Outlaw’s Mind – 2nd portion

Okay, here’s the next portion of Outlaw’s Mind, as I warned might be coming.  As a reminder, or for those who aren’t aware, the “cold opening” was already published/posted here, and this is now the main part of the story beginning, which goes back in time from the opening.

Timothy Outlaw had always hated his name.

Not his first name.  That was fine.  Even though some people had called him “Timmy” when he was younger, and a few other kids had teased him once or twice about it, he knew that such teasing was not really about the apparent subject matter, but was merely a force looking for an outlet, and if the name had not provided it, something else would have.  Even as a young child, he’d known that.  He understood only too well the internal pressures that could occur within the mind, and how irresistible they could be.  This wasn’t to say that he was fine with the teasing, but very few people teased him more than once or twice.  This was part of his problem.

It was his last name that bothered Timothy so much.  He had no idea where in his ancestry it had arisen, nor had his father, but Timothy wished that whoever it had been had thought things through a bit better.  It was not in Timothy’s nature to seek a legal name change.  Partly this was because he had at best an unpleasant relationship with the court system and all its representatives, but mostly it was because, along with less positive traits, he had inherited from his father a strong sense of loyalty and commitment, especially to his family.

That loyalty had not prevented his father from physically abusing his wife on many occasions, but Timothy understood that this was not because the elder Mr. Outlaw was a bad person.  He simply carried an innate and terrible surplus of anger—or rather, he produced it in copious amounts in his nervous system.  Some men are unusually hairy, some women are born to develop enormous breasts, some children are graced with an inherent love of and skill for music, or for math.  Morris Outlaw had been born with a congenital tendency to feel intense and powerful, undirected anger.  This tendency had led him to lose his wife, finally, even before he was killed in a bar fight by a man who had been carrying a concealed pistol while drinking shots of tequila.

It was a tendency that his son had inherited in an even more purified form.

But Timothy had learned from the object lesson of his father.  He didn’t hate the man—not once he was mature enough to recognize the powerful force that had victimized Morris Outlaw as much as it had those around him—but he resolved not to be like him.  He wanted to be a good citizen, a productive member of society, someone who created more than he destroyed.  And if he were ever to have a family, and children, he wanted to be loved by them, not feared.

This might have sounded both simple and easy, and to most people—certainly to anyone committed to these ideals as Timothy was—they would have been readily achieved.  But even from his earliest days, as long as he could remember, a seemingly endless reservoir of free-floating rage was produced in his being, like pus gathering in some horrible, spiritual abscess, building pressure until it exploded, spewed its infection onto all surrounding matter, and then began to gather again.

This was why he was rarely teased more than once by anyone in school.  Though he did his best never to “start” anything with anyone, if someone started into him…well, they got a taste of what it would be like to try to enter the burrow of a honey badger.  Young Timothy had sent more than one child, older and bigger than he, home or to the doctor, and once to the emergency room.  It was entirely possible that, if he had not been surrounded by other people who were able to step in and overpower him, he would have killed someone—more than one—even at that young age.  He knew this, knew how lucky he had been not to have done such a thing, because when he became possessed by his rages, all reason left him, and he desired nothing more than to savage the target of his fury until it could no longer move…preferably ever again.

His teachers, and the school administrators, and even his mother—marred though her opinion had been by her husband’s example—recognized that this anger was not deliberate.  They had all seen that Timothy was a boy who wanted to be good, who wanted to do well in school, wanted to be a contributing member of society.

But because of his terrible and effectively uncontrollable temper, Timothy had often gotten into trouble.  Diligent at his studies, respectful of his teachers, eager to take part in extracurricular activities, Timothy had nevertheless been sent to the principal, and often suspended from classes, on numerous occasions throughout his educational time.  On many an occasion, while languishing alone at his house while his mother worked and his classmates did whatever they were doing, Timothy had come close to fatal despair.  His mother kept no guns in the house, for more than one reason, and this probably kept Timothy from impulsively taking his own life at a young age.  He hated himself, hated the rages that made him—when they gripped him—not merely wish but yearn for the violent destruction of everyone and everything around him.  In those bleak moments, he told himself that while he had absolutely no right to harm or destroy other people or their property, he surely had that right over himself.  Would it not make sense, then, to bring about his own end rather than potentially to harm other people?  Would that not be the best course of justice?

If he’d had access to a firearm, the impulse toward preemptive self-destruction might have been carried out, since the manner of doing so would have been quick, violent, and irrevocable.  However, on those occasions when he considered more methodical techniques, from pills to razors to nooses, the preparation needed allowed him time to consider the effects his suicide would have.  He imagined his mother finding his dead body—perhaps accompanied by blood, or vomit, or a purpled face—and being stricken with the horror of it, being devastated not merely by the fact that her only son was dead, but also by the simple, traumatic fact of finding a grotesque corpse in her house.

He’d also thought of going to a nearby high overpass, or to leaping from the top of a tall building, but each of these considerations was blocked by the recognition that someone—a passing car or a pedestrian below—would be discomfited, possibly traumatized, possibly even injured by his action.  He did not want to be a burden to anyone, especially not that kind of burden.

Also, he simply did not really, deeply, want to die.  He wanted to live without being the unwilling slave of his terrible, malevolent rage.

That this was painfully clear to all those who knew and cared for him was probably the only reason Timothy was not consigned to juvenile detention early in his teenage years.  Even the strictest and sternest of teachers, school administrators, and other similar adults in authority, could not fail to recognize Timothy’s sincerity when he profusely, sometimes tearfully, apologized for the consequences of one of his outbursts, never deflecting blame from himself, always assuming more than his share of responsibility for any altercation.  When he had sent a boy two years older and a head taller than he to the emergency room for teasing him about the way he walked, Timothy had taken it upon himself to seek out the boy’s family and apologize to them, abjectly and unreservedly, in person.  If he had lived in the culture of the samurai, he might have offered to commit seppuku to demonstrate his sincerity.

It could not honestly be said that the boy’s family were completely disarmed by the act of contrition—they were poorly insured, and medical bills were a supremely unwelcome cost—but there was no doubt that they were impressed.  Also, the shame of their child being a bully toward a smaller boy, and then the added shame of the fact that the smaller boy had sent their healthy youngster to the hospital in a fair fight, made it difficult for them to assume the moral high ground that Timothy offered without reservation.  And, of course, a lawsuit would have been an exercise in absurdity; Timothy and his mother were significantly poorer than this boy’s family.

That event had led to Timothy getting his first girlfriend—the boy in question’s younger sister, roughly the same age as Timothy.  She had, of course, heard of what had happened, and apparently had been morbidly impressed and fascinated by Timothy’s obvious toughness.  He had been terribly surprised when, upon his return to school after a suspension, the girl had approached him, introduced herself, and started to hang around him.

Timothy had always felt unsettled by the cause of his acquaintance with the girl, but it had been difficult for a lonely boy just entering adolescence to ignore her obvious attraction to him.  They never officially declared themselves to be “going out” but it was with this girl—Allison Haskins had been her name and might well still be—that Timothy had shared his first non-maternal kiss, and her still very underdeveloped breasts were the first that he ever touched.

