Over the past eight years I’ve found myself occasionally horrified by some people, who should know better - no, not the birthers or other Obama detractors but his supporters and fans.  While I see much that is to admire in the man, he is by no means a god or savior.  I’ve found way too many people who seem to elevate him to a god-like position totally blind to his faults despite his acceptance of Bush’s policy of genocide in the Middle-East.
 
Now, we have just concluded a bitter presidential campaign, and I’m starting to see another group of people, who should know better, elevating their candidate to the level of God and Savior.  Trump is not a god, and in no way is he anybody’s savior. He is a mortal human with many flaws.  He has some good ideas and some horrific ideas.
 
I wish to be clear that the idolizing of a political candidate or office holder is idolatry and violates one of the top Ten Commandments about having no other Gods. (Note:  Read the book of Danial.)
 
I’m certain that every single person I know who has shown inappropriate idolization of their hero or heroine can insist at this point their behavior did not cross the line.
 
 Yeah, it did cross the line. 
 
Here is your litmus test for how biased you might be  about the godliness of your own choice for our political leader.  Can you name three good things about the opponent?  It should be easy.
 
I loathed Bush’s policy of creating war in the Middle-East and giving his buddies tax breaks while impoverishing the common people.  I can still name three things I did admire or like about him.  He seemed to be charming and personable with those he met.  Other world leaders spoke well of him.  He had simple likes.  He admitted that his favorite thing to do was clearing brush on his ranch.  His focus on helping wounded veterans is very admirable.  I cannot like him because of his policies on war and the lies he told us to start those wars, but I can see traits in him that I can respect.  I don’t call him a god, a demon or the Antichrist.  He is human.
 
What about Obama? I disagree with his policy in the Middle-East and Africa as much as I did Bush’s.  Still, I find things to respect and admire about the man.  His speeches are the finest I’ve heard in my lifetime.  He is obviously intelligent.  He has behaved with dignity and grace throughout his term of president.  For those who think my praise is too mild or over exaggerated, look closely at your own thoughts. Obama is not a god or a demon or the anti-Christ.  He is human
 
I can go through the same exercise with both Trump and Hillary Clinton or Bill Clinton for that matter.  All of these people are human, not gods or demons. They are flawed and have made mistakes.  Many of those mistakes have cost other people their lives.  Some mistakes have cost me tens of thousands of dollars through the mismanagement of public trust.  I expect I’ll lose more money through manipulation of the nation’s resources in the future.  Still, I can find nice things to say about every candidate. Mine is not a policy of being a Polyanna but one of understanding that recognizing human frailty frees us to find a realistic balance in how we view others.
 
There is no moral high ground in elevating a mortal human to the position of God and Savior, so stop and think about what you are doing.  Part of recognizing the need to cooperate with other people in this country is maintaining a humble attitude toward your own choice of candidate.
 
Nobody will go to hell because of their vote.  How we treat others and the place our leaders hold in our lives will determine what kind of energy we create in this world, whether for good or evil.  Our behavior and attitudes also determine what kind of energy, for good or evil, we carry with us beyond our lifetime.
 
Ease up on your fellow citizens and recognize that your own position might be overzealous.  Try to find the good in others.  Hope for the best.  Prepare as best you can for our leaders to fail us, for they will.  They are not gods.
 
 

Virginia lay sprawled on her cot too hurt and heartsick to move.  She didn’t have any tears left to cry.  To comfort herself, she tried to pull out a memory of when her babies and grandbabies where tiny.  This charm failed to ease her pain. A sob rose up followed by a sharp pain in her ribs.  “That brute must have broken one of my ribs.”  She stared at the ceiling afraid to look out her little window.
 
Years ago, she’d hired a man to build the little enclosed porch that was now her bedroom.  Her husband had raged over the expense of adding the porch to the house.  A smile tried to tug at the corner of her mouth as she remembered saving money and saving money for over a year to hire someone to build her dream porch, then she hired a native man to build it when her husband was in Mesa City at his father’s funeral.  The deed was done before he knew, and he could only rant and rave.  The same hint of a smile played at the corner of her mouth, again.  She’d always been good about saving money and hiding it away.  She thought about her money and looked at the picture of the Holy Mother on her wall and prayed, “Blessed Virgin Mother, protect my savings, and help me visit my nephew.”
 
The scent of smoke drifted into her small room on the porch.  She thought to herself, “I’m old, but I’m tough.  If that bastard grandson wants to burn my pictures, I’ll go find the originals.”  The pictures were only newspaper clippings about the president of her country.  For years, the family had laughed at her, saying, “Don’t be foolish.  Those people are no relation to us.”
 
She’d answered, “I know my own brother when I see him, and this is a picture of him.”  She’d tap a picture of an attractive man standing on a piece of railroad equipment or beside Mr. Rouseff, one of the most powerful men in the country. “You don’t understand about the purges.  Families were separated.  We had no money. We could only run away.”
 
First, her husband had called her a fool.  Next, her son had called her crazy.  Now, her grandson, Aaron, had hit her as she sat with tears running down her face over a newspaper article several weeks old about the president’s estranged wife attempting to shoot him.
 
Aaron had ripped her newspaper and scrapbook from her hands shouting, “Stop that, you crazy old woman.  Those people are no kin of ours.  You’re no better than our neighbors.  You’re an embarrassment to us all.” 
 
She made a grab for her book.  “I know my own family.” She fell to her knees as Aaron pulled the book away, then kicked her.
 
