Katzaniel's "Stuff"

[Katzaniel]

You Touched My Life

 

Do you remember me? You talked me through some tough times in seventh grade. It was the way you gave your advice, the way you always knew the right things to do, that made me decide I wanted to be a social worker - to give advice like yours. I don't know where you are now, but I am happier because of you.

 

Do you remember me? We worked together at McDonald's back when we were both in grade eleven. I admired your bravery in facing our totalitarian boss, and it was remembering you that helped me leave my abusive boyfriend three years later. I didn't know you for long, but you may have saved my life.

 

Do you remember me? You sat next to me in a first-year biology class, and we laughed at the professor's funny hair. I didn't have very many friends back then and although you never realized it, you helped to give me self esteem. I later switched faculties and made other friends, but I often wonder where you are.

 

Do you remember me? We met at the gym every other week when you were still getting over your divorce. I respected your loss and we were never more than aquaintances, but you helped me to realize what I wanted in a spouse. When I met the man that is now my husband, it was your influence that led me to realize how much I appreciated him.

 

Do you remember me? You passed me in the park the other day, and your cheerful greeting and smile made me realize that there are good people in the world after all. I had lost my job that week and just discovered that my husband was cheating on me with a good friend. I'm not sure if I was really going to commit suicide that day, but it was that random encounter that made me stop considering it.

 

Do you remember me? We lived next to each other for many years. Every friday afternoon you walked by my house and if I was outside we would talk for hours about all sorts of things. I began to look forward to those days more than any other time, because so few people paid me any attention any more. You were young and I was old, but you gave me something to look forward to at a lonely time.

 

Do you remember me? You touched my life.

Edited July 8, 2004 by Katzaniel

[Katzaniel]

PS. Any and all feedback to these is greatly appreciated. Thanks.

 

Mistress

 

Before that day, I was normal. I mean, my skin was a consistent, deep orange and I was well-shaped, almost exactly spherical. There was nothing for the other oranges to say to pick on me. Not like my cousin Geoffrey, who was closer to green, really, and kind of oval. They all called him Limeboy, and I must confess I teased him occasionally myself. I mean, he looked like a lime! Geez. I wasn't wonderful or anything, just a normal orange, living my life out in the bowl by the fridge, wondering when I would be chosen to move on to Fruitopia. It was hard not to believe that fruit heaven really did exist, I had heard even the humans talking about it and saying how good it was. I couldn't wait.

 

The day finally came when a human purposefully came up to the bowl, scrutinized all of us who were there looking hopefully into his eyes, and picked me up. I was ecstatic! It was finally my day. I'd lived my whole as a good orange, saying my prayers every night, and had little doubt that Fruitopia would at long last be in my grasp. My grandmother, by brother, I'd get to see them again and... why was the human kneeling?

 

The crazy man had gotten onto one knee and was cradling me in his hands, a look of awe upon his face. Awe? Awful! The whole scenario was horrible. He knelt there, and he started to recite a poem. A love poem! He praised me, my colour, my shape, even my smell. He said that I looked beautiful in the sun, and then he said that I was cheating on him with the apples and grapes. It didn't make any sense. First I'm perfect, then I'm perfectly indifferent? Couldn't he see how much I needed him to pick up a knife - the knife two feet behind him on the counter would have done the job wonderfully - and peel me? It wouldn't have been a hard job. Just end my long monotonous life, eat me like any good human would have done, and send me on my way. I was anything but indifferent. And then the jerk, the great big ugly evil b****** gave me a last glance and put me back down into the bowl.

 

Since then, I've had it worse than Geoffrey ever did. A human actually picked me up, said a love poem, and rejected me. They called me Human-Lover, Mistress, even Apple-Feeler. And to this day I just cannot understand what went wrong.

 

OOC: I'd sort of wanted to write a response to that "RP an orange" contest myself. Since there were so few entries, and the thing is long gone, I think I will. I didn't want to do my own poem, but in all the others the orange ends up dying... how sad... (well, not in Quincunx's, but that wouldn't have served my intentions for the fate of the orange either.)

 

Link: The Original "Ode to Poem" Thread

[Katzaniel]

The Cheque

 

"Remember the cheque for the milkman," they told her, as they were packing up.

 

"Don't forget to put the cheque out on thursday," they told her, as they waved goodbye from the front steps.

 

It couldn't be done earlier, or it might blow away or be stolen. And so she repeated it to herself until it became an anthem, she put post-its over the house until it was spotted as a dalmation, she carefully counted down the days, and her normally forgetful brain triggered thursday night - she must put the cheque out for the milkman.

 

There was a hitch, though. The cheque was not in any of the places she could think to look. Not by the microwave, not on the counter by the fridge, not on the table. She looked thrice through the concert tickets and other similar papers in the wine cupboard, where she was sure it should have been put.

 

Two hours later she gave up. She knew she could write a new cheque from her own account, if only she knew how much it should be. Then she realized... the night might be saved after all... she picked up her mother's chequebook (first found during the panicked search of the house) and read over the record book. Written neatly in gold pen: $25 for milk, paid up until August.

 

Ironic, then, that she somehow got distracted, let it slip her mind, and went to bed without writing it.

 

Even more ironic that within fifteen minutes of waking up the next morning she found it, the original cheque, peeking out from under a coupon-book on the entranceway steps.

[Katzaniel]

Prejudice

 

My grandmother is healthier than she was when I last saw her a few weeks ago. This time she laughs and plays, teasing the other residents and accepting my mother's offer to help her put on some lipstick. Although well over eighty, she had always looked her best, and it had been the hardest sign of her deteriorating health when she'd stopped brushing her hair and putting on her makeup. However, the doctors caution that this is not a full blown recovery but rather a peak in the never-again predictable cycle that is this dear lady's heath.

