Magic Show, a School Bus Kids story

So, it's easy to let yourself feel like you're stuck in a rut, a piece worker on an assembly line, working with a quota.  For the bus drivers, you're paid to pick up kids at home and bring them safely to school, then pick them up at school and bring them safely back to their houses, you have the same route, out here for years, going over the same countryside over and over again.  (For hilarious measure, all of my routes are literally giant loops.)  It's easy to get stuck, and then, you get angry at the stupid and slow drivers, annoyed by road construction because it adds literally miles to the flow pattern, unhappy at the empty clock that screams you're late, angry that no one plows the roads where you travel....em....well, you get the picture.  It works for some of us I guess; they need routine or they simply find their way around the routine.  For instance, the previous driver on my route would apparently drive it different ways, which caused me issues initially.

One day, not too long after I took over the route, one of my high schoolers came up and asked me how I could possibly do the job.

"Yuck!  How boring!"

I didn't have to think about it; I simply replied, "No.  It's not."

Now, I know that he did not understand, all he saw was same old, same old, and not much money to go with this particular dose of the daily grind, but I had (and still have) an "office" with quite a view.  Yep, a big, gigantic picture window and it shows me a thousand pictures.  Even in the worst of moments when I can not pay attention due to weather or mood, I still get to feel the subtle color changes in the swirling clouds as the sun stretches up towards the horizon, soak into my being the setting moon in the early AM, get a subtle rub of a rainbow as the storm rushes toward you instead of away from you.  I can see, in the coming light of dusk, the dark silhouettes of the regal turkey as they flip, flap, and glide twenty-five feet into the air, rising above you, the bus, and the road you're on, flying in formation like cattle coming in from the pasture, all "follow the leader," only disappear into the shadow of the corner of your eye to hide their not-so-graceful "plop and gallop/warble to a stop" landing in the field next to you.

Why even this past Monday, our first day after Christmas break, old Mother Nature presented us the most beautiful gift of hoarfrost at noon.  (With appropriate old professor voice, reader's choice: Yes, hoarfrost.  Hoar is spelled correctly, you naughty kids.  If I am not mistaken it is the Middle English word for hair.  Check out the Grand OED, that's Oxford English Dictionary for those who do not know the acronym.)  The frost was amazing.  Just west of our little hamlet of 3000 people, the fog was very dense, 1/2 mile visibility by my guess.  But when you looked directly straight up into the sky, there was nothing but deep blue.  It was like being placed into a sliced egg where the yolk should have been.  (Yeah, that analogy didn't quite work for me either.  I'll get it fixed.)  It was bright, very, but the fairly recent snow was so pure.  The dark shadows of the gnarly trees were almost black in their uprights but white and furry otherwise, oh, and, as the first 4 year old to board the bus on my noon route pointed out, sparkly.  It was magic.

I guess this little red head was feeling the magic of the day, because she was dying to show me something (I could tell because she was bouncing in her seat.)  I told her she would have to wait until we got to school as the roads were not good and I had to work really hard at driving that day.

"Okay."

The entire route, when the door would open and before the student could even get on the bus, "Do you want to see a magic show? Do you want to see a magic show?  Okay.  Bipetty-boppetty-boo.  Wait!  Bippetty-boppetty-boo."  Then giggles.

Finally, at school, "Bus driver!  Bus driver!  Do you want to see a magic show?"

We had some time before the teachers' aides came out to collect the students.  "Sure."

With one arm extended and that hand firmly grasping the hat's "pompom," bipetty-boppetty-boo!  (Yep, that was the magic word.  Thank you, Mr. Disney.).  Without flourish or apology, she took her hat with her other hand and flipped it inside out and put the hat back into her first hand like nothing happened.

"Ta-da!"

Then, "Wait, bus driver!  Bippetty-boppetty-boo!"

She did the same thing as before but this time in reverse.

"Ta-da!  Now, look, bus driver."

