Robert wondered how his silo would fare

with these incessant assaults,

7 and 8’s on the Richter scale thus far

logarithmic scale measures he knew,

to a maximum of ten

he wondered whether it were possible

for earth to shake beyond ten;

20 times more powerful than the quake

that leveled San Francisco in the 1800’s.

he postulated on the falling stars,

perhaps were nuclear bunker busters, EPWs

earth penetrating shock waves, radiation kills

he and his doomsday prep kind

like roaches, rats, human pests’ extermination

by human rats wielding WMD

weapons mass destruction

oh man what drives you to kill your fellow man?

how doth your own kind, your human race

deliver such disdain for your deeds evil?

could it be, what is your reason for your self loathing,

the fear, threat, envy, or greed,

is it consequential borne of your wicked conduct

a league forged in hell’s pit with lucifer

to exterminate mankind

created in God’s image to rule over satan

on a granted day on a given kingdom

murder therefore hatched plotted and employed

Robert considered silos that might have gotten a direct hit

Surely those would have been obliterated or damaged,

instant death to their inhabitants,

some less than one mile away

P waves compression shock

rock water and air

S waves’ shear, tear, rip

subterranean forces

shook vibrated pulsated

to the core of viscera and pulp of teeth

he felt the pericardium surrounding his heart

feared its tear, his arteries’ rupture

internally bleed

aftershocks that followed the bomb’s concussion

demolishing nothingness to nothingness

sustained insane,

overkill, mutually assured destruction;

universally known acronym

emphasis on the central letter of word, Mad.

albeit nothing left to kill

soil once alive comprised of microscopic

organisms, dead as inanimate, inorganic, rock

laden with, abuzz with radiation

Robert kicked around with mother nuclear but remarkably, his subconscious continued to involuntarily function on these matters. The soil was truly dead now. Perhaps mutants would arise, a radiation’s off breed species that adapted a parallel outcome as with the case of certain insect species, like the roach whose heart beat outside its own body for days after its removal. Perhaps the soil would yield bizarre creatures, adapting into monstrous beings further threatening his existence. But the chances of his survival were meager, infinitesimally slim. His longevity a mere flash; a blink.

Radioactive isotopes would require millions of years to die and still, after reaching one-half of their scientifically projected longevity, require yet another half-life added to the first, to die; the cessation of radiation’s emittance – guaranteed. This longevity Robert knew was science fact, therefore rendering radiation virtually immortal when measured with his own life span.

Robert wanted to die. He wondered what continued to give his sustenance for living, was it his wife and children, two girls and three boys who catalyzed his struggle? He knew that as soon as the ground waves and rushing wind’s effects were over past, he would consider another attempt to the Martinez shelter, his friends.

“Mom, Dad’s been gone 3 hours!”

“Yes, I know Honey. I’ll short wave the Martinez Silo.

Debra was against Robert leaving the Silo from the start. The family was getting cabin fever and they weren’t sure how low before their fuel ran out. Initially, they had started with 25,000 gallons of fuel for their hybrid diesel generator. They had begun rationing with no lights allowed except for dinner. Eating dinner in darkness was no fun. The family had ample stores of candles which also generated nominal heat which was counteracted by the system’s filtration network. Heat is a by product of energy and wasteful when for example brakes are pressed on an automobile. Debra knew that they were not going to live below ground level forever, but cabin fever is a real condition, which she was familiar with. The family had read up on admiral byrds journals on the same subject. Under certain circumstances people committed strange acts of barbarism especially when hungry. In her family’s case it wasn’t starvation, it seemed ironic but it was a combination of loneliness and a great need to exercise or move about that was driving the family crazy. She noted that their dog, Alexus, a large German Shepard was becoming the scapegoat for certain members of her family, namely Joseph, who of late was caught being malicious to her. Twice times he had, in a small dim niche of their cramped quarters, poked the dog repeatedly in the eyes with his index finger. The dog wouldn’t whimper but tolerate the act.

Debra activated the shortwave and began calling the Martinez Silo. “Hello, Irene, this is Debbie.

Irene’s voice came through acknowledging the call. “Yes, Debbie. He never made it here. You must have felt that first detonation?”

Yes, we did. Robert’s been gone 3 hours, he was headed for your Silo.”

The distance between silos was about one half mile. Robert had never attempted the hike before. This was a first for anyone in the two subterranean housing compartments. Venturing out was considered an heroic feat and not advised by logic. Robert needed to go, their was no alternative. The Martinez family possessed vital antibiotics which Sam, the youngest boy of the Wagner family needed. he had cut himself on a jagged edge of metal sheathing 3 days ago while stumbling in the dimly lit confinement. His inner arm’s artery had severed. After addressing the need to stop blood flow with a leather belt, Debbie had sewn the vessel with cat gut. The infection had begun and she was worried about gangrene.

He lay prone,

sensed the fierce glowing beast’s approach

savage maelstrom, piercing teeth’s debris

heart thumping drums in his inner ears

birthed in hell’s quiet vacuum

void of air pressure, initial phase

microsecond after detonation

invisible hurricane borne of man

techno engineered by gin

lifted him off the ground

hurled him into upper ground level

in pitch black suspended, outer space

immeasurable fury, such power

even from ground zero, 12 miles far

concentric radii, 360 degree maw

bellowing fury tumbled him

head over heels, human pinball

and like spent inertia

of a bullet’s trajectory

like falling off

a 45 mile per hour motorbike

should suffice to break his spine

rambled thought, strange in death’s tailspin

yet survived,

due absence objects’ concrete mass

before his hurled blinded path garlanded with

supersonic wind’s magnetosphere

infrared, synthetic elemental snythesized

by man’s atomic conjugal dance

with Pandora’s electron, atomic box

victim in a netherworld

of x-ray, gamma, plethora’s waves

concentric waves expanding

seconds ago his vigilant eye observed

the falling star,

seconds to rise, seconds to run

and fall onto his silo’s latch

its dim red dome of feeble light 100 feet away

he wondered at this stroke of luck

how he scrambled in radioactive wind

running man, full of might,

full will’s live to live

he grabbed the latch and turned with all his strength

through gritted teeth survival’s conviction,

managed and broke it free

threw himself with gravity’s aid

into first chamber onto concrete floor

buried his eyes into his sleeve

for those in hope he prayed below

ignored ionic metallic taste in his mouth

though still, for his eyes it was not enough

though shut, all things glowed

through the metallic lid above, below

into this first compartment

of his tomb of life

his mental frontal field view within

his reeling brain was brightly lit

ironic gratitude to live in such a state

he had made it by skin of teeth

to inner frame contained incandescent light

survived demon’s screams of cheated death

while above his nest crashing debris prevails

radioactive dust, shredded man-made artifacts

strewn carcasses, desiccation, ashes, splinters

rubble like Mar’s desolation

here in this lead colored land

The land was barren, the sky was black

no birds, no clouds, no trees

no stars, just the celestial

pall of dark matter, cold of space

no moon, but red

cooked blood is all it was

no sun, but grey

no wind, just pulsating waves

radiation’s silent concussion

no sound, just stillness screaming

the man moved heavy

a lone one of few remaining

trudging through plutonium mist

from a hole he had emerged

like a festered, glowing screwfly

on the decimated earth become

an all encompassing skeletal

hiroshima nightmare,

chernobyl’s chemical desolation,

with mottled glows of utter black’s opague

with shades or radiation’s

hues’ of phantoms’ greys

he wore his mask, to earth’s surface

a solitary radiation castaway

carrying his epidural pen, a feeble ploy

against death’s rems throes, owed

to those beneath,

human moles awaiting scout’s return

within their doomsday shelter

atropine coursed in his veins

beneath his hazmat suit

he shone halogen’s light beam

into the dark, all directions’ circle

could not see but black

his light tried to cut through

as if to pierce a tunnel in coal,

yet the lumens shrank as if afraid

to pierce the pitch

they gave him only scattered

photons at his feet

no solace, all directions blind,

fear’s panic seized, squeezed his throat

aborted path on devastated earth

he wondered why he’d been persuaded

for such a futile quagmire,

a nuclear time had been set

to which he’d been alarmed

minutes to midnight’s atomic clock

and wished instead now vain,

should have shunned in retrospective ire,

have preferred an instant death,

ground zero vaporized

he turned despaired,

fearing direction’s loss, became like lead,

made a pivot back, to a coward’s retreat

to his silo’s womb,

earth vibrated thickly rough

he was knocked down with forceful thud

on radioisotopic ground

ripped his suit, tore his mask

he could not look away,

saw a light far high, like a quasar star;

moving bright across celestial dome,

an arc to reach apogee,

then descended slow

by gravity’s gentle tug to fall

a bursting light of a trillion suns

thermonuclear bomb sent by whom?

triggered by computer glitch,

programmed for this event?

how could man after hell’s exchange

still release another one?

even now in his sordid state

managed to reason’s analyze

months had passed since world war three

he pondered in mortal awe,

what fiend or force, what power could,

for death still thirst,

to send another one

what logic, insanity, credo’s pulse,

uphold to full epidemy,

how many more to come?

as he crawled back to his hollow hole

hell’s gins danced and laughed

upon the lap of shiva’s bloody gun

writhing, whirling, devilish joy,

evil specters mocked and rejoiced

in the black’s eternal void,

of man’s remaining atmosphere

his extermination now complete

they reveled in dirge 

of rancid joy, evil din

as another star descended,

slowly lulled by gravity

from its fullest apogee

for another burst

to partake and prolong

the violent rape

of wobbling earth

in her final throes of death

“Great night for taking a walk, Debbie, I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay, take Bleu Boy with you, he’ll whine and bark like he did last time you took a walk.”

“C’mon Bleu, let’s go for a walk.” Mike called out to his Australian Shepard and both stepped out into the cold night.

The temperature was in the low 30′s in Phoenix, Arizona. Mike and his wife Debbie lived in Suburbia, 9 miles from the inner city metropolis. It was his habit to walk after dinner or when feeling tension from his computer-programming job. It was also habitual for him to take a flashlight. He preferred to walk in darkness using the light of stars and any fraction of a moon. His favorite night light was a full moon. Things looked eerie at those times adding to the mystique of his walks.

Mike craved mystique. His job was a 9 to 5, sometimes overtime late, due to demands the corporate internet technicians threw at him. His eyes usually took 10 minutes to adjust to dim nighttime light. His peripheral vision improved gradually, taking a few minutes longer to catch side movements of wandering animals or objects. One night, having neglected taking Bleu with him, a cream, brown colored coyote had trailed him for a two-mile walk.

He never felt threatened. He enjoyed the fresh air and time to process the day’s events.

They were a two mile walk distant from home when Bleu suddenly darted forward, emitting a frenzied yelp of excitement. He stopped abruptly about 200 feet beyond Mike’s reach and stared stoically at something on the ground a bit below his nose.

“What’s up, Bleu, bring it here.”

Bleu was good at obeying various commands. One of them was fetching tennis balls or frizzbies, which he could catch in midair.

The dog paused at Mike’s command then darted suddenly at the unseen object. Mike could see Bleu’s white head illuminated by the quarter moon’s light as it raised with a glowing object grasped between his jaws. Mike’s curiosity was aroused, thinking it might just be a child’s phosphoric toy.

“Bring it here Bleu.”

Bleu trotted up to Mike with a long wand, which had a florescent-lit tip. The thing appeared to be a wand.

“Probably some kid’s; give it here Bleu.”

Bleu dropped it on the ground, tail wagging, expecting Mike to toss it for him to fetch.

“No, Bleu, no games now. Let’s see, it’s about two and one half feet long.”

Mike swirled the wand upward into the sky leaving a light trail like Fourth of July sparklers.

“Cool. All right let’s go another mile or so and then turn around. We’ll head back home.”

He and Bleu continued walking. “Here, Bleu get it!”

Mike tossed the toy wand at a high-pitched arc. The wand landed about 30 yards into the distant darkness. Bleu spurted after the wand.

Mike followed the trajectory and saw it land followed by vibrations of an explosive burst of light. The light was the color of green chlorine gas.