The romance, if that was the right word, had not lasted long.  One afternoon, when Timothy and Allison were walking home from school—this was no longer in the heyday of widespread helicopter parenting, and in any case, no one in Timothy’s neighborhood could afford to indulge in such overprotectiveness—they had seen a boy perhaps a year younger than themselves being accosted by two older boys, who were clearly intimidating him into letting them “borrow” his backpack, which was a very nice, name-brand affair, decorated with images of Lebron James.  It had undoubtedly cost someone in the boy’s family quite a bit of money, more than would normally be spent on such school supplies in that part of the world, and the boy had been near tears, trying to worm his way out from the environs of the bigger boys, but trapped by them against a brick wall.

Part of the reason this brief spectacle had so enraged Timothy was that the younger boy was black and the older ones white; he hated any form of bigotry with stunning fervor, and this was a hatred of which he was not ashamed.  Still, no other combination of people would probably have made a difference.  As soon as it became obvious to Timothy what had been happening, his pulse had begun to pound in his head, time had slowed down, and he had more or less literally seen red.  Not bothering with any kind of warning, Timothy had simply stridden quickly forward and slammed himself bodily, pushing at the same time, into the nearest of the two bigger boys.  It was not in Timothy’s nature to hold back in such circumstances, and the bigger boy had been all but knocked completely off his feet, saved from a backward tumble onto the sidewalk by a collision with his comrade.

The two bigger boys had been too startled to react, and Timothy had shoved again, this time leading the second boy to lose his footing and sit roughly on the pavement, while the bigger one smacked against the wall.  Timothy’s assault was too surprising for them to experience answering anger at first—they had simply been caught by a force of nature, as if a sudden gale had driven them nearly off both their feet, not a slightly smaller boy.

Timothy was not capable of fear in such moments.  The word felt terribly distant, apart from the two boys in front of him, and a slight, high-pitched and faint whine overlaying the background of reality.  The two bigger boys gaped, and Timothy now said, “You leave him the fuck alone or I’ll fucking kill you!”

The two bigger boys had gaped comically.  They were clearly in uncharted territory.

“What are you waiting for?” Timothy had yelled, his voice hoarse, his firsts clenched into tight, pale cudgels at his sides, his elbows slightly bent.  “I’m gonna tear your fucking heads off!”

He began to stride toward the partly unbalanced boys, pulling his arms up and back.

The two boys said not a word, nor did they share a glance.  They fled, the one who had fallen scrambling awkwardly to his feet even as he tried to put one foot in front of the other.  His friend didn’t wait for him, but sprinted on ahead, glancing only back at Timothy, clearly judging him to be quite insane.

Supporting that assessment, Timothy gave a loud, animal howl of fury and took one step after the two boys.  Then he caught himself and, instead of taking off in pursuit, swung his own fist in a hammer blow against the brick wall.  He would not feel the pain of the blow for a while, but it would last for days, and the scraping of the impact drew blood.  The wall, being brick, didn’t notice the impact any more than Timothy noticed the damage to his hand.

After the smacking, sickening sound of Timothy’s fist’s impact with the wall, there followed immediately two gasps.  Timothy turned—whirled, really—and saw Allison and the boy with the backpack looking at him.  The boy looked, if anything, more terrified than he had when being threatened by the other two, though perhaps less aggrieved.  With wide eyes, he looked at Timothy and said, “Thank…thank you,” before turning and running off in the other direction.

Allison’s gasp had been of quite a different character.  She had not seen Timothy enraged in this way before—and to be honest, he felt rather proud of himself for behaving in what was, for him, a somewhat restrained fashion—and surely it was a shock.  But she did not seem to be afraid.  Her face was flushed to the point where she looked feverish, her mouth hung slightly open, and she breathed a bit more heavily than usual.  Timothy saw her lick her lips once, then she stepped up to him and took his right hand, scraped and injured along the line of his folded pinky.

Timothy, his head still pounding and his throat tight and dry, didn’t resist her.  She lifted his hand in both of hers, looking at the injured side of his fist.  Then, to Timothy’s surprise, she kissed it.

With wide eyes and red cheeks, she asked, “Your mom’s not home yet, right?”

Timothy, slowly governing himself, still feeling the urge to take off after the two boys and try to batter them into jelly, said, “Right.”

Allison smiled—a smile that was, in its own way, as frightening as Timothy’s rage.  “Good,” she said.  “Let’s go to your house right now.”  Still holding his fist in her hand, Allison began walking forward.

Timothy, however, did not move with her.  Something about her demeanor troubled him.  Perhaps she just wanted to make sure that he disinfected his hand, in which could only feel a throbbing that wasn’t yet painful.  “Why?” he asked.

Looking back indulgently, Allison smiled again, licked her lips again, and speaking barely above a whisper, she said, “I want you to…to do it with me.”

Timothy had blinked and had felt a shock almost as great as must have been felt by the two boys at whom he’d just charged.  He and Allison had each been thirteen at that time—Allison a month and half away from her fourteenth birthday, and Timothy almost four months from his—and he was almost certain that she was no more sexually experienced than he, which was to say not at all, beyond light petting.  They had never so much as directly touched each other’s genitals, even through clothing, and now she was saying that she wanted to go back to his house and have sex.

If Timothy had been more prone to self-delusion, he might have thought that Allison had been moved by his chivalry, his heroism, that her passion and love had been aroused by his fearlessness and his sense of justice.  But Timothy was an old soul.  He was practiced in trying to know himself, contemptible of self-deception, though as prone to it as anyone else.  When he misled himself about himself, it was more often to his own detriment than to his aggrandizement.  Thus, he saw, with a keenness of perception that would have been more expected in a man in his late thirties, or perhaps in his sixties, that Allison was not feeling the love of a maiden inspired by a brave knight.

She was turned on by his rage.  She was aroused by his natural violence, by the fact not only that he’d been so terrifying to the two bigger boys, but that they’d been right to be terrified.  He understood, or thought he did, that even the fact that he’d been unable to contain himself without violently striking an unyielding wall of brick and mortar had been arousing to her.

“What?” he asked, not wanting to be right, not sure why he was disquieted.

“I want you to…to have sex with me,” Allison repeated, more firmly than before.  “I’m serious.  I want it.  I know it’s gonna hurt…but that’s okay.  I want it.”  Her breath was almost comically heavy, like a comedy skit version of a phone pervert.  Her cheeks seemed to be getting redder by the second.

For Timothy, time had stood still outside him, as he’d had an epiphany, a vision of a possible future that lay before him.

Allison was not frightened of his anger, or if she was, that was part of what she liked about it.  She had approached him after he’d hurt her brother, not because he had impressed her for being able to stand up to a bully, but because he had been so violent and dangerous.  And now, having seen it—in relatively restrained form—firsthand, she wanted to give herself to him.  Or, rather, what she probably wanted was to be taken by him.

He could see and read a possible future of their relationship.  They would go to his house, they would have sex, and she would welcome any associated pain…and if they stayed together, she would reinforce his rage and violence, responding to it with horniness and release.  She might even welcome violence upon herself, who knew?  He’d read that such people existed.  She would encourage and nurture, probably unconsciously, that horrible side of him that he hated, and he would become ever more prone to such violence.

If he were ever to kill someone in rage, she would probably help him bury the body, after wanting to make love in its presence.

Someday the two of them might become some modern equivalent of Bonnie and Clyde.  Someday, he might even kill her…and she would not be completely averse to it at the very end.  And he might end up in prison or, more likely, be killed as his father had been killed, by a stranger in a bar, or perhaps by the police.

