The Almond Tree

By May B. Yesno © 2010

Not having read a sword or dragons, nor swords and women, or anything of magical taint book in the past six months or so, I find it strange to feel the urge to create a world of such things and lock myself up in the suppositions.

There is the business of emails to be considered also. I am receiving short missives from friends and acquaintances suggesting this link is a good thing or I read, you know, a zinger of story about a flying submarine that travelled the Interstate System at two hundred and twenty miles per hour – LOL added, they didn’t get a ticket either.

I know it is a faulty imagination as I followed through conjecture that submarine; creeping its way from the water after having penetrated the security at the Naval Shipyards in San Diego, eluding the police of that fair city and gaining the Interstate System at high rates of speed. I felt it only correct that it take the Southern Highways portion, at least west of the Mississippi anyway. I could not conceive of the vehicle (vessel?) making the journey through the tunnels of the Rocky Mountains West of Denver at such rates. Visual images of tractor and trailer rigs popping out of the tunnels end like corks from a bottle from the bow wake of my machine were part of the picture I rejected. But a turn northward to Kansas City and eastward again to St Louis seemed a lot of fun. Not to mention the possibility of a larger audience from which to pick and spin other tales.

It is odd, as I’m fairly certain you know that I could not conceive of the machine coming ashore in San Francisco or Los Angles. The one has a muddy bottom and confusing tributaries emptying into it; and the other is... the other is rather a strange place and just as importantly, it doesn’t have what one could call a shot at crossing the mountains. Not a straight away shot, anyway.

So. Yes. I’m predisposed to flights of imagination at this time and these email and referrals are not helping my mental health. They stir the still, quiet, layers of the mind and bubbles rise. There’s a fellow here in my apartment building I have an occasional drink with at the local watering hole and after listening to me explain the mini-crisis I was under going said I was crazy and the only thing rising was methane.

I protested the insinuation of a surfeit of hot air in the only way possible for me which is by humor (or attempts thereto). I told this person, as I purchased us another drink, that I was not a terrorist and had no intentions of exploding anything, anywhere. His reply was he understood that, as I leaked away the danger by talking. He accepted the proffered drink.

Resettling ourselves, he gazed at me in the back bar mirror and nodded his head. You are he said, a writer of short stories and other rubbish prose. You have little understanding of the real world and create from your imagination a world you can handle and manipulate. One of which you can be master. Allow me to spin you a story you may have; and a story you may create a world about and for, and you may dictate the ending. The beginning, however, belongs to me.

A chancy thing, such a conversation at the bar, but being of agreeable mind I shrugged my agreement and listened.

My acquaintance started by asking if I’d heard the tale of the Immaculate Conception and its attendant place in religion. I nodded that I had, and opened my mouth to deny the story a place in a bar, but his raised hand stayed my protest and he continued.

Long, he said, before the creation of single god religion there were many gods; and long before the advent of paper as we know it in this age, there came a tale of – here he interrupted himself to assure me he was leaving out names and places so that I could grasp with my fancy the tale he told – there came a tale of another type of birth, though the conception was of some concern for the modern believer.

The Amygdale Species: Promus amygdales or the Almond Tree has an origin in antiquity and goes in this manner. The tree is sacred to Attis.

Before Attis, however, there lies a story. In Phrygia there was born a hermaphroditic deity named Agdistis. The Gods, and there were many, were fearful and they castrated it, the hermaphroditic, creating the goddess Kybele.

The testicles were cast upon the earth where they sprouted and grew into an almond tree.
Once then the nymph Nana came along and sat beneath the branches of the almond tree and an almond nut fell into her lap and impregnated her.

The child thus conceived, when born, was named Attis (born of the almond nut), who grew up to become the consort of the Kybele.

I ask you, my writer friend, was this an incestuous thing consorting with ones mother (?), father (?)? Was it a God screwing itself as it was meant to be? And if all the questions one may ask, and all the concepts the Gods could fear – would the idea of a God perpetuating itself all that scary – the natural product was their fear, and finally, sir, I ask, if fear it was that struck the hearts of the Gods, to which God should man look for sanctuary from the wrath of the Gods if all the Gods feared the creation of Agdistis and by whom so created and why.

There descended a silence between my drinking companion and me that lasted through the next drink and even until the final thanks reciprocal and the good nights.

I wandering to my apartment in contemplation and wonders of the hundreds of years and the unknown author of the story told me this night. Hundreds of years I supposed and I found that indeed it had been thousands of years since the first telling and the author lost in the sands of time.

I will admit, in the silence of the night, and the knowledge the TEXT as it was handed to me as a youngster was a compilation of mans thought and selection, arbitrary choices all. None of those selections were within my control; none was I allowed reference materials for, all demanding of me unthinking faith to make true.

Well! Shake it off, Old Man. You have other things to think of this evening, and I turn to the computer to distract my mind from incomprehensible depths of twisted logic. The first item on opening my email is a letter from a friend using such words as ‘incestuous’ and an explanation of other events and meaning to him.

Such paths the smallest hint of ill cared for road can send my thinking careening upon. Stability, I pray – which it is incongruous considering the subject of my thoughts and if true, to which God, I pray?

May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA

Creation Of Magely Green

By May B. Yesno © 2011

Certain things remain a staple in human life. Other things seem to be weeded out. One of the things weeded out and frowned upon in society are bad table manners. In my mixed world of mundane and magical the least desirable things may be dealt with – if the law’s governing man and magic are known and applied, correctly.

The Kingdom of Drew encompasses the entire of the peninsula of Drew. Drew as a kingdom is ruled by the Waxburn’s. The Waxburn’s came to power following the Kingdom War which ravaged the Southern Continent of Appleburn some five hundred years prior to the events of which I speak.

The occasion was a State Dinner given by the then current Ruler of Drew, one Rexis Rexis Drew. The King was an imposing man, both in physical being and of the mind, towering over other men. The Dinner was being held in honor of the Ambassador from South of Sour, and the signing of the Treaty allowing Drew access to the ports of Sour for trade and “mutual defense.”

As Principal Mage of the Kingdom, I was accorded a place at the tables and was seated just to the left of the Court Mage of the Ambassador from South of Sour. I found the visiting Mage an engaging woman and that impression lasted into the meal, when the third course arrived however, that impression was dealt a blow of reality. The incident, when it occurred, was ill timed, coming as it did immediately during a pause in the serious conversation between the principals at the tables head.

The visiting Mage expelled bodily gases; both as a Belch and as a Fart. Seemingly not content with one of each, the visiting Mage repeated, in rapid succession, three more of each.

Due to the positioning of the royal tables, the noises escaping the unfortunate Mage were reflected from the wall immediately behind her into the cavernous room, then across, there to echo back and forth ceiling to floor, wall to wall. The volume of her original utterances was such that the muted conversations of the minions seated on the floor of the hall ceased almost immediately and thereby allowing all of the two hundred assembled to follow the near musical confrontation of the Bass-like, prolong and drawn out, Belch and the slightly higher pitched Fart, as they played out their fanfare and slowly died away. The absolute silence by the floor tables during the performance was astonishing to me, I being used to the under tones of muted table conversations from that area.

My King slowly turned his attention from the Ambassador to face in my direction and once found, fixed me with a “look,” and equally as slowly raised an eyebrow. I have often wished I knew how he did that eyebrow trick. I’ve practiced it for hours but have failed the effect. I’ve attempted my arcane arts to it, and still I’ve failed. I’ve concluded it is a thing native and exclusive to the King as I’ve never seen anyone other than he successfully employ it.

His point, however, was well taken, as such a breech of protocol and good manners would, indeed, fall directly upon the Mage to cure or eliminate. Without thinking much of the effort, I wiggled my fingers and cast shield around the visiting Mage, the affect immediately terminated the beginnings of the fifth such rendition of sound, sealing the Mage from the general population, not however, from view. She remained red faced in full view of all, performing as she started, with persistence and volume. Or so one must surmise, as her body twitches would led one to believe, my shield erection having prevented the sounds and odors escaping to bother her neighbors – or the room at large.

There are certain properties of magic; certain laws which pertain to its use and by erecting the barrier around the Mage I’d violated, seriously dented if not violated them. By placing the barrier about the Mage, another magic user, I placed her within a container only I could undo. There was no means by which she could escape the confinement and there was no way now to rid the dinning area of the offensive odors or noised which would be the result of my opening the shield wall. That I could not do under the gaze and expectations of my King.

I hastily informed the Table Matron that the physical removal of the Mage would be necessary and she, the Table Matron, turned her attention to the various guard corporals in attendance, assembling a squad to carry the Mage away, she being of ample proportions.

The time element, while short, did allow me leisure to observe, with some fascination I must admit, the effect of her escaping gases, in concentration, upon her physical remnants. I was not sure, at first blush (please excuse the pun), what I was observing. However, watching a bit longer it was obvious that the garments the Mage was wearing were, indeed, turning green. Quickly; turning green, from pale green, deepening to a Hunter Green and finally began to deteriorate and fall from her body.

Simultaneously her hair, that crowning glory she so obviously prided herself upon performed in like manner. The exception here being the hair, as it fell in response to gravity, dissipated and vanished from sight before completing the journey to the floor.

As the unfortunate lady lost the last remain stitch of clothing and hair, it could be seen the person within my shield was not in reality, a female. She was an it. That is to say, the person within was a eunuch. Though such determination was troubled by the excess of flesh the body was wearing.

When the fact became obviously visible, the Ambassador of South of Sour raised his voice in alarm, proclaiming the captive Mage no person of his acquaintance or citizen of his country.

I looked to my King, in light of this information, and my King grinned. “You have, Principal Mage;” he said, “a problem, as I do not recognize this person as a citizen of this realm either, and wish, errs, him removed.”