With a giggle, the show was done, one trick.  She gathered her stuff and bounded off the bus.  After a count of three, there was a cheer, somewhat flat if you ask me, and the rest of the bus evacuated the bus giggling and smiling.

Where does your "office window" lead?  Bippetty-boppetty-boo!

The Big Clean, an Edward James Blink Adventure

On the edge of town, there is a big house.  And in this big house, there is a big room with lots of books.  And in this house, there is man and a woman.  And in this big house, there is a girl and a dog, a cat, and a goldfish who looks out through his little fishbowl with an expression of great confusion.  And in this house, there is a boy, a boy known to some as Eddie, but most call him Blink.  This boy's name is...Edward James Blink.

9 A.M. Big house at the edge of town.  It's just like any other day.  I sit in front of the entertainment box listening to the prattle until I zero in on "Dexter's Laboratory."  Love Nickelodeon.  Funny.  Remind me later to check in on "Samurai Jack."  Anyway, I'm Blink, Edward Blink.  I'm the one conferencing with the bowl of soggy breakfast cereal.  That's my partner, Spike.  Don't ask what he does.  When he sits on the floor like that, doing whatever it is that canines do while sitting in the corner, assume it's yoga.  We sit in front of the entertainment box like two wet noodles, waiting for our next case, when this dame walks in -- Upright solider, it's the boss, a.k.a. Mom.  It's news from HQ.  "Dexter's Laboratory" will have to wait - damn!

"The streets in Shagsville are getting overrun, Agent Eddie."

"Overrun?"

"Yes, Agent Eddie.  By grime."

"That's Agent Blink, mom.  Please, let's keep it profession.  Shagsville overrun by what?"

"By grime.  Yes, grime has taken over Shagsville."

"Okay.  I get it.  Funny.  This is me laughing.  Ha.  But what should I do about it - the crime problem, that is?"

"Go to Shagsville and stop the evil doers before they can do harm."

"So, you're suggesting, Mom?"

"A big clean.  Yep, that's right.  Go right in there and wipe out the grime - okay, crime - before it has a chance to set in and stink up the place."

"Got it.  Reward?"

"Just the usual."

"Milk and cookies, then?"

"About a dozen or so."

"Alright, I'll go, but I'm bringing Agent Spike with me."

"Good luck, Agent Eddie, I mean, Agent Blink.  Let Operation: Big Clean commence!  Oh, and should you and your partner get caught--"

"We know, you disavow us, and set us out on the curb Sunday night for the Trash man.  Mom."  And with that, she went on to mention that the message will self-destruct.  So we went upstairs to see what awaited us in Shagsville, leaving my bowl of now pablum.  That's okay; the now sugary cold porridge in my bowl was starting to bore me.

To be continued....

On the edge of town, there is a big house.  And in this big house, there is a big room with lots of books.  You know, things you read.  And in this house, there is man and a woman.  And in this big house, there is a girl and a dog, a cat, and a goldfish who looks out through his little fishbowl with an expression of great confusion.  And in this house, there is a boy, a boy known to some as Eddie, but most call him Blink.  The boy's name is...Edward James Blink.

That's Agent Blink to you.  We made good time getting here, my partner Spike and I.  Just up and over the Staircase Mountains and through the Doorway Pass.  Any snow and we could have been on the edge, the point of no return, two marbles teetering, trying hard to hang on to all the marbles, trying not to lose our--

Edward James Blink!

Damn, all three names.  "The Man" must be applying some heat.  We need to work fast if we are going to appease both "The Man" and Mom, our immediate boss.  

On it!

So, this agent and his partner stare deep into the bowels of it all, and we dig up this little jewel: HQ is right!  Shagsville is a cesspool, at least, something smells at any rate.  Small time hoods have set up shop at every corner.  Little gangs of mismolded solider boys, driving busted up Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars, shake down regular stuffed animal types for lunch money.  And all the while, Batman and Superman are having an all out brawl high above the streets of town.  Hoodlums!  How can any self-respecting, soft-formed entity live like this?  Agent Spike and I come up with a plan.  We call HQ, put our boss, Mom, right in the middle of a big fat loop.  Then, we pay a visit to "The Box."