 

One of the women at her table is gone since last time. My grandmother takes well the absence of the ever-cheerful Emily, and of course no one mentions her, but it must be difficult to live with the constant fear of losing new friends and the frequent reminder that death waits for all of us. The new resident sits at another table, chatting with her tablemate.

 

After lunch, six of the female residents decide to take advantage of the beautiful sun, setting up a circle of chairs just inside the shade. Before we can meet them, my grandmother must go to the bathroom. Desiring to skip this now complex ritual, I opt to wait in the entranceway, chirping at the two birds in their cage by the window. The newest lady, sitting nearby, calls out unintelligibly. I cannot understand more than the occasional word, although I try. I barely look at her, but when I make out what sounds like the words, "I am a native American! I will fight for my culture," I begin to worry that she is talking to me. I know that I cannot catch enough of her words to communicate with her, though, so I smile politely and then just try to ignore her.

 

When my mother and grandmother return, we go outside and enjoy the weather with the others. We sit for a while and chat, but my mother needs to go inside for a moment to grab something. The newest resident chooses this moment to come outside, and she sits in my mother's chair, right between my grandmother and myself. I try to explain that someone is already using this chair, but the communication barrier is strong, and the elderly woman just looks at me. Not wanting to cause trouble, I bring over a new chair to place on my grandmother's other side, then drag mine beside it, so that I can visit properly with them. The lady says something, but I still can't decipher her words, so worried and confused I simply ignore her. My mother comes back and sits in the new chair.

 

The residents have not lost their good humour, and soon we are all having a good time again. A fly buzzes around us and keeps landing on my grandma. "It seems to like you... I'm not sure why!" jokes my mother, and my grandmother laughs and says, "Thanks!" sarcastically. We all laugh. Except the new resident. Instead, she says something in an upset tone. My mother catches the gist of it and tells her, "No, we're not laughing at you, we're laughing about the fly. She tries to pat the woman on the shoulder but the lady grabs her cane and angrily threatens my mother with it. "Don't touch me!" she says. Some of the others caution my mom not to keep trying. We leave her alone again.

 

I feel so sorry for this poor woman. There is nothing that any of us could say to her that isn't misinterpreted. She has reverted to some terrible point in her past, perhaps, where people judged her for her skin. Or she simply feels terrified in this mostly-white Home, deaf and alone in the world, worried that we might be talking about her all the time. As my brother said when we told him about it later, "What a horrible way to live the last years of your life." Assuming that everybody thinks badly of you, and in the process making it so.

Edited September 12, 2004 by Katzaniel

[Katzaniel]

Virtual Reality

 

I woke up this morning not knowing who I was. I still knew my name, I knew everything that I'd always been pretending to be. Mother of two, friend to many, coworker to a few. That was all there in my head, but suddenly it was false.

 

Who am I really? I don't know. I feel like I've been playing a game all my life. I feel like I'm in a virtual reality machine and last night, a switch got flipped to remind me that my paid time is almost up. And suddenly, I don't care anymore if it is. I don't know how to put more money in, and I don't care to know.

 

So, where does that leave me? Sneaking out at five in the morning to roam the streets in my pajamas. I wanted to see if it could be real again, but it's obvious to me that it can't. Deep down inside I know it's not a game, but I also know that nothing matters any more. Maybe God gave up on the world last night. Maybe I did.

 

Maybe I'm dead.

 

Maybe God is.

 

It's so still and silent out here. There is snow on the ground, and it's cold, but I can feel it from a distance, like it's not really my skin. Like... I don't know like what. It's like nothing I've ever felt before. It's like I'm not feeling any more at all. The sky is dark, but with the promise of light. The temperature is cold, but with the promise of warmth. The stars are distant, but with the promise of nearness. The world is waiting today.

 

I'm afraid to go back inside. What would I find there? My husband and children, alive and warm and feeling, so that I would know there is something strangely and irrevocably wrong with me alone? My husband and children, dead and cold and silent, like the night, so that I would know the world has ended and I'll be alone forever? My family, absent? My body, hollow? My life, staring back at me, ready to kill or die or scream forever?

 

I don't want confirmation of any sort. I don't want to know where I am or where my soul is. I don't want to know what happened last night. I don't want to die, and discover that I wasn't dead already. I don't want to live, and discover that nothing is new any more.

 

I'm going to lie down in the snow. Nestle in real tight. I'll feel the embrace of silence and stillness and cold. Cold as death, cold as life. Cold. And I'll sleep. Tomorrow I'll wake up, perhaps, and feel again. Tomorrow I'll sleep, perhaps, and feel again anyway. Tomorrow it will all be gone away.

[Katzaniel]

OOC: Seriously, people, feedback is good! Isn't anyone reading these?

 

Empty Playground

 

Ralph died a year ago today. I still mourn for him, of course, but not like I did. If you had asked me back then if I would ever get over it, I would have told you no. If I could get the words past my constricted throat, that is. Now I miss him every time I look at his side of the bed or his chair at the table, but it's no longer every waking moment. Ralph was half of me, but I'm nearing the end of my life myself. I can't spend the rest of it missing him, not when I know I'll soon be at his side again. So I've come to terms with it a little.

 

Today I'll let myself mourn again, though. Sometimes you just have to let yourself feel it all over again. Not the same as the first time, but worse than yesterday. Today, I'll visit the playground where he died.