“Bleu get over here!”

The dog halted at the explosion and ran back to Mike. Mike was overcome with curiosity and hesitated but eventually ventured forward. As he approached he thought it might have been a firework’s charged device. Figuring its powder charge had been spent; he walked forward to retrieve the intriguing toy.

He noticed that its tip still glowed a translucent white hue.

Overcome with further curiosity, Mike picked the wand up. He was impressed by its handle, which glowed a soft yellow color. He figured it to be gold plated, but wondered whether it was solid gold due to its weightiness.

“Gold gives off just such a sheen, I’m pretty sure it is, even in this faint light.”

There were etchings like hieroglyphics on its band separating the handle portion from the long cylindrical shaft. It was a well-balanced device. Its diameter was about 3/8ths of an inch, roughly the diameter of a kindergarten’s yellow pencil, narrowing at the tip to about 1/4 inch.

The tip continued to glow. He noticed its glowing length to be about 3 inches.

It felt expertly weighted in his hand, perfectly balanced, possessing a fine equilibrium in its hold; a counterbalance grip to its overall length. The wand delighted him. He began swinging it in various arcs of sliced air.

“Bleu, I hereby knight you Sir Bleuaahad!” With the same effort, Mike gestured a forward thrust toward his dog. The night air lit up as if the wand were a sodium vapor light illuminating a 50-foot radius of magically golden light. Mike’s enchantment was overcome by his startled apprehension. The light itself frightened him. He sensed a sinister element to the newly found device.

“What in the hell . . . this damn thing is weird.”

His curiosity overcame his fear. His thought became devious and obeyed its impulsive will to play out an age-old instinct. Mike made a wish as he brought the wand in a downward motion as if he were about to strike invisible object.

“Bleu, I wish for a . . . ”

“Give it back!”

Mike jumped. Someone or something behind him shouted out.

“Fricken Slender Man. Fuck! Maybe Moth man . . . !”

He whirled around like a spun top, arms extended still clutching the newly found wand.

“I said, give it back Mortal!”

“Who are you?!” Mike surprised himself with his own voice. It sounded authoritative whereas, he realized should have sounded feeble.

“No concern of yours. Give the wand back to its owner.”

Strange how a mere mortal such as Mike would not stand down, or at least appear to stand down a suspected alien. And yet he did not. Perhaps it had to do with a power the wand endowed to its possessor. At least that is what seemed to be the case in this situation. Bleu had run for cover in home’s direction, leaving Mike alone, facing a strange being.

“I will not.” “I don’t know how to use this thing, but obviously, it has great value for you.

You’ll have to take it from me.”

At that Mike raised the wand threateningly at the shadow figure.

“You play with fire, Mortal. The power you wield can destroy worlds.”

Mike hesitated. “Really? And what if I just choose to hurt you with it if you don’t back off?”

He felt a great responsibility of a sudden. He was not a violent man and he sensed a tinge of injustice at taking something that did not belong to him. The figure standing a stone throws away remained separated and motionless. This added to Mike’s fear.

“What’s this thing for?”

“The device fell from my craft. Anti-gravity functions normally near earth’s magnetic fields, yet there are anomalies. You are familiar with the area known as Bermuda Triangle. Many strange phenomenon occur within the parameters of those coordinates. The device fell from my craft’s platform through my porthole. I request you give it back.”

Mike stood silent pondering the stranger’s words. The whole event was surreal. He felt a bizarre metallic flavor in his palate he recognized as fear. His testicles quivered a warning he ignored. With a swift movement of his right arm and forearm he aimed at the shadow and shouted, "Be gone!”

An instant thunder of power emitted from his wand followed by a straightforward charge of white ultraviolet light. The air crackled sharply. Mike felt the concussion against his face and chest and a burst of energy he’d never known. In all of this Mike felt kingly. He felt god-like, indestructible, proud and noble. Mike felt invincible and narcissistic, feelings he could not restrain.

He walked to what was left of the stranger whose charred remains lay on the ground.

Mike then, wand inextricably gripped in hand swaggered toward home.

Earl fell into the rabbit hole with Alice. For four years he had had an extreme crush on her. He loved her blond hair, blue puffy dress and its contrast with her white apron. He never expected to finally gain her attention under such bizarre circumstances.

“My name’s Earl, and I’ve had a crush on you for years.”

“and so you followed me here, you stalker?”

“No, I simply love you, is all.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, help me figure out how to get out of here!”

Earl had never had anyone expect him to help, especially under dire circumstances. the colors here were vivid. They had been on a field trip, biology class to the Monterrey Slough, high school seniors.

The charter bus had veered off the highway to avoid a pedestrian jaywalking along with his dogs. The bus tumbled into an embankment with the end result him finding himself alone in what appeared another dimension with Alice.

“What’s with the white apron?” She asked herself out loud.

“I don’t know, but I like it.” Earl confessed. It looks better on you than the outfit you wore to the Sadie Hawkins dance.”

“You are a stalker, a stalker-pervert.” “What did you put in my drink?”

“I didn’t give you a drink.”

“You must have put something in it on the bus. I was drinking gator aide. You put something in it, like a date rape drug or something. Everything is looking strange in here.

Where’s my fricking cell phone. I’m calling 911.”

“It’s okay Alice. I’m harmless. Yeah, I don’t know what’s going on either, but let’s work together and get out of here. Y’know, I’ve heard of worm holes, string theory stuff, alternate universes . . . ”

“Shut the f.....k - up Earnie!” Alice retorted.

“My name’s Earnest.”

“Whatever. I just want to get out.”

They looked above them. A small, blue hole appeared above them, about the size of a dime held at arm’s length. “We’re in some kind of shaft,” Earl confided.

“Yes, why is everything so colorful, so waxy looking?” Alice kicked at a nearby object which turned out to be a toadstool. “Did you put LSD in my drink Earl?” She asked. “Because I’m not sure I’m going to keep my sanity. I just kicked at something that turned into a polka dotted mushroom.”

“Alice, let’s walk a bit. I’ll take the lead, you follow. C’mon let’s go down that path.”

“I’m not following you anywhere, pervert.”

“Fine, but it beats stayin’ here.” Earl took a few steps to the left and stood on the threshold of a yellow fluorescent path. “OK Alice, let’s go. You can go with me, or you can stay here until you feel the drug you think I put in your drink wears off, or until you get lonely enough to follow me.”

With that he started off. “I’m gonna follow the road, there’s another light way up ahead. They say follow the light.”

“Wait up Earnie!”

“It’s Earl!”

She followed behind like an obedient dog. She was used to independence. She had a boyfriend but even he didn’t order her around. He had tried to subdue her, but she had been self reliant since 15 when her mom had thrown her out of the house. She lived with her cousins and they never told her what to do. In fact she was the alpha female and was often accused by auntie Zoe of being a black sheep. Aunt Zoe in fact was a bonafide black sheep who corrupted everyone in the household of five with drunk parties every Friday night.

“You know, I’m going to take the lead!”

“Go ahead.” Earl was used to being told what to do. Besides he thought it sexy that Alice should be so dominant.

“Just be careful.” He insisted. I’m not on drugs and neither are you. I pinched myself a while ago and it hurt.”

“You are such a fricking Nerd, Earnie!”

The strange pair, (to the outside observer, you and me), continued for hours. Along the pathway appeared many variously colored plants, none of them recognizable on Earth. They became acclimated to the landscape probably due to the fatigue of walking for so long, coupled with trauma from the bus rollover. The objects, and plants in this surreal world became commonplace adjusting their psyches to a new reality.

“I’m tired Earnie.”

“Ok,” Earl conceded, at least for now to her misnomer. “Ok, let’s camp. Here, let’s take cover under that rubber tree looking plant over there.”

“Fine. I wish you’d just get us out of here. I miss my cell phone. I miss my boyfriend, I even miss my stupid mother!”

“I don’t know what happened, I want to get outta here as much as you Alice. Maybe we’ll wake up in the morning and be back to normal.”

He secretely wished it would go further with Alice. His crush intensified. He was bewildered; he wondered abut their future. He thought, “damn, what if I’m insane, like maybe psychotic, in my own esoteric friggen mind warp. What if I wake up in a G ward padded with those cushion button things with me pounding the walls. What if someone put LSD in my drink?”

“Earnie, I’m talking to you!”

“What the . . . ” He had buried himself with dread, oblivious to Alice’s presence. “Oh wow, I’m sorry Alice.”

“What’s the matter, Earnie, you scared too now?”

“No,” He lied. “Just preoccupied. “Ok, Alice, let’s bed down under the rubber tree thing.”

“I’m not bedding down with you.”

“That’s not what I said. We just need to get some rest.”

“I’m cold.”

“I know, what do you want me to do about it. I’m not the plague, you know. I just know that to stay warm we should huddle together, but that’s out of the question for you, so you’re gonna have to figure that out for yourself.

“Earnie, I’m your responsibility, you got me into this. If you don’t man up it will go bad for you when I get off this high, and the authorities catch up with you!”

“K Alice lie down under that rubber plant and I’ll cover you with leaves.

A moon rose low on the horizon gradually rising five degrees skyward. “An hour’s gone by since Alice fell asleep,” He thought.

“Hey, what are you doing here? The voice emmanated from bushes 25 paces behind him.

“Who’s that?!”

“No, who’s you? You are the intruder.”

“I’m not here because I wanna be.”

“Then why? Because you have to be?”

“No. I, . . . we had an accident.”

“It doesn’t look to me like you’re hurt.”

“I’m not, but we’re lost.”

“What is lost.”

“Lost is not being where you should be; no one can find you; people look for you . . . ”

“You are not lost, I found you.”

“I am not where I should be.”

“You are here where you should be otherwise you would not be here.”

“Earnie, who are you talking to?”

“I don’t know Alice.”

Alice raised herself up on an elbow, “Then find out Mr.-Crush-on

-Alice, maybe you will gain some of my respect if you prove yourself.”

It was adrenaline for Earl. “Hey, c’mon out! Let’s see, are you a man or mouse?!”

“I am a rabbit.”

Out popped a rabbit holding a large timepiece; a watch.

“I’m late for an very important date.” It proclaimed.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Earl startled himself with a sudden break of realization. “I think I know, Alice . . . rabbit hole, dimension, bus crash . . . a fricken’ rabbit . .

“Do you have a . . .

“Clock? Yes, of course.” At this the talking rabbit produced a watch.

“Could you please guide us out of this place?” Pleaded Earl. He felt anxiety, the kind that comes just before a panic attack. Yes, he had a crush on Alice, but such emotions are easily overrun by fear. The feeling of pleasant thoughts of love toward Alice had begun to dissipate. Alice was a cold fish. She reciprocated none of the flirtatious attributes he expected. He simply wanted out of this place. In fact, he would have left Alice there if it meant his escape.

“Why would you wish to leave such a beautiful place?”

“I miss being back home.”

“Ditch the girl and come with me.” said the rabbit. She walked toward Earl.

Earl was sexually transfixed, the rabbit moved as if a human female, voluptuously.

Earl experienced a crush far greater than any previously imagined with Alice. He reached out for this transformed figure anxious to place his hand in hers and be led off to sensory delights.

Earl awoke to a blinding light. He lay in intensive care. He has been hurled from a school bus window 75 feet distant from his classmates. They had been found and treated. Earl had somehow, according to authorities, crawled one quarter of a mile through dense underbrush. He had spent 13 days, 12 nights lying awaiting rescue. He remembered his broken leg but felt no physical pain. He remembered the agony of wonder; a feeling of isolation and loneliness and pangs of panic. He felt himself going over the edge of sanity. Boys playing nearby found him in a dry culvert.

“Earl, honey, you’re awake.” It was Mom, at his bedside.

Earl focused his blurred eyes upon a dim form standing next to his mother.

“Earl, can you hear me?”

“Who’s with you Mom?” He muttered.

“This lovely young lady is your nurse, Honey. She’s been taking good care of you.”

He poured his guts out on the white sands of a remote Philippine island. It was deserted except for various plant and animal species of animals whose identities and potential for harming them remained unknown.