The corporal having arrived with his detail, I directed him to take the visiting Mage to an isolated area some miles removed from the Keep. The area selected was hilly and cut with ravines, being used mainly by Shepherds. When my party arrived in the area I selected the crest of a hill and told the corporal to take the wagon and detail back to the keep.

Once they had gone, I addressed the visiting Mage: “You know do you not, what is going to happen when I release the shield?”

I received a nod of acknowledgment from the visiting Mage indicating his understanding. I then retired a large number of yards up wind of that location and released the spell binding the shield. I was later informed that two mules of the slow moving corporal’s detail died of falling rock and a fair number of sheep tended by Keep personnel died in the resulting explosion and gas releases which leveled the hill top.

I was pleased to inform the King, at a somewhat later date that an area some acres in extent had been created and was usable for parade ground or practicing maneuvers. He smiled his smile and informed me he knew.

He had, he said, caused the area to be known as Magely Green.

And thus it is to this day.


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

Of New Cars, Old Professions and On-Star

By May B. Yesno © 2010

The Dude and his bling clattered their way in through the picture window doors of the new car display room, and Sales persons scattered in all directions.

The Bling carrier was not a new guy in town. He had a reputation, and it preceded him. He was a presence, he was visible and, unfortunately from the view point of the sales staff on duty, he was there. One of the staff finally summoned courage to confront Dude, and asked how he could help the gaudily attired man.

Listening carefully, the salesperson continued the conversation along: “A new car? Certainly! Have you an idea of the choices available? Please. Step into the office and sit while we spec this vehicle for you. We may not have the precise vehicle on the lot, but we will certainly find one for you.”

A great deal of talking later, Dude and the Sales person smiled, having come to an agreement and were settling the sales portion of the deal prior to stepping toward the cashier for the money transaction.

The Sales person mentioned the pricing would include the premium On-Star service for the duration of the power train warranty and how handy Dude would find the service.

Dude professed ignorance of the Service, and the Sales person explained it was an exclusive to the Brand service and included directions and connections plans, automatic crash response, stolen vehicle assistance (meaning if the vehicle was ever stolen for the life of the plan, the Dude could have the system turned on and the police could automatically track the vehicle any where in the United States and North America – to which the Dude snorted and said “No one would dare.”).

Acknowledging the Dude, the Sales person continued: “Well, Sir. You will have diagnostics in the event of problems, Turn By Turn navigation on demand, and hands free calling. There’s many advantage’s to the program, sir, and I’m sure you’ll delight in the program.”

“Delight?” questioned Dude.

“Ah, well,” stammered the Sales person, “Enjoy it, I’m sure.”

Dude snorted again, and began counting out the quoted purchase price in one hundred dollar bills.

New things have a way of affecting the new owner, and the Dude was no exception. When the vehicle he’d spec’d finally arrived, he felt he had arrived and had himself driven around the territory he claimed for his various businesses.

The problem, from his view point in his new office, was the distances he once considered large and satisfying were now mean and narrow. He felt he had to expand those horizons.

The plans were discussed with various confidants and minions and action taken and reported back to the Dude via On-Star conveniences. Locations of prostitutes were found with the locator system; communications made; disciplinary actions taken in the vehicle and deals for delivery and purchase of product were made.

Life was good for the Dude. He had made a plan; developed the infrastructure to make it go and could survey his domain with speed and in the comfort of his rolling command post. Money rolled in.

One of the major problems with the type of business Dude operated is the disposal of disposable cash. A person can only buy so many things before the very fact of having things becomes a burden. Dude and his confidants spent hours scheming ways and means of stashing the excess.

Part of the planning involved Lawyers and Mid-Level Bank managers and identities. The identities involved people Dude hadn’t previously dealt with – counterfeiters. That was an aspect of the shadows Dude hadn’t thought about and he began, after talking with the artisans, thinking of a business opportunity or two where that particular skill would be most useful.

His thinking seized, at first, on upping the identification ages of his younger prostitutes. Shallow thinking, truly, but Dude, as un-educated as he might appear, was not without an imagination, or a drive to expand his reach. Illegals weren’t far behind the girls (and boys, by the way. Dude didn’t limit his scope.). From prostitution ID to Illegal’s ID, to . . . Dude’s mental vision skipped to all manner of identification and more properly, the control of those who supplied the stuff. Those businessmen, as Dude called them, and the income, of course.

Yes, things were looking up.

Dude had a curious mind. Though criminally inclined, or more properly, criminally raised by family, Dude didn’t like mistakes and incompetence. He’d paid attention to history and knew that for every high flyer there was an equally long fall. Usually, he thought, the high flyer became enamored with themselves and they over reached. Trying he felt, too much too soon in their affairs.

He was determined to avoid the over reaching part. The enamored stuff wasn’t half bad, he felt, as long as one didn’t take ones self too seriously. There were bounds, however, and Dude made sure people knew those limits at first sight of their over reaching his self appointed allowances.

Such education was usually immediate, painful and easily remembered by the recipient. Well remembered.

Dude moved slowly. A block expansion here, an alley there, later a larger sale of fake paper across several borders or the import of young bodies across those same borders, and then he’d wait and consolidate. Integrate the group within the organization and wait, planning the next infusion or the next block, evaluating carefully the results of the next move in terms of overall politics and supervisory requirements before making it or rejecting the expansion.

Getting a grasp he called it. He would resist all his cronies crying for more, which caused him no end of disciplinary problems and angst, as people he’d observed, tend to fall into patterns and habits. He didn’t like that much either, trusting such delicate disciplinary problems to the same people time after time. They could be associated with him, and their habitual modus would eventually ID them for the “Other Side,” as he thought of the law.

But who could he trust? His business had expanded to such an extent he no longer knew all the workers. He only, really, associated with a select handful, but as time wore on, which of those could he trust. Really trust.

As the business of Dude expanded, so too did the expenses of operations. He bought off this ward boss; paid out to that cop. He was friendly with this group whom he detested and gave gifts to that group, who he got along with because they guarded a flank.

But, Dude began to notice the sharks of the police cruisers glide through his territory more often than he remembered. Or thought he remembered their frequency. He’d be parked in an alley and a fleeting glimpse of a cruiser gliding across the mouth on the main drag would catch his attention.

He reached a point and being the careful man he was, he thought he just needed a break. Take a vacation that was the idea. A short vacation was called for. He’d level off activities and get out of town for two weeks. Hell, make it three.

So, he planned, and while planning the vacation he conducted business as usual. One of the activities was a random pick-up of illicit pharmaceuticals.

He made the pick-up one evening and left the area. That was when the “Other Side” lit him up. When the cruiser lights came on, Dude’s first reaction was “Oh, Hell.” And his second was to tell his driver to step on it and get away.

The driver, being of little Saint Hood inclination himself, grinned while stepping on it. This he thought would go well as the Dude had pre-planned routes into and out of neighborhoods with such things in mind.

They moved. Very quickly they moved, and wove their way through traffic and dark streets. And every where they went, the “Other Side” was there. Not always behind, chasing, but ahead like they knew where Dude wanted to go and the cops cut them off from the route.

Eventually, as such high speeds in limited spaces will, the crash occurred. Dude’s driver lost control and crashed, wrapping the vehicle around a pole, glass flying everywhere, sheet metal crumpling, and noise so immediate it was unheard.

Dude bounced off the back of the front seat, ricocheted from the central pillar, raked across the broken glass of the side window and as he lay bleeding, dying, his vision tunneling down, he heard and took to his next world:

“This is On-Star, Mr. Dude; we know you’ve been in a crash. Assistance will be there in seconds, as the police have been chasing you for the last one hour and four minutes. Really, Mr. Dude; you should have known On-Star works both ways and the police have been monitoring you activities since you bought that car, and you can’t hide from the Stolen Vehicle function they activated.”


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

Chasing the Facts

By May B. Yesno © 2010

I was chasing the facts, fiction, and story; call it as you will, of a story rumored around my hometown to have taken place in a place distant. I was on my third day of questions and answers with the locals in that distant place, and hadn’t gleaned a smell of fact, or fiction for that matter. I decided a break was in order. In manner, then, I chose a lounge bar on the out skirts of town and settled down for an hour to relax and review notes of yet another story I was researching.

My notes were telling me of radio station failures and radio station consolidation for reasons I’d not totally grasped at that point in my research. Money for operating costs and newer broadcasting techniques seemed the most likely suspects, but I hadn’t quite put a handle on the smaller, regional, five watt stations that sprouted like milk weed. Those little stations that broadcast twenty-four/seven/three-sixty five with little or no advertising were the popular item, Mom and Pop places.

It was an interesting subject, to be sure, but one I’d only dipped a toe into through surface skimming literature garnered from correspondence. No interviews as yet of people actually in the business.

I was in the middle of heaving a sigh of frustration over tangled ends of ideas for articles, partially written articles, what might sell and to whom, when the conversation at the next table sank into my awareness.

They were speaking of radio stations. Quite implausibly a local station and how it was structured.

It was a feeder type station, carrying a packaged programming sent to it from a distant point. One of several stations owned by one person, one consortium of persons and all run from the central point. This particular stations hiring two people to serve the machinery and front the local population was nepotism as the manager appointed was a brother and his wife.

The conversation I was witnessing continued for some time and then the participants drifted out of the lounge. I had filled a page or so of my notes – because, who knows when something related and useful might come along or I might use these notes. I did receive some insight to the business of a small station. I received some insight as to funding such things. There was one snippet, a clue to, the subject that had brought me this far.

As I have related, I was concerned with my notebook and as I tuned into the conversation, I realized I’d caught the words “micro-brewery” and “construction” and “advertisement.” Those were all words pertaining to my original quest, that which had dragged me from the comforts of home and hearth and out across the no-where land of country.

And I’d missed it.

I had, however, come to awareness in time to register a town name. Some searching of Maps told me the town was only a few miles down the road and easily accessible. I left the Lounge and headed there.

Perhaps an explanation is in order. I had heard of a publisher interested in articles about Micro-Breweries. If they were interested, then I, as a writer, was interested.