 

It takes a little while to sit up from the bed, and I labouriously reach over to my cane. With its help I stand up and move to the hallway. I ponder there for a few moments. Should I stop and eat? No, it's too early for that yet. So I lumber out the door and down the ramp that we had built when Ralph became wheelchair-ridden. The park is only a block or two away, and it isn't long before I arrive.

 

So early on a Sunday, the playground is barren. The swings and slide stand waiting for children, almost crying for the lack of company. A playground is the kind of place that is filled so often it feels lonlier than any other when it's empty. For a while I study the yellow plastic slide and wooden ladder, the rusty nails showing their age. When was it that this slide replaced the other? I couldn't remember any more. I had been playing in this very place nearly every day for years before the new one came. Nevertheless, every structure in this playground evokes strong memories. I sit down on a bench and let myself remember those happy days.

 

I am surprised to see a young lady coming up the hill. She makes her way to the playground, stroller firmly gripped in her delicate hands. She pushes it to the swing set, ignoring me, and begins to gently swing the toddler. The little one, dressed in light purple, smiles and giggles, bubbles escaping her mouth. The mother lifts the bib and laughingly wipes off the spit, then goes back to letting the youngster swing. As I watch, enjoying their obvious joy, they fade away until no one is there. Was I seeing ghosts? Or hallucinating? What was going on?

 

Another youth comes bounding into view, but now I watch warily. She does not look at me either. But what does that prove, and what can I do about it anyway? The girl runs to the slide and climbs up it, sliding down at the halfway point. She squeals with equal frustration and delight, and tries again. After three or four times she, too, fades.

 

A little girl, schoolage, appears on the monkey bars. She crosses a few times one bar at a time, then turns around, gets a determined look on her face, and successfully goes back by twos. The pride on her face is magnificently tangible. She is soon replaced, however, by an older girl, whose expression turns mischievous when a young boy appears from around the tire swing. She goes to him and they begin talking.

 

I watch as the pair grow into teenagers. It's happening faster now, and they run about the park as they grow. When they reach high school age, they pause long enough to kiss, then grow older again as they run from the playground. After only a moment, a young man appears in the sandbox. He buries something, then waits patiently for a woman to walk up the path. He says something and she looks at his strangely, then also begins to dig. Suddenly her face is contorted with pleasure and surprise, and she holds up a ring. She springs into a standing position and embraces him.

 

The couple appears again in various stages of their lives. Pushing a baby around. Teaching their children how to use the tire swing. Rescuing from the sand around the slide the teeth of a particularily adventurous preschooler. Watching proudly as their youngest discovers the trick to doing the monkey bars two at a time.

 

Soon the pair's children have grown but they reappear occasionally without them. Holding hands, they gaze into each other's eyes in many locations around the park, from middle-age to retirement age to elderly. A few times they bring grandchildren. Then I find myself sitting next to the old man and he looks at me. As I discovered long ago in this charade, he is Ralph. This park has replayed for me all the happy moments of my life, from the first time my mother brought me here to the moment I met Ralph, the day he proposed to me, and onward. Ralph died here, but today he only stands and reaches for my hands. I take them. And satisfied with my life as it was, I go to be with him once more.

[LeifTheBunny]

OOC:  Seriously, people, feedback is good!  Isn't anyone reading these?

Yes. I really liked You Touched My Life. Great work.

 

Edit: It reminds me of a few moments in my life that were somewhat similar situations. Any work that makes you reflect back on your own life is positive in my book.

Edited September 23, 2004 by LeifTheBunny

[Gwaihir]

Katz, that last one about Ralph was absolutely amazing. Almost made me cry.

[Ayshela]

Ayshela blinks back a tear or two and scowls briefly at Katz, saying only "Don't you EVER tell me again that you can't write stories. Don't you dare."

[Tamaranis]

Commentary comes in waves, not a stream, you see

 

I certainly hope you meant for virtual reality to be disturbing, because it was to me. Maybe only to me, because for some reason I can't explain I can identify with that somehow...

 

...anyway, it couldn't have actually been disturbing at all if it weren't well written.

[Tanuchan]

Katz, you're a great writer of short stories... all of these are really touching in their own way, for different reasons. They convey feelings, and I enjoyed all of them, but specially Virtual Reality and You Touched my Life.

 

Mistress is a fun read, with its light implicit humor, while An Empty Playground is really touching. Cheque represents so well what sometimes happens... and so does Prejudice, on a different subject.

 

You have a knack of turning common events in life in beautiful stories, Katz... as Ayshela said, don't ever say again that you can't write stories!

 

*hugs*

 

~Tanny

Edited September 24, 2004 by Tanuchan

[Katzaniel]

I asked for feedback, and now I'm not sure what to say to you all... just thank you, this will satiate that need for some time I hope.

 

Leif: I'm glad. At the time I wrote it, I thought it was one of the best things I'd ever written, and I was devastated that no one commented.

 

Gwaihir: That's good, I guess. It wasn't meant to be tear-wrenching or anything, just to describe an image that's been in my head for some time, and it finally occured to me that I could transform that picture into a story.

 

Ayshela: Well, short stories are a new form for me. Especially thinking what to write about, I think that's the hardest part.

 

Tam: Yes, yes. * rubs hands * I wanted to get into the head of an insane person, and I'm not surprised it came across as disturbing. Do you think I used too much repetition? I was hoping it might fit the mood of the piece.

 

Tanuchan: You'd rank Virtual Reality in the top two? I liked it too, but I was wondering if the nature of it might make some people dislike it, for the content more than the writing.

 

Anyway, in general, I'm very glad to have some better idea which stories were liked and which not. And know that people are reading, even when they don't speak up. Thanks!

