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A Fire Burns

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A fire rages across the fields. It pours forth from angry mouths. It consumes everyone in its path… Then, like all fires, there soon comes a time when everything is thoroughly blackened. All is chaos and deprivation.

The heat dies down. Angry faces look for more victims but there is nothing further to consume.

Life pauses.

There remain hot spots underground. These are forgotten as the sky clears and seeds sprout through the ashes, pushing up green stems and leaves that search for sunlight.

The same people who were victims now grow back to full life as the diminishing hot spots simmer deeply under rocks.

Those who are inclined, clean up the mess.

The rest try to forget. And they do.

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Lost

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A man in a hot air balloon realized he was lost. He reduced altitude and spotted a woman below. He descended a bit more and shouted,

“Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don’t know where I am.”

The woman below replied, “You are in a hot air balloon hovering approximately 30 feet above the ground. You are between 40 and 41 degrees north latitude and between 59 and 60 degrees west longitude.”

“You must be an engineer,” said the balloonist.

“I am,” replied the woman, “how did you know?”

“Well,” answered the balloonist, “everything you told me is technically correct, but I have no idea what to make of your information, and the fact is I am still lost. Frankly, you’ve not been much help so far.”

The woman below responded, “You must be in Management.”

“I am,” replied the balloonist, “but how did you know?”

“Well,” said the woman, “you don’t know where you are or where you are going.  You have risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air.  You made a promise which you have no idea how to keep, and you expect people beneath you to solve your problems. The fact is you are in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but now, somehow, it’s my fault.”

Shorts

The Soft Shoe

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The Soft Shoe and the Whole Damn Thing

:by George Opacic

Twenty-six union business managers are squeezed together on one side of a row of doubled tables with white linen covers. Business owners are on the other side.

Since there is the width of two tables separating both sides, the echoey room has to be large. Expansive windows run across the back. Unlike other windows in the smaller meetings rooms, these are covered with adjustable blinds that come up from the bottom.

They are set at half-way up, strategically allowing the sun to shine directly onto the business people occupying the far side of the tables. The faces of those near the windows, union representatives from across the province, are obscured by the bright light behind them.

The central union figure, Sandy, is a large-faced, large-bodied man dressed in his severe

dark blue “negotiations suit”, with a red patterned tie included. It is loosely handing below his chin. Sandy is finishing his presentation; he is working himself up to a rousing crescendo. Angry words are hurled, along with occasional theatrical spit, toward Clay, the smaller man opposite. Clay absently dodges them as if they are ping pong balls. Even as Sandy’s face is darkened by shadow with sun behind him, his redden features can be seen to be bulging with emotion.

The recipient of the barrage, Clay, is wearing his neutral sober face, though his tightly shaved mustache twitches occasionally. His mostly bald head almost sinks into the collar of a herringbone suit. The suit manages to carry the appearance of both a newly-stiff collar and incongruous worn elbow-pads. Under the verbal onslaught, Clay sinks lower into his suit in an attempt to use the collar as earmuffs.

Sandy’s body rises with his crescendo and he suddenly pulls off a shoe and bangs it on the table, Khrushchev-like. “And we WON’T BE PUSHED AROUND ANYMORE!”

Most of his own side grunt in support of the outburst. They all mumble various levels of approval as Sandy plops back down, exhausted, satisfied with his performance. Sandy pulls a hanky across his face to wipe the sweat away.

On the other side, all but two of the twenty-seven contractor-representatives are startled.

They quietly exchange worried looks. Clay glances to his left, checking on Henry, his “Co-Chair” and newly appointed Director of Labour Relations.

With the shoe banging, Henry remembers the 1960s story of Khrushchev’s UN shoe-banging incident followed by Harold Macmillan’s dry comment. Henry is thinking, “May wehave a translation of that please?”

Henry is younger than all but one at the table. He is taller, with a thick black moustache and full head of black hair. Henry’s light, striped suit is calculated to blend in to most backgrounds. With this sun shining directly on it, the suit glares in the face of the union  reps who look at him. So they don’t look.

Within, Henry is as concerned as the others in his group. Outwardly, he has learned to strictly control his facial muscles. They remain perfectly relaxed, because he has willed

them so. Allowing the reverberations to die down for a minute, Clay’s head rises fully above his collar. Seeing him out of the corner of his eye, Henry is reminded of a groundhog poking up in a field back on his farm. Thinking, He’s more like the wolverine playfully scratching his back on a tree then suddenly taking off after you with a big mouthful of gleaming teeth.

Clay finally speaks. “Thank you, Sandy, for expressing your views about this clause. And, of course, we will take it under advisement.”

Sandy and Clay exchange neutral nods.

“And now, I would like to suggest that we adjourn talks for this first day. Over the afternoon we have been able to exchange our positions frankly. We have a lot to consider in caucus.

Before we commit to the dates for further talks, are we agreed to reconvene tomorrow at eight?”

The young union rep from a smaller local can’t help getting in with, “That’s a.m., right?”

Sandy’s head snaps angrily toward the newbie, who shrinks back into his seat, away from the glare of the union boss-of-bosses.

Sandy turns his head back to Clay. Ignoring the interruption from the young fellow across the table, Clay looks at Sandy and receives a nod, then both scan up and down their sides of the table. No dissent.

