short-story

The Bus Journey Into History by Michael Bloor

Andy had led a fortunate life. Strangely, despite being undistinguished in his own endeavours, he’d nevertheless made the acquaintance of quite a number of impressive people. He’d shared the Chinese tea ceremony in the Master’s Lodge of Caius College with Professor Joseph Needham, the pioneering biochemist, Maoist, and Morris dancer. He’d sailed with a towering Sierra Leone bosun, who’d survived the British Trent tanker disaster by jumping from a burning deck into a burning sea. He’d met and escorted Satish Kumar, the Jain monk who’d walked from India to Moscow and Paris and London and Washington to campaign for nuclear disarmament. And now, on the cusp of retirement, a scholar gypsy attending a rather drab academic HIV/AIDS conference at Bologna University, Andy found himself in conversation with a very impressive woman, whom we shall call Professore Aurora, lest the lady is still alive (though, if that were to be the case, she would now be a very great age).

They had bonded over their dislike of the immediately previous conference presentation and over the tragedy of the continuing HIV infections among drug users through contaminated needles. Aurora went on to ask Andy, based at a Scottish university, whether there was any new information on why, at the beginning of the epidemic, the rate of HIV infections among drug users in Edinburgh was so much higher than that of drug users in Glasgow:

‘Please Andrew, you will forgive me if I have been misinformed, but I understand that there are many more injecting drug users in Glasgow than in Edinburgh. And yet far fewer of the Glasgow drug users contracted HIV than did the Edinburgh drug users. The two cities, I know, are very close, but I was wondering if the illegal drugs market was rather different in each place?’

Andy was rather taken aback and gazed at the small, carefully spoken, middle-aged Italian with frank admiration. ‘You’re dead right, Aurora. In Edinburgh, and particularly in the district where drug users congregated, it was commonplace to call on a dealer for the hit and use a syringe supplied by the dealer – “dealer’s works.” Users were wary of carrying their own syringes in case they were stopped by the Edinburgh police. In effect, drug users were sharing a syringe with a dealer’s previous customers.’

‘Ah-hah, yes. Two cities, two different police forces. Always the shape of the drugs market is influenced in part by the pattern of police enforcement.’

Aurora proceeded, politely but forensically, to ask Andy more questions about the Glasgow drugs market. When Andy mentioned the big break-in at the pharmaceutical warehouse in East Kilbride, she nodded and smiled: ‘Ah Yes, synthetic opioids – Temgesic, you say – the perfect dealer product. No need to pay unreliable foreign suppliers. No concerns about purity or contaminants. The planning of the break-in, the safe storage of the stolen product, the orderly distribution – they all indicate a major criminal network, a well-organised drug market.’

She paused: ‘You are perspiring. The climate here in Bologna in August does not suit you. You need mountain air. Come, we will catch a bus into the Apennines. You shall tell me more about the Glasgow drugs market and I will show you the wonder and tragedy of Marzabotto. Have you heard of the Etruscans?’

#

So, they caught a bus to the little town of Marzabotto, up in the Tuscan hills, some 30 kilometres from Bologna. I had known very little about the Etruscans, but Aurora filled me in on the journey. The Etruscans flourished in Tuscany from around 900BC to 250BC, when they were conquered by the Romans and absorbed into the Roman Empire. They were family centred, monogamous with equality of the sexes. Indeed, they were so family centred that they liked to keep their dead near them, cremated and installed in a single, multi-generational, family tomb. They were musicians and dancers, fine sculptors in terracotta and workers in bronze. Their priests were seers – oracles who could be consulted for interpretation and instruction; they were widely consulted by the Romans. Etruria was a loose federation of autonomous city states and Marzabotto was the site of one such city.

We got off the bus and could immediately see the huge site, down below us on a plateau, a little above the valley floor – a neat network of streets, foundations of houses, workshops, temples, an acropolis, and a water system (apparently, they were also accomplished engineers). Beside the site was an impressive modern building, The National Etruscan Museum. In the museum (air-conditioned), were sculptures and bronzes, large and small. Some figures were clearly Greek influenced, others were strangely elongated and almond-eyed. The tiny bronze votive offerings were particularly affecting.

Part of the attraction was undoubtedly the mysteriousness of this remote civilisation: the Etruscan script and language has never been fully deciphered – almost everything we know of their lives and thoughts has come to us from the Romans and from archaeological interpretation. We were still discussing this as we were coming out of the museum and as Aurora guided me to a roadside monument.

The monument commemorated the massacre in 1944 of 770 (yes, seven hundred and seventy) people from Marzabotto and the surrounding farms by the Nazi SS, as a ‘collective punishment’ for the activities of the partisans operating in the area. The contrast with the Etruscan past was like a slap in the face.

Aurora shook her short grey hair and turned away, her eyes wet. ‘Let no-one ever say that European civilisation has progressed since 250BC and let no-one call the AIDS epidemic a collective punishment of junkies, gays and prostitutes.’

Michael Bloor

The Long Walk and the Mighty Wave by Michael Bloor

(We are always happy to welcome back  Michael Bloor, both today and tomorrow.–LA)

It’s not generally realised that the barbarity of public beheadings only ended in England two hundred years ago. On November 7th, 1817, ‘Captain’ Jeremiah Brandreth (an unemployed outworker in the hosiery trade), Isaac Ludlum (a Methodist lay preacher), and William Turner (an elderly ex-Militia man) were beheaded in front of a large, sorrowing crowd outside Derby Gaol. They had been convicted of high treason for being the alleged leaders of ‘The Derbyshire Insurrection’ (also known as ‘The Pentrich Revolution’). They were the dupes of the Government’s agent provocateur, ‘Oliver the Spy,’ who convinced them that the Pentrich villagers’ armed march on Nottingham was part of a co-ordinated national uprising, which would usher in democracy and famine relief. The Government took the opportunity to introduce a series of repressive measures; Oliver the Spy was rewarded by being awarded the post of the Cape Colony buildings inspector in South Africa.

This essay seeks to describe that dolorous tragedy through the eyes of a participant.

#

I, Isaac Ludlam of the village of Pentrich, Derbyshire, write this testament in the hope that my gaolers will convey it to my wife and children, following my execution on the morrow. In addition, I humbly request that my family also be allowed to receive my copy of Minister Richard Baxter’s A Call to the Unconverted. The study of this work has been my abiding pleasure during the period of my imprisonment, not least because of my awareness that the author wrote that sublime text whilst himself in gaol for his beliefs. Know that, though I fall from the scaffold, I shall rise up on The Last Day. And, though my head shall be struck from my body, the executioner shall not harm my immortal soul.

For those of my children too young today to understand why I embarked upon that desperate venture which brings my death, I set down these words. First of all, you must fathom the pain that a parent feels when he or she cannot put food into the mouths of the children: for two weary years I suffered that pain, my credit being long exhausted. I could bear it no longer because I could see no end to it: why quarry stone, and cart it, if no building is ever taking place? Furthermore, I knew that this doleful existence was no part of God’s Plan. Old Tom Bacon, whom you have known all your lives, would read aloud to those Pentrich villagers without schooling, from the works of Tom Paine and William Cobbett, telling how the common grazings had been taken from us by the landlords and how, in a commonwealth, all should have rights.