[Katzaniel]

Elevator Blues

 

Dear Diary:	Sunday May 13th
My first day of work is tomorrow! I'm so excited. I start at 8:15, so I'll have to be up pretty early, especially since I have to make sure I have a place to park and everything, and want to be absolutely certain (of course) that I'm not late. This is my first serious office-type job, as you already know, dear diary... wish me luck!

Dear Diary:	Monday May 14th
This job is so cool. I didn't get to do anything today, what with setting up my computer and email accounts and installing all the programs I'll need. This afternoon I spent much of my time reading up on HTML. But everyone here is very friendly and I can't believe I get paid over double minimum wage to be here!

Dear Diary:

Saturday May 26th

Work is going wonderfully. Everything is all set up now and I have actually starting doing some real work. My boss is fantastic, she really understands what it's like for someone new to the work world.   This week I started taking the stairs up to work. I'm on the fourteenth floor so it's tough and I get to my cubicle tired, but it's somehow satisfying, and definitely good for me. It's kind of funny, though, because the stairs on the bottom floor are locked so I have to ride the elevator to the second floor before I can get to the stairs.

Dear Diary:	Thursday June 7th
Work is still going great. Still not believing I get paid just for this. Time passing so fast... still doing the stair thing, it's getting to be less difficult to do. I mean, it's as tiring as ever but now I don't get out of breath until about the 10th floor, whereas at first it was five or six.

Dear Diary:

Wednesday July 18th

Funniest thing happened to me today. You know how I said I have to take the elevator to the second floor before I can take the stairs to fourteen? Well, this morning I was doing that, and there was this other lady on the elevator. I remember noticing she was going to eight. Anyway, she was looking at me kinda funny as we rode up, and right as I stepped off and the door was closing, she shouted at me, "What's wrong with the stairs, lazy?" I guess she must take the elevator every morning and have gotten so worked up about people who worked on two and took the elevator, slowing it down and whatnot, that she finally had to shout at someone about it. Most amusing thing is that if she had ever tried walking herself, she would know that the door was locked.

[Katzaniel]

Not Ready

 

I stood by the big computer monitor in the boardroom, waiting for the music to begin. The project I was working on was a media center - complete with images and music and video - that could move from one computer to another, whichever was closest to a beacon that it was told to follow. Little programs that moved via messages sent over the internet were used to accomplish the task. The whole system was actually working pretty well now, if a little slowly, and I was proud of what I'd done.

 

This morning I'd made a change with the music part that should allow it to more consistently move without a problem. It had been really hard finding the mechanism to get it to move from one computer to the next without restarting the song, and when it had first worked, it had done so for one song only and sometimes even then did not work. Now I thought I had the problem solved, and was hoping it would work for any song, any time.

 

The music wafted out of the speaker and I picked up the beacon and moved over to the next computer. Nothing happened immediately, and I thought it might just be the slowness. When there was still no change after a few moments, I held up the beacon in the air, shaking it a little. What was going on?

 

I tried walking to the third computer and back again. Still the music played from the big computer, the first one. Something must be wrong with the location detection. What had I changed that would affect that? Pondering this, absently playing with the beacon, I suddenly became aware of the song that was playing. I'd been testing the system with the same five songs since I started on the project, but I'd never actually listened to the words of this one.

 

It was the Trews: "I'm Not Ready To Go."

 

Seeing the irony, I laughed and shook my fist at the computer. "I guess you're not!" I half shouted. The music blithely played on, answering my question better than I'd ever have thought.

 

"Are you unhaaaa-ppy?" it crooned, "Or are you low? I should be leeeea-ving, but I'm...not...ready to go!!"

[Wyvern]

I really like these prose pieces, Katzaniel, sorry for taking so long to comment on them. To respond to those that haven't been touched upon yet, both Elevator Blues and Not Ready struck me as interesting and odd narrations of personal events. Not Ready came across as mainly comic in its portrayal of the coincidental correspondence between the song and the computer's state, though the manner that the song continued and responded to the narrators exclamation added an almost eery quality to the comedy at hand. Elevator Blues seemed less comic and more focussed on portraying the manner that ignorant people can jump to false conclusions, and offered a bit more food for thought. I liked the manner that Elevator Blues was narrated through a series of journal entries, as the different form of the piece was refreshing.

 

Out of all of your prose pieces archived here, Empty Playground struck me as the most complete and the most provocative... I particularly liked the detail of the proposal being made at the sandbox of the playground, as it struck me as playful and original. I also thought that You Touched My Life was very well done, and it actually read like poetry to me in its uses of repetition and form. I thought the details given for each person that touched the narrator's life made it powerfully personal. Virtual Reality was probably my least favorite piece, as I couldn't seem to pinpoint any specific tone or concept that drove that one.

 

Anyway, I think that these experimentations in prose are enjoyable and I look forward to reading more of them. Well done, Katzaniel.

[Sweetcherrie]

Lovely stories, Empty Playground brought a lump in my throat, but luckily Elevator Blues made me laugh it away.

 

These are the two stories I liked best, but You touched my life had me thinking about people that have touched my life.

 

It is so nice to have found a place where stories like this suddenly jump into view and bring up unexpected emotions.

 

*hugs*

 

Sweetcherrie

[Katzaniel]

Thanks, guys. I do so love feedback. Wyv, I know what you mean about Virtual Reality having no real point, but don't see a way to change that without losing what I like so much about it. So, although I appreciate the constructive criticism, I have decided to leave it be.