The Box is the nickname for the legendary, high security prison that sits on one edge of Shagsville.  You know the one.  It's the place with the big sliding wall and all the appropriate protocols: eye scanners, laser guns, supercomputer codes, DNA tongue readers, nostril and butt analyses.  That's right.  Everything's state of the art, no expenses spared, right down to the secondary, high dark walls and a lid complete with a big clumsy clasp that houses solitary confinement.  Yup, toy's check in, but they don't check out.  We talked to the warden; all was in readiness.  So, Operation: Big Clean was pushed out into the light of day, like fresh-baked caramel rolls pulled out of the oven.

We had started to make great progress.  We had most of the small-time hoods and operators off the streets and "tossed into "The Box."  Among the names were "Juggling" Jack-in-the-Box Johnson, operator of the "hide the snacks" and other food games and "Colonel Black Jack" of the mismolded solider outfit.  It wasn't easy; bagging Renegade members of the G.I. Joe crew and the occasional member of the Pokemon and Magic Card decks.  But our greatest fete was the mid-air surrender of Superman and Batman and consequent wipe down of that street scene.  All awaited their turn in Shagsville's great golden halls of justice, sitting quietly in the dark of the box, contemplating their crimes against soft-sculptured kind.

We were just about to send a progress report back to HQ, when Agent Spike and I began to notice a stink in the air.  Yep, that's right, stink was Mom-speak for "bad."  According to reports coming in, piles of toxic wastes, perhaps even nuclear, a.k.a. dirty clothes, were popping up all over Shagsville.  It could only mean one thing, The Stuffed Three.  The Stuffed Three was a crime syndicate lead by the notorious Mr. Stuffy (Mr. S.), Mr. Giggles, and The Elephant, a ruthless bunch of stuffed fabrics, who had been working to take over the teeming metropolis of Shagsville for years.  The Stuffed Three were rumored to have taken over the Sanitation industry during the Great Shagsville Worker Strike back in October, which included the municipal dump known as "The Hamper."  They were threatening to release the dust bunnies if Agent Spike and I didn't back off.  This was no longer a task; it was now a chore.

To be continued...

On the edge of town, there is a big house.  And in this big house, there is man and a woman.  And in this big house, there is a girl and a dog, a cat, and a goldfish who looks out through his little fishbowl with an expression of great panic.  And in this house, there is a boy, and the boy's name is...Edward James Blink!

Some call me Edward. Some call me Eddie, but most call me Blink, Agent Blink.  Me and agent Spike, my partner, were left with a dilemma: face the Stuffed Three and take down their vast criminal network, or face (Dah-Dah-Dum!) dust bunnies.  We called HQ and talked to our boss...Mom.  She told about dust bunnies; how, in spite of their adorable, fuzzy exteriors, their red eyes hid lasers that cut trees, and their mouths concealed horrible, razor sharp teeth.  "They'll consume anything.  They especially like dirty socks!  Which explains dust bunny breath!" Shrieked Mom.

"That could also explain the problem I have with my sock drawer," I said.

"Only singles...No matching pair?"

"No, like I care.  No, all my socks are for Sunday.  Anyhow, what's to do?"

Mom thought for a bit, and then she sent us the big gun.  When it arrived, we went to work.  We unpacked, plugged in, and prepared to use the biggest, and newest, gun in our arsenal.  Mom called it...the Vacuum!  It was named after Professor Farnsworth Vacuum, the inventor, and it held the power to make all of Shagsville disappear into thin air.  We discovered this power a bit too late for Plastic Mouse, though.  (Poor Plastic, he was a good kid.)  We quickly called the Stuffed Three to tell them about our "little demonstration."  Well, actually, we had no way to conference call anyone, so we called Mr. Stuffy, who, in turn, called Mr. Giggles, then The Elephant.  They were nervous.  You could hear the sweat rolling down their little linen faces.  A meeting was arranged, back alley other side of The Bed, local gathering place.  But when we got there, it was an ambush.

