The answer to every question

It was 10:37 am as Jack stepped down from his forklift to turn in his morning paperwork when the idea hit him. It was like a lightning bolt, a freight train, a Mac truck.  In one instant Jack had the answer.  Not just a good idea or an epiphany, but THE ANSWER.  The answer that explained all pain and suffering.  The answer that explained why the innocent suffer, why there is death and war.  The cure for cancer, for aids and Ebola. It was all there in one answer.  And Jack had it.

Of course, in the very next moment, Jack determined that he had to tell someone, but who?  He couldn't merely tell Lou, his beer-drinking buddy.  Lou wouldn't appreciate it or probably even understand.  His wife would just roll her eyes.  His brother!  He could tell Robert!  He would appreciate it, he would understand it, he would help him get it down on paper and help tell the world.

But then Jack paused.  An answer like this would probably arise serious suspicion. Those mysterious government officials with black suits and black glasses would probably show up and Jack would never be seen again. 

Jack paused again to consider the eerie calm that seemed to hang in the air.   The plant seemed strangely quiet and Jack felt incredibly light and good-natured.  He glanced at the paperwork in his hands and the yellow lined walk way leading to the office.  Then he stopped walking.

It was 10:37 am as Jack stepped down from his forklift to turn in his morning paperwork when Julio's forklift hit him.  Jack didn't see Julio approaching. 

The crisis management team shut down the plant for the rest of the day and had to remove what remained of Jack from Julio's under carriage.

The love letter

Stanley and Clara had never actually met.  Their relationship had been planned from the time they were infants.  Their parents had known each other back in the old country (Serbia) and had planned to have their children marry from day one.  That's how the letters started.  

Clara's parents had spoken so highly of Stanley for so long, that she was sure he was absolutely wonderful.  When Clara turned 18 the letters started arriving from Philadelphia. At first the letters were quite formal.  Mainly informational about Stanley's school and work and interests.  But eventually the letters became less aloof and more warm.  Clara faithfully answered each letter in turn and slowly felt herself being drawn to Stanley.  Instead of the ivory tower picture get parents had painted for so long, she started to come to really know him.  His strengths and weaknesses, his passions, loves and interests.  She learned the kind of food he loved, the kind of clothes he wore, even the brand of shampoo he used.

Two years into this long distance relationship, Clara found herself constantly thinking of the mailbox, she even scraped it down, sanded it and repainted it bright red.  Daily she would meet the mailman, going for another letter.  Finally, the big letter came.  It contained the big question.  Stanley was coming to Des Moines and he wanted Clara to marry him.  Clara couldn't write back fast enough.

Clara told her parents, and all her friends.  She told the grocer, the mailman, the lady at the post office and her pastor.  Clara was on cloud nine.
Four days, 23 hours and nine minutes later another letter arrived.  This one had Stanley's exact arrival day and time.  Clara could hardly wait.

Finally the day arrived, as did Stanley.  But Clara stood by the mailbox waiting for the mail truck.  Clara's mother came out and reminded her that Stanley was at the train station.  Clara said to not bother her, she was waiting for a letter from Stanley.  When no letter arrived, Clara went to her room, pulled out the very large box of previous letters from Stanley and spent several hours rereading many of her favorites.  Stanley came to her door, but Clara was too busy reading letters to bother seeing him.

The next day Stanley took the train home, alone.  Clara sat in her room reading letters and dreaming of Stanley. Every day, Clara performed what had become a ritual.  She would meet the mailman at the box, and receiving no letter would retire to her room and read over many of Stanley's letters.  Forty years later, the newspaper boy found her face down in a box of yellowing handwritten letters, dead.

