Storytellers

The Below - Elster

2007-05-08T19:48:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: After my last Storytellers submission, I was challenged to write something that didn't involve criminals, cops, thieves, hitmen or detectives. Well it took me forever and a day to come up with something that didn't involve criminals, cops, thieves, hitmen or detectives, but at last I did. And boy did I ever.

The Below is something completely different than anything I've ever written before. It was born from a line I thought of while in the shower - that Jesus was nothing more than a born-too-early hippie.

The results of this thought became the short story below. And, quite possibly (if I can frame it out) my next book project. I hope you enjoy:

Far, far down in what he would come to know as the Below, it was like nothing he had ever seen. The vast chamber was of some form of hewn stone that many thousands (millions?) of years ago might have been molten lava, or perhaps even some other stone not found at the surface. The only light provided by flickering torches, which gave off a sulpher smell.

“What are you?” he asked the silent watchers. “And why was I brought here?”

And “what” was indeed the correct question. For even in the dim light from the distant torches, it was clear that these were no men. They were inhumanly tall, all shaped differently. Some stood on two legs like men, others crouched on all fours. None of them looked like people. He looked away.

For a long minute there was no sound, save for the wind and the crackle of the torches. Then, the leader spoke. “We were among the first, we walked here in the Below far before your Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden for putting their grubby hands on the Master’s private stock. We are the Master’s servants, just as you are David.

“And as for why you are here, all that in good time.”

David looked around the cavern. It seemed endless in the shadowy light. Beasts (for if they were not beasts or demons, what then could you call these monsters?) hovered in the fringes, just outside the licks of light. “What are you going to do to me?”

The leader laughed. Surprisingly, it was not an altogether unpleasant sound. “Do to you? We will talk to you, as we have been talking to you. Then it will be you who decides what is to be done. The will of the Master most likely.”

“The master? Who is your master?”

The leader smiled. Even with its fangs bared, David recognized condescending when he saw it. “We all serve the same master David. He is the creator of all. All come through him and all must do his bidding. Despite your storybooks David, there has always been only one.”

“But his son…”

This time the laugh was ugly. “Is it to Jesus Christ you refer? The Master has no child. The Master needs no child.

“Christ was a hippy, two thousand years too early. His message was peace and love and all that good stuff. The son of Mary and Joseph was fucking Jerry Garcia without the heroin.” He trailed off lost in thought. “Though if the poor bugger knew what the Church would do in his name, he probably would have crucified HIMSELF right there in the manger. Besides, you’re Jewish, what do you care about the one they called Christ?”

David shook his head. “You’re lying. You’re just trying to deceive me. What are you?” he asked again. “Are you Satan?”

“No David, I am not Satan.” He swept his arms all around in a grand gesture. “We are merely Satan’s foot soldiers, as Satan is the Master’s foot soldier. We do the bidding the great ones. We do the filthy jobs that the Upper Servants won’t do. Think of us, David, as the great janitors of humanity.”

Davids head reeled. He thought he would be sick. In the last forty-eight hours it has all come apart. His most normal, most perfect life had come undone in the grandest of manners. He has lost the woman he loved in a fiery car accident when her Saab had been crushed by an out of control oil tanker. And then in a moment of pure hatred against the world, right during his eulogy of the only person he had ever loved, he had cursed G-d right there at Linda’s funeral – in front of his shocked parents, the rabbi - in front of everyone. Then he’d gone on the world’s biggest bender and woken up here. In Hell.

“So what’s the deal? G-d is pissed I cursed him so he had the demon janitors of humanity, no offense, take me to Hell and punish me for a thousand years?”

The leader laughed. “No offense taken Davey. But you aint in Hell. Believe me, the Below is the Ritz Carlton compared to the fires that burn in the pits of the place your people call Hell. And no, the Master, the one you call G-d, has no idea you are down here. At least we hope not. Cause if he did, he’d be pissed as, well, Hell.

“But seriously Dave, it really doesn’t do for the Chosen One to be cursing the Master.”

“So I’m not in hell and I’m not being punished. Why am I here then? Not that I’m not enjoying my time in the, the Below is it? And what do you mean by chosen one?”

The leader looked at David, as though trying to make a decision. Finally he spoke. “Your world is coming apart at the seams David. Your people are being born rotting on the insides. The Upper Servants believe that your world needs to be cleansed by the fires. And boy, do we agree. You people really fucked up his gift to you.