About the same time I was told there might be a Micro-Brewery in a town some distance away.

Which explains why and what I was doing so far from home. The fact I couldn’t find the Micro-Brewery wasn’t surprising because I had one vague name or a maybe real location for the thing, and felt, as I normally feel when dealing with small town folks, that indirect suggestions of questions was the best way to seek information. One of the things I do know about country folk is the “suggestion ability” they will sometimes apply to their group, intimates and casual listeners. Where indirect comments to things, partially stated facts (or fictions) will be laid out with no emphasis and the conversation continued, or terminated as the speaker wishes. Then the listener is watched from afar, in silence, to see if the bait was taken and what actions the listener might exhibit.

Once the listener has taken action, whether now or some time from now, he will generally hear about it over a beer or cup of coffee, several times in fact, and from a wide variety of folks, in the years to come.

The stop at the Lounge gave me a town name, where all the indirect questioning had failed.

The short of it was I found the town mentioned. I found a corpse no-one had bothered to bury. There was at least twenty-five people living there and the only building large enough to remotely qualify for ‘commercial’ status was a dairy milking shed.

I parked on a knoll top and thought about the situation for several minutes.

The problems seemed to revolve about: 1) radio, 2) advertisements, and 3) booze. Not to put too fine a point on small town reticence and humor.

Those being the case; then, a liquor store should produce some answers. But which liquor store. Liquor stores buy and sell booze, therefore a micro-brewery needs a market.

The local phone book gave me two choices, and the maps gave me a clue to middle vs. working class patronage – the radio station/advertisement angle weighting on the middle class side. So off I went to my best guess estimate for an informational source.

I got lucky. The owner was present and listened patiently to my explanation of my search and started grinning.

It was a hoax, he said. A small inside joke between three guys. None of the micro-brewery ever was. Well, not really.

Look. The fellow that use to own the local radio station, for twenty years or more, sold out.

When the new guy (not the new owner, his brother, the current manager) got into town to take over the operation, the old owner invited him over to his home. It so happens that the old owner was a home brewer hobbyist and offered the new guy some home brew.

The brew was terrible. There were no words to describe it really, the Liquor Store Owner said. They tried the usual stock of panther piss, paint remover and what-not, but none came close. It was so bad, in fact, none but the old owner of that radio station finished their beers.

After the change of management and all had taken place, that new manager got to thinking about that beer the old owner prided his self on, and developed an advertising campaign around it.

He called the stuff Down Stream Grizzly Bear Beer, and threw in the name of that small town you saw as the home of the finest beer made of cow pasture run off water ever bottled and distributed for human consumption – all, you understand, to commemorate the old owners beer.

Well, I guess you don’t get a salable story every time out. But, if you’re willing, you can get a story.


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

I'll Read Your Madness Later

By May B. Yesno © 2009

Can you believe receiving an email such as that? Can you? Four days later, late into the evening I sit and review that statement. I have gas so bad I cannot breath. I dry heaved and couldn't rid myself of the gas.

I need to burp. Badly. Or goodly, as you will. "I'll read your madness later."

Well, and good, then, damn you. Read it later and choke.

But it did begin me thinking. One of the thinking bits was about the brain. Or, at least parts of the brain; namely the right and left sides. Only before the thinking about the brain came to mind a question came up in the thinking. I suppose I best start with...

One side of the brain is logical, I forget which one. And one side of the brain is creative, I suppose that'd be the other half - I wish I could keep them straight.

Then, there are all the people out in the world telling us that the two halves of the brain must speak to one another, which they do through tiny connections between the brain halves. That way all those creative things can be set down logically so those haves, can show the have not's - and the other way around. That makes us all happy. Buildings stay up, and art work gets protection. Done deal.

My mind, of course, came up with two questions. The first question was: If it is necessary for the two halves to talk to one another; why do we put folks that talk to themselves into padded rooms? I mean, isn't it logical if one half has a question for the other half, shouldn't it ask it.

And common courtesy, would after all, demand the question be answered. And isn't it creative to use language to both ask and answer questions, logical or not?

I picture it this way: Left side (for lack of a better name) thinks of a question but isn't sure of the answer, so he goes, "Knock, knock."

Right side (for lack of a better name), opens a small door in the hallways of the mind, and says; "Yes?"

"Right side," says Left side, "I have a question."

"Alright, ask it."

"Well, do you remember reading long years past about camels?"

"Well... ah..."

At the hesitation, the strong but mild voice of the Cortex (or is it the Cerebellum? Never mind, we'll use Cortex) echo's through the corridors of the hemi-sphere's: "Of course, she does!"

Which satisfies both halves, so Right side says: "Why, yes, I remember reading about Camels many long years ago. Why do you ask?"

"Well, if you remember, then you remember that they are said to spit." Left side states, asks.

"Yes. Camels spit. They spit at people they do not like. They spit at people they do like, when they're half pissed at them. Yes, they spit. And they're very accurate when they spit. (Thank you, Cortex.) Now why do you ask, Left side?"

"Well, it wasn't important, and it wasn't really trivial," Left side muses, "but I was wondering What would happen to people if Camels liked watermelon, but hated the seeds."

BANG! Right side slams the door in Left sides face, and Cortex mutters, "One should always wear safety sun glasses in the Desert."

Having gotten this far, I must say some of the gas is easing. I've burped a dozen small one's and still hope the BIG one comes soon. The other end has been fascinating the cat. Smelly though.

Anyhow, while I was thinking about that "madness" shtick laid upon me, I got to thinking about that NFL Player - HeHatesMe.

I was thinking that with all the name changes that character put on the legal system before they finally told him enough, all ready, that I'd hate to be that guy's IRS review agent. Really. Can you imagine trying to follow all the various names through all the different contracts in all the different names and banks, from all the different sources?

Picture it. IRS Agent standing over a full up desk, piled to over flowing near the big corner window. IRS Agent, veins budging, rigid, fists clenched, muttering between halves of his brain, glancing at the window and down fifty stories and back at the paper, and the Cortex's strong mild voice echo's down the corridors, "Not Yet. There has to be a way. Not yet. We're not the FBI."

You know? That's weird. I started writing about that IRS Agent and I burped the BIG one. Felt really good, the cat left though. Gone to bed, I think. The little ones from that end were too much.

Anyhow, thinking about expressing the IRS thing and then mentioning the FBI and all, caused one side the brain to Knock, Knock on a door of the other side. I not sure which was doing whom. Is that right? Whom? Well, never mind. We'll say Right side did the knocking this time, except Cortex is going to help all the time and Left side will get the straight skinny - just so he'll be ready when the FBI Agent needs him.

Yes. Well, the agent.

Good man? Yes. Good agent? Yes. Case Overloads? No., well, no more so than any other agent experiences. Good college, better than average grades, good family back ground. Has to be. Can't be an agent without all that. Average looking, average height... Average everything. Has to be. Can't be an agent without all that.

So, among the many cases, what's our man doing.

Chasing Dope. Chasing illegal dope. Chasing dealers of illegal dope. Out on the streets; talking, walking, watching, seeing. Looking for the big one. Screw the little, want the brains; take the cookers, want the distributors. Out on the streets; talking, walking, watching, seeing.

Then, one day, he comes on a name. And his life changes. It's a big one, of that it's certain. Nothing that will make him the director of the agency or anything, but big enough, by rumor, to make most anyone pay attention. And give up a life.

He obsesses. He goes into over time. Then gives free time. And finally, months later, he names a face. Face's a name. Need proof, need proof. Gotta have proof. More time, He's seen his man. And still more time. Nothing. No proof, no proof.

Paper. Follow the money. Follow the money. Years, now. Years have passed, this tract, that trace. Follow the man, follow the money, follow the paper.

Nothing. Smells, maybe's. No proof, no proof.

Lean on the guy. Let him taste the cuffs for suspicion. No warrant. Wipe the smile. Tell the street. Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?

Got him. In a hotel. Damn, that's a posh place. Go for it. Lean on him for suspicion. Show the desk the plain gold shield, lean on the clerk and manager, swing the weight, get the master key. Get the manager, take the key. We'll lean on this guy, he'll look over his shoulder, make the mistake.

The agent goes through the door into a room he could never, ever, afford and is aware of sex in the air, as 9mm out, cocked and ready, out in front, two handed grip, ready. Get the face and name, got him.

The agent freezes; there on that glorious bed lay two figures. The face and name was banging a woman. The woman clawing gently on the back of the face and name, eyes silted in pleasure, yet aware enough to look at the agent coming through the doorway.

Aware enough, through the pleasure, to press hands to the back of the face and name, stopping him in mid-stroke, they both look over the face and names right shoulder. The woman speaks.

"Hello, Husband. What took you so long? It's been five years, now. Face and name and I want to be together. I want a divorce, and I'm going to take half of everything you have."

Well, my gas is gone now. I'm feeling better. I wonder what that Agent decides to do. I mean, all those halves talking inside his head and that loaded, cocked and ready gun.

Think he'll get an email saying: "I'll read your madness later?"


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

An Essay . . . Or A White Paper To Depravity

By May B. Yesno © 2009

Although the steps were light, I tried to reach the door of the bedroom without alerting anyone, my mother stood at the entrance to her bed chamber, waiting.

"Son."

"Greetings, Mother."

"You wish something?"

"I have not seen you this morning, nor as often in recent days."

"I know, I have been intentionally avoiding you. I have been thinking of ways to improve our relationship."

"What sort of success have you had?" I inquired as I eased further into the room, toward the bed.

"There are several... possibilities, but it is too early to determine if you would accept them. You will be first to know. That I can assure you."

Soft laughter.

"Have you discovered what happened with Sheila, near her home?" I asked, as I removed my shoes.

"Without you, she is returning to hunting male companionship, Son. She cannot seem to settle on one, and bounces around, much to her mothers despair." Her robe slides to the floor.

