Short Stories

[A r c h i]

Nearly half the people in Poland are farmers. The farming villages are small, and few have so much as a movie theater. You can imagine, then, how excited Celka was when she heard that a movie was to be shown at the firehouse.
Celka lived with Grandma in a house at the very edge of the village. There were only fields beyond the house, and beyond the fields, a blue ribbon of trees.
In order to reach the center of the village where the store and the firehouse are, you have to walk behind the barn that leaks, go past four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross a bridge, and then turn left behind some beehives. Only then will you see the store and the firehouse. Are they near or far? Well, let's see!
Celka did not like it very much when Grandma sent her to the store. She often made excuses whenever they needed salt, sugar, or soap. And Grandma, whether she liked it or not, had to go to the store herself.
Today, Grandma was very tired. She had a lot more work to do, and there was no salt in the house.
"Celka, go to the store and fetch some salt. We don't even have a pinch!"
"Oh, Grandma, it is so far," complained the little girl. "You have to walk behind the barn that leaks, go past four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross a bridge, and then turn left behind some beehives. All that, before you get to the store. It's so far, so far, Grandma! I'll never get there. My feet hurt already!"
"All right, what can we do instead?" asked Grandma. "If you don't go, I guess we'll just eat supper without salt."
Maybe Celka would not have gone to the store this time if her black dog, Zuczek, had not barked and grabbed her apron. Maybe he was angry because she did not want to play with him. Maybe he was urging her to go for a walk with him.
Celka dragged her feet past the barn that leaked, the cabbage patch, and the pump that squeaked. Then she came to the edge of the meadow. After she had walked for nearly a mile, she stopped on the bridge to look at the stream below and the sky above. Walking was something Celka did not enjoy.
Zuczek had followed her. He jumped and barked gaily when he caught up with her.
"Why are you so happy, silly dog?" wondered Celka. "Your feet probably don't hurt the way mine do."
Celka finally arrived at the store and bought the salt. On the way back home, she met three girls, Basia, Kasia, and Sabinka.
"You know, Celka," said Basia, "this afternoon there's going to be a movie at the firehouse. The firemen are arranging the benches right now. Anyone can come and see the movie."
"Me too?" asked Celka.
"Of course, you too. But you should go there right away. The movie starts soon."
Without even saying good-by to the girls, Celka ran home. Zuczek ran after her, barking loudly.
"Here is the salt, Grandma," said the girl, a little out of breath. Then, quickly, "Please let me go to the village once more. They are going to have a movie at the firehouse this afternoon."
"Really," said Grandma. "And your feet won't hurt? The firehouse is next to the store, and that is very far away."
"Oh, what are you saying, Grandma?" protested Celka. "It's near. You only have to walk behind the barn that leaks, pass four green cabbage beds and the water pump that squeaks, follow the edge of the meadow to a pond for ducks, cross the bridge, and turn left behind some beehives, and you are at the firehouse. It's not far at all!"
"All right, all right, you can go," Grandma said.
Celka ran out of the house followed by Mruczek, the cat. Mruczek was lazy. He liked to lie in the sun or sit by the warm stove. Therefore, Celka wondered why Mruczek suddenly wanted to go for a walk.
"Mruczek, let's go faster! Or maybe your feet hurt?"
The cat looked at the path, then sat down near the gate, curled up, and fell asleep. In the meantime, Celka ran toward the village. She ran very fast, kicking up her heels, her pigtails flying.
In a flash she was past the barn that leaks and the four green cabbage beds. The water pump squeaked and the girl sang. She followed the edge of the meadow to the pond for ducks, crossed the bridge, and then turned left behind the beehives.
Basia, Kasia, and Sabinka were sitting in the firehouse when Celka arrived. The movie started right away.
When it was over, Celka returned home and said, "You know what I am thinking, Grandma?"
"You want to see the movie again," guessed Grandma.
"No, I wasn't thinking about that. I was wondering whether the firehouse and the store are near or far from our house."
"Yes, indeed," nodded Grandma, "are they near or far? What did you decide?"
Celka thought for a while. Then she said, "uczek followed me to the store. He ran and barked and jumped. He wanted to go to the store with me. Mruczek only got as far as the gate when he meowed and complained and fell asleep. For Zuczek it was a short way, but for Mruczek the way was too long. For me? Sometimes it's long and sometimes it's short."

[A r c h i]

Marmots have fat bodies, short bushy tails, and tiny ears. They eat plants. They live in the ground under piles of loose rocks on the slopes of mountains.
Little Raimund, whom everyone called "Raimi," sat in the velvety green grass and looked after Farmer Holz's sheep. The sheep, quietly grazing, were no trouble at all. Once in a while a big stone rolled down the mountainside with a loud "pjuuu, pjuuu, pjuuu." Then the frightened sheep scattered in all directions. But they soon came back. Raimi looked after the sheep every day from early morning till nightfall. But he was never bored. In these mountains, no matter where he looked, there was something interesting to see.
For instance, he could see piles of stones under which fat, brown marmots built their caves. Sometimes the marmots came out and wrestled with one another or sat on their hind legs nibbling the juicy grass. But as soon as Raimi moved toward them to get a better look, they disappeared into their caves.
One lovely summer morning, Raimi lay in the grass watching the marmots. How he wished he had a pair of shiny black binoculars like those his friend the forest ranger wore around his neck. Every time the forest ranger let Raimi look through the binoculars, Raimi was amazed at how close faraway things could look. If he had binoculars he really could get a close look at the marmots. But there was no use in even thinking about it. To buy binoculars, Raimi would have to save all the money Farmer Holz paid him for three years.
Suddenly the marmots began to make loud, piercing sounds such as Raimi had never heard before. He was startled out of his daydream. Faster than he could blink an eye, the marmots disappeared into their caves.
Raimi saw an enormous gray-brown shadow swoop down over the exact spot where the marmots had been only a moment ago. He jumped to his feet and began to wave his arms while he shouted as loudly as he could. Now he saw what had frightened the marmots. A golden eagle soared above him. Raimi's shouting and arm waving drove it away. The eagle circled a few times and then disappeared behind a mountain peak.
In his bare feet, the soles of which were as tough as leather from walking barefooted all summer, Raimi ran over stones and pebbles to the marmots' caves. There, on a pile of stones, lay a tiny, bloody bundle, too hurt to run away.
For the first time, Raimi got a real close look at a marmot. This one was very small, hardly as big as a young rabbit. The marmot looked at Raimi with anxious black eyes, and bared its teeth. Quickly, Raimi wrapped it in his handkerchief and, as fast as he could, he ran to the farmhouse.
When the stable boy saw the injured marmot, he said to Raimi, "You had better kill it."
Raimi was furious. "I'll make it well, you blockhead," he shouted, and ran on.
In an old basket, Raimi made a nest of hay and put the marmot into it. Then he fed the marmot warm milk. And wonder of wonders, after two weeks, the marmot was completely well.
At night, the marmot slept at the foot of Raimi's straw bed. Mornings, Raimi took the marmot with him when he went to watch his sheep. There, in the pasture, the marmot feasted on the juicy green grass. Raimi gave it as much warm milk as it wanted and some bread and grains of white corn. Once in a while on Sundays, Raimi gave it a piece of raisin cake.
By the time autumn appeared, the marmot was half-grown and very lively. It wandered about the house nibbling on chair legs and table legs. It gnawed holes in the farmer's boots. It even ate the strings of the maid's apron.
One day after the marmot had torn a hole in the big puffed-up feather bed, the farmer's wife said, "Tomorrow, you must lock it up in the rabbit hutch."
Raimi was miserable. All night, he lay awake thinking. What should he do? He simply could not bring himself to put his marmot into a cage with rabbits. Finally, he had an idea.
Early the next morning, long before anyone else was awake, Raimi carried his marmot out of the house. First he climbed to the sheep pasture, now a pale misty gray in the first light of morning. Then, he climbed still higher till, in the rocky side of the mountain, he found an empty cave. There, his marmot would be safe from the teeth of wild marmots.
Raimi set his marmot free. It scampered into the cave and began to burrow deeper and deeper. Soon it disappeared from sight. Sadly, Raimi returned home.
The next day Raimi visited the cave. He called to his marmot. But, already, it had become shy and watchful. It would not let Raimi come near it.
Not long afterward all the marmots crawled deep under the earth for the long sleep of winter.
It was not until late in April that they finally came out of the caves. Because he could not get close to them, Raimi was unable to see whether or not his marmot was among them. That made him sad.
One day the forest ranger came to the farmhouse for a short visit. "Raimi," he said, "I have something for you." He put a small, worn leather case on the table.
Hesitating, Raimi picked up the case. At first he couldn't believe his eyes—it was a pair of binoculars!
"I don't need these old things right now," said the forest ranger. "You can borrow them for a while to observe your marmots. You are a brave lad, and good to animals."
Raimi laughed out loud. He was so excited, he didn't know what to do first. Then he ran as fast as he could up the rocky slope above the sheep pasture and waited. Soon the marmots came out to eat and play. Raimi looked at them through the binoculars. There, apart from the others was his marmot! Even though they were quite faint, Raimi could see the scars that the eagle's claws had made on the marmot's back.
At that very moment, not even the richest man in the world could have been as happy as Raimi.

