You can't get your money back,

not in this life.

You don't get to take it back,

not in this life.

Be careful with what you write,  

what you say, and what you do,

Take your time, be sure, 

and really think it through.

You will have to live with it, 

tomorrow, all the tomorrows hence,

on and on it goes.

You can say "that was then."

But you'll hear the noes. 

'Cause you can't get your money back,

that's just the way it goes. 

___________________________________

June 2017

© 2017 CLThomas Published on theprose.com per agreement. Other reproduction for use by written permission only.

“So, you want to do This or That, do you,” asked the Fed, or G-man, or lower level bureaucrat whose actual title is “analyst” which makes as much sense as the rest of this story.

“Well,” he continued, “you will need to file an application and pay a fee.” He then paused, thoughtfully staring at a well worn page in a three-ring binder; the three holes of which had been reinforced with scotch tape, carefully folded, covering the hole on each side of the paper, time after time. “Actually,” continued his continuation, “you will need two applications and two fees, one for This and a separate one for That.”

“So what is the bottom line? What will it cost me? My question was met with a knowing smile indicating the he knew that I knew that he had the advantage. His team was winning.

“Well, both applications are available online. We no longer print them as it is too costly. The instructions precede the application. It must be printed out and signed and the original and one copy delivered to this office with a check. Two applications require separate checks. Our review window is 60 days. If one or both of the applications is not non-disapproved, the fee is not refundable as it pays for the approval process.”

"What do you mean by non-disapproved? Do you mean approved?" I began to regret asking as I saw that knowing smile of his slowly reappear. He had me again.

"No, we don't approve anything," he was suppressing his giddiness, almost, "we non-disapprove."

“So, what will it cost me?” I felt as though I was in some kind of quicksand, sinking and unable to do anything about it.

“Yes, the application fee for This,” he was studying the next reinforced three-ring binder page and speaking very cautiously, “is $460 and for That is $640. The actual processing will not take place until the checks clear.”

“Why the difference in fees?”

“Well, This is easy and requires only a team of junior analysts. That, however, is much more complex and must be evaluated and non-disapproved by a senior analyst. Much more expensive and somewhat slower.”

“How much slower?”

“That adds a 30 day management review, unless waived by management review as a result of the filing of a management review exception request and an additional fee.”

“What is the fee for the management review?”

“None, it is included in the approval fee.”

“But you said there was an additional fee.”

“Not for management review, the additional fee is for the filing of a management

review exception request which is subject to management review after That check clears and the new one, too.”

I was feeling dizzy and needed water or sugar, I am not sure which. I had neither. “So, how much is the new fee,” I managed to ask.

"For the management review exception request?"

“Yes, that one.”

“That one is,” the pages of the binder were flying by, “$74.”

“Can I give you cash now, and start the clock today?”

“No that will not be possible, we do not take cash or credit cards, only checks.

Also, the clock starts when the complete application is submitted and the check for the fee clears.”

I was surprised because I fully understood that last comment. It actually made sense to me.  I worried that I was somehow acclimating.

“Okay, I will bring in the applications and the checks tomorrow morning. You are open, right? Tomorrow is Friday.”

“Yes, we are open, but no.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“We only take applications for This and That on Tuesday and Thursday mornings

from 8:00 AM to 11:00 AM.

My vision was beginning to tunnel. “Okay, I’ll bring them in next Tuesday bright

and early,” I said.

“That won’t work, either.” He said as he slam-dunked me back into the quicksand. 

“Why is that,” I questioned, pinching myself; this must be a bad dream.

“The app for This, with the check, on Tuesday morning only and the app for That, with the check, on Thursday morning only. That is clearly outlined in the instructions.” With that he handed me a poorly copied and stapled packet of a dozen pages of instructions in about six point type; breaking the rule about handouts. “It is all there,” he said, “the web address in on page two.”

I felt drunk as I staggered to my car in the metered lot in front of the huge tan building with “Administration” in large Roman letters.

I reached my car and in short order a crowd of passersby formed around me. I was sitting on the ground laughing hysterically. My audience was not sure if I was laughing or crying, sane or ready to howl at the streetlamps. A cop pulled a paper from my hand, a parking ticket, my meter had expired.

“It’s okay folks,” the cop said to the crowd. Then she muttered, mostly to herself, “third time this week.”

I managed a short break in my hysteria, saying to her, “you’re non-disapproved.”

______________________________________________________________

Fiction? You be the judge.

June 2017

© 2017 CLThomas Published on theprose.com per agreement. Other reproduction for use by written permission only.

Can’t look back

gotta look forward 

forget the past 

hopeful, starward.

Down the line

a new day’s dawning

high bright sun

evening falling

resting peaceful, 

look inside 

slow hand paces

growing anthem

singing the soul’s song

of tomorrow and

can’t look back

gotta look forward

forget the past

hopeful, starward.

____________________________________________________________________

August 1996

© 1996-2017 CLThomas Published on theprose.com per agreement. Other reproduction for use by written permission only.

"April showers bring May flowers," at least that's what my probation officer used to tell me. She was something, really sweet. She had an old saying for any occasion or occurrence; and, used them a lot.

I had done three years at the Club Fed in Lompoc. Apparently it is improper to borrow money from investors without their knowledge. Who knew? I got 10 years but they needed my space for a new round of politicians that had their hands in much bigger cookie jars than mine. See how she rubbed off on me.

Anyway, I was released and put on seven years probation. Thus entered Ali Johnson, my P.O. I was required to report to her once per month and immediately inform her of any change in my status; a move, change in employment, and all that. I had lots of restrictions.

We hit it off, Ali and I. Really liked each other. I started scheming reasons to get in touch with her. It took me about four months to really get in "touch," if you catch my drift. It happened on a scheduled visit to my apartment in West Hollywood. 

She looked around to see how I lived. She had a form on which she was checking boxes and entering notes. I was showing her my bedroom walk-in closet. She followed me in, I was talking and not paying much attention. I turned around, too quickly I guess, and we did a full frontal bump. She lost her balance a little and I caught her, pulled her back on her feet, and against me. 

Ten minutes later there was a trail of clothing from the closet to my bed and the rest is history. I had no idea that probation would turn out to be so meaningful.

Ali had office hours on Mondays and Thursdays. She did her field work on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Her lunches on her field days were spent at my place. Sometimes we would drive to the beach, if she had time. 

