place.
Voiceover of Announcer:
Well America, you've heard the ideas. Now its time to pick your favorite pitch. Vote online using the comments field below to decide which reality television show will be produced. We'll announce the winners next week, and tell you how you can sign up to be a contestant. Goodnight, and thank you for watching the Reality Channel.
© Copyright 2003 Heidi A. Cool
Wallaby Fillets in Port Wine Reduction Sauce
It was a warm fall day and I was scheduled to get married that afternoon. How I’d gotten into this situation is something I’m still trying to understand. Six months earlier I’d been having an iced cafe mocha at Arabica with Alison. Her friend Melanie came over with her friend Melinda, then ten minutes later we added another table to make room for Melinda’s friend Henry who claimed to have been in my class in elementary school.
As soon as he sat down I knew I was in trouble. Melinda, who claimed to be a bit psychic--having predicted the winning curling team in not one, but two winter Olympics—drew in her breath and said “I see a fall wedding with you in winter white.�
Then she turned her head and gazed right at me. I stared back, shaking my head and narrowing my eyes in an effort to look belligerent and unattainable. She stared back with that obnoxiously cute little smirk she has and just nodded. I blanched and made such a swift grab for my mocha that I spilled an entire gulpful down my shirt. I was then so consumed with wiping up the sticky brown goo that I wasn’t paying full attention when introductions were made.
Finally, having composed myself, I heard Melinda ask Henry so what was “Carrie like in school?�
“She was sort of quiet and hung out with the smart kids.� He said.
“Wait who are we talking about?� I asked.
“You.�
“But I didn’t go to school with Henry; I went to an all girls school.�
“Henry went to Boulevard for elementary school. You went to Boulevard for elementary school. It was a long time ago, and you probably don’t remember.�
“Where did you live?� I asked.
“We lived in the gray stone colonial where Larchmere merges with West Park.�
“Ah, that was my mom’s favorite house, but we never knew who lived there. You must have known a different Carrie, in a different year. The only Henry I knew at Boulevard lived on Kemper and he moved away after a year.�
“Carrie, don’t be silly. Of course he went there, but that was so many years ago, that you couldn’t possibly remember. Here I got you another coffee, drink up and listen.�
I took a sip of coffee (way too sweet by the way) and listened. Suddenly I found myself doubting my own recall. Perhaps it wasn’t Mr. Gideon we’d had in fifth grade. Maybe it was Ms. Pennington.
After a few more sips I began to imagine that I had known Henry in school. Just look at those eyes I thought. So deep and blue. Maybe I used to swim in them when we all played Blind Man’s Bluff.
The next six months were a blur. I’d begun to doubt my memory so Melinda moved in with me to make sure I was OK. Henry came over twice a week to watch movies, play cards and what not. He always won. I had this vague notion that sometime long ago I’d been the one who usually won at cards. But it didn’t matter, he was so pleasant, so calm, so reassuring.
At some point he asked me to marry him and I said yes. His mother offered to plan the wedding and I just nodded in agreement. Melinda helped me with the dress and accessories.
“Why am I doing this?� I asked her one day.
“You’re in love.� She said.
“Um, I guess, but shouldn’t I be eloping? That was always my plan. No big wedding, no fluffy dress, just a quiet service with the minimal number of attendants as required by law, then some cool party for friends, a barbecue perhaps.�
“No, silly. You only said that because you didn’t want to make a fuss. But deep inside you wanted it all.�
“No, I’m pretty sure I imagined wearing black. Not satin but something comfortable that I could wear with my biker boots. Denim comes to mind.
“Have another cup of coffee dear. You’re obviously delusional.�
“O.K.� I said as I took one more sip towards oblivion.
Finally, two days before the wedding, I moved into the hotel where we’d be having the reception. Melinda wanted to come along but somehow I convinced her that I needed some quiet time. During the first day I sat diligently at my desk writing thank you notes and watching Jerry Springer on the telly. On the second day I began questioning how anyone could sit through Jerry Springer for more than 30 seconds and decided to go in search of a good book. In the hotel bookstore I found a reprint of “100 Days of Solitude� and proceeded to stay up until 4:00 am reacquainting myself with the story.