[A r c h i]

An elephant trainer, or mahout as he is known in India, teaches elephants to obey commands. When an elephant disobeys, the mahout pokes him with a stick that has a sharp metal point. But, as this story shows, everyone would do well to remember that there may be some truth in the old saying, "An elephant never forgets."
Everybody called him "Raja." It was not his real name but he liked being called "Raja." He lived with his Grandfather and Grandmother. They were his guardians. Raja's mother died when he was young. His father left Raja with his grandparents, who brought him up.
Grandfather was a tall, strong man. He always spoke in a loud voice. He knew everyone in the village. People respected him. They came to him for advice and help.
Grandmother was kind and gentle. She took good care of Raja. She would follow him like a shadow, saying, "Drink this milk" or "Eat your food" or "Have your bath" or "Go to bed." Raja did not like this, but still he loved his grandmother very much.
At home Raja did not have any friend to play with. Grandfather did not like Raja going out to play with other children. He believed that Raja would be spoiled if he did so. Other children did not like to come to the house because they were afraid of Grandfather.
Yet life with Grandfather was not dull. Raja liked his home and the very large garden all round it. There were many trees in the garden: coconut trees, mango trees, and other kinds of trees. There were birds, butterflies, and honeybees. There were many tanks, with plenty of fish in them. Kingfishers, storks, and other water birds came to the tanks to catch the fish.
In a corner of the compound was a grove, where trees, shrubs, and creepers grew wild. Jackals, mongooses, wildcats, and owls lived in the grove.
Raja's grandfather owned many cows, bulls, and bullocks. Little calves played and ran about in the garden.
Raja liked to play with the calves. He liked to watch the birds in the garden. He looked for jackals coming out of the grove. He ran after mongooses. He caught butterflies and reptiles.
Once Raja's grandparents had a big guest at home. It was Lakshmi, a young cow elephant. She belonged to a rich relative. The relative wanted Raja's grandparents to keep the elephant for some days. Grandfather did not like the idea very much. It was costly to feed an elephant, even a young elephant. But Grandfather could not refuse the request of a relative.
Raja was excited when he heard Lakshmi was coming. Raja asked people how he should welcome the elephant. Grandmother told him that elephants loved sugar cane and that he should keep some for Lakshmi.
One evening Lakshmi arrived with her mahout, Kittu. Everybody in the house came out to welcome her. She was a beautiful young elephant.
Kittu said, "She is young. She is hardly eight years old. She is intelligent and learns things quickly. She is very loving and likes to play with people."
Kittu said so many good things about Lakshmi that Raja thought Lakshmi could have been Kittu's own daughter.
Raja had a piece of sugar cane with him and he wanted to give it to Lakshmi. But he was afraid to go near her. Kittu saw Raja holding the sugar cane and took him near Lakshmi, saying, "She loves children." Raja offered the sugar cane to Lakshmi and she took it and ate it.
At night Lakshmi was chained to a tree in the courtyard. Raja sat there for a long time watching her. He would have remained there longer but Grandmother came out and said, "Now, Raja, you go to bed. You can watch the elephant in the morning."
Raja woke up early next morning and went out. Lakshmi saw him and she waved her trunk as if welcoming him. He was still afraid to go near the elephant. Lakshmi tried to come to Raja but she could not as she was chained to the tree.
Kittu came in the morning. He took Lakshmi out for a bath. Raja had never seen an elephant bathing. So he followed them to the tank. Lakshmi first went into the water alone. She played in the water. She took water in her trunk and poured it over her body several times.
Then Kittu went in and asked her to sit down. She filled her trunk again with water and looked at Kittu. Kittu said, "Don't, don't do it." But Lakshmi would not listen. She spouted all the water on Kittu.
Kittu did not get angry. He again asked Lakshmi to sit. But Lakshmi again filled her trunk with water. Now Kittu showed her his stick and warned her not to repeat
the mischief. This time Lakshmi did not pour water on him but threw it backward with force. Raja was standing just behind and the water fell all over him. It was great fun. Lakshmi was only playing.
Kittu pulled Lakshmi by the ear and ordered her to sit. She obeyed. He then scrubbed her with a piece of stone and cleaned her all over.
On the way back Kittu gave Raja a ride on Lakshmi. Raja was thrilled. When they reached home, Grandfather, Grandmother, and all the others were waiting outside to see Raja riding an elephant.
Kittu had told Raja that Lakshmi liked ripe bananas better than sugar cane. Raja waited for an opportunity to give her some. As soon as Grandfather was out, Raja quietly went to the cellar and took half of a huge bunch of ripe bananas. He took the bananas to Lakshmi. She ate them with great relish.
Later, Grandfather noticed that some of the bananas were missing. He asked everyone about it and found out that Raja had taken the bananas. Grandfather did not like anybody taking anything without his permission. He took a long cane and called Raja.
Raja knew Grandfather wanted to beat him. He ran. And Grandfather ran after him.
Lakshmi was not chained to the tree at that time. She saw Raja running and Grandfather chasing him. She immediately came to Raja's help. She rushed towards Grandfather with a wild cry.
Grandfather was very frightened. He turned back, ran into the house, and bolted the door. Raja went to Lakshmi and patted her.
After a while Grandfather came out, holding in his hand the other half of the banana bunch. He asked Raja to take it and give it to the elephant. Raja did so, and both Grandfather and Lakshmi were happy. So was Raja.

