Merkin

In our search for understanding and acceptance we all too often overlook and neglect the plight of our brothers (and sisters) caught between two worlds. Camy has given voice to this often painful dilemma in, as Bruin says, his usual masterful style. James

This extraordinarily moving piece deserves widespread distribution. James Merkin

I expect they'll whine and carry on and weep great tears and say they didn't mean any harm, it was just a joke. And I expect they'll get off. Some lawyer will buy a new yacht. I have lost all faith in our current culture. James

Bummer. I was so looking forward to that fifteen minute flare. Camy, you have such a way with words, each one so apt and dead on target. James

I really like the premise that Mars has already peaked and what we will visit here perhaps will be much like our own rust belt America. I look forward to your descriptions of the milieu.

And here I thought I was writing about trains. Thanks. James

Homeland Security by Merkin I don't usually go in for those replica railways, with their restored engines and funny little cars from the last century, that provide at best a short loop ride starting from an ancient station in dire need of repair and chugging through the brush and over a few gorges on rickety bridges deserving condemnation. They exist as an excuse to charge great sums to take the nephew on an outing and another large fee for the scanty box lunch. Yet somehow I recently found myself a passenger on one. It progressed by fits and starts, sometimes slowing down, then jerking back into motion, only to stop dead a few minutes later to offer a photo opportunity that was soon digitalized by the countless cameras on board. Never did we manage to make over 30 miles per hour as we chugged along in the midafternoon sun, yet it seemed an ideal day for such an outing, and I was enjoying the slight breeze on my face in spite of the smuts wafting through the open window from the smokestack up ahead and the bruises inflicted by the rock-hard wooden bench beneath me. This, after all, was God's country, just a few miles south of the Canadian border but still well within the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. Inside the packed railway carriage passengers swayed and nudged one another, pointing out the scenic views -- except for me, of course. I was sitting alone, perhaps the only person on the train unaccompanied by a nephew, and the seat beside me was vacant. Suddenly a commotion arose at the head of the car as the passageway door banged open and a majestic figure clad in bib overalls and a red bandana neckerchief strode through it and on down the aisle. Cameras swung toward the new arrival and started clicking, but he never paused until he reached my seat. It was the engine driver! "Kin I use your window, sonny?" he uttered, leaning halfway into the vacant bench beside me. He was a giant, aglow with that physical fitness so characteristic of the American laboring man. Shirtless under his bibs, his brawny arms and knotted muscles gleamed in the bright afternoon light. As he brushed past me I inhaled the rich scent of honest toil, and the hair in my nostrils fluttered. Awestruck, I slid even further away from the open window, giving the mighty giant all the room he cared to take. He leaned forcefully over the window sill, heedless of the black soot and flying embers cascading from the engine at the front of the train. Momentarily I froze, suddenly aware that if the driver was here beside me, then who was operating the train? But my momentary confusion was abated as he turned to me and placed a massive hand on my shoulder. Hot blood coursed through my entire body at his touch, and I nearly failed to hear his words as he spoke. "Look up there, sonny!" He pointed with a magnificent greasy digit into the sky. I craned to see past his immense frame and could barely peer over his rock-like shoulder, which I could not help noticing was smothered in patriotic tattoos involving eagles, flags, and the word ?Mother.? I continued to inhale his heady aroma as I attempted to discern the object of his scrutiny. "Doncha see them damn geese?" he bellowed. Aha! I nodded mutely, but since I was behind him he did not see my response. "Well? Cain't you see 'em?" I finally managed to clear my throat and croak "Yes, sir." "Would you say those were American Geese or," and here his voice fell to a harsh whisper, "Canadian Geese?" "Hmm," I managed to choke, still overwhelmed by my circumstance, "they appear to be Canadian." "Damn straight, pilgrim!" the incensed driver thundered in my ear, "Those are forrin birds here in the U.S. of A.! Those are illegal immigrants!" he roared, and his vise-like fingers clutched deeply into my shoulder. He was embracing me! With a grunt I collapsed onto the bench, my entire right side blazing with pain. I looked up and found that I was staring directly into the engine driver's bibs, at his waistline. I could see nothing but alabaster skin! He Was Not Wearing Any Underwear! HE WAS COMMANDO! I fainted. I found out much later that I had been unconscious throughout the onboard riot that followed upon the engine driver's pronouncement. The very next day war was declared against Canada, following the evidence given by the heroic engine driver accompanied by a few ticket takers clad in their period costumes and presented to our national Congress assembled in joint session. The feeble claim by the Canadian government that the geese in question had been on their way to Ottawa when they had been blown off course was laughed off the floor of our venerable legislative chamber. The vote for war was unanimous. Although I had been called to testify, my deposition was not required. Try as I might, I have never been able to return to that bucolic railway, since the entire scenic location is well within the war zone and off-limits as our guns continue to pound away at the endless flocks of Canadian geese intent upon winging their illicit way into the United States. So I never saw my brave engine driver again, alas. Such are the fortunes of war.