“I’m going to burn this thing and put an end to this nonsense once and for all.”  He’d slammed out the back door with her precious scrapbook.
 
Now, she made up her mind to leave.  She’d tried to leave once before when Jake had first become president.  Her son had found her on the train and dragged her back home, calling her names every step of the way.
 
“How did I manage to raise a pack of fools?”  The old woman glanced up at the Virgin Mother and prayed again.  “Help me find my nephew.  I know where he is, but I’m afraid to go alone.”
 
The following morning, the sound of vomiting woke Virginia.  She eased herself off of her cot and followed the sound, finding her great-grandson sitting on the front steps vomiting into the shrubs.
 
“You’re drunk.”  She accused.
 
“I got paid.”  He pointed to three bottles of whisky the Vanderholm distillery used to pay their workers.  One bottle was open and about a third gone.  “I was so hungry.  I was desperate.  I know I’m supposed to sell the bottles, but I was hungry.”  The lad had just turned fifteen.  He leaned on the post to the porch railing and sobbed.
 
“You should be in school.”
 
“I worked all night.  I can’t go to school.”  Bruce retched again with dry heaves.  “What am I going to do about the opened bottle?  Papa will be furious when he sees it.”
 
“I’ll help you, but you have to help me.”
 
The boy looked at his great-grandmother.  Desperation to avoid a beating, drove him to trust the crazy old woman.  “What can you do?”
 
“Come inside.  Bring your bottles.  I have an unopened bottle in my room.  We’ll trade, so your papa won’t know you opened a bottle.  I’ll get you some breakfast.  Then you will help me.”
 
The young man looked at her sideways.  “What do you want?”
 
The old woman looked away.  “I suppose, the same thing everybody wants - a better life.  We haven’t always been so poor.”
 
“Don’t get started on the president again, Grandmama.” A wave of embarrassment over his crazy great-grandmama crashed over the adolescent.  He looked at the neighboring houses to see if anybody saw him talking to her.
 
“You’re smarter than the others. Think for yourself.  Look at this house.  I own this house.  Do you know anybody else who owns their own house?”  She lifted her chin.
 
Her great-grandson picked up his bottles and staggered behind her into the house saying, “Whatever.”
 
Virginia began to fix breakfast for her grandchildren and great grandchildren.  Aaron had been pleased when he saw the bottles of whisky Bruce left on the shelf.  “Oho, look at this.”  He held up the bottle Virginia had substituted.  “My boy must have done something special to earn this.  I was smart to get him that good job.  He’ll make us rich.”
 
“I believe he will.” Virginia answered and refrained from mentioning school or the university, but those were her plans for her great-grandson.
 
The house fell silent as the adults left for work and the children kissed their great-grandmama and left for school.
 
Virginia returned to her room where Bruce sprawled on her bed sleeping off his drunk.  “Wake up.  Move.”  She shook the boy. “Did you get paid any money at all?”
 
Bruce licked his lips and smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.  “Just enough to renew my bus pass.”
 
“You don’t smell good, but that can’t be helped now.  Come.”
 
“I’m hungry.”
 
“Then let’s go get you something to eat.” Virginia straightened the picture of the Blessed Virgin Mother on her wall and whispered “Thank you.  Please watch over us.”
 
Bruce still had trouble finding the ground with his feet when Virginia led him down the front steps of the house.  “Where are we going?” He asked.
 
“Why, to buy you a nice breakfast of course.  You should be in school, but you’ve worked hard and deserve a treat.”  The bus stopped in front of them.  “Bruce, give me a hand to climb on.  Give the man our bus pass.”  She led her still-sleepy great-grandson to a seat and smiled when he promptly fell asleep again.
 
The bus stopped at the train station where early commuters surged forward to get on.  Virginia dragged Bruce out the rear door thankful for the crowds that hid them.  Maybe nobody who knew them would see them and tattle to Aaron.
 
At the ticket booth, Virginia nudged her reluctant great-grandson forward whispering, “Ask for two tickets to the capital.”
 
Bruce turned to the old woman.  “Grandmama!”
 
“Oh hush up. I thought you might like a little adventure.  You seem to have more smarts about you than the rest of the fools I raised.  I don’t know what I did wrong.” Her voice wobbled and tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.
 
Bruce quickly turned to the ticket seller.  “One student and one senior for the capital, please.”
 
Virginia watched her great-grandson out of the corner of her eye as she slipped him the money for the tickets.  She nodded.  He did have more smarts about him.  She didn’t know that students and seniors could ride almost free.
 
Once the train left the station, Virginia patted Bruce’s knee.  “Isn’t this fun.  Now, let’s get you a grand breakfast.  You’re a good lad.  We’re going to see so many new things.”
 
Once fed, Bruce fell asleep again and didn’t wake up until the train slowed in the suburbs outside the capital.  “Where are we?”
 
“I’m not sure.  You missed seeing Mesa City and some beautiful countryside.  I saw a herd of wild animals.  My papa used to call them deer, but I don’t think that is what people here call them.”  She continued to stare out the window.  “There, I saw a clock on a bank.  It’s one thirty-five.  We should be in the capital in a few minutes.”
 
“Grandmama, I don’t think this is a good idea. We could get arrested.”
 
“Why, what do you think we are going to do?”
 
“You plan on going to The Compound and telling everybody you are the president’s aunt.”
 