After numerous repeated attempts to light a simple fire using frictional technology, he carapaced into a spell of minor depression induced by simple fatigue.

He felt a pronounced failure, no doubt adding to the depressive mental weight he now suffered. Given simpler circumstances he would have produced the ubiquitous contraption endowed with a phosphorus tip at the end of a thin stick of pine called a match.

His busted cell phone was worthless here for many reasons. His eye caught its black shiny form on the makeshift campground. With despicable frame of mind he lunged at it, grabbed it as it were a cornered rat and proceed to gut it using his Swiss Army knife.

He thought to use its glass surface as a lens for Sun’s magnification, only to find that the back part of the thing was encased in a stiff gummy material, called the LCD unit, or liquid crystal display. The grey, opaque material was hopelessly adhered to it his “magnifying lens.”

He remembered his electronic nerd-of-a-buddy calling it a digitizer. Willie could disassemble a cell phone in seconds and reassemble it after replacing its digitizer. No good for him here. “I could never separate the stuff away from the glass. Besides, I need a curved piece, as in eyeglasses.” For want of a fire, he regretted the day he had gotten Lasik on his eyes. Monica didn’t use eyeglasses either.

He tossed the cell phone aside.

“MacGyver couldn’t do anything with it either, except as a fishing weight.” The battery in it was dead; otherwise he could have used the gold filaments comprising the device’s internal antenna wires to short-circuit a spark.

He knew this because he had once crossed a negative post with a positive one in his dad’s car battery and gotten a tongue-lashing. His dad claimed the spark could have caused an explosion. He was pissed at his dad but wished he were here now. Dad would know what to do.

A crazy thought entered his mind about hazardous waste materials. “I should recycle the phone; it could contaminate the island.” He felt a wave of apprehension at the likelihood of the EPA discovering a Hazmat on the island and indicting him with millions of dollars in penalties just like had happened to Exxon at Valdez, Alaska.

“Plants like the many tropical shrubs and coconut palms here, could uptake the broken-down chemicals into after a few decades. The uptake would then poison the animals feeding on them. Kind of like a radioactive substance entering the food chain.”

He recalled Chernobyl and the reindeer’s contaminated mammalian glands rendering their milk radioactive. “What if a sea turtle lays its eggs near the cell phone and the hatchlings get affected?” He could hear Rachael Carson’s ghost admonishing him.

“Fuck it.” He shouted at Rachael, the EPA and the island. And left the phone bleaching on the beach. Such was his state of mind that he didn’t even offer it a simple burial.

It was 98 degrees and probably 90 percent humidity. At least so, he felt. “Anyways, it’s not as if I have a psychrometer up my ass to measure it.

He was in a foul mood that continued to increase in foulness. Six days had transpired since the shipwreck. His yacht, Princess lay a stone’s throw from their campsite. Her hull was bashed in by reefs that had waited eons for that fateful night of calamity. Matt and Monica, “the Two M’s, as they were called by their friends, or M & M, had endured an hour of life threatening dangers. The principal one being death by drowning or concussion due to a blow to the head by the ship’s contents, including a falling mast or swinging spar.

After swimming to safety they became castaways as witnessed and verified by the island’s howling monkeys. The Princess followed, eerily approaching ever closer to their moonlit moment of deposit. With each ebb of tide and crash of wave; she undulated to shore port side first. Somehow she had freed herself from the breech and seemed to want company with her captain and mistress.

Having his Princess injured but safe and Monica as a fleshly comforter, he allowed his eyes to close, exhausted. Monica had fallen to fatigue many hours after the tragedy, feeling safer on the beach and in close proximity to her adventuresome lover.

He and Monica had dug a pit 6 feet deep over 5 of those days leaving them both exhausted thirsty and hungry. Brackish water gradually filled the bottom to a depth of 5 or 6 inches. Their biggest challenge now was to build a fire and boil their water. After celebrating with high fives they set to the task of fire building.

Matt was settled on resuming his attempts at starting a fire by returning to the bamboo. Bamboo covered the island, green and growing lushly. Dried bamboo covered large areas of the beach. Great effort was not needed in procuring it. Matt selected two of the most desiccated pieces he could find and fashioned them into approximately 2 feet in length using his machete. Each was about 1 1/2 inches in width and naturally, slightly curved. On one he drilled a 1/4 inch hole to provide the sparked tinder a nest for a good air to fuel combustion ratio.

With Monica squatted at his feet and securing the stationary length of bamboo, the one with the hole, Matt set to work using the second length as a cross frictional piece. This one he applied steady downward pressure as he speedily pushed forward then backward. The relative humidity in this tropical location was their greatest combating factor. No doubt this criterion was responsible for their many failed attempts.

Monica would encourage him verbally, “C’mon Matt, you’re almost there. Keep goin’. It was an almost sexual exercise with her feminine gasps of emotional release. “It’s comin’ Matt, keep pushing!”

Matt responded accordingly. At each failure, Monica would place her hand gently on his neck or shoulder and lovingly stroke or clench his tendon and massage him as a form of reassurance.

Each day made them weaker due to dehydration. Eating coconuts was not going to sustain them. They knew that eating too many would result in diarrhea and or constipation. They needed fire to boil water.

After the 8th day Matt conceded, “I can’t do this anymore, Monica. She was understanding and offered him encouragement. “Matt, there’s no way we’re going to survive here without water. We can’t do it with only coconut juice. You can’t give up.

The following morning, Matt lay in their lean to shelter. He realized the truth in Monica’s comment the day earlier. He decided that if they were to get off this island, he would have to man-up and fight. “I don’t give a shit. If I have to rub all the fucking bamboo on this island to start a fire, I’ll do it!′

His shouting awoke Monica. She smiled weakly as she lay next to him.

In the morning, Matt sat stoically, staring at the ocean. He figured he would lay the bamboo out on the beach under the mid-day sun for a couple of hours. His reasoning was that in this way the bamboo would dry out and make it more conducive to fire starting.

At a point where the sun was about 10 degrees past its azimuth, he walked back out to the drying sticks grabbed them and sat down to begin his task. “Hey Monica, come out and help.”

She had been sleeping from sheer fatigue and nourishment. They applied themselves to the frictional fire starting ritual again. They worked under a burning sun. The humidity out on the beach was low and the white sands provided a good source of heat conductivity from the suns reflective rays.

They suffered 5 or 6 failures with near successes and were about to concede, when Monica noticed a pin prick of red orange color. “Matt, I see it. You have a spark. Yes, it was a spark nestled in a shredded nest of fine bamboo down.

Matt picked it up carefully and held it, cupped in both his hands as he pointed them heavenward. He gently blew into them at first and as smoke began to exude from the ball of shaved tinder; he blew gradually and more forcefully with each successive application. Then, spontaneous combustion flared into a full-fledged ball of flame that burst larger as it consumed greater gulps of air.

Matt placed the precious alchemy on the sand as Monica fed it small pieces of driftwood and bamboo.

They sat around a fire that night feeling more secure against potential animal attacks or wandering vipers. The warmth comforted them and raised their spirits. They had boiled and drank plenteous quantities of water, cooled it and satisfied their thirst.

On the second day after starting their first fire, they found a live rat at the bottom of their well. It filled them with disgust but captured and killed it. They skinned and gutted it and cooked its small carcass over the night’s fire. The protein strengthened their bodies in ways coconut meat could not.

As Matt sat around the fire and Monica slept he pondered. The rat’s proteinaceous sustenance seemed to have provided his brain with thinking energy he had lost days ago.

“Here we are Monica and I thousands of miles from home. After the hardships we’ve been through, I never thought I could ever endure the impossibility of starting a fire without a bow or drill. Staring at this fire now is a truly mystical moment.”

Monica added, “Think about it Matt, the atoms of long ago plants that live on this island lie in the sand. Atoms of bamboo have burst into flame, quite a phenomenon by what appears to be so primitive a method for starting a fire. Imagine never having started a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together. It must have been a magical thing for primordial man ages ago, rubbing two sticks together and poof - fire.”

She continued her contemplative words while Matt’s head rested on her lap. “The ashes from the bamboo will dissipate into the atmosphere; countless particles of them will filter into the sand and leach to unaccountable depths. These ashes will nourish plants. Through many processes of chemical transformations resulting from this fire, our lives on this island will be more comfortable.

“You know Monica, I’ve been thinking. We may be on this island for quite some time. It won’t be easy. We’ve got to keep this fire going, like the eternal flame that was lit at Jack Kennedy’s tomb, never quenched. We’ll have to find a cave, make sure our bamboo stays dry. It’s gonna rain sometime soon and often during the rainy season.”

“Yep. You’re right Matt. And your son, or could be your daughter is going to need fire.”

“Wha . . . whaddaya mean?” Asked Matt incredulously. “Is that why you’ve been barfing?”

Monica’s silence was Matt’s cue. He could feel her smiling.

“This whole time I thought you were nauseated from the heat and eating too many coconuts.”

“Yes, Matt, I’ve had morning sickness on an island thousands of miles from home. I suppose our child’s birth certificate will read citizen of the Philippines.”

Matt was beaming. The news rejuvenated his imagination and optimism. Monica and I will survive because of this fire. The Greek’s Prometheus carried his flame to mankind. God has given us fire and a new beginning.

Matt thought about the emblem on one of America’s popular cars, the Firebird. He thought of the flight of the Phoenix, a classic movie starring Jimmy Stewart. He thought about the mythical bird, the Phoenix that rose from its own ashes every 500 years in a transformational rebirth.

Their success in starting this fire would lead to a greater achievements toward survival.

His eyes roved toward the Princess. He could hear the lapping of the gentle ocean waves against her half submerged hull.

“Monica, I think I can repair Princess. We’ve got some exploration to do. There’s shell fish in the ocean. We’ll continue to get our strength up and besides hunting for game, we can search for be plant or trees that produce resin. With fire, we’ll be able to boil plant materials to produce substances that will repel water as it seals a patch made of dried, thin, cellulose.”

“Yes, and we can also boil the hooves and hides of animals to make gelatinous materials,” Monica added.

“Remember the novel, Swiss Family Robinson, Monica?”

“Yes, my dad read it to me as a child.”

“Me too, never thought I would be on the threshold of living like that.”

“We’ve got no other alternatives, Matt. I’m glad we didn’t shipwreck in the cold latitudes.”

Matt’s eyelids were getting heavy. He muttered as he wavered near the soft fall into sleep. “Monica, what do you think about naming our kid, Phoenix?”

Monica also near being overcome by sleep answered, “I like it. It fits perfectly whether boy or girl.”

The little party of 3 castaways would truly rise from the ashes.

He poured his guts out on the white sands of a remote Philippine island. It was deserted except for various plant and animal species of animals whose identities and potential for harming them remained unknown.

After numerous repeated attempts to light a simple fire using frictional technology, he carapaced into a spell of minor depression induced by simple fatigue.

He felt a pronounced failure, no doubt adding to the depressive mental weight he now suffered. Given simpler circumstances he would have produced the ubiquitous contraption endowed with a phosphorus tip at the end of a thin stick of pine called a match.

His busted cell phone was worthless here for many reasons. His eye caught its black shiny form on the makeshift campground. With despicable frame of mind he lunged at it, grabbed it as it were a cornered rat and proceed to gut it using his Swiss Army knife.

He thought to use its glass surface as a lens for Sun’s magnification, only to find that the back part of the thing was encased in a stiff gummy material, called the LCD unit, or liquid crystal display. The grey, opaque material was hopelessly adhered to it his “magnifying lens.”

He remembered his electronic nerd-of-a-buddy calling it a digitizer. Willie could disassemble a cell phone in seconds and reassemble it after replacing its digitizer. No good for him here. “I could never separate the stuff away from the glass. Besides, I need a curved piece, as in eyeglasses.” For want of a fire, he regretted the day he had gotten Lasik on his eyes. Monica didn’t use eyeglasses either.

He tossed the cell phone aside.

“MacGyver couldn’t do anything with it either, except as a fishing weight.” The battery in it was dead; otherwise he could have used the gold filaments comprising the device’s internal antenna wires to short-circuit a spark.