He saw all this in an instant, saw it more vividly than the real world before him.  It horrified him—all the more so because he also found it terrifyingly enticing.

“No,” he’d said softly.  “No.  I can’t do that.”  Whether Allison thought he was referring to sex alone, or whether she understood that he was speaking of something larger, Timothy never knew, because he turned around and walked away from her.  They’d never spoken again after that.

And then, in dreaming, the clouds methought would open, and show riches ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I blogged to dream again.

And then, in dreaming, the clouds methought would open, and show riches ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I blogged to dream again.


Okay, well, allow me to say good morning and happy…Friday?

Yes, it’s Friday instead of Thursday.  I’m afraid I pretty much spent yesterday lying flat on my back.  I don’t know exactly what I did to irritate it this time, but I have a chronic back problem (including so-called failed back surgery syndrome) and its level of trouble waxes and wanes.  Unfortunately, what with one thing or another, on Wednesday night through to Thursday, it waxed, baby.  I got very little sleep and was just a mess.  So, I stayed home from work, and I also blew off writing my blog.  However, I didn’t want just to leave the week empty…I suspect that if one allows too many gaps in regular publication, one tends to lose readers.

Thus, you have before you a Friday morning blog post from me, though of course you may not be reading it on a Friday morning.  In fact, I suppose it’s more likely that you are not reading it on a Friday morning, since unless you’re waiting at the computer for my next post to come out, or you happen to be at the computer around the time it does, you’re likely to come across it at some other point in the week.  It’s even possible (though it seems unlikely) that you’re reading this centuries in my future, perhaps studying the works of one of the most beloved, influential, and enduring literary figures of the early twenty-first century.  You may even be an alien, or an AI, or a trans-human, who can say?

Hello from June 7, 2019 AD/CE!  Hope things are well and good in your time!

I’m trying to think of a way to keep this blog a little fresher than it sometimes feels; I worry that my weekly posts can become a bit repetitive.  I originally spun off Iterations of Zero to put items there which I felt didn’t really fit with the discussions of my books and stories, and the process of creating them, that I was trying to make the central focus here; maybe that was ill-considered.  Maybe I should just wrap all my writings (and speakings) together here in this blog again, all at one address, and just separate them by subject matter, which I do anyway.  After all, and unfortunately, I don’t tend to produce IoZ articles or posts on a regular, consistent basis.

Anyway, I’m thinking about that, and we’ll see what ends up happening.  At the very least, it would free me a little from the self-imposed constraint of having to think of an appropriate Shakespearean quote to mangle every time I write a post here (though I do enjoy that process).

In other matters, the editing of Unanimity goes well, and I’m truly pleased to continue to find that I’m enjoying parts of the book that I feared might be…well, a little too much.  I’m sure that there’s much technically unnecessary dialogue in it (I’ve been told as much about some of my other stories, in the politest and most constructive of terms), and I may try to winnow it out.  But, damn it, there’s an awful lot of unnecessary dialogue in real life, and I do try to make my characters act like real people.

With certain very glaring exceptions, of course.

Still, I need to be judicious.  And one of the good things about editing one’s works over and over and over and over and over again (and then some), is that by the seventh edit, one tends to be quite sensitive to the boring bits of a story.  As long as one can maintain a spirit of goal-directed ruthlessness with one’s own creations, it’s possible in principle to cut a great deal of material out of a work and make it more streamlined.  Though I say it as shouldn’t, you might justly think.

Speaking of shorter works, the editing of Free Range Meat* is also proceeding, though usually only one day a week.  Even with that limited schedule, it will be done waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay before Unanimity, and soon I’ll be announcing its imminent publication.

With that, I draw this week’s blog post to a close.  Apologies for its tardiness, but perhaps changes are coming that will give you more frequent material to read here, anyway.  We shall see.


*should I hyphenate the first two words or not?

Penal Colony


Penal Colony cover

See on Amazon


While heading for his car after a night out celebrating the closing of a big deal at work, Paul Taylor meets a strange, despondent man, poorly dressed for the cold, who seems horribly depressed by some personal setback. Still slightly drunk on both alcohol and success, Paul invites the man for a cup of coffee and some food at a nearby all-night diner.

There, this peculiar man tells Paul of a conspiracy begun by the creators of various social and virtual media companies…and of technology that allowed these conspirators to control the minds of the people of the world for their own personal enrichment. He tells of the overthrow of that conspiracy by a group of which he had been part…a group which had then turned on and “exiled” him.

Though the man’s story is engaging, and the man himself is personally convincing, Paul is forced to admit that he has heard of no such conspiracy or overthrow.

The man finally explains to Paul why he hasn’t heard of it. It’s an answer that Paul cannot believe…

Now ’tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the blog post.

It’s the third day of Spring in 2018, and I congratulate all those in the northern hemisphere on the upcoming six months of longer daylight than nighttime.

It’s been a productive week, all things considered, though I haven’t quite started writing new material on Unanimity; I’m still engaged in rereading what’s already written, to get myself back into the swing of the story.  I’ve enjoyed that process more than I thought I might.  There were times, when writing it, that the words didn’t flow as easily as I would have wished, but as I’ve frequently rediscovered, such times often produce works that, when read, are superior to those fired by irresistible enthusiasm.  This reinforces the wisdom of so many superb authors, who advise that one should write even when—perhaps especially when—one does not feel the stirrings of the muse.  (I consider reviewing and rewriting to be parts of that process, so I don’t count my recent hiatus for review against my obedience to the recommendation, though it does chafe at me).

Of course, these processes would proceed much more quickly if I were able to devote my full-time efforts to them, but at least the continued need to earn a living by doing other things keeps me involved in many aspects of life that might elude me if I’d been a cloistered writer from the onset of adulthood.  I’ve had a tremendous number of fascinating experiences that have deeply influenced the content and nature of my fiction and my nonfiction, so it’s hard to complain too strenuously.

Still, these things are far from absolute necessities.  Arthur C. Clarke didn’t need to be part of a human race on the cusp of evolving to its next stage and joining the Overmind to write one of the most brilliant works of science fiction in the twentieth century, any more than Einstein needed to have personally experienced the process of traveling near the speed of light to work out Special Relativity.  All fiction is, in some sense, a form of thought-experiment.  This, I think, is one of the reasons storytelling is so ubiquitous and important to humans.

Thus, though I think I can make use of my exposure to so many of life’s vicissitudes, I don’t think it’s a pure necessity, nor do I think it should be an absolute requirement going forward.  That being said, if you want me to work more quickly, and to produce my works in greater number and frequency, I entreat you to please support my work and to spread the word about it, so that I can make my living solely by writing.  I, at least, would certainly not complain.

In addition to rereading Unanimity, I’ve also been working steadily on editing the audio version of I for one welcome our new computer overlords, which should become available within the week.  I have to say, it’s been a surprisingly enjoyable process.  Of course, the work is amateur, but I don’t feel too badly about that, since I’m not going to charge anyone to listen to it.  As with all things, doing this well is a skill, and developing any skill involves trial and error.  Still, it’s been a blast; even the seemingly tedious process of editing out my gaffes and retakes is amusing, and I’ve also been able to use the sound-editing software to introduce a few “dramatic” effects.  Don’t expect too much from this—I don’t want you to think there are going to be sound effects and background music.*  But I was able, for instance, to remove breath sounds (for the most part) from the speech of a character who does not need to breathe when he speaks, and to leave them in during the dialogue of the other characters of the story, at least when they are appropriate to the performance.  That such a thing might be beneficial and even necessary would never have occurred to me before this undertaking.