“Yes, you are brighter than the rest of the family, more like my brother Jacob. Now you listen to me.  Think for yourself.” The elderly woman looked the youth straight in the face and spoke slowly and emphatically.  “The president is named Jacob Jaconovich, the same as my brother.  There are very few people named Jaconovich in this country.  Our papa came here from Bohemia.  He was a mining engineer. The whole family except for Jacob and myself were killed in a purge.  Think child.  Think about how many other people you’ve even heard of by our name.  At least, think what this could mean for you.  You won’t have to work at the distillery.  You can go to university and become an engineer like my papa or an attorney like your uncle.” 
 
Bruce hadn’t grown up among the poor of Agros province without learning a thing or two about getting what he wanted.  He leaned back in his seat, folded his arms over his chest and squinted at his great-grandmother.  A thought slid into his brain, “What if the old woman can pull this off?  She’s crazy, but what if the president doesn’t know that?  Her story is plausible. I’ll pretend I didn’t know she’s a fraud if she gets caught out. She must have more money on her.  If she gets arrested, I’ll take her money and run.”  He shrugged then sat up straight. “I’ll use the restroom and freshen up.  Maybe we should buy some decent clothes before we visit The Compound.”
 
Shortly after two in the afternoon, Celia had just left the president’s office and stopped a minute to listen to the chief of staff, Andrew Corbain, tell her about his daughter’s new boyfriend.  “I figure she’s smart enough to figure out the blighter is after her money, but I wonder if she’ll ever find someone suitable.” He shook his head.
 
A commotion at the front doors disturbed the quiet.  Caesar, the big guard dog who slept in the president’s office, didn’t come bounding out, so Celia figured the problem at the front entrance wasn’t dangerous. She hurried to the head of the stairs and started down.  “What is the problem here?”
 
Celia, although she had recently married the president, was still classed as a security agent for the Compound with the rank of Colonel, so the guards jumped aside, very willing to let their superior officer deal with the intruder.
 
An old woman leaning on the arm of an adolescent stepped forward, while Celia’s eyes never left the face of the lad. Her heart began to beat faster as her eyes traced the line of his jaw.  Her eyes flicked to the face of the old woman.  She recognized those eyes.  She barely heard the woman saying something about her papa being a mining engineer.  She nodded, then turned,  “Andrew!” She turned back to the strangers at the foot of the stairs and smiled as she continued down the stairs to greet the old woman. 
 
The youth stood with his mouth hanging open in a manner that reminded Celia of her step-son.  She smiled at him.  “Son, close your mouth and introduce me to your grandmama.”
 
By now, Andrew stood on the third flight of stairs. The Minister of Health stood beside Vice-president Anatole on the second flight.  Celia quickly descended to the first floor. 
 
The old woman looked up past the people on the stairs.  She held out her arms and cried, “Jacob.  Jacob.” Tears started to roll down her cheeks.
 
Jake’s footsteps pounded down the stairs.  “Aunt Virginia?”
 
She nodded.
 
The youth’s mouth dropped open again.
 
Jake reached the bottom of the stairs and scooped the old woman up holding her close to his heart before setting her down and kissing her on top of her head.  “Where have you been?  Why didn’t you come sooner?  Papa is gone now.  He looked for you for years.  Where have you been?”
 
“I tried and tried to come to you, but they wouldn’t listen.  I tried running away, but they found me and carried me home.”  Here the old woman broke down into uncontrolled sobbing. 

Celia motioned for the onlookers to go away.  “Come.  Let’s make you two comfortable.”  She led the way to a first floor apartment with rooms that looked out across the lawn toward the cathedral.
 
Jake had picked the frail old woman up in his arms and carried her to the apartment.
 
Mariah the vice-president’s wife caught up to the party in the hall outside the apartment.  “You’ll need two suites so the young man can do as he pleases while she sleeps.” She turned to the youth. “Sir, will you come with me. You can have the room just across the hall from your Grandmama.”
 
Mariah’s eyes met Celia’s then flicked down at the genetic testing kit she held in her hand. 
 
Celia nodded and held out two fingers down at her side, indicating she wanted to test both of the people claiming to be her husband’s family.  She smiled, thankful that Mariah understood this guest should be treated as any other client in the Family Reconciliation Project.
 
Jake set the old woman on a sofa then slid to the floor at her feet.  “Tell me, do you have children?  I’ve always wanted cousins on my papa’s side.”
 
Celia bustled about, making certain the room had fresh towels, fruit and flowers.  She called the clothing bank, a room in the old wing of The Compound where used clothing was kept and shared with those who needed it.  After watching her husband hang on every word the old woman said for fifteen minutes, she put her hand on his shoulder.  “Sweetheart, I think your aunt is tired.  She’s traveled a long way.  Can you let her rest for now?  You do have your meeting with the governor of Midland Provenance.”
 
Jake got to his feet and kissed Virginia’s hand.  “You will soon learn that my time is never mine.  I’m a slave to this job.  You rest now, because when I am free you are going to tell me every detail of your life since Papa put you on the train after the purge.”
 
The medic Kai waited in the hall for Jake to leave the old woman’s room before he entered, insisting that he must check her health before she could have a bath and take her nap. In the process of the brief physical exam, he swabbed her mouth for the genetic testing. 
 