[A r c h i]

Far out in the deep Pacific Ocean lie the beautiful islands of Polynesia where people today still tell stories about Maui. They say he was part man and part god, born long ago with eight heads, and tossed into the sea by his mother who thought he was dead. They say the sea god saved Maui, who later lost seven of his heads. The head that remained was so full of tricks and magic that sometimes Maui angered the gods, and made people wonder what he would do next.
Before he brought the gift of fire to warm the people and to cook their food, they say he set the world on fire. They say he pushed up the sky so that people could stand instead of crawl. They say he lassoed the sun god and beat him with a club, forcing him to move more slowly across the sky so that people could have more time to plant and harvest.
They say he caught a giant fish at the bottom of the ocean, changed it into the islands of Tonga, Rakahanga, Hawaii, and the North Island of New Zealand, and placed them where they are today.
They say Maui did these things and a thousand more when he was fully grown, yet even as a boy, he played a magical trick that people still tell about.
On the island where Maui came to live with his mother and four older brothers, people could hear chirps and whistles. They could also hear the flutter of wings. But, they never saw any birds. Indeed, they did not even know such creatures lived.
Once, Maui's brothers asked, "Mother, who whistles and chirps as the sun comes up? Who fans the air and touches our cheeks so softly when we play in the forest?"
Their mother answered, "Perhaps the gods are pleased with my children, so they make pleasant sounds and caress you."
Maui grinned at his mother's answer, but said nothing. Of all the people on the island, Maui was the only one who could see and hear the birds. They were his only real friends, and for him they sang their sweetest songs.
One stormy day at sea, the winds swept ashore an outrigger canoe. It came from a faraway land. Aboard was a man who looked down his nose at the people, their clothes, and their houses. He even turned up his nose at their food.
"How unfortunate I was to be forced ashore on this miserable island," he complained. "In my country, the earth is greener. The sky is bluer. The people are better looking, and they are richer. We have fine houses and better food. How can you people live in such a dreadful place?"
He talked on and on about all the wonders to be found in his country. He made the people feel ashamed. They had nothing grand to show their guest; nothing that would please him or make them proud of their land.
Maui listened to the man until he could stand it no longer. He sped into the forest and called to the birds.
"My friends," he said, "I need your help to make the people as happy as they were before the stranger arrived on this island." "We will do whatever you wish," said the birds.
"Then follow me," said Maui. "When I clap my hands, sing as you have never sung before.
The birds lifted their wings with a great flutter and, flying overhead, followed Maui to the place where the people sat listening with lowered heads to the stranger.
Maui clapped his hands, making a sound as loud as thunder. At once, the birds began to sing in a chorus of thousands. The music was so unexpected, so thrilling, and so beautiful that the stranger stopped talking for the first time since his arrival. Even the people were surprised. Never before had they heard such melodies. They raised their heads and began to smile.
When the birds became silent, the stranger said, "I can see nothing around here that could possibly make such sounds. I have traveled in many lands but never have I heard anything to compare with what I've just heard. How proud I would be if I could say that such sounds could be heard in my country. Where did that wonderful music come from?"
Before anyone could answer, Maui leaped to the center of the gathering. He was determined that never again would the people be ashamed of their land. He raised his arms toward the sky and in a loud, clear voice that echoed for miles, he began to chant a magic command that only the birds understood.
Suddenly, all around them, the people saw feathered creatures flying and twirling, spinning and soaring, looping and dipping. They saw the creatures perched on every branch of every tree and on the thatched roof of every house—birds of colors as brilliant as the golden sun and the jeweled sea. Never had the people seen such color—red birds and yellow birds, blue birds and green birds, pink birds and purple birds. Everybody saw every bird there was to see on the island. Each bird warbled or whistled, chirped or chittered, singing as it flew, filling the air with music and color.
The people looked in awe at the birds, and then they looked in awe at Maui. Now they knew that he was more than a boy who liked to play tricks. He was surely part god. They whispered, "What a wonderful thing it is that Maui is one of us. If he can make such magic now, what will he do when he's fully grown?"
In the years that followed, Maui's many magical deeds gave them their answer.

[utopia1986]

Little Brother™
By Bruce Holland Rogers
30 October 2000
Peter had wanted a Little Brother™ for three Christmases in a row. His favorite TV commercials were the ones that showed just how much fun he would have teaching Little Brother™ to do all the things that he could already do himself. But every year, Mommy had said that Peter wasn't ready for a Little Brother™. Until this year.
This year when Peter ran into the living room, there sat Little Brother™ among all the wrapped presents, babbling baby talk, smiling his happy smile, and patting one of the packages with his fat little hand. Peter was so excited that he ran up and gave Little Brother™ a big hug around the neck. That was how he found out about the button. Peter's hand pushed against something cold on Little Brother™'s neck, and suddenly Little Brother™ wasn't babbling any more, or even sitting up. Suddenly, Little Brother™ was limp on the floor, as lifeless as any ordinary doll.
"Peter!" Mommy said.
"I didn't mean to!"
Mommy picked up Little Brother™, sat him in her lap, and pressed the black button at the back of his neck. Little Brother™'s face came alive, and it wrinkled up as if he were about to cry, but Mommy bounced him on her knee and told him what a good boy he was. He didn't cry after all.
"Little Brother™ isn't like your other toys, Peter," Mommy said. "You have to be extra careful with him, as if he were a real baby." She put Little Brother™ down on the floor, and he took tottering baby steps toward Peter. "Why don't you let him help open your other presents?"
So that's what Peter did. He showed Little Brother™ how to tear the paper and open the boxes. The other toys were a fire engine, some talking books, a wagon, and lots and lots of wooden blocks. The fire engine was the second-best present. It had lights, a siren, and hoses that blew green gas just like the real thing. There weren't as many presents as last year, Mommy explained, because Little Brother™ was expensive. That was okay. Little Brother™ was the best present ever!
Well, that's what Peter thought at first. At first, everything that Little Brother™ did was funny and wonderful. Peter put all the torn wrapping paper in the wagon, and Little Brother™ took it out again and threw it on the floor. Peter started to read a talking book, and Little Brother™ came and turned the pages too fast for the book to keep up.
But then, while Mommy went to the kitchen to cook breakfast, Peter tried to show Little Brother™ how to build a very tall tower out of blocks. Little Brother™ wasn't interested in seeing a really tall tower. Every time Peter had a few blocks stacked up, Little Brother™ swatted the tower with his hand and laughed. Peter laughed, too, for the first time, and the second. But then he said, "Now watch this time. I'm going to make it really big."
But Little Brother™ didn't watch. The tower was only a few blocks tall when he knocked it down.
"No!" Peter said. He grabbed hold of Little Brother™'s arm. "Don't!"
Little Brother™'s face wrinkled. He was getting ready to cry.
Peter looked toward the kitchen and let go. "Don't cry," he said. "Look, I'm building another one! Watch me build it!"
Little Brother™ watched. Then he knocked the tower down.
Peter had an idea.

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When Mommy came into the living room again, Peter had built a tower that was taller than he was, the best tower he had ever made. "Look!" he said.
But Mommy didn't even look at the tower. "Peter!" She picked up Little Brother™, put him on her lap, and pressed the button to turn him back on. As soon as he was on, Little Brother™ started to scream. His face turned red.
"I didn't mean to!"
"Peter, I told you! He's not like your other toys. When you turn him off, he can't move but he can still see and hear. He can still feel. And it scares him."
"He was knocking down my blocks."
"Babies do things like that," Mommy said. "That's what it's like to have a baby brother."
Little Brother™ howled.
"He's mine," Peter said too quietly for Mommy to hear. But when Little Brother™ had calmed down, Mommy put him back on the floor and Peter let him toddle over and knock down the tower.
Mommy told Peter to clean up the wrapping paper, and she went back into the kitchen. Peter had already picked up the wrapping paper once, and she hadn't said thank you. She hadn't even noticed.
Peter wadded the paper into angry balls and threw them one at a time into the wagon until it was almost full. That's when Little Brother™ broke the fire engine. Peter turned just in time to see him lift the engine up over his head and let it drop.
"No!" Peter shouted. The windshield cracked and popped out as the fire engine hit the floor. Broken. Peter hadn't even played with it once, and his best Christmas present was broken.