The statistics are overwhelming. And disgusting. One in three middle schoolers experience bullying. There is so much variation in physical size and ability at these ages that kids at the smaller, weaker end of the spectrum are helpless. This kid looks fit, but he was set upon by a gang. What can be done? James

The schooling experience does seem to underlie most of these tragic situations. James

A strong and moving piece. James

I would absolutely miss the opportunity to dog-ear a page to mark, say, a particular passage I like and want to be able to find again. I cannot imagine giving up the ability to write notes on a margin directly adjacent to a line I want to converse with. Books are meant to be used and reused and made a part of one's basis and baggage. Display devices can only be viewed and then shut off. James

It's a rich standalone and makes the reader work a bit, but we all need exercise. James

I hope everyone is following Circumstances as it posts. I usually can't do that with a serialized story, but since it was one of Cole's I started it and of course was immediately hooked and continue to be. I'm dying to discuss it as it unfolds but of course that would spoil it for those who wait, so I will just have to hide all my thoughts and feelings, sorta like the boy in the story--oops, sorry about that. So I'll wait it out and hope I don't forget all the great things I want to say about it. Thank goodness it posts twice a week. James

Ritual At Daybreak by Merkin "Do you want a cigar?" The young officer spoke in fluent English. "Do you even have a cigar?" Simon stood against the brick wall, his hands bound behind him. "Oh, yes. We keep one in this little box, just for this occasion. It is seldom requested, so this one is maybe five years old." "No cigar." "Do you have any last words?" "No, I have been shouting those for the past week." "I admire your bravado, Englishman. A pity it did not serve you when you committed your act of insanity." Simon shrugged. "Do you have any regret?" The young officer looked searchingly at his prisoner. Simon hesitated, then cleared his throat. "I regret I never learned your language. I would like to have read its poetry." "You do not speak Farsi?" The young officer was astonished. "No, not a word." "But the crime for which you have been convicted..." "I have been curious." "It was blasphemy. You were found in the middle of the riot you caused, shouting curses against our culture." "Actually I was asking directions to the market. I wanted to buy some bacon." The young officer paused for a moment. "Do you want a blindfold?"

I think Blondie should offer to check under his hood. James

Although I have never put a real book to that use, I have very often fought off a desire to wipe my butt on various malfunctioning electronic gizmos. James

I'm enjoying it, too, Cole. But I didn't see it on IOMFATS so I'm reading it on crvboy: here James

Think of all the lives you and David have touched, and helped, and changed.James Merkin

That's the one. Good sleuthing, Altimexis. I must confess I've only been in Amherst a few times, years ago, but I thought the Pioneer Valley would be a lovely setting for Jesse to grow up within. It's distance from Boston will figure in a later story. Thanks to you and Cole for your kind comments. James

I'm sorry if it touched a nerve, Trab. I suppose that's one of the reasons I folded the entire series into a single short story, "Jesse's Year," and added some new elements to weave it more tightly together -- including, by the way, a revised version of this mother's conversation with Fred, hoping to give it a more comic turn. James

Don't tell me poets aren't out ahead of the philosophers. This is from an April 20th 2009 posting on the Poet's Corner: How Homosexuals Can Save Civilization Perpetual rut: oh what a mixed blessing; Once it begins, it grows without lessening! It somehow controls us beyond understanding, Thanks to its urging and constant demanding. Originally intended to prolong our fine race, It seems to have increased since we've fallen from grace. Now we can barely remember our aim To control our own destiny, once sex is our game. When inserting Part A to another's Part B Our pleasure takes over without referee, And instead of tending to selective breeding We become only intent on continual seeding. Thus it behooves us, in saving the race To identify B Parts that breed no disgrace. Boy to boy bonding, girl to girl love Will insure our redemption by heaven above. And guarantee food enough, plus adequate space So our descendants (more properly paced) Will have room to grow and to find their true pair: Though this time around breeders get the ten percent share. -James Merkin

I think he's speaking judiciously.

Go back to bed, Colin. I hope you two are going to the Esplanade this evening to hear the Pops. James

I sorta agree with Cole's point, because we are always hungry to know more. But I sorta don't agree. Flash Fiction is so effective precisely because we don't know more, and so we are forced to construct much of the story for ourselves. Thus we become participants in the creation of a story and, as Kapitano points out so effectively both by his comment above and by his story, the story we help create is subtly different for each of us. What a rush! Sometimes that can be more rewarding. James

it need not be tantalizing if Kapitano is willing to write up what happens next -- even if it becomes a short story or even a long one. These two underachievers deserve more than that one flash glimpse, don't you think? James