 

Without further ado,

 

The Fool

Aardvark-esque Short Story

 

I watched through the security camera as Aster snuck down the corridor. I could barely keep from laughing aloud at the way that he stole a glance this way and that, avoiding the large decoy cameras I had placed. He thought I didn't know he was there. It was all so amusing: Aster using the classic come-in-from-the-roof technique and setting off the secret alarm, stealing into the main hallway via the insanely large vent system I had installed and unknowingly coating himself with Neex, the drowsiness chemical my scientists had concocted. Finally, he was about to burst in on me, unaware that the 'guards' he had dispatched were all just newcomers, none of them my trusted and skilled servants.

 

Aster quickly disposed of another four initiates and paused before the door to the master chamber, sidling in from the side and picking the lock. Seriously, did he really think it would be that simple? How much of an idiot did he think I was? The so-called hero suddenly supressed a yawn and this time I did laugh. Soon he would be falling asleep and he would be captured without my real guards even having to do a thing.

 

I stood up and walked to the center of the room, nodding in the direction of my hidden army. I heard the command that was passed on through my head guard and smiled. They were ready for any trouble that Aster might have in mind. Finally the lock clicked and the noble fool himself peeked into the room.

 

"Come in, boy," I sneered as Aster whirled around to discover four guns pointing at him, forcing him to come forward. The black-clad men herded him in and closed the door, taking their stations on either side of it. Aster closed his eyes and wobbled slightly, obviously feeling the strengthening effect of the chemical coating his skin and clothes.

 

I tossed a pair of handcuffs at him, enjoying the way he reached up belatedly and missed. "Put those on yourself in the next ten seconds and you won't get shot," I told him, and one of the guards nudged the cuffs back to Aster with his foot while another levelled his gun.

 

There was a gunshot and a thud, and suddenly the first guard was on the floor, reeling from the impact of Aster's throw, while the second sported a red and bleeding hole in his forehead. I started forward, confused. Aster, still moving with the momentum of his attack, was on me in an instant, grappling my hands to my side and appearing very much awake. Two more gunshots put the other two guards on the floor, and this time I was able to tell that they came from the hidden recess where the rest of my gunmen were supposed to be waiting. I cursed as realization dawned. Aster had not been so much of a fumbler after all.

 

I struggled, but his hold was strong. "Just kill me now," I spat, not wanting the disgrace of the gloating explanation that was inexorably on its way. I would have spared him that, even killed him in his sleep, but heroes were never so thoughtful.

 

"I will not kill you," he said, his voice taking on a nobility that I had seen as foolishness before. "No man is unredeemable, no man earns death by another's hands." Of course it was still foolishness, especially considering the countless guards that had already met death through Aster's hands, but with my life at stake it had a different quality, too.

 

"You would have taken over the world, but I believe that you would have done it thinking you were doing a different sort of good." I nodded. I had never been a vengeful type, and though I craved power I had not intended to let the world suffer in my care. Aster's death was a necessary evil, as were the others who would have undermined me. Power was hard to come by, but I had been well on my way. Suddenly I was curious how all my plans had been foreseen and undermined. I didn't say a word, though, as Aster was obviously getting there himself. He rambled on about God's love and so forth, and I thought about what measures he would take to prevent me from returning to power, if he was not going to kill me.

 

"Jesus saved me," Aster confided to me. "I once believed that the world was unsavable, that nothing was worthwhile if it didn't benefit me." And then he leaned close to my ear and whispered something that made me realize he was absolutely right. That there must be a God, after all, and that these events had been meant from the very start to unfold in this way. If he spoke the truth, Aster was my brother, whom I had long believed dead. "Oh God," I whispered, suddenly valuing life, all life, as I had never done since my childhood. What a fool I had become.

 

"Don't be such a fool," came suddenly a harsh voice from the recess. "No one that evil believes in God, no one that evil can be redeemed. Do you want to be tracked down and killed as soon as we leave here? I thought you had a better plan that this!"

 

The last thing I saw before blacking out was the gaping hole in my chest; the last thing I heard, the death knell of a bullet escaping its sheath. Fool, indeed.

[Katzaniel]

Been far too long.

 

The Dreamer (with apologies to Zadown)

 

A dream. Yes this is definitely a dream. Two doors are to my right, their dark wood stark contrast to the blinding white around them. Three more to the left, and at the end of the hallway, which seems to grow and shrink in size when I look at different places along it, another door. Yes, a dream. What else could it be? I'm not awake; I don't even need pinching to know that. When I look down at where my body should be, there is nothing.

 

The hallway continues to wax and wane, but it doesn't make me dizzy. Just leery. I try to investigate the doors: their handles, the wood, the border. But, as dream things are wont to do sometimes, they skitter away from view, or blur, or make themselves be forgotten upon looking away. I begin to feel compelled to choose a door. There isn't really anything else to do, short of waking up, and I haven't mastered that yet. So I walk to the middle door on the left and put my hand on the knob. I stop, realizing that perhaps I should find out what was behind me, first. So I turn, and see an endless hall, continuing into oblivion in that blinding white. I don't even bother to try walking down it - I know how these dream things work. One could walk for a day along that hall, then look back to see that they are no further along it. So I turn the handle and go in.

 

Instantly upon making the choice, I find myself in another hall and hear the sound of a closing door behind me. I turn, suddenly confused how I had turned the handle at all when I had earlier had no body. Inconsistencies, but such is the way of dreams. Strange that I had not had to walk, though. Behind me I see another endless expanse of white hallway, and it almost makes sense, but understanding cackles and scampers away.