“But here’s the rub Danny Boy. Your prophets speak of the final battle between good and evil – and Davey, it’s gonna be a beauty, let me tell you. I already got my front row seats reserved for that one.

“And that battle can go one of two ways. If humanity is deserving then from the ashes will come final salvation, good will triumph over evil, and it will truly be paradise on Earth.

“However, if the people are judged to be unworthy of being saved, well, the Master will ring in the final apocalypse. He will wipe this world, and everything on, in or under it, utterly clean. Sadly, that would include us poor innocents in the Below. And frankly Davey, this place may seem kinda drab to you, but we like it here. And that, my little bewildered friend, is where you come in.”

David was shaking his head. “What do you mean ‘where I come in?’ What do I have to do with any of this? I’m an architect for Chrissakes.”

The leader stared at him some more. “Your name is your very first clue David. No one is named by accident and your name is no exception. David, as in King David, father of the messianic dynasty. You are a direct descendant to King David – a link back to the start of the end. And it is on you to fix this mess your people have made before it’s too late.”

David laughed incredulously. What choice did he have? “You’re joking, right? Let me get this straight. I’m the messiah and G-d wants me to save the world. But he doesn’t know I’m here even though he’s omniscient. Yes, not it all makes perfect fucking sense. Am I dreaming? Is that it? Am I passed out in an alleyway somewhere?”

The leader sighed. It was a strange noise to hear from such a creature. “For starters, you are not the messiah. But that is a theological explanation you are not going to get. Suffice it to say, you are a harbinger.

“More to the point. The Master doesn’t WANT you to necessarily save the world. But he has bestowed upon you the ability to do so. Every generation has one such link in the chain with such a gift, the ability to change the direction of the world so to speak. It is incumbent on that person to realize that gift and use it for its purpose – in your case, saving the world from apocalypse.

“The problem is, as the generations move farther and farther from good, as they become more jaded and internally rotted, they no longer even get a sniff of the spark that’s inside of them. So, we are sorta cheating. We are letting you know about the spark and hoping that you use it the right way.”

David looked at the leader. He looked all around the cavern. He spoke more to himself than to those around him. “This can’t be real. This is a dream or some sort of hoax.”

‘That’d be one helluva elaborate hoax don’t you think D? And seriously you’re just an architect. If this wasn’t real, who would go through all this trouble just for you? You don’t smoke do you Dave?” David shook his head. “Of course you don’t. Man, I haven’t had a fag in like twenty years. We need to roam the Earth more boys.”

“Ok,” David finally said. “Let’s assume this is all true. Let’s assume I am who you say I am and you are who you say you are.”

“Good assumption D.”

“What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to fix the world? I’m a nobody, a nothing.”

The leader barked out a laugh. “The fuck am I supposed to know Davey? I’m a demon, not your fairy godmother. And that endeth our little meeting Dave. But, I am quite sure you and I will meet again.” The leader stuck out his hand and touched David’s shoulder. And David was falling to the ground, caught in the leader’s arms and gently laid on the cold stone floor. He turned towards to of his followers. “Beiri, Toiri, take him back up. Oh, and give him some guidance. This boy wouldn’t be able to find his ass if it was taped to his hands.”

Nine hours later David Kolter woke up in his apartment, hung over and exhausted, and, the only evidence that his trip to the Below was real, a slip of paper in his hand. The little crumpled note, damp from his sweaty palm, contained a name and the words “Googel it” written underneath. Apparently demons didn’t spell all that well.

David stumbled out of his bed, past the answering machine showing forty-three new messages, and booted up his computer.

The Mourning After - Lana

2006-12-25T13:54:00.000-08:00

Lana's (since Lana last posted, she did put up a blog, but since she refuses to post anything there, I refuse to link it - all's fair in blogs and writing) second effort and, once again, she's off the beaten track. Thus one is more Frum Jewish Woman-centric but we don't discriminate here. Enjoy:

The Mourning After

I sat down in a chair in the salon, in a little corner that had been curtained off for me so no male passers-by would see my hair. The stylist was very accommodating, though no doubt she thought the practices of orthodox Judaism odd.

I removed the scarf that covered my head and my hair tumbled out, gasping for breath, forgetful of the freedom it had enjoyed just last night.

It was thick and long, and smelled of all the chemicals the stylist had used yesterday afternoon to get my normally straight hair into tight and twisted curls. I had wanted to look stunning on my wedding night, and I had. David was speechless and I was beautiful, my ebony tresses twirling with every slight movement of my head, caressing my face and flying behind me as I danced and celebrated the occasion with friends and family.