In his room, Bruce didn’t know what to think.  All his life he’d been taught that great-grandmama was crazy.  He had really expected her to get arrested at the doors to the president’s compound.  Instead, she’d been kissed and coddled.  He began to believe the old woman had been telling the truth.  He twisted the frayed hem of his tee shirt and stared out the window without seeing.  “The president does look a little like papa around the chin and mouth,” he thought as he tried to understand his present circumstances. Servants rushed around bringing him trays of food, filling a tub with water for his bath, and bringing him fresh new clothes, finer than he’d ever seen. He began to wonder what his life would have been like as the president’s cousin. In his bath, he thought about Cousin Mary, just a year older than himself.  She’d been married off at age thirteen and died in childbirth when she was fourteen.  His outrage and anger began to grow over the poverty he’d endured because nobody would believe Grandmama.  He leaned back in the tub and wondered if his papa and grandpapa really didn’t believe her, or was their behavior some cruel trick born of a desire to control and hurt, leading the rest of the family to call her crazy.  In that moment, Bruce’s world turned upside down.  All he’d once believed was true became lies, and all he had once thought were lies became truth. 
 
***
 
The genetic testing on both Bruce and Virginia came back a match with the president.  For his part, Jake had seen his father’s eyes in his aunt’s face and never doubted.  Of course, Virginia’s whole family benefitted to the extent that Jake could forgive their treatment of his aunt.  Which was to say that the innocent lived in luxury.  Aaron continued to live in the, now repaired, house in Argos Province and work for the sewer department.
 
 
 
 
 
 

​This story will appear on the radio show Whispers of Vashon on Voice of Vashon 101.9 FM KVSH, Vashon Island, Washington. 