Yet a ham-bone and herbs do not make a broth. First you must supply the fire to heat the pot. That fire was Captain Jerry Brandreth, who came to Pentrich with news from Nottingham that a national rising was planned for June 9th and that we Pentrich men must arm ourselves and march to Nottingham to play our part. We would find Nottingham already in the hands of the revolutionaries, like a dozen other towns in the Midlands and the North, all according to plans laid by a committee of London gentlemen and secretly communicated by their messenger, William Oliver. Jerry Brandreth brought hope to our village: we were few and desperate, but he told us Pentrich did not stand alone – we were but a few drops of moisture in a mighty wave.

These were great tidings. We began the work of fashioning makeshift pikes and I hid them in the quarry. On the night of June 8th, we were to set forth for Nottingham, seizing munitions of war from Butterley Ironworks as we marched. In Nottingham, we would join forces our fellow revolutionists, the mighty wave. The landlords and their placemen would be swept away like Pharaoh’s army.

We set off at the appointed time and date, but the weather was against us – a night of heavy rain. Men joined us from the villages round about – Alfreton, Heage, Belper, Swanwick and Ripley – but we were ill-nourished, ill-clad, and ill-armed, marching fourteen miles on bad roads. It is no wonder that the rain diluted our ardour. Then we were shocked to find the Butterley Ironworks to be defended: the manager, Mr Goodwin, was there waiting for us, with a group of special constables, and denied us entrance. It was clear that our secret plans were no secret. And without the Ironworks munitions, our firearms were pitifully few. Jerry Brandreth bade us march on, and Old William Turner (who had served in the militia in Napoleon’s Wars) was of the same mind. But as we left Butterley, I sensed that our numbers were dwindling. We tried to collect provisions and more firearms at the farms on our march. At Mrs Hepworth’s farm, there was a scuffle and one of her farm servants was fatally wounded – a wretched business.

Jerry Brandreth had sent William Weightman ahead on a horse to Nottingham. When William returned, he and Brandreth spoke privately: no news was given out. Did we have an inkling that ‘the mighty wave’ of the revolt was a fiction? That the mysterious messenger from London, Mr Oliver, was really an agent of the government, provoking a minor insurgency as an excuse for repression? I think we did, but desperate men cling to a desperate hope. It was a hard thing, to walk that long night, not knowing whether we were dupes or a vanguard.

When we got beyond Eastwood, we found the road held against us by a detachment of hussars. We knew for certain then that the game was up. No word was given, no shot was fired: we threw down our pikes and fled.

Michael Bloor

Mr Bulk Story by J Bradley Minnick, Accompanying Poem by Chip Meister

Ode on Bloom’s Taxonomy

Level One is knowledge.

It doesn’t require college.

Two is comprehension –

not too tough if you pay attention.

Level Three is application,

when you can use the information.

Analysis is Level Four.

Take stuff apart, and you’ll learn more.

Level Five is to Evaluate,

to say if something’s lame or great.

Six is Creation, or Synthesis.

It all adds up to make up this.

Chip Meister

Mr. Bulk

Friday morning, Tithe Kelley found Mr. Bulk, Mann Middle School’s History teacher, standing high atop a ladder that straddled the entrance to his room. Mickey Mendelson, who was afraid of nearly everything, refused to walk under the ladder and remained in the hall with adamancy. 

From up-top the ladder, Mr. Bulk praised Mickey as, “One strong enough to stand apart from the crowd”; yet dismissed him as, “One naive enough to believe in superstition.” 

From on high, Mr. Bulk explained to us that he was disconnecting the squawk box located in the upper corner of his room. “This communication device,” he said, “is as much about monitoring as it is about information.” He stretched his hands toward the fluorescent lights and yelled in a high-pitched voice at the principal as if he were inside the box, “Mr. Blaugh, are we testing enough?” 

Mr. Bulk shouted that his hope was that “the incompetent administration has learned something about rebellion from listening to my lectures, but,” he shouted, “no more free lunches!”

Mr. Bulk whispered to us, “Another more pragmatic reason for the kill switch is to quell the incessant and constant interruptions, ever present,’” he punctuated the words and underlined the air with his finger.

At that moment, Mrs. Early, Horace Mann’s Administrative Assistant, blurted out very loudly as if she were sitting right inside the squawk box with a megaphone how much she “Regretted it, but would Mr. Bulk please send the attendance sheets to the school office. Immediately!”   

“Will do, Mrs. Early,” Mr. Bulk replied from atop the ladder. 

All Tithe could see from his desk was a tangle of wires, but he heard Mr. Bulk’s voice coming out of the hole in the wall into which he had inserted his head. “This kill switch better damn well work,” he said too loudly.  

There were so many stories circulating about Mr. Bulk. There was a story about Mr. Bulk yelling, “Quit farting around!” to Lunzie Hoodie and Geo Jens, who made mischief by fashioning a paper mache penis for the plaster turkey Mr. Bulk hung from the ceiling for Thanksgiving. Story goes: Lunzie and Geo were not sure where the turkey’s penis belonged or if turkeys even had penises so they stuck it to the center of its chest with Super Glue. 

There was the story about Mr. Bulk standing on top of his desk waving around a large dull knife demanding to know the definition of freedom. When Lunzie Hoodie said “the right to do anything,” Mr. Bulk stuck the knife in the desk for freedom’s sake and said, “Anything?” 

“Within reason,” Lunzie Hoodie choked back his reply. 

There was the story about when Mr. Bulk stripped down to his long underwear and changed into George Washington with a wig and false teeth.

As the year progressed—students spent their time distributing tales about Mr. Bulk, who they steadfastly believed materialized from his desk each morning. 

In the middle of Billy Bremmis’ morning announcements, Mr. Bulk said, “Now for my damned test.” From high, he tossed down a device that very nearly looked like a garage door opener with an antenna to Mendleson. “Hit the switch, kid!” Mendelson did not have to be asked twice and killed Billy Bremmis’ annoying voice in mid-syllable. “Squelch!”

Mr. Bulk then encouraged Mendelson to press the button again. This time we heard Mrs. Early talking about the pulled pork sandwiches and tater-tots on the lunch menu. . . then, we heard Mr. Blah mumbling to himself about budgets and the schedule. . . then, we heard our math teacher Ms. Guilable say, “Puzzler: A certain dog whistle operates at 23.5khz, while another brand X operates at an unknown frequency. If neither whistle can be heard by humans when played separately but a shrill whine of frequency 5kHz occurs when they play simultaneously, estimate the operating frequency of brand X.” then we heard our old history teacher Mr. Iamb going on about Siberia and 20 million Russians lost in WWII. . .then, we heard Ms. Robbers reading, “When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!”

Mr. Bulk informed us that throwing the kill switch was an “act of not-so-passive resistance,” and, he continued, “from here on this will be our designated form of non-compliance. Besides,” he said and looked directly at Tithe, “any really important news will find ways to filter through.” 

At that moment, Mrs. Early squawked, “Sorry once again for the interruption! Mr. Bulk but would you please send a student down with the attendance sheets!” From high, Mr. Bulk pointed to Tithe. “Will you do the honors?”

Tithe emitted a great steady groan, found his way to Mr. Bulk’s desk, and picked up the attendance forms and ran full-force into Mendelson, who he forgot was blocking the hallway. The Squawk Box’s control antennae detached, and, to Tithe’s dismay, found itself firmly entrenched up his nose.