Of course, it was not perfect. She was married to a cop that worked out in the West Valley; a long way from where I lived. We wanted to see more of each other, but it did not look like we could, maybe ever. They did not have kids, but their families had known each other for years. Ali and her husband had been childhood sweethearts and had never dated anyone else. She was not sure if her husband had any other women, sexually that is. But I was her only other man, at least that is what she told me.

One Friday, Ali was leaving my place so she and I went down to the building lobby together. I went to check my mail, she went out the front door to her car in a metered spot in front of the building. 

The building manager was in the lobby and he asked me if I knew the guy in the green Chevy parked in the alley across the street. As I looked out the window, Ali drove off and the green car followed. 

I had only seen one picture of her husband, but I am sure it was him. He had a golf shirt on and his left arm had tattoos that looked identical to the picture I had seen. That tattoo and his ultra blonde hair were positive identification enough for me.

I asked the manager about the man in the car. He told me that the same man had been parked there several times. Once the manager saw him in the lobby looking at the names on the mail boxes. "I am sure he was a cop in plain clothes," the manager said. 

My heart sunk. I did not want to cause Ali any pain. I was most certainly in love with her. I could feel her getting farther and farther away with each passing minute. Now I could not talk to her, warn her, until Monday.

It was the longest two days of my life, far worse than prison. I called first thing on Monday and she was out ill. I left a message to call me. 

She seemed to have vanished, at least from my life. She did not come by all week. I called for an office appointment and was told that I needed to see another P.O. as Ali was on an extended leave of absence. 

Something felt wrong. I did not believe that she would just abandon me without a word, at least good bye. I had to know that she was all right.

I knew where she lived so I rented a car and exchanged license plates with some I bought from a guy I new in Lompoc. I watched the house for days, changing cars, doing all the things I had learned from all the crime novels I read in prison.

Her husband came and went daily, like nothing was wrong. She was nowhere to be found. I saw another P.O. who told me that Ali had a sick relative somewhere that she was helping and would be gone for several months. I asked if he had spoken with Ali and he said that it all came up suddenly and that her husband had made all the arrangements for her leave. I snapped.

I was sure he had done something horrible to her. He knew the system and how to cover his tracks. I had to do something. 

I found a guy that would sell me a rifle, and old 30 calibre bolt action sniper rifle with a scope. I was pretty good with a similar weapon in the Army.

I followed him for several days. One day he stopped at a grocery store and parked in an area on the side of the building with a stand of woods across the parking lot. There were hardly any people on that side of the building. I parked on an access road on the other side of the trees. I found a good vantage point about 150 yards from his car, and set up. 

In ten minutes he came out carrying a bag of groceries. My first shot took the top of his head off and it was over. I walked to the car, the rifle rolled in a blanket. I drove out the upper side shopping center on to an onramp to the Hollywood Freeway. I was home in twenty minutes; exhausted, I went to sleep.

Early the next morning I went to a large park not too far away and disposed of the rifle in a dumpster near a riding stable.  When I got back to my apartment I turned on the television for the first time since the shot. 

It was all over the news. Many were speculating that it was another police assassination. In both relief and in horror, I saw Ali, in hysterics. I know her well enough to understand how I have hurt her. I saw clearly that there was no way to forgive what I had done. Everything was over. Killing him had killed us too.

I really have no reason to walk freely, to live really. There is only one way for me to go, to you, sir, and to the truth.  And that, Officer, is why I had to murder my one true love's husband and any chance we might have had.

____________________________________________________________________

June 2017

© 2017 CLThomas Published on theprose.com per agreement. Other reproduction for use by written permission only.

The Arrival

“I am Cesar and you are Timothy the Younger; it is true?” His smacking lips reduced the question to barely understandable.

“I am Timothy, but I am not the Younger, though my years are few,” the young man responded as he retreated a step to avoid the spray which accompanied the rumpled man’s chew-filled talking.

“You are the son of Timothy of High Pastures, are you not? You are the youngest of three brothers, ARE YOU NOT? You have been summoned by The Master, HAVE YOU NOT?” Cesar had become quite agitated, his half eaten sausage flying about, as if warding off a swarm of enraged bees with half a greasy snake.

“Please sir,” Timothy begged, “my father, Timothy, died last Spring, leaving me the eldest male and the son responsible to feed, clothe, and shelter the family, or so I am told by my brothers, my sister, my mother, and several cousins. That is why I responded to the notice that The Master had posted regarding a position at the Tower. A position, I might add, that is a bit unclear as the notice did not describe the duties nor the wage paid therefore. Yet it is a position in which my interest is intense and sincere. That is why I added my name to the list at the bottom of the notice. So, you see I am no longer the Younger, but I am only elder in terms of my responsibility and namesake.”

Stunned by the logic and clarity of the young man’s rhetoric, Cesar silently placed the sausage in the pouch hanging from the waist-cord of his tunic and motioned for Timothy to hand him the two tied bundles carrying his possessions.

“Come with me,” Cesar said more calmly and with unexpected clarity of his own. He turned and led Timothy through the city’s main gate to his waiting cart. Awe-struck by the city’s size and the hustle and bustle of the people, Timothy looked all about, trying to comprehend it all.

“Your first time here?” Cesar asked as he put the bundles into the cart motioning for Timothy to get in the back.

“Yes, this is my first visit. It is so exciting, big and busy, all these people…” his voice lowered with his diverted attention until it was absorbed into the sounds of the city. Cesar smiled as he climbed to his seat and urged the aged donkey into motion.

The morning sun was but a sliver between the clouds in the deep valley between the two highest peaks in the distance. The river flows through the deep valley to the docks near the main gate. The highlands that rise to the peaks have been Timothy’s family home for generations. Most of his kin have lived their entire lives in their village and the surrounding pastures; tending sheep and selling wool and meat to the traders who come to the village from the city.

The wide and white stone avenue that leads from the docks, through the main gate, up the hill to the university is lined with whitewashed buildings, vendors, artists, musicians, shops, pubs, and busy people of all colors and classes, rushing about.

At the top of the hill, the Tower of White dominates the “place of the learned,” as the university is called by those who travel there in search of answers, of knowledge.

“We must hurry. I fear we are late. We must not make him wait,” Cesar said fearfully, loosely gesturing in the direction of the Tower. The aged donkey, much experienced in these matters, found the center of the white way, made of smaller cobblestones, and quickened his pace. Cesar smiled as the answer seeking travelers moved aside and, in increasing numbers, were on both sides of the cart headed in the same direction.