He knew this because he had once crossed a negative post with a positive one in his dad’s car battery and gotten a tongue-lashing. His dad claimed the spark could have caused an explosion. He was pissed at his dad but wished he were here now. Dad would know what to do.

A crazy thought entered his mind about hazardous waste materials. “I should recycle the phone; it could contaminate the island." He felt a wave of apprehension at the likelihood of the EPA discovering a Hazmat on the island and indicting him with millions of dollars in penalties just like had happened to Exxon at Valdez, Alaska.

“Plants like the many tropical shrubs and coconut palms here, could uptake the broken-down chemicals into after a few decades. The uptake would then poison the animals feeding on them. Kind of like a radioactive substance entering the food chain.”

He recalled Chernobyl and the reindeer’s contaminated mammalian glands rendering their milk radioactive. “What if a sea turtle lays its eggs near the cell phone and the hatchlings get affected?” He could hear Rachael Carson’s ghost admonishing him.

“Fuck it.” He shouted at Rachael, the EPA and the island. And left the phone bleaching on the beach. Such was his state of mind that he didn’t even offer it a simple burial.

It was 98 degrees and probably 90 percent humidity. At least so, he felt. “Anyways, it’s not as if I have a psychrometer up my ass to measure it.

He was in a foul mood that continued to increase in foulness. Six days had transpired since the shipwreck. His yacht, Princess lay a stone’s throw from their campsite. Her hull was bashed in by reefs that had waited eons for that fateful night of calamity. Matt and Monica, “the Two M’s, as they were called by their friends, or M & M, had endured an hour of life threatening dangers. The principal one being death by drowning or concussion due to a blow to the head by the ship’s contents, including a falling mast or swinging spar.

After swimming to safety they became castaways as witnessed and verified by the island’s howling monkeys. The Princess followed, eerily approaching ever closer to their moonlit moment of deposit. With each ebb of tide and crash of wave; she undulated to shore port side first. Somehow she had freed herself from the breech and seemed to want company with her captain and mistress.

Having his Princess injured but safe and Monica as a fleshly comforter, he allowed his eyes to close, exhausted. Monica had fallen to fatigue many hours after the tragedy, feeling safer on the beach and in close proximity to her adventuresome lover.

He and Monica had dug a pit 6 feet deep over 5 of those days leaving them both exhausted thirsty and hungry. Brackish water gradually filled the bottom to a depth of 5 or 6 inches. Their biggest challenge now was to build a fire and boil their water. After celebrating with high fives they set to the task of fire building.

Matt was settled on resuming his attempts at starting a fire by returning to the bamboo. Bamboo covered the island, green and growing lushly. Dried bamboo covered large areas of the beach. Great effort was not needed in procuring it. Matt selected two of the most desiccated pieces he could find and fashioned them into approximately 2 feet in length using his machete. Each was about 1 1/2 inches in width and naturally, slightly curved. On one he drilled a 1/4 inch hole to provide the sparked tinder a nest for a good air to fuel combustion ratio.

With Monica squatted at his feet and securing the stationary length of bamboo, the one with the hole, Matt set to work using the second length as a cross frictional piece. This one he applied steady downward pressure as he speedily pushed forward then backward. The relative humidity in this tropical location was their greatest combating factor. No doubt this criterion was responsible for their many failed attempts.

Monica would encourage him verbally, “C’mon Matt, you’re almost there. Keep goin’. It was an almost sexual exercise with her feminine gasps of emotional release. “It’s comin’ Matt, keep pushing!”

Matt responded accordingly. At each failure, Monica would place her hand gently on his neck or shoulder and lovingly stroke or clench his tendon and massage him as a form of reassurance.

Each day made them weaker due to dehydration. Eating coconuts was not going to sustain them. They knew that eating too many would result in diarrhea and or constipation. They needed fire to boil water.

After the 8th day Matt conceded, “I can’t do this anymore, Monica. She was understanding and offered him encouragement. “Matt, there’s no way we’re going to survive here without water. We can’t do it with only coconut juice. You can’t give up.

The following morning, Matt lay in their lean to shelter. He realized the truth in Monica’s comment the day earlier. He decided that if they were to get off this island, he would have to man-up and fight. “I don’t give a shit. If I have to rub all the fucking bamboo on this island to start a fire, I’ll do it!′

His shouting awoke Monica. She smiled weakly as she lay next to him.

In the morning, Matt sat stoically, staring at the ocean. He figured he would lay the bamboo out on the beach under the mid-day sun for a couple of hours. His reasoning was that in this way the bamboo would dry out and make it more conducive to fire starting.

At a point where the sun was about 10 degrees past its azimuth, he walked back out to the drying sticks grabbed them and sat down to begin his task. “Hey Monica, come out and help.”

She had been sleeping from sheer fatigue and nourishment. They applied themselves to the frictional fire starting ritual again. They worked under a burning sun. The humidity out on the beach was low and the white sands provided a good source of heat conductivity from the suns reflective rays.

They suffered 5 or 6 failures with near successes and were about to concede, when Monica noticed a pin prick of red orange color. “Matt, I see it. You have a spark. Yes, it was a spark nestled in a shredded nest of fine bamboo down.

Matt picked it up carefully and held it, cupped in both his hands as he pointed them heavenward. He gently blew into them at first and as smoke began to exude from the ball of shaved tinder; he blew gradually and more forcefully with each successive application. Then, spontaneous combustion flared into a full-fledged ball of flame that burst larger as it consumed greater gulps of air.

Matt placed the precious alchemy on the sand as Monica fed it small pieces of driftwood and bamboo.

They sat around a fire that night feeling more secure against potential animal attacks or wandering vipers. The warmth comforted them and raised their spirits. They had boiled and drank plenteous quantities of water, cooled it and satisfied their thirst.

On the second day after starting their first fire, they found a live rat at the bottom of their well. It filled them with disgust but captured and killed it. They skinned and gutted it and cooked its small carcass over the night’s fire. The protein strengthened their bodies in ways coconut meat could not.

As Matt sat around the fire and Monica slept he pondered. The rat’s proteinaceous sustenance seemed to have provided his brain with thinking energy he had lost days ago.

“Here we are Monica and I thousands of miles from home. After the hardships we’ve been through, I never thought I could ever endure the impossibility of starting a fire without a bow or drill. Staring at this fire now is a truly mystical moment.”

Monica added, “Think about it Matt, the atoms of long ago plants that live on this island lie in the sand. Atoms of bamboo have burst into flame, quite a phenomenon by what appears to be so primitive a method for starting a fire. Imagine never having started a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together. It must have been a magical thing for primordial man ages ago, rubbing two sticks together and poof - fire.”

She continued her contemplative words while Matt’s head rested on her lap. “The ashes from the bamboo will dissipate into the atmosphere; countless particles of them will filter into the sand and leach to unaccountable depths. These ashes will nourish plants. Through many processes of chemical transformations resulting from this fire, our lives on this island will be more comfortable.

“You know Monica, I’ve been thinking. We may be on this island for quite some time. It won’t be easy. We’ve got to keep this fire going, like the eternal flame that was lit at Jack Kennedy’s tomb, never quenched. We’ll have to find a cave, make sure our bamboo stays dry. It’s gonna rain sometime soon and often during the rainy season.”

“Yep. You’re right Matt. And your son, or could be your daughter is going to need fire.”

“Wha . . . whaddaya mean?” Asked Matt incredulously. “Is that why you’ve been barfing?”

Monica’s silence was Matt’s cue. He could feel her smiling.

“This whole time I thought you were nauseated from the heat and eating too many coconuts.”

“Yes, Matt, I’ve had morning sickness on an island thousands of miles from home. I suppose our child’s birth certificate will read citizen of the Philippines.”

Matt was beaming. The news rejuvenated his imagination and optimism. Monica and I will survive because of this fire. The Greek’s Prometheus carried his flame to mankind. God has given us fire and a new beginning.

Matt thought about the emblem on one of America’s popular cars, the Firebird. He thought of the flight of the Phoenix, a classic movie starring Jimmy Stewart. He thought about the mythical bird, the Phoenix that rose from its own ashes every 500 years in a transformational rebirth.

Their success in starting this fire would lead to a greater achievements toward survival.

His eyes roved toward the Princess. He could hear the lapping of the gentle ocean waves against her half submerged hull.

“Monica, I think I can repair Princess. We’ve got some exploration to do. There’s shell fish in the ocean. We’ll continue to get our strength up and besides hunting for game, we can search for be plant or trees that produce resin. With fire, we’ll be able to boil plant materials to produce substances that will repel water as it seals a patch made of dried, thin, cellulose.”

“Yes, and we can also boil the hooves and hides of animals to make gelatinous materials,” Monica added.

“Remember the novel, Swiss Family Robinson, Monica?”

“Yes, my dad read it to me as a child.”

“Me too, never thought I would be on the threshold of living like that.”

“We’ve got no other alternatives, Matt. I’m glad we didn’t shipwreck in the cold latitudes.”

Matt’s eyelids were getting heavy. He muttered as he wavered near the soft fall into sleep. “Monica, what do you think about naming our kid, Phoenix?”

Monica also near being overcome by sleep answered, “I like it. It fits perfectly whether boy or girl.”

The little party of 3 castaways would truly rise from the ashes.

The Royal Navy British ship HMS Mary Rose built in 1509 had endured the harsh seas of the Atlantic. She was a war ship sailing the seas in the year of our Lord, 1531 providing protection to English commerce. Despite her worthy crew and cast iron cannons she was not quite the match for a small flotilla of pirates led by Captain Bloodlet. A fierce battle had ensued during a foggy night and stealth of night; the weakened Mary Rose was boarded by the pirates twenty five miles due east of North America, latitude 37.5 degrees West. A deadly battle ensued aboard ship resulting in Captain Jerediah Homestock, aka Bloodlet Jerry, commandeering Her Majesty’s ship. He and his men forced all hands to walk the plank with the exception of the Captain, his first mate and the cabin boy.

These persons were to be used for ransom. “They shou’d be werth a guinea or two, Id’s sus’peck,” Bloodlet had boasted.

The prisoners were kept in confinemt below deck and would at times be brought to Bloodlet’s cabin for the rogue’s entertainment.

“Well, well me Lassies, welcome aboard. Me ’opes ‘uve enjoyed yer stay, thus fare.” He laughed hysterically. “If’n thar’s anythin’ yer purdy ’lil herths desire, speak ye de werd, aye, Capin?”

He sarcastically addressed Captain Daniel McClintock. Captain McClintock looked bedraggled from lack of sleep, but mostly from humiliation. It was a supreme insult for his being made to stand in his former cabin with the likes of this rogue pirate.

Captain McClintock purposefully ignored his captor. He felt he would wretch the contents of hardtack and salt fish he had earlier eaten. Bloodlet reeked of sweat, rum and foul tobacco. His face was close to his prisoner. He could almost count the thick hairs which protruded out of the pirate’s nostrils.

“Well me mate . . . looks like de cat’s got yer tongue. No matter. Now, now, dohn git yer feathers arufflin. I got me a propersition fer ye Capin. Navigate me ta Tahiti an’ I’ll consider givin’ ye an’ yer mates yer freedom. What say ye?”

Captain McClintock felt a surge of exhilaration, could this murderous rogue actually be serious? He noticed the thick, brown scar running from the pirates lower right eye, across his cheek, and down to the side of his thick, muscular neck. “Perhaps there’s a spark of civility left in his seared brain.” Captain McClintock knew Bloodlet had once been a Royal Admiral of the British Navy. He often wondered what reasons had caused Homestock to turn traitor to his country.

Captain McClintock had nothing to lose except his life. “Now, Sir,” he had respectfully maintained his formalities on his hijacked ship. “Navigation at this time of year from these latitudes is extremely dangerous.”

“Cohm now me Danel,” he addressed him by his first name, an indication of an appeal to McClintock’s sentimentality. “Yer not afeared, now ar ye?”