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Later, when Mommy came into the living room, she didn't thank Peter for picking up all the wrapping paper. Instead, she scooped up Little Brother™ and turned him on again. He trembled and screeched louder than ever.
"My God! How long has he been off?" Mommy demanded.
"I don't like him!"
"Peter, it scares him! Listen to him!"
"I hate him! Take him back!"
"You are not to turn him off again. Ever!"
"He's mine!" Peter shouted. "He's mine and I can do what I want with him! He broke my fire engine!"
"He's a baby!"
"He's stupid! I hate him! Take him back!"
"You are going to learn to be nice with him."
"I'll turn him off if you don't take him back. I'll turn him off and hide him someplace where you can't find him!"
"Peter!" Mommy said, and she was angry. She was angrier than he'd ever seen her before. She put Little Brother™ down and took a step toward Peter. She would punish him. Peter didn't care. He was angry, too.
"I'll do it!" he yelled. "I'll turn him off and hide him someplace dark!"
"You'll do no such thing!" Mommy said. She grabbed his arm and spun him around. The spanking would come next.
But it didn't. Instead he felt her fingers searching for something at the back of his neck.

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Bruce Holland Rogers lives in Eugene, Oregon, and writes genre fiction and literary fiction. His stories have won two Nebula Awards, a Bram Stoker Award, and a Pushcart Prize. Rogers recently edited an anthology, Bedtime Stories to Darken Your Dreams (IFD Publishing). He has two short story collections due out this year: Wind Over Heaven (Wildside Press) and Flaming Arrows (IFD Publishing). Bruce's previous appearance in Strange Horizons was "Estranged." For more about him, see his Web site; for more about his work, see the Panisphere site.

Stan has traveled 29.3 kilometers from his home in Toronto to the home of his friend in a Mississauga high-rise. Before he gets out of his car, Stan puts on a surgical mask, leather gloves, and sunglasses.
Stan wears the mask because he is worried about Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, a disease which has a global case fatality rate of between seven and fifteen percent -- estimates vary. He is also worried about Ebola haemorrhagic fever, which has a global case fatality rate of about 90%. Two nearly-recovered patients with SARS are presently 47.2 kilometers away from Stan in Toronto General Hospital. The nearest Ebola patients are in Africa, 12,580 kilometers from Stan.
Stan is not worried about Mrs. Imelda Foster, who is cleaning a penthouse apartment. If Stan even knew about Mrs. Foster, he would appreciate her enthusiasm for bleach as a disinfectant. Mrs. Foster's eyesight is not what it used to be, and she compensates by going over the same surface repeatedly.
Stan wears gloves because he is worried about spider bites. The only venomous spider in Ontario is the northern widow, Latrodectus various, which produces venom fifteen times as toxic as the venom of a prairie rattlesnake. Although the spider injects much less venom than a snake with each bite, nearly one-percent of L. various bites are fatal. Fatalities are concentrated in the very young and the very sick. Stan is thirty-seven years old and in good physical condition. Still, he does not put his hand where he cannot see, and he wears gloves just in case.
Stan is not worried about Tanya Scott, the four-year-old girl who lives in the penthouse apartment where Mrs. Imelda Foster is cleaning. If Stan knew of little Tanya's existence, he would appreciate Mrs. Foster's diligence with the vacuum cleaner everywhere in the apartment, even on the balcony. There are zero spider webs in the penthouse apartment.
Stan wears sunglasses. The sun is expected to radiate peacefully for another 5 billion years, but in the course of that time its luminosity will double to a brilliance that Stan finds alarming.
Stan does not worry about a glass swan figurine weighing 457 grams. Yesterday Tanya Scott moved the swan from its place on the coffee table to the balcony railing where she could see it in the sunlight. Tanya left the swan on the railing. Mrs. Foster does not see the swan when she brings the vacuum cleaner out to tidy up the balcony. She knocks the swan from the railing with the vacuum cleaner wand.
At the moment that the swan begins its descent, Stan is 38 meters from a point directly below the falling swan. He is proceeding toward that point in a straight line and at a steady pace of 3.2 kilometers per hour. A falling object accelerates at the rate of approximately 10 meters/second/second. The railing is 112 meters above the sidewalk.
Question: Is Stan worrying about the right things?

About the author:
Stories by Bruce Holland Rogers have won two Nebula Awards, the Bram Stoker Award, and a Pushcart Prize. Some of his work has been published in over a dozen languages. His short-short stories are available by email subscription at [ برای مشاهده لینک ، با نام کاربری خود وارد شوید یا ثبت نام کنید ] . Rogers lives in Eugene, Oregon.
In the middle of the day, the frogs held a council. “It’s unbearable,” said one. “The herons hunt us by day, and the raccoons prey on us at night.”
“Yes,” said another. “Either one is bad enough, but both herons and raccoons together mean that we never have a moment’s peace.”
“We should demand that the herons leave the pond. Banish them!”
“Yes!” all the frogs agreed. “Banish the herons! Banish the herons!”
All this noise drew the attention of a heron who was fishing nearby. “What was that?” she said, approaching. “Banish who?”
The frogs looked at her beak, which was like a sword for stabbing frogs.
“The raccoons!” chorused the frogs. “Banish the raccoons!”
“That’s what I thought you said,” said the heron. She went back to fishing.
“The raccoons!” the frogs sang. “Banish the raccoons!”
With the policy decided, there arose the matter of who would inform the raccoons of their exile. One frog after another was nominated for the post of sheriff, and one after another declined it. Then the bullfrog was nominated. “Of course! He’s the biggest! He’s the very one for the job!”
“I don’t know,” said the bullfrog, who had been silent all through the deliberations. “I am big, but raccoons are bigger. I am one, but they are many.”
“Well, then,” volunteered another frog. “We’ll come along with you!”
“Yes, we’ll come along!” agreed the frogs. “We’ll all come along!”
“And you’ll stay with me, no matter what?” said the bullfrog.
“We’ll stick to you like your shadow,” said one frog.
The other frogs agreed. “Like your shadow.”
The bullfrog was still reluctant. The others had to pledge their faithfulness all afternoon. Finally, they had repeated so many times that they would stick to him like his shadow that the bullfrog agreed to lead the delegation.
The sun set. The herons flew to their roosts above the pond. In the twilight, the bullfrog said, “The raccoons will be coming soon. But you’re all going to stand by me like my very shadow, right?”
“Like your shadow! Like your shadow!” chorused the frogs.
The sky turned purple. “Even if five or six raccoons appear together?”
“Like your shadow! Like your shadow!”
Stars shone in a moonless sky. It was very dark. There was just enough starlight to see the raccoons when at last they emerged from the undergrowth. There were five of them, a mother and her grown kits.
The bullfrog hopped onto the shore. “Villains!” he cried. “Be gone! Raccoons are outlawed at this pond! Away with you! You are banished!”
“Indeed?” said the mother raccoon. Her kits sniffed the bullfrog, who trembled but held his ground. “On whose authority are we banished?”
“On all of ours!” the bullfrog said. He expected a chorus to back him up. There was only silence. He turned and saw, just before he was eaten, that he was the only frog ashore.