 

In front of me are more doors, but arranged in a different pattern. Two on each side, and none straight forward. I shrug, or imagine myself shrugging (the two seem to be one and the same) and pick the first on the right. The choices are random, in a way, but at the same time, not. There's a familiarity, a sense of normality about that choice, which almost makes it no decision at all.

 

I once again find myself in a hallway, uninterrupted wall behind and an array of doors in front. I choose, go on, see the same. I choose again, again, again. There is a fleeting sense of déjà vu in each decision but it's hard to think - the force compelling me to move on is stronger, and soon I am running (or at least zooming) from one door to the next.

 

I don't know how long that continues, but at one point I halt. There is a vague feeling of finality, or conclusion, or ... that's not quite it ... impending importance? There are only two doors this time, both on the right. I enter the closest and suddenly I'm zooming again. No pausing, no choosing; door after door whizzes past my vision, an endless hallway of doors, and there are two conflicting emotions prevalent: that of moving quickly through traffic in a sports car, hair flowing in the wind: exhilaration; and that of crashing, helplessly, ceaselessly, through something, many somethings, large and sold: apprehension, to say the least.

 

The cascade ends, flying one instant and stationary the next, and I stand once more in the first hallway. I know it's the first hallway, the certainty possible only in dreams, though I saw many with that same configuration of doors throughout this journey.

 

I begin again, still unthinking. Middle door on the left, first on the right - I know this drill. Faster and faster until I reach the end; the same sense of finality; the hurtling through again and arriving once more at the start. No thought required: this is easy. Middle on the left, first on the right, the answers are obvious. It feels like a multiple-choice exam that I've written a thousand times before. Soon I'm not even pausing for the last door any more.

 

Then I feel myself wrenched in two: the self in the hallways, pausing, suddenly concerned, and the self who is groggily turning over in my sleep. That brief moment, and I'm back. Just the hallway self again, but with the added awareness of the other self, somewhere far away. I pause to think again.

 

I don't remember anything about my real-world self, but I realize that's not necessary. The important part is the realization that the selves are connected; this dream, these doors, they represent choices. Of course they do; how could I have not seen that? These are all choices in my everyday life, and I've been making them without thought, concern for consequences, and I've been trapped in a loop, no doubt a destructive pattern. It's not easy - in fact, the compelling feeling returns in full force and makes it very, very hard - but determined, I make a different choice. The door on the left when I'd been going straight forward. Then I wake up.

 

Day. Yes, this is definitely a fresh new day. Sun shining through the window, decisions to make. Yes, I'm awake. What else could this be? I'm awake, and alive, and everything is about to change.

[Katzaniel]

Paradox

 

Judy pushed her glasses up, wiped her brow, and leaned back.

 

"Done," she intoned, giving the word an air of finality. As well she might: if we were correct in our calculations, then Judy's task was the last of many, and we might at long last have reached our goal. Over the course of the last thirty-five years, Judy, Wesley, Liang and I had collaborated on a major project that nearly everyone had at first assumed impossible: a machine that would enable us to travel backward in time.

 

The basis for our belief in this cause was that Liang had already been working on his own for many years, and when he approached us he came with a machine that appeared already to be able to send things forward - not quite as difficult, since it did not require reversing an object's direction of travel, only of speeding it up. Although the demonstration itself was not quite proof - the mouse disappeared for five minutes, as predicted, and then reappeared inside its cage - the science and mathematics that he showed us appeared also to be sound. We became believers.

 

Of course, there were problems even beyond the science of coming up with a way to transcend time, or the mechanics of building a device to let us implement that method, or even the medical concerns of surviving such a thing. We also needed to understand the earth's trajectory and calculate movement in space. That had been my specialty before I dedicated my life and knowledge to this particular application of it. Judy had been an electrical and mechanical engineer, and quite good at it. Wesley was our bio-physicist; he was the only one of us that came fresh out of school into our group, but such was his genius that we knew he was the best fit possible. As for why he joined us, I'm not quite sure - he never seemed convinced that we would succeed - but I suppose he was just curious to watch us at work. Wesley always had an intense curiosity. Liang was a contrast to Wesley's flippant manner; a very serious man, he did a bit of everything, but mostly he hashed out the theory, over and over and over again until he was certain it was perfect. Only then would he conduct experiments - but the method seemed to work out for him, for I had never seen one of his predictions fail.

 

The first time an object - a baseball - appeared without warning inside the machine, it was quite a shock. We had never really concentrated on the question of how we would test the ability to send things back, but it seemed obvious that our future selves had succeeded. We agreed then that we would only ever send something back by one month. Everything after the first item, anyway. What we would do, we decided, was have a bagful of objects, and each time we felt ready to test we would pull one out at random and try to send it back to this date. We didn't know exactly how it work - perhaps our memories would change to accomodate whatever happened - but we suspected that when we pulled out the baseball, we would know we finally had it.

 

Wesley wasn't really satisfied with this. He talked about paradox a lot. Surely this apparent proof of success at some future time was affecting us, he said. Surely we would try harder or work longer or something. Even attempting to not be affected by it would change our actions from what would otherwise have happened... maybe we had forced Time into the shape of a spiral staircase, where we would travel around in a circle but never reach the exact same place that we should have reached, because we had changed things. The rest of us wondered, but figured that we would know soon enough. Why push things? We'd do what we could to avoid paradox, but it couldn't consume us. The rest would probably work itself out. Surely paradox, by its very nature, would not allow itself to be created?

 

It was actually years later before we pulled out the baseball from the bag. We'd been restocking that bag, each test, so as not to force fate. We cheered when it happened. No proof, not really, but we couldn't help but believe that it meant something. Well, three of us anyway.