At 8:00 I was awoken by Melinda and Henry’s mother pounding at the door. After I undid the latch, the latter wafted in through a cloud of tawdry perfume. I stared at her head in awe wondering if her hair tasted as much like cotton candy as it looked like it might. (Not of course that I wished for a taste, but I couldn’t help wondering what flavor it might be. Lemon? Champagne? Motor Oil?)
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.� She said. “We’re so dreadfully behind, your hair is so flat, we’ve got so much to do. Here you’ve got to review these seating cards, and sign off on the menu. And for god’s sake, wake up. Here drink some of Melinda’s lovely coffee.
Gazing down at the menu I saw mesclun greens in raspberry vinaigrette, grilled vegetable, and endangered Wallaby fillets in a port reduction sauce. Holding back my horror I pretended to take a sip of the coffee--which I’d finally deduced was drugged--screamed “Oouch, this is too hot, I better go get some ice,� then ran out the door in my bunny slippers. Taking the stairs instead of the elevator I wandered through the lower levels in search of the kitchen. Finally after a few wrong turns I came upon a large stainless steel room in which a man wielding a knife was screaming into the phone about Kangaroos. “When I said fresh, I didn’t mean ALIVE� he said. “What am I supposed to do with these?�
“I’m so sorry about that sir.� I yelled. “I’ve been sent to take those off your hands. Your fillets will be arriving any minute.�
“Oh mon dieu� he declared as he hung up the phone. “I thought these hopping beasts were going to overrun my kitchen. Here take them and get out. Grabbing the three creatures by their frayed rope leashes, I led them out the door to freedom.
Somehow we got ourselves to the zoo where the administrators took care of the animals, listened to my story and brought in the police. Henry, his mom, and Melinda have been jailed for attempted fraud. They were under the mistaken impression that I had a rather large Swiss bank account, when in fact I had a rather large ceramic piggy bank that had been made in Geneva.
I, for one, have sworn off coffee, but if you ever hear me discussing white dresses, please run my blood work and check with the police to make sure Melinda is still in jail.
Copyright © 2005 Heidi A. Cool
Hail to the Chief
Once upon a time there was a big country ruled by a parliament with a bit of input from a king. The king was a decent enough fellow--not the sort who would go down in history as the greatest of all time, but also not the sort that made the peasants throw dung and Molotov cocktails at his carriage.
He ruled at a time when people were relatively content. The wealthy raked in their dividends, the middle class got by, and the disenfranchised still had little hope for getting their share. It was just typical of the times, and while everyone knew there was room for improvement, none really blamed the king.
Actually a few did blame the king. They had ideas of their own. One of these fellows was the king's brother Wallace. Wallace thought the country was falling into an abyss of moral turpitude that only he could remedy. He also wasn't getting nearly as many juicy dividends as his brother so he wanted to remedy that as well. The only way he could see to achieve this goal was to become king himself.
Of course there are rules to becoming king. Traditionally if one isn't born to the crown, but has a powerful army, one can take over through a violent coup. Such leadership rarely lasts, because soon some other fellow comes along and does the same thing. Now instead of being head of state, one finds his head cut off and displayed atop of pike. Messy business.
But if one is born to the family, one has more options. A sharp knife to the throat of the monarch serves quite well if one is second in line for the throne and can find a scapegoat to take the fall. In this case it is best to find a scapegoat that everyone can agree upon. If you can find someone with different religious beliefs who has already professed to disliking the king, that's even better.
Wallace had no moral qualms about killing his brother, but the idea of watching him bleed made him a little queasy. So instead, Wallace brought together his best cronies to hatch a new plan. Well-versed in the ways of marketing and public relations, the cronies decided to send the king on a series of state visits to countries chock full of natural resources and people who dressed and prayed differently than did they.
While on tour they arranged for the king to simply disappear. The people were in shock. Never had such a thing befallen one of their own. Wallace took it upon himself to calm the nation. His cronies wrote up a series of inspiring speeches in which he coerced the masses into condemning the evil others. The media picked up the pace spreading the word far and wide that Wallace would not allow such atrocities to spread unchecked. As acting monarch he declared war, invaded the offending nation, and quietly filled his coffers with the shiny spoils of war.