But that was last night, and this was today. It was time. Long hair is impractical when it has to be covered completely. I’ve seen women who try it, pulling their hair into a bun at the back of their heads and pinning it down with all their might, but it never helps. A big, telltale bump always ends up protruding from the back of their heads, hairs poking out from underneath the scarves in a frumpy mess. And I was not going to be a frumpy mess.

The stylist washed my hair twice, digging her nails into my scalp to rid my hair of all its gooey residue. She could tell that I was nervous. She asked if I wanted to go through with it and I said I do.

Snip, snip. Snip, snip. I felt, more than saw my hair falling to the floor. My mind drifted back to the time of my first haircut. I was seven. My mother had let my hair grow long because she thought little girls ought to look like girls. But a family vacation in Israel had resulted in a family of lice taking up residence on my scalp. A haircut was the only solution. It was only supposed to be a few inches, just to make it manageable. But a few inches did not translate well into Hebrew, and I emerged from the salon with a devastating bob. My crying didn’t stop until my mother made it up to me with two new Barbie dolls.

Snip, snip. Snip, snip. The sound of the machete-like scissors chop-chopping away brought me back to the present. Another strand fell to the floor. I bit my lip. My thoughts turned to David. I was so lucky to have him. I remembered the first compliment he ever gave me. It was our third date and he had smiled shyly and said, “I like your hair.”

Would he smile at me that same way when I returned?

Snip, snip. Snip, snip. Shorn of my womanhood, eight inches of hair upon the floor. It looked surreal, lying lifeless against the cold white tiles, the same way it had lain against my white wedding dress, so vibrant and alive.

The ordeal had taken about ten minutes, but it seemed an eternity. I told the stylist that there was no need to blow dry, it would be covered right way. Tears welled in my eyes as I said this, and I was seven again.

But I couldn’t act like a child. I was an adult, a woman, a wife. I set my jaw and avoided looking in the mirror. I tossed the scarf over my head and tied the knot tightly. My fingers reached to the back of my head and there was no bump. As I left the salon to return to my eagerly awaiting husband, I couldn’t help but feel a terrible ingrate for the tears I shed mourning my lost, luscious hair.

Untitled - David on the Lake

2006-12-20T09:30:00.000-08:00

David on the Lake graces us with an unsolicited (I love unsolicited stories) ode to Mark Twain. Hius words, not mine. Enjoy:

A short story by me..inspired by Mark Twain

I slowly squeezed a slice of lemon over my piece of salmon taking in the sharp citric scent as the Guest of Honor of the evening was dramatically introduced. Though new to this community I was well acquainted with tonight's honoree, David Greenstein. His reputation was stellar, his credentials impeccable, an accomplished man in every sense of the word. As the packed hall stood to honor this man he slowly approached the stage to accept his award and deliver a short speech.

"Lucky son of a bitch."

"Excuse me?" I exclaimed turning toward the distinguished looking older man to my right.

He looked at me with wise and knowing eyes and repeated "David Greenstein is a lucky son of a bitch".

"How can you say that?", I interjected before he lifted his hand leaned back glass of wine in his hand smiling and continued in a low tone.

"The ways of the world are strange, the paths are many, but none more important than the path called luck. "When David was 19 and in college a beautiful girl inexplicably fell in love with him. When her wealthy father saw that there was no dissuading her in her love struck state he decided to try to remake this unbecoming man. He hired a tutor a week before finals to administer a crash test prep. Faced with such a tall order the flabbergasted tutor just hammered into his head questions and answers from a previous test hoping that enough of those questions will be on this years test. Unbelievably, every single one of those questions was on that years test as well and old David", he said with a chuckle, "got the highest score in the class.

"Armed with this as well as well positioned connections of his now father in law David moved onto the most prestigious ivy league colleges and was hired by a well known law firm right out of college despite his mediocre marks. There he deftly moved from one debacle to another all neatly covered up until the legendary Bernstein Case when as prosecuting lawyer he incredibly misplaced the main piece of evidence just before it was to be presented. Of course no one could've possibly known that the defense's entire case was based upon debunking that piece of evidence thus displaying to the jury the prosecutions incompetence. So to everyone outside the law firm David was an absolute genius."

He paused to sip his drink. After wiping his lips he leaned closer and said "ahh but it was too close for comfort and Davids father in law once again mercifully took him into his own successful stock trading firm. And so began many years of wheeling and dealing but actually sitting around running Daddys errands and playing solitaire until one fateful day in August 1996."