 

Not more than a few weeks later we found an apple in it when we went in. Apparently we had progressed to plant material. Wesley, before any of us could stop him, took a bite out of it.

 

"Not quite right," he said, spitting it out into his hand. "Guess our future selves will have to remember to work harder." He tossed it in the garbage.

 

We didn't need the bag of items after that. Apples, always apples, because we knew the test one month from then would be the one that had sent the apple back. We received more, at about the pace of once per week, then twice or more per week, and we kept careful note of which days we got them and how, according to Wesley, they tasted. Never quite like an apple, he claimed. He got sick a few times, too, and we wondered if it wasn't because he kept on trying them. Judy confronted me one day, saying we needed to stop him from eating them. But Wesley was his own man. Besides - and I hated to admit to myself that I was influenced by this - but if he stopped, how would we know when we'd gotten it right?

 

Two days later, we were able to stop worrying.

 

"Delicious," he mumbled as he chewed. "Seems to have worked."

 

We threw a party that night. The next morning when I got in, I found that Liang had set up a cage, filled with mice, all along one wall. Judy was fine-tuning the machine, two white mice sitting comfortably in a shoebox on her desk. Every once in a while she would look up and stroke one of them. Of course, we all knew that it would be a month before we were ready for them, but it served as a constant reminder that we soon would be, and I know that I found the sounds of their scurrying around in their cage to be a good motivator. Besides, Liang liked to be prepared well in advance.

 

We changed the standard backward-time to a day, because it was hard not to be impatient working with periods of a month between proof of success and the actual working product. Also, we started to be more and more careful, adopting Liang's way of doing things. Wesley found our studiousness frustrating, I think, but none of the rest of us wanted dead or zombie-like mice appearing, never mind the knowing that it was our own mistakes that had caused it. We went over every calculation carefully. The four of us often stayed late, too, discussing the nature of life, souls, morality. We realized that even if we detected no problem with the mice, there might be some insidious problem that actually changed a person who went through it. Wesley insisted that he wanted to be the first human to use it. After we finally tested it with a mouse - no problems - and a pig - still no apparent issues - and then a chimpanzee, he managed to convince us that we should let him do it. None of us wanted the project taken from us without seeing it through to completion, after all, and we were quite confident in its abilities by this point.

 

Liang made sure to do it properly, though. Judy, the most person-oriented of any of the rest of us, started Wesley on a bunch of personality and IQ tests. She administered them every day, very similar but not exactly the same, hoping to counter-act any issues involved in the familiarity of the test he did afterward to the ones he did before. This way, she would have an established pattern.

 

Finally, there we were. Judy had just finished the last alteration. It was ready. Wesley, who had been lounging back in a chair watching carefully, stood up.

 

"Ten minutes," Liang reminded him. "All four of us, we leave room for ten minutes first. You go back in, quickly as possible, you make journey. Go back in time 8 minutes. Hide in closet. You no look in closet before you travel! Hide, and you no come out until you hear yourself inside the machine and gone. We avoid paradox, now, we run other tests. I know you curious about possibilities, Wesley, but we test other things later."

 

Excited, nervous, scared, we huddled in the hallway waiting. When ten minutes was more than past, Wesley excused himself and went into the lab. We could hear him setting up the machine.

 

The man set the controls almost automatically. Flip the leftmost switch, hit the yellow button, key in the date and time. He'd been through all this before. But in his mind, curiosity was growing and growing. Ever since he'd realized that they probably were going to succeed at this, he had become a man obsessed. What would it really be like to meet yourself? Or to change something that had clearly already happened another way? He knew he might never get another chance. When they knew it worked, the others would hand the project over to the government, and it would be heavily regulated. But even if he knew he would have another opportunity, Wesley couldn't wait. He would do something to invoke a paradox... killing himself was a bit drastic, but maybe preventing himself from ever getting into the machine? Yes, he decided, as he stepped into it, that would do it.

 

We heard Wesley open the door of the machine, and close it again. Then we heard an explosion. We looked at each other; we weren't supposed to enter the room just yet, but clearly something had gone wrong. While I was still hesitating, though, Judy tore open the door and ran in. What we saw was the machine, all in parts all over the floor, and Wesley trembling and injured.

 

Wesley healed quickly enough, and we were able to rebuild the machine from our notes, but we were never able to send anything back in time after that, no matter how hard we tried. It was as if God had suddenly seen what we were doing, or suddenly disapproved, and taken the ability from us.

[Katzaniel]

Paul

Stinging political commentary... or overly long setup for a very silly joke?

 

It was my first day of school in the new city, and though I would not admit it to my parents, I was worried. By grade five, all of the other students would know each other. All the cliques would be already formed, and fitting into one - the right one, that is - would be a difficult task. The first day, maybe even the first hour, would set my course for the whole rest of elementary school, probably even high school. Probably even beyond! If I made the wrong impression today, it might seal my fate forever.

 

Mom and dad dropped me off at the gates. They had insisted on making sure I arrived safely, but they were decent enough to understand my need to make the rest of the trip on my own. We had met with the principal when deciding schools, and he had shown me the classroom, so I knew the way. Of course, it would be different today. Today, it would be full of students.

 

"Paul Burrows?" asked the teacher, looking up from her desk, when I walked in. I nodded. "There are other Pauls in this class," she said then, "so would you rather go by Paul B, or perhaps your middle name?"

 

"Paul B," I responded immediately. All respect to my great-grandpa, but I didn't want anybody to know my middle name. It might have been cool in his day, but being known as Archie or Archibald would not help my case for being cool.