“Where are they going?” Timothy yelled over his shoulder toward Cesar. From Timothy’s seat facing rear, legs dangling, the walkers all seemed as if they had been placed under a spell of some kind, gazing forward, marching upward, left-right-left-right.

“These are those who are the near learned, the former learned, and a few learned mixed in with the learning to be learned. Some teach and some are taught, most do neither and some do both,” Cesar said smiling in the glow if his wisdom. The young man would certainly enjoy and appreciate his comments and the logic behind them. He celebrated with a bite of sausage.

“That’s sad,” said Timothy. Cesar nearly choked and flushed with rage he threw the sausage which hit the aged donkey at the base of his tail. Startled, the animal skipped sideways two steps, almost hitting a tall man with a large book under his arm. The man did not look up nor acknowledge the incident.

“What is the matter,” Cesar managed to speak, “why is it sad?”

“Look at them, sir. Knowledge is comfort, learning is a treasured gift from God and should be addressed with happiness and optimism. These men have no purpose in their search for truth or they would not approach it with the look of defeated and dislodged refugees trudging toward a fearful unknown.”

“May the gods save me, young man. I think I am beat.” By his tone, Cesar had clearly given up in his imagined battle of logic. He looked over his shoulder past Timothy, at the road behind them, apparently longing to have his sausage back.

The aged donkey had perked up, his pace quickening, sensing his approaching home and, most likely, Cesar’s loss of both wordplay and sausage. At least that seemed to be the thought that crossed Cesar’s mind as he frowned at the donkey’s swishing tail. Cesar had known this creature for years and its deep disrespect for him was common knowledge; especially as the sausages took their toll and grew Cesar in ways beasts of burden must hate.

Timothy had not responded to Cesar; he was lost in his thoughts. Perhaps speculating on what might lie ahead; perhaps searching his brain for a formula that would make sense of all of this — the notice, the job, The Master himself.

Timothy broke his silence after a few moments and asked “Sir, where will these men go; to the Tower, a chapel, an assemblage of some kind?

“They will join a queue at the Tower, waiting for a consultation. Then they will leave or take a seat at the university, if one is available to be had.” Cesar was not aggressive in his answer. He seemed to resign himself to merely imparting the requested information efficiently and without emotion.

The aged donkey continued happily, the Tower was very near now.

The Passage

The sun was high and the gleaming Tower of White had grown and grown as the cart approached. Now it overwhelmed everything that surrounded it and all who approached it, including Cesar’s charge.

The red-tile-capped cylinder reaching up from the center of the huge white building was pure and beautiful. The Tower’s sides were straight and tall. Flawless and fresh, the entire structure looked as if it was newly whitewashed.

The rows of steps and tall columns on the front of the building gave it an air of solemn importance. Majestic windows, high above the ground, lined its sides.

The cart hesitated for the queue to part, allowing passage. Timothy looked toward the front of the queue. There an old man was standing on the first step, the next to enter a large oaken door with shining brass handles and hinges.

The young man’s eyes left the old one and slowly traveled, following the queue, down and down, past him and on, the travelers in their trances, smaller and smaller, until they seemed to disappear into the river far below. “How long must they wait,” he said to no one, puzzled, deep in thought.

“Should I get out here,” he yelled to Cesar, breaking several close by trances, attracting brief glances, then back to emptiness.

“No, you must enter through the passageway,” Cesar responded in a half-whisper to keep the nearest travelers from overhearing.

Startled by the secrecy, Timothy remained silent as the cart inched forward through the queue.

Cesar turned the cart into the alleyway at the north side of the Tower building. Sharing the alley were the receiving doors of several shops.

The sign read “Fats and Renderings Only” above the door, on the side opposite the Tower building, in front of which the aged donkey, with a sigh, ended his long journey.

Cesar stayed in place but turned to face Timothy, “Take your things and go through that door, head down the basement steps. At the bottom, follow the candles to the right, through the passageway.”

“Will you go with me?” Timothy seemed to sense that Cesar was about to leave his presence, perhaps forever.

“No, sir. I am not allowed into the passageway. And, if you return to the docks, another loyal and humble man will transport you and your possessions.” Cesar seemed saddened also. And fearful.

Clutching his bundles, Timothy climbed out of the rear of the cart which immediately lurched forward as Cesar urged the aged donkey forward, into disappointment.

“I hope you fare well, old friend,” Timothy quickly shouted to Cesar. Though they had only just met, Cesar was Timothy’s only friend in this confusing place; a man he had relied on, trusted.

“And you, kind sir,” came the reply, his voice, like Timothy’s, brimming with emotion.

Suddenly Timothy wheeled around, “Wait, did you say, IF I return?” But it was too late. Cesar, the aged donkey, and the cart disappeared around the corner at the end of the building. Timothy slowly, cautiously went through the door and down into his dimly lit destiny.

The Meeting

Inside the damp, cool basement the glow of candlelight came from a narrow, stone-lined tunnel. By its direction, it apparently led under the alleyway into the Tower building. It smelled of onions, Timothy noted as he struggled through it with his possessions.

Candle-by-candle, gray stones passing slowly, Timothy reached the rough wooden steps leading upward to a large white door. A sigh signaled his accomplishment as he opened, passed through, and closed the door.

He found himself in what looked to be an empty cloakroom, with bare shelves and hooks along the sides; a second door was closed at the opposite end. He placed his bundles on a shelf and headed for the new door, certainly the entry into the building.

With the caution and apology one might have when entering someone’s home unannounced, Timothy opened the door. The light and the beauty of the place he found there thundered into his senses.

A huge hallway, twenty feet wide, thirty feet tall, polished marble floor, paintings on the ceiling between gold leaf designs, tall windows along one side, columns topped with large ivory elephants along the other; all blending in beauty and mystery, solemnity, and graciousness. Serious things obviously happened here.

The hallway extended down the side of the building and turned to cross the front. Perhaps it completely surrounded the place, Timothy thought, making islands of the interior rooms. Double doors, ten feet tall and mostly standing open, provided entry to the interior islands.

Scrape, scrape. The strange sound caught Timothy’s attention.

Scrape, scrape. He turned toward the doorway that seemed to lead to the sound. Scrape, scrape. Louder came the noise; caution slowed Timothy’s advance.