Suddenly more animated he continued. "Rumors were circulating that Nemco pharmaceuticals was about to declare terrible earnings and the market was panicking. Daddy in law ordered David to sell all their thousands of shares of Nemco as soon as possible but he inexplicably attended to something else first and by the time he got back to his desk it was too late, the market was closed. Imagine how livid his father in law was! Needless to say he slept on the couch that night".

Here my gesticulating narrator burst out in quiet laughter and continued with some difficulty. "So the next morning the wires are buzzing with activity, the FAA has just announced that they're approving a new powerful cholesterol reducing drug manufactured by Nemco! The stock almost tripled at the news and they were the only big players still holding onto large numbers of the new gold! And yes once again David Greenstein was a genius! And so I repeat what I told you before and add that with a bit of luck the world is yours for the taking. And yes David Greenstein is a lucky son of a bitch!" he spit out as he rose with the audience to applaud his beaming son in law.

Laugh Rabbi, Laugh - The Maggid of Bergenfield

2006-12-10T21:09:00.000-08:00

At long last we get a new Storyteller's submission, this one from the great Maggid of Bergenfield. At least it was worth the wait:

Laugh Rabbi, Laugh

By Larry Stiefel (The Maggid of Bergenfield)

He always knew he was funny. As early as he could remember, Shimmy made people laugh. Was it because his father was a very funny accountant? Or perhaps it was because his mother was a stern school teacher who didn't laugh often, but when she did it was uproariously, and well worth the wait. Or was it because he was the youngest of six and used humor to stand out-- survival of the fittest by banana peel? Whatever had planted the seed in his brain, he was a natural born comedian.

In grade school that made you the class clown. In high school you would write humorous feature pieces in the school newspaper, and your pranks necessitated occasional visits to the principal's office when they went a bit too far. The whoopee cushion on the teacher's chair. The dribble glass for the math substitute. Anything that involved shaving cream or red food dye. Rabbi Cammerman would sit behind his enormous desk, struggling to look concerned and not to chuckle, and he would say, "Shimon, what are we going to do with you?"

The impulse to make people laugh was suppressed when he reached Yeshiva Gedola. Learning Gemara all day didn't leave much room for levity, although of course the Talmud has lots of humor in it, if you knew where to look. Hafoch bah vehafoch bah, ki koolah bah. Go through it closely, for everything is in it. Still, the Babylonian scholars were not big on knock knock jokes. Writing the Purim schpiel for the Yeshiva once a year was the most he could hope for, and of course any dvar Torah he gave would start with a one-liner. It wasn't much, but it was all he had.

Then one time when he was at his parents' house for Shabbat, he found an old Bob Newhart comedy album. It was vinyl, but his parents still had a working turntable, being the technologically advanced cavepeople that they were, and he put it on and flipped the switch. The album was in bad condition and the sound had a grainy quality like a jazz recording from the nineteen-twenties, but that only added to its mystique. Bob Newhart was funny. Really funny. His routine was as dry as a hot desert breeze. Shimmy laughed so hard, a tear rolled down his cheek. He was hooked.

He started thinking back to the comedians he had seen at the Grossingers nightclub in the Catskills when he was a child. The less well known served as the opening act for some musician or a cantor who would perform Israeli folk songs or excerpts from The Rothchilds or Fiddler on the Roof. But they were often quite good, and the crowd ate them up. Some were headliners, like Freddy Roman, who always gave a good show. Shimmy had even seen Milton Berle once. He was past his prime. But people started laughing before he reached the stage. He just stood there, puffing on a cigar and throwing out moldy one-liners. But then he would give you that patented Uncle Milty look, and the crowd roared. He was an American icon.

Soon he was sneaking in comedy albums every time he came home to visit his parents. Bill Cosby. Shecky Green. Steve Martin. Paul Reiser. Jerry Seinfeld. He had even tried Lenny Bruce once, but thought he would go straight to hell if he didn't shut it off immediately. And Richard Pryor was out of the question. Still, from every comedian he learned something new. Timing, emphasis, material. It was all there.

Shimmy started writing his own standup routine, never once dreaming he would perform it. He practiced in front of the mirror in the bathroom, behind a closed door, pausing at the appropriate places for laughter and applause. He could even hear the snare drum roll when he said a particularly corny line.