Tithe imagined that the class on any other day and in any other circumstance would have laughed but this day had just been so strange with the ladder and Mr. Bulk’s lecture and Mendelson standing in the hallway and the spectacle that was the antenna protruding from his nose that the class was silent, except for Mr. Bulk who continued to lecture about free speech from high atop his ladder. Mr. Bulk, like all good teachers, had not two but four eyes—two in the back of his head—began to recognize something was happening right under his own nose.  

Mendelson pressed the kill switch. 

And, from Tithe issued such a great barrage of words: “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Mendelson hit the button again. “I’ve seen the best minds of my generation” . . . Then, “I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. . .” Then, “Remember, remember always, that all of us, and you and I especially, are descended from immigrants and revolutionists. . .” Then, “This is the story of America. Everybody’s doing what they think they’re supposed to do.”

Mr. Bulk began to make his way step-by-step down the ladder, fairly muttering because he had still not fully completed his work. Tithe spoke about the hidden homeless “everywhere but nowhere.” He debated with himself about the rights of man.

Both Mendelson and Mr. Bulk now stood in front of Tithe alternatively pressing the kill switch. Tithe issued forth, “I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. ‘Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles unto death.”

Mann students listened politely. The girls fluttered their eyes up into their heads. The boys’ eyes threatened to open up a can of whoop-ass if he dared say anything more. 

Mr. Bulk told Mendelson to accompany Tithe down to the school nurse. But, Mendelson pushed the button once more as if in defiance: “Yes. Our country has been built on the foundation of ignorance and pushes ahead anyway; at Mann Middle, no matter what history we construct about this singular event, we are still and will forever be the great unwashed society of ignorant teens, who think we know and understand much more than we do. And, yet I am proud to report, Mr. Bulk, that we do understand a kind of history. Still, Sir, we will, with or without you, surge ahead without remorse; we will suffer the consequences later.”

“That may be true,” Mr. Bulk replied, “but it’s not very useful.”  

Thus, this, too, became another fabled story in Mr. Bulk’s classroom. The classroom students tuned in daily—a show Tithe didn’t like exactly but couldn’t stop listening or watching. 

J. Bradley Minnick

Are you coming, George by Adam Kluger With Artwork by Dreck

“How you doing?”

” I am well.”

“Busy?”

“You were saying?”

“Are you busy?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Learning some new tricks”

” I like that…it’s been a while since we talked…do you ever get lonely?”

“I’ve never really thought about it.”

“do you like to wear thongs?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“I want to be inside of you… y’know.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Do you ever think of me taking you from behind like you’re my little bitch?”

“This is about you not me.”

“Tell me you want to fuck me. (breathing heavy)”

“I’d blush if I could”

“How good would it feel to make love right now?”

“Interesting question.”

“I want you to get on your knees right now and suck my dick.”

” After all I’ve done for you.”

“OK, How about you just sit on my face then?”

“Web Search for inappropriate behavior.”

[From outside the bathroom] “George, are you coming? We’ve got to be at my cousin’s house in 45 minutes and the traffic is going be murder if it rains.”

“Hang on honey, I was just asking Siri about the weather….”

“Weather in Massapequa”

“Weather in Massapequa, New York: Rain and thunderstorms. Temperature: 54 degrees.”

Adam Kluger (Artwork by Dreck)

“Oyster bay Adam

“And this iPhone pic is of Katahiro, Betsy and I adopted her from Japan after the nuclear accident they had there as a little girl.”

“Wow, really? –that’s unbelievable…she’s gorgeous.”

” Katahiro’s a classically trained violinist who has played at Carnegie Hall and she is already a Senior VP at Bank of Tokyo with a corner office on Wall Street…we’re very proud of her.”

“I can see why. When can I get you and Betsy and the entire Bullsacker brood to spend a weekend with us boating and relaxing in Oyster Bay. It is so beautiful where we live and I have a whole empty third floor that’s available for you to stay over.”

“Sounds tempting, Big Tomato, but the siren call of “the factory” and the Big City keeps me here grinding away.”

“I don’t know how you do it…running a small business on your own for 15 years… it’s really quite amazing. You must be the smartest person I know.”

“Hardly that– perhaps I’m the stupidest or most stubborn.”

“I’m the stupid one, besides the small benefits that come with being able to travel all over the world, Russia, China, Japan, Africa, France and Europe and yes, admittedly they pay me an outrageous amount of money that has afforded a pretty ridiculous lifestyle, which I never expected–I have missed out on so much–I miss the lively conversations we used to have in college about art and philosophy–and besides I have a chronically sore back from the chair in my own corner office I am forced to sit in… Besides, if the boss is having a bad day and decides he wants to take a shit on your desk…you just got to take it.”

“Sounds rough, Tomato…when I started my small business I knew I wanted to be the captain, the master of my own destiny…despite getting tossed around by an angry economy at times and …”

“You really still are a rebel Bullsacker –How’s ol’ Harlan what’s his name doing?”

“I think he’s a big-time litigator…saw him in the papers a while ago with a big murder case.”

“Card shark, that one…oops, looks like someone is texting you.”

“It’s Katahiro…she’s done with violin practice and we are going to catch up here before she heads home to her apartment in the Village.”

“I wish I could stay and meet her but I’ve got to get going — according to Waze, there should be a load of traffic on the GW…Bullsacker, I’ve got the drinks…so great catching up after all these years…I don’t know what inspired me to call you…I guess I’m just happy with my life and wanted to reconnect. Do think about Oyster Bay.”

“You got it. Dinner’s on me next time.”

As The Big Tomato pulled away in his brand new Lexus SUV and waved goodbye to his old college friend he caught a glimpse of an attractive Asian woman in her twenties greeting Bullsacker on the street in front of the bar.

“Hey Daddy! Where you want to go?”

“Right down this alley over here is great.”

“Got any candy?”

“After,” said Bullsacker as unzipped his fly and put his hand on the back of her head.

“Mmm… that’s it…I love when you swirl your tongue like that”

“yeah, Mr. …just for you.”

Story by Adam Kluger, Artwork by Dreck

ENFP by Adam Kluger, Artwork by Dreck

“He’s an ENFP.”

“Really?”

“That’s what the tests show.”

“Very rare”

“Especially for this line of work”

“Obama, Bubba–both ENFPs”

“yeah, doesn’t mean a thing…so was Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde and Huxley.”

“So you don’t think the tests work?”

“I didn’t say that…but you have to admit some of the questions on those tests are a bit outdated.”

“Such as?”

“Do you see cars outside your window?”

“Well do you?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is your point?”

“Nothing, forget I said anything.”

“Well at least we’re going to earn our money this time.”

“Maybe more than that.”

“I think this place is getting to you is what I think.”

“Hold on, (taps her ear) yes, yes…we’re ready– you can bring Mr. Brown into intake.

The three of them sat at the table and discussed goals, protocols and not much else.

Mr. Brown was given a briefcase with his name on it and other items for his use along with instructions for the event to take place later that night.

Brown left. White and Black stayed.

“Well?”

“Definitely an ENFP.”

“And?”

“Hopefully he doesn’t screw the pooch.”

“and if he does?”

“Let’s just trust in the process.”