It turned ugly pretty quickly, and the battle would have taken days, perhaps weeks, if it wasn't for the quick reaction of our boss, Mom.  Holding the plug, "that's enough!  Take Mr. Stuffy, Mr. Giggles, and The Elephant to The Toy Box!"

So, that was that; Operation: Big Clean done and officially in the books...or closet, maybe.  So, here we are, Agent Spike and I, taking in our reward while watching the Nick.  Did I ever mention that I'm okay with chocolate meltiness and sugary crumbs?

He Who Flew

"Do you know what it is to fly?" asked the old weathered, craggy face.

"Yup," answered the wide and innocent eyes.

"No you don't," insisted the agitated wheel chair head.

"Do, too!" volleyed back the one holding a raggedy, well-used and dingy cloth that once was a teddy bear.

"Then, show me!  Spread out those big beautiful wings and show me!" barked the raggedy, well-used, and dingy rag that was once a virile young man.

The big, innocent eyes stared hard into the angry old thing; lips quivered, holding back a terrible flood of sea water.

"If you think you can take on such a boast!  If you think you can simply just interject, then show me!  Fly, Goddamnit!" violently rebuked the wheels of silver.

Water filled the young eyes not quite ready to run down smooth cheeks.

"Show me, you mortal flea!" shook violent hands.

"Mister Kittering!" interrupted a voice of small distance.

"If you insist on calling me by that name, at least use the appropriate honorific, thing!  It's Professor!" snapped, then released, the talons of violence.

"If you insist, Professor, your visitor--"

"Yes!  I know!" with a sigh, the used body on metal wheels, deflated.  "Apologies," said the embarrassed wrinkled hands.  "I don't get many visitors in this god forsaken place.  But in the golden sands...well.  Still, you know nothing of flying..."

The youthful one exhaled and found a place for his limp, cloth companion to sit, and then he found himself a place of comfort and sat.

From the stiff metal wheels, "Across the old sands of Egypt, high above the green vein of the Nile, I flew on golden wings.  Up there, gliding between the light, feathery clouds, you can hear secrets.  Yes, the whispers of ancient gods, the old ones, across giant dunes, sandy waves on a mighty ocean of grains.  They are antique, hot winds.  Just close your eyes and inhale the great sandstorms.  You can almost taste those thousand whispers inside your head, just inside your ears, murmurs of time, water, and green before the great desert, a time of Nubia and the ones who scratched civilization before the sand men," the thin voice stopped with a harsh cough, a weathered hand reached for a white-lined glass of water.  "You have to unfurl yourself, open fully and jump.  Let the air and clouds caress your body, all the while, listen to the glistening sun, calling."

"Sounds like Icarus to me."

"Ha!  History books!"

"No, my daddy read to me a book, once, about Icarus.  My-fall-o-gis, I think he said."

"Mythologies are always written by the victors.  Icarus was a child who dared, and his uncle, Daedleus, was a fool who dreamed.  They did not know."  Weak arms fresh off silver wheels became old weathered tree limbs, extended.  "The sun can not be pierced, obtained, or understood by wax or a simple mortal."

"He knows," said a small smile.

"What?" said an ancient scowl.

The dingy rag of a bear danced, held high above innocent head and gentle eyes.

"Oh, you.  Yes, you, rag-o-mop.  You would know.  Always something interwoven into your kind, isn't there?  Threads, waft of lifelines intersecting, fates.  You dusty tapestry of secrets.  You naughty, funny...and dirty thing."