There are residual flaws that irritate me, and which I can’t correct on this recording without going back and re-doing the whole thing, such as the occasional sound of air striking the microphone when I speak too closely to it.  Some of that can be edited out, but not all of it.  I don’t think it will detract significantly from your listening enjoyment, though, and for future recordings, I’ll take preventive measures against the problem.  Again, it’s been an enjoyable experience, not the least because it’s been a learning process.  The finished product will be about two hours long, and I hereby give permission to download it, if you have that capability, and listen to it at your leisure.  You can also share it, if you like, though obviously you do not have permission to charge anyone for that sharing (as if you would).

That should about do it for this week.  I have to stop somewhere, and usually it’s someplace arbitrary, since I otherwise tend to be the writing equivalent of the Energizer™ bunny.  Next week I plan to post my author’s note for Ifowonco, which will nicely coincide with its audio release, and to follow up subsequently with that for Prometheus and Chiron and then Hole for a Heart.  Then I’ll have caught up with my published works, and should be near completion of Unanimity.  After that, I’ll probably do another short story before beginning my next novel (which is a sort of modern fable, and which I’ll discuss more as it approaches).

Thank you all for reading.  I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves and continue to enjoy my writing going forward.  As always, your comments are eagerly welcomed.


* I actually dislike it when background music is added to audiobooks.  There’s no music playing in my head when I read a book, and I don’t need sudden bursts of it to heighten the tension in a story performed by a voice actor.  If the writing doesn’t elicit the intended emotion, then that’s its own problem.  Added music just calls attention to the fact, and is a distraction, as far as I’m concerned.

Author’s note for “Mark Red”

Mark Red Cover

What follows is my first “author’s note” about one of my works, and I’ve decided to begin with “Mark Red,” because it’s my first published book, and the first book I wrote as an adult since medical school.

Ideas for the stories I write tend to arrive in one of two ways.  Often, of course, I simply think of the idea of a story, develop it, often start or even complete writing it, and come up with the title later.  This was certainly the case with “The Chasm and the Collision” and “Son of Man,” as well as with the short stories “If the Spirit Moves You,” “Prometheus and Chiron,” “I for one welcome our new computer overlords,”* and “Hole for a Heart.”  However, at times I come up with a title first, or a particular phrase seems like it might make a good title, and I develop a story to go with the title.  Such is the case with “Paradox City” and “The Death Sentence,” and it is true in spades of “Mark Red.” Continue reading

A quick (but not dirty) post

Okay, it’s Thursday, and I think you all know what that means.  At least, if you’re reading this, you know what it means.  It means it’s time for another entry in my blog, with the products of random neural firings in my head put forth on the page (the web page, in this case) for all to see.  How lucky and privileged you are to be able to read this!

There’s not a whole lot to say that’s new—I suppose there are some who would take the philosophical attitude that nothing is new at all, ever, but I think we could demonstrate to them that knowledge, which includes stories, articles, blog posts and many other things, can honestly be new in a non-trivial sense.  For the interested reader, I refer you to David Deutsch’s “The Beginning of Infinity.”

On an unrelated matter, I have come to a clearer determination to put my short stories for sale on Kindle, and have even just begun the further editing process of “I For One Welcome Our New Computer Overlords,” which I intend to be the first of these e-book stories.  It will, however, remain available on this blog until I get to the point of publication, so for the time being you can still enjoy it for free.

Don’t fear, however, that this process will take me away from “Unanimity.”  It won’t.  Writing new material is always my top priority, and I do that first thing in the morning (well…after showering and whatnot), working other matters into the course of the day thereafter.

Yesterday, however, I did not write anything on “Unanimity.”  That’s because I had something urgent to take care of in the morning, during a time when I normally do my writing (like now), but that’s not going to be on ongoing issue.  The book is proceeding quite well, and terrible things are happening in its world…which is, in its way, a good thing.

Other than that, there’s really not all that much to add today.  I haven’t posted any new articles on Iterations of Zero thus far this week, because I’ve just had too much going on, but I have several in the works—they just aren’t in a form with which I’m satisfied yet.  They are forthcoming, however.  In the meantime, since I did miss some work time yesterday on “Unanimity,” I’m going to shift over to that.  I hope you all have a wonderful day.


An Update on Editing, Writing, and Florida (with a bit about contagious illnesses and mass transit)

Hello, all!

I haven’t written any blog entries for some time now, so I thought that I’d take a moment today, as a break from daily editing on “Mark Red,” to give those who are interested an update.  I apologize for the delay; I’ve been sick as a dog for a surprisingly long time recently, and as a consequence my motivation has been lagging.  It seems that, after catching one respiratory infection, and being on the tail end of it, nearly recovered, I caught another one.  These are the hazards of riding mass transit, I’m afraid.  With so many people using the train every day, touching the poles and the hand-rails, the petri dish for contagious diseases is prodigious.  I’ve resolved to minimize my contact with said surfaces as much as I can, since I’m still coughing up nasty phlegm after almost a month of illness, waxing and waning.  It’s frustrating, but I’m nevertheless a big fan of mass transit, not the least reason for that fandom being that I can do my writing and editing while on my way to and from work, dreaming of the day when I will no longer have to do so because I’ll be able to make a living solely from my writing.

With respect to the editing of “Mark Red,” it’s proceeding well, but there’s much work still to be done.  I think one of the very best guidelines for editing that I have found is the one an editor gave to Stephen King back when he was starting out (as detailed in his wonderful book “On Writing”), namely, to make your final draft ten percent shorter than your first draft.  This is a terrific rule for me, because I tend to digress a bit in my fiction as well as in my non-fiction.  It’s not such a crime in non-fiction—digressions can be fun and can keep things interesting.  However, when writing fiction, digression tends to slow the story down.  Also, I get too much into my characters’ thought processes, which is particularly bad when they repeat those same thoughts many times.  This isn’t necessarily unrealistic.  After all, people do tend to ruminate a great deal in their daily lives, and if the voices in our heads were all played aloud, every human would no doubt sound hopelessly neurotic.  It does, however, tend to get boring pretty quickly in a novel, or even a short story.

So my goal, among others, is to make “Mark Red” only ninety percent as long as it was when I first started editing, by trimming off the stray bits that don’t add anything to the flow of the story.  This may seem elementary, and I suppose it is, but it’s crucial.

Regarding other matters:  I’ve been getting more exercise lately, despite being ill, because I’ve been walking from my train stop to my new office location instead of taking the bus, and sometimes walking back to the train at the end of the day.  It’s about 2.4 miles each way, so it’s a nice, healthy stroll, and can be very pleasant in what passes for winter in south Florida.