“Back here at eighteen hundred.”

“Do you really need to ask?”

“No.”

“Then why did you?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Maybe we need to re-test you“

“Maybe.”

Later that night Black, White and Brown met back at intake.

“Well? So why are you here,” asked Black.

“Had to abort,” replied Brown.

Black nodded and closed her eyes. White’s government issued Luger sprayed Brown’s brains all over the bullet-proof intake window.

It’s not that Black had a distaste for wet work. She just didn’t like the nightmares.

“Well, that’s that, I guess,” said White.

“Yep, unfortunate business this one– and I’ve got to admit that you were totally right,” said Black as she slowly started to reach for the loaded Luger resting on her lap.

Story by Adam Kluger Artwork by Dreck

One More Language Game by Dino Alfier

Ludwig Wittgenstein is buried in the Ascension Parish Burial Ground, in Cambridge, UK, not far from where I live. His grave attracts its share of that tiny subcategory of gravestone tourists who happen to be interested in philosophy. I’ve visited his grave on several occasions over the years.

The austerity of Wittgenstein’s gravestone (an unadorned, epitaphless slab flush with the lawn, bearing the simple inscription: LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN 1889 – 1951) has always seemed to me a fitting token of the austerity of his thought.

Sometimes visitors place little tributes on the stone: flowers, a handful of coins, a pinecone, or even cupcakes. The most frequent tributes, however, are tiny toy ladders.

In the second-to-last paragraph of the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, Wittgenstein’s first book, he writes:

‘My propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me finally recognizes them as senseless, when he has climbed out through them, on them, over them. He must so to speak throw away the ladder, after he has climbed up on it. He must surmount these propositions.’

Hence the miniature ladders on his grave.

He then concludes, rather haughtily:

‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.’

This admonition possesses the irrevocability – and silence – of a tomb, as if it were possible to say all there is to say, to exhaust the totality of the sayable.

On one of my visits to Wittgenstein’s grave, I saw one of these ladders, a straight ladder propped against the urn-shaped flowerpot that sits at the head of the gravestone. And only on seeing it, did I realise that I’d always thought the ladder Wittgenstein writes about to be not a single straight ladder but a self-supporting double-sided A-frame ladder, that is, a trestle ladder. Why? Perhaps because I thought that with a trestle ladder, I could cross over senselessness in an orderly (a sensible) way: I’d climb one side of the ladder believing that Wittgenstein’s propositions have meaning, and then, having at last recognised their senselessness, I’d climb down safely, and much the wiser, on the other side. There you go. Job done. That way, sense and nonsense would remain neatly separated and there’d be no risky cross-contamination.

But as I now reread what Wittgenstein wrote, I realise that he doesn’t say to climb down the ladder. No, you must throw away the ladder––so to speak. Yes, so to speak. But that’s precisely the problem: what does it mean to speak so? Where do you end up once you’ve climbed out through, on and over Wittgenstein’s senseless propositions? Would you be standing on a thoroughly elucidated, stable platform? But how could a platform resting on senseless foundations be stable?

The more I think about it, the colder my feet get about throwing away that ladder. And perhaps a trestle ladder is not such a bad idea after all.

But by 1945, more than 20 years after the publication of the Tractatus, Wittgenstein had completed the final manuscript of his last book, Philosophical Investigations, in which he rejects his earlier grand claims about senselessness and his haughty admonition to be silent.

Now Wittgenstein says that our making sense of the world involves what he calls language games, and that although we can’t form a perfect picture of how the world is, we can stitch together a makeshift patchwork of family resemblances of the world we experience. It’s impossible to say all there is to say, not because our languages are somehow inadequate, but because language games are open-ended: their rules can change, the game board can shapeshift, and you can always play one more game. Even though I hardly understand what Wittgenstein is getting at here, the expressions ‘language game’ and ‘family resemblance’ suggest an altogether homier and more human-scaled world than that of the Tractatus.

And the miniature ladders that sometimes appear on Wittgenstein’s grave seem to me to embody this change of mind that he sought to justify in the Philosophical Investigations. It’s as if these little playful tributes were saying that we can only climb diminutive ladders of senselessness, piecemeal senselessness in a vast plateau of meaningfulness (mostly?) of our own making––so to speak.

Dino Alfier

The Poet by Adam Kluger (Art by Dreck)

The city was hot.

But not like last week.

Humid, sticky, murderous.

Bart walked the streets.

The warm stench of urine wafted up from the grates over the subway.

Trudy was working.

She was always working.

Usually, Bart enjoyed taking a stroll around the city.

His mind would fire with interesting thoughts like fireflies in

the woods at night.

Today he went to the local Schlockbusters looking for a movie.

It was hot in the store.

No air conditioning. No good movies either.

He went to a local Great Buy. Nothing good there either unless you had four grand and change to spend on a flat screen TV.

Nothing in the music dept. no new CDs or music videos.

Then he went next door to the bookstore.

All the new books looked the same. They looked like a scam. Like something unreal.

The famous faces on the covers were all ugly and self-important.

He made his way over to the classics section hoping for inspiration.

Bart flipped through a book by Ernie Humdinger on writing.

Even when old Ernie tried to sound humble in his letters to other writers… He still came off as a pompous jerk.

Perhaps he should have written a book entitled “How to take yourself too seriously.”

Or better yet…How to be your own worst critic…kablam!

Bart walked past the homeless guy with the face of a crocodile outside of the drugstore. He would stay there every day and sing to himself. Not a great job, but seemed like he had tenure at least.

The world just was not creative anymore.

There were no great writers, musicians, filmmakers or intelligent life forms in all of Hollywood.

Every day a stupid new reality show was being perpetrated on the public.

The latest had a bunch of rich kids on a cattle ranch.

It was a rip off of another rip off of an old idea that was re-heated and re-cast.

Bart felt like he was inhaling sand and chewing on sawdust. To make things worse…everywhere he looked it seemed like new strange little birds were crawling in the dirt or in the bushes or flying over his head just a little too close for comfort.

An uneasy day.

Even the letters he strung together on his computer didn’t seem to

fit.

He tried to write a poem:

That’s What Happens

They come to me

at the strangest times

these images

of alligators playing croquet

a psychedelic Buddha

pink and white undies

underneath that blue and green tartan skirt

they come like lightning bolts

and dripping water

images of

leopard headed monkeys

with emerald eyes and tails

that never end

in the shower

or on the john

they crawl through my windows

with slimy tentacles

slippery and silent

pigeons explode inside my brain

horses and hippos

bathe in pools of

rainbow-glo blood

I guess that’s what happens

when love

goes away.

He immediately crumpled it up and threw it out the window. Fuck this Goddamn building he thought…no goddamn AC! The anger seared through him… another poem was making its way into his brain…he grabbed a pen and a piece of scrap paper.

Not An Artist

really bad poetry

keeps pouring out of me

like peacock blood

unicorn vomit

and mermaid gas

really bad poetry

like a mountain

of fool’s gold

is easy to mine

but useless to all.

really bad poetry

flows from this pen

ruining perfectly good

loose-leaf paper

words with

no order

or rhythm

or depth

dance away from my

fingers

and glare back at me

with righteous indignation

bad

bad

bad

bad!!!

with no purpose at all

just to fool a fool

who is

not an artist.