"And her sister?" I stand to loosen my belt.

"Little has changed with that family. Little will, it seems." This time the soft laughter is more throaty, as she assists with the belt. "Then, little has changed there in generations, I would believe."

"You think someone will supplant my influence?" My trousers now slipping free.

"It is possible, but it will change Shelia not at all. Whoever she selects will remain a captive in her imagination." Her fingers caress my neck.

"You are far more critical these days, Mother." I trace light patterns along her sides and beneath the outer curve of breasts.

"I would term it... realistic, Son." Her hands now moving to shirt buttons.

"I suppose one could call it that." I respond, moving thumbs gently across swollen nipples, eliciting a soft sharp intake of breath. "What have you determined of your Ralph?"

"He has left town and passed through your aunt's town, on his way to his home town. It would appear he has, umm, detractors here, and around the area, but they failed to move quickly enough." My shirt glides over my finger tips to plop softly on the floor.

"Whatever happens, it will not affect us," I replied, gently lifting the straps of the sheer night gown for her to shrug them free.

"That is true." She running hands beneath waist band of my shorts; cupping, fingers caressing.

"You no longer seem that concerned about Sheila's sister. Are you still opposed to her coming here?" I tenderly lift the bodice of the night gown over her breasts, bending to tongue areola. The gown gliding down slim hips, to pool about her feet.

"I have reconsidered, Son. As you had said much earlier, it may be for the best that she comes here. The very best." We sink upon the bed, turning toward each other, moving closer.

I nod. "I'm glad to hear that."

"That way," as we meet, and I penetrate, her folding warmly about me, "you can judge for yourself whether she represents a danger or an opportunity for both of us."

"And what if she is both?" Beginning the slow, soft rhythms toward the explosive relief, her hands stroking the small of my back.

"You are the male," Mother gasps in delight. "You must decide, as always."

__


I eased through the door into the private bedroom, closing it behind me, and smiling at Grandmother, who looked up from the desk and the sheet on which she had been writing.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"As I ever have, Dear Grandson." She sipped from the goblet and replaced it to the desk. "You have that thoughtful look."

"I would like you to read this." I said, handing my Lover Grandmother two sheets of paper and a series of photos.

She took them and read, frowning well before she had finished. "She is making herself look older than she is? Or new, bad, habits taking her place? Deliberate? How has it taken so long to discover this?"

"There were miss-directions and evasions... and we had not watched as closely as we should."

"I like this not. Are you certain this is Sheila?"

"Of that I am certain. I have known her a long time. Her features have not changed, nor her voice. Not her manner of speaking."

"Then she has turned loose of her core, and changes." Grandmother's laugh was sharp, almost bitter. "You exerted a powerful influence."

"Are you sure you are all right, Dearest Grandmother?"

"I am not so well suited to my thoughts as we had hoped. I find myself chill with forbidding. Perhaps you did not pick so well."

I slipped behind her chair, then bent and placing my arms about her, gently. "I prefer the woman I now hold, and nothing will change that."

"I'm glad." Relaxing for a time, resting her head back against me. "There is more."

"There is. She has changed her perception of her Sister coming here. She now seems to encourage the possibility. She also appears excited for the event... and has cultivated new friends - in enforcement, where before she was suspicious."

"Suspicious? As I remember, she was continually angry and spoke abruptly of them." Grandmother tried to conceal the enjoyment she felt slowly running her hand up, along my leg. "Would that she had returned to her old life."

"That could come, they say."

Grandmother shook her head. "A most terrible word play, Grandson." She stroked the area she had been seeking. "Do you think it a mistake that you invited the Sister here."

"I think not. But long-held views are not changed without reason."

"Views, long-held or otherwise seldom change. That is why I ask if these photos of Sheila are really Sheila."

"I would swear it is Sheila."

"Could it be they have turned her?"

"There is no record of that event, and I have searched very well for such."

"Has she acquired one that devotes time to her alone?"

"She is the only one we have invited in, since inception." I sighed. "And now I must be concerned with every word and action."

"As you must with everyone."

"Except with you, for which I am most grateful." I watched her hand move to the zipper of my trousers, and her head turn into the firmness she had been stroking near her cheek.

__


A light breeze through the open windows billowed the curtains of the dinning room, that Friday afternoon breeze cooler than the warm days of the prior week, but not intemperate. Despite the high clouds, there was no rain, and I didn't think there would given the wind direction. I stood across the dinning table from Sister, looking at the papers which had arrived moments earlier. Sister held another such set.

I watched Sister for some period, observing the color ebb and flow through her throat and those portions of her face I could see, as she bent over the papers. I knew she was just from the showers and spending time with Mother, and could imagine the warm glow burning in her veins. My pulse sped slightly.

As if in response, Sister's head raised, cheeks slightly flushed, on observing my gaze, and the light of promise began to glow deep within her eyes. She spoke, "You haven’t read the message yet, my Dearest man." Half question, half statement.

I held her eyes for a time and lowered my focus to the message.

Dear Mr.____,

This informs you of the confirmed death of your Grandmother. The body was interred in the prison facilities as # _________, state penitentiary. The remains may be exhumed at the families expense at a future date, at the families request. See attachment ___, and ___, for the necessary guides.

Sincerely,

Warden
State Penitentiary, _____

It had been almost three years since last talking with Grandmother in her bedroom. Much had happened in that time.

Sheila had died at Grandmother's hand. Surprisingly, Grandmother had chosen a public forum, with many witnesses and had made no attempt to conceal herself or escape. She had been taken into custody immediately, waiving all aids to her defense, talking to no one, not even family when we visited at the various facilities.

For many months, her eyes glowed, just as do Sister's now, when Grandmother would see me enter for our bi-weekly visits. Generally speaking, the prison authorities allowed a Grandmother and Grandson the privacy of the conjugal visiting rooms.

When the final waiver of rights to sustain her life were submitted was when the lights failed to appear in Grandmother's eyes.

That was also the day Mother and I moved Sister into the house and our lives. It was a glorious day - we were all at our most fit and the trios lasted well through the night.

Which was why Mother and I missed the scheduled execution.

Ende


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

I Remember Christmas

By May B. Yesno © 2008

Ever read the arguments about how folks die at a higher rate during the last quarter of the year as compared to the rest of it?

Oh, I don't mean how they die, because as far as I know there is only one way to do it, and that's to stop living. I suppose I'm really talking about the rate at which they die. And why would I bring up people dying when I'm trying to tell a Christmas story? I think I'll say this to make you understand why I might bring up dying around Christmas time--have you ever heard "Jingle Bells," or maybe "Jingle Bell Rock," or "I Saw Mama Kissing Santa," or . . . well, you get the point. You either die, or live it down, one of which you'll surely do. As long as you don't think about next year, then you'll surely expire. Though this new thing called "the web" has us not listening to the radio as much as in the past. Or maybe technology, what with the "subscribe now" radio channels from space and all. But it's hard to escape the mind-numbing repetition.

What brought all this on?

The season somewhat. Yep. I was sitting in the cafe the other day, listening to some of that junk cheer the piped-in radio was producing while people-watching. It occurred to me to take a good look around the place--a thing I'd never really done before. Remarkable. I'd gotten to the point of puking about the life choices that had brought me to sitting in a place with walls sticky enough to hold a glass if you pressed one against it, paint the yellow brown of tobacco smoke and no tile on the floors. God, what would Momma say, seeing this?

Still, the coffee was fair, the price was right, and it was warm. Even so, you needed to wear your coat and hat to keep them from disappearing. Then an old boy came in. I'd seen him around, now and then, never in company, just having coffee, listening and watching the activities going on. He didn't seem to be a nut or anything, just an old man. I've often wondered about that; that being an old man thing. How'd you go about that? I mean, how'd you go about ending up in a run-down cafe and all?

I'd raised a finger the waitress's way for a refill just before the old man stumped his way in and was getting it when the old man looked my way and lifted an eyebrow. So I told the waitress to bring the old man a cup and, looking his way, waved toward an empty chair. He accepted and sat.

After a nod of greeting and some wiggling to get his coat unbuttoned and his hat pushed to the back of his head, he wrapped his hands around that handle-less cup, alternating one over the other. He had not been wearing gloves. After about the third switch of his hands and in time for a refill, we got to talking about football, the silly stuff going on at City Hall, and pot holes in the street when he asked if I'd noticed that it was a whole lot easier to hide in a city than out in a small town.

To say the conversation paused would be putting a point on it. I just looked at him staring at the salt shaker. Finally, he became aware, shook his head and said that it is very easy to exist without neighbor friends in a large town than it would be elsewhere, you know?

I nodded. It seemed to make some sense that a man would be able to hide in plain view in a city. With my nod, he asked where I was from and other mildly personal stuff. Me? I did much the same. Bonding sort of questions, I guess you'd say; though how you stay impersonal while trading personal information is an art. I don't suppose I'll forget the old man now.

We went back and forth some, when the old man asked about my Christmases, or some of them anyway. That was pushing my boundaries, so to speak, and the old man seemed to recognize that and started to speak of his family from long ago - to me, very long ago.

"One of the first Christmases I can remember," he said, "was way back. My grand-dad was a barber. At the time it wasn't frowned on for someone to live in the same building as their work place. So, grand-dad lived along side of and behind the shop."

The old man chuckled. "It was some time later I figured out that the whole place was a house with one room enlarged and converted to the barber shop. It only made sense, really. How much space do you need for a one-man barber shop anyway?"

I nodded some to indicate I was listening, and the old man picked it up again.

"I remember," he continued, "that this was the day before Christmas, or maybe a couple of days before-- I've never been really sure, being so young like. Though I am sure that the old man was sick from something. That particular day, Mother hauled me and my brother over to his place and told us to stay outdoors. Now, don't get the wrong idea. It was somewhere in California and it was warm, even though we wore light coats. So we stayed out. Mom had left the back door open though, so I could see inside. Could see the bedroom, leastwise, the bed where grand-dad was laying, the dining and kitchen area and off there to my right, the door to the bathroom.