The help of most allies falls short of the mark,
For even your shadow slips off in the dark

[AAKOJ]

The Black Cat

Edgar Allan Poe

For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not - and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified - have tortured - have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror - to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place - some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.

From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.

I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.

This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point - and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.

Pluto - this was the cat's name - was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.

Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character - through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance - had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me - for what disease is like Alcohol! - and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish - even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.

One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.

When reason returned with the morning - when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch - I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart - one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself - to offer violence to its own nature - to do wrong for the wrong's sake only - that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; - hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; - hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; - hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin - a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it - if such a thing wore possible - even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts - and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire - a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.

When I first beheld this apparition - for I could scarcely regard it as less - my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd - by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.

Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.

One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat - a very large one - fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it - knew nothing of it - had never seen it before.

I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife.

For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but - I know not how or why it was - its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually - very gradually - I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.

What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.

With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly - let me confess it at once - by absolute dread of the beast.

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil - and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own - yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to own - that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees - degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful - it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name - and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared - it was now, I say, the image of a hideous - of a ghastly thing - of the GALLOWS! - oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime - of Agony and of Death!

And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast - whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed - a brute beast to work out for me - for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God - so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight - an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off - incumbent eternally upon my heart!

Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates - the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.

One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.

This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard - about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar - as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.

For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the red of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself - "Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."

My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night - and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!

The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted - but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.

Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.

"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this - this is a very well constructed house." [In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.] - "I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls are you going, gentlemen? - these walls are solidly put together;" and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.

But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! - by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman - a howl - a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.

Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!

[AAKOJ]

One may hope, in spite of the metaphorists, to avoid the breath of the deadly upas tree; one may, by great good fortune, succeed in blacking the eye of the basilisk; one might even dodge the attentions of Cerberus and Argus, but no man, alive or dead, can escape the gaze of the Rubberer.

New York is the Caoutchouc City. There are many, of course, who go their ways, making money, without turning to the right or the left, but there is a tribe abroad wonderfully composed, like the Martians, solely of eyes and means of locomotion.

These devotees of curiosity swarm, like flies, in a moment in a struggling, breathless circle about the scene of an unusual occurrence. If a workman opens a manhole, if a street car runs over a man from North Tarrytown, if a little boy drops an egg on his way home from the grocery, if a casual house or two drops into the subway, if a lady loses a nickel through a hole in the lisle thread, if the police drag a telephone and a racing chart forth from an Ibsen Society reading-room, if Senator Depew or Mr. Chuck Connors walks out to take the air -- if any of these incidents or accidents takes place, you will see the mad, irresistible rush of the "rubber" tribe to the spot.

The importance of the event does not count. They gaze with equal interest and absorption at a chorus girl or at a man painting a liver pill sign. They will form as deep a cordon around a man with a club-foot as they will around a balked automobile. They have the furor rubberendi. They are optical gluttons, feasting and fattening on the misfortunes of their fellow beings. They gloat and pore and glare and squint and stare with their fishy eyes like goggle-eyed perch at the book baited with calamity.

It would seem that Cupid would find these ocular vampires too cold game for his calorific shafts, but have we not yet to discover an immune even among the Protozoa? Yes, beautiful Romance descended upon two of this tribe, and love came into their hearts as they crowded about the prostrate form of a man who had been run over by a brewery wagon.

William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an expert at such gatherings. With an expression of intense happiness on his features, he stood over the victim of the accident, listening to his groans as if to the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators had swelled to a closely packed circle William saw a violent commotion in the crowd opposite him. Men were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of some moving body that clove them like the rush of a tornado. With elbows, umbrella, hat-pin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty, Violet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the first row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on the 5:30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked centre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh married and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had finished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.

The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and Violet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true Rubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the ambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their necks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only in the after-taste -- in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at the houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite than the opium-eater's ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were connoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment from every incident.

Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a brown birthmark on her neck as large as a silver half-dollar. William fixed his eyes upon it. William Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her gaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face they stood thus for moments, each staring at the other. Etiquette would not allow them to speak; but in the Caoutchouc City it is permitted to gaze without stint at the trees in the parks and at the physical blemishes of a fellow creature.

At length with a sigh they parted. But Cupid had been the driver of the brewery wagon, and the wheel that broke a leg united two fond hearts.

The next meeting of the hero and heroine was in front of a board fence near Broadway. The day had been a disappointing one. There had been no fights on the street, children had kept from under the wheels of the street cars, cripples and fat men in negligée shirts were scarce; nobody seemed to be inclined to slip on banana peels or fall down with heart disease. Even the sport from Kokomo, Ind., who claims to be a cousin of ex-Mayor Low and scatters nickels from a cab window, had not put in his appearance. There was nothing to stare at, and William Pry had premonitions of ennui.

But he saw a large crowd scrambling and pushing excitedly in front of a billboard. Sprinting for it, he knocked down an old woman and a child carrying a bottle of milk, and fought his way like a demon into the mass of spectators. Already in the inner line stood Violet Seymour with one sleeve and two gold fillings gone, a corset steel puncture and a sprained wrist, but happy. She was looking at what there was to see. A man was painting upon the fence: "Eat Bricklets -- They Fill Your Face."

Violet blushed when she saw William Pry. William jabbed a lady in a black silk raglan in the ribs, kicked a boy in the shin, bit an old gentleman on the left ear and managed to crowd nearer to Violet. They stood for an hour looking at the man paint the letters. Then William's love could be repressed no longer. He touched her on the arm.

"Come with me," he said. "I know where there is a bootblack without an Adam's apple."

She looked up at him shyly, yet with unmistakable love transfiguring her countenance.

"And you have saved it for me?" she asked, trembling with the first dim ecstasy of a woman beloved.

Together they hurried to the bootblack's stand. An hour they spent there gazing at the malformed youth.

A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the sidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clanging up William pressed her hand joyously. "Four ribs at least and a compound fracture," he whispered, swiftly. "You are not sorry that you met me, are you, dearest?"

"Me?" said Violet, returning the pressure. "Sure not. I could stand all day rubbering with you."

The climax of the romance occurred a few days later. Perhaps the reader will remember the intense excitement into which the city was thrown when Eliza Jane, a colored woman, was served with a subpœna. The Rubber Tribe encamped on the spot. With his own hands William Pry placed a board upon two beer kegs in the street opposite Eliza Jane's residence. He and Violet sat there for three days and nights. Then it occurred to a detective to open the door and serve the subpœna. He sent for a kinetoscope and did so.

Two souls with such congenial tastes could not long remain apart. As a policeman drove them away with his night stick that evening they plighted their troth. The seeds of love had been well sown, and had grown up, hardy and vigorous, into a -- let us call it a rubber plant.

The wedding of William Pry and Violet Seymour was set for June 10. The Big Church in the Middle of the Block was banked high with flowers. The populous tribe of Rubberers the world over is rampant over weddings. They are the pessimists of the pews. They are the guyers of the groom and the banterers of the bride. They come to laugh at your marriage, and should you escape from Hymen's tower on the back of death's pale steed they will come to the funeral and sit in the same pew and cry over your luck. Rubber will stretch.