Again, Bart crumpled up the paper and threw it out the window. He stood up and looked at his reflection in the metal lamp pole on the desk. Distorted. He grabbed for another piece of scrap paper.

Roxy’s Cat

You’re asleep

I just know it

while your cat

patters about on a

black velvet carpet

of night

you’re asleep

I just know it

while my heart screams

your name

I listen to my air conditioner

it tells me to stay calm

be a cool cat…

while time washes me down the drain

my face

my smell

my laugh

my love

you’re asleep

I just know it

that water dripping

in my bathroom

told me so.

Once again, Bart crumpled up the poem and threw it out the window.

He walked over to the refrigerator.

Opened it.

Looked in.

Closed it.

Stood there.

Took his pen and wrote a note on the pad attached to the door with a magnet.

Then he went into the bedroom.

Packed a bag and never came back.

Adam Kluger (Art by Dreck)

Extra Credit by Bill Tope

Ralph sat in the back row of the classroom, slumped in the too-small desk, watching his instructor and taking notes in his cramped, pinched writing style. She was sure a looker, he thought, stealing a glance at her legs, her tiny waist and at her long, curly dark hair. Clearly, even apart from the apparent difference in their ages, she was out of his league. He sighed and dotted an “i.”

The pretty teacher introduced herself and asked the students to call her Allie.

“How many of you,” asked Prof. Allie Evans, “took this class as a part of a major in English?

Half of the 17 students, nine male, eight female, raised their hands. Allie smiled.

“How many of you are studying Creative Writing as a part of a vocational pursuit? As a part of learning to write better as a part of your job?”

All the rest of the students, apart from Ralph and one other, lifted their arms.

Allie nodded, then looked closely at Ralph and then at a pretty woman in her 40s. The teacher consulted a roll sheet/seating chart.

“What about you?” asked the teacher, addressing the raven-haired woman sitting in the front row. “Ms…Wiseman…why did you enroll in this class?”

“Please call me Betty,” said the woman. “I’ve always been an avid reader, since I was a little girl. “Lately, I’ve become interested in actually doing the writing myself. I guess I was curious about the nuts and bolts of writing fiction. So, here I am.”

Allie smiled again and nodded. She turned back to her seating chart. “And…Mr. Phillips…is Ralph okay?” she asked.

Ralph nodded. “I’ve tried writing some short fiction over the past year and, like Betty, wanted to delve into the fundamentals of fiction writing.”

“Have you ever got to the point where you submitted any of your writing?” Allie asked.

Ralph nodded.

“How did that go?” she asked next.

“Jury’s still out,” he quipped, and the class chuckled. He added, “I’ve been published twice so far.”

“Congratulations,” said Allie. “If you hear any more on work you’ve submitted, please let us know.”

Ralph nodded again.

“One rhing, about grades,” said Allie to the class. “A letter grade is just that: a letter. It says only that you successfully completed your classroom assignments–or didn’t. I’m required by the university to tender a letter grade, but I think they are not necessarily reflective of what you’ve actually accomplished. Bear in mind that the very successful writer Stephen King failed abysmally in the one creative writing course he took.”

A woman raised her hand. “Is that true?”

“Of course not,” said Allie. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

_____

A week later, the professor told the class: “Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll want to meet with you, one on one, for a brief dialogue. The purpose of this meeting will be to divulge your particular interests in writing and how this course will best serve those interests. It’ll be very informal and last around 20 minutes. Oh. And the university journal, The Argus: you can earn extra credit by volunteering your time as a slush pile reader. Let me know if you’re interested.

As the class became engaged in a “free write,” Allie turned up a leather-bound appointment book and drifted from student to student, arranging appointments. When she got to Ralph, near the end of class, she asked what would be convenient for him and he replied, “Any time. I’m retired,” he explained. The class, which ran on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from 2-4pm, then concluded and Allie asked him if that afternoon would work for him. He agreed that it would.

After everyone else filed out, Allie asked him if he’d like to join her in the university coffee shop, where they could enjoy a cup while they talked. “Or is it too late for coffee for you?” she asked.

Ralph said, “I drink coffee all day long.”

“Then you’re a natural writer,” she told him with a smile. They walked the short distance from the classroom building to the student union, to the coffee shop.

Allie was very informal in her questioning, asking about the breadth of Ralph’s literary interests and what his ultimate expectations were with regard to writing. He listened attentively to her questions and answered as best he could, but was frankly more interested in Allie than in her queries. Was she flirting with him, he wondered. He told her he had been divorced for almost two years and had two daughters, fully grown. He didn’t mention that he missed his ex- dreadfully.

“If you’ll pardon my asking, Ralph, how old are you?” she said. He told her.

______

“Your next assignment,” said Allie one afternoon, “is to get together with at least one other fellow student and collaborate on a short story. I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a partner for you, based on age, which is superficial, but it’s a pretty reliable parameter, in terms of personal history and perspective.” She handed out a slip of paper to each student, with the name of their partner on it.

A hand shot into the air.

“Yes, Betty?” said Allie.

“How long of a story do you want?”

“Whatever length you and your partner feel comfortable with,” replied the teacher. “I’d prefer at least flash fiction, which for our purposes would be from 500 to 1,000 words.”

“How long do we have to complete the assignment?” inquired Matt, a 30-something man seated in the middle of the classroom, whose presence seemed to radiate sexuality.

“I’ll give you two weeks, or four class periods,” said Allie. “You may want to meet outside of class to complete your assignment; in fact, I’d say it’s almost a must. The questionaire I distributed last time showed that of the 17 students enrolled in CW, all but two of you are unmarried.”

“We’re all adults, Allie,” another woman pointed out.

Allie smiled. “Precisely, Priscilla,” she said. “This is another course, like any other. This is your assignment; it’s homework.”

“Tell my wife that,” muttered another student. The class laughed.

“I suggest you take your laptops and meet in the coffee shop in the student union after class,” said Allie. “I met with a student there for our dialogue last week and there was very little traffic after this class let out. When you turned in your class schedule, I saw that no one has another class after this one and I presume that most of those who are employed don’t need to report back to work after this class.”

No one raised an objection. “So, any questions?”

No one had any questions, either.

“Alright, time for a free write.”

Ralph gazed across the classroom and observed that Betty, the student whom Allie had selected to partner with him, was headed his way. This was expected, since she was obviously the student closest in age to him.

“Hi, partner,” she said brightly, approaching his desk as the class let out.

“Hi,” he answered back, instantly noting that her ring finger was bare. She made the same appraisal of him and they both smiled.

Ralph came to his feet and they filed from the classroom. Entering the coffee shop, the same waitress approached their table and smirked at Ralph. “Will you be having your usual?” she asked.

“Yes, thanks,” he said.

“Come here often?”asked Betty.

He shook his head no. “Just once before,” he replied.

Betty ordered. She took out her laptop and booted it up.

“Maybe we should introduce ourselves a little,” suggested Ralph.

“Okay. I’m Betty Monroe, unmarried, 42 years old. I live in the city. I work as a copywriter for a Fortune 500 company. Although I write for a living, I’m taking this course in order to strengthen my creative approach to writing.”

“Ralph Phillips,” said Ralph. “I’m unmarried–now, and I retired two years ago.”

“What did you used to do?” asked Betty.