Shimmy auditioned at an open mike night at Catch a Rising Comic in Hoboken one motzaei shabbat. He tucked in his tzitzit as best he could, pushed back his yarmulke on his head, and stepped out into the lights. He thought the audience response had been tepid, but the owner called him over after the show and offered him a shot. It wasn't so much that he was funny as the sheer novelty of a yeshiva bochur in white dress shirt and black pants doing standup that got him the spot.

Every other Saturday night Shimmy would do two sets at Catch a Rising Comic. He made excuses to his chevrusah, his learning partner, and rushed out of yeshiva after havdalah, sometimes still in his Shabbat suit. Then he would race down Route 3 from Passaic to Hoboken like a man possessed. He never missed his time slot. To Shimmy, the laughter was exhilarating, as fine as any perfectly darshaned Tosefot.

When Shimmy heard about the Funniest Rabbi in New York competition at Standup New York, he knew he had to go. It was bashert. He was meant to win; he could feel it in his bones. The club was on the Upper West Side, oddly enough directly adjacent to the West Side Mikvah. The contest was scheduled for a Saturday night in November. Shabbat ended early that time of year, and that would give him more than enough time to get there from yeshiva. He wanted to tell his friends, but he dared not. He kept it to himself.

The night of the contest came, and Shimmy bolted out of the yeshiva as quickly as he could. He told his rebbe he had a shiva visit to make in Queens, then went back to his dorm room and changed into his most casual pair of slacks. He left his tie on. This was, after all, a funniest rabbi competition; there was no need to pretend.

Shimmy made it to the City from Passaic with an hour to spare and had enough time to catch a few of the acts going on before him. They were terrible. Real clunkers. Shimmy pictured the students of these Jewish educators in Yeshiva day schools all over the metropolitan area saying to their teachers, "You're really funny, rabbi. You should be on stage," but he doubted they really meant it. If these weren't Jewish religious leaders in front of a friendly audience, there would be some serious heckling going on. Shimmy had an urge to do it himself. But the paucity of talent on the stage gave Shimmy an amazing sense of confidence. He was going to go out there and kick some serious tuches.

Finally his turn came. "Ladies and gentleman. Please welcome, all the way from Passaic New Jersey, let's give a big Stand up New York welcome to Simon Weissblatt."

Shimmy stepped out into the lights and grabbed the microphone. "When I was a kid, I was so religious, I put a mezuzuah on my Doors album."

Polite teetering.

He started to tell the joke about the rabbi who told his congregant it was permitted to ride on an airplane on Shabbat as long as she kept her seatbelt fastened because "then it's as if you're wearing the airplane," when he saw someone in the audience that drained all the color from his face.

Sitting in the second row of small tables near the back of the club, off to the right, but still clearly visible was, could it be?, his Rosh Yeshiva. And sitting next to him was the Rosh Yeshiva's aged father, the Alter Rebbe.

Shimmy couldn't be sure. The bright stage lights were in his face, so it was hard to see the audience.Was it possible? Or was it just his conscience playing tricks on him? What made it even more improbable was that he knew the Alter rebbe didn't speak a word of English. Whoever they were at table 17, they weren't laughing. They sat stone faced in their chairs with no drinks, despite the two drink minimum. If they weren't his rebbeim, they were hating his routine nonetheless.

Suddenly Shimmy began to question his material. The Madonna Kabbalah bit was out of the question. And the Conservative conversion routine seemed a bit dicey. He started to feel his timing was off and he was tanking big time. He decided to go with the old Jewish skiing routine he had stolen from Buddy Hackett ("Jew ski, Jew no ski"), follow it with the bit about how every joke in the Catskills ended in incomprehensible Yiddish, and then close with his Shavuot cheese cake sketch.

As an afterthought, he threw in a story he thought his Rosh Yeshiva might like. It was an oldey but goody. Shimmy knew that jokes were taboo in standup nowadays, but he couldn't help himself.

"So anyway, they asked a priest, a minister, and a rabbi what they would most like to hear someone say about them at their own funerals as the mourners were staring down at the casket.

"The priest said, 'They should look down and say, "He was a devoted leader who gave faith to many."'

"The minister said, "I would like to hear, 'He was a devoted family man and an inspiration to us all."'

"The rabbi said, "I'd like to hear them say, 'Oh look, I think he's moving!"'
"Thank you and good night."

Shimmy shuffled off the stage dejected. He had bombed. To be funny, he had to be cutting edge, and having your rebbe in the audience didn't help on that front. But had his Rosh Yeshiva actually been there?