A simple smile oozed into place on the young face.  Then, young yawn exploded, interrupting the silence of the old/young detente.

"See!  You know nothing of flying!" slapped an indignant thin raspy voice.  "Even in the listening, you know not!"

"Do too," the youthful small voice snuggled into the rag of a bear.

"Aw!  Cold and shadow upon you!" screeched the old nails upon an imaginary chalkboard.  "Yes, cold and shadow, just like that time above the Himalayans.  Yes.  Wings spread full, shining in the sun.  Cold and shadow.  Ice.  Then, shiny warmth.  All day, and then, I got whispered into a monsoon."  Pause.

"And then you fell on to the ground?" Suddenly aroused, up and giddy for adventure that teetered on the edge of the comfortable chair.

"Sure, now you listen," admonished the old prune.

"Then what?" cajoled the youthful eager eyes.

A gulp of water and a hard setting of glass, "a great mire, mud everywhere...love, you poor little man child.  Love."

"Was she pretty?"

"Pretty?  Bah, beautiful!  The most magnificent I ever had seen, and I have soared so high into the atmosphere that I broke through its very edge, and with my naked eyes, I saw bright stellar nurseries.  So high above the plain of mortals.  Love, mind you, a mire about my ankles.  Yes, beautiful, wondrous, magnificent, terrifying.  Flying without leaving the earth.  I was never bound by gravity, though.  I could fly whenever, wherever I wished to go.  And when I did fly, she would watch.  So much wonder.  It felt like the sun upon my body.  I would take her in my arms and lift so slowly.  We would glide across golden, shifting sands...."  Old voice turned young now faded.

"Then what?"

"Always questions with you.  Well, nosy one...are you sure you are not related to Raven?  Hmm?...Well, let's see...Together, we built temples and cities.  We built empires, moved rivers and oceans, called stars, moved tides...

"Cool."

"Yes, awesome."  A thin, tight, quick gasp.  "No!" thin, bony hands reached out to the retreating memory.  "Don't go.  Please!  Stay.  That one is not eternity, only me," ancient whispers caressed craggy abused cheeks, pulling salty, delta water with them.

"What?  Who are you talking to?  Where are you?" youthful confusion, standing, grasping tight to ancient bear.

"Life has a twin sister, little one.  A hateful, jealous, vengeful sister.  The two sisters walk the planet together, hand in hand.  Eternal sisters, sultry sisters, seductresses.  One plants, one harvests.  They are ruled by the one who makes the sands and pushes the winds and water.  One plants, one harvests," the mummy faded off, lost.

"Hello?"

"No, Magnificent.  Stay.  Don't leave me here alone."

"She flies now, does she?" said youth.

"Eh, mortals!  They are like quicksand to those who fly.  And you  do NOT know of FLYING!" flared old, tired, fully wet to swimming eyes.

"Professor Kittering!"

Heavy sigh, dry ground regained.  "I'm sorry.  Mustn't raise the voice.  Again, apologies, young one.  Ignorance is hard to suffer, even if it is not intended," closed the weary, desert eyes with another sigh.

"So, Professor, what happened, exactly?"

Different voice, eyes slammed open!  "What?!  Where is he?!"

"Who?" came the distant voice, intent on diffusing.

"Youth!  The young one with the rag doll bear...," seethed the thin whisper.

"Professor--" calmed in manner, controlled and in control.

"Ah!  Damn you!  Damn you and your magics!  You scared him away, mortal!" lashed the wheeled, old voice.

"I...okay... I am sorry for that, but...um... perhaps, I can help you?"

"Why would I talk to you, Sorcerer?" moved the wheel chair a partial turn.

"Well, it appears that you are stuck here--"

"How observant!"

"Yes, thanks.  What I meant is that you appear to be looking for freedom, perhaps?..."

"What?  Will you give me my wings back?  They have been severed from my body!  Will you give me back the sand?  That was stolen and replaced by concrete, steel, glass, and blacktop.  Will you give me back the power of the tides?  You will give me back My Magnificent?"