Scrape, scrape. He entered the room, another wondrous place. The size of a small field for planting, a ceiling tall enough for gulls to soar, several fireplaces around the walls, stained glass skylights, hand woven rugs, lounging couches, and a feasting table. Wondrous indeed.

Scrape, scrape. In a corner, facing the wall, a feeble-looking old man sat on a carpenter’s bench amid a sea curled wood shavings.

Suddenly, without warning, the old whirled seated, knees to chest, twisting his sackcloth robe around his buttocks. “Aaaiiieee,” he screamed, thrusting a fanged piper made of wood, “ahahahah” he grunted waving the cane-like wooden viper defensively, yet wildly, from side-to-side.

Timothy’s eyes went wide, he tried to step backward but his legs were frozen in fear. He started to fall backward as the old man renewed his aggression. “Aaaiiieee” he screamed once more as Timothy fell to the marble floor, his body now shaking violently.

The old man, still brandishing the wooden viper disappeared into darkness as Timothy lost consciousness.

Paco and the Duty

Timothy’s eyes began to dance beneath their lids. His thumbs and fingers soon joined the dance. The coolness of the satin robe he was now wearing was very pleasing; he drew it close, he smiled, then his eyes opened wide, afraid, not sure of what.

Upright he came, now sitting, still startled. The silver tray tray next to him, its food and drink tumbling loudly to the floor. The clattering brought focus to his new resting place, an elegant chaise.

“Be calm, my son,” the black robed elder said with a soothing tone. “You have nothing to fear but living a meaningless, unproductive, and wasted life without even knowing that which you have missed nor caring to know it.”

A bit puzzled, Timothy warned, “Be cautious sir. There is an insane woodcarver about with…” his voice dimmed as his recognition of the elder brightened.

“Yes my son, we are the only living spirits present,” the elder said in recognition of the recognition. A houseboy captured both men’s attention as he entered and began clearing the spilled tray and its former contents. “Of course there is always Paco here, we must count him among the living spirits present. Am I correct Paco?”

“Partially correct, Master,” Paco replied, “If one calls this living. Will there be anything else, Master?” He had finished his work and the room was restored to order.

“No thank you,” the elder said with a sincere smile, his attention turning back to Timothy. “Paco has been here for over three decades now, he said to Timothy, who was wondering if any more food was forthcoming as he listened to the old one. “I have grown to love him; first as a son, then a brother, and now a trusted servant. We have studied the workings of the universe together,” the elder continued.

“Are you the Mast…” Timothy’s question was cut short with a motion of the elder’s hand.

“Yes, I am.” The Master walked to the closest fireplace, took a crystal bowl from the mantelpiece and brought it to a table at the end of Timothy’s chaise. Slowly, in solemn ceremony, the removed a golden chain and key from his neck and placed it in the bowl, nodded to Timothy and returned the bowl to the mantelpiece.

“Is your father wise?” the Master asked.

“He is, and he can read and write.”

“Can you?”

“Yes, I can. My father has five books and I have read them all. I wish I had another, for I learn much from them.”

“What have you learned that is important, in your view?”

Timothy thought for some time, finally saying “I particularly remember three questions for determining a course of action. First, What outcome is wanted? Second, Where will that outcome take you? Third, how will this outcome help you and others?”

The Master smiled and nodded. Timothy fell silent for a moment, then asked, “Is Paco the only other person in this large building?”

“Yes, he takes care of things while I work with those who come to me. His real name is Melchior, which struck me as an inappropriate name for a houseboy, regardless of his station. So I tried shortening it to Mel, but both of us hated that so I quit calling him anything. After several years that proved to be too confusing so, with careful thought and lengthy consideration, I decided to rename him Paco.”

“Why do you carve serpents?” Timothy asked.

“I do not. I carve wood. Serpents are just the medium. Actually, they are walking sticks disguised as serpents. I look at a tree and I see hundreds serpentine walking sticks bundled perfectly to conserve space.” The Master’s smile faded, “Up now, we must get to work, the day is almost gone,” he turned and walked briskly toward the door to the great hallway.

“But I have more questions Master,” Timothy rose and hurried to catch him.

“And I have answers, all the answers, even some for which there are no questions. You will see. You will be satisfied. Have confidence.” The Master paused in front of a closed door with golden hinges and a large golden lock.

“This room, “ he said, “is the Tower Room containing The Book. All that is truly known in the universe and beyond is contained therein; all the secrets of all the workings of all things. Its pages are alive with imagination and promise. It is linked directly to the Highest of Powers, through the tunnel in the sky. It is locked and only the Master of the Key may enter. It is closed even to Paco.”

“What do you do here?” The awe in Timothy’s tone was clear.

“Enough questions, let us continue to the Chambers of Consultation,” The Master said as he proceeded down the great hallway.

Around the corner, along the front of the building, were two doors that were smaller that all the other doors Timothy had seen thus far. They were numbered I and II.

“These are the Chambers of Consultation,” The Master explained. “a questioner enters through an outside door, drops a Silver Ducca into the slot which rings a bell, then waits in the dark. I enter through these doors and sit in the dark too. We are separated by a wall with a small screened window covered by a sliding door. I open the door and the questioner asks his or her question. Women must pay a little more, it is traditional and they do not seem to mind. If the Ducca bell has not rung, I remind the questioner of the payment. Once paid, I answer the question, slide the door closed, log the transaction, and go to the other Chamber. Oh, yes, the timer. Exactly thirty-five seconds after I slide the door open a bell signals the end of this consultation and I close the door immediately. As I am leaving I pull a lever which signals the next questioner in line to enter. And so it goes."

“When do you go outside? Where is the door? Timothy displayed such eagerness to learn that The Master’s eyes widened.

“I never do, never have, cannot, will not. The passageway is the only ingress or egress. But we transgress, let us return to the topic at hand. Paco brings me my lunch over there,” he pointed to a small room across the hallway from the Chambers of Consultation. “It is called The Master’s Alcove and is quite uncomfortable, but lovely.”

“Those are my logs,” The Master continued, indicating a wall of shelves, full of large volumes, at the back of the Alcove. “I have found it important to chronicle, classify, and index transactions. You will come to understand.”

“Why must I under…” once again The Master gestured the question away.

“My consultation hours are nine to eleven in the morning and one to four in the afternoon, five days per week. I tried evenings, but I found the questions less serious and stopped. Oh, and I take no questions when the moon is full, too many crazies out there.” The Master seemed anxious for Timothy to understand.