On that note, a few weeks ago while walking, I came upon a sad but interesting sight:  the beheaded corpse of a coral snake on the park path which I take from the train:


This is, of course, the most venomous snake in the western hemisphere, but it is also not particularly dangerous, since coral snakes tend to be mild-mannered.  I think it must have come out onto the pavement to sun itself during the relatively chilly weather, and someone saw and recognized it for what it was and overreacted.  It’s a shame, but an interesting example of the sorts of amazing wildlife that we have here in south Florida.  I recently read Dave Barry’s “Best. State. Ever.” and I couldn’t agree with him more in that conclusion.  The politics of Florida may be insane—an insanity that has apparently spread to the national level—but it is an amazing environment.  Also, the national weather service reported about a week ago that 49 out of 50 states had snow on the ground.  You should know which state was the exception (Hint:  It wasn’t Hawaii).

Well, I think that’s enough meandering for today.  I considered writing my own semi-deliberate digression about the curious phrase “sick as a dog,” since in my experience dogs don’t tend to get sick as often as humans, but I’ll leave that at the immediately preceding comment and spare you any further speculation.  I hope you’re all well, and enduring the ongoing winter in the northern hemisphere with as much equanimity as you can muster.  The days are now getting steadily longer, and that’s good news for those of us who get moody when the nights predominate.  For those in the southern hemisphere, enjoy the summer!  For those who live in the tropics…well, you don’t need any boosting from me, I would imagine.

Stay healthy, everyone.  Watch those doorknobs, hand-rails, and standing poles, and wash your hands regularly!



(Sung to the tune of “White Christmas,”…obviously, I guess)

I’m dreaming of a green Christmas,
just like the ones I never knew,

with the flowers blooming
and sea birds zooming
across the crystal sky so blue.

I’m dreaming of a green Christmas
despite the Christmas cards I’ve seen.

May your snow be sparkling and clean,
but may all our Christmases be green.

“In the Shade”

What follows is part of an unfinished short story I began writing by hand, then began rewriting by computer (never fully retyping the hand-written portion), but for which I lost the fire in what would roughly be the middle of the story.  I’m not sure what happened, exactly.  It’s a more or less straight-up horror story, and I like the general idea of it, but for some reason I lost interest in it some months ago, and haven’t been able to rekindle it.

I’m posting it here (it will make for a pretty long post, I’m afraid) in hopes of getting your feedback.  Do you like the story so far?  Do you hate it?  Do you think it’s worth trying to revitalize, or should I leave it well enough alone?

Your comments are welcome and encouraged.  “Enquiring minds want to know.”

Without further ado, here is the story, as it is typed in thus far:




Robert Elessar


When Gary Sawyer first heard the screams, he thought they were just the usual noises of boys playing.  His son, Kyle, had been out most of the morning with his friend, Sean Corcoran, from two streets up, and they were rarely the quietest of companions.  Gary assumed, when he first heard the high-pitched, almost girlish noises from one of the boys, overlaid with shouted words from the other, that the two were just involved in some strange adventure game, or even that one of them might be angry at the other.  It happened at times, even with boys that were as good friends as Kyle and Sean were.

Gary thought of the stretch of road on which he lived‒and from the end of which he heard the voices‒as a “block,” but of course it really wasn’t.  It was actually a cul-de-sac, a little protuberance sticking off the main road, with three houses along each side, and four circled around the bulb of blacktop at the end.

Well, actually, there were three completed houses at the end, and one that was still under construction.

Gary was not a big fan of the way streets were laid out in those Florida housing developments.  He had grown up in the northeast and midwest, and one thing you could say about northern suburbia‒at least where he had lived‒blocks there were blocks.  Streets crossed each other generally at right angles, and they split neighborhoods into rectangular agglomerations of dwellings, with backyards abutting other backyards, usually with fences in between.  That was obviously the way God had intended things to be.

In Florida, however, things rarely followed any deity’s design.  The roads along which people lived tended to meander and twist like living things, huge, sightless worms wandering through the soil of a neighborhood, with no clear, geometric path.  Occasionally, they would close into a single, huge loop, but there was almost never anything that could honestly be called a block.  Also, there were all those frequent little protrusions of soon-terminating street, such as the one on which the Sawyers lived‒strange, tumorous polyps of roadway.  They were called “cul-de-sacs,” and the residents often just referred to them as “sacks.”  Gary supposed the French term sounded fancier than “Dead End,” but where he grew up that’s what they would have been called, and that’s what they were:  Dead Ends.  But no one even had the decency t put up street signs notifying motorists of the fact.

Gary had the occasional sardonic thought that the housing developments in Florida were designed as not-too-subtle traps.  They were almost all gated, their single entrances either controlled electronically or tended by uniformed guards, which did more to deter friendly visits than to provide any actual security.  These facts, combined with the Dead End cul-de-sacs, made Florida subdivisions feel‒to Gary at least‒like ideal places into which would could corral an enemy military force, perhaps to keep them in place and call in an air strike.

There were almost never any rear exits from such communities, and when there were, they too were always gated.  Gary often wondered what disaster planners thought about such street layouts.  What would happen if there arose the sudden need for rapid evacuation?  There would surely be horrible bottlenecks at the exits, and there were no emergency escape routes.

The idea of an emergency escape route from his subdivision would occur to Gary again before long, but in a much less idle fashion.

Now, however, he recognized his thoughts‒meandering like the bemoaned Florida residential streets‒as the typical, rather dreary ruminations he tended to have when his wife was away on business.  He didn’t mind staying home on the weekends with Kyle‒he could, in fact, think of nothing he would rather do‒but he always felt that at least a small piece of himself was missing whenever Deborah was away for more than a week.  God help him if anything should ever happen to her, or‒even worse‒if she should ever divorce him.  He was not sure he would survive.

The screams and yells were getting steadily closer, and Gary gradually recognized that they were not the sounds of anyone having fun, nor even the vocalizations of a heated argument.  They were noises of pain, fear, and desperation.

As soon as he realized that fact, Gary‒who had been standing in his living room, idly sipping on the day’s second cup of coffee‒all but dropped his mug on the living room end-table, sloshing some of the brown liquid onto the polished surface, and rushed for the door.  It was unlocked, so he was quickly able to swing it wide and head toward the front walk.

He looked down toward the rear of the cul-de-sac and saw Kyle and Sean coming up the street.  There was no actual sidewalk‒another bizarre omission found in many of these Florida developments‒so children and adults were often forced to walk in the road if they didn’t want to walk on the strange, spongy lawns of St. Augustine grass.  That fact wasn’t such a big deal when on the cul-de-sacs, since no one tended to drive very quickly on a bit of street that came to an end after a hundred feet or so.  Still, it always seemed an absurd oversight, Gary had always thought…though it probably wasn’t an oversight at all.  It probably allowed developers to claim larger property areas for each plot, thus raising their asking prices.

That habitual thought was pushed out of Gary’s mind as he realized how Sean and Kyle were walking:  Kyle was supporting Sean, almost pulling him along.  Sean leaned heavily on Kyle, barely seeming to want to support his own weight, or to put one foot in front of the other.  Even from where he had stopped briefly on his front stoop, a good fifty or sixty feet from the boys, Gary could see that Sean’s normally-tanned face looked deathly pale.  Kyle, too, was fairly pallid, but Sean…Sean looked as though he hadn’t seen the sun in years, or perhaps ever.

It was Sean who had been making the shrieking noises, and he continued to do so as he stumbled along.  Though his body appeared feeble, his voice had a horrible, banshee-like power.  Beside him, Kyle could hardly be heard, yelling, “Dad!  Dad!  Something got Sean!”