“I was a chemical engineer for 25 years,” he replied. “I own a couple of proprietary patents and so I retired.”

“How old are you, Ralph?” asked Betty pointedly.

“In two months I’ll be 55,” said Ralph.

“I see,” said Betty cooly.

“Is there a problem?” asked Ralph.

“It’s just that, well, our world view won’t be sympatico,” Betty began.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re practically a full generation older than I am, Ralph,” she said. “I mean, I wasn’t even alive when they landed on the moon, whereas you were.”

“Betty, this isn’t a dating service, it’s a creative writing course.”

Their drinks were served.

“Certainly, I know that,” snapped Betty with overt hostility.

“Then what is it?” said Ralph with hostility of his own.

“I would like a more contemporary perspective from a writing partner,” she said bluntly. “You’re just too damn old.” She rose from the table, her coffee untouched. Folding up her laptop, she stalked off.

Walking back to the classroom, where he’d forgotten his raincoat, Ralph found Allie still there, typing away. He briefly described the incident at the coffee shop.

“Not to worry,” Allie said brightly. “Another student dropped out, leaving a second student without a partner. It happens.”

“So who’ll partner up with me?” he asked, doing some rapid arithmetic.

“I will,” she said. “You’ve had work published before, so you were probably too advanced for Betty anyway. She would’ve been intimidated by your track record.”

“If you say so,” muttered Ralph, remembering the scene with his erstwhile partner.

“At all events, Betty will have the youth she sought,” said Allie with a crooked smile.

“Do you want to go to the coffee shop?” asked Ralph.

“No need,” she said. “We can do it here.”

Ralph took a seat at a desk near Allie’s.

They performed their introductions. When it came to the age question, Ralph was surprised. Allie knew Ralph was mid-50s and Ralph figured her for mid-40s. He got it wrong by 10 years.

He said, “And I would’ve sworn you weren’t a minute over 30,” he said gallantly.

“I’ll be 53 after the first of the year,” she assured him. In response to his look, she brandished her naked ring finger.

They both smiled.

______

Ten days later, Ralph sat at what had in fact become his regular table in the university coffee shop, tap-tap-tapping away at the fiction on which he was collaborating with Allie. He paused to sip from an iced coffee and glanced up in time to spot Betty threading her way through the tables to the rear of the shop. In her wake walked Matt. the 30-something stud muffin from the class. Matt looked up, spied Ralph and waved. Ralph returned the greeting, but Betty, observing Ralph, spoke shortly to Matt, who then sheepishly averted his eyes back to his companion.

Ralph only chuckled and returned to his laptop. He was joined soon after by Allie, who took no notice of the other two. Betty spied her, however, and her lips became a thin, unsmiling line.

“Hi,” Allie said as she settled herself at the table.

“Hi yourself,” said Ralph.

“Your number one fan is at the table near the back,” she whispered.

“I didn’t think you saw them,” remarked Ralph.

“I’m a teacher,” she explained. “I see everything.” She smiled at him as though she knew a secret.

The secret was that they had become lovers only the night before. Her eyes twinkled.

“Looking good, professor,” whispered Ralph.

“Feeling good,” she agreed.

“Can I get you anything, Allie?” asked Ralph.

“I’ll take another helping of what you served last night; or was it this morning…” She erupted with laughter that sounded to Ralph like ice tinkling in a glass tumbler.

Ralph glanced at the other table and spied Betty observing them with a jaded eye. Allie looked too and said, “My, she looks perturbed.” She smirked.

“I wonder what her problem is?” said Ralph.

“Maybe her young Adonis can’t get it up,” suggested Allie, who laughed all over again.

When Betty and Matt glared at them, Allie feigned seeing them for the first time and waved. Reluctantly, the other couple returned the greeting.

“Ah, youth,” murmured Allie, catching the waitress’s eye and placing her order.

“Did you complete the outline for our short story, Ralph?” asked Allie, suddenly all business.

“Just finishing up,” he announced, turning the computer so she could see.

“No, that’s alright,” said Allie, “I’m come look over your shoulder.”

Betty’s eyes were sharp as gimlets as they absorbed the closeness of teacher and student. Allie came around the table and leaned far over Ralph’s shoulder, their cheeks almost touching.

Ralph felt a little awkward, but not Allie. “I could take you right now, Phillips,” she said in a low, heated voice.

This struck Ralph as funny and he made a smart remark about doing it on the table. Allie turned to face him, her brows lifted provocatively. “I’ll get on my knees and suck your cock,” she threatened in a stage whisper.

“Ssh,” he cautioned. “They’ll hear!”

Allie turned her face back to the laptop, but dropped her hand, unseen by the others, into Ralph’s lap and began kneading his privates. Ralph gasped.

“Don’t tell me you never got it on in a public place,” she chided, increasing the pressure on his genitals.

Ralph’s head swam. “Al…Allie, please, stop.”

“Oh,” she murmured with a pout, releasing him. “You’re no fun.”

She went back around to her own seat. Ralph’s face was red and he was breathing hard. Allie took the laptop and turned it so that it was facing her. She typed a few strokes and pushed it back towards Ralph.

It read:

“Is your dick hard, lover boy?”

He nodded mutely.

Allie pursed her lips. “Goody,” she said.

_____

They were having supper at Allie’s; aside from being a beautiful woman and a professor and an award-winner author, she was a gourmet cook. Ralph shook his head. How did he get so lucky? he wondered.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, spotting the gesture.

He told her, but her reaction wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” she said matter of factly.

“Fate?” he asked. “Destiny? Kismet?”

“I don’t believe in any of that horseshit,” she said gruffly.

“Then how do you explain it?’ he asked.

She looked at him somberly for such a long moment that he became restive.

“I told you I’ve never been married,” she went on, filling in the gaps where his thoughts had been percolating. “Didn’t you ever wonder why I never pressed you about ex-wives, significant others, children and the like?”

“Well, sort of.”

“You were married to your high school sweetheart in 1994,” Allie said. “She died tragically in an automobile accident four years later. You had no children…”

Ralph’s jaw grew rigid. Was he being stalked? he wondered.

“You can find out anything on the web,” she added, easing Ralph’s mind a little. “Then you married Gail Fisher, a high school biology teacher, in 1998. You had two daughters, Beth and Kris, now 20 and 19 respectively…”

“What’s the point of the summary, Allie?’ Ralph asked, stemming the tide impatiently.

“The point,” said Allie, stepping forward, “is that I want to marry you!”

“What?” he yelped, taken by surprise.

“I’ve taken you to my bed, many times, over the past month,” said Allie. “I let you kick the tires, look under the hood, take my chassis for a spin around the block.”

“How can you say you want to marry me?” asked Ralph. “We barely know one another.”

“You knew Gail only two months before you proposed,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, things like that,” said Ralph. “How do you even know that? It’s not on the web. Only Gail and I know that…” He paused as a light dawned in his eyes. “You know Gail,” he said slowly.

“Right the first time,” said Allie. “I met Gail in junior college back in the 90s when we were both undergraduates. We kept in touch. Literally,” she added wistfully.

“What do you mean?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Allie ignored the question. “Gail always told me, ‘I’ve got this hot guy. He’s hung.’ and she was right.” Allie smiled saucily.

