What Waiters Wait For [FICTION]

“I’m Jim and I will be your waiter,” the tall lanky teenager smiles down at us in a familiar way.

I smile back, exchanging a look with my best friend Mona as he flashes that winning smile her way. She waits for his attention to waver back to me before offering me a shrug. He continues to smile at us.

“Okay, ladies, do you know what you want? The hamburgers here aren’t as good as they are at the Looney Lounge.” He references another local restaurant that we frequent.

My eyes widen. I look across the table to see that my best friend just had the same realization I did. She nods at him, drawing my attention to the fact that he has turned his attention to me again.

“What do you recommend, Jim?” I pause “…if not the burger.”

“I think you’d enjoy the buffalo chicken salad,” he points to it on the menu.

“That does look good.”

“Me next.” Mona says holding out her menu.

He gives her face a quick scan before pointing to her menu, “You would probably enjoy the tuna salad croissant.”

“Sounds good. Let’s give it a try.” She says.

“Very good, ladies. I’ll be back with your waters in a second.”

He turns away and Mona gives me a look, biting her lip until she is sure he is out of earshot. “Did he just wink at you?”

“I think so.”

“And he used to be our waiter at the Looney Lounge?”

“I think he wanted to make sure we remembered that.”

“Why do you think that is?” She grinned and gave me a suggestive look, complete with eyebrows waggling up and down.

“I don’t think that’s it. He’s a child.”

“Well, put your rattle away, so you don’t catch his eye.” She laughed, even though I had no idea what she meant by that.

I glanced down to make sure I wasn’t having any wardrobe malfunctions. Everything important remained hidden from the world. “What are you talking about?”

“I have no idea. You have something that child likes.”

I open my mouth to issue a retort but our drinks arrive. The waiter barely glances at us, hurrying to the next table to take their order. As the restaurant fills up, he barely has time to check on us. Somehow, our drinks never run dry and he always happens to walk by right as we need anything, including the check.

“What’s this?” Mona peers down at the bottom of the receipt.

I take it from her and peruse the tiny script at the bottom of the receipt. 

‘So glad I can still be your waiter, ladies. Just wanted you to know that your tips alone paid for all my books last semester, even the ones I read for fun. Keep being awesome! ~Jim’

“Well, no wonder he loves us so much.” Mona says.

“I guess it wasn’t my rattle after all,” I laugh.

“Nope. Just your jingle.”

~How many times do you have to come to a restaurant before you become the waiter’s favorite? I think it is a lot, but I can’t remember back to eating in a restaurant. It seems so far away at the time I am writing this. Hopefully, by the time this goes live we are able to enjoy each other’s company in person again. Even antisocial hobbit hermits sometimes miss being around other people.~

Presidential Bombshell [FICTION]

Sweaty palms grip the my podium as my opponent steps to the podium to my left. The guidance counselor assured me that serving as the president of my class would give my transcripts that extra nudge to catch the eye of college recruiters, so here I sit waiting for my chance to convince the sophomore class that I should represent them in our junior year. I really don’t want the gig. My nervousness stems from the antics of my opponent. Inspired by one too many political campaigns, he announced to the whole school that he will be dropping a bombshell during the first debate—a bombshell about me. I have no idea what it could be, so I have a feeling he has made up something truly unthinkable, but will it be believable?

The principal opens the debate with brief introductions of the candidates. She reads the bios we submitted when we chose to run for office and adds our GPAs for extra measure. I have a feeling that information would only matter if the teachers were voting. But even the teachers don’t look interested. They continue to look blankly into space, wishing for this to be over. Or waiting for the promised bit of gossip?

Even I am beginning to lose interest in the answers and banter that my opponent and I exchange as we try to convince anyone who is still listening that one of us is more worthy to be president than the other. Then it happens. My opponent’s nose wrinkles as he offers me a half smile. He clears his throat and leans into the podium so his lips hover inches from the microphone.