“Fine, then. A productive day.” Clay turns to Henry, “Caucus for half an hour for our side, then freshen up,” a little louder, “and for those who want, we can meet in the bar at seven?” Clay is directing that to his people but glances at Sandy, whose nod comes at the same time as Henry’s.

Entering the bright, noisy hotel bar, Henry stands before the maître d’, who offers, “Would you like a table, sir, or do you prefer the bar?”

Henry is new at this, freshly hired out of university with a degree in labour relations. He did very well in class and as a graduate student. Now in the real world, he fully understands that there are many different things to learn. Henry prides himself on being a sponge for knowledge. His attitude is, I am here to learn.

“Not sure… I’m handling the union negotiations?…”

“Of course, sir. We have a quiet table in the back corner. How many would there be?”

“Make it a table for four, but it is likely to be just two of us. I think the others are going to be at the bar.”

He notices groups of his people and theirs, and a joint group happily and sometimes roughly partaking of libations. Their main concentration appears to be on the hockey game being shown on two televisions above the bar.

As Henry steps to follow the maître d’, Clay arrives. He gets the maître d’s attention with a raised hand, “Hold the table for us, please, but we’ll sit at the bar for a few minutes.”

“Fine, sir.”

Clay heads right for Sandy, who has been alone at the bar for at least one drink so far. His tie is missing and the top two buttons on his shirt are open. Henry can’t help but notice the greying chest hair spilling out.

Seating himself next to Sandy, Clay smiles, “Nice display.”

Sandy grins wryly, “Thanks. Needed that for… you know who.” He nods at Henry, who seats himself beside Clay. “This is new for you?”

Glancing at Clay, “Ah, yes. Very interesting.”

Clay grins.

The bartender arrives, “What can I get you gents?”

“Whiskey. Neat.”

“Ah, a screwdriver, please.”

The bartender quickly serves Clay his whiskey then prepares the screwdriver. Henry takes his tall glass, “Thanks. Ah, please put the whiskey and my drink on my room tab? 401.’

“Of course, sir.”

The hockey game takes their attention for a minute.

After a while, Sandy turns to Clay, patting his arm, “How’s Shirley doing?”

Shaking his head, “As well as can be expected. You know how it is. The chemo is really tough. I try to keep her spirits up, but… you know.”

Sympathetically, “Yeah. Tough. Took my Mary three months of torture… Thank you for coming to the memorial, Clay.” He pats Clay’s arm again.

Henry didn’t know about Clay’s wife. Nor Sandy’s. Much to learn.

Sandy changes the subject. “Have you filled in your new boy?”

A wry grin, “He’s a university student, Sandy. Give him time.”

“Teach him how to dance…” He nods knowingly. “Got to go.” As Sandy rises he leans toward Henry, “That Khrushchev was for my Prince George guy.” He winks. “Claude still thinks he can get another two bucks plus the bump to 15 minutes break. Oh. Clay, keep away, stay away from Popovich from Kamloops. He’s spoiling for a fight.” Sandy half-nods, looking for a positive response.

“We’ll see.” Clay flashes a pixy smile on then off. “Might need to shake things up some time… Talk later.”

Sandy puts his face close to Clay’s ear, “Fuck off. Don’t use him, for both our asses. The shit-face’s a time bomb.” Clay nods and pats Sandy’s arm encouragingly as he and Henry drop off their seats as well.

Making their way to the table, Clay lowers his voice to Henry. “The secret to construction negotiations is, it’s a dance.” He winks at Henry as they seat themselves at their table.

“Not the same as the cand-asses in manufacturing. Not even close.”

“A dance.” Henry takes in this next morsel of information.

Clay settles in, then leans toward Henry across the table. “It’s a dance. We all know the moves. The key is not to step on someone’s toes… Even the small fry – they can squeal every bit as loud as the others. The dance moves are already known. Everybody follows the steps. It has to predictable, Henry. If someone screws up, there’s millions of dollars worth of projects at risk. When it comes down to it, who cares a rat’s ass about Billy’s Plumbing in Squamish. But if the big dam is delayed by a week, all hell’s going to break loose.”

Clay relaxes back into his seat. He looks around, satisfied that nobody is within hearing distance. “It’s not just the money on the line. If we put a crimp in the government’s pet projects, or if the public starts yelling at them, the government’ll throw some mediator at us and then cook up some artsy-fartsy legislation to threaten us and, as likely as not, the mediator’ll be clueless about what’s really going on. That would not be good for either the union business managers or our major owners. Nobody wants that… Except for a couple of the old-time rabble-rousers from the bad old days who don’t know any better just ‘cause they got a commy burr up their ass. So Sandy had to make like a commy to feed them their shit… Anyway… You did well. Just follow my lead. Don’t say anything unless I ask for it…

“Hah! Sandy’s still fuming about the idiot kid who opened his trap. NObody speaks at the table but the two friggen speakers. If I ever ask you a question, just tell me exactly what I want to hear and then shut up…” Clay softens his tone, “Sorry. That’s one of the dance no-nos. His new guy’s your age. Still learning… Here, Brian from Richmond gave me his psych notes.” Clay smiles. “Oh. You notice they’re sitting with their backs to the window?”