The church was lighted. A grosgrain carpet lay over the asphalt to the edge of the sidewalk. Bridesmaids were patting one another's sashes awry and speaking of the Bride's freckles. Coachmen tied white ribbons on their whips and bewailed the space of time between drinks. The minister was musing over his possible fee, essaying conjecture whether it would suffice to purchase a new broadcloth suit for himself and a photograph of Laura Jane Libbey for his wife. Yea, Cupid was in the air.

And outside the church, oh, my brothers, surged and heaved the rank and file of the tribe of Rubberers. In two bodies they were, with the grosgrain carpet and cops with clubs between. They crowded like cattle, they fought, they pressed and surged and swayed and trampled one another to see a bit of a girl in a white veil acquire license to go through a man's pockets while he sleeps.

But the hour for the wedding came and went, and the bride and bridegroom came not. And impatience gave way to alarm and alarm brought about search, and they were not found. And then two big policemen took a hand and dragged out of the furious mob of onlookers a crushed and trampled thing, with a wedding ring in its vest pocket and a shredded and hysterical woman beating her way to the carpet's edge, ragged, bruised and obstreperous.

William Pry and Violet Seymour, creatures of habit, had joined in the seething game of the spectators, unable to resist the overwhelming desire to gaze upon themselves entering, as bride and bridegroom, the rose-decked church.

Rubber will out.

[AAKOJ]

Madame Nelson, the beautiful American, had come to us from Paris, equipped with a phenomenal voice and solid Italian technique. She had immediately sung her way into the hearts of Berlin music-lovers, provided that you care to call a mixture of snobbishness, sophisticated impressionableness and goose-like imitativeness--heart. She had, therefore, been acquired by one of our most distinguished opera houses at a large salary and with long leaves of absence. I use the plural of opera house in order that no one may try to scent out the facts.

Now we had her, more especially our world of Lotharios had her. Not the younger sons of high finance, who make the boudoirs unsafe with their tall collars and short breeches; nor the bearers of ancient names who, having hung up their uniforms in the evening, assume monocle and bracelet and drag these through second and third-class drawing-rooms. No, she belonged to those worthy men of middle age, who have their palaces in the west end, whose wives one treats with infinite respect, and to whose evenings one gives a final touch of elegance by singing two or three songs for nothing.

Then she committed her first folly. She went travelling with an Italian tenor. "For purposes of art," was the official version. But the time for the trip--the end of August--had been unfortunately chosen. And, as she returned ornamented with scratches administered by the tenor's pursuing wife--no one believed her.

Next winter she ruined a counsellor of a legation and magnate's son so thoroughly that he decamped to an unfrequented equatorial region, leaving behind him numerous promissory notes of questionable value.

This poor fellow was revenged the following winter by a dark-haired Roumanian fiddler, who beat her and forced her to carry her jewels to a pawnshop, where they were redeemed at half price by their original donor and used to adorn the plump, firm body of a stupid little ballet dancer.

Of course her social position was now forfeited. But then Berlin forgets so rapidly. She became proper again and returned to her earlier inclinations for gentlemen of middle life with extensive palaces and extensive wives. So there were quite a few houses--none of the strictest tone, of course--that were very glad to welcome the radiant blonde with her famous name and fragrant and modest gowns--from Paquin at ten thousand francs a piece.

At the same time she developed a remarkable business instinct. Her connections with the stock exchange permitted her to speculate without the slightest risk. For what gallant broker would let a lovely woman lose? Thus she laid the foundation of a goodly fortune, which was made to assume stately proportions by a tour through the United States, and was given a last touch of solidity by a successful speculation in Dresden real estate.

Furthermore, it would be unjust to conceal the fact that her most recent admirer, the wool manufacturer Wormser, had a considerable share in this hurtling rise of her fortunes.

Wormser guarded his good repute carefully. He insisted that his illegitimate inclinations never lack the stamp of highest elegance. He desired that they be given the greatest possible publicity at race-meets and first nights. He didn't care if people spoke with a degree of rancour, if only he was connected with the temporary lady of his heart.

Now, to be sure, there was a Mrs. Wormser. She came of a good Frankfort family. Dowry: a million and a half. She was modern to the very tips of her nervous, restless fingers.

This lady was inspired by such lofty social ideals that she would have considered an inelegant liaison on her husband's part, an insult not only offered to good taste in general, but to her own in particular. Such an one she would, never have forgiven. On the other hand, she approved of Madame Nelson thoroughly. She considered her the most costly and striking addition to her household. Quite figuratively, of course. Everything was arranged with the utmost propriety. At great charity festivals the two ladies exchanged a friendly glance, and they saw to it that their gowns were never made after the same model.

Then it happened that the house of Wormser was shaken. It wasn't a serious breakdown, but among the good things that had to be thrown overboard belonged--at the demand of the helping Frankforters--Madame Nelson.

And so she waited, like a virgin, for love, like a man in the weather bureau, for a given star. She felt that her star was yet to rise.

This was the situation when, one day, Herr von Karlstadt had himself presented to her. He was a captain of industry; international reputation; ennobled; the not undistinguished son of a great father. He had not hitherto been found in the market of love, but it was said of him that notable women had committed follies for his sake. All in all, he was a man who commanded the general interest in quite a different measure from Wormser.

But artistic successes had raised Madame Nelson's name once more, too, and when news of the accomplished fact circulated, society found it hard to decide as to which of the two lent the other a more brilliant light, or which was the more to be envied.

However that was, history was richer by a famous pair of lovers.

But, just as there had been a Mrs. Wormser, so there was a Mrs. von Karlstadt.

And it is this lady of whom I wish to speak.

Mentally as well as physically Mara von Karlstadt did not belong to that class of persons which imperatively commands the attention of the public. She was sensitive to the point of madness, a little sensuous, something of an enthusiast, coquettish only in so far as good taste demanded it, and hopelessly in love with her husband. She was in love with him to the extent that she regarded the conquests which occasionally came to him, spoiled as he was, as the inevitable consequences of her fortunate choice. They inspired her with a certain woeful anger and also with a degree of pride.

The daughter of a great land owner in South Germany, she had been brought up in seclusion, and had learned only very gradually how to glide unconcernedly through the drawing-rooms. A tense smile upon her lips, which many took for irony, was only a remnant of her old diffidence. Delicate, dark in colouring, with a fine cameo-like profile, smooth hair and a tawny look in her near-sighted eyes--thus she glided about in society, and few but friends of the house took any notice of her.

And this woman who found her most genuine satisfaction in the peacefulness of life, who was satisfied if she could slip into her carriage at midnight without the annoyance of one searching glance, of one inquiring word, saw herself suddenly and without suspecting the reason, become the centre of a secret and almost insulting curiosity. She felt a whispering behind her in society; she saw from her box the lenses of many opera glasses pointing her way.

The conversation of her friends began to teem with hints, and into the tone of the men whom she knew there crept a kind of tender compassion which pained her even though she knew not how to interpret it.

For the present no change was to be noted in the demeanour of her husband. His club and his business had always kept him away from home a good deal, and if a few extra hours of absence were now added, it was easy to account for these in harmless ways, or rather, not to account for them at all, since no one made any inquiry.

Then, however, anonymous letters began to come--thick, fragrant ones with stamped coronets, and thin ones on ruled paper with the smudges of soiled fingers.

She burned the first batch; the second she handed to her husband.

The latter, who was not far from forty, and who had trained himself to an attitude of imperious brusqueness, straightened up, knotted his bushy Bismarck moustache, and said:

"Well, suppose it is true. What have you to lose?"