“I know you all just want us to finish up, so you can be anywhere but here.” He pauses to watch every head in the room nod in agreement. “I also know that making the decision on who will be the class president seems like one that means nothing, but it does mean something. And that is why I have to tell you the truth about my opponent. She doesn’t even want to be your president. She roots for the Indians.”

The room erupts in howls of disapproval. The Indians have been our school’s rival since time immemorial. Even though I know his statement to be false, I dislike myself quite a bit at this moment, too. I clear my throat and tap the microphone. No one can hear my assertions of innocent and school spirit over the vitriol spewed forth so freely. 

Guess who reported for duty as the president of the junior class the next year?

~~Lies hurt, friends. Lies hurt.~~

Tax Time Troubles [FICTION]

“What is this rap, rap, rapping on my door.” I channel Edgar Allen Poe as I throw the door wide. “Oh.” I pause, looking at the thin, rumpled man standing on the threshold.”

“Not who you expected?” He smiles wanly at me, extending his hand for me to shake. “My name is Edgar Dunes. I have been assigned to audit your taxes by the IRS.”

“But I…”

He holds up a hand to stop my protests. “This is a painless process as long as you cooperate.” His eyes survey my tiny home, unkempt lawn, and decades old automobile as he fumbles in his pocket producing an official looking card with his picture. “This is my ID and this is for you.” He hands me a piece of paper.

I see his beady eyes peering over my shoulder as I briefly digest the contents of the single sheet of paper. As I realize he really works for the Internal Revenue Service and has been sent here in an official capacity, memories of filling out my last tax form flood me with shame. I knew I would end up owing the government last year, so I fudged a few numbers to keep me just under the point where I would need to pay. At least, I didn’t try to get a refund I didn’t deserve.

By this point, Mr. Dunes has moved from looking around to sniffing the air. At first he tries to be subtle about it, taking a little sniff and then trying to keep his face from reacting. I lean down to make sure I put on deodorant. The smell of baby powder reassures me. Then he lifts his nose and takes another big inhale. Finally aware that I am watching him, he stops sniffing and fixes me with a stern glare.

“As you can see that paper assures me the right to go over your financial records to make sure the government gets their due from all your hard work.” 

“I am sure everything is in order,” I smile back at him, trying to figure out how best to bribe him so this all goes away, but I don’t have any money. He has already seen that.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Do we need to look or is there some other way we can resolve this?” I try to offer him a seductive smile. 

He doesn’t seem to notice, he is looking toward my kitchen now. “Do you have something in your oven?”

“Yes, I do,” I lower my voice in a way I hope is sexy and alluring.

He leans in and pats my hand, “I really would like to help you.”

“Oh?” I smile and steel myself for what I think is coming since his face is now inches from mine.

“Your house smells like my mother’s banana bread.” He leans back and looks longingly toward my 

kitchen again.

Until that moment, I had completely forgotten what I had in my oven. I lose all pretense of seduction as I respond, “I used my mother’s recipe.”

“I haven’t found any that compares to mother’s.” He pauses to mull something over, slipping a paper that looks like a copy of my last text return from his messenger bag to peer at the numbers. “How about I help you amend your tax return, so you can pay the bare minimum in reparations while I try a piece of your banana bread and see how it compares to my mother.”

“Bare minimum?” I ask, hopefully.

“Yes. It looks like you just messed up a couple of calculations. It would be a pity to fine you for a simple mistake.”

I open the door and usher him in. “That sounds perfect. Let me get you a slice of bread while you get started.”

He giggles and rubs his hands together happily as he sits down at the kitchen table and begins pulling papers and pens from his bag.

~On a side note, I have had at least three people tell me my banana bread is the best they have ever had, so I probably could get out of paying taxes with the right auditor.~

A Soleful Inheritance [FICTION]

 “That’s for you.” The lawyer places a shoebox on the desk between us.

“My uncle left me some shoes?” I nod my head slowly. “That makes sense.”

“I know nothing of the contents. He taped it closed himself and insisted that you not open it until you are alone…” He pauses to shuffle through some envelopes on his desk. “But you must read this first.”