The Dream Curator
​

​            On a First Friday in fall, Hieronymus set up his bronze bowl in the Island Arts Gallery. Inside sloshed a silvery, reflective liquid the consistency of mercury.
            He looked around the gallery at the driftwood sculptures and an installation that allowed patrons to hatch from an egg or be fossilized in amber. His confidence waned. He had just one piece of art to show. An art project that seems brilliant at home may fall flat in public. He peered into the mercurial liquid to check that it worked.
            His eyes lost focus, and in the bowl appeared an image. Transient orcas transformed into scrappy young men wanting to start fights. They had too many teeth in their mouths. T-63, Chainsaw, had become a redhead.
            He refocused on the rim of the bowl, then the wider world around him, and found another artist standing over his shoulder. “What’s that you’ve got there? How’d you make that whale picture?”
            Hieronymus blushed. “The liquid in the bowl reflects a dream.”
            “You dream about orcas? Or was that my dream?”
            “I’m pretty sure it was mine,” said Hieronymus. “But I guess a lot of us dream about whales.”
            An hour later, the gallery crawl was in full swing. A woman wrapped in a sweater and scarf drank wine from a box on the display table. A man in a suit and shoes with individual toes overzealously smeared crackers with cheese and had to lick the cheese off his fingers, wipe this fingers on his pants, and then remember not to touch the art.
            A mother and child approached Hieronymus. “What’s in the bowl?” asked the child. She reached out to touch it, but her mom swatted her hand away.
            “Only looking,” her mom reminded her.
            “It’s a dream bowl,” said Hieronymus. “Look in. What do you see?”
            The girl leaned closer. The silvery liquid turned shades of green, and the greens coalesced into the bodies of snakes. Hundreds of snakes rolled and roiled over each other. One blue snake slithered and slid through the others, his body growing as he emerged from the pile. He coiled atop the others and lay heavily, dominating them.
            “I’ve seen this show before,” said the girl. “Did you make it?”
            “No, you did,” said Hieronymus. “This is your dream.”
            “I thought you said you dreamt about roses?” said the mother.
            “Those too,” said the girl. “But also snakes.”
            A golden retriever barged through the crowd at the door, bounded to the back of the room, and skidded to a stop on his soft paws. He bonked the table holding the bronze bowl with his wagging tail. Liquid sloshed to the edge of the bowl but didn’t spill.
            Hieronymus scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Hey, boy. You seem like a good boy.” He thumped the dog’s back.
            The dog rested his head in Hieronymus’s lap. His gaze fell onto the bowl. He hopped up and sniffed it. Maybe it contained food.
            The aroma of grass and dander filled the room. Smells came in waves, like colors of the rainbow through a rotating prism. The red redolence of fresh dirt, the midnight blue fragrance of a frightened cat, the beige scent of an empty can of dog food.
            The dog’s owner ran in, sweating, apologizing. He grabbed the dog by the collar. “I’m so sorry. He got away from me. He’s normally such a good boy. Did he break anything?” The man pulled hard on the leash, and the dog’s attention drifted from the bowl. The spectrum of iridescent odors evaporated and was replaced by the funk of wet boots and wine.
            “He’s fine,” said Hieronymus. “Such a good boy.”
            In the space the dog had cleared ambled a woman trailing two young children. She approached the bowl and peeked in. “Oh god not my dreams. They’re always nightmares. See? There’s the one where I’m throwing a glass of milk in a man’s face because he broke into my house. And he just laughs at me for being annoyed.”
            The silver swirled. “Oh great, another one. Here I am with my teeth falling out. They’re crunching around in my mouth. I keep trying to nonchalantly spit them into a coffee cup so no one notices.”
            Another swirl. “And there’s me looking in a mirror. My face is totally distorted. My hairline is jagged, and my forehead goes on forever. I think I have an extra nose. This is ridiculous. Now see me getting into bed, but my bed is made of stone. Hours of this. Hours of dreaming that I’m in uncomfortable places and unable to sleep. Do you know how unrestful it is to dream that you’re awake and trying to sleep?”
            “I can’t say I do,” said Hieronymus.
            Her toddler whined and pulled at her pant leg “You’re lucky,” said the woman. “Dreams are a window into the workings of your mind. And mine are all about managing people’s disdain for me, or trying to escape it.”
            “I..I’m sorry,” stammered Hieronymus.
            “It’s not your fault. I bet other people have beautiful dreams. What’s the best one you’ve seen tonight?”
            “Someone built a Rube Goldberg machine to keep the raccoons out of their lawn.”
            “Why can’t I have dreams like that?” The woman picked up her toddler, who’d begun to cry. The child wiped her nose in her mother’s hair. “Has anyone else had a bad dream?”
            “One man dreamed he died on board a ship. He then eulogized himself in a quatrain. I think it went: His corpse was sent to wander/ on two black oceans deep/ one eternal suffering/ one eternal sleep.”
            Her older daughter began tugging on the toddler’s dangling leg. The woman spread her feet, trying to keep her balance. The toddler whimpered. “That sounds like a relaxing dream. Why can’t I dream that my soul wanders the abyss eternally? Do you have any art that gives people good dreams, or is your art just a reflection of what’s already out there in the world?”
            “It’s a reflection. But there are pills you can take to stop dreaming, if you need.”
            The baby bit her cheek, and the older daughter sat on her mother’s feet, muttering “I wanna go home” on an endless loop.
            “Well, I wouldn’t want to stop dreaming altogether. Then how would I know how I feel?”
            Hieronymus had no time to answer because the toddler grabbed her mother’s hair as if it were reins and led her to the refreshment table.
            A young woman approached the bowl slowly, without looking directly at it. She stared blankly at the driftwood chimes that hung from the ceiling and  spun lazily on their silver chains.
            “What’s this?” she asked when she eventually arrived at her destination.
            “A dream bowl. Have a peek inside. It shows you your dreams.”
            She leaned over, then stopped, closed her eyes tight. “Can others see them?”
            “Yes,” said Hieronymus.
            “That seems like an invasion of privacy.”
            “I can look away if you’d like.” Hieronymus turned sideways, fixing his gaze on a collage reminiscent of a Rothko painting but made by cutting out glossy magazine images of bird feathers. “It’s safe to open your eyes now,” he said.
            The woman opened first one eye, then the other. The swirling silver liquid resolved into the image of herself and a blonde woman seated on a driftwood log on a sandy beach. They were holding hands. The blonde rested her head on the woman’s shoulder. Her ample hair spilled over the second woman, creating a golden pile in her lap. The woman ran her fingers through the hair, slowly, saying nothing.
            Hieronymus looked back eventually, assuming the woman must have left. But there she stood looking into the bowl, watching herself comb another woman’s hair.
            The image was disrupted when a tear dropped from the woman’s eye into the bowl.
            “Was that dream a memory?” asked Hieronymus. “Is she someone you lost?”
            “In a sense, I guess. She’s someone I never met. I just dreamed her up.
            “And you fell in love with a figment of your imagination?” asked Hieronymus.
            The woman thought a moment. “Everyone we love is a mental model of a much more complicated person. The only difference between loving her and loving someone real is, well, she has no physical form.”
            “That seems like a big difference,” said Hieronymus.
            The woman nodded.  “I always wanted to see her again. Thank you.” She turned on her heels and walked away, stopping only briefly to take a cookie from a platter before exiting the gallery.
            A patron of the arts with a wine stain on his shirt plodded over. “Have you met Madame Olga,” he asked. He stood over the dream bowl, his full wine glass swinging precipitously in his hand. “She interprets dreams. Costs a fortune, though. You pay her to follow you around for a few days. She learns your unique symbology, then interprets your dreams.”
            “Seems like an interesting woman,” said Hieronymus. He held his hands over his bowl to catch any stray drops of wine that might spill.
            “I heard about her on the radio. Maybe you two could team up?” The man swayed. A drop of wine sloshed over the rim of his glass. Hieronymus missed it, and it fell into the liquid.
            “I’ll consider it,” he said grumpily, distracted by what a drop of wine might do to his perfectly calibrated dream fluid.
            He waved the man away and peered in to check.
            The silver liquid sloshed around like water over rapids. It projected crumpled images. A laughing face appeared, then faded into the darkness. A tree, enormous, towering over him, its lowest branches three stories above ground. The feeling of wrapping his arms around the trunk, the desire to climb. The tree vanished. There was a woman covered in wooden and macrame jewelry, wearing a rough woven poncho. Her long, matted hair hung in great strands around her face. She transformed, ever so slowly, into a buffalo. “You see,” she said, lifting a great blue hoof, “the stone rolls forever.”
            Why would a buffalo have a blue foot? Hieronymus wondered, and that moment of lucidity broke the spell.
            He sat above his bowl, his chest sweating, his head aching. He kicked the bowl over. “It’s ruined now. I don’t want to see drunken dreams.”
            The silver liquid poured from the bowl, ran in a thin rivulet out the door, slow and viscous like honey. It meandered past people’s feet, avoided muddy bootprints, and snaked onto the sidewalk. The little silver stream ran with the rain along the gutter, down into a puddle at the corner of the highway and Main.
            It spiraled into the puddle, formed a shimmering dull rainbow like an oil slick.
            The puddle seeped into the ground through a grate marked with a picture of a fish and dire warnings not to dump anything. The grate led, after all, to the sea.