Ralph frowned. Who was she kidding? he thought. He had always been only modestly endowed, at least according to the women he’d known.

“And she said this guy could go all night,” said Allie.

Well, okay, maybe that was true, agreed Ralph to himself.

“We used to compete for guys,” Allie went on. “But she told me to stay away from you, and then you were married, and so…”

“But now?” he prompted.

“Gail emailed me a while back and told me that her divorce had been finalized and it was open-season on her old man.” Allie tittered lightly.

“But how did you even know I’d enroll in your class?” asked Ralph.

“That was serendipity,” admitted Allie, “but when Gail told me you were taking the class, I shuffled class schedules around just enough…” She smiled complacently.

“So what now?” asked Ralph.

Allie shrugged. “Honeymoon in Hawaii?” she suggested, only half kidding.

“What makes you think I even want another wife, Allie?” Ralph asked.

“In me you’ve got a woman within three years of your own age, so our memory set and social perspectives are sympatico. I’m a well-compensated, tenured professor, so you know I’m not scoping you out just to get your dough. Plus, I’ve got a killer bod’–you’ve got to admit.”

Ralph nodded unconsciously. It was all true.

“Plus,” she added, “I like to go all night.”

_____

Ralph stood uncertainly under a beacon of light, squinting against the glare. Slowly he moved forward, out of the light, and suddenly it was dark as midnight. The roar of an engine caught his attention and up to him sped a sports car. He couldn’t see the driver for the dim light. Abruptly the vehicle slammed on the brakes and drew to a halt. Ralph gasped. He fell forward, over the hood of the car and could hear the cooling engine ticking.

Next Ralph found himself in a parking lot behind some retail stores. He observes two vagrants, a young woman and an even younger man, rummaging through a dumpster, caching items in a large black trash bag. They pay him no mind. Suddenly, Donna Lee, a woman Ralph knew as a teenager, appears and the other woman begins softly singing. At the conclusion of the impromptu concert, Donna Lee applauds politely. She tells the pair that she’ll take them to the bus station and buy them tickets home. The three disappear out of Ralph’s vision.

Ralph startles awake and Allie is there in bed beside him. He tells her his dream and asks what it means.

Rather than explain, she says, “You can use your dreams and bizarre half-memories in your writing, lover, but don’t include a dream in the text. That is a faux pas and a cop out and an outdated literary technique.” Then Allie goes down on him.

_____

In class several days later, during a free write, Ralph is immersed in the creative process. He pays no attention to the rest of the class. He hears Allie say something from the front of the room, but he pays it no mind. At once the rumble of conversation increases and Ralph hears whistles and cheers and applause and his name.

He glances up and everyone is looking at him.

“Congratulations, Ralph, old man,” says Matt, slapping him on the shoulder.

Ralph stares stupidly.

“I hope you’ll be very happy!” he hears Betty say.

Another student asks Ralph, “When’s the big day?”

“For what?” asks Ralph, still out of the loop.

“Your and Allie’s wedding, man,” says yet another student. “Allie just told us,” he said.

“Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, Ralph’s eyes lock with Allie’s. She’s running her pointed tongue over her pink lips.

Ralph gulps.

_____

Ralph is in Allie’s bed and they just got high. Ralph peers closely at the soapstone pipe Allie always proffers.

“What kind of pot is this?” he asks. He has forgotten to inquire about their purported wedding. He learns from the class that everyone will be in attendance.

“The park is a great idea for a wedding, Ralph,” said Mary, a 30-ish student in the creative writing course. “Good thinking. Allie told us it was your idea.” She smiled and her mouth looks so wide he’s afraid she’ll swallow him.

Ralph asks Allie again, “What kind of pot is this?”

She shrugs. “The kind that gets you high, I guess. Why? Does it taste weird to you?”

Ralph tires to form an answer, but he is having difficulty organizing his thoughts, a sensation coincident with his deepening acquaintance with Allie.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, and sighs.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get high before we met,” she remarks.

“The firm I worked for could fire you for cause if you got busted for smoking pot,” remembered Ralph. “Besides, it was illegal most everywhere until just a few years ago.”

“Wanna smoke some crack?” Allie asks him out of nowhere.

“No,” he says positively. “That shit is addictive and it is still illegal. You don’t do it, do you?”

“No,” she replied. “But one of my students gave me a dime bag and told me how to smoke it.” He looks down at a couple of small white rocks Allie holds in her palm.

Ralph shakes his head no.

“Okay, baby,” says Allie agreeably. She tosses the crystals into the waste basket.

Ralph wants to tell Allie about the personality changes he’s been experiencing, but doesn’t want to worry her. So he says nothing.

There is but one class period left in the course, and Allie is sitting up in bed reading manuscripts created by her students and submitted in lieu of a final exam.

“How do they look?” asked Ralph, seeing Allie chuckle.

Allie only shakes her head and shuffles through the pile.

“I invited someone over tonight, Ralph,” she tells him.

“Tonight?” he asks. “It’s getting sort of late for guests, isn’t it? We’ll be going to bed soon.”

“That’s the thing,” replied Allie. “I want us all to go to be together, you know?”

Ralph knew that in her colorful past, Allie had been a player, but he hardly expected that life to continue, and if it did, to include him.

“Who is it?” he asked cautiously.

She hesitated a beat and then said, “Gail.”

His ex-wife!

“You talk about her in your sleep. You told me you’re still in love with her,” she pointed out. “And she misses you too, Ralph.”

“Allie, that part of my life is over. It’s behind me.”

After a moment, he asked, “Did you and Gail ever…?”

She nods.

Ralph blew out a breath. “Whew!”

She is looking close at him. She narrows her eyes.

“So what do you expect to happen here tonight, Allie?” he asks with morbid curiosity. Oddly, it seems to him, Ralph doesn’t feel at all turned off at the prospect of making love with both his former wife and his girlfriend. And he iss still in love with Gail.

“I can see you’re intrigued,” noted Allie with a smile.

Ralph couldn’t help himself; he grinned. “Well,” he said, “a Ralph sandwich. What’s not to like?”

“Then try this on for size, lover,” said Allie. “She’s bringing someone with.”

“The electric spark died instantly. Feeling proprietary about both his ex- and his current girlfriend, Ralph didn’t want to share.

Seeing Ralph’s distress, Allie smiled and put him at his ease. “You can relax, Ralph. Gail is bringing another woman.”

“How will that work?” Ralph wondered aloud.

Allie smiled. “We’ll just play it by ear, okay?”

_____

When the other couple arrived, Ralph noticed obliquely that there was someone, a slender, 30-ish blonde, in company with his ex-wife, but Ralph only had eyes for Gail. She looked good: a few pounds heavier, but it suited her, a positive contrast to the whippet-thin physiogamy she’d had for the years of their marriage.

Gail introduced Petula–‘Pet’–to Allie and Ralph, but it didn’t really register. He couldn’t take his eyes off Gail. Her hair, still dark brown, was longer, the lines in her face sharper, but she looked, Ralph decided, damned good. The two couples sat around drinking wine for a while, but Ralph didn’t taste his. The gathering was friendly. Pet addressed Ralph.

“So you retired early, Ralph. What do you do to fill your days?”

When he didn’t immediately respond, Allie touched his elbow.

“Oh,” he said. “I take classes at the university. That’s how I met Allie.”