I take the envelope, glancing at the names carefully written on them in my uncle’s block letters. Apparently, both of my sisters, my mom, and my uncle Dave haven’t visited with Uncle Shane’s lawyer yet. I wonder what style of shoes he left them. I earned low top blue and white sneakers somehow.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Wade.” I lift the box from desk, pondering how shoes could have this kind of heft. 

It occurs to me this could be a box of family pictures or important documents. I heft the box again and again to gauge its weight as I carry it to my car. The drive home blurs with memories of Uncle Shane from freeze tag to unsuccessful fishing trips to the last time we talked.

We didn’t say anything unusual and he closed off with his standard reminder to keep it real. He did deviate from our mundane jocularity to make a weird comment about knowing he can always trust me with the hard decisions. I glance at the box, wondering what hard decision it might contain. 

The piercing scream of the horn of a passing car puts my eyes back where they belong—on the road. Properly chastened, I focus on my driving until I pull into my garage and close the door. I don’t bother opening the door. Curiosity takes hold of my hands and I reach for the box, remembering the counsel to read the letter first. I open it slowly and take a deep breath.

“Dear Opal,

“You’ve always been the gem of our family, sparkling bright even when the rest of us are struggling. That’s why I didn’t tell you I was sick. I wanted to be able to see that sparkle until the day I died. Hope I succeeded.

“So everyone got a shoebox. You probably figured that out even though I asked the lawyer to see you each separately. Honestly, I didn’t want you to learn about your inheritance in front of everyone else. Most of those shoeboxes are filled with trinkets, or pictures of larger items that I knew they wanted, but you never asked for anything. You always gave. You always give.

“So I have given you a huge responsibility. Go ahead. Open the shoebox now.”

I set the letter down and open the shoebox. Nestled inside, I find stacks of hundreds. I slowly pull them out, counting at least two thousand dollars. Underneath that, my uncle had placed a cashier’s check for an unspeakable sum of money. I take another deep breath and pick the letter back up.

“I hope you will listen to me and use some of this money to do something nice for yourself. Even if it is just a haircut. You should be able to spend twenty dollars on yourself without feeling guilty.

“The rest of it, I know you will invest wisely for our family, so you can help out if they really need it. I hope you will forgive me for putting this on your shoulders, but I know I can trust you. I know you love our family as much as I do. You are so much better at showing it than I ever was though. Just keep being you.

“And, Opal, keep it real.

“Love and stuff,

“Your Uncle Shane”

~~Are you that person? Are you the gem of your family? I, honestly, would probably spend a fair amount of that money on books and things to nibble while reading said books. That’s why no one ever leaves me shoeboxes full of cash, right?

In other news, I am sorry this offering is late. I haven’t been feeling well and I need to invest my time better in order to keep entertaining the world and keep my house acceptably clean and tidy.~~

The Leprechaun’s True Gift [FICTION]

“Ugh.” I roll out of bed and onto the floor.

Upon opening my eyes, I realize that the nearest piece of furniture is the kitchen table. I must have fallen from a chair. Failing to find any memories of the previous evening rolling around in my head, I glance around the room, looking for clues. The white linoleum of my kitchen floor sports green stains. Some are shaped like my hands. Raising them to my face, I confirm that I may have spent the evening impersonating Kermit the Frog. One burp assures me that the green dye originated in more than my fair share of green brews last night or I ate my weight in green bread.

Curious as to how far the green spreads over my body, I roll up my sleeves. As I do so, burning discomfort erupts from my left forearm. I look down to see gauze carefully taped across my forearm.

“Oh no. What did I cut myself on?” I murmur, gently peeling back the bandage to see what sort of damage hides underneath.

“Hmm.” I ponder the map tattooed on my now tender skin.

I waver between intrigue and and panic as I realize I now have a permanent reminder of whatever shenanigans I got involved in the night before. I stare at the tattoo for about ten minutes before deciding only a clearer head will be able to unravel the secrets of my lost evening.