“Well Sir, of course not. I am a prisoner aboard this ship and my future prospects are not becoming. It is for lack of Sea Charts. You yourself understand the many reefs between here and the Islands, and that would be the least of our concerns . . . there’s the Cape, with its wind and 100 foot wave, icebergs . . .”

“An I ’ave no feer, nider, Capin. Shoud the ship splinter, ’tis of no concern.

Wees got de rowboats.” He laughed his characteristic manical laugh. His huge chest quivered spasmotically. Spittle flew from his open mouth past decayed teeth, landing as thick streaks on his unkempt beard. The spittle coalesced as he laughed and dripped profusely onto his barrel chest, staining his faded Royal Jacket.

“I be wagerin’ agains’t ye Danel. We make it ta Tajiti in one piece. Ye be the Royal’s best sailin’ man. A long journey for me to pick up the Pigin’s Blood Ruby. A big one she is an’ ‘er brood o’ rubies. Got treasure o’ me rubys thar. Me loves me Pigin Blood Ruby. She be fair lass she is, tho she be stone, she me heart, she is. Ya maytee, de Bloodlet, me an’ de Pigin Blood, love o’ me life! An’ ya, we shall be united, Danel!”

“Cabin Boy, goin’ git me an’ yer captain a jug o’ rum below deck, git boy, now, ’fore ye walk de plank . . . !” His booming laugh erupted suddenly again, reverberating across the ships cabin walls.

Oliver jumped through the cabin door and sprinted across ship’s deck disappearing through the deck hatch. Not long after he silhouetted back at the cabin door holding a large brown jug. “e’re y’ go Capin, Sir.”

“Et’s me lad, boy, pour yer capin a’ me a drink ’n one fer yerself.”

“How’s about me Bloodlet, am I yer snoot, aren’t I?” Pleaded the first mate, Roy.

“If ye agree to ‘elp yer capin. Git me thar’s an’ no shinanigan’s, ye can drink ’er up, otherwise, ye’ll be loc’t up agin or plain kilt!”

“Yessir, Bloodlet. If Captain McClintock sez the word, I’m in!”

Captain McClintock eyed Bloodlet for a moment, transfixed by his ponderous size. The pirate stood at six feet four inches with hefty muscular girth of legs and arms. His bare arms were covered with thick, dense hair. His fingers were thick with long, dirty fingernails. McClintock thought Homestock’s size a rarity for the average size of Captain in Majesty’s Navy. It was hard for him to believe he was once just that, standing there, ring in his ear and swashbuckler’s sword at his hilt.

A large wave struck the ship broadside causing the three mugs to slide to starboard. “Well, are ye gonna drink, or wha?”

“Pour the First Mate a drink Oliver.” Ordered the former Captain of the Mary Rose.

Oliver gathered the three mugs in a huddle and grabbed an empty one from beneath the captain’s dining table. “’ere ye are First Mate Roy, Sir!”

“Now, I herewith propose a toast to our venture, ’round the Cape ’Orn of Sow’h ‘merica, gennelmen, an’ yer oath o’ loy’lty to me, Capin Bloodlet. ’An a pirate’s seal is my wager to ye both, ye git us to Tahiti, ’erlive to me Redblood Ruby ‘n ye’ll share in the prize, ye will, an’som o’ the til! Ye’ll also liv’ ta take the booty o’ yer fill o’ de native lasses, y’ will.”

“And our part of the wager, Captain?” Asked Captain McClintock.

“Yer part is ta git us thar, ’n if ye fail, ye walk de plank!” His rabid laughter once again erupted, filling the cabin air with vibration.

“How ’bout me Captain Bloodlet?” wailed, 10 year old Oliver, who had already swigged his share of rum.

“Me lad, ye’ll walk too, unless ye prove yerself otherwise. Maniacal, uncontrolled laughter again.

Now, let’s us drink up and seal de wager. Pour yerself another boy!”

Fellow galactic aliens of the Sombrero Galaxy

(Our astronomers call it: Messier Object 104, M104 or NGC 459)

Without your advanced technology this transmission would not be possible.

Thank you for your cooperation and assistance.

We Earthlings have given your galaxy this name due it shape

From Earth, your galactic center appears as a beautiful

Bright bulge with a Magnitude of about 9.0

My address is live from planet Earth,

Fellow Aliens,

We are located about two thirds from our Milky Way’s center,

28 million light years distant from your own galaxy

On one of its spiral arms called Orion

Ours is a spiral galaxy just like yours

Bear with me briefly please.

Being as your super technology is vastly superior to our existing science;

It is merely for Earthlings’ public record that I briefly denote the data here.

My mission has been granted and funded by NASA,

in conjunction with The Institute for Radio Telescope Communications, (IRTC)

and SETI, (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence)

My objective is to convey to you Idiosyncratic Data of Earth’s human species:

(Please allow me during this transmission to include questions for you to provide responses for Earth’s people at a future date.)

We the human race are a magnificent stellar breed and yet have our faults. We are the most intelligent life form on Earth despite our foibles or eccentricities. (Perhaps for sake of our human populations, you will be willing to discuss your own Alien idiosyncrasies on a later broadcast).

We are a curious race, meaning not that we aren’t peculiar looking to you, but rather we are like, Curious George, a species, we call monkeys or primates. Perhaps you have heard of what we call an idiom. There is one that goes: “curiosity killed the cat.”

The phenomenon of curiosity can have a dual effect, for either good or bad.

We have what we call evil here in our part of the universe.

(Is your race familiar with evil and its effect)?

To be curious can be dangerous, for example, if we were to be so curious so as to have made contact with you Aliens without first having ascertained your disposition; we might have theoretically placed our race in “harm’s way.”

To be curious can be beneficial, for example we have space telescopes which are capable of peering deep into interstellar regions, which is but one means by which we discovered your own galaxy. Due our intellectual curiosity, we also know that your galaxy has a massive black hole at its center.

(Could you please make note of our interest in your providing Earthlings with as much data as possible regarding said hole)?

One of our most heartfelt foibles is that we cannot eat donuts that have no holes, but we can eat the hole of the donut, whole. Perhaps if your astrophysicists provide us with a Unified Theory in Physics us humans can provide answers to why we would never eat a donut that did not have a hole.

(Aliens, are you familiar with oxymorons?}

We are a peace loving race. But we have behavioral characteristics such as dispositions toward getting angry. For example, if after a hard day of work we fail to locate our T.V. Remote, ( a device used for the transmission of radio waves), we will often “go buck,” i.e. anger displayed in various forms.

What’s worse, if we have issues in programming or technical problems and fail to receive transmissions such as sports or our favorite shows . . . “run for cover,” an idiomatic expression meaning that if you are an innocent bystander in such a situation, say an adolescent Alien in a parent Alien’s home, advice is: take shelter!

(Does your Race know what anger is?)

Our Race senses - experiences a thing called fear. Recall the example given above, the adolescent Alien takes shelter. Much of our language involves idioms, expressions not to be taken literally. In this case it means seek protection.

Fear involves anxiety, a need to recoil. It is an unpleasant phenomenon. It is hard to explain to another being, however due your superior intellect as a Race, I shall do my best to explain. Fear is the antithesis; the opposite of love.

(Does death exist in your part of the universe?)

Fear is an effect on our race involving the mind. As an example: Us humans have had many accidents involving spacecraft colliding with objects in space. You have no doubt witnessed many of our accidents. In situations like this, humans

can experience fear.

One other example: our Race mates with the opposite sex. Bear with me dear Aliens, please. It may be helpful for you to tune your intergalactic receivers to one our many available radio frequencies, whether T.V., radio, Internet, etc. Two programs in particular are entitled, “Cheaters,” or “Caught on Tape.” You will notice a wide variety of subjects, expressing all of the emotions quite graphically and vocally thus far discussed.

Perhaps these behaviors shock your Race. In light of your advanced culture I presume these types of behaviors may be considered idiosyncrasies.

Perhaps you regard these behaviors as the mere foibles of an inferior Race.

Please communicate your feelings and thoughts to our offices.

(Does your Race procreate and if so, are there any “Cheaters” in your population?)

Let me introduce one of our entertainment industry’s previously popular character actors. His Science fiction name was Spock. He appeared on a popular T.V. series called Star Trek. Google him via the IntraNet if you so desire. His actual name was Lenard Nimoy. He has died - “he passed”, (a figurative form of our peculiar speech propensity to play with words.)

(Do members of your Race die?)

Spock portrayed a human/Vulcan Hybrid role. He was a superior life species who displayed no emotion. Perhaps you can relate to him, no offense dear Aliens! (Another idiosyncrasy of us humans is that we enjoy human emotion.) Imagine how you would feel if you raved about your spaceship’s technological performance and your audience showed no emotion.)

It’s been enjoyable communicating with you Fellow Aliens. Let me conclude this telecommunications by listing a just few other common foibles plaguing humanity at present. These are only a modicum of the millions of our foibles found throughout Earth’s many cultures and countries.

(Does your planet sustain varied cultures and languages? Told you humans are curious!)

Some common Earth Idiosyncrasies, some culturally specific but no doubt completely human in nature, (subject to testing of course, i.e. testing in countries like equatorial tribes who may not be acquainted with cereals like Raisin Bran, Cheerios, Corn Flakes, etc.)

We distain soggy cereal

We do not like getting into bed with cracker crumbs between the sheets.

We find it extremely difficult, if not impossible to refrain from texting during driving, (even under threat of penalty.)

We light candles in our bathrooms for reasons other than for lighting.

Although we are mammalian in nature and possess hair as appendages, we have the “gag reflex,” (involuntary hurling stomach’s content of partially digested food product) when discovering even a single hair in our salad or food, especially if it is really long.

We have a tendency to belittle fellow humans if they are wearing their tee shirt or garment inside-out.

Even worse than the item directly above: if a fellow human exits a what we call, restroom or toilet and a fragment of toilet paper is found adhered to the heel of the shoe; belittlement of the human subject immediately ensues in the form of laughter by associates. (Do you Aliens laugh? Sorry, bit embarrassing to ask: do you use toilet paper?)

It is now time to conclude this broadcast my fellow Aliens. Please feel free to transmit any questions your Race may have in turn . . .

. . . (Does your race have foibles?) Sorry, we’re running out of time. This is probably the most interesting question I can ask you at this time since we’ve focused on humanity’s idiosyncratic tendencies.

Please share with us Aliens! Bear with me! I have about 32 seconds before we’re off the air. Is your Race capable of achieving light speed, 186,000 miles per Second? As you well know, given the distance separating your Goldilocks planet from ours; it would require 28 million Years to reach your planet!

Aliens please help us by sharing your level of scientific advancement that we might overcome our idiosyncrasies. (Do you have an Alien Dr. Phil?) . . .

How can we ever overcome the required physics and reach this speed given

Albert Einstein’s calculations expressing that as a body accelerates it continues to gain greater mass, becoming infinitely heavy, making the energy required to keep the body in motion an impossibility given our understanding of physics?

How can we ever then, expect to reach your planet even if we were to find a wormhole!

“Okay Aliens. We’re off the air with our public listeners. Please do not terminate contact. Joe, production engineer, Alice, public relations liaison, . . . Mike, our sound man . . . and others in the transmission room . . . yes, we still have an open line with the Aliens.

“Yes. Our question is: “How can we defect to your planet?”

The four travelers were headed for the Grand Canyon rim. They boarded the train at the depot. Anticipatory excitement lead their prospect of seeing Arizona’s natural wonder for the first time. The train was an early vintage model; passenger seats and trimmings were charmingly antique. The ride was surprisingly smooth, comfortable and quiet. The passengers settled into mesmerizing relaxation.

The ride would be a two and a half hour trip to the rim. Luis, a retired teacher, pulled his cell phone from its pouch and brought up Google’s GPS map/navigational program. He was fascinated with the power of the application’s satellite to geophysical coordinates. He followed the trace of the train’s silent route, flicking the screen settings between satellite and physical views before settling on the most comprehensible: traffic format. This electronic Aladdin’s lamp delineated their course based on actual geographic coordinates. He studied and enjoyed the many features of the program while scrolling interchangeably to weather, and various search engine topics.