Henry agrees. “Old trick. It’s like who’s going to grab the bat handle first. If you know how many hands it takes to get to the top… You ever play ball?”

Nodding, “Yeah. Figured that one out fast. If the bat got tossed to me, I’d take a hit on the head to grab it at the right spot.” They both smile.

“So with the sun behind them, we can’t see their faces, their expressions. Brian is sitting off to the side and he’s really good with body language. Read his stuff.”

Clay reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a small pack of sheets folded into three. He hands the papers to Henry. “Look it over. Brian also figures Claude and Poppy are the loose canons. Think about how that can be used if we ever need it. Oh, and give me your

thoughts on Alexander. His company’s in trouble – lost that big pulp mill job two days ago to Fox. Don’t want him screwing us up with some behind-the-scenes shit deal, right? Don’t do anything yet, but give me some options. Ok?”

“Right.” Henry remembers to pull out a scrap of paper to write down his notes. “Do we use electronics – I mean, like, hire surveillance pros?”

Clay shakes his head, “Naw. Leave that shit to the unions.”

The server arrives at their table. “Have you gentlemen decided?”

Clay is amused, “Huh! With what? Didn’t bring us the menus.”

“Oh! I’m very sorry, sir! I’ll be right back…”

Clay waves a hand. “No no. I know the menu by heart. Henry?”

“Well, I have an allergy to onions. Can you recommend something?”

During their wait for the meal and over the meal itself, Clay continues passing tidbits of information about how the real world of bargaining goes, interspersed with gossip about the characters on both sides.

Henry sponges it up. “What about Sandy. You must have crossed swords for a lot of years?”

“We don’t cross swords. We’re the medics. MASH. When anything goes wrong at our table, everyone suffers. You remember four years ago? The whole construction industry went out. Know why?”

Henry had been in third year at university. The topic had been discussed in a poly-sci class. He recites to Clay the prof’s conclusion that the strike had been inevitable because of the provincial political battles at the time and the black-knight attempted takeover of the major engineering firm which was bidding on the huge nuclear power station contract in Ontario. It would have taken away a lot of the skilled trades.

“Naw. It was mosquitoes and hunting.”

Henry is about to let a laugh escape. He turns it into a smile. “Ok. I’ll bite. What happened?”

“Ha ha. Ok, there was that large food plant being built in Coquitlam. And the SOB business manager for the UA, the previous one. And, there was the nice sunny weather that summer. The whole f..” Clay looks around for any raging grannies, “The whole friggen industry – from the managers down – everybody’d booked their two weeks hunting vacation for the open season. So when some kid apprentice goes running to the union about there being too many mosquitoes when he was climbing the building’s outside ladders, the business manager says, Down tools! Even then, Sandy and I could have stopped it, but the boss of the project firm, who wasn’t even in the Lower Mainland, picks up his phone, yells at both the government and the media, and we couldn’t do a damn thing. Hands tied. Two weeks later, everybody hauls back from camp with their empties and a moose or two, and we’re back to work. Millions lost. Government hopping mad. Legislation changed…

‘Course, it was that legislation that got you your job. So, good-news/bad-news, eh?”

“Mosquitoes, huh?”

Clay nods and rubs his hands. “All right. I’m ready for dessert!” He waves for the attention of the server.

Time passes a bit longer than Clay likes. He is not in the happiest mood when the server

finally saunters by.

“What pies you got?”

“Thank you, sir. Here is the dessert menu.”

Clay takes it and quickly settles on, “Pecan. Pecan pie. And not a little sliver, mind!”

It is Henry’s turn. “The apple, please.”

“Excellent choices, gentlemen. I’ll be back shortly.”

Many minutes later, the server returns and, with a flourish, deposits two large plates before them. Each plate has an elegant, almost visible circle of caramel drizzled around the perimeter. A hint of frosting has been introduced over the feature contents, which are each an engineering marvel of the thinnest slices, still standing vertically, of what must have been apple on one plate and pecan on the other.

Clay is not pleased.

“I said pie. Not a tiny sliver of pie. Mine isn’t even thick enough to have half a pecan in it sitting sideways!”

The server starts a chuckle, thinking Clay is joking, but the obvious anger stops him from digging a deeper hole.

“Sir. I am very sorry that our dessert chef has prepared these so, ah, thin. I will be back immediately with more substantial pieces.”

He is about to whisk the plates away when Clay catches his hand. “You didn’t understand me. When I said pie, I meant PIE! The whole damn PIE!”

“Ah…”

Henry jumps in. “The whole pie, please.”

Well, the server does return with two whole pies. They are big ones.

Henry has to ask for a doggy box for the rest of his. Clay finishes his pie off in record  ime.

The whole damn thing.

He also has a number of unkind words with the maître d’ about his server. Henry thinks, Probably fire him tonight.

On his way back to his room, Henry’s stomach is not comfortable. Not at all. Walking into his bathroom, he mumbles, “He may dance the soft shoe but lord help anyone who gets on this guy’s bad side.”

Commentary

Titanic Trump

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Titanic Trump

Imagine…

One hour before the inevitable, a very privileged occupant of a first class cabin complains to others around him about the lack of proper amenities afforded to him and his entourage. The food, liquor and service have not been to his liking. The privileged families agree with the insistent, pompous fellow.