"I have the power to ease your struggled.  However, does anyone have the kind of power to give you the moon?  Only you can do that, my friend," calm and calculated wrote.

Wheels struggled to regain the sands and ancient whispers, "What do you know?  You are a treacherous Jack-n-ape.  You know tricks, lies, and shadows.  Ice.  Nothing more.  I will not suffer ignorance even if it is unintended."

"All right, well.  Perhaps, our session is done; Professor Kittering, we'll talk more later."  

"I am the one who knows what it is to fly on golden wing. I once ruled over golden sand and mighty veins of water lined in green.  My name is so old that the wind, the sand, and the water no longer whisper it, so old it is forgotten," tears built up behind a dam with sandy banks and papyrus just in the corner of old, half-blind eyes.

"Yes, well.  We will get to all that Sanskrit stuff at a later time, perhaps.  Right now, these gentlemen will help you back to your room," said the distant voice, acquiesced.

With a nod, two men in hospital whites, pulled and tugged, down antiseptic halls, down partially lit corridors, until a door.  With a clank and jingle of a key ring full, the door was opened, before them sat a bed in an empty room.  De-wheeled and held supine, straps tight, the old dried one was left alone...until the bright full moon.  Under the moonlight from a high, thin slit in damp, dank walls, straps were undone, food offered.  Hand in hand, two women.  One reaping, one sowing.  And again high above the mortal plain, over the sand, with golden wings spread, he, now young, thought upon the boy and the wizened, old rag-a-bear.

To Tread or Not To Tread

He sits in front of the mirror, just like he has hundreds of times, perhaps thousands.  He, with great ritual, hides his face with an applicator sponge, just like in those hundreds of times, perhaps thousands.  With great solemn ceremony in those hundreds of times, perhaps thousands, he applies a mask of pancake and bakes it under the hot lights that surround a guilded mirror and look deeply into a face that looks right back out at him.  And then, a hundred times, perhaps thousands, he will make his entrance.  "All the worlds a stage, and all men and women merely players.  They have their entrances and exits..."  Today, however, the face in the mirror, something wrong, out of place.  "Is this a dagger I see before me?"  He thinks into a heavy sigh.  "And each man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages..."

He sees wrinkles under his eyes, dark bags, crevices and crags among the face.  Instead of water and wind, age has created this facade on the rock, the old king, the specialty of this evening.  A sad royal, a desperate ruler, trying so hard to beat the rush of time, the ravisher of mind and kingdom.  An old man, nay, fool, who wants so much to hear words long turned to dust, empty ghosts floating about his court. "I love you, Daddy," say three little girls, now powerful, lusting women, nay, harpies.  Alas, all that is left is a divided kingdom.  Nothing corporeal for the weary king to carry into oblivion.

A knock on the door beats, "Forty-five minutes."

Yes, the bright lights fade, make pale and flat a face undone, so makeup it is.  But makeup does not cover eyes, so at least, there is something to take into the abyss, old King, and yet, somewhere deep in those tired eyes, looking out from the reflection in that bright mirror, sits a boy, instead of three young girls.  

"Who looks back at me?  I am the boy, I recognize the blanket on which I sit.  I recognize the trees and open space; it's a faded picture from a photo book, my long-lost baby book.  And on the other part of that blanket, I recognize a hairdo and picnic basket.  A tiny baby, horned-rimmed glasses.  There is a blouse and skirt, a middle class attempt to appear as a woman who later became Jackie O.  A conservative approach to a time turning psychedelic, except for the Beetle Bug, the car with no heat.  I am that boy, but I was always "willing to school," and always afraid to "sigh like furnace," always running from Cupid's arrow.  So, alas no heirs in this kingdom.  But there is Mark Twain, Sherlock Holmes, someone named Pooh, a wind in the willows, and a whole cavalcade of Gods who labored over Greece who would visit my bed at night.  There would be my confidant, my safe boundaries holding a book over my prone body, me devouring, savoring every word , sharing my very spirit.  The empty space between us always filled with love, understanding, and silence, stillness.  Alas, no longer.  And no little one in a bed for me to share those words, those books.  I..."