The name that means love

     Aiko loved Jeremy for as long as either one of them could remember.  The problem was that Jeremy didn't even remotely like Aiko.  It wasn't the case that Aiko wasn't likeable, everyone liked Aiko, even the high school bully.
     Aiko began each morning with a cheerful hello to Jeremy as they waited for the bus.  She often would pay for his lunch in the school cafeteria and every holiday, no matter how obscure, Aiko would send Jeremy a handmade greeting card in the mail.  For his birthday, she would pull out all the stops and try to do something special and unique each year.  Jeremy's parents even liked Aiko and tried their hardest to change their son's mind.  But all to no avail.
     Jeremy's best friend Kane approached him one evening and confronted him about his inexplicable dislike. But it did no good.  "I just don't like her, Kane," bleated an exasperated Jeremy.  "I can't explain it. I don't have the words," he continued.  "I simply feel a revulsion around her and will do just about anything to get away from her."  Kane looked at his friend with nothing but confusion.  "Dude, that doesn't make any sense.  She's super nice, she's pretty, she's smart and she'd bend over backwards to help anyone.  You're a bonehead to spurn her."  And with that, Kane walked out of the house, slamming the door.
     Later that evening, Jeremy sat on his front steps watching traffic go by.  He was deep in thought when he suddenly noticed Aiko walk up the pathway.  "Jeremy," she began, "before you run away in horror, I need to say something.  I don't know what I've done wrong to cause you to hate me so, but whatever it is, I'm sorry and ask you to forgive me."  Jeremy simply looked at her for a moment and involuntarily shuddered.  Aiko saw it but said nothing, then continued.  "I love you and have always loved you and will always love you.  I can do nothing else.  I don't understand your response.  But I wish you could reciprocate. I will say, see you later, for I will never say goodbye."  And with that she turned and returned the way she came.
     It was about 3:00 am when the police arrived at Jeremy's home.  Jeremy's father had heard a strange noise in the living room and rose from bed to investigate.  He had arrived ten seconds too late, the noose had snapped Jeremy's neck as the rope reached its end.  The living room chandelier held his 175 pounds better than one could have imagined.

Southworld (Part 4 of 7)

Sitting down on the grass, Richard took a deep breath and for a moment closed his eyes.  The sky had just started to become dark, but no stars had begun to show.  It was just Richard and the moon.

His job in the astrophysics department at CalCor had proven to be both financially and academically beneficial.  His seemingly unlimited budget and the opportunity to write peer review papers in the top journals had given Richard a depth of knowledge and a respect in the academic community surpassed by few.

Richard put all of his thoughts and concerns on hold and centered himself, finding his ground.  He felt himself slow down and his breathing deepen, relaxing his entire frame.  Starting up at the moon and the now just appearing stars, Richard thought back over the past few years.
In a strictly temporal sense, the years had been good to Richard.  He was financially secure, his health couldn't be better and his wife and kids loved him. But Richard felt empty.  The years also brought a lot of questions.  Western Christianity had been tested and found seriously wanting.  He had so been focused on his work in astronomy that he had failed to give any attention to the spiritual side.  After the debacle with the Baptists, organized religion had lost its appeal.

Looking up at the now clearly visible stars, Richard's thoughts retreated back to his comparative religion class in college.  One thing that occurred to him was one seeming connection, one common thread amongst so many ancient cultures, that of the stars.  Maybe that was what ultimately drew Richard to astronomy.  So many cultures over so many centuries and even millennia looked to the stars for guidance and wisdom.  Richard had the slightest feeling of connection deep in his mind.  He knew the stars. He knew everything about them, but maybe he was approaching them wrong all this time.

Richard stood up and brushed off his slacks, even though he knew full well that they weren't dirty.  One more glance up at the stars and the now visible shooting star confirmed it for him.  Ten millennia and scores of cultures couldn't be wrong.  The stars held the answers.  Richard simply needed to find the right questions to ask and whom to ask them.

Curly Bob

The sun had just begun to creep over top of the hills when Curly Bob stepped out of his front door.  Not one for much sleep, Bob released a bucket of fresh water in which to wash his face.  The rainwater collection system he had installed the previous year came in very handy during dry times such as these.  After washing, he poured the remains of the water into a dish on the porch, shortly to be appreciated by the dog.

After finishing his breakfast and getting dressed, Curly Bob stepped out his front door, whistled for his horse Honeykins, and being careful not to catch his hoop dress on the saddle horn, began the two-mile ride into town.

The year was 1882, the place, southern Arizona. Curly Bob had come out to Arizona from New York City nearly two decades ago, greatly desiring to get away from the crowds.  This he certainly did, for this part of the country, so far away from civilization and close to Mexico offered Curly Bob the silence and freedom he sought.  Slowly more people moved into the area and a small town developed.

Curly Bob rode into town, his golden ringlets, bounced and blown in the wind, encircled his bearded face. Bob dismounted, being careful not to catch his dress on anything and ambled into the tavern. "One glass of milk, please," Bob requested from the bartender.  