A couple of glasses of water and an omelet later, I find my stomach settled and my mind cleared enough to remember snippets of the previous night. I remember meeting a short man who took Saint Patrick’s Day so seriously that he decked himself out as a leprechaun, complete with rainbow suspenders and flowing red beard. 

“Oh, McDougall’s. That was where I went last night.” I smile as I remember the bustle and excitement at my favorite Irish pub.

Even my unrhythmic feet couldn’t help but pound the floor in an energetic river dance a time or two. It was after my third prance across the floor that I met the leprechaun. At first, I thought he was hitting on me, but he seemed unfazed by my attempts to brush him off. Three more beers in, and I realized he wanted to tell me something important.

“I like your style. I’ve never seen a woman drink like that,” he pushed a shot of Irish whiskey to me, “and I have never met anyone who wasn’t interested in me pot of gold.”

“That’s nice, man. Thanks for the shot.” I remember the feel of it burning its way down to my stomach and am surprised I remember anything past that point.

I look down at my wrist again. “Did that leprechaun have a tattoo gun in that pot with the gold? Did a leprechaun tattoo the directions to his pot of golf on my arm?”

I peer at the tiny map, trying to figure out where the map wishes to lead me. I see a shamrock at one end and a pot of gold at the other. The configuration of the streets between seems familiar. I notice a third tiny image. Placing my arm almost on my nose, I make out a tiny stein of brown ale. Suddenly, the map makes sense.

I am sitting in the middle of the shamrock, my house. The tiny stein of ale is McDougall’s pub, which means the pot of gold is just past the library. I guess my grade school librarian was right when she assured us that reading would make us rich, though I always assumed she meant rich in knowledge.

“Let’s go see.” I say to no one. “But first, I should cover this up.”

I laugh as I reach into the closet and pull out the first jacket my hand touches. Green velvet wouldn’t be my first choice, but since I am not certain what I am looking for, I want to hurry and find it before anyone else can—if there is anything to find.

I make the decision to walk in the hopes that the fresh air will further clear my head and help me work through whatever has my stomach burbling and boiling inside me. I regret the decision by the time I reach the halfway point between my house and the library three blocks away. My legs feel like warm rubber, causing me to wobble back and forth. I ignore the sideways looks I get from people correctly assuming that I am just one more person lost in the fog that follows a night of Saint Patrick’s Day debauchery.

As my weary legs bring me  to the library, I look up and giggle. A rainbow slides across the clear sky with one end apparently coming down behind the library. I follow the brick path that leads around to the cozy reading garden. At one of the tables, I find my friend from the previous evening. Before him on one of the ornate metal tables sits a large black cauldron that seems to glow from within.

“You found me, my dear.” He gestures to the seat before me. “And now I ask what you desire…”

I sit down next to him, sighing with relief. “This is all I need. A place to sit.”

He laughs, showing perfectly white teeth among the flaming orange of his beard. “You really are the strangest human I have ever met.”

“I feel like I should thank you, “ I reply.

“You’re welcome.” He grins. “But you never answered my question.”

“I wasn’t aware leprechauns granted wishes.”

“We can if we choose to.”

“Did I wish for this?” I raise my arm to show him my tattoo.

“Of course not. Just wanted to make sure you remembered.”

“Probably wise.” I sigh. “Now I will remember forever.”

“Oh good. Then you don’t need that any more.” He wiggles his fingers and one eyebrow and my arm tingles.

I look down and watch the ink dissipate into the air, leaving no trace on my skin. “Well, thank you again.”

“And now for the business at hand.” He leans forward and pulls the pot of gold toward himself. “I need you to take this.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t.” I look at the pot suspiciously. “I heard somewhere that leprechaun gold is cursed.”

“A little bit, but I need to retire and I think you have the right mindset to take my place.”

“As a leprechaun?” My eyes bulge out. “That’s ridiculous.”