He settles into a sigh of ennui, and a tear pops out of the corner of his eye, like a rodent seeking safety.  It runs down his cheeks.

"Yee-aaw!  Save it for the storm, save it for Act IV, save it for the audience...." Another tear.  "Stop it!  Too soon!"

He goes back to the bright mirror, hiding his face by applying the character.  He blinks and is now in robe and nightcap, Moliere, rather an attempt.  He can not remember the words, no matter how hard.  

"The script never sank in, did it?  Work, torment, angry words from fellow actors.  No one knew about how the words crawled all over the page; I stayed silent in embarrassment and shame.  Some one else should have pretended to be ill, a specific Junior, the rightful heir to the audition, should have been the hypochondriac.  But I was the Senior...and I sucked...what if I can't--  Stop it!  No time!  Too late!  Just shut up and do it.  Take the leap, God damn it.  Step off the top of the pole and go for the bell.  Fuck!"

"Thirty minutes."

"Where's the old man?  Shit!  I lost him.  No!  I must.  Back to makeup, finish the highlights and shadows.  Don't forget to line the eyes.  Ah, there you are.  Good!  Still there, eh, Monarch.  At least your face is ready, you ol' cartoon buffoon.  I only hope I can fill you with real emotions...and remember your words.  Not Moliere, please, no Moliere.  I never did attempt Moliere after that, did I?  Not once.  Not even after my first professional stage experience.  Christmas with Vic and Sade.  That was when my director pointed me in a direction that hinted my reading problems were not connected to my intelligence.  I never thanked him for that.  Paul Bragosian, something like that.  Thank you, sir.  He went back to Philadelphia if I remember.  Small part in "12 Monkeys," then disappeared from my life all together.  Fuck!  Costume!  Where is it?!  Okay, there it is.  Breathe.  The layers are here.  The weight and scratch ones are here...the colors."

In a breath, he goes back to the mirror;  he preens, picking the last bits of non-character, everyday habits.  He sweeps off his shoulders and chest the gremlins of doubt.  He is pleased as the crumpled monarch gazes back at him.  The smile appropriately tired and grizzled.

He steps into the hallway and heads toward his court awaiting him in his throne room.  As he finds the edge of the stage, the actor hides in the thick, dust-filled curtains.  The lights have not gone to black, there are several stagehands working, solving, and preparing.  He sees several audience members milling about the house.  The curtains smell of old makeup and past performances.  His stomach moves and gurgles.  Movement helps; so, the actor paces.  His gentle footfalls quietly tick like an old grandfather clock.  Time, click, passing, clock.  Father in a bed with rails, 62 years of age, not quite 63.  Click.  "What do have I to show with my life?"  Clock.  "You're meant for this role," director with a smile.  Click.  "Who am I?"  Clock.  A single, external voice: "you were chosen, and you also chose."

"Places!" Whispers a cuckoo from a different clock.  So, silently, the actor floats on to the now darkened stage and takes his place.  He exhales slowly, meditates.

After, he will leave the redarkened stage and float into a dark makeup room.  With a sigh, he will exhale, leaving his body.  "Yes, I chose."  In the warm glow of candlelight applause and laughter remembered, the actor will then close his eyes.