Just finishing the milk, Bob sat down the glass and turned to leave, only to come face to face with John Redbeard, resident thug.  "And what the hell are you?" The thug spat in his face.  "Well," Bob began, "as your question is somewhat ambiguous, I'll do my best to answer.  Biologically speaking, I am bi-pedular mammal. From a theological perspective, I am an Anglican.  Ethnically speaking, I am Norwegian. And if you are wondering about the ontological perspective, well, that question is possibly one of the more difficult philosophical questions that has plagued man even since the time of Plato." Bob paused and looked his opponent in the eye.  "Judging from the glazed over expression and confused look, I will assume that my brief discourse failed to answer your question in an acceptable way.  I will try again.  I am a transvestite. And though I am sure you understand the meaning of that word, for the sake of those in your present company, I will explain.  Etymologically, the word is prefixed with "trans" meaning "across" and the root of the word, which I'm sure you'll recognize from the Roman Catholic term "vestment" meaning "to clothe."  Thus the term means to dress across standard clothing norms.  In other words, I wear women's clothes." Bob's head suddenly snapped back and upward as Redbeard's fist made contact with Bob's chin. Bob picked himself up of the floor, apologized for any inconvenience, and bowing, stepped out of the swinging doors.

Bob paused for a moment and caught his breath.  He then straightened himself and worked his way across the street to the post office. Upon entering he was greeted by Sally, the assistant post matter.  Clarence, the senior postmaster, glared at Bob, grunted, then turned his back.  "Good morning Sally," Bob said. "Do I have any mail?" "Just this one magazine you receive each month.  What is this anyway? Russian?" "Yes, that's right," he replied.  "My grandparents on my mother's side were from Russia.  I like to stay up on the language.  Thank you, Sally.  Have a good day." Bob turned and left the post office, heading back to his horse.
"I don't know why you even talk to that freak," Clarence suddenly ejaculated.  "I mean, what kind of man walks around in a dress?  It's just not right.  No good is going to come of that guy."
"No, you're wrong," Sally retorted.  "Don't you remember when my Clement fell and broke his ribs?  It was Bob who came over and took care of all our animals until Clement could move around again." Sally paused.  "And remember when old man Johnson died?  It was Bob who helped widow Johnson get her farm in order and sell off the animals.  Now she has enough money to take care of her needs."
"Well, that sounds all nice and everything, but Jim Anderson told me that he was out one night on the back portion of his property when he saw your Bob there standing buck naked, up to his ankles in that swamp that borders between their property.  He was waving one arm around like he was swatting at flies or something.  Some kind of pervert or something, that guy is." "I think you're wrong Clarence, Bob is an unusual but a good guy. You know full well that Jim always has bottle in his hand."  Clarence just grunted.

Later that evening, as Bob sat in front of his fireplace, reading, a sudden beating upon the door jarred him from his introspection.  "Bob! I know you're in there, come out with your hands where I can see them!"  Bob calmly sat down his book, slipped on his high heel shoes and opened the front door.  He met the barrel of a shotgun, at face level, along with the sheriff, who held the gun, and three deputies stood in the immediate background.  "Hello sheriff, what's this all about?" Bob asked.  "Like you don't know, you sick freak!" the sheriff growled.  "We found the little girl's body where you left it. Now be quiet and come with us."  Bob said nothing and obeyed the sheriff's commands.  Within an hour, Bob was in the town jail and small mob had gathered outside. 

"Bob," the sheriff said, "we've got a witness claiming they saw you sneaking away from the Anderson ranch, just after dusk.  And about an hour ago the Mr. Anderson found the body of their little girl in the trees just outside their farm.  You better just admit to it and maybe a judge will have some mercy."  Bob looked the sheriff in the eye, but said nothing.  Without another word the sheriff unlocked the cell door, and turned and left the building.  The mob quickly filed his absence.

The next morning the men carried the lifeless body of Curly Bob out and buried him behind the jail with only the county judge in attendance.  At the same time, across town, Mrs. Anderson found a small package behind the chair on their front porch.  Inside was a wad of cash and short note, reading, "I hope this helps - B."

Later that afternoon, Sally slowly picked through the meager belongings inside Bob's log cabin.  In a tin box, high on a shelf, she found several wads of cash and a slip of paper with the names of several townsfolk.

James

James wept at the sight of his car.  For the last four years, he had scrimped and saved.  Every spare nickel and dime went into “the jar”, one less time out for dinner per week.  Four years of cutting every corner and now this.  It was with immense pleasure that he drove the 2014 Lexus off the dealer’s lot, fully paid.  And now, out on a celebratory dinner with his wife, James exited the restaurant to find that his car had left him.  An hour later, James and the police stood together, gazing upon what remained of his car, now almost impossibly wed to a telephone pole.