A bachelor In the group suggests they should take over the ship to correct the situation. When asked how they could possibly do so with the approximately 900 crew members and almost 2000 other passengers on board? Surely, it is suggested, none of the lower decks would go along with such an audacious scheme. After all, none of them had anything good to say about the few upper crust passengers. “We all know that us upper crusters are sucking them dry, as it is.”

The bachelor replies, “They are easily manipulated. If we promise them better conditions and free food, they will gladly join us.”

A British upper cruster retorts, “They hate us. They see us as the very reason for their being on the bottom rungs of a very tall ladder. And I certainly am not going to give up any of my status nor portion of my food. And in no way on God’s green Earth am I going to allow any of them to take over even the closets of my quarters!”

“You don’t understand me. When I say ‘promise’, that doesn’t mean actually giving them anything.”

“Oh. Well then…” The upper cruster ponders. “But how we are possibly going to turn them to our side?”

“With chaos and deprivation. We pay off part of the crew to reduce the rations of the passengers, cut back on any heat and water they may be getting, make sure the loos are backing up on their levels… Chaos and deprivation. Then we say to them, ‘It is such a shame that the crew are treating you so very poorly. Why don’t you join us and we will make everything right again. Just like It used to be.'”

“Oh. That might work.”

And so, by the time of half an hour before the Inevitable, the rowdiest of the passengers are convinced to lead an insurrection against the crew. The surprised Captain and other officers are led to a lifeboat and told to leave, and do so before the Boss changes his mind and just dumps them overboard. Many of the lower ranks join the Boss, along with most of the crew.

Then a jolt happens that shakes the ship…

Image generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence

Fiction

To Serve Humanity?

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by George Opacic

The walls show an outdoor scene of tall green/brown redwoods with soft moss dripping off their lower branches. Shades of green and brown everywhere. Fallen trees nurse new growth. Ferns search for room to spread out. Through the tall canopy, shafts of sunlight slowly march along the uneven floor. Large woodpeckers tap the deeply gnarled bark of cedars, then dash off to another pockmarked tree. In the distance, crows call to each other. The smell is heavenly.

A knobby outcropping of rock nearby has a multicoloured fossil embedded near its top. Lichen and spots of whitish moss cover most of the surface except for the bit of fossilized tree. This has marks across it, as if it has been raked by a great paw.

An old man sits in a comfortable brown recliner, feet up, drinking in the scene before him. Even though he has only a pair of shorts on, he is fully relaxed.

He scratches absently across his slowing heaving belly, rubs an ear then glances to his right. “Can I have a tissue, please? I’m still leaking.”

A hand stretches from behind him with a hanky. “Will this do?” The voice is soft, very reassuring, perhaps female.

The old man, Sam, nods. “Environmentally friendlier.”

The person behind Sam pauses, then, “Than what?”

Sam smiles. “Than paper. Disposable paper…” He adds, “I usually use mine quite a few times before, you know, disposing of it.”

“Oh.” The disapproving tone is noticeable. She has somehow made him feel chagrined.

His mind is, as he calls it, woozy. Sam asks, “Is that why you’re here?”

The person behind him pats Sam’s arm as she takes a step forward.

Her face and body have a covering that appears to be skin, or perhaps something clinging tightly. It holds what Sam can only think of as coloured moss dripping in random patterns between her small breasts and hips. Her hair is only a two-finger-wide circle of moss that drips down her back.

Sam thinks, There may be snow on the roof, but…

He shakes his head to clear those thoughts away.

She smiles down at him, bending slightly toward his face. “Thank you. Perhaps after we’ve completed the metamorphosis.”

Sam stiffens. Read my thoughts?…Oh well. I should’ve expected it.

She nods. “Are you ready? The transfusion will pass into your arteries. You won’t feel anything with the process. But first I need to hear your approval.”

Sighing, Sam thinks again. What do I have to lose? The cancer’ll take me in a few months, or I roll the dice with this lovely weird lady from a future I would not see.

“Yes. Let’s get on with it… Tell me again – in simple terms, what can I expect?”

She takes his hand.

He thinks, Warm.

“The infusion will take about ten minutes. In an hour-and-a-half your body will be in need of deep sleep. Over the following eighteen hours your body will undergo major repairs in all systems. During that time you will be… incontinent. This chair will accept the residue. Then, later, you may wish to have a long, cleansing shower. The waterfall at the edge of this forest will give you full refreshment. After that, your future opens up.”

He is confused, waving at the trees. “Yes, you said that, but this is just a picture, isn’t it?”

“Sort of.” She squeezes his hand lightly. “Ready?”

A sigh. “Yes.”

She nods. “Approval given. Now, adjust your arms to fit onto the chair-arms.”

Sam shifts his body back into the soft chair material and places both arms down into it.

She pulls out wide straps from the outside of each chair-arm and puts them over his arms. Sam unconsciously stiffens.

“These are only to hold you firmly during the infusion process. They will release when that is done.”

Sam nods and gives her a weak smile. As he relaxes, the straps slowly tighten on their own.

He thinks, Part of the process. Take it easy old codger. What have I got to lose?