Something in the Air

He was bored, so he looked out the window.  It was a big, single-paned window, a great bird watching window.  There were several pairs of binoculars sitting upon the window's ledge to allow everyone in the family a chance to peep off into the distance, maybe catch sight of a passing bird.  But there were no birds, not at the feeders, nor at the bird bath nor in any of the surrounding trees.  Somehow, there was no lack of robin voices singing out in the pre-dawn light, singing their "Good Morning" song, loudly.  He sat at the window.  The avian choir penetrated the single pane of glass, just as his staring passed through that same glass.  He was not really looking anywhere or at anything; he barely focused on the cherry tree in the yard that sat just past the feeding station for his feathery friends.  The cherry tree stood far enough away from the house and surrounding trees that it would catch any hint of morning sunshine, as soon as it was cast upon the land, but the sun was not quite ready to rise and shine.  With the stars still danced and taunted the soon-to-rise sun, the limbs and accompanying leaves of the cherry tree danced in the near-dawn light as a subtle morning breeze added beautiful music of the robin chorus.

He exhaled loudly; the world was ripe for adventure.  He could feel it in his bones; he could not sit still.  His body cried out for adventure.  He hoped a heavy sigh would awaken his still slumbering mother, not quite ready to rise and shine.  No response; so, he waited, pressing his face into the window, hoping adventure would push through the pane and touch him.  He had already eaten some cereal, which he was now demeaned old enough to do on his own, and he really did not want to turn on the television, as cartoons had become boring to him (though, a sneak of Cartoon Network did cheer him up occasionally).  He did not want to break out paper and pencil to draw.  He did not want to turn on a light.  No, the world outside called.  "Mother, adventure waits!" he said over his shoulder, while pirate tales and exploration tales went swimming in his head.  Still no response.  So, he stared out into the yard, just past the dancing cherry tree.

He had been staring out that gigantic, bird-watching window for a while, as a hint of color brush-stroked across the property.  Dawn was beginning to break, and it started to fill to the daydream dancing in his head, a cutting of tall grasses and trees, a slashing of vines.  The dawn became a simple swipe of a machete which revealed a great jungle temple with gigantic stone doors open to explore.  But as soon as the temple was revealed, the temple doors slammed shut, and also his daydream.  He jumped back from the window to hide in the shadows of the room's interior, revealing a greasy ghost left behind on the pane.  Something moved, something black on two legs in the yard, just past the cherry tree.  Danger had come.  It was so black, this danger, this unknown, that it felt as if all of the sunlight being cast into the yard, which was not much, was being sucked into the thing, a giant light vacuum.  The cherry tree quit dancing, the wind quit singing.

In spite of his parents' decree about leaving the house before they awoke, he leapt on to his feet.  He grabbed a flashlight from the junk drawer in the kitchen, in case, he needed something to throw at the dark intruder.  He left the living room and headed straight out the door with great speed.  He maneuvered through the yard like a white tailed deer, around trees, over bushes, and out into the part of the yard where the tall grass grew, the "natural" part of the property.  He saw nothing in the uncut grass, not even a trail, other than his own.

He scratched his head, almost forgetting about the heavy flashlight in his hand.  He spun around quickly in the yard, not really seeing anything in the act.  He knew danger lurked, and it hid itself well in the tall grass or behind a bush or tree.  He stumbled around looking for hints that would lead to the capture of the "unknown."  After a couple of minutes frantically seeking out the "danger," he stopped.  He took in a deep breath of dew-cooled air.  He smelled cow.  The neighbors down the road raised beef cattle; they were extremely noisy on this morning.  They sensed the "darkness" lingering nearby, but it was quite a distance to cover in such a short amount of time.  Still, he followed the voices of bellowing beasts deep into a spring-formed ravine.  But as he listened to the bovine, his eyes traced a strip of grass that divided the pasture from a hillside of woods and noticed a figure standing there.  He could barely ascertain the shape of a black dress and perhaps harvest wheat for hair.  An intense stab hit his eyes, so he tightly closed his eyelids to relieve the pain.  But when he opened his eyes, the figure had disappeared.  There was no trail of beaten grass to indicate anything was there, let alone a person in black.  He said nothing of the incident to anyone.  No one would believe.