He nudges the pot toward me and keeps nudging it until it tips over into my lap. I reach out to catch it. As my hands touch the metal surface, it shimmers and becomes gold for a moment. 

“What did you do now?” I ask as a weird sensation stretches from my stem to my crown.

As the pot seems to double in size, the leprechaun seems to grow as well. His red hair darkens for a moment before fading to salt and pepper. “I am so glad you had enough Irish in you.” He smiles.

“Just the whiskey,” I joke before asking again. ‘What is going on?”

“You, my dear, will now lead an exciting life as a leprechaun. Take good care of that gold and it will take good care of you.”

“But I can’t watch a pot of gold. I have class.”

“No need for class. Top of the mornin’ to ye. Good luck.” He wiggles his fingers and suddenly I am alone at the end of the rainbow with my very own pot of gold.

~So I don’t actually drink. Forgive me if my descriptions of hangovers and drunkenness have a slightly sober slant. My knowledge of leprechauns is clearly spot on though. Or are they? Only the leprechaun knows. Hope you have fun plans for to wear green, eat green, but maybe not be green unless you are the Hulk, Yoda, or Kermit. (Also, if you are Yoda or Kermit, call me!)~

The Real Concert Begins [FICTION]

“Where did you get tickets to this concert again?” I ask after my stub has been handed back to me.

My friend Allison grins. “Some guy at work was giving them out.”

“And this band is good?” I look at the ticket stub skeptically, certain I have never heard of the Laser Light Loners before.

As they begin to play, I quickly realize I actually wish to never hear about them or from them again. My three year old nephew makes better music when he is screaming “Mom! Mom! Mom!” at the top of his lungs.

After the fourth song, I tap Allison on the shoulder. She mouths, “I’m sorry,” but her eyes speak so much more. Soon we are in the parking lot and we are not alone. Half the crowd seems to have joined us. I have to wonder what kept anyone standing around to listen. My top contenders include being related to the band, having already reached a level of inebriation that makes the chaotic misalignment of sounds suddenly seem like musical poetry, or having the worst taste in music ever given to someone with full use of their ears and brain. I express these ideas to Allison as she offers to make it up to me by taking me to our favorite pub. Though we don’t drink, their fries and hot fudge sundaes are among the best I have ever tasted.

We have just polished off our sundaes when Allison giggles and points toward the door. “Looks like your new favorite band found your favorite place.”

‘What?” I glance over my shoulder to see the lead singer of the Laser Light Loners.

I roll my eyes. “At least it isn’t karaoke night.”

“I dunno. I think I’d like to see him pit his vocal skills against yours.”

“I have no skills,” I inform her.

“You must have some skills,” she says, nodding her head at something over my shoulder.

I turn to find the lead singer smiling down at me with the bass player and drummer flanking him like rock star body guards. “Hello.” I have to admit his voice sounds better when he isn’t screaming into a microphone, but my ears can’t forget the horrors that he calls singing.

I smile anyway. “Hi.”

“Seen any good concerts lately,” he grins at me.

“No,” my own smile fades.

“Oh!” He looks like I just punched him in the gut.

“Must not have seen our concert.” The drummer declares obliviously.

“We did,” Allison backs my play. “Part of it.”

“Ouch!” Looking deflated, the drummer heads over to the bar.

“Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy you a drink,” the lead singer offers. “I’m John, by the way.”

“Kim,” I offer him my hand, “We’re just drinking water.”

He mulls this over, inspecting the toes of his sneakers as Allison mouths, “Be nice. He’s not that bad looking.”

I roll my eyes at her but take a deep breath and her advice. “Maybe you could make it up to us another way.” 

“I’d love to try,” he lowers his voice, grinning at me.

“Not that way,” I give him my most disapproving look.

He laughs, “Of course not. Of course not. So what do you have in mind?”

I glance at Allison, giving her a slow wink. “There is a karaoke bar on the other side of the street. Want to have a sing off?”

“You know I’m a singer, right?” He looks incredulous.