Mom went in and seemed to be talking to grand-dad, then her voice went up a bit and she commenced ranting on him for making a mess of himself and his bed clothes and how much a pain he was in her life. I couldn't make out the words grand-dad answered.

I don't rightly remember the words she was using, other than they were some hurtful to me and I didn't know what she was talking about. Still, I saw her reach and jerk down grand-dads underpants, telling him how filthy he was. After a bit more jawing, she scooped him up and started carrying him toward the kitchen area, me thinking she was bringing him out, but she didn't. She turned toward the bathroom, him all scrawny and pasty white looking.

I knew looking at him with his head flopped across her shoulder (he stood over six foot four) and his dirty boxers dangling around his right ankle that he was bad sick. Well, anyway, she managed to get the bathroom door open and plopped him on the crapper. He was all limp and limber like spaghetti, drooling on a dirty T-Shirt. She told him she was leaving him there, so he'd have to make it back to bed himself. I ran away from the door as she turned out of the bathroom.

I didn't run so much as just turn my back, hiding behind a tree next to the door where I could still see.

I peeked around and watched Mama go back into the bedroom and pick up grand-dad's pants. I remember the belt hanging down like it was coming loose, but Momma rifled through the pockets, putting change and stuff into her pocket. Then she found his wallet, took a bunch of stuff from it, and put that into her purse, replacing the wallet. She threw the pants in the corner and started going through his personals box-- the cuff links and rings and things-- putting all that stuff in her pockets as well. Pretty soon she came to the yard and called us boys to come. We were leaving.

I don't remember where we spent Christmas that year, but in the next day or so, Momma told us that grand-dad had died and that we'd be attending his funeral next week. She did take me with her to the hospital when she identified the body down in the morgue and signed the papers.

Well, you can imagine my reaction to this story from the old man. I sat silent, watching as he stood and buttoned up his coat and set his hat straight.

He nodded, turned and left the cafe. I watched as he stopped outside the door, shrugged himself deeper into his coat, shoved his hands into coat pockets, looked up and down the sidewalk both ways, heaved a deep breath and started off to his right.

I looked down at my cup, lifted a hand to the waitress for another coffee and started looking around the joint, noting the yellow brown walls a glass could stick to, if you placed a glass on it, and listened to the Christmas music being piped in.


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Conviviality

By May B. Yesno © 2008

Cold. Always cold. The ponds and lakes were ice. Literally. Then what would you expect in November in the Great White North.

Lonesome. Always lonesome. Another season of holidays without. Without special company. Without just everyday friends around.

Then the phone rings. "Yeah," I say, "What you want?"

The voice crackles and chatters. The sum and substance of the call is an invite to play with resistors and transistors and bread boards, hot solder and imagination. One of the customers wanted company. His wife was off chasing her particular dreams of sustenance some six hundred miles away across two mountain ranges, and she, for sure, wasn't joining this dude. Not where we were. Not away from the warmth and glitter that existed where she was hanging.

I don't remember all the circuits we built that day, or whether we accomplished our goals. We talked about most everything under the sun, sipping beer and being. From time to time one of the co-workers would drift around and talk got long.

Long enough, in fact, that the boss man came around.

You can talk about being lonesome all you want; about not having family or intimate friends and being a hundred miles from nowhere and all of that, but there is one fellow that has the lonelys more than most. In the course of events where you're all in the same boat like that, personal like, it's the man that hires and fires and appoints the work schedule that's the most lonesome. Especially, I guess you could say, when he's single and lives next door to a worker bee in a duplex, and the snow is six feet deep and the wind is blowing thirty miles per hour.

The boss man even took vacations by himself. He'd hire a float plane, have it land him some place on a river picked at random from the map, and schedule a pick-up two weeks hence. I have a picture somewhere a pilot took of the boss man's camp from the air. I noticed a small round ring in that picture, set on the ground over by a bush and asked the boss man what that was. He bummed around in the closet of his place and pulled this thing out. It was a hollow ring, with padded edges, with five little legs about eight inches long with rubber tips on them. When he offered it to me he said he didn't like to get his pants cuffs dirty.

It took a minute for the suggestion to sink in, and I declined to handle the item for examination, though I did ask, "Why pink?" He laughed.

You get men that are used to lonesome together; the talk eventually gets around to food. I suppose there's some things more important than women (which brings to mind an old joke about how there's two things about them. Ninety percent of the time you're out of work and broke, and the other ten percent you're in the hole.) Anyhow, the talk about food isn't always about the eating, but the ingredients and time to cook. Usually there's some give and take as to seasonings and various combinations of stuffs making up the same named dish.

This particular day I've been talking about, when the boss man came over, he asked me in passing if I'd had the traditional stew. I denied I had, which was only true being somewhat put off by the very name. I'm not all that prudish, but I'd gotten in trouble a time or two using that word. Seems some get downright offended by it. Anyway, like I said, he asked in passing and the talk drifted to camping and motivations for doing that when most of our living was done in almost like conditions. Boss man eventually went on home, and my friend and I carried on with a dart game or so.

My friend usually waxed my rear at the game, me thinking all along I was a pretty good player, what with having learned to shoot darts in England and all. I attribute his reach to what beat me. He stood about six and a half feet high, with arms half again as long as mine. Meant he got closer to the board about every shoot too, because he had a habit of leaning over toward the board. Or so I think that explains it.

In there someplace, between my friend getting a phone call from his wife and me ranting about the dart gods forsaking their favored child, the boss man poked his head in the door and announced that he was cooking Thanksgiving dinner-- details later-- and he pulled his head back like a turtle. We all waved at him and carried on.

I didn't give it a thought over the days following, just skunked along doing what needed to be done. I had no way of knowing that the boss man's announcement had created a mild wave within our group. I was the odd man, being of a different skill set and only contracted to these guys-- though we all depended on one another to do the job-- which was the boss man's thing you see. He was a company man through and through.

Well, Thanksgiving came and my buddy came by with a ride. I gave thanks as it was a three mile hike for me if he hadn't. When we got to his place I found the other co-workers and their families there, everyone already doing the prep work of setting up tables and things. One of the women told me to go give the boss man a hand with the cooking. She said that with a mild secretive smile on her mug, so I was prepared for most anything.

The boss man had three pans of stuff steaming and bubbling while he was wrist deep in two or three piles of material. The knife he was wielding made a click, thumping to beat all get out. There wasn't a lot of bloody meat. Most of it was gray or just red. Anyhow, he stopped singing to himself long enough to tell me to get lost--he didn't need any help, he was doing fine.

The short of it was, dinner was finally served. Grace was said, beer was hoisted, friends present and absent were saluted, the overseer of the universe was requested to monitor the economy and the food was passed.

Soup.

That's it. Just soup.

Not a word was spoken. Everyone was quiet as a mouse. I got all the side glances. Every time I looked up, no one so much as glanced at me.

I picked up my spoon and nine people stopped moving. Uh huh! The old mind freed up and pages in the data banks flipped by. I knew some collection of . . . ah, I had a guess. Act on it, don't act on it? So, calm and cool as my sweaty brow would allow, I dipped a spoonful, rolled it around in my mouth, paused, did it again and exclaimed.

"Son of a gun."

And the entire table breathed again. Boss man said, "No. Son of a bitch. It's Son of a Bitch Stew. That's what you're supposed to call it.”

Well, things went on for some while after that. A bit drunk here, a bit of serious conversation there. Finally it ended. I thanked all and set out for my place, thinking during the walk. I concluded that was a great bunch and I was happy to be associated with them.

But I hated that stew. A lot.


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

Don't You Know What I'm Thinking?

By May B. Yesno © 2008

File: Pure; Card: 6; Non-expensed

Don't You Know What I'm Thinking?

You are sweet, mellow, and easily satisfied.
You don't like anything too intense and dramatic.
Deep down, you're a kid at heart... and you're nostalgic for the past*

So said the probation officer, quite possibly tongue in cheek, as I left the premises after my final reporting date.

Damn Fool, you, in your dumpy middle class clothes and two week over due haircut. Have you the faintest inkling how very grating that smile is, that feeling you extrude of stabbing one in the back when you turn to write your post visit summation? Have you?

You accept the canned answers to your canned questions I reel from half my attention. You don't want to hear what I'm really thinking underneath, and full time with the other half. No!, you exercise your authority with admirable restraint, just as you have been taught. Reminding me on occasion my freedom is in your hands, you miserable little worm, when I periodically refuse to speak.

I'm finished now. Done. And I wait for it; and sure enough it comes. The obligatory "I hope I never see you again!" as I leave this final time. Done. Damn, I'm done with you. I'm satisfied. And mellow, now. I can laugh like a kid, alright, for no good reason other than for the pure joy of life. Except I've been thinking.

The thing I've been thinking about is that job you assigned me, got for me? Found for me. At any rate, that job is what I've been thinking about. Well, not the job so much as the owner of the place. That is not even correct. I've been thinking about the business, the paper end of the business more correctly. You see, there's something there that just might make you cringe. That Boy isn't a hundred percent honest; and all that fine charitable, give the sinner a chance, front covers up something else and you don't even see it. Or if you do, your part of it. Which wouldn't surprise me, considering how many of us you've run through there. Have you ever asked yourself what happened to all those bodies? Have you? Ever? Or do you know?

I suppose that's enough putting you down.

Admittedly, you're probably as honest as someone in your job can be. You've asked many times why I'm haggard and grubby on reporting days. I've never told you. You did give the curfew exemption when I explained the night classes, for which I thank you. But you never knew I'd finished others on-line, did you? I never told. I don't want them on the record. You also don't know I finished my degree work, but there will never be a graduation. Not on the straight record there won't, unless I think the man comes knocking and then I have the real answers waiting.