She nods then touches something on the chair-back. Sam begins to feel a very light tingling in his arms. They become warm. His vision slowly blurs into mottled greens. Noticing it, he shrugs mentally. All is right with the world. The hour-and-a-half have already passed. He sleeps.

In his deep sleep he leaks from his eyes, his nose, his open mouth. She gently dabs at the leaks. Sam’s shorts have mostly dissolved away. She cleans up where they were and tucks his penis down to drip into the spongy chair seat, which soaks up that liquid and the more substantial residue from his bum.

Standing back periodically, she nods. “A fine specimen.” Examining his face, “Cannot meld into your thoughts yet. When you wake up…”

………………………………………………

Sam is walking groggily along a narrow path though the forest. He stumbles as he tries to lift a leg over a newly fallen tree. The small log’s root ball sticks up incongruously not far away.

She grabs his arm to steady him. “You’re still weak… Now. This is important. Think not what you could do. Think only what you want to do.”

Sam contemplates the log before him. Then he decides, and jumps over it easily. The glow in his face is infectious.

She claps her hands. “That was delightful to see! I knew it wouldn’t take you long.”

Then she leaps over the log to grab his arm before he can move on. Staring into his eyes she takes on a serious tone. “And this is even more important.” She holds both Sam’s arms to settle him down. “Listen. This is more than important. Yes?…”

He gazes into her eyes, waking out of his old wooz, thinking, She’s the loveliest creature I’ve ever met.

Her thought comes back to his mind. Stop and listen.

Her voice blends in his mind with what he hears. “Your first test was being chosen. You will understand the criteria later. Your second test was surviving the metamorphosis. That part is done. Now, you must survive what is the hardest part. Your mind can wander off into realms of ego and fantasy. You have been judged to have the potential to keep that under control. But it is not a trait in your genes as much a state of being. This you will learn better shortly. For now, please… please, for your sake and for mine, please remember that your new life is not yours. It is humanity’s. You are now living for the future of all humanity.”

Sam has a slowly moving shockwave creeping across his mind. He stumbles into a turn to sit on the log. It creaks and vibrates under his weight.

Ruefully, “You spoke of a quid-pro-quo.” Sam thinks back to their meetings. At first, he thought she was a doctor. A weird doctor with tattoos absolutely everywhere under her lab coat. At their meeting he was quite prepared to walk out of the clinic when he saw her. Now he remembers that her face was about the only surface of her body untattooed.

Her seemingly tattooed face smiles, thinking, Yes. It was uncomfortable for me. But your potential was… worth it.

They smile at each other. He thinks, I love you inside my mind. Then, wondering, Is there a place where I can be private?

She nods, Yes. I will teach you that. For now it’s important that we make it safely to the waterfall.

That’s when Sam is about ask for a towel but he looks down at his body to see it covered, like hers, with that special skin. “Huh.”

On their way along the path, they think to each other.

What’s so special about the waterfall?

It is the destination but it is more the journey. Your mind needs to catch up with your new body. You will find limits and boundaries – few but critical boundaries.

How far?

Another hour.

I could not have made it, yesterday.

The two make it to the waterfall, unharmed, unscratched, untired.

………………………………………………

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Time Passes

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from The Antchrist of Stanley Park

by George Opacic

Pelly Bay, Nunavut

Spring 1998

Mark quickly slams the rough-hewn door behind him into total darkness.  He stands as his eyes adjust. Faded green symbols come into view on a small electronic device.  Two sharp, thin lines of light across the floor in front him make a distorted 90 degree angle.  He steps forward, blocking off the horizontal line.

Something stirs nearby.

Mark stops.  “That you Andrei?”

A Russian accent answers, “Yes, of course, my friend.  You think maybe I’m bear?”

Mark snorts as he shuffles ahead toward the shadow of a chair.  “Ha!  You?  You’re a pussycat, Andrei.  Not anything like a friggen bear.”  He catches a glimpse of gleaming teeth near the green light.

Mark plops down awkwardly into a flimsy chair, his thick fur coat catching on the armrest.  “Did you get through to the Institute?”

The howling wind outside batters the door.  As Mark’s eyes adjust better he sees that he did not latch the door well enough.  Mini whirlwinds whip up the frigid snow-dust, framed by light coming in around the door.  Mark gets up, again pulling on the armrest with his coat which lifts it up.  The chair rattles back down as he shakes his coat, then he stomps to the door.  Pushing hard against it with a shoulder, Mark gets the latch all the way down.  It is darker.

The smell of musty dirt swirling around gets up Andrei’s nose.  He sneezes.

“Mark, our tent survive?  You see it through blizzard?”

Opening up his coat a bit before sitting back down, Mark shakes his head.  “Nope.  Couldn’t even see the tatters.”

He shakes his upper body and looks around.  “If this muskeg cave, this pingo, wasn’t here, we’d be polar bear breakfast for sure!”

Andrei reaches for the electronic device.  “Tried Oceanographic Institute in Vladivostok, and tried Mounted Police number.  They are in different time zone, yes?” 

An exasperated nod from Mark shakes his fur hood. 

“So some person be awake now, yes?”

Rubbing his hands briskly, Mark reaches for a pot of tea to pour some into a metal cup.

Mark shakes his head, “This storm, I think, is being pushed by the jet-stream loop up through the Arctic.  Could be disrupting reception.”