“Maybe you’ll have more luck singing someone else’s songs.” I grin at him and stand up.

Allison joins me, offering her own challenge, “Unless you don’t think you’re up to it.”

We giggle. Allison knows how truly terrible my singing can be. In fact, she once pointed out that the more I love a song, the more I seem to butcher it on its way across my lips.

“Oh. I’m up for it. Come on guys, give me some support.” He waves his friends in and they fall in behind us on our way out.

Our waitress looks at us curiously as she waves goodbye. 

Soon, we are sitting at a sticky table with what I find to be arguably the worst band in the world, looking for the right songs to pit our voices against each other. Allison selects a country tune for me, hoping to highlight the accent I never completely vanquished from my speech when I ran away to the city. John lets his friends select a song for him, a ballad from the 80s that makes him wince just hearing the name.

While I am scrolling through my phone to get a reminder of the lyrics I will be singing, Allison stands up and walks over to the disc jockey. I don’t give it much thought until the background music disappears and her voice fills the air around us.

“My friend and I need your help,” she gestures toward me and the disc jockey shines a light on me, “She has challenged a new friend of ours to a sing off. You decide which one of them deserves the win. You get to listen to both songs and then we will ask you to vote for my friend or the other contender Doesn’t that sound fun?”

We get light applause and a few drunken cheers. One man stands up and starts to lift his shirt over his head, presumably to toss in Allison’s direction. Luckily, his friends talk him out of it, probably by reminding him that such behavior gets one kicked out of the establishment fueling the happy drunkenness. 

I stand up to sing first. Even I cringe at how far off I am at points in the song, but the crowd listens with the politeness granted the inebriated. I even get a couple of supportive claps from the man who probably still wants to toss his shirt onstage. I appreciate his restraint.

It turns out John’s friends want to play to his weaknesses. Most of the chorus proves way too high for him, and the expression on his face speaks to his distaste for the song, the key it should be sung in, and probably the band from which it sprang. He closes up with a brief improv a cappella rap of insult for his friends and steps over to stand next to me as Allison continues her duties as master of ceremonies for our musical circus.

“May we first hear applause for my girl Kim.”

Most of the room expresses their preference for my musical stylings by pounding their hands together.

“And who prefers the musical stylings of John and his heartfelt ballad?”

A few people offer soft pity claps. His two friends try to make up the difference with loud hoots and hollers.

“And who just wants them both to sing again?”

A soft chorus of boos fills the bar. One person even calls out a helpful, “Get off the stage.”

And the most helpful of all is the drunk man assuring us loudly that if we sing again, he is taking off his shirt and giving us both hugs. I shudder as I glance in the direction of the wet stains in his armpits. 

“That concludes this evening’s humiliation for my dear friend, though I think she may be the new frontman of a local band in light of tonight’s vote.”

A few people guffaw, but I doubt any of them have heard of the Laser Light Loners. If they have, they probably will join me in forgetting about them.

“I guess you bested me this time, but I am always up for a rematch.” John offers me his hand.

“Don’t touch the star,” Allison tells him as she begins dramatically dragging me toward the door. “No autographs, please.”

“Come on, Allison, don’t be rude.”

“Shh. I know you like being flirted with, but it can’t go anywhere,” she assures me, “What would you do if he wrote you a love song?”

~I kind of feel like this is how people would react to me deciding to be a singer. That is why I skip getting off the stage by not stepping onto it in the first place. I shall stick to my poetry for now, but feel free to let me know if you are brave enough to let me sing to you, so you can give me an honest opinion of my pipes.~

The Heart of the World [FICTION]

“Jump.”

         

We leaped together, holding hands tightly as we hurtled toward the center of the earth. I let my mind go blank and closed my eyes The air rushed past my face and whistled as it pulled my hair up and away from my face. 

“This better work.” Hans called out over the wind.

“It will.” I replied, wondering if he could even hear me.

He gripped my hand tighter. My stomach lurched. I closed my eyes again. I didn’t open them until our feet connected with something solid yet spongy and Hans squeezed my hand reassuringly.