            Months later, on a warm summer evening, Hieronymus saw a woman he vaguely recognized gazing out the window of the ferry, transfixed by the broken reflection of the sun, like golden embers on the water. She stared intently at nothing, her eyes tearing over. She reached out a hand, which hit the salted window of the ferry.
            Startled, she broke her gaze, looked first at her hand, then around her. She spotted Hieronymus.
            “Funny thing,” she said. “For a moment, I remembered a dream I’d had long ago.”            
            “That happens to me whenever I look at the sea,” said Hieronymus. They looked out the window together, at the clouds at the base of Mt. Rainier, at the blond threads of sunlight on the water, at the transient orca whales with far too many teeth.
 
***
           
Anna Shomsky is a Vashon author.  Her radio show Whispers of Vashon is broadcast on the local station.  She is currently working on a Science Fiction novel. 

 
What a beautiful garden. We sat on the well-cushioned wrought iron chairs waiting for our hostess to bring tea.
 
“Won’t you take tea and some scones?” Linda asked before we had even signed the guestbook. “The garden is lovely this time of year.”
 
And it was, a springtime profusion of color, growth, and scent. Enough to lull us away from the tensions of the day’s drive. More than enough to assure that I would spend the night suffering with allergies. Still, a true delight of a place.
 
I breathed deeply. My wife pulled out the little pillbox that held my antihistamines. Choosing one of the various pills at random, I swallowed it without benefit of water. When it came to allergy medicines, I had been swallowing pills that way since I was three. Not that they did much to help, or perhaps they did and I still suffered. Oh well, it was a great garden.
 
I was so busy enjoying the warm spring New England day and the joy of the Bed and Breakfast’s backyard that I hadn’t noticed him. It was only when I allowed my left hand to drift down from my lap, perhaps it and I were ready for sleep. Suddenly, I was fully awake. Cold, wet. What? I jerked my hand up and looked down. What did I expect to find?
 
I started to laugh. A buff and white cocker spaniel, his head cocked to one side, his tail awag with energy that belied his graying muzzle, his mouth barely able to hold the outsized ball dripping with saliva. Now that was a benefit I hadn’t expected. We had left our dogs in the kennel, and only two days into our trip I already missed them—especially our Airedale who loved to chase sticks. Since she didn’t retrieve, a ball wasn’t Jennifer’s thing; but chasing a thrown stick, now that was a great game.
 
“You want me to throw that for you?” I asked and held my hand down near the dog’s mouth. I expected to have that well-slobbered orb dropped into my palm, but it wasn’t.
 
“You have to take it from his mouth.” Linda had returned with an elaborate tea tray. Scones with jam and cream, cakes, sandwiches, and of course a pot and two fine china cups. Perhaps she thought we were royalty. Over her right forearm was draped a small linen towel—a lovely touch of fine service. If our room was as nice as this greeting, we had lucked into a wonderful deal for our night in Providence.
 
“He’s blind,” she continued, so he doesn’t see your hand. He smells you… and hears you of course,” she explained before I could ask, “but he can’t actually tell if your hand is open.”
 
“Blind, how sad. Then he can’t—”
 
“Of course he can. He uses his hearing. Throw it and watch.”
 
I gave the ball a little tug and out it popped. Now I understood the purpose of that towel; my hand was awash with saliva.
 
I threw that sopping ball—not too far, how could he possibly find it if I threw it too far? No sooner did it land then the dog took off, his great cocker ears flapping with each bounce. Almost immediately he was back, nuzzling my hand.

Another throw and then another: each longer than the one before. Without hesitation he was after each toss; The garden was truly the dog’s domain. Never a stumble or a problem with a bush or plant.
 
“Enough, Baylor,” our hostess said. “Let the man have his tea.”
 
With an audible sign, Baylor lay by my feet, clearly waiting for me to resume the game. I wiped my hands on the proffered towel and dug into the feast.
 
Not by accident, I dropped a piece of scone, a bite of cake, a bit of sandwich. Even in the profusion of scents which filled that garden, Baylor found them all.
 
“Glaucoma,” Linda explained to me at breakfast. “Cockers are prone to eye problems. And ear. And of course they require brushing, just endless grooming. But…” She reached down and stroked Baylor. He buried his nose in her hand.
 
“Where’s his ball,” I asked.
 
“In the garden, where it belongs. Do you want to take him out for a while?”
 
I thought about for a moment, took another bite of the delicious soufflé and one of the fresh baked biscuit covered with homemade strawberry jam.
 
As I weighed the options, my wife wisely made the decision for me. “Finish your breakfast, and no, you can’t get another dog.”

About Ken Weene:

A New Englander by birth and disposition and trained as a psychologist and minister, Ken Weene has worked as an educator and psychotherapist. 

Besides writing, Ken's earlier interests included whitewater rafting, travel, and playing paintball. 

Ken's books are available on Amazon at:
​https://www.amazon.com/Kenneth-Weene/e/B002M3EMWU/

​Chun Yu staggered up the street bumping into the storefronts on one side until his next stagger took him off the curb into the street.  He wove his way across the street toward the Sylvana train station, located across from an old hotel converted into a boarding school for Sylvana’s eighty-seven children whose parents traveled with the harvest. Chun stood in the middle of the road and squinted up and down the street before tacking into a lamppost in front of the station.
 