As if in agreement with Kyle’s statement, Sean’s shriek very briefly took on the words, “It got me!  It got me!” before reverting to unarticulated words.  

Gary saw that Sean’s right hand was tucked into his left armpit, his right shoulder pressed against Kyle.

Then he saw that part of the left side of Sean’s yellow shirt, beneath his arm, was wet and stuck to his side by a dark-colored fluid, which looked almost black on the yellow of the shirt.

Waitaminnit.  Was that…that couldn’t be…blood, could it?

Gary sprang from the front stoop in an instant, rapidly covering the ground between him and the two boys.  He had probably not run so fast since his teenage years, but despite his speed, he felt as though he were trying to swim through molasses…or through thick, partly coagulated blood, like what was staining Sean’s clothes.

He was vaguely aware of several of his neighbors looking out their front doors to see what all the caterwauling was about‒some were probably more indignant than concerned‒but then he reached the boys and all other people left his conscious awareness.

Kyle was repeating, “Dad!  Dad!” but Sean did not again slip into words.

Gary stopped and squatted down in front of the boys, his eyes focused on the one who was not his own flesh and blood.

“Kyle, what happened?” he asked, even as he looked at Sean, who, like Kyle, had come to a halt.  Up close, the boy looked even worse than he had from a distance.  Like most Florida boys, Sean tended to have a nice, deep tan almost the whole year ’round, which even obsessive-compulsive application of SPF-45 lotion by a paranoid mother could not prevent.  Now, however, he looked…faded, pale, and distant, like the cover of a book that had been left on the back seat of a car for a year, bleached by the relentless sunlight until it was barely recognizable.  Gary almost wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been able to see through Sean, so pale had the boy become.  Even his hair looked slightly lighter than its usual shade of brown, though that could have been the consequence of much time spent outdoors in the late spring.

“What happened?” Gary asked again.  “Sean, what’s wrong with your hand?”  He put his hands on Sean’s shoulders, helping to support him.

Sean merely continued to shriek, gaping at Gary as if he did not know what he was, let along who he was.

Kyle, however, said, “It got him, Dad!  The…the dark thing in the house got Sean!  It got his fingers!”

Gary had no idea to what dark thing in what house his son was referring, but for the moment he thought it was unimportant.  Kyle’s words, combined with the way Sean was holding his right hand under his opposite arm, focused Gary’s attention on what must have been the source of all the blood on the boy’s shirt.

“Sean,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “show me your hand.”

Sean, making no sign of understanding, and certainly making no move to obey, just looked at Gary and continued to scream.  His eyes were wider than any Gary had ever seen.  They looked almost perfectly round, like the eyes of a startled cartoon character.  Gary half feared that they were in danger of falling out of the boy’s head.

“Come on now, Sean,” he repeated, reaching for Sean’s right wrist, “I need to see your hand.”  More neighbors had come to watch the scene, but none of them made any inquiries or offers of help.

Sean gave token resistance, probably without any thought, when Gary made to pull his hand out from its fleshy hiding place, but he was only nine years old, and his heart obviously wasn’t in fighting.  He even lifted his left arm a little bit to allow his right hand to come free, still shrieking as he did so, not even looking down at his injured extremity.

Gary, however, was looking right at the poor hand as it came into view.  To his regret, he had no choice but to continue to do so.

“Dear God,” he whispered, just staring for a long moment.  His first thought‒sardonic, annoying, and disgusting to himself, as his thoughts often were‒was that Sean and Kyle were not going to be able to play a good game of catch any time soon, if ever.

The four fingers of Sean’s right hand, to varying degrees, had been severed‒the pinky more or less completely, then the ring finger to just below the proximal knuckle, the middle to just beyond the same knuckle, and the index finger only missing past the last joint.  It looked as though Sean had stuck his fingers at an angle into a paper cutter, or some huge die-press machine, and had them cleanly sliced off.  There was, though, no look of compression or tearing in the remaining stumps.  They looked as plump and round as if the rest of the fingers were still present but just somehow invisible.  The flesh, the tendons, the vessels, the bones‒everything from the skin to the center‒looked like a perfect MRI section through the digits.

Well…not quite perfect.  Nowhere near perfect, really.  For one thing, blood was flowing sluggishly but steadily from each severed member, dripping along Sean’s arm to fall from his elbow to the pavement below.  It was less blood than Gary might have expected, but Maybe Sean had already lost so much that the flow was petering out.  How long ago had the injury happened?  How much blood had Sean lost?

In addition, the ends of the remaining bits of fingers‒the surfaces of the cuts‒looked almost crystallized or frozen.  That had to be some kind of optical illusion.  One did not find things frozen outdoors in late spring in south central Florida.

“Dear God,” Gary repeated, more loudly this time.  He yanked his own shirt over his head and wrapped it around Sean’s injured hand, trying to put some pressure on the finger ends without causing the boy too much pain.  Then, keeping the hand between their bodies, he picked Sean up in his arms and rose to his feet.

Sean was a good-sized boy for a nine year old, but he felt absurdly light to Gary.  Could a person lose so much blood that their weight changed noticeably?  How much blood loss would that require?  Could a person still be alive after losing enough blood to reduce their mass significantly, let alone awake, walking…and screaming, as Sean continued to do?

No.  That couldn’t be possible, Gary was sure of that.  It must just be the effect of adrenaline, boosting his normal strength, that made Sean seem so light.

Well, he was glad of the fact, in any case, because he didn’t want to waste any more time.  Yelling, “Come on, Kyle!” over his shoulder, he hefted his son’s friend further up against his bare chest, the wrapped hand pressed firmly between them, and then practically sprinted toward his front door.  He vaguely heard Kyle’s feet flopping along behind him up the walk, but even if he had not, he probably wouldn’t have stopped.

Gary had left the front door wide open when he went out, and he rushed back through it gladly now.  Kyle, apparently, did not close it when he followed.

Oh, well.  Bugs be damned and wasted A/C be damned, Gary had more important things to worry about.

He raced upstairs, still vaguely amazed at how light Sean seemed.  He tore into his bedroom and through it to the master bath.  Remarkably, the only blood that marred the floor on the way was a tiny smudge on the wall by the stairs; his shoe, which had been dripped upon when he first looked at Sean’s hand, left it there.  His shirt-cum-bandage had caught all further bleeding.

In the bathroom, Gary quickly slammed down the lid of the toilet with a free hand, and seated Sean upon it.  Now that they were inside, the boy’s screams had begun to peter out, and were being replaced by tears and sobs.  Gary was grateful for that.  Tears were good.  Crying was good.  Crying was normal.

Those screams…there had been more than just pain in those screams.  There had been fear.  There had been horror.

Letting Sean go for a moment, Gary tore open the cupboard under the sink.  He knelt and started pawing through the items it contained:  Lysol spray, tub-and-toilet cleanser, a beard trimmer he never used, an unopened package of pads for Deborah…a set of curlers…where the hell was…

Then he saw the large, brown bottle he was seeking.  He pulled it out, knocking the Lysol onto the floor, and turned back to Sean.  He saw Kyle standing in the bathroom doorway, watching his father and his friend in shock and disbelief.

“Kyle,” Gary said, “I need you to go downstairs and get my cell phone.”