She did not burst into tears of despair; she did not indulge in fits of rage; she didn't even leave the room with quiet dignity; her soul seemed neither wounded nor broken. She was not even affrighted. She only thought: "I have forgiven him so much; why not forgive him this, too?"

And as she had shared him before without feeling herself degraded, so she would try to share him again.

But she soon observed that this logic of the heart would prove wanting in this instance.

In former cases she had concealed his weakness under a veil of care and considerateness. The fear of discovery had made a conscious but silent accessory of her. When it was all over she breathed deep relief at the thought; "I am the only one who even suspected."

This time all the world seemed invited to witness the spectacle.

For now she understood all that, in recent days had tortured her like an unexplained blot, an alien daub in the face which every one sees but he whom it disfigures. Now she knew what the smiling hints of her friends and the consoling desires of men had meant. Now she recognised the reason why she was wounded by the attention of all.

She was "the wife of the man whom Madame Nelson ..."

And so torturing a shame came upon her as though she herself were the cause of the disgrace with which the world seemed to overwhelm her.

This feeling had not come upon her suddenly. At first a stabbing curiosity had awakened in her a self-torturing expectation, not without its element of morbid attraction. Daily she asked herself: "What will develope to-day?"

With quivering nerves and cramped heart, she entered evening after evening, for the season was at its height, the halls of strangers on her husband's arm.

And it was always the same thing. The same glances that passed from her to him and from him to her, the same compassionate sarcasm upon averted faces, the same hypocritical delicacy in conversation, the same sudden silence as soon as she turned to any group of people to listen--the same cruel pillory for her evening after evening, night after night.

And if all this had not been, she would have felt it just the same.

And in these drawing-rooms there were so many women whose husbands' affairs were the talk of the town. Even her predecessor, Mrs. Wormser, had passed over the expensive immorality of her husband with a self-sufficing smile and a condescending jest, and the world had bowed down to her respectfully, as it always does when scenting a temperament that it is powerless to wound.

Why had this martyrdom come to her, of all people?

Thus, half against her own will, she began to hide, to refuse this or that invitation, and to spend the free evenings in the nursery, watching over the sleep of her boys and weaving dreams of a new happiness. The illness of her older child gave her an excuse for withdrawing from society altogether and her husband did not restrain her.

It had never come to an explanation between them, and as he was always considerate, even tender, and as sharp speeches were not native to her temper, the peace of the home was not disturbed.

Soon it seemed to her, too, as though the rude inquisitiveness of the world were slowly passing away. Either one had abandoned the critical condition of her wedded happiness for more vivid topics, or else she had become accustomed to the state of affairs.

She took up a more social life, and the shame which she had felt in appearing publicly with her husband gradually died out.

What did not die out, however, was a keen desire to know the nature and appearance of the woman in whose hands lay her own destiny. How did she administer the dear possession that fate had put in her power? And when and how would she give it back?

She threw aside the last remnant of reserve and questioned friends. Then, when she was met by a smile of compassionate ignorance, she asked women. These were more ready to report. But she would not and could not believe what she was told. He had surely not degraded himself into being one of a succession of moneyed rakes. It was clear to her that, in order to soothe her grief, people slandered the woman and him with her.

In order to watch her secretly, she veiled heavily and drove to the theatre where Madame Nelson was singing. Shadowlike she cowered in the depths of a box which she had rented under an assumed name and followed with a kind of pained voluptuousness the ecstasies of love which the other woman, fully conscious of the victorious loveliness of her body, unfolded for the benefit of the breathless crowd.

With such an abandoned raising of her radiant arms, she threw herself upon his breast; with that curve of her modelled limbs, she lay before his knees.

And in her awakened a reverent, renouncing envy of a being who had so much to give, beside whom she was but a dim and poor shadow, weary with motherhood, corroded with grief.

At the same time there appeared a California mine owner, a multi-millionaire, with whom her husband had manifold business dealings. He introduced his daughters into society and himself gave a number of luxurious dinners at which he tried to assemble guests of the most exclusive character.

Just as they were about to enter a carriage to drive to the "Bristol," to one of these dinners, a message came which forced Herr von Karlstadt to take an immediate trip to his factories. He begged his wife to go instead, and she did not refuse.

The company was almost complete and the daughter of the mine owner was doing the honours of the occasion with appropriate grace when the doors of the reception room opened for the last time and through the open doorway floated rather than walked--Madame Nelson.

The petrified little group turned its glance of inquisitive horror upon Mrs. von Karlstadt, while the mine owner's daughter adjusted the necessary introductions with a grand air.

Should she go or not? No one was to be found who would offer her his arm. Her feet were paralysed. And she remained.

The company sat down at table. And since fate, in such cases, never does its work by halves, it came to pass that Madame Nelson was assigned to a seat immediately opposite her.

The people present seemed grateful to her that they had not been forced to witness a scene, and overwhelmed her with delicate signs of this gratitude. Slowly her self-control returned to her. She dared to look about her observantly, and, behold, Madame Nelson appealed to her.

Her French was faultless, her manners equally so, and when the Californian drew her into the conversation, she practised the delicate art of modest considerateness to the extent of talking past Mrs. von Karlstadt in such a way that those who did not know were not enlightened and those who knew felt their anxiety depart.

In order to thank her for this alleviation of a fatally painful situation, Mrs. von Karlstadt occasionally turned perceptibly toward the singer. For this Madame Nelson was grateful in her turn. Thus their glances began to meet in friendly fashion, their voices to cross, the atmosphere became less constrained from minute to minute, and when the meal was over the astonished assembly had come to the conclusion that Mrs. von Karlstadt was ignorant of the true state of affairs.

The news of this peculiar meeting spread like a conflagration. Her women friends hastened to congratulate her on her strength of mind; her male friends praised her loftiness of spirit. She went through the degradation which she had suffered as though it were a triumph. Only her husband went about for a time with an evil conscience and a frowning forehead.

Months went by. The quietness of summer intervened, but the memory of that evening rankled in her and blinded her soul. Slowly the thought arose in her which was really grounded in vanity, but looked, in its execution, like suffering love--the thought that she would legitimise her husband's irregularity in the face of society.

Hence when the season began again she wrote a letter to Madame Nelson in which she invited her, in a most cordial way, to sing at an approaching function in her home. She proffered this request, not only in admiration of the singer's gifts, but also, as she put it, "to render nugatory a persistent and disagreeable rumour."

Madame Nelson, to whom this chance of repairing her fair fame was very welcome, had the indiscretion to assent, and even to accept the condition of entire secrecy in regard to the affair.

The chronicler may pass over the painful evening in question with suitable delicacy of touch. Nothing obvious or crass took place. Madame Nelson sang three enchanting songs, accompanied by a first-rate pianist. A friend of the house of whom the hostess had requested this favour took Madame Nelson to the buffet. A number of guileless individuals surrounded that lady with hopeful adoration. An ecstatic mood prevailed. The one regrettable feature of the occasion was that the host had to withdraw--as quietly as possible, of course--on account of a splitting head-ache.

Berlin society, which felt wounded in the innermost depth of its ethics, never forgave the Karlstadts for this evening. I believe that in certain circles the event is still remembered, although years have passed.

Its immediate result, however, was a breach between man and wife. Mara went to the Riviera, where she remained until spring.

An apparent reconciliation was then patched up, but its validity was purely external.