“Sense makes.”  Andrei shrugs.  “So what we do?”

Mark shifts under his heavy coat.  “Our time zone.”  He wrinkles his brows.  “Vladivostok is, what, plus 12 Zulu?”  A nod from Andrei.  “And we’re at minus eight, no, minus six here.  Vancouver is minus eight Zulu, right?”

Andrei reaches for his non-existent cellphone.  “Yebem…” he mutters.  “Don’t know.  Sound good.”

The gale outside sends something slamming into the door and the dirt support.  Snowdust gets kicked off the wall/ceiling again, slowly swirling with the eddies. 

Andrei sneezes loudly. “Damn dirt!  And mould!  It stink!”

Mark smiles.  “You can always step outside, my friend.  Our tent is well past the airport, by now, heading for Hudson Bay if you want to follow it?”

He gets serious.  “Andrei, we need to figure out the time zones so we can call at the right time.  They probably figure we’re out tagging ptarmigans and friggen white foxes, playing in the bloody sand!”  He kicks at the mixture of frozen dirt and blond sand on the floor.

Opening up his coat a bit more, Mark stares at the ceiling.  “Ok.  We’ve been in this dungeon for over 70 hours, so it’s Thursday, ah… afternoon!  Andrei, give me the phone!”

As he reaches for the satellite-phone the door slams open blinding them both.

A polar bear settles down onto both paws, grins at Mark, then moves quickly through the doorway and is about to open her mouth over Mark’s neck when BANG!

Andrei shoots again BANG!

The bear roars and rises toward full high, banging her head against the ceiling BANG!

Reddened across her chest, she crumples onto the floor.  Her left splayed-out arm pushes hard against Mark, sending him head-over-heels still in his chair over her paw and down hard against her head.  Mark’s glasses are clouded by the final breath escaping from the great bear, as he and his chair edge closer to her huge teeth.

Snapping his body straight out of the chair, Mark frantically scrambles away, pressing hard into the wall as far away as he can from the mother polar bear.

Through the smashed door, peeking around a corner of the ramp that leads down to the cave, a very young cub gives a quiet yelp.  He backs away out of sight into the gale.

Andrei is pressed against the wall on the other side of the cave.  His rifle is held waist-high, ready for another shot at the reddening white mass on their floor.  “B-bozhe moi!”

Mark starts to shake, sending a light halo of snowdust off the wall behind him.  “Andrei!  K-keep your gun on him!”

A widening pool of blood soaks into the floor around the bear.

“I think is dead, Mark.  Move paw, see if he lives.”

Pushing even harder into the wall, Mark’s eyes glare.  “HELL NO!  I ain’t touching that thing!  Watch out for the other one outside!”

Andrei quickly swivels the rifle.  “Where!  Other one?”

Mark points hesitantly up the ramp.  “I saw.”  He restarts, trying to lower his very high-pitched voice, “I saw a smaller one up there around the corner.  Make sure it doesn’t come down.”  He clears his dry throat without moving his wide eyes off the doorway.

The gale is now clearing to the point where some visibility of the tundra beyond the ramp can be picked out in the arctic noon.  Another plaintive yelp comes from the cub, hiding around the corner of the ramp wall.  Hearing it, Andrei steps forward, points his rifle up the ramp and lets off a shot, startling Mark.

“JESUS FRIGGEN CHRIST!  What’re you doing!”

Andrei smiles then breaks into giggles, looking at Mark then outside and back again.  “Mark!  You want I should ask next time to shoot at bear?”

He starts laughing uncontrollably.  Mark joins him.

Outside, the cub yelps again then backs away.  He turns and runs, stops, half turning back, then runs away over an embankment.

Time passes.

Later, working outside, Andrei and Mark are pulling on a wire that is drawing a long pole up to vertical.  Atop the pole is an antenna.  A thicker loose cable slithers around the pole and guy-wires, attached to the antenna.  It smacks Mark on the cheek.

“Get the…”  He waves the cable away from his face with one hand, pulling on a guy-wire with his other gloved hand.  “If it ain’t one thing up here it’s a friggen ‘nother!”  He rubs his cheek where a welt is forming.

Grinning, Andrei answers, “You want I should shoot it, Mark?”

Still pulling the pole up, Mark recites, “I cordially invite you to go forth and auto-proliferate!  Profusely!”

“What you mean, auto prof…  What this mean?”

“Ain’t telling.”

Andrei stops, letting the wire slip back through his gloves and nearly pulling Mark off the ground.  “Andrei!  Stop farting around!  We need this thing up for reception!”

Andrei grabs the wire again, steadying the swaying pole.  The cable slaps Mark in the head.  And again.

“Ah for chrissake!”  He ducks his head down into the collar of his fur coat, still pulling the guy-wire.  It taughtens.  He pokes his head up, looking for the wayward cable.  Andrei has it in one hand, while the other is holding his side of the wire.

“Thanks Andrei.  Ok, hold on while I tie this end down.”

A turnbuckle has already been attached to where they calculated the length of the wire should be correct to hook into a metal stake driven into the ground.  Mark slips his hands down toward the turnbuckle.