“What do they do with the answers?” the young man asked.

“All knowledge, or lack thereof, is built on answers leading to questions leading to answers leading to questions. Having answers supersedes the need for more questions once a process becomes comfortable to those who use it and rely on it for its own motion. I have studied this and feel quite satisfied with its soundness as this is a process that requires no basis nor particular end point. It cannot be oversimplified or complicated.”

“I think…” Timothy’s voice trailed off again as he watched The Master hurry away, disappearing through a door near the end of the great hallway.

The Master immediately reappeared and shouted “Rest now, my son, you will need your strength tomorrow. Paco will show you where.” He smiled at the young man and disappeared again through the doorway, slamming the door behind him.

Paco appeared in the next doorway and beckoned him follow.

Another grand room welcomed Timothy. “These will be your rooms,” said Paco. “Through that door is your bath with a pool and hot spring. Pull any golden cord to summon me, I am at your service. Would you like something now?”

“Something to drink would be appreciated,” Timothy responded. “By the way, do you like the name Paco? The Master told me that he renamed you Paco.

“I do not like it very much but it seems to please The Master for some reason,” Paco’s look was not a happy one.

“If you could be called anything under the sun, what would it be?

“Myron the Magnificent would be my first choice, but I would settle for just plain Myron.”

“Myron is nice, adding the Magnificent is somewhat pretentious, however."

“Yes sir, you are right. Pretension is the failing of many servants. Will there be anything else sir?"

“No, just something to drink. Oh, where did The Master go and when does he rise in the morning? I want to be ready."

“I believe he is in his quarters. He is up at sunrise and breakfast is shortly thereafter. It is served in the Main Chamber. Also, you and he will dine tonight at sunset, also in the Main Chamber ”

“Your reference to time in terms of the position of the sun is interestingly confusing as there are no windows in this room.”

"Worry not, sir, I will make you aware of the time. I will be back with your drink shortly."

"Thank you, Paco."

Paco quietly closed the door as Timothy explored the grandeur that surrounded him.

Later, after a bath, his beverage, and a brief nap Timothy heard Paco’s light knock. “Dinner, sir,” he said through the door.

At dinner The Master talked at length about life, science, the arts, and the human condition. Timothy was fascinated.

“Senility is like a fountain or a river or both a fountain and a river, an unending stream of new experiences, over and over,” The Master declared, among other such declarations.

Timothy asked several times what his job at the Tower would entail and how much he would be paid. His questions were answered with “You will see soon enough,” stated several different ways.

After an excellent dinner and brandy, The Master donned his sackcloth robe and retreated to his bench to carve as the apparently did nightly. He ignored Timothy and soon the young man retired to his room sorry that this most interesting day was ending.

The Book

It had been a fortnight since Timothy had passed through the passageway. Neither he nor Paco had seen The Master since the dinner of the first night of Timothy’s stay. Paco swore that he did not know the Master’s whereabouts.

There was great unrest in the queues. They now stretched from the docks to the Tower, back to the docks and to the Tower once more. The boats had stopped delivering travelers as there was no more room for them. All were angered by the delay, the seemingly endless wait. Rocks thrown by the most angry of the travelers began to strike the tower. The less angry yelled threats that struck almost as frightfully as the rocks.

Those who were not angry were afraid of those who were. Everyone, including Timothy and Paco, felt it — something very bad was about to happen.

“Paco, I have to act or they will tear this building to shreds and the two of us with it,” Timothy declared with an authority that gave Paco hope.

The young man rushed to The Master’s Chamber and donned the black robe and cap. Running now, he neared the Chambers of Consultation. Out of breath, palms wet with fear, he reach for the door on Chamber I; but he stopped.

The revelation struck him. “First I must know,” he said to no one.

The crystal bowl on the mantelpiece in the main chamber still held the key on the golden chain. Timothy took it, ran to the Tower Room and unlocked the door.

A shaft of light from above, almost blinding, came down the Tower and focused on the Book. Displayed in a formal manner on a silk-draped alter, it was closed and very, very thick.Timothy approached it slowly, reverently, as if in the presence of a supreme being.

The Book would give him the answers he needed to serve the questioners and, in turn, all mankind. The knowledge contained within its covers would flow through him to all those who sought the building blocks of the advancement of thought.

He reached out his hand, closed his eyes and opened the cover.

He heard the rocks hitting the Tower above him as he slowly opened his eyes to gaze on the wisdom of the ages. His view of that wisdom was obscured by the whiteness of the pages. He turned them faster and faster, frantically looking for a word, a phrase, and answer, anything.

The last page contained the words: “This is the one answer you had to have, take it and use your wits and wisdom, remember your questions.”

Another rock hit the tower with a crash.

Timothy left the Tower Room, secured the lock and ran to the Chambers of Consultation. Paco, was waiting there, ready to assist.

“Set the signals and open the questioner’s doors” Timothy barked. Paco responded quickly.

A loud cheer rang out and the rocks and threats no longer hit the tower. A great weight was lifted as the traveler’s trances in the queues replaced their anger and frustration. The quiet was deafening.

“Myron, bring me log books for each Chamber,” Timothy glanced and smiled at his trusted servant.

“Yes Master,” Myron replied, smiling back.

_________________________________________________________________

September 1987 First Draft Written

© 2017 CLThomas Published on theprose.com per agreement. Other reproduction for use by written permission only.

I live in a room full of Hindus

waiting to be born again.

To take my place in new venues,

repeating, like Shirley McLain.

Some want to be cows or chickens.

Some have no preference at all.

As they are picked, my pulse quickens,

fearful my name they will call.

You see I have reason to wait,

'till the time to emerge is just right.

Poised to encounter my fate,

ready, my goal is in sight.

To rush into sweet harmony,

captured by the neon smile.

To listen anew, to life's rhapsody,

to challenge, and grow for awhile.

A journey, a life of sweet music,

surrounded by comfort and joy.

Playing notes and feeling fantastic,

In mystic, but cold, Illinois.

_________________________________________

February 1994 - Chicago, Illinois 

© 1994-2017 CLThomas Published on theprose.com per agreement. Other reproduction for use by written permission only.

Gentle cymbal, ting-ting-tinging,

in that place on Hubbard Street.

Gentle people, sway-sway-swaying,

in that place on Hubbard Street.

Bassman lost in rhythm's chamber,

in that place on Hubbard Street.