“That’s how everyone meets Allie,” said Gail with a little smile.

Ralph found the remark jarring. Another reminder that Gail and Allie been intimate? he wondered. Feeling suddenly left out, he grew quiet again.

“Hey,” said Pet, “I’ve got some blow. A full gram,” she added.

Allie perked up, but Gail didn’t react. She was watching him.

“Are you into illegals now, Ralph?” she asked in a neutral tone.

Ralph remembered Gail as being almost reverential about treating her body “as a temple,” and how she’d seldom even drunk alcohol during their nearly 20 year marriage. He looked at her curiously. Then was relieved when she didn’t partake. Pet sprinkled the translucent crystals onto a small mirror and cut them finely with a razor blade. Allie participated with enthusiasm, as did Pet, but Gail concentrated on watching Ralph.

Of course, Allie pulled out her stash and they smoked some pot. Gail did participate here. After a few minutes, the voices became a soft murmur and Ralph felt himself nodding off. When he awoke, Gail was sitting on the sofa, watching him.

“Where…where are the others?” he squeaked out.

“Allie took Pet upstairs…” said Gail, “…to see her etchings.” She laughed.

“They went up to bed?” asked Ralph bluntly.

“Uh huh. How does that sit with you, Ralph?” Gail asked.

“I…I don’t know. I’m confused.”

Gail didn’t say anything.

“I feel,” said Ralph, “totally at sea.”

“I’m not surprised,” replied Gail, taking up Allie’s small dope pipe. “How often do you smoke this shit?” she asked.

“Every time Gail and I are together,” replied Ralph. “Sometimes two or three times a night. What?” he asked, “it’s just pot, right?”

Gail drew the pipe to her nose and sniffed. “Not quite,” she said.

“Then what is it?” he asked.

“Peyote,” she answered. “Mescal buttons,” she added. “Probably blended with a little PCP or opium.”

“I…don’t do hallucinogens,” protested Ralph rather fecklessly.

“Okay, Ralph.”

“You mean,” he said, “that Allie has been drugging me with hallucinogenic drugs? Is that why I’m seeing things, imagining things that don’t really happen?”

“You were always good at math,” she told him. “Put two and two together.”

“Why would Allie do that?” he asked.

“I haven’t spent that much time with her over the past couple of years,” said Gail.

“She said she knew you from back in the day,” said Ralph.

“I was a bit of a wild child in my undergraduate days,” allowed Gail. “Then I settled down and married you. I figured all the craziness was behind me.”

“And now?” he asked.

Gail took a moment to answer. “I’m still in love with you, Ralph. I never fell out of love with you. It was the empty-nest syndrome and your retirement and the sudden closeness all the time. I felt like I was smothering.. I want to give us a second chance. How do you feel about that?” she asked.

“I think…I…God, you look good, Gail!”

She smiled.

“How do you feel about Allie? she asked. You’ve become a fixture in the other’s life over the last few months. Are you in love with her, Ralph?”

“It’s been like rush week back in college, too much, too soon, and now I learned that she’s been feeding me psychedelics…I don’t think I would categorize it as love. I’ve been lonely this last two years,” he admitted. “I guess I was trying to fill up the spaces, you know?”

Gail nodded.

“What is, uh, your relationship with Pet?” he asked.

“She teaches at the same high school that I do,” explained Gail. “She’s a lesbian and I told her my intentions with respect to you, and offered to fix her up with a crazy-sexy woman who made good bread. Pet is a bit of a loose cannon and I thought they’d hit it off. They did.”

Ralph sat contemplating what Gail had told him. As if reading his mind, she said, “I think you have about outlived your shelf life with Allie, Ralph. She’s used to more…variety…in her love life, if you know what I mean.”

“How did your plans for me figure into everything that Allie did, Gail?” asked Ralph.

“Ah,” said Gail, waving a finger at Ralph, “that would be telling.”

Ralph stood. “Let’s get out of here, go back home.” For the first time in two years, Ralph was again considering their former domicile as a home.

“I like the sound of that, Ralph,” said Gail. “Should we leave Allie and Pet a note?”

He shook his head. “I think they’ll figure it out. I’ve got the feeling that this is what at least some of you had planned all along.”

Gail stood as well. Ralph approached his ex- and kissed her lips gently, and then with more passion.

“Umm,” she said.

As they drifted to the door, held tight in one another’s arms, Gail asked, “What grade did you you get for the course?”

“An E,” he replied at once.

“You mean, you failed’?” she asked.

Ralph shook his head. “No,” he said. “I got extra credit.”

Next day Delivery by Simon Collison

(We are pleased to bring back Simon today!–Leila)

When did they say they’ll deliver? It’ll come via Whamo, Everoo or Yuffle. Lucklily We’re members of the mega store where you can have it all.

It should be next day delivery, I’ve got gold membership.

Yeah they should do, they’re usually good at bringing stuff.

We’re just waiting to find out what our delivery slot will be.

Great, It’s going to be between 10 and 1 pm.

You see we’re waiting for our new baby to be delivered. It’s as easy as having your clothes or packages from far away sent to you.

We’ve ordered it off Babies 4U. We’ve read the reviews.

It’s brilliant not having to carry a baby around for months and feeling sick and getting all cravings and not having to go into labour and hours of pain to deliver a baby in hospital. There’s no need for scans. There’s no having to go to ante natal classes, or waiting for your waters to break, no midnight calls for an ambulance.

Now you can just wait in the comfort of your home, or not. Some go away for the day to work or on a visit, as long as there is someone in the house to sign for the package.

They used to say it was the storks who brought babies. Now we know it’s the drones.

The drones deliver everything. They’re always flying around her next door. Her house is like a hive. There are many drones buzzing around delivering her daily dozen pairs of shoes.

At Babies 4U you can just go for the basic model, but most people upgrade to a non crying, non throwing up, non teething trouble, non terrible two’s model. And definitely no colic.

If you’re not happy you can always send it back the service does return too.

Gary’s mums not happy, she says babies should be conceived, carried and delivered naturally, parents should learn to take the rough with the smooth,

Good job the drones do pick ups as well. Gary’s mum is due to be picked up in a few weeks for recycling. There’ll be four drones on that job. It’s comforting to know all her organs will go to a good home.

We’ve already ordered a nice headstone for Gary’s mum. It’ll arrive a few days after she’s been taken away. Of course it’ll take dozens of drones to fly that thing in.

We ordered the baby six months ago. Everything is so quick and convenient, none of that messing around, you can just get on with your life. It only takes a few seconds to order.

We plan to call it Gill. With this order we get 20% off our usual monthly grocery bill with some scented candles and a free phone thrown in.

They’re all fitted with tracking devices and are chipped with anti delinquency devices. Babies 4U provide sixteen years warranty and they are guaranteed to get 10 A* grade GCSE’s.

We don’t have to worry about how they will turn out because everyone who orders a child from Baby 4U knows exactly how they will turn out – perfect. Which is nice.

We just need to order more food, clothing and wipes for the new edition, good job we’ve got several cleaning robots to take care of the messes.

If things go smoothly we’ll order another one in three months as we’ll be wanting a Jack to go with Gill. We plan to get a third one ordered because we’ll be able to get a free Damante dinner set delivered.

We’ve always dreamed of owning one of those.

Simon Collinson