He had an urge to apply his thoughts to a Word document. He looked out the train car window, exchanging observations with his wife Karla.

“Look at the trunk of that tree, why do you think it’s burned?” Asked Karla.

"Well, it’s probably due to a controlled fire burn." He was preoccupied, but he tried his best to remain in-tune to all of her comments.

“I’m not very good at multi-tasking between writing and social conversation,” he thoughtfully admitted. “I hope she doesn’t get upset with me. Not much going on anyway.”

Luis typed using his Samsung cellphone. They were traveling through a remote area consisting of partial flatland transitioning gradually to hills, then to high elevation forests surrounding both sides of the track at the near 6,500 ft. elevation. It was high desert terrain with mountains towering ever higher in the distance. Mobile radio frequency signals off cell towers from satellite were intermittent. He was amazed he had any reception at all. “Not bad considering the geography. No problem,” he simply switched his cell document to off line and continued writing. He considered his wife Karla sitting at his immediate right.

As he continued to type, he made himself aware of his own biological reception frequency at work. His sixth sense operated normally: “She probably thinks I'm texting. Hopefully she doesn’t think I’m ignoring her.” This subconscious impression persisted. “Could be she’s beginning to resent me being on my cell phone.” He chose to ignore the still, small voice of warning and his passion to write prevailed.

He would rather be writing in an idyllic forest surrounded by waterfalls, chirping birds and the sound of a gentle wind whispering through moss covered boughs. He was a busy man. The pulls of the world with the demands of people were constant.

Karla and he were sitting in relative confinement given their close proximity to their two friends, Raymond and Susan. These were their traveling companions. But to Luis in this case, they were also inhibitors to potentially spontaneous bursts of creativity. Susan and Raymond were seated directly across Luis and Karla; approximately three feet separated their torsos. Periodically, four pairs of shins and feet inter-collided which broke Luis’ catalyst of contemplation.

The image of an idyllic forest returned . . . a remote cabin near the shore of a frozen Minnesota Lake . . . snow covered trees . . . fireplace, coffee on the stove . . . there he sat writing his mind’s stirrings.

“No Luis, quit dreaming, this is reality, you’re gonna have to suck it up. Relax. Concentrate. You can do it.”

Raymond was the driver on this trip. Luis had often used his cell phone to write while riding shotgun in Raymond’s King Cab truck. Karla and Susan used their cellphones for entertainment, text or make various phone calls. Some calls were for booking hotels as they traveled. They also plotted their course using GPS to instruct Raymond with directional or road conditions assistance.

Luis was on train this time. It seemed he had less freedom than riding in the truck. He felt a more stifled confinement restricting him. “Luis, you’re a proverbial fish in a frickin’ bowl!”

“Ray’s sleeping and Susan’s talking to Karla. I don't blame Ray; the hypnotic rolling of steel wheels on iron tracks is totally conducive for sleeping as it is to giving meditative inspiration. Looking out the window offers the same repetitive scene - cookie cutter trees, shrubs, Indian tobacco, manzanita and rocks. Karla hasn’t made any remarks in quite a while. I think I’m safe.”

He continued typing using his phone sideways to use both hands’ thumbs and fingers. "They'll keep each other company. They're not talking much with each other. None of the passengers seem to have anything to say. We've been together on this Arizona trip for a week and a half now.”

He was worn out. The weather had been typically hot, averaging 96 degrees Fahrenheit. Things were different now, especially due the altitude. Rain clouds had been forming and rain had already fallen. The temperatures had lowered to the 60’s. This weather reprieve contributed to less tension and a kind of hibernation effect in the train’s interior.

Luis continued to provide himself with building blocks of justification for not socializing. “Only sundry conversational topics have come up, so far. No one’s interested in discussing the cosmos or engaging in a genteel philosophical discussion with me on an interesting subject.”

He searched inside and outside the train car’s interior for motivational ideas. He was looking for subjects of his own.

Things wouldn't be so simple however, nothing ever is when traveling either alone and especially with others. A different, more difficult matter was about to shake his equilibrium.

Luis noticed that Ray awakened, stirred, and stared blankly ahead. He appeared bored, resisting an urge to sleep and then succumbed to it, evidenced by his tilted head against the window. “Good, more liberty to stay on the cell phone.”

Susan, hit him with an unexpected rabbit punch. "So, Luis, when you were a teacher, did you allow your students to use cellphones in class?"

“What the . . . ! Where did that comment come from and why?”

“Was it coincidental she asked that question while he was word processing with his phone?”

It had to be her frustration at not having someone other than Karla to give her attention.” He surmised that she considered it rude to be ignored.

Luis knew her well. He was reminded of that still, small voice his sixth sense had warned him about earlier. He knew Susan’s personality and a possible ulterior motive. He prepared himself.

He internalized his indignation with thought. “Nothing worse than your guest engrossed in such a heinous act as what appears to be texting.” He felt implicated in guilt by association. How dare she invoke his affiliation with his profession and students! “Must be the altitude getting to her.”

"She thinks I'm texting.”

For sake of peace and prevent verbal altercation, he spontaneously answered, carefully maintaining civil composure. This was a hard won vacation for him and his wife, she as a work-at home accountant and he was recovering from breaking his back for almost three months landscaping laboriously, in the central valley of California’s summer heat. He and Karla deserved this trip.

"Yeah Susan,” he said with a tint of sarcasm, deliberately invoked. “I allowed them to use iPads and Chrome Books academically." He then cited examples for her, mustering great effort to resist completely ignoring her. "Students were allowed to use these devises for research, you know, the kids used Google, on-line dictionaries, thesauruses, word processing programs, like Word, presentation programs like Prezi, on-line . . . tons of free, downloadable stuff, you know. Yeah, in fact for those students that didn’t have access to laptops, yeah . . . I let them use cell phones for the same educational purposes. They could just as easily have abused laptops.” He spoke laconically, like a soulless entity. He felt hollow.

He was tied into a debate competition, and the stress that goes with the event. He was back in the classroom being confronted by a disgruntled parent. His speech was labored. Susan wasn’t in front of him anymore. He looked past her. His mind was tired of the pettiness. He especially didn’t like her at the moment. She had become his inquisitor. “I can imagine her, as one of my student’s parent, confronting me on this issue.

She’s a self-appointed bleeding heart for my wife’s assumed neglect. Shame on me for using my phone. There would be no issue if I had been pretending to be reading the newspaper, or say, National Geographic, which is in my backpack. If I had been sleeping, I wouldn’t have been confronted.”

“Counselor bring on your next witness . . .

“Your Honor, I object!”

Must be the long hours of travel; the heat, fatigue, maybe the altitude getting to me,” he mused; I hear the inner workings of a courtroom.

After this Luis resumed his attention back to his phone. It was now out of spite that made him pretend to be writing or, “should he say texting? After all . . .that’s what any red blooded, honest thinking, normal human being in America would think if they saw someone using their phone, right?”

"What is it about typing on a cell phone under certain circumstances, that makes people upset with you?” He asked himself. I suppose if I had been writing on a legal pad, she wouldn't have been as offended. She probably would have had a suspicious feeling I was writing about her, but not as resentful. I sure wouldn’t have been as comfortable writing openly on paper, especially using my legal pad; it’s so fricken’ conspicuously bright yellow, y’know. That why the pad is still in my backpack. It’s more intrusive I think, than a cell phone. Writing is such a personal thing.”

I can disguise the writing process by using my cell phone.” He grasped this insight with a sense of wonder. “Yeah, that’s why I’m using my phone instead of paper; I don’t want the likes of Ray to contemplate my sensitive side. It’s one of those; don’t cast your pearls before swine, kind of thing.”

Luis continued his internalized soliloquy: “I think people get offended,” I mean I get offended too when I try talking to my wife and she jumps on her phone to answer someone’s text. I do it to her too. It’s common these days for everyone to be on a cellphone. People get tickets for using them while driving. People are often seen sitting in restaurants - families come to mind, where some or all are on their phones and not talking, not fully communicating with each other.”

Luis wouldn’t let go, he continued his turmoil of controversy. “Wouldn't it be interesting to see everyone at a dinner table reading a book or writing? He remembered seeing a man at dinner in a restaurant, reading a newspaper while a female person sat opposite, seemingly bored, but possibly upset due to being ignored. Maybe she felt ignored and she craved her husband’s attention.

“Okay, Susan has a point, but dammit.” Luis belabored his attempt at self-justification, “dammit my situation’s different!”

The energy he expended toward his inner dialogue was tenacious as it was inexhaustible. “For sure, there's something about writing in the presence of a group of people involved in a certain ambient,” he thought. “I mean, I couldn’t get away doing what got me in trouble with Susan if I was in a group of say convicts, leathernecks . . . oil rig workers . . . . Creative writing here would be akin to anathema.

“Creative writing must be something on another level in itself, highly personal. I prefer not to do it in company's presence unless I really know that person, like Karla. Sure would make for an interesting case study or discussion in a post graduate class.”

Luis was on a tangent and rabid by now. “Cell phones are so commonly used for so many things. They’re ubiquitous,” he mused. “There's apps for everything.” It had taken a while before he learned what an app was. He remembered joking with his students that cell phones and people are inseparable. “They have become an extension of the human body. Programmers should come out with a back scratcher app for a phone.” He had an idea he once shared with his friend. Imagine having integrated circuits implanted in the human body whereby a telepathic exchange of communication with fellow humans could take place incognito.”

He thought about texting or typing without being noticed by Susan. He would simply switch on his internal, biological hard drive and telepathically type on a Word document using brain cells synapsis.

Luis remembered his excitement when the world’s first word processors were developed for home use with personal computers. Writing compositions without the use of paper. An electronically lit screen to formulate creative writing. That was back in the early 90’s and damn if technology hadn’t gone log rhythmically viral after that to the present. There’s an app for everything - downloadable, free in many cases: virtual protractors, bubble levels, flashlights, lasers, calculators, rulers, decibel meters, radar speed detectors, GPS . . . endless lists and possibilities. It’s cool that Obama enacted legislation a couple of years ago providing phones for low income citizens.”

Luis regained his composure and resumed the phone issue at hand. “Okay, totally understandable, I guess I am guilty. Its human nature to feel that someone is either ignoring you, or writing about you under certain circumstances. I remember writing inspirational thoughts on a folded piece of paper in a group of my peers and one of them accusing me of clandestine activity. Is that why Susan was upset with me - for writing under her nose? Was I behaving as a sort of undercover agent, a NARC officer in her eyes? Okay, enough analysis Luis.”

He remained miffed and for good reason, Susan was relentless. After a brief interlude, she continued her verbal treatise, this time focusing her political platform toward Karla. It was a subliminally indirect affront to Luis. With Luis only half listening, Susan proceeded to enumerate instances at university, where she worked, wherein students in hallways waiting for professors, or lounging about in various locations of campus, were constantly absorbed in their use of cellphones. She continued her commentary that people these days were more consumed with electronic devices than with human interchange.

“Is she seriously thinking I’m not capable of discerning that her cloaked diatribe is an indictment against me? Now she’s placing me in league with those university students. Yep, she just wants me off the cell phone.” He could just imagine her pillow talk with Raymond about Luis’ riding shotgun on this trip and refusing to engage in proper social behavior.

He forced himself to listen to Susan as he mindlessly feigned typing on his device. He realized the consequences Susan’s words would possibly have on his wife. How could Karla not be emotionally affected? He dreaded the repercussions that would follow at his expense before the day was over.

He contemplated the thought of honing-in on one of Susan’s many faults and putting her through the same interrogational situation. “Nope. It’s not my nature.” His conscience and God would hold him accountable.

He returned his gaze to his wonderful electronic instrument, his Pandora’s Box. At his fingertip lay Thesaurus,’ Dictionaries, search engines capable of researching any topic, news, weather or images. This device could transport him throughout any part of the world. He could communicate with virtually any human being having equal access. He could play chess individually or with others competitively or for fun and send messages via cyberspace. He could conduct personal or organizational business, settle monetary transactions, order any menagerie of merchandize, not only through Amazon but also any other department store anywhere in the world . . . he could watch any number of movies on Netflix or listen to music while writing . . . market himself, web pages, upload YouTube production - publish script.