“Good.  Just loose enough so’s I can attach it.”  He puts the turnbuckle’s hook through a hole in the stake.  “After I get your side in, we can tighten the turnbuckles to keep the pole vertical.”  He adds, “And yes, I still think we need four wires to hold against the Arctic hurricane.”

Andrei nods. “You find.”

A familiar yelp picks up both their heads.

Anxiously, “Andrei, stay there.  Where’s the rifle?”  Mark spins to scan the rolling tundra.

Andrei points, “Is there.”  He nods toward a box with tools on it.  As he does so, his hands slide down the wire and he quickly attaches the turnbuckle to his stake.

Mark points a gloved hand away from the flat area of the little used airfield called Pelly Lake Airport.  On the tundra, about a hundred metres away can be seen the young bear cub.  It is ranging with its head back and forth, moving its little legs quickly, but stumbling every once in a while.  The cub is heading right for Mark and Andrei.

Reaching the rifle, Mark shoulders it, aiming for the cub.  As the little fellow gets closer, Mark sees that it is very thin. The cub heads right for a mound of fur and flesh that used to be his mother.  Blindly yelping as he nuzzles against some the fur that is left, he stumbles again, going down over folded front legs, his head sinking onto the snow.

The rifle lowers off Mark’s shoulder.  Silent tears swell his eyes.

Andrei walks up, takes the rifle, aims and BANG! shoots the cub.  Mark slams against Andrei, pushing him onto the snow.  The rifle stays in Andrei’s hands, dry, above the snow.

“What the hell did you have to do that for?  Goddamnit!  It’s just a little cub!”

From the snow, Andrei shakes his head slowly.  “Was dying.  We killed his mother.”

He carefully gets back up, putting the rifle down on the box, muzzle pointed away from the wind.

Time passes.

NEWS

In A Cloud of Sails

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Sailing under a cloud of square sails held high by three tall wooden masts! Does that stir the imagination?

Follow the young skipper and crew of the Monte Cristo as they make more adventure than they bargained for down the coast to Mexico, then off to Tahiti, Australia and finally New Zealand.

On the way they meet the battleship New Jersey, invade Alcatraz, run from the Coast Guard, host Marlon Brando, help NASA and Apollo 13, and meet Queen Elizabeth II! It’s exhausting just to think about it all.

More importantly, can the owner, Ron C. Craig hold it all together? Will the crew stop bickering? Can Skipper Jeff Berry put enough patches on a flawed design?

 

Commentary

Basic Trump

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Trump’s ascendency has pushed the conversation back to base emotions. All the eloquent and impassioned speeches are now heard only by the respective chorus to whom they are directed. The ability or desire to have constructive discussion is effectively past.
Therefore, it is instructive to speak in terms of base ideas, with an overhead view.
We, as primates, show certain tendencies that are reflected in our cousins. We have been, until about 13,000 years ago, loosely organized in communities that were matriarchies, or guided by the principles of matriarchies: peace within the community, enabled by respectful communication, with the general goals of enabling survival, creativity and family growth.
Rambunctious males would be tolerated for a time within the community, but if their actions became destructive, the designated silverbacks would be required to drive them out. This type of behaviour is reflected in observations by Jane Goodall and the late Diane Fossey, and others.
The rebuked young males would often gather in packs for mutual protection and support. Those packs would occasionally raid their former communities for food or fun, but they would usually be repelled and kept at bay by the concerted efforts of the community.
Until the Bronze Age and Iron Age.
When overpowering personal weapons, converted from agricultural implements, came into the hands of, shall we call them, the punk packs, they started decimating and/or taking over communities. From this came feudalism and other forms of repressive control of communities by the various punk packs.
Humanity has struggled over the past 5,000 years with the balance between the primal need for principles of matriarchal stability, against the randomly directed forces of raw power.
The ascendancy of Trump – and the meme of raw power that has spread throughout the world – has set humanity back millennia. Egoistic bluster that was fought during two world wars, and many other more local conflagrations, has once more become the power in charge. The weapon used in this case is not bronze or iron, but money.
Multibillionaire punk packs now rule humanity.
World-wide, those who viscerally feel in jeopardy are protesting. The multibillionaire punk packs and their supporters – whose rallying cry is “down with all regulations” – laugh at the protesters, knowing they now have the Power. They control the power-points of society. They are now in charge of writing and enforcing legislation, which they use to further entrench their power. They have legitimized the focus on Money as being central to all activities in society. Where “money” had been merely a measure of activities in the past, it is now the end goal. That this is a circular argument is beyond the ken of the multibillionaire punk packs or their supporters.
The multibillionaire punk packs are circling the carcasses of gutted societies.
So, we have the vision of Pink standing up to Money.
Who do you think will win?

Filmscripts

Protocol Omega

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:an extract:

1990

Uhde stomps down the hallways until gets to a door that says, “Director”.

A secretary receives Uhde’s note, glances at it, shows surprise, then, without a word takes it through to the Director. A minute later the secretary emerges. He nods to Uhde without saying anything, indicating the Director’s door.

Uhde steps inside without knocking. The one high window in the office is bright with the late afternoon sunlit sky. A black sensor points from the ledge of the window toward the glass. A reflected sunbeam shafts down onto a soccer trophy on the edge of a busy desk.