 

"Alright," the teacher said, getting up. "You can sit here. In front of you is Dwayne, and behind you is Paul M. I'll leave it up to them to introduce everyone else, and at recess they can show you around. As for this morning, you chose a good day to come, because we're decorating the classroom." She went to the front, then, and addressed the whole class just as the bell rang. She told us what she was expecting, then set us free.

 

Dwayne showed me to the art supplies cupboard. "Dwayne is actually my middle name," he confided as he pulled out a pile of construction-paper circles. "I'm Paul, too."

 

"No, you're not," I said, laughing. "Good one, though."

 

"What, you think I'm lying to you?" My mind raced. He seemed so serious; why continue if it were really a joke? Then again, I didn't want to be gullible. They always pick on the new kid. I know how it works - I've picked on my share of them, too.

 

"No," I said, cautiously. "It's a little hard to believe, though, y'know? Sitting next to the other Paul and all. I just assumed you were joking."

 

"Nah," he replied, suddenly smiling again. "It's not just the two of us, anyway. Otherwise it might seem like quite a coincidence, for sure."

 

Paul M had come over by this point. "You're telling him about all the Pauls?"

 

"Yeah. He didn't believe me at first that it was really my first name... he's going to have trouble with this, I think..."

 

"With what?"

 

"Well, it's really strange, this class is. Never seen the like. Every student in it is called either Paul or Polly! No, don't look like that, it's true." He paused to grin at me. "We think it's some kind of conspiracy!"

 

I just sort of laughed weakly, not wanting to commit on the belief or disbelief. It seemed so extremely out there that I wasn't sure they would have said anything if it weren't true. But how could it be true? It was ridiculous.

 

"Don't you believe us?" queried Dwayne. Put to the point like that, I had to decide. "Not really," I told him. "Do you blame me?"

 

"Nah. But you'll see."

 

And I did. All through the rest of day, kids were introduced to me, and about half of them went by Paul or Polly and their last initial. More than one of the others laughed at some point about Paul or Polly being their middle name. What was this? How far they planned it in advance, and how gullible did they think I would be? And why was the teacher in on it?

 

Finally, at the end of the day, I broke down and waited for everyone to leave, so that I could ask the teacher about it.

 

"Miss? I... this is going to sound stupid. But half the boys in this class have told me that they're really named Paul."

 

"And?"

 

"And? And I don't believe them! What's going on?"

 

"Oh, honey. They're not lying to you. Why should they do that? No, it's just a new educational initiative. We decided that we're going to try organizing kids by their names. We feel that names are never chosen by chance; names give information into how a child learns, how intelligent they can be, the best way to teach them. There are classrooms all over the state organized by popular names and using a certain method of teaching.... are you all right, hon? Is there something wrong?"

 

"It just seems pretty stupid, is all. How can you think that something as ordinary as my name can tell you how smart I'm going to be? You can't pigeonhole us and expect us to like it! It's ridiculous! It's ... it's .... It's appalling!"

[Wyvern]

I really enjoyed reading through your last four stories, Katzaniel, and think that you have some great ideas with strong messages behind them. :-) Here are some specific comments for each of the stories, sorry for not getting to them earlier:

 

The Fool - I really liked the build-up and unexpected turn of this short, as Aster's trick and true identity were both excellent surprises. The direct discussion of identity and religion that turns the narrator's beliefs initially struck me as out of place, but the mysterious third person murderer at the end suggested a strong metaphor to me, and the direct exchanges between Aster and the narrator made more sense in light of that. Very intriguing ending, it definitely leaves food for thought.

 

The Dreamer - This one might be my favorite out of the last four that you posted, as the tone and wording that you use throughout the piece really drives across the feel of a dream well. I loved the way that you detailed specific sensations and swirls of images rather than a cohesive storyline, and particularly liked the way the feeling of hurtling through the multiple doors was described. Another thing that I thought was excellent about this piece was the revelation that the narrator experiences through the dream, as the realisation is driven across well and the final awakening paragraph emphasizes the revelation in a powerful manner. Great stuff.

 

Paradox- I wasn't quite as big a fan of this one as I was of the other three, though it was nicely written in a scientific documentation type of style. The premise of the paradox of time traveling is always fascinating to consider, but it didn't strike me as quite as original as the topics of your other stories since it's definitely been touched upon in film and literature before. There were quite a few interesting elements of plot, such as the apple experiments, but the final reference to God struck me as a bit blunt and could probably be dropped. Also, for some reason, Liang's manner of speech bothered me... perhaps because we only witness it once. ;-) This story certainly isn't bad though, and it could probably be made even better with a bit of expansion.

 

Paul - I thought the concept behind this vignette was really good, and it definitely struck me as original. :-) I also liked how you gradually revealed the nature of the system, as placing the reader in the same boat as Paul B in terms of uncertainty worked very well. The only problem I had with this story was the ending, which felt a little incomplete and which may account for the question you wrote below the title. The story might be stronger if Paul changed in some way through the revelation of the system rather than simply being appalled... perhaps he was very confident in the education system before he found out about the method of organization, and that changed his outlook on school? Also, I'm not sure if all of the language and vocabulary of the story fits its premise, as Paul B seems awfully intellectual for an elementary school student. ;-) Never the less, I really enjoyed reading this, and found it well-written and original. Keep up the good work.

[Tyrion]

Hah, I love "Elevator Blues." I love the humor in it. That and I love stairs. Sometimes I run up the 9 floors of the building during the class breaks.

 

Seeing all those stories makes me feel like I need to stop thinking about writing and actually producing something.

 

Quick note to the others who posted feedback. Titles are underlined when they head the text, but short stories, poems and articles are referred to by using quotation marks.