He had vast numbers of bytes in stored files of images taken at Tombstone, Arizona and many locations over many years’ time. All this data was backed-up in the Cloud. The world at the touch of his fingertips.

He would share images of this trip with Susan and Raymond instantly via text or e-mails. Karla, Susan had their own images taken by their phones. Susan not only had a cell phone; she even had an iPad that she had whipped out a number of times right under Luis’ nose for a number of purposes. He recalled the times too numerous to mention, that she too, owing to her preoccupation with her electronic devices had ignored him. He recalled a few years ago, Susan adamantly refusing to own a cell phone.

Luis regained his equilibrium and resumed typing his prose. He noticed the tiny, white bars at top of his phone’s screen. These indicated the strength of mobile or roaming Internet connection. The signal would peak and wane due to the terrain of geography and location of transmission towers that worked in tandem with satellite technology. “Wow, Alexander Graham Bell would freak at all of this,” he reflected.

The white bars then vacillated from minimal to near maximum. He was tempted to go on-line and research bits of data on the Grand Canyon, but changed his mind. “Thankfully, I can word-process on Word documents offline.” He was beginning to get his groove back. He had a smidgen of an epiphany for a piece; an especially poignant line to one of the paragraphs in his diary that he would use to write prose and later share with Karla. He could never picture himself sharing it with Raymond. “No offense to the semi-retired cop ’n all.”

Elation was not the lasting reward for his efforts to regain his writing powers. Susan was back at it. She soon followed with another question, perhaps on a mission to reinforce the exposure of his crime to Karla. She would exact revenge on Luis for his sarcasm.

"So Luis, do you play games on your cellphone?"

“Sonnavabiiiyaaaach!” The woman is more tenacious than Gorilla Glue! Have I, on this trip, questioned her when she's reading, talking to someone else, on the cellphone or doing whatever the hell else she wants to do? Of course not. I respect her. She’s an adult.”

"Yeah, I do."

Besides texting, she decided that I’ve also been playing games with my device.”

At this her husband stirred and muttered, “He’s watching porn.”

Ray then turned his head away, toward the window and resumed his now trademark posture of a sleeping man.

“I’m in hell. Stuck in this train with them. These two are not my friends,” Luis said to himself. Was Ray trying to be funny? It wasn’t.

Karla was seated right next to him during the whole time. “What would make that guy say something like that in the wives’ presence? He’s resentful too and it’s festering itself upward and out of his disrespectful mouth. Damn, I’ve got the two of them on my ass. I feel like the protagonist in the novel, The Painted Bird.” He alluded to the poignantly tragic account of the horrific persecutions of a Polish man by the bullies of that era. “And just look at him, he’s actually sleeping or pretending. He’s getting away with sleep and no one is on his case.”

Luis was beyond sick of all of this. It was close to harassment. But actually, Ray and Susan weren’t that important to him in juxtaposition to his own self-worth. Once Ray had even accused him of being an esoteric. “I wonder if Ray even knows what the word means,” he thought. Luis would not lower himself to their level. He was sure anyone else of less fortitude might have bolted down the aisle into another railroad car. He ignored Ray’s obnoxious remark.

Luis did not respond to Susan’s question. He looked at her with a disapproving look, which resulted in him finally being left alone. Silence prevailed for a substantial length of time.

“Plenty of people use cell phones to play video games stored on their device or downloaded from the internet. In fact people throughout the train are using their phones right now, for this very purpose and who knows for what else. I’ll bet Raymond’s badge he’s been on porn during the last twenty-four hours or so.”

Luis was almost at his wit’s end as the popular idiom goes. He had in fact, full intent to continue his writing in route to the Grand Canyon drop-off point. He would stop writing at the end of their destination. His plans were to then fully dedicate himself to contributing social interaction with Karla and friends.

Sometime thereafter, Susan grabbed her own device, namely the iPad and began manipulating it using her index fingers with gyroscopic dexterity. She soon became oblivious to the redundant view outside. Luis was sincerely glad for her and left her alone.

It seemed too late for Luis to regain his composure. He pouted, realizing his train of thought had become negatively contaminated. He was a victim of writer’s block. The inspiration that he had felt previously disappeared into the thin air from whence it had emanated.

Luis shot a quick glance at Karla, “she seems okay.” She was mindlessly looking out the window. “I’ve got to do something besides sit here. Brushing aside resentment he tried resume focus on his writing pieces. He noticed that Raymond was awake. His head was erect, facing outwardly, apparently viewing passing objects outside the train. From his angle, Luis could see that Ray’s right-side eye was closed behind his dark sunglasses. He kept this observation filed as possible ammunition for defense later, if needed. Luis felt like he was one of his former day dreaming students.

Back to writing. “Dammit.” He couldn’t conjure the lost magical epiphany that had alighted in his mind earlier. He decided to switch topic of writing and go with a diary format. He began recording in prose fashion what had earlier transpired on this train ride.

Actor’s dressed as old west characters had boarded the train posing as conductors, and itinerant entertainers. One such person appeared as a singing minstrel. He appeared in the aisle dressed in antique clothing circa the late 1800’s, carrying a guitar strapped to his shoulder.

The minstrel began singing, strumming his guitar using a beautiful Spanish style. Passengers were easily attracted to his unostentatious presence. Luis was transported to the old west. After the a few songs, including, the Marty Robbins classic, “El Paso,” the singer engaged in personal conversation with Luis. Both had a natural affinity for the other and discussed various artists and gospel, country music. The singer left and Luis became lost in American southwest nostalgia. He felt the soft brush of wings against his face; it was epiphany coming again to pay him a visit. He typed on his cell phone, busy for some time, oblivious to his surroundings . . .

“You never know when somebody’s standing behind you.” The voice was deep and authoritative with a touch of the old west. It was disguising itself, but wanting to be heard, kind of ominous, like the drama surrounding the tragedy at the O.K. Corral. Luis sensed no escaping this one. His wife and two friends had become intentionally quiet. By default he would have to become one of the center stage actors. Luis was annoyed thinking about situations involving a child, craving attention. Once given, the child won’t go away. “The actor behind me is one such character.”

The voice materialized when the “Sheriff” came up and stood next to him. “Yep, he wants attention, and knows he’ll get it.” Luis could have ignored him, but his usual propensity was to be a jolly good fellow. Everybody who knew him enjoyed his hamming it up. Today he didn’t feel like entertaining. “Why did I sit in the chair next to the window?”

Raymond had switched chairs with his wife earlier and was now sitting furthest away. “Ray being a cop probably expected this kind of activity and moved.”

“You should have left that thing at home,” the “sheriff” said.

“He’s been standing behind me for a while watching me type. Great. With that comment, Karla will have plenty of reinforcement to make a point now; it’ll be a full milk station now. Let’s see, first Susan - now this dude. F. . K!”

He was good at thinking on his feet. He had to be, with the sorts of professions he had held before retirement. “You mean you know what this thing is Sheriff?” Luis played along flawlessly, no skipping beats. He followed the pseudo sheriff’s opening line with no dead air. He provided his lines as if he were a paid actor on-stage. But he was bothered by the sheriff’s comment. The comment carried the suggestive idea that Luis should not be using his cell phone on this train ride. The other thing that bothered Luis was the sheriff’s admonishment to have left an object at home, which hadn’t yet been invented per the sheriff’s historical time line. How would a 19th century character react at seeing a cell phone?

“How do you know what this thing is Sheriff?” Luis asked.

“Looks like a paper weight to me,” he said.

The sheriff’s second line was consistent with the time-period he was supposed to represent.

Why would Luis be staring at and pecking a paperweight? Why would anyone be admonished to leave a paperweight at home? No sane person would even be carrying a paperweight in this fashion.”

“So, what’s wrong with bringing a paper weight on-board and staring at it?” Luis replied. Passengers on board were watching the ensuing entertainment. A part of Luis was enjoying it.

“No,” the sheriff said,” it’s one of those dang cell phones. “You should be enjoying things, not on it.”

“Okay, it’s a conspiracy. I’m in the fricken’ Twilight Zone - Green Acres, some other dimension. Even this actor, steps out of his time zone to invade my personal space. Amazing actually. An old west character - me far from home, and he’s attuned to the Global Consciousness: axiom#23.73: Use of technological device(s), i.e., cell phone use not advised for texting, or any semblance thereof when in the company of guests,” unless said guests are similarly engaged.

Luis surmised that the sheriff had been standing behind him for quite some time. Enough time for him to draw muffled chuckles from passengers. Too bad Luis had been preoccupied with writing.

“Stay composed. Forget about what Mom told you as a kid. I stood behind her once as she wrote a letter to her sister. Shortly after, she noticed me there and scolded, “No debes leyer atras de una persona escribiendo; no tienes verguenza!” (Don’t stand behind someone who is writing, you have no shame!”).

Luis had refrained from repeating the act to the present day. Even as a teacher, he would often recall the event and still hear his mom’s reprimand.

“Well, Sheriff doesn’t know any better. It’s role-play; it’s his job. Forget it. Quick, improvise your lines. Passengers - even the sheriff expect your participation. You gotta build some self-esteem, the sheriff’s waiting. Get it done then he’ll leave, and don’t take things so damn seriously.”

Luis used his best southern drawl. “Dang it Sheriff, you see, we’re visitors from the future and I’m holding a device used in the 21st century by most people on earth. This here thang is called a cell phone. See here . . .?” Luis gingerly offered to show the actor.

“Hey Sheriff, how is it that you know what a cell phone is? They haven’t been invented yet.”

“Don’t know what you been smoking Son . . . whatever.” Sheriff then sauntered down the aisle.

Luis thought, “You’re asking what I’ve been smokin’? Really? Let’s have another smoke Sheriff. You confused a futuristic doo-daddle, thigga-ma-jig with a fricken’ paper weight, ha, ha.”

“At least the dude could’ve played along with my comment,” he thought. Anyway, he’s gone. I hope people enjoyed our exchange. Luis looked up and noticed Raymond, frowning. “He must been one of those bad cops. The kind that busts heads. Wonder what his problem is. Probably upset ’cause he’s been awakened.”

The train came to its terminus. Passengers began disembarking.

“Put that thing away!” Karla half barked, half muttered.

Luis felt electrical shock from his testicles to his heart and then buzzing to his head. This was the coup de grace from an evil genie wanting to collect on his third wish. It was the crème de la crème, on Luis, more like rancid milk actually.

He exploded. “What?!” You’re telling me people can sleep on this train . . . read . . . look out the window . . . talk to others . . . not talk? I can’t type? . . . do what I want?”

Ponderous silence.

And then people grappling for their belongings.

Approximately three or four heartbeats later another outburst: “Here!” It was Luis again. No mouth filter, just spewed, pent-up emotional duress. He pressed a hard index finger on the counter, pointed at a train newspaper, “Here - can I read this?” It was as if he was shouting at a stranger.

The two of them silently stepped off the train, Susan and Ray tailed them from a distance. Luis appreciated this. He recalled that they also had their differences on this trip. One incident ensued in a restaurant. Ray had ordered a $200.00 bottle of wine. It was truly vintage, worth each penny, until Susan side-barred Ray at the mid-bottle-point.

She had softly reprimanded him for his expensive taste. Immediately Ray embraced his usual sullen disposition; this time it was warranted. The evening dinner for four was spoiled. Regardless of Ray’s vindication, digestion for Luis was difficult. He took no more sips of wine, while Karla continued to sip her Long Island. Sulfides in wine negatively affected her health. When all left the table, one half of the expensive wine remained unconsumed.

So far this trip, Ray selflessly refrained from re-committing the wine atrocity. “Gee, how could he? I mean the man has worked his ass off all of his life. He still works as a semi-retired officer in the department of concealed weapons. Oh noooo, he doesn’t deserve a $200.00 bottle of wine. Hey, his pension earns him craploads of money and benefits. Damn that Susan -Princess . . . controls Ray.”