“Time to save the world.” He leaned in to whisper in my ear.

“I hope.” I whispered back, looking in wonder at the caverns leading off in all directions from where I stood. 

Colorless vegetation surrounded us, sprouting from the thin dust at our feet. Luminescent liquid dripped from the stalactites reaching down to touch the floor. By that glow, we could see dozens of empty tunnels leading further into the earth.

Hans released my hand and stepped into one of these tunnels. “Well, we better start looking for someone to take us to their leader.” His soft whisper echoed in the empty caverns as if he had shouted.

“Look no further.” A deep voice rumbled from somewhere above our heads.

We looked up to see a figure growing ever larger as it slowly descended from the ceiling of the nearest corridor. I stepped closer to Hans, taking his hand again and squeezing it as hard as I could. He squeezed back, whether to reassure me or seek comfort I don’t know. My eyes remained locked on the stranger, who reminded me of the standard depiction of extraterrestrial life with a slender body and large head dwarfed by large, round, dark eyes.

“It’s okay.” Hans whispered.

“Yes, my dear. It is okay.” The large humanoid showed round teeth like creamy pearls as he spoke. “Assuming, your reasons for visiting my home are peaceable.”

I cleared my throat. “Of course. In fact, we need your help.”

“My help?” His soft rumble vibrated the walls as he stepped closer, blinking almost opaque eyelids over dark orbs.

“Yes.” I paused, unsure how to read his reaction.

“How could I help you? You rule the surface?”

“No. No. I live on the surface, but my research group and I…”

He tilted his head and then shook it softly. “So you are not the ruler?”

“No. As I was trying to explain. We discovered data that suggests the earth’s core is unstable. We also found…”

“You found out that you don’t live alone.” He nodded. “So now you want us to save you?”

“We need you to help us save the planet, yes.”

He leaned back against a stalagmite and crossed his arms. Twelve slender fingers waved as he contemplated his next statement. I blinked and counted them again. I reached twelve three more times before he responded.

“Why do you think we can help?” He asked slowly.

“We found you because this area has less vibrations than the rest of the earth’s core…”

“That’s because we take good care of our home.” He declared proudly.

“And we fear the vibrations are what is tearing the earth apart.” I continued. “So if you can help us to care for the rest of the earth’s core as you do your home…”

“Teach you?” He looked surprised. “You mean, you don’t expect us to just fix what you broke?”

“Of course not.” I replied.

“Then we may be able to help you after all.” He stepped forward, extending one hand slowly. “I understand this is how your people affirm an agreement.

“Yes,” I held out my hand and he enveloped it in his.

Then he placed the other hand over it, encasing mine in clammy skin. I fought back the impulse to breath a sigh of relief when he released me to take Hans’ hand.

“I hope you are quick learners.” He motioned for us to follow him into one of the myriad of tunnels. “There is much to learn and much to do if we are to regulate the vibrations of the whole core of our world.”

“I hope so, too.” I called out after him as I step into the tunnel.

“Come along. Come along.” He called out over his shoulder, sending himself into controlled slide on the smooth rock under foot.

We imitated as best we could. When we reached the bottom of the natural ramp, the only way we could come to a stop without running over our host was to slam into each other and fall in a heap at his feet.

“Get up, children. Let’s get to work.” As we struggled to our feet, he began arranging items on a long counter of rock in the middle of the small cavern.

As he worked luminescent animals clustered overhead until he seemed to be surrounded by a spotlight of soft sunlight. 

“Do you see that?” Hans whispered in my ear.

I nodded.

“The animals know I work only for the good of all,” our host smiled at us. “So they help me in my work. Maybe someday you will be enlightened enough to affect animals in this way. Step forward and I shall teach you the first things you need to know.”

~~~I found this one waiting for more of my deep criticism, half written and longing for more… Do I want to continue this or truncate it here somehow? I think that is why I have never posted it. It really wants to be built into a novel…..~~~