You know, education is a funny thing. Too much of it in any one area makes you dumber. That's probably a bad way to look at it. Lets say, a very good foundation in a subject is a good thing, but as you continue to study it, it takes more and more effort to obtain less and less knowledge from it. It stifles you, and you can't reason outside that area.

So a good foundation in many subjects allows you to cross reference areas of knowledge and develop answers to questions. What you might call a specialized Liberal Arts education. And that is what I've been doing, without telling you. I didn't want to confide to you, the keeper of the little records. I certainly didn't want the records to know. Some say that ability to draw from experience is the highest level of learning.

There are many things I didn't tell you. As an instance: I am many people. Most of them I've made up and lied about. There's a lot of cash to be had in grants and student loans from the government, and there is just as much from the gullible in the schools themselves. The Liberals like the down trodden and degenerate restoration projects. And I've skimmed a great many of them. For which I thank them. Which answers your question of how I managed to look haggard and grubby in good clothes that couple of times I was too tired to remember my role with you. Of course, I hope you don't remember or have made a note in your visit summary. But then, that's what an education will do for you. You accepted my explanations for where I got the clothes. I didn't tell you I had studied rhetoric and debate. I am quite good, actually, in those areas.

As I said, though, I have been thinking about the business at the job. Money comes from some place, and it goes some where without stopping for taxes and un-employment deductions. I know where in one case. But I want to know both, and I will, because I want part of that action. But I don't want the owner to know, either that I know about the money, or that I'm getting part of it. It would be foolish to take a risk as part of the organization hierarchy when there's a way for the little guy to feed from the bottom, especially when there are University's to draw more from scattered all across this great land of ours.


* a non-attributable source


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

The Reason Why...

By May B. Yesno © 2008

The place had a less than classy name, The Roamin Gardens, to say little of the fact the only garden about it were two fake, potted palm trees at the front door. A typical sleazy pick-up joint. One in which you feel like everything you touch you can pick-up most anything. And it was crowded; crowded with most every sex imaginable.

I was there chasing a rumor, not the hunk name or the twitter fluff name, floating the streets this week; but the two person guest show I'd heard about Up-Town. I'd heard they perform once a night wherever they book into, and take no encore. Never heard of performers short stopping themselves like that before, never. So I tracked them down and there I was, bucking the make-up, the made-up and the delusional to find a secure corner near the pitifully pretentious stage; fighting the smell of spilled drinks, seldom-washed bodies sweating in the press, sex and drugs, when the lights dimmed, way down with no announcement other than the insistent, slow beat of a faintly heard drum.

I wasn't aware of the length of time I had been hearing that drum beat, being very faint. However, it was long enough that it began to demand my attention, the beat never changing, never flagging. Persistent. And it continued as the noise and hubbub of the club dwindled, and faded, until finally, after an undetermined length, the mass of humanity stilled. And the drum dominated, never a word spoken as the beat doubled, swelled louder. That single drum beat was joined by another, deeper, though less than base drum. The newer drum was compelling as it picked up the beat and the first drum began to play with the beat, weaving the occasional pattern around it.

A third drum joined the others. That third was a softly speaking thing, joyful and just a bit playful among the deeper voices. It slithered and wove its way through the beat; now faint, now boldly. It, too, faded, though never leaving the senses.

It was sometime in there that a dim figure appeared on the stage. Petite, it was. Clothed, it was revealed as the stage lights brightened, in silk from head to toe, bare foot, progressing to the center of the stage; each step in time with the drum, no movement, like a stick, except for the short stepping feet. Almost an exaggerated mincing, however graceful; however seemingly artless.

As the figure reached stage center and turned toward the watchers an arrhythmic clacking of ivory castanets demanded the attention of the drums, which double stepped and picked up the beat laid by the figure. That figure began to move. First just the feet, and the bells attached to the ankle bracelets joined the drums and the castanets, then the hands raising toward the waist, then higher and the arms began to moving, boneless for all intent, weaving in counter point to the beat maintained by the feet, the drums and the castanets.

The entire performance was quiet and understated for the instruments involved. Harmony: in the body that began to undulate, causing the silks to flow and swirl about the shapely body. The arms slowly spread aside, then moving slowly down the imaginary back to cup the non-visible buttocks and back up the spine hiding the willingly receptive hips, swaying to the beat, softly, slowly. And the bells strewn about the shoulders of the figure joined the rhythm as the hands and arms twined their way to stretch luxuriously above the heads in perfect contentment until it would seem the joints would pop, still in time and beat with the drums.

Drums which quickened their beat, heightening the tensions, bringing down the arms so gracefully to hide the chest of the figure, slowing the hips, dampening the bells of the ankles as the drums rose and rose to crescendo and the figure, hips flung foreword, fingers clawed in front of the belly, froze.

Two drums halted; the third went staccato. The bells whimpered from ankle, from shoulders; the castanets faltered.

The drum, that faint head drum changed its beat, to be joined by the missing partners in the aftermath play and faded into and out of quiet stretching the senses, the castanets and bells joining, then dying to silence. The figure slowly straightening to arms at the sides, not moving the body, turning, the only moving things are the feet as the figure recedes off stage and the lights slowly brighten and the drums fade to silence.

I am left in shock, standing there in the unreal world of a stained pick-up joint. I'm numb. And more yet, the humanity around me is still silent as I head to the door. I need to escape, to leave. I need to be alone.

I need.

I paused as I achieved the street. All of that. All of it.

And they hadn't missed a beat.


May B. Yesno is from Fresno, CA.

It's Not Like I'm Dishonest; Honest

By May B. Yesno © 2007

The guy I was following parked his fat butt on a bench and started feeding himself, and the pigeons gathered around, from the Popcorn Bag he carried.

One piece for the thirty pigeons, six pieces for himself. Cupping his handful for himself, seemingly not minding the occasional choke on kernels.

I wasn't happy with this slob. And I was even less happy with his current activity - watching the kids across the path and down away.

But it was a public park. And the guy only watched the kids. Too bad about that.

I slid into a bench fifty yards or so up the path to keep him in sight, and reviewed what I knew about the clown.

Fifty-nine years, High School plus some. Had a decent job and had been in it for twenty years. Churchgoer on occasions. Most friends seemed through his wife, and it appeared that all visitors to their home were her friends, or at least people met through her. No co-workers visited. No kids of their own. Never any kids. Whether his choice, her choice, or their choice, or simply impossible, unknown. It was reported that he liked kids and the visitors with kids didn't report problems.

He did indulge in alcohol to a mild extent, seldom going out with colleagues after work and then only on special occasions and office parties. A movie a year, and then at his wife's urging. No sports; no bowling, no golf, no nothing. Except some yard work around his place, a home he had purchased fifteen years prior. He did have TV, internet and subscriptions to several magazines (not considering his wife's, which were knit this, care for the house that), Only one of the magazines interested me, that was a computer gaming monthly. I figured this guy for a war gamer or gambler, though I didn't know for sure about anything along those lines, except he wasn't a Nerd. His job wasn't in those areas.

About the only positive thing about this guy was he asked for a raise every year. Like clockwork, I'm told. Always for the amount of the previous year's reported inflation rate. Never more. His boss indicated that he never asked for a promotion, either, nor volunteered for extra time on the clock or more responsibility. A real wuss, this one.

Look at him: sitting over there in the cheap suit, carefully whipping his salted, butter-smeared hand on that over-large handkerchief in the breast pocket next to the pseudo silk tie. Christ. Who would think looking at him that he had been carrying a million and a half accidental life insurance on his wife all these years. Who? I ask you.

On the other hand, who would think he would ever legally file the claim? Which brings me around to me.

I'm a private investigator. A damn good private investigator. I have a wife, a very expensive wife. She likes the good things in life. We're matched. I like good things too. I've got two kids, a nice house and the kids are looking forward to their second year at the good college upstate. No need to talk about the four cars, two trucks and three dogs. To say little about the cats hanging around. I like the night life.

Really need a party or so a week to make a man feel alive. I like showing off the wife, too. She's a looker, that one. That is all beside the point. What matters is I was hired to investigate this clown's claim. All the usual questions, all the usual suspicions. Here, outta the blue, a no-nothing asks for a mil and a half. The company isn't really happy with this. Nowhere near happy. So, I'm assigned the case to see if... What...

I've been after determining this for eight months now. The creep's lawyer is starting to yap some. Me? Let him yap, the longer the better for me. But he is making noises about the State regulatory body and so forth. So the company is going to move soon - fact is, they've been after me here lately. And what do I have to report?

Slop's wife died in a traffic accident. She was driving one car and got rammed by another. At least it was quick. I tried her to be at fault, that didn't work well. I tried the "Hand of God" thing, but we couldn't find a flaming thing wrong with either car not explainable by the battle damage. She wasn't on the cell, they didn't own one. She wasn't -- anything. Just a Vanilla Jane. No lumps, no handles anywhere I could see. Until the autopsy.

I really thought I had something there. The Biddy was juiced up on downers and other stuff. Not that I can fault her for that, what with their lifestyle. Be enough to drive anyone to hypertension. The biggest problem was they were all prescription stuff, within easy tolerances. I tried to hang on a bit with that train of thought but there wasn't enough to satisfy the company and there wasn't a written prohibition included in her prescription bottle to prohibit driving.

So, I tried the other car. That was a fifty-fifty thing. Problem was the fifty percent of the four in the other car were straight, and it just so happened that they were the right fifty percent. They were both straight and in charge of the vehicle on impact. At least that we could prove. None of the four made it, so we only know what we surmise.

And I can't find anything to hang this on. Sitting here watching this duffer and reading these notes reminds me that the guy's car was carrying full coverage insurance on a three month old car. Yeah. He would buy a new car every two years and keep them fully covered. So he'll be getting a new car on top of everything else.

My newest is eight years old. I got it the year my youngest kid got out of secondary school. And this guy I'm following.

Yeah, him. Gets a mil and a half, and a new car. No house payment, no wife, no kids, no pets. And a million and a half with a new car.

Well. The report is due in an hour, I guess this one is settled. Except for the check. Some guys just have all the luck.


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

Summer Story

By May B. Yesno © 2007

An evenings interview with non-entity life styles. File: Background. Expense: Research. Quality: 2HC; Dubious.

***

Friends are a difficult thing. As a matter of fact they are almost impossible. Difficult to find for the first thing and just as difficult to keep - especially in a mobile society.

Massachusetts and Boston, in a summer of youth. The summer of separation from hearth and kin. Many events to educate, to celebrate and to carry into age for polishing and fondling and re-creating youth. And this is such a tale. A simple thing, yet worthy of the energy expense bearing it to advanced age? I'm not entirely sure. Yet it is one that I know will travel with me to that destination.

The beginnings of the friendship are obscured. I'm not aware of an event, could not even attach a place to the incident of my meeting and subsequent friendship of these two men. I do know that one owned a car; which in itself was an attraction, my family being without one. As I remember, my friend owned a black and yellow Ford Crown Victoria convertible with an automatic shift. I also remember that somewhere in that long summer of never ending enjoyment I had occasion to drive that car some distance with a willing female, destination Keg Party. I also remember I took that car over the one hundred and ten mile per hour mark on a back country paved road.

It began to rock and roll pretty badly just after passing the one hundred mile per hour mark.

Looking back on it, it could have been just me realizing that I had very limited driving experience - like none at all; it was only the second time I had ever driven anything, and perhaps, that I did not have a drivers license. The license stuff had to wait for some period of time.

There were a lot of things about that summer that were firsts. I was introduced to alcohol that summer. And discovered what the Screwdriver and Purple Jesus were made with, and what the phrase "It is all good" really meant, at least as it pertained to drink. That other stuff had to wait for the professional ladies of Europe. I was a late bloomer. Strange that, considering I was always near college towns. But my friends were pretty well-heeled, with good connections, to use the vernacular of the day. Most of my other men friends wore slacks and quality shirts, not jeans and Tees; the women were proper, meaning they wore shoes without bobby socks and the quality of their clothes was such that my monthly pay was less than a week's pocket money. It was also the first time I ran into the real life definition of "Snobbery," and learned how unspoken guidance can save personal bruises as well as social tranquility.

But I was young and these were my friends and all was good.

There came a day, in the middle of some week or other, that we discovered the following weekend was a Blue Moon Event. That meant that we were all receiving the weekend off, together.

It was during that planning session that I learned "it is only ninety miles to Boston" meant that it was only ninety miles if one owned a car. We planned and the Friday afternoon came. We left. Our Summer Day of beautiful weather lasted. We arrived in their home town of Boston with daylight left and I was treated to a wonderfully blue, green, and grey view of the harbor and town. Well, parts of the town. All trimmed and separated with mud flats, rock and raw soil cliffs. That night was given to youthful debauchery and pub crawling. Youth reared its head the next morning.

No hang over. We did, however, sleep our fill.

There were only two events planned for the day. Swim. And a most curious visit. The visit was to occur prior to the swim. I was briefed twice that morning about that impending visit. The first by the owner of the car, who was the leader of the group. I had noticed a certain agitation in his behavior for a time before he briefed me, and there were un-explained absences in the hour prior. Be that as it may, the briefing was explicit and succinct. We are going to see a woman and a kid. Don't say anything. Don't react to anything. Don't say anything. My other friend said the same thing. He did add that when I saw, I would understand. Still, I was unprepared for what eventually faced us.

We piled into the car in front of their house and were off. Quiet streets, busy streets. Around a tree lined street corner and up an alley. And we parked. We parked, I discovered, about two houses down from our destination. We walked up behind a tool shed and an incomplete fence. I saw a quadruple clothes line, partially filled with sheets and personal items. There was a woman hanging clothes there. When my friend scuffed his foot on the alleys gravel she looked toward us and started to step out in greeting. She stopped when she glanced toward the house and called someone instead.

I had followed her glance and noticed a man arriving around the corner of the house - not from the back door, as one might expect from an owner. But from the side along the service walk. He stopped at the corner of the house and examined our group, and when he noticed that my other friend and I had seen him, he became interested in the fascia of the houses upper levels. He remained in that posture for the duration of our visit.

The woman's soft call had caught the attention of a child playing near the rear door, and brought him to her. She gently turned him and nodded our way. The kids face brightened and he walked toward us. That is when shock set in. The kid was the image of my friend. No "looked like", no "what he might look like later"crap. Absolute. The only thing different is the kid didn't get bigger the closer he came.

As the kid was enfolded in my friend's arms and as the two hugged, I glanced toward the strange man and observed that he had gone rigid. It was very difficult to refrain from exclaiming my astonishment. The visit was brief. And, I think, totally unsatisfactory for all concerned, as the woman visibly restrained herself from joining the kid in the greeting embrace.

We resumed our planned day. The swim, which my friend the car owner did not join being engaged with the beaches beer bar, was a comedy of youthful stupidity. My other friend and I set out to swim from the beach to the Boston Light House. Some seven miles. The life guard refused to let us go much beyond the three hundred yard mark, outside his mental confines of "The Beach." So, we relaxed on the sands. The sparkle had gone from the day though. I honestly don't remember much of the rest of the day, or the evening.

On the Sunday I was waken and told that they had a thing to show me, so we eased our way through breakfast, taking the time between breakfast until after normal church finish to wind our way to a different area of the shore. As we approached the yacht club area, I experienced my first close up sight of small sailing craft. They were wonderful things. All the colors, and the quiet voices of on-lookers, the lack of noise from the craft. The sun glinting from the waves. A world away.

What happened there, that day is another summer story. One which I regret losing, as I found a girl, and a level of people I sincerely enjoyed; not to mention a host of other possibilities.

**

Authors Note: Cat: two (2). I detest professionally half trained pre-functionary foreplay. HC equates to Hollar Caller.


May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

The Night 911 Failed to Ring

By May B. Yesno © 2007

NOTE: After receiving notification that my last piece was published in the Truckin' I reply returned the eNotification with a note attached. In that note to the editor, I indicated that I would probably skip the next months issue. However, as I am noted for being concerned of other people - at best in my own mind; I added to the note that if the publisher felt anxiety, to eMail me and challenge me with a subject, and I would respond with a story (or at least that is what I led them to believe).

After the eMail disappeared into never, never, wherever, it occurred to me that the editor/publisher might, as seems to be their wont, panic and cease publication for the month with inferior materials to fill the edition. Inferior not in quality of penmanship, but quantity from uninterested persons, unspecified; and in their panic fail to realize that true genius awaited their very beckoning of distress.

The very concept of conceiving a plot, while simple, may suffer the malaise of creative genius. That malaise is easily explained as the active mind tends to sink into a morass of creativity with subjects, plots, beginnings and endings tumbling atop one another. Selecting the best from the superior can, at times, prove difficult. To assist the editor/publisher therefore; I felt compelled to create a subject line well before the expected melt down date and save myself having to satisfy another's itch. I determined the included small, un-important, event to be sufficient to forestall a panicked notification to myself at some unspecified, ill timed, future date.


The thought of the possible necessity of "Pulling Another's Chestnuts From The Fire" is rather unappealing in view of the impending graduation of ones off spring from both the highly selective private school he has been attending for the past ten years, and from the advanced courses he, himself, selected many months past.

I confess the impending graduation is a bright event in what could be construed a dullards life. My off spring has displayed little spark and sparkle in his pursuits, and has proven somewhat of a disappointment, if one considers the careful planning embedded in the union of my spouse and myself. I carefully examined the intellectual properties of his extended family, to include their relative social position before consenting to the union, believing resulting progeny would demonstrate the superiority of selective breeding. To some that rings cold and calculating; however, in actuality, it is simply fact that from the best stock come the finest. One must never lose that thread, because we each bear responsibility to improve the human race; as well as our own, immediate, condition.

The selection of elective courses by the off spring, which I consider far beneath his life's station and my expectations, did please me somewhat. I was elated when informed by him of his desire as it was among the first self created acceptable endeavors he had under taken. Except for improper pursuits most young men appear to enjoy, of course; and even then undertaken in groups, one feeding from another. Miserable lot, the male, at the best of times. However, this initiative by the off spring seemed to originate from an individual curiosity. It was only after extensive questioning and probing for logical reasoning did I indulged him.

His particular interest in communications fascinated me; though his seeming narrow focus on telephony was disturbing, in so far as it impinged on a “trade.” His station is well above standing in a mud soaked ditch or sitting on a bucket beside the road eliminating the troubles for that sort of persons, who wish nothing more of life than to share their immediate miserable lives with other ne'er do wells; or to purchase the latest mass produced, mass marketed disposable rag of pirated style.

However, the off spring countered each point introduced in the discussion with logical assumptions and clearly enunciated counter-points. A major telling point in his discourse involved the belief that knowledge of the basic of the craft would extend far in the proper management and supervision of individuals actually performing the labors, as he would have some sympathy to the extent of their short comings and tribulations. Which is always a factor with the trades.

Following that discourse, I ensured the credentials of the several courses of instruction the off spring presented me and satisfied myself his real desire to imbibe the knowledge. And supported the project.

All of which, I'm afraid, is outside the realm of the story I have undertaken to satisfy an angst attack from an editor.

That story assumes from an article in the local print media. The article reports indicate a home manufactured explosive device had been discovered in the confines of the local civic structure; housing the confinement facilities, the Sheriff's Office, the County Court House and all the other required physical properties necessary to the administration of local government.

This report, far from inciting the local populace as it well should, appeared to seep through the ether without touching minds anywhere. It is, in the realm of publishing engrained, and of more than passing interest. And as such items occur, excellent fodder for submission for publication; even if said publication were at a distance from the occurrence. Therefore, I planned follow-up; but I needed details.

The logical individual to approach would be the Sheriff. This individual, however, is a first water Bigot and an out right Chauvinist who has been in a position of some little authority far too long. I have encountered his mealy mouth and evasive character while attempting to protect my property and liberty some few times previous. I was forced to invoke my spouses status in the community a number of times to achieve my peace. But, then, there is little point of having it if one does not use it to achieve ones desires.

I determined, therefore, that a certain Sergeant of the State Department of Investigation would be the source I required for honest and forth-right answers to my inquires. I contacted him. His condensed explanation follows. I was forced to condense the conversation because I am, after all, somewhat attractive and a personality among those who know me. The Sergeant, thinking of it, is rather attractive also, and some portions of the conversation were intensely personal.

Never the less: The Sergeant reported that, indeed, a large (his emphasis) devise had been discovered in the complex and that the explosive had been placed in such a manner and was of such size, that with detonation, the cells of the confinement facility, the Sheriff dispatcher, the office of the County Attorney and several other administrative offices, including the offices of the Sheriff himself, would have been destroyed, not just damaged.

Suspecting the Sergeant was withholding some information, I pressed and he reluctantly admitted that certain information was being withheld from the public. I pressed more. He then informed me that the means of triggering the explosion were unique in design and demonstrated a very creative mind. It appeared that the outside, street corner, telephone tower for the 911 lines had been outfitted with a small FM transmission device. The device, when the number rang in the Dispatch office, would close, sending a signal. The investigating officials had discovered two other receiving/transmitting units after finding the explosives container was to be triggered by radio frequencies.

The Sergeant said that there appeared to be three fortunate gaps in an otherwise clever endeavor. The more minor gap was that the distances involved between the small transmitter and the repeater units helped in the Non-explosion. Then he stated; the placement of the units helped in the fact they were behind the metal rain guttering of the building and the explosive receiving unit itself was behind a metal door. The first he said must have been Divine Intervention; in that for the first time since the inception of the 911 system in that area there were no, repeat none, 911 calls initiated in the probable time frame considered.

Which was what prompted the Sheriff, when this happening was reported to him, to call the telephone company technician locally, who for some reason did not try the number but drove to the exchange house. On his way he happened to check the pillar box and discovered the signaling device, which he disconnected from the terminals.

The investigation followed.

Even though the story will write itself, I must place it aside for the nonce.

My off spring has begun badgering me for funds to vacation in Mexico recently. After reading what I have before hand written, I believe cancellation of his credit cards is the next step since I've already closed his bank accounts and notified the Federal State Department to terminate his passport. One must remember to caution ones off spring that graduation is a highly public demonstration of milestones everyone looks forward, both to achieve and be seen achieving. I must also impress upon him that achieving graduation in Telephony is not necessarily something he would wish the public to know, as a trades item, you understand.

Control and utilization of an undiscovered talent is very important. A more noble use is required. But, first, control necessary.

May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

Title

Title

By May B. Yesno © 2007

As quietly as that the story began to take shape and blossomed in the mind's eye. The author motionless for many minutes on end, never committing to paper the swirl of thoughts. Never articulating the pain he saw in that mind's eye, nor attempting to describe for an innocent reader the involuntary quiver, the trickle of blood from the incision, warm to the fear cold body. Still. That was the word for the author. On the outside.

On the inside boiled and roiled the heathenish and brutal trail of mangled flesh, from every direction, tokens of small bottles of human - and sometimes, from the early days, animals - blood. The bottles chronicling the diminution of desires. Some bearing only dark matter, some reddish brown rusty liquid; some showing the separation of stillness, of others displaying clearly combined contents. But never reaching the shelves end. Always another empty bottle. Always the need to fill that bottle. And the shelves in the mind's eye were neither difficult nor tiring to construct. Never.

The observer, standing behind the author, would observe a form, save for the regularly spaced torso expansion and contractions, immobile as a statue. Seated was the form, in a kitchen chair, at a kitchen table, in a cold water flat - some where. Where didn't seem to matter, never to an observer, not to the author. The circumstances of the mildew musty smelling walls with peeling paper, stained sink, the un-made bed with tattered linens; none of it mattered.

The important matters were of the mind and the mind was busy fondling the bottles, and the manner of collecting contents. The mind was busy dissecting the body, the hands deep within the cavity beneath the ribs. Touching the heart, crowding the lungs. The mind could see the hands forcing fingers beneath and around the bowels, gripping the fat slimy glistening blue and white tubular sections, pulling, twisting; the mind hearing the velvety tearing, ripping of thin membrane as one section was loosened from another. Foot after foot dragged hissing and slithering across the bloody flaps of the abdomen walls, laid to each side, still attached to the back.

If the observer rendered powers sufficient, he would dip into the mind and tell us about the author. Tell us of another time, of lazy summer days; of the wonder filling the mind; of the reaching, the grasping, of never obtaining that perfect hold, of the perfect sequence of letters and spaces; of never achieving the goal. And as the youth matured, the quest continued; searching, seeking, never finding. Not all the Gods in Heaven; not all the Devils in Hell; not all the friends combined that praised, would the observer find that pleased the author.

That observer would tell us of the girls in adolescence; of the Christmases of youth and the joy and the gifts received. He would tell us of pleasures of the learning, the pleasures of skipping the learning - for the delightful pleasures of truancy are pleasures as great as the knowledge gained through diligences. Still the observer, with his powers, cannot find a grain of satisfaction in the author. Nor he search himself to exhaustion, none would he find, nor will find, not yet.

In the mind of the author; the hands gently pried and separated the coils and loops; moving smoothly down, smoothly down, savoring each twitch and jerk of the body, until the fingers identified shapes. The ovaries, the womb - and the hands pause, they stroke. The birth place, the center of creation. The authors mind caresses the thought, imagining the process of creation. The passion, the touching, the blood racing, the questing, the ascension; both kinds. The release. Ah, the mind bending, blessed, release of tensions. The joy of the aftermath.

The hands rip, tear, and cast aside, the object which thumps to the floor. Tough, disgusting, it thumps. The body on the table heaves. In the author's minds eye rise giggles and simpers, and the hands pause as the mind turns over every action thus far performed.

Were the observer to move deeper into that miserable room, close-in behind the author and peer over his shoulder, the observer would detect a certain tension in the hands. A certain rigidity to the neck, a faint but perceptible quiver to the head. The observer would also discover the envelope. The envelope: clutched, wadded, smoothed across the knee; held gently, clutched again, wadded, smoothed, held. But never torn, never destroyed, never discarded. Never opened - yet.

Having reviewed the actions taken, the mind of the author skips forward; considering, mulling. The eye of the mind sees the cavity, free now of intestines; wet and glistening. And the mind commands, so the hands obey and one reaches out, picking, from the utensils neatly arrayed nearby, a sieve. A small screened sieve, yet in entire, large enough to contain a bottle.

And the mind chooses; commanding again, and a hand drifts forward, closing on the bottle. The bottle identical to all other bottles on the identical shelves. Shelves hidden in the dark corner of a cluttered warehouse, yet light enough for the author's mind's eye to see and identify each, and if so chosen, any would yield a story to the mind. A warehouse hidden in gulleys and shadows behind the glittering façade of the questing intellect. And the mind hesitates, so the hand stops. The eye observes the fluids seeping into the sieve, the sieve keeping the coagulating fluids and viscera away; creating a small pool of pure and lovely hearts bloods. But there is an Act to be performed. And Act as yet undone. If not performed, all Acts to this point are moot, worthless.

Now the observer, peering over the shoulder of the author, sees the hands lose tension and the fingers, ever so gently, ever so smoothly, ever so tenderly, turn the envelope back side to and will watch them trace the flap seal ridge - over and over; and over.

After a period the hand stills and gently presses the envelope to the knee while the off-hand raises smoothly to the table top and grasps the handle of a knife.

And just as smoothly, returns with the knife and the tip slips under the flap seal - and stops.

Should the observer use his extraordinary power at this point to enter the mind he would find a mind at this point at peace. All the preparation is finished in the mind's eye, everything to be done has been done. The bottle is ready, all that remains is the envelope.

And the knife moves, not quickly, slowly. Slowly and carefully, to avoid the missive inside the caressed envelope, the knife move with no hesitation. And it is done. The cut. Finished. The fingers holding the knife adjust position, dip into the envelope, and draw the single sheet free.

The mind's eye sees the bottle, sees the hands it commands, further instructs the hands to loose the seal and remove the container's lid. And the tensions in the mind raise. The heart rate supporting the mind doubles. The hands seem to tense beyond the task appointed, but remain firmly under the command of the mind's eye.

The observer will watch ever so closely as the hands return the knife neatly to the table, arrange the ruined envelope with precision and ever so gently open the full sheet to expose the message from the publisher to whom the manuscript was sent.

Silently the head dips over the document and the eyes of the author scan the five lines. A single word, the searched for word is not found; but the expected word, the bottled hopes of a word, is there, defining the shelves. The word is 'Reject.'

In the noisy mind's eye, the command is given and the hands act. The bottle is lowered, ever so gently, within the sieve, submerging itself. The fluids drain in smoothly and the mind chuckles, watching. The last small space is filled when the air bubbles and the bubble breaks. The mind communicates with the hands and the bottle is lifted, the lid replaced, the seal set. The hands flow smoothly to the sink where the bottle is gently washed clean and dried.

The mind's eye holds the bottle aloft against the available light and the mind, the creative mind nods in satisfaction, turning, reaches to place the bottle of ruby life's blood on the shadowed shelves, in line, in turn.

The observer watches the seated figure rise, stand momentarily, then turn and place the missive gently beside the envelope. The observer watches and the author slowly settles his knuckles to either side of the articles touched.

And listens to the first words uttered; as with head bowed, the author articulates: "It's time. It's time to hunt once more."

May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.