The silence between Luis and Karla continued as they walked to and boarded the shuttle bus. On board, Luis was relaxed enough to enjoy the quiet hum of the bus. The cool weather and intermittent rain brought a welcome change from Tombstone, Arizona’s heat. Karla was quiet. Luis knew why.

The bus stopped at its first destination. He stood and placed himself in the aisle guiding her with his right hand, helping her up. She allowed him to assist which surprised Luis.

Karla had back surgery 2 years ago. There was a plastic polymer/metal alloy appliance in her back. It had hi-tech, chrome metallic-like suspension rods on either side. It was to become an amazing remedy for her spinal stenosis. Without this device Karla would be paralyzed from the waist down in a wheel chair.

One year after back surgery, Karla endured a total knee replacement. Luis reminisced the pain of that memory. “Yeah, she still has major arthritis issues and a bone spur on her operated knee, but I’m glad my baby can still walk next to me.”

His heart became soft toward Karla. “She’s a strong woman, able to endure ongoing pain. She’s always there for me, there for our two beautiful kids. She’s there for our two dogs . . . she’s so faithful – love her so much!”

He was thankful they had come here. Neither of them thought she would ever be able to walk again. Her back surgery had involved life-threatening risks. Her knee surgery resulted in tremendous pain during recovery and especially during therapy. Even to the present, substantial pain was still there. He knew her suffering; he had been her caregiver during those incredibly difficult times. He had seen the YouTube video. It was brutal surgery.

He remembered the day before surgery. She hobbled down a dim lit hallway, he standing in the kitchen . . . saw her face, sad and contorted in tears. She looked like a scared little girl wanted her dad. She leaned into his arms, buried her face in his chest and cried. “Luis . . . I don’t, I can’t do this!”

“You don’t have to honey . . . you don’t. I wish I could do it for you.”

They had been married 39 years, going on the big 40. He loved her so much. “I’ve got to defuse this.”

They got off the bus and walked toward the observation railing at the canyon’s edge. It had been raining. A beautiful day of misty fog and clouds intermittently broken by cold rain and sunshine breaks.

Their friends set off on a different course after unboarding. Luis and Karla were emotionally oblivious to them anyway. He ventured a query, a bit awkward but hoping to at least chip at the ice wall between them. He wanted to find entrance into her heart again. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

Silence.

No response as she and he walked their way down the wet, cobble stone pathway.

“Well, if you’re gonna ignore me; there’s no sense in me walking with you. Just tell me you don’t want me here.” He knew this ploy would work. He didn’t want to be anywhere else but here, with her.

It was Karla’s turn to erupt. “You know, we come to this beautiful place - first time in our lives we’ve seen it and you have to be an ass!”

“Good, I got her to talk,” Luis was relieved, even as his anger flared again. “You expect me to sit in that train and not be able to write? Everybody there is either reading, staring out the window or sleeping, doing what they want.”

“You humiliated me! In front of all those people!” Her voice was filled with anger and pent-up resentment. He felt pained for her. It was true; this was their first vacation trip in a long while. She was such a hard worker, a faithful, loving and kind wife. He didn’t want her upset for any reason. But he just felt he had to make his point. He felt stifled, repressed and shackled. He felt he had done no one wrong, just exercising his passion to write.

“Okay, I did jump you; the way I yelled at you. It was harsh, but I feel I can’t do what I want to do. All I wanted to do was write. You think I was texting!”

“Hold your voice down, people are watching!”

“Okay, hold yours down.”

She turned abruptly and began to walk away. She walked a few steps alongside the rail. The Grand Canyon lay below them. They were surrounded by tourists who were overwhelmed by the panoramic beauty. Luis’ senses subconsciously registered their verbal buzz. He felt resentful. Everyone but Karla and he were enjoying themselves.

He was blind to the Grand Canyon Panorama. He purposefully wanted to be blind to it, seeing peripherally and vaguely. “Arguing in such a place! Par for the course of our marriage history. Figures,” he negatively concluded. He was back to resentment, he realized, but allowed it to govern his need to make Karla understand the way he felt. “I don’t know what to say to Karla right now. When she gets my point, I’ll turn-on my full senses and share them with her.”

“So, you’re just gonna walk away? I thought you wanted to make it better!” The second desperate ploy worked. She turned around.

“Thank God,” he conceded mentally.

“I just want you to talk to me when I make a comment. You’re ignoring me. You’ve ruined another trip. Here we are in this beautiful place and you have to ruin it to.”

“OUCH!” It wasn’t completely true, unfair accusation; but he let himself be convicted, like a sacrificial lamb. He was willing to take the rap in exchange for her singular attention, so he kept eye contact with her, listening intently, driving nails into his own ego.

Tourists walked by, realizing but not acknowledging their tiff. Most of them were elderly; appearing to be retirees. “I’m sure they’ve seen or been a part of worse.”

Early on in his marriage, he would have been mortified to be engrossed in argument publicly. Maybe it was due to his maturity or that, in combination to having witnessed many televised relationship issues on Dr. Phil.

“I’m not trying to ruin a vacation. I knew you were going say that!” All I was doing was writing a diary. I was still paying attention to everything you said. I made sure to not once ignore you. I was integrating a poem with my diary.” He felt quivering around his heartstrings and tears coming.

“When that dude . . . that singer guy with the guitar came up to us; it meant a lot to me.” At this point his voice quavered and he choked on his effort to hold back tears. But felt them well up at the inside corners of his eyes. “I was writing about that moment. He said stuff to me that I was putting down in a diary.” It was true. All he had wanted to do was write. For himself. For her.

“I wasn’t texting. You know we lost the internet. There’s no cell towers out here.”

“I don’t mind you writing,” she said, her voice softening. “But every time I looked over to you, you’d be looking down. You wouldn’t just talk to me.”

“I have been talking to her,” he pleaded to his alter ego. Is it wrong for me to write? Would it have been better if I had my legal pad out instead and was writing my thoughts down? Then everyone would think I was a NARC and spying on them. What am I supposed to do?”

He wanted to say that the view outside the railroad car was boring, or rather, relatively boring. Nature’s objects: trees, rocks, shrubs, etcetera were mesmerizingly redundant as they flashed across the window. “Staring out the window long enough will induce sleep. Doesn’t take long to lose fuel for topical discussions, per se. Karla knows it too; it’s the same as driving through a southwestern desert.

“Karla’s angry ’cause I’m supposedly ignoring Susan and Ray. Truth be told, Karla fell victim to Susan’s tactics.” He was at least convinced Susan had exacerbated the situation.

“It’s not my job to keep Susan and Ray entertained he thought.” How entertaining is Raymond? He seldom speaks and mostly frowns, probably worked too long at law enforcement. Typical phenotype of a cop’s personality even off the job. I almost became a cop. Would I have turned out like him? I’ve had some rough jobs; still think I keep my chin up. Ray’s mostly defensive about everything. He’s not exactly one you can have an intellectual conversation with on any topic.”

Luis had made many attempts during the trip to discuss any topic outside the mind paralyzing, usual fare of sundry talk. Neither Raymond or Susan made meaningful commentary during the train ride. Hadn’t he been the primary engager involving the minstrel and sheriff!”

“I responded to everything you said,” he defended.

Her voice quavered and she too became emotional, near tears. He suspected his wife would never admit that she had fallen for Susan’s cloaked criticism of her husband using his cell phone. In his mind this was the reason for her tears. A part of her was yielding to feelings of compassion for Luis, probably realizing that his behavior in the train was not a big deal.

“I want you to admit that you were rude to me. You made me feel like a fool.”

He wanted this to be over and love her again. He deflected the fixation on his interpretation of the cell phone controversy deeming it irrelevant. He only wanted reparation in his relationship with Karla. Cell phone issues would remain his own topic for rumination later.

“Okay, I’m . . .”

“Would you two like for me to take a picture of you? A courteous tourist softly descended upon Luis as Karla stood by wearing a half smile.

“Yes please,” Luis responded. He really didn’t want to. It was an awkward moment and things were just about to be settled and, “this kind gentleman interrupts . . .” There was a rainbow behind Luis and Karla. He didn’t feel the joy of the beauty because he had allowed himself to succumbed to it. He did however, feel gratitude toward the stranger, for his ice-breaking deed. “Maybe he’s a heavenly emissary interceding on our behalf.” He wondered.

Luis gave cursory instructions of his own cell phone camera to which the kind man nonchalantly and politely ignored. Luis and Karla stepped back toward the guardrail and responded to this unexpected task. Luis forced a smile, trying hard to make it appear sincere. The only feelings he felt at this point were numbness.

“Thank you so much sir,” he said as the stranger handed his camera back.

Luis and Karla came together briefly and he offered, “I’m sorry for yelling at you like I did. I know it was harsh. I didn’t mean to. I just felt like everybody was criticizing me for being on my cell phone. Forgive me okay?”

Karla nodded and that was that. “Step over there against the rail,” he said to her. She responded quietly, standing there in the misty fall of a light rain. Illuminated behind her were the most beautiful natural scenes his eyes seen. The colors of minerals in this deep, deep canyon valley were earthy, yellows, browns reds . . .

A bright baby blue sky covered the great dome of sky above her and grey clouds swirled off to the southeast . . . Karla wore a pink jacket with her head partly covered with its hood. She stood there, with a tired but sincere smile on her face. He snapped the picture.

They wandered a little bit further uphill admiring the indescribable beauty with each other. ’Ok, now you stand there and I’ll take a picture of you,” she said. Luis immediately obeyed. He put his camera phone away and pulled out the 35mm camera Karla had bought for his birthday and began adjusting and snapping pictures of the canyon. He snapped images of the canyon in a frenzy, almost as if he were making up for lost time. He felt better with each snap of the camera. Meanwhile Karla made her way ahead of the pathway admiring the beauty herself.

“Hey, Karla where’s Luis?” He heard a familiar voice above him.

“He’s down there taking pictures.”

“Tell him I want to take his picture.” In his own way, Ray was trying to neutralize the tensions. They boarded the shuttle and went off to stop number two.

Luis continued using his birthday camera on the Grand Canyon. At one point he stepped a bit too close to the canyon rim in an unprotected area.

“Luis, honey you’re too close.” He felt another surge of love for his wife; her concern for him was sincere, despite his harsh words on her earlier.

Resentment issues over his use of a cell phone disappeared. On the way back to the train station he refrained from typing on his phone. He mindlessly fiddled with his new camera and enjoyed showing Karla pictures he had taken. He made small talk with her, making sure he was engrossed in giving her ample attention.

Riding back to the Grand Canyon Hotel, Luis resumed use of his Samsung cell phone to continue writing. He wondered why people still settled on calling the device a cell phone. It was time for a change of name. Reason being: “this fricken’ device achieves a myriad of functions! It should be called something else, like: Mini PC, or Pocket Computation Device, (PCD), or Interfacer, something besides, cell phone.”

Then Luis reflected on the issue of cell phone use in general terms. This wasn’t the first time he and Karla had problems with matters pertaining to this incredible machine. Since its invention years ago, he and Karla had mutually settled on rules. At dinner, for example, each would refrain from use or overuse of said device.

He spied her with peripheral vision and determined to put the phone away. But then she asked, ’What’s the weather going to be like tomorrow?”

He pulled the marvel out again and checked the number of bars on his home screen. “I’ve only got a tiny bit of the first bar lit,” he answered. “I’ll have to wait for a better signal.”

“Why don’t they build more towers along these railways?” She asked with ironic indignation.

Luis took it as a green light. “What the heck, I may as well keep writing. I’ve got some great ideas stored away.”

As he settled down, creative juice began oozing from dormant cells. He felt the soft, airy fluttering of ethereal wings . . . cathartic . . . then, out of the quiet come Cacophony and Din! Followed by Raucous, another sound. As a unit they become tumultuous Noise who erupts from the back of the railway car. Noise stalks Luis and murders Epiphany.

Luis sighs, “Karla honey, it’s time for the railroad train robbers."

The noises merge into footsteps, funneling ever louder, menacing their way down the aisle.

Luis concedes to the coming disturbance. "The actors are coming to rob the passengers, ". . . great!”

This time Luis puts his cell phone back into its pouch.