Kyle blinked, looking as though he hadn’t understood his father at all.  He looked rather pale himself, though compared to Sean he looked like a Pacific Islander, even with his sandy blond hair.  Still, he was evidently more self-possessed than he looked, because he asked, “Where is it?” his voice surprisingly firm.

“I don’t know,” Gary replied, turning back to Sean already.  “I think maybe in the kitchen.  But wherever it is, find it and bring it here.”

Kyle didn’t say another word, just nodded and headed off like a well trained soldier on a crucial mission.  Gary felt a brief surge of paternal pride, even as he focused his attention on Sean.

Tears and snot were now streaming copiously down the boy’s face, apparently unnoticed by him.  He was clutching his shirt-covered hand against his chest with his other arm.

“Sean,” Gary said, “we need to clean your hand off, okay?”

Sean looked at him blankly; it was hard to tell if he even recognized the English language.

“Here,” Gary said gently, and once again he took Sean’s wrist and pulled it away from his torso.  He got no resistance this time, and the boy seemed to be more focused than before on what he was doing.  Gary pulled the shirt away from the injured hand, throwing it into the nearby tub.  The bleeding was slower now, and when Sean looked down at his hand, he only sobbed more loudly, he did not speak or revert to screaming.

Now that he had a chance to examine the hand more closely and more sedately,  Gary thought that the severed ends of the fingers looked a bit like meat that had been freezer-burned.  There were even a few apparent ice crystals, almost completely melted now, on the edge of the skin.

That had to be an illusion.  Of course it did.  Maybe it was salt that he was seeing along the edge of the wounds.  Or sand…Florida was practically made of sand.  But, no, sand wouldn’t melt, or thaw, or resolve itself into anything other than sand, not even in the heat of the late Florida spring.  It must be salt‒maybe from sweat‒or maybe from some nearby puddle of brackish water.

Whatever.  It was time to focus.  Gary had intended to take Sean calmly to the sink to clean his fingers, but that idea left his mind as soon as he saw the wounds again.  What could have cut them like that?  Even the bones were severed perfectly, cleanly, without splintering or breaking visible to his admittedly non-expert gaze.

Gary spun the white top off the bottle of hydrogen peroxide that he held in his left hand.  It seemed to be almost full, which was not too surprising.  Kyle was past the stage of having very many scrapes and cuts,  and cleaning those was pretty much the only use for the stuff in the Sawyer household.

Gary looked Sean in the eye and said, “Sean, this may sting a little, but it’s very important to clean the…the cuts, so you don’t get an infection, okay?”

Sean said nothing, just continued to sob, now a little less forcefully.  Was his pallor fading a little, or did it just look that way now that he was indoors?

Glad of the boy’s relative calm, and wishing that he felt anywhere near as even-keeled himself, Gary poured peroxide haphazardly all over the ends of Sean’s fingers…the new ends, anyway.  God only knew where the original ends were at the moment.  The clear liquid spilled all over the boy’s shorts and legs and onto the floor, but Gary paid no mind.  Peroxide he could clean up easily enough.

Both Gary and Sean watched with grim fascination as the liquid on the ends of Sean’s severed fingers bloomed into a pinkish foam so thick that it looked almost solid.  It too dribbled slowly onto Sean’s legs and then slid slowly onto the toilet seat and then to the floor.

“Wow,” Gary said, “you’re being so brave, Sean.  I’m very proud of you.”  Sean hadn’t flinched or jerked or cried harder when the peroxide had landed on its targets.  Gary knew that peroxide didn’t sting like rubbing alcohol, but still, he thought that on wounds like these…

But Sean was actually looking less distressed than before.  He now looked vague, dim…he must have been going into some kind of shock.  That was probably why he looked so pale, so transparent.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Sean muttered listlessly, hoarsely, barely articulating the words.  He was all but done crying.  Coming inside seemed to have made a difference for him.

Surprised, Gary asked, “The peroxide doesn’t hurt?”

“My hand doesn’t hurt,” Sean corrected him, looking at his savaged hand with dull, disconnected, barely conscious attention.  “My fingers don’t hurt.  They’re just…gone.”  Now he shuddered and looked slightly distressed again, adding, “It got them.”  His tears had almost stopped flowing.

Gary would have liked to have inquired about just what had gotten Sean’s fingers, but first he wanted to get some kind of bandage on the boy’s injuries.  He didn’t want to use his shirt again‒it was already a mess, and anyway, he hadn’t put peroxide on the wounds just to wrap them in a dirty, makeshift covering again afterwards.

He stood up and stepped to the medicine cabinet, keeping an eye on Sean, who sat, still and stable, on the toilet seat, idly and vaguely watching the blood that now only oozed slowly out of his fingertips.  Gary could hardly believe the change in the boy’s affect after only a few moments.  Since coming inside, he had rapidly calmed down, though he looked practically as pale as before.  Gary hoped his placidity was a good sign and not an indication of some terrible crisis.

Dear God, what had done that to his fingers?  No animal could have bitten them off so cleanly, could it?

Gary opened the medicine cabinet just as Kyle trotted back into the room.  “Dad, I’ve got your cell phone,” he said.  Now Kyle sounded appropriate, which meant that he sounded anxious, terrified, urgent…desperate for his father, the grownup, to make everything all right.  Gary saw him look at his friend’s injured hand, and then look away quickly.  He held out the phone he had been sent to fetch.

“Thank you, Kyle,” Gary said, and he pulled briefly away from the open medicine cabinet to take his cell phone from his son.  He turned it on, set it for speaker function, dialed 911, and pressed send.  Then he placed the phone beside the sink and went back to the medicine cabinet.

He quickly found what he sought:  a box of mix-sized Band-Aids.  He wished that he had gauze pads and medicinal tape, but…well, whatever he put on was no doubt going to be removed and replaced soon, anyway.  For that reason, he also decided to forego the Neosporin tube which had sat near the Band-Aids on the shelf of the medicine cabinet for over a year.  Oddly, he found that difficult to do.  It was practically a religious point with him to put triple-antibiotic ointment on any cut.  First peroxide, then Neosporin, then Band-Aids, the Holy Trinity of home injury treatment.

But this was not going to be simple home injury treatment; his ministrations were to be utterly transitory, just stopgaps for whatever dressing was to be professionally applied by EMT’s…and then by ER doctors and nurses.

As if cued by that thought, the cell phone stopped ringing and a voice came from it saying, “911 Operator, what’s your emergency?”

“Yes,” Gary replied, rather incongruously, he knew.  He turned toward Sean, the Band-Aid box in his hands, his own son standing silently by the bathroom doorway.  “My name is Gary Sawyer, and I’m at 59 Pondcrest Drive, in the Laguna Lakes development in Torquemada.  I need an ambulance sent out right away.”

“Are you injured, sir?” the voice asked.

“No,” Gary replied, a bit impatiently.  Surely she could tell by the way his voice sounded that he wasn’t injured?  “It’s my son’s friend‒his name is Sean Corcoran‒he…I don’t know how it happened, but something…something bit, or…or cut off the fingers of his right hand.”  He almost hated to have to say the words, as if to do so would make the fact, previously unbelievable, now irrevocable.

While speaking, Gary had squatted again in front of Sean and pulled out a fistfull of Band-Aids.  Sean continued to look at his own hand vaguely.

God, he was pale!