Nose to keys, heart in hands,

coaxing riffs, pianoman,

in that place on Hubbard Street.

They drink their drinks, 

and talk their talk,

in that place on Hubbard Street.

But do they know 

that the art they hear,

in that place on Hubbard Street.

Evaporates, lost in the air,

all but gone, save memories,

in that place on Hubbard Street.

So listen friend, to each note,

savor the wondrous treat.

For when it's gone, it won't be back,

in that place on Hubbard Street.

_________________________________

February 1994

© 1994-2017 CLThomas Published on theprose.com per agreement. Other reproduction for use by written permission only.

The trunk was hardly bigger than a large suitcase, and old. The floral covering had faded from age, certainly not from light, it had been in mother’s attic for decades.

Cassie had put off its opening until she was ready. It was not that she was afraid of what she would find; she assumed it was full of interesting, but relatively unimportant, old treasures. Perhaps there is enough there to piece together some inkling of what was really important to mother, deep down or maybe conjuring a story or two.

There were, after all, other demands on her time. She had put her own writing projects on hold and the "celebration of life” was behind her. Now her attention focused on estate priorities and deadlines, answering all the condolences, receiving the visiting relatives and close friends; not to mention one’s own grieving.

Mother was to be buried in the family area of Old Memorial Cemetery in Cambridge. For her final act of defiance she had chosen cremation. Cassie guessed that she wanted to give her mother one last spin in her grave, father would not have cared.

Cassie was not completely sure why she and her mother had so many lasting issues. Grandmother had passed away eons ago, yet mother seemed still to have wounds that festered from time-to-time. Perhaps Saint Peter has assigned them to different clouds, if they took the upward path, just to keep order, she thought.

Mother also had said, several times, that cremation was far more sensible and easier on everyone. It is a good deal cheaper too.

Cassie had spent mother’s last days with her, talking, remembering. She could feel mother’s life ending. Mother was beyond reconciled to it, she was welcoming, ready. She prepared Cassie as best she could, not enough of course.

They were holding hands, listening to music on an old vinyl record, when mother’s eyes closed, their vivid blue gone forever. Cassie sat there gently cupping mother’s hands between hers, in a timeless, peaceful place, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of her spirit slip away.

She called the paramedics, who, in turn, called the police. Cassie had been told all this was necessary. While she waited she thought of all the things mother had seen. When she was small horses and carriages were the principle conveyance in America. During her life she had witnessed many wars, genocides, persecutions, and prejudices; the worst side of humankind. She had also seen humans take wings, conquer diseases, extend their lives, create and advance all forms of art, walk on the moon, and invent technologies once only imagined by science fiction writers. What a time to be alive, she thought.

Mother had meant a lot to so many people. Besides friends and associates, her "family," as she called them, readers really, were legion and truly felt close to her. They loved her for the pleasure her thoughtful stories had brought them and seemed to be deeply saddened to lose her and the promise of more of her.

Her last book, "Benson Creek Wisdom," or “forty-nine” as she called it, had been released only a few weeks before she passed. It seemed as if she had put off dying to see it finished and in her “family’s” hands. They loved it and it seemed to be bringing lots of new people into the fold.

Forty-nine, “a good number” mother said, had entered the world on the “Best Seller” list, thanks to prepublication orders and some effective publicity. Mother’s advanced age limited her promotional work to a few television appearances and special events. Her remaining obligations were cancelled.

Her publisher had been told, in no uncertain terms, to treat her passing with appropriate dignity and restraint. “This is not to be exploited,” mother decreed through Cassie, “let sales be what they may.” The publisher had completely agreed and promised to comply; they also quietly ordered an immediate second printing.

Thousands of beautiful thoughts and remembrances filled the cards and letters that overflowed from the grey canvas mail bags the post office had delivered. It had taken months. Cassie had cried over their words and wrote personal note to each of them. Her mother would have liked that; no, insisted on it.

Thousands more had posted their feelings on mother’s Facebook page and in emails to her published address. These were answered with a Facebook post or an automated reply email expressing the family’s gratitude.

Mother loved real paper and thoughtful well constructed prose. To her, writing with forced brevity on a machine and somehow sending it through an unknown nothingness, were void of both and, surely, a lesser craft. She would have appreciated the thought, however, and probably realized that this is the reality of 2007 and beyond. “At least they are writing,” she would mutter.

The last group of accolades and condolences Cassie personally acknowledged came from the powerful and famous; the President, various heads of state, the political elite, noted scholars, captains of industry, celebrities and the like. They came last because mother wanted it that way; she had made that clear to Cassie. “Family first,” was her mantra and she included kinfolk, close friends, and her “family” of readers in that grouping. So the “big shots” would just have to wait.

The Challenges of being both mother’s only heir and the executor of her estate are numerous and complex. A mountain of legal matters, business affairs, and financial obligations had been conquered and, while not completed, had been turned over to the professionals; lawyers, judges, and accountants. Cassie’s activities as executor and trustee had reduced to waiting for the next progress report, court action, new or forgotten signature requests, or bills needing to be paid.

There seemed to be no end to the parade of paper that crossed her desk. It had blurred into a stream with no origin nor end, just the relentless flow passing by, with an occasional leaf or bug, capturing her interest for a moment, then disappearing with the current. She had gotten numb to it. If the envelope was addressed to Cassandra Louise Thomas, she assumed is was part of the stream.

Cassie, however, was experienced in such matters. Her husband of thirty years, William Scott Thomas had suffered a fatal heart attack in 2004. He and Cassie were on an airplane to London when it happened. William’s affairs were a mess and took several years for Cassie to settle them. Mother’s were easy by comparison.

Last month, January 2008, Cassie moved from her apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan back home to mother’s in Brooklyn Heights. This house had been in the family for almost a century.

The neighborhood, Remsen Street, near Columbia Heights, was old and historic. It was quite grand and fashionable in 1900 when the house was built. Like other parts of Brooklyn Heights, it had gone through phases of diminished grandeur and, as did the Phoenix Bird, had risen again.

When Cassie’s grandfather bought it, in 1925, his plan was to move both his business, publishing, and the family residence from Boston to New York City. For reasons unknown to Cassie, the move did not happen and Boston remained home.

The house was kept for family use when visiting the city and as a base of operations for her grandfather’s frequent business visits. Mother made it her permanent, lifelong residence in 1931, two years after grandfather passed away.