Uhde, absently fingering his elbow bandage, sits himself stiffly into a leather chair opposite Efraim Spiegel, Director of Operations. The director’s silk, open-necked shirt and sharply pressed wool pants are nicely offset by his gold necklace, rings and expensive watch.

Looking up from Uhde’s note, the Director flattens it against his leather desktop. Spiegel shakes his head, smiling sadly like a father to his misbehaving son.

“David, David. You can’t just resign from Metsada, you know that. I don’t mean it merely because we need you. You know how much I depend on your unique insight. You have an exemplary record of accomplishments, despite being a dick-head.”

Uhde gives him a quick grin.

“We need people with your skill in the field, of course. But, with the sensitive nature of our work… David. You should network more. You should network, period. Have you ever gone out and had a drink with anyone — except for me, when I dragged you out that once?”

“I don’t drink – you know that. I don’t… Well, inane conversation about one’s skill with a female companion or a vase of flowers is not my idea of entertainment. I DO things. I MAKE THINGS HAPPEN. Endlessly gossiping about people is not my style…”

Spiegel accepts that with a shrug and a skewed face.

“Efraim, I am committed, you bloody-well know that. And of course my lips are forever sealed about what I know. It’s just… There are too many… too many damn EGOS in this department. I don’t mean you. I mean – some of the people I have to work with are insufferable. And I really am afraid that their attitude is going to very seriously affect an operation, one of these days…”

Spiegel grins wryly. “Fruma doesn’t have any say in the planning…” He cuts off Uhde’s objection. “Be that as it may… David. What am I going to do for you?…”

He leans forward to rub his forehead.

“David. Do me a favour and give me an hour.”

Uhde nods.

“One hour. Go have a coffee.”

Uhde shrugs/nods an affirmative. “Sure. Coffee. An hour. Is it now, two-thirty, Efraim?”

“David, when are you going to get a watch?”

“Don’t need one. Have I ever been late for anything?”

“No. I don’t know how…” He looks at his watch. “Yes, two-thirty. One,” he adds with a smile.

Uhde gets up and heads for the door. Spiegel watches him sadly as the door closes.

“He’ll be back in precisely fifty-five minutes.”

Spiegel punches a number on his phone and lifts up the handset.

“Devorah, is… Yes, thank you… Yosef, how are you this afternoon?… Yes, Anna and I will be there around seven… Of course… Listen, Yosef. I have a problem and I need your advice. One of my agents wants to retire… Retire, yes… Yes, of course, he knows what that means and certainly I know what that means… The protocol is specific and, as usual, impractical… In his case… David Uhde. Brilliant agent — well, you know him. In his case, I can understand his reasons…There are, shall we say, continuing PERSONAL conflicts with people he works with. What makes him so good in the field, hurts him in the office. He’s a lone wolf. And a bulldog for details and what he considers to be right. He has already gone through transfers – in fact, YOU sent him to me… No, I don’t agree. David has a difficult personality to deal with but it is not something that we can change, or want to change, for that matter… Yes, the Asperger’s thing again – you really should look into the medical… sorry, yes. Not Asperger’s.”

Spiegel raises his eyebrows, nodding sideways. “Listen, Yosef. We have an agreement, David and I. He thinks I’m a dick-head and I know he’s a dick-head. This a point of mutual understanding. With that point having been established early on, he tells me much more of what he has seen than even he knows. We converse without the artificial barriers that polite civilization throws up… No, I don’t think you and I can have that kind of an uncivilized conversation, Yosef.” He adds wryly, “It would be too dangerous… Ok, ok. Listen. What can I do with him? I don’t have to tell you about the problem with rogue former agents. You worked with Gil, too… Protocol Omega?… Oh… Would he qualify?… I would have to ask him. Detroit, eh?… As reparations? That’s very convenient – for both of us… Thank you, yes. Please do. And I’ll do some lobbying from my side. I’m sure he would accept. I will be seeing him shortly… Very good… See you and Jacky later, then. We can discuss it further.”

Spiegel puts the phone down and leans on the table. He smiles slightly as he tents his fingers in front of his face.

“Reparations…”

Almost an hour later, Uhde enters the room, nodding to Spiegel. He goes over to the soccer trophy then picks it up. He pretends to give it a boot.

“David, please…”

Spiegel indicates the chair. Uhde puts the trophy back and sits in the leather chair.

Giving a fatherly smile, “David, I think I may have found a solution for you, and one that will satisfy procedures. We want you to be satisfied –- fully satisfied –- with the arrangements of a retirement.”

Uhde nods.

“I am working on something that will take, say, two days to confirm. Ok? If it is passed, you should be, ah, satisfied…” There is an uncomfortable pause.

“David. If this works out, would you be willing to relocate to the USA,” Uhde perks up, “…say, someplace like Detroit?”

“Sure. Detroit would be fine. Just like friggen Ramallah – Murder City.”

Spiegel slumps his head slightly sideways.

“Always with the sarcasm. And no, Detroit is no longer Murder City. They have the wealthiest suburb in the USA…”

“You’re right, Efraim. I’m sorry. No, that would be fine. As a start. When would you know?”

“Give me two days. I’ll call you. In the meantime, please spend some time on that assessment that I wanted last month, ok?”

Uhde nods firmly.