Clyde Tovey, the stationmaster, watched Yu and hoped the Chinaman wouldn’t be sick in the train station.  His lip curled in disgust as the worthless, drunken bum staggered along the sidewalk outside the open-air station.  Tovey leaned back in his chair to secure the lock on his ticket booth as Yu staggered closer, occasionally falling off the curb then righting himself.  Tovey hoped the drunk would find someplace else to sleep tonight.  For the past two months, the bum had hung around the station, begging for money that appeared to be spent on drink.  At least five times, Tovey had chased the stinking man off of station benches at night and twice that many times, he’d turned a blind eye to the man sleeping off his drunk on a bench at the far end of the station.  Tovey watched until Yu was past the station then settled down with his newspaper, thankful for the peace and quiet of the dark night.  He glanced at his clock. No trains and no early commuters due in for another three hours.  
 
Tovey went back to his newspaper, skipping over another vile article about the government providing food and housing for the children of the nation’s itinerant farm workers. He figured separating children from their parents wasn’t the best solution, but the crops across the country must be harvested, and the children needed education. He glanced toward the old hotel and Miss. Onar, the children’s housemother.  The paper had called her ugly and scrawny. Tovey scowled when he thought of the cruel things the paper said. Miss Onar was thin, but she had a kind heart and the children loved her.  Tovey figured if the children clung to her, she must be a good woman, and she was educated, too.  She had to go to university and get a certificate to be a housemother. He sighed and glanced back at his paper.
 
A blue truck full of noisy youths drove up the road. As it passed the station three loud booms followed by explosions disturbed the night.  
 
Tovey stood up, startled.  
 
Someone screamed “Fire.” and footsteps came running toward the station.  Chun Yu flung himself halfway through the open ticket window and smashed his hand onto the station fire alarm button. “Firebombs at the boarding school.  Get your d’no car,” Yu shouted at the stationmaster.
 
Tovey looked into the clear eyes of the Chinaman, fumbled his door open and started to run.  He counted out the passing seconds, thirty-four, thirty-five, as he raced toward the station’s fire fighting machine.  He glanced toward the bright light of flames reaching toward the roof from the third floor of the school.  The firelight silhouetted Yu talking on a cell phone as he ran toward the building full of sleeping children.
 
Tovey theoretically knew how to operate the old fire-fighting machine.  He’d memorized all the steps to starting it as all railroad workers had. He’d run through the procedure once a month during safety drills.
 
Once, twenty years earlier, the d’no had been the only equipment for fighting a fire in the city.  It sat on a piece of track between the rail lines on one side of the station and the old trolley tracks on the town side of the station.  Tovey continued to count seconds as he flipped open the case to the switch that would change the track allowing him onto the trolley track with his machine.  “One hundred twenty, one hundred twenty-one.”
The counting kept Tovey focused as he leapt onto the town end of the big d’no tanker car.  He flipped another switch, pulled a choke and pushed a button.  The old gas engine roared and whined as pressure built in the water tank.  Tovey released the brake, and the d’no tank car rolled forward.
 
“One hundred forty-five, one hundred forty-six.” Tovey counted, “Just a little over two minutes to get the car rolling.”  
 
The car was fitted at each end with a huge brass water nozzle mounted on a turret adapted from a small military tank.
 
The station fire alarm still rent the night as Tovey counted, checked gauges, and flipped up the sights for the water cannon. He turned knobs adjusting the height of the cannon and manually swiveled it to point toward the orphanage.  When he saw the flames from the fire under the crosshatch hairs of the sights, he pulled a lever, letting loose a stream of water that arched the half-block across the street and broke a hole through the flaming school roof sending up a cloud of smoke and steam.
 
Tovey closed what he called the firing lever as he discovered one of the design flaws of the powerful machine. The heavy tank car rocked on the tracks until Tovey feared it would topple over, as it continued rolling forward, closer to the fire.  Tovey still counted, “two-hundred, two-hundred-one.”  The car rocked but didn’t roll over off of the tracks, so Tovey lined the reflection of the flames up in the cross hairs of his sights and let loose another volley of water that ripped into the half-rotted burning roof across the street.  More steam and smoke rose into the night air.
 
While the d’no car rocked on the tracks, Tovey watched the screaming children run from the building.  He searched for Miss Onar’s slight frame as he counted seconds,  “Two hundred seventy-five, two hundred seventy six,” less than five minutes since Yu had hit the alarm.
 
A hand grabbed Tovey from behind.  He turned.  A half dressed man from railroad security shouted into his face. “I got the stabilizers down. Fire.”
 
Tovey felt the car bucking and rocking on the tracks as a stream of water shot toward the fire from the back end of the car, but the car no longer felt as if it would topple over. “Three hundred-four, three hundred five. Someone must be on the back cannon.”
 
The cannon on the other end of the car was ripping up the roof and quenching any flames that dared to show themselves in the attic, but the fire was thickest on the third floor. Tovey lined up his target and let loose another volley of water towards the third floor. Using a steady stream of water, Tovey broke windows and drowned out flames until the fire-lit night turned into darkness once again.
 
Tovey was looking for more targets when someone grabbed him again.  He looked down into Yu’s smoke stained face.  “Get a train car. We have to get the children out of sight.  Someone may try to attack them on the street. They need to get warm and dry.  We’ll take them to the next station.”
 
Tovey nodded, “Three hundred twenty-eight, three hundred twenty-nine.”
 
The station always had extra train cars on sidetracks, but the only engine was a huge old diesel-electric.  Tovey sprinted through the station, stopping to yank levers and push buttons that would switch more tracks to bring the engine to the cars. He’d used the diesel-electric a couple times before and knew how to start the thing.
 