The people cheered, for they knew they were spreading their own values of goodness and decency to the world. They had no idea that one of their own countrymen had taken the king to a remote island to live out his reign in silent exile. They had no idea that the people they were killing already possessed their own notions of goodness and decency.
Wallace said they were right and that was all they needed to know. This made them all feel good about themselves, because even if they were out of work or down on their luck they knew they were better than someone else and that made them happy and righteous. In fact it made them so exuberant that a tiny fraction more than half of them voted to have the King declared dead so that Wallace could take the throne.
Thus only a few years after the King had disappeared, Wallace was crowned in the most elaborate coronation ceremony ever conceived. Dipping into royal coffers he spent so much that even some of the disenfranchised were put to work--for a full day. Wallace spent the night celebrating on the dance floor, never realizing that somewhere on a distant island another king was slowly and methodically making plans to return.
Copyright © 2005 Heidi A. Cool
Happy New Year
Weilheim, Deutschland
Saturday evening Doug, mom and I were walking through the streets of Weilheim when we decided to duck into the local church to examine the architecture and warm our toesies. Alas the atmosphere was anything but warm. Upon entering the building we noticed a group of parishioners seated in the dark. In dour monotone they took turns chanting. First the right side would say:
Unser Vater in dem Himmel!
Then the left followed with:
Dein Name werde geheiligt.
In turn they spoke each line until the following was complete.
Dein Reich komme.
Dein Wille geschehe auf Erden wie in Himmel.
Unser tglich Brot gib uns heute.
Und vergi uns unsere Schulden,
wie wir unsern Schuldigern vergeben.
Und fhre uns nicht in Versuchung,
Sondern erlse uns von dem bel.
Denn dein ist das Reich und die Kraft
und die Herrlichkeit in Ewigkeit. Amen.
After that they began anew reciting the prayer over and over drearily enunciating each syllable in a celebration of joy akin to a five-hour wait at the bureau of motor vehicles.
Stunned, perplexed, and oddly frightened, we tiptoed back out the door as quickly and quietly as possible in the hope that they'd not try to subdue us into their nightmare.
As we walked across the town square listening to the laughter of children and parents hurrying home for dinner, we relaxed and enjoyed our return to normalcy. We were so busy chatting about the experience that we didn't notice Saint Nikolaus's sleigh pull up until he was right on top of us.
Saint Nick, sleigh driver, and Knecht Ruprecht
Looking down at us, he opened his notebook and shook his head. With a disappointed look in his eye, he roared, "Sie sind ein heidnisches."
Naturally I heard this as "Sie sind Heidi nichts." And was wondering why Saint Nick would both say that I'm not Heidi and why he would be so
disturbed about it. Was my name in question or was it my very existence.
Was he implying a complete lack of Heidiness?
I didn't have long to ponder for as soon as the great red saint had finished his pronouncement, his companion, Knecht Ruprecht, jumped off the sleigh, and shoved us all into a rather musty smelling sack. Picking us up as though we were a mere sack of potatoes he tossed us into the sleigh and then rode into the night towards Munchen.
As our fear subsided, I came again to wonder about what he'd said. "Doug,"
I asked. "Why did he say I wasn't Heidi? It says I am right here on my passport. Why did he stuff us in the sack? If I change my name to Greta will he let us out?"
"No, your name doesn't matter. He didn't say you aren't Heidi. He said we're heathens. He must have seen us sneaking out of church and now we're being punished."
"What will he do?"
"If we're lucky he'll leave us in the forest. If we're not he'll take us back to his cabin and beat us with switches."
Suddenly the sleigh careened around a corner and we in our sack went flying off. Seconds after hitting the ground we started rolling down an incline not stopping until we hit the icy waters of the Isar. Panicking we kicked at the sack trying to escape before drowning, but the sack was too strong and we too uncoordinated.
With the saints against us we were seconds from drowning when just as suddenly a hand reached in and scooped us from the water. The sack was cut open and soon we were looking up into the eyes of our savior, a tall creature clad in chains with two enormous horns sticking out from his head. Without a word he led us to his car then drove us back to our hotel.
Thanking him as we left I asked, "Why did you save us?" With a glint in his eye, he laughed and said sometimes we heathens just have to stick together.
Copyright © 2004 Heidi A. Cool