The original living area included five stories plus a full, finished basement. During one of the several remodelings, an elevator was added. The last renovation was in 2000, mother’s gift to he house on its 100th birthday. It took almost six months, which she spent in Tuscany, writing.

Mother did not use the entire fifth floor. During the last remodeling she had the windows removed and replaced with a facade that looked like windows from the outside but were actually solid walls. Enhancing security was her reasoning. The fifth floor is now referred to as the “attic” and used as such. The original attic seems to have lost its identity.

Having settled in her old room, Cassie had decided to leave mother’s suite, the entire fourth floor, alone for now. Baby steps, she reckoned.

Now, at last, there is time to start the process of going through mother’s things; starting with what looks to be the oldest of the trunks in the attic. The one marked “1929,” ten years before Cassie was born.

The basement room she had made her office was chilly; her morning coffee seemed to be more steamy than usual. Holding the cup felt good, warming. She sat in her chair, both hands clutching it close. Brought down by the movers, she stared at the chest, imagining the contents, anticipating the discoveries to come, learning of mother’s youth, and touching her objects, her memories.

“Well, let’s see what Emma Louise Harden thought important enough to keep for almost eight decades,” she said to no one as she put her cup on the desk, rising to confront he mystery of the trunk.

Locked, the circular lock was closed and there was no key in place. She tried to pull the lock open with her fingers, it would not budge.

“Where is the damn key,” Cassie thought. The only keys she had found were in an old cotton bag, with a drawstring, and the word “Keys” hand printed on it in black ink. There were lots of keys inside, but none fit this old lock. Prying it open with knife or a screwdriver crossed her mind.

Before she could decide what to do something caught her eye; a small, almost invisible lever was protruding from the side of the circular lock. She gently pushed it inward. The latch popped open with unexpected ease.

Cassie bent down and slowly opened the hinged lid with her left hand. In her right she raised a section of yesterday's Times, rolled and ready to strike. If there were spiders or other creatures awaiting freedom, today would not be their liberation day.

But creatures were not the first surprise. What struck Cassie was the neatness before her. It was as if there was a specific order of discovery that mother had in mind. Yes she was always neat and organized, as Cassie had observed growing up, but this was clear evidence that it was lifelong.

In the center of the neatly labeled and wrapped packages and boxes, there was a bundle of envelopes tied with a ribbon. Cassie felt her mother’s direction — "look at this first," mother seemed to be saying.

Each envelope had a date neatly written, where a stamp would go, in now faded black ink. This was obviously well planned and precisely executed. Uniform envelopes, dated with amazing similarity, about a month apart.

The first date was March 23, 1929. Cassie carefully opened the unsealed envelope and took out the neatly folded letter. The brittle papers came open with a fragile reluctance, cautioning her.

Emotions swirled, an anticipation both fearful and exciting, like the feeling she had when the restraint bar of a roller-coaster tightened against her lap and she felt the first jolt of movement. As the writing appeared, a sudden emptiness, a feeling of profound loss, overtook her. Struggling to focus, she began reading through the unexpected tears.

“My dearest children,” mother wrote, and Cassie’s ride had begun.

_____________________________________________________________________

Note: This is the opening of a novel in progress. The working title is Emma Lou's Letters. This is not the first draft but should be considered "in process." CLThomas.

© 2017 CLThomas

The trunk was hardly bigger than a large suitcase, and old. The floral covering had faded from age, certainly not from light, it had been in mother’s attic for decades.

Cassie had put off its opening until she was ready. It was not that she was afraid of what she would find; she assumed it was full of interesting, but relatively unimportant, old treasures. Perhaps there is enough there to piece together some inkling of what was really important to mother, deep down or maybe conjuring a story or two.

There were, after all, other demands on her time. She had put her own writing projects on hold and the "celebration of life” was behind her. Now her attention focused on estate priorities and deadlines, answering all the condolences, receiving the visiting relatives and close friends; not to mention one’s own grieving.

Mother was to be buried in the family area of Old Memorial Cemetery in Cambridge. For her final act of defiance she had chosen cremation. Cassie guessed that she wanted to give her mother one last spin in her grave, father would not have cared.

Cassie was not completely sure why she and her mother had so many lasting issues. Grandmother had passed away eons ago, yet mother seemed still to have wounds that festered from time-to-time. Perhaps Saint Peter has assigned them to different clouds, if they took the upward path, just to keep order, she thought.

Mother also had said, several times, that cremation was far more sensible and easier on everyone. It is a good deal cheaper too.

Cassie had spent mother’s last days with her, talking, remembering. She could feel mother’s life ending. Mother was beyond reconciled to it, she was welcoming, ready. She prepared Cassie as best she could, not enough of course.

They were holding hands, listening to music on an old vinyl record, when mother’s eyes closed, their vivid blue gone forever. Cassie sat there gently cupping mother’s hands between hers, in a timeless, peaceful place, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of her spirit slip away.

She called the paramedics, who, in turn, called the police. Cassie had been told all this was necessary. While she waited she thought of all the things mother had seen. When she was small horses and carriages were the principle conveyance in America. During her life she had witnessed many wars, genocides, persecutions, and prejudices; the worst side of humankind. She had also seen humans take wings, conquer diseases, extend their lives, create and advance all forms of art, walk on the moon, and invent technologies once only imagined by science fiction writers. What a time to be alive, she thought.

Mother had meant a lot to so many people. Besides friends and associates, her "family," as she called them, readers really, were legion and truly felt close to her. They loved her for the pleasure her thoughtful stories had brought them and seemed to be deeply saddened to lose her and the promise of more of her.

Her last book, "Benson Creek Wisdom," or “forty-nine” as she called it, had been released only a few weeks before she passed. It seemed as if she had put off dying to see it finished and in her “family’s” hands. They loved it and it seemed to be bringing lots of new people into the fold.

Forty-nine, “a good number” mother said, had entered the world on the “Best Seller” list, thanks to prepublication orders and some effective publicity. Mother’s advanced age limited her promotional work to a few television appearances and special events. Her remaining obligations were cancelled.

Her publisher had been told, in no uncertain terms, to treat her passing with appropriate dignity and restraint. “This is not to be exploited,” mother decreed through Cassie, “let sales be what they may.” The publisher had completely agreed and promised to comply; they also quietly ordered an immediate second printing.

Thousands of beautiful thoughts and remembrances filled the cards and letters that overflowed from the grey canvas mail bags the post office had delivered. It had taken months. Cassie had cried over their words and wrote personal note to each of them. Her mother would have liked that; no, insisted on it.