Shimmy grabbed his coat and made for the side exit. Outside in the cold, halfway between the club and the Mikvah, stood his Rosh Yeshiva and the Alter Rebbe. Shimmy walked over to face the music.

The Rosh Yeshiva smiled at Shimmy and patted him on the back. "Shimon, we all have to serve Hashem in our own way. For me it is teaching sacred texts. If for you it is making people laugh, then Ivdu et Hashem besimcha, Serve G-d with joy. Just be sure to do it in a respectful and appropriate manner, and maybe do it in a way that brings others closer to their Creator. And of course it goes without saying that we still hope you'll be back in Yeshiva tomorrow."

Shimmy nodded respectfully. He turned to the Alter rebbe.

"Varf noch nisht dine leibin," said the Alter Rebbe.

"What does that mean?" Shimmy asked the Rosh Yeshiva.

The Rosh Yeshiva smiled. "Loosely translated, it means, 'Don't quit your day job.'"

Hemingway's Bride - Lana

2006-10-16T22:20:00.000-07:00

Ed's Note: Round II of Storytellers stars off with something completely different. It's fictional poetry from Lana. Lana doesn't have a blog of her own or I would link to it, but she will be checking here so leave some love. There is even a follow up to this, or so I am told. if we behave, maaybe she'll let us have it.

On a side note, Lana is my very first unsolicited contributor - something I have been shooting for since I started this project. And THAT is why she gets to lead off Round II:

I met him that long-ago day in Alsace. Handsome
face, much to my taste, he swaggered up to me,
cigar in place, projecting an aura of masculine
grace, boasting a case of beer and a powder keg;

preparing for war, front lines, he said.
He was hit in the leg. But that was better than dead.
Beside the hospital bed, I patted his back
as he retched and he bled, incoherently begged,

that when he was all better, we would move on
together, together as one, and of course
I said yes, why I would feel truly blessed to be your wife,
your lover, dutiful mother of the children we’ll have.

And so it was done. We married in France, my heart
set on romance, he turned off the light, took off
his pants, I said, it’s okay Hem, you’re not fully well.
He said, go to hell, and left in a huff.

Next morning he cried, apologized for
the stuff he had said, last night in bed, it was just
words, words, just nerves, nerves, but enough was enough.
Never opened up again after that, said talking of feelings

was feminine crap. He preferred to chat about bullfights,
boxing and gore. What a bore. He went out to parties
discussing the war. Drinking martinis he damned Mussolini
with Sherwood and Pound, then he’d quiet down

and go to his favorite café in the square,
and write about war as if he was still there, heroic
and bloody all over again, drowning in gin,
and cognac and wine. He was out all the time,

with Gertrude Stein, imposing and stoic, I thought they were
brothers. Gerty taught Hem and the others to write,
but they couldn’t write like you, or fight like you,
F. Scott Fitzgerald had nothing on you. He made sure I knew

that Fitz was a sniveling, brown-nosing Jew. And a faggot,
too. Homophobic nut. When he heard that Gatsby was topping
the charts, he coughed up a gut, stayed in bed for a month.
I lived life as normal, he called me a slut,
so I went to Fitzgerald and took him to bed. I’ll never forget
the precise hue of red that Hem turned when I said
that Fitz did it better than he ever did. Priceless!
Livid, he came after me with his fists,

ticklish, I laughed. Breathing fire, incensed, he swung
and he missed. I collapsed into fits
at his stark impotence, and when he hauled me
out of the house by my hair, threw me on my ass,

I bounced and I laughed. Then I left France,
and never looked back. Till thirty years later came news
of his death, I had to return to see what was left
of the man who had hated that feminine crap,

who claimed he was brimming with life
and with vigor. I wasn’t surprised one bit when I heard,
that he was the one who pulled on the trigger
that blasted the bullet deep into his brain.

Eliyahu's Secret - Jameel

2006-10-09T10:55:00.000-07:00

Ed's Note: Moshiach is on the way! How else can we possibly explain Jameel actually submitting his story for Storytellers? All joking aside (actually, I'm not even joking), below is Jameel's story - or should I say Part I of it. Shockingly enough, he's gone the whole unfinished story route like many other of our fine (lazy ) contributors. He's also got his Dan Brown Da Vinci Code hat on. We here at Storytellers approve.

This post concludes Round 1 of Storytellers. We will be starting Round 2 in a week or so. Of course, I have only 2 volunteers so far (and, shock of shocks