The station sirens still blared into the darkness as Tovey unlocked the gate to the fenced yard that kept local delinquents from defacing the old, slightly rusty engine.  He climbed aboard the diesel-electric and automatically went through the routine of checking gears and brakes before he fired it up.  Once the big engine roared to life, Tovey left it to warm-up while he found the stations’ gerry and moved two passenger cars onto the track beside the station.
 
After Tovey assured himself the two passenger cars were positioned so the big engine could couple with them, he moved the gerry out of the way and jumped down. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and Tovey looked wildly up and down the track for an incoming train.  A bright white light pierced the night from the heavens above as three military helicopters emerged from behind a stand of trees.
 
“Six hundred eighty-eight, six hundred eighty-nine, Where had the military come from? Yu must be undercover military, six hundred-ninety. Where is Miss Onar? Six-hundred-ninety-one.”
 
Children now packed the station. Railroad security bustled everywhere, moving the d’no car, carrying children and watching the street for help, or another attack. Tovey turned and bounded across tracks then crawled up the ladder to the cab of the big diesel-electric.  He sounded the whistle to warn anybody near the tracks that he’d be backing up and the huge engine rolled slowly backward.  
 
A helicopter set down by the grain elevator on the far side of the tracks from town with the people inside throwing bundles out, then following the bundles themselves almost before the machine settled.  Soldiers swarmed across the tracks toward the children.  Tovey mentally planned how to transfer injured people from the station to the helicopter.  He sounded the whistle again to warn the military paramedics on the tracks that he was moving. The engine seemed to crawl, barely moving. Finally, Tovey heard the click then clank as the passenger cars joined with the engine.  He secured his brakes and climbed down.  
 
Two more helicopters set down next to the grain elevators.  Someone finally shut down the station’s fire siren. The whup whup of the helicopter blades and deep rumble of the diesel-electric felt almost comforting in the relative silence of the station. Tovey gestured to one of security.  “E’KsN, get the gerry to move the injured to the helicopters.  I left it on the cross track. Manning, work the switches.”
 
Tovey knelt beside a paramedic, “How many injured?”
 
“Just this man and two children.”
 
Tovey stood and waved his arm to catch the attention of another of the station security. “Get the children and their house parents on the train cars and give them the blankets stored in the overhead bins at each end of the car.”
 
Tovey grinned and the fear that had clutched his heart for the last ten minutes eased. Miss Onar, holding a preschooler in one arm and an infant the other, stood among the children, giving commands like a general. “Okay kids, hold hands with your partner.  We’re getting on the train.”
 
Tovey called, “Security, help with the children.”  He turned to Miss Onar.  “Where are the other house parents?”
 
Miss Onar pointed with her sharp chin toward the largest wrapped bundle attached to an IV.  The other housemother knelt beside the figure weeping and praying.
 
Tovey’s voice broke when he asked his next question, “Did you do a head count?  Is everybody safe?”
 
“Eighty-seven children and three adults. All here.  Except...Although…” She looked toward the huddle of paramedics.
 
A child suddenly screamed and sat down, and Tovey rushed to him, waving and calling for a medic. He dropped to his knees beside the child. “Where are you hurt?” He scanned the boy’s arms and head for burns.
 
“Mr. Wrinkles.  I want Mr. Wrinkles.”  The child cried.
 
Had they missed a child, another house parent? Was there still someone in the building?
 
Horrified, Mr. Tovey picked up the child in a hug. “Who is Mr. Wrinkles?”
“Our cat.”
“Where is he?’
“In my room.”
“Where’s your room?”
An older child answered, “Number two-oh-seven. Benny shut up.  You can’t have our cat.” The older child’s chin wobbled.
Benny screamed louder.
 
Tovey set the boy down, “Don’t worry, son.” Mr. Tovey turned to face the station and bellowed. “Men, we have to search the building. Craft, give us some light from the big engine.” Tovey took off at a lope, grabbing a flashlight from the ticket booth. He ran across the road. Yu sprinted past him into the smoky building just as Craft turned on the train’s big searchlight casting the building into broad daylight.
 
Seven minutes later, Mr. Tovey entered the train car with a cat that was clawing the side of his neck to shreds where it was tucked under his vest and secured by his arms. He turned to Miss Onar, “We checked the first and second floors. Yu checked the third.” Tovey managed to get a good hold on the squirming cat’s ruff and held it at arms length from his bleeding body. “Are there any other animals in there?”
 
Miss Onar’s eyes shone as she looked up into Mr. Tovey’s face and shook her head. She tore her eyes away from the stationmaster and said, “Every child in your seat, now. Thank Mr. Stationmaster for saving Mr. Wrinkles.”  She sounded like the sweetest drill sergeant Tovey had ever heard.
 
One of the older boys took the cat out of Tovey’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
 
Miss Onar’s eyes still glowed as she leaned toward Mr. Tovey,  “You are such a hero.  How can we ever thank you?”  She looked up into his eyes as her thin body almost brushed against his.
 
Tovey’s hand reached of its own accord toward miss Onar’s hand stopping just short of actually touching her. All the tender and witty things Tovey had for months imagined saying to Miss Onar fled his brain. He answered instead, “One thousand two-hundred seventy-seven. One thousand two-hundred seventy-eight seconds.” 
 
A red flush crept up Tovey’s neck as he turned and his way forward to the engine. As the train rolled out of the station Tovey wished the ground would open up and swallow him for his stupidity.
 
***
 
Afterword: Fortunately for Clyde Tovey, Miss Onar knew a good man when she saw one and wasn’t about to let him get away just because he was shy. They were married six months later.