Gary tore open the plastic bandage, peeled off its backing, then gently applied it to Sean’s index finger.  He expected the boy to flinch, or perhaps to scream again, but Sean simply watched the process as if it were happening to someone else.  Interestingly, Gary heard Kyle suck in a breath when the little pad in the bandage touched the oozing wound, as though he were feeling his friend’s pain for him to take the burden of the discomfort away.

The voice on the other end of the cell phone asked, “How old is the child?”

“He’s nine years old,” Gary told her, smoothing the adhesive onto Sean’s hand, then opening another Band-Aid to wrap around the first to hold it in place.

“Does he have any other injuries?”

Gary, surprised a bit by the question, looked Sean over intently.  There was plenty of blood on the boy’s side, but that seemed to have come only from his hand.  “I don’t think so,” he said.  “I don’t see anything.  But…but he seems to be in shock or something.  He’s very pale.”  He opened another bandage and went about applying it to Sean’s now-much-shorter middle finger before adding, “I’ve cleaned the…the wounds, and I’m putting some Band-Aids on them…just to stop the bleeding.”

He half expected the woman on the other end to berate him, to tell him he was a fool, that his ridiculous actions had doomed the poor boy, that now he was surely going to die.  But of course the woman said no such thing.  Instead, she asked, “Do you have the fingers in your possession, sir?”

That question seemed so bizarre to Gary that he froze in the middle of opening the next Band-Aid.  Why would he have Sean’s fingers?  Did she think the he had cut them off, perhaps to arrange them into some macabre homemade objet d’art?  What kind of monster did she think he was?

A split second later, of course, his mind caught up with events, and he realized why she was asking:  In the modern era, with all the amazing surgical techniques that existed, it might be possible to reattach Sean’s fingers, if it was done quickly enough.  The wounds were certainly neat, there was no denying that.  Some surgeon would probably have wet himself with joy to be able to work on such beautiful injuries…though perhaps such young, small fingers would be more difficult to work on than a large man’s would be.

Putting the next Band-Aid on Sean’s hand, Gary said to the 911 operator, “I…no, I don’t have them.  I don’t…Kyle, Sean..do you know where the…where Sean’s fingers are…now?”

Behind him, Kyle said, “I don’t know,” his voice quiet and almost guilty-sounding, as if he had been entrusted with collecting his friend’s severed phalanges and had failed at the job.

Sean, his voice somewhat stronger than Kyles, but horribly dead and empty, said, “They’re gone.  They’re gone.”

Apparently the operator heard the boys, because she didn’t ask anything else about the lost fingers.  Instead, she asked, “How’s the bleeding, sir?”

Gary felt the bizarre, perverse desire to reply, “It’s just fine.  It wanted to know how you’re doing.”  He struck that urge violently from his mind and instead answered, “It’s…very slow, now, though I think was worse at first.”  He had double-wrapped the second finger while speaking, and now he moved on the the third.

“All right,” the woman on the other end of the phone commented.  “An emergency vehicle is on its way to you.  It should arrive in just a few minutes.”

“You got the address down?” Gary asked, applying the next Band-Aid, Sean still not making any movement in response, and Kyle no longer making sympathetic noises because Gary had shifted a little, blocking his son’s view of the process.

“Yes, sir,” the operator replied.  “We have your cell phone’s GPS signal.”

That was pretty useful, Gary thought, opening the next Band-Aid to wrap around the very short base of Sean’s ring finger.  He hadn’t realized that the local 911 system was set up for that.  He sometimes felt that all of Florida’s official government services were about a hundred years behind the times, but of course that couldn’t be true, could it?

“Okay,” Gary said.  “It’s…we’re in a gated community, but there’s a guard.  He’ll let the ambulance in…or she will.  I don’t know who’s on today.”  He realized that the 911 operator probably had no interest in his attempt to be gender-neutral, or equal opportunity, or whatever it was, in his description of the rent-a-cop at the entrance to Laguna Lakes, but white male guilt was a powerful reflex…even in situations like this one, apparently.

“That’s fine, sir,” the woman at the other end of the line said, and Gary wondered if she had even noticed his ridiculous comment.  He kind of hoped she hadn’t.

Gary now opened a moderate sized plastic bandage to put on Sean’s poor, barely-there and barely-oozing pinky finger, saying to the 911 operator, “If there’s nothing else you need, I really want to call the boy’s parents.  They don’t know anything that’s happened yet.”  He placed the bandage on Sean’s last stub of a finger, now almost as calm as Sean seemed to be.  It was better now that he could no longer see the impossibly neat, new ends of Sean’s digits.  Now the whole thing seemed more distant, more unreal…more manageable.

“That’s fine, sir,” the operator said.  “Just be on the lookout for the ambulance.”

“I will,” he told her.  “I think the front door’s still open, they can come right in.  Thank you very much…Goodbye.”  He reached out to disconnect the call with his left hand while getting a last Band-Aid to secure the one he had just placed on the end of Sean’s last finger.  He wasn’t sure it would hold very well; there wasn’t much of that finger left to which to secure it.  He considered applying the end of the bandage to Sean’s palm, but he didn’t think it would hold there very well.

Of course, it was all an exercise in futility.  The EMT’s would be there any minute, and they would rip all the Band-Aids off and put better coverings on instead.  Yet Gary could not choose to leave the injuries uncovered, or to leave the sole Band-Aid on Sean’s pinky unsecured.  It seemed just too callous, too heartless, to do such a thing.

Shrugging to himself, he wrapped the last Band-Aid loosely around the base of the truncated finger and then asked, “How’s that?”

Sean shrugged, still looking vague.  He didn’t speak.  His tears had tapered off with his bleeding, and even the mucus flow from his nose was slowing and drying.  Gary grabbed a quick few sheets of toilet paper and wiped the boy’s face.

Gary got to his feet.  He did need to call Sean’s parents‒their number was in his Contact’s list‒but he wasn’t quite ready to do so yet.  He said, “Excuse me, Kyle,” and edged past his son, who was still standing near the door of the bathroom.  He walked into his bedroom and directly over to his dresser, which was in direct line of sight to Sean, sitting listlessly but stably on the toilet seat.  Pulling open the second drawer down, Gary took out whatever shirt was on top‒a blue polo shirt‒and pulled it on, not bothering to straighten the collar.  Then he went back into the bathroom.  He sat on the edge of the tub, from which perch he could see both Kyle and Sean easily.

Trying to be calm‒trying to sound parental‒he asked, “Now, before the ambulance gets here, and before I call Sean’s dad and mom, I want to know what…what happened, boys?”  He focused his question mainly toward Kyle, since Sean seemed pretty much out of it.  Gary, in fact, was ready to reach out and grab the boy at any instant if he looked like he was fainting, but he appeared to be steady for the moment.  

Dear Lord, how pale Sean was!  But it was an odd kind of pallor.  He didn’t look bloodless.  He looked…he looked partially absent…like a figure in an old-fashioned, double-exposed or overexposed photograph.

He looked almost like a ghost.

Sean said nothing in response to Gary’s question.  Kyle, on the other hand, having completed his cell-phone retrieval duties after getting his friend to an adult who could help him, now seemed to become a young boy again, and he started to cry.

“I’m…sorry, Dad,” he said, his face drawn in anguish.  “I know we weren’t supposed to do it, but we were out playing and we…we went into that house.”

Gary was at a loss.  “What house is that, what do you mean?” he asked.