Thousands more had posted their feelings on mother’s Facebook page and in emails to her published address. These were answered with a Facebook post or an automated reply email expressing the family’s gratitude.

Mother loved real paper and thoughtful well constructed prose. To her, writing with forced brevity on a machine and somehow sending it through an unknown nothingness, were void of both and, surely, a lesser craft. She would have appreciated the thought, however, and probably realized that this is the reality of 2007 and beyond. “At least they are writing,” she would mutter.

The last group of accolades and condolences Cassie personally acknowledged came from the powerful and famous; the President, various heads of state, the political elite, noted scholars, captains of industry, celebrities and the like. They came last because mother wanted it that way; she had made that clear to Cassie. “Family first,” was her mantra and she included kinfolk, close friends, and her “family” of readers in that grouping. So the “big shots” would just have to wait.

The Challenges of being both mother’s only heir and the executor of her estate are numerous and complex. A mountain of legal matters, business affairs, and financial obligations had been conquered and, while not completed, had been turned over to the professionals; lawyers, judges, and accountants. Cassie’s activities as executor and trustee had reduced to waiting for the next progress report, court action, new or forgotten signature requests, or bills needing to be paid.

There seemed to be no end to the parade of paper that crossed her desk. It had blurred into a stream with no origin nor end, just the relentless flow passing by, with an occasional leaf or bug, capturing her interest for a moment, then disappearing with the current. She had gotten numb to it. If the envelope was addressed to Cassandra Louise Thomas, she assumed is was part of the stream.

Cassie, however, was experienced in such matters. Her husband of thirty years, William Scott Thomas had suffered a fatal heart attack in 2004. He and Cassie were on an airplane to London when it happened. William’s affairs were a mess and took several years for Cassie to settle them. Mother’s were easy by comparison.

Last month, January 2008, Cassie moved from her apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan back home to mother’s in Brooklyn Heights. This house had been in the family for almost a century.

The neighborhood, Remsen Street, near Columbia Heights, was old and historic. It was quite grand and fashionable in 1900 when the house was built. Like other parts of Brooklyn Heights, it had gone through phases of diminished grandeur and, as did the Phoenix Bird, had risen again.

When Cassie’s grandfather bought it, in 1925, his plan was to move both his business, publishing, and the family residence from Boston to New York City. For reasons unknown to Cassie, the move did not happen and Boston remained home.

The house was kept for family use when visiting the city and as a base of operations for her grandfather’s frequent business visits. Mother made it her permanent, lifelong residence in 1931, two years after grandfather passed away.

The original living area included five stories plus a full, finished basement. During one of the several remodelings, an elevator was added. The last renovation was in 2000, mother’s gift to he house on its 100th birthday. It took almost six months, which she spent in Tuscany, writing.

Mother did not use the entire fifth floor. During the last remodeling she had the windows removed and replaced with a facade that looked like windows from the outside but were actually solid walls. Enhancing security was her reasoning. The fifth floor is now referred to as the “attic” and used as such. The original attic seems to have lost its identity.

Having settled in her old room, Cassie had decided to leave mother’s suite, the entire fourth floor, alone for now. Baby steps, she reckoned.

Now, at last, there is time to start the process of going through mother’s things; starting with what looks to be the oldest of the trunks in the attic. The one marked “1929,” ten years before Cassie was born.

The basement room she had made her office was chilly; her morning coffee seemed to be more steamy than usual. Holding the cup felt good, warming. She sat in her chair, both hands clutching it close. Brought down by the movers, she stared at the chest, imagining the contents, anticipating the discoveries to come, learning of mother’s youth, and touching her objects, her memories.

“Well, let’s see what Emma Louise Harden thought important enough to keep for almost eight decades,” she said to no one as she put her cup on the desk, rising to confront he mystery of the trunk.

Locked, the circular lock was closed and there was no key in place. She tried to pull the lock open with her fingers, it would not budge.

“Where is the damn key,” Cassie thought. The only keys she had found were in an old cotton bag, with a drawstring, and the word “Keys” hand printed on it in black ink. There were lots of keys inside, but none fit this old lock. Prying it open with knife or a screwdriver crossed her mind.

Before she could decide what to do something caught her eye; a small, almost invisible lever was protruding from the side of the circular lock. She gently pushed it inward. The latch popped open with unexpected ease.

Cassie bent down and slowly opened the hinged lid with her left hand. In her right she raised a section of yesterday's Times, rolled and ready to strike. If there were spiders or other creatures awaiting freedom, today would not be their liberation day.

But creatures were not the first surprise. What struck Cassie was the neatness before her. It was as if there was a specific order of discovery that mother had in mind. Yes she was always neat and organized, as Cassie had observed growing up, but this was clear evidence that it was lifelong.

In the center of the neatly labeled and wrapped packages and boxes, there was a bundle of envelopes tied with a ribbon. Cassie felt her mother’s direction — "look at this first," mother seemed to be saying.

Each envelope had a date neatly written, where a stamp would go, in now faded black ink. This was obviously well planned and precisely executed. Uniform envelopes, dated with amazing similarity, about a month apart.

The first date was March 23, 1929. Cassie carefully opened the unsealed envelope and took out the neatly folded letter. The brittle papers came open with a fragile reluctance, cautioning her.

Emotions swirled, an anticipation both fearful and exciting, like the feeling she had when the restraint bar of a roller-coaster tightened against her lap and she felt the first jolt of movement. As the writing appeared, a sudden emptiness, a feeling of profound loss, overtook her. Struggling to focus, she began reading through the unexpected tears.

“My dearest children,” mother wrote, and Cassie’s ride had begun.

_____________________________________________________________________

Note: This is the opening of a novel in progress. The working title is Emma Lou's Letters. This is not the first draft but should be considered "in process." CLThomas.

© 2017 CLThomas

Stop.

Faint heart, stop.

Bring an end to this,

an end to this longing for her.

An end to longing for her touch, her smile.

And bring me to the place where I was satisfied,

before I was captured by this rapture I can’t control,

not that I want to control, because it feels right,

and I know if I can muster the courage to

stay with this energy, I will

win her, and she will

be mine, forever.

So, I won’t

Stop.

___________________________________

July 1996

© 1996-2017 CLThomas Published on theprose.com per agreement. Other reproduction for use by written permission only.