Socially, too, things readjusted themselves, although people continued to speak of the Karlstadt house with a smile that asked for indulgence.

Mara felt this acutely, and while her husband appeared oftener and more openly with his mistress, she withdrew into the silence of her inner chambers.

* * * * *

Then she took a lover.

Or, rather, she was taken by him.

A lonely evening ... A fire in the chimney ... A friend who came in by accident ... The same friend who had taken care of Madame Nelson for her on that memorable evening ... The fall of snow without ... A burst of confidence ... A sob ... A nestling against the caressing hand ... It was done ...

Months passed. She experienced not one hour of intoxication, not one of that inner absolution which love brings. It was moral slackness and weariness that made her yield again....

Then the consequences appeared.

Of course, the child could not, must not, be born. And it was not born. One can imagine the horror of that tragic time: the criminal flame of sleepless nights, the blood-charged atmosphere of guilty despair, the moans of agony that had to be throttled behind closed doors.

What remained to her was lasting invalidism.

The way from her bed to an invalid's chair was long and hard.

Time passed. Improvements came and gave place to lapses in her condition. Trips to watering-places alternated with visits to sanatoriums.

In those places sat the pallid, anaemic women who had been tortured and ruined by their own or alien guilt. There they sat and engaged in wretched flirtations with flighty neurasthenics.

And gradually things went from bad to worse. The physicians shrugged their friendly shoulders.

And then it happened that Madame Nelson felt the inner necessity of running away with a handsome young tutor. She did this less out of passion than to convince the world--after having thoroughly fleeced it--of the unselfishness of her feelings. For it was her ambition to be counted among the great lovers of all time.

* * * * *

One evening von Karlstadt entered the sick chamber of his wife, sat down beside her bed and silently took her hand. She was aware of everything, and asked with a gentle smile upon her white lips:

"Be frank with me: did you love her, at least?"

He laughed shrilly. "What should have made me love this--business lady?"

They looked at each other long. Upon her face death had set its seal. His hair was gray, his self-respect broken, his human worth squandered....

And then, suddenly, they clung to each other, and leaned their foreheads against each other, and wept.

[AAKOJ]

Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted. There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were real ones. There was always something about them that was not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a real princess.
One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.
It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess.
Well, we'll soon find that out, thought the old queen. But she said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.
On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's horrible!"
Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.
Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.
So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it.
There, that is a true story.

[AAKOJ]

It's a hot day and I hate my wife.

We're playing Scrabble. That's how bad it is. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble.

I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman.

My letters are crap.

I play, appropriately, BEGIN. With the N on the little pink star. Twenty-two points.

I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Clack, clack, clack. I hate her. If she wasn't around, I'd be doing something interesting right now. I'd be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I'd be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I'd be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - I don't know, but I'd be doing something.

She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She's beating me already. Maybe I should kill her.

If only I had a D, then I could play MURDER. That would be a sign. That would be permission.

I start chewing on my U. It's a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U.

As I'm picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking - the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I'll do it right now. I'll finish her off.

My rack spells MIHZPA. Plus the U in my mouth. Damn.

The heat of the sun is pushing at me through the window. I can hear buzzing insects outside. I hope they're not bees. My cousin Harold swallowed a bee when he was nine, his throat swelled up and he died. I hope that if they are bees, they fly into my wife's throat.

She plays SWEATIER, using all her letters. 24 points plus a 50 point bonus. If it wasn't too hot to move I would strangle her right now.

I am getting sweatier. It needs to rain, to clear the air. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I find a good word. HUMID on a double-word score, using the D of JINXED. The U makes a little splash of saliva when I put it down. Another 22 points. I hope she has lousy letters.

< 2 >
She tells me she has lousy letters. For some reason, I hate her more.

She plays FAN, with the F on a double-letter, and gets up to fill the kettle and turn on the air conditioning.

It's the hottest day for ten years and my wife is turning on the kettle. This is why I hate my wife. I play ZAPS, with the Z doubled, and she gets a static shock off the air conditioning unit. I find this remarkably satisfying.

She sits back down with a heavy sigh and starts fiddling with her letters again. Clack clack. Clack clack. I feel a terrible rage build up inside me. Some inner poison slowly spreading through my limbs, and when it gets to my fingertips I am going to jump out of my chair, spilling the Scrabble tiles over the floor, and I am going to start hitting her again and again and again.

The rage gets to my fingertips and passes. My heart is beating. I'm sweating. I think my face actually twitches. Then I sigh, deeply, and sit back into my chair. The kettle starts whistling. As the whistle builds it makes me feel hotter.

She plays READY on a double-word for 18 points, then goes to pour herself a cup of tea. No I do not want one.

I steal a blank tile from the letter bag when she's not looking, and throw back a V from my rack. She gives me a suspicious look. She sits back down with her cup of tea, making a cup-ring on the table, as I play an 8-letter word: CHEATING, using the A of READY. 64 points, including the 50-point bonus, which means I'm beating her now.

She asks me if I cheated.

I really, really hate her.

She plays IGNORE on the triple-word for 21 points. The score is 153 to her, 155 to me.

The steam rising from her cup of tea makes me feel hotter. I try to make murderous words with the letters on my rack, but the best I can do is SLEEP.

My wife sleeps all the time. She slept through an argument our next-door neighbours had that resulted in a broken door, a smashed TV and a Teletubby Lala doll with all the stuffing coming out. And then she bitched at me for being moody the next day from lack of sleep.

< 3 >
If only there was some way for me to get rid of her.

I spot a chance to use all my letters. EXPLODES, using the X of JINXED. 72 points. That'll show her.

As I put the last letter down, there is a deafening bang and the air conditioning unit fails.

My heart is racing, but not from the shock of the bang. I don't believe it - but it can't be a coincidence. The letters made it happen. I played the word EXPLODES, and it happened - the air conditioning unit exploded. And before, I played the word CHEATING when I cheated. And ZAP when my wife got the electric shock. The words are coming true. The letters are choosing their future. The whole game is - JINXED.

My wife plays SIGN, with the N on a triple-letter, for 10 points.

I have to test this.

I have to play something and see if it happens. Something unlikely, to prove that the letters are making it happen. My rack is ABQYFWE. That doesn't leave me with a lot of options. I start frantically chewing on the B.

I play FLY, using the L of EXPLODES. I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, waiting for the sensation of rising up from my chair. Waiting to fly.

Stupid. I open my eyes, and there's a fly. An insect, buzzing around above the Scrabble board, surfing the thermals from the tepid cup of tea. That proves nothing. The fly could have been there anyway.

I need to play something unambiguous. Something that cannot be misinterpreted. Something absolute and final. Something terminal. Something murderous.

My wife plays CAUTION, using a blank tile for the N. 18 points.

My rack is AQWEUK, plus the B in my mouth. I am awed by the power of the letters, and frustrated that I cannot wield it. Maybe I should cheat again, and pick out the letters I need to spell SLASH or SLAY.

Then it hits me. The perfect word. A powerful, dangerous, terrible word.

I play QUAKE for 19 points.

I wonder if the strength of the quake will be proportionate to how many points it scored. I can feel the trembling energy of potential in my veins. I am commanding fate. I am manipulating destiny.

My wife plays DEATH for 34 points, just as the room starts to shake.

I gasp with surprise and vindication - and the B that I was chewing on gets lodged in my throat. I try to cough. My face goes red, then blue. My throat swells. I draw blood clawing at my neck. The earthquake builds to a climax.

I fall to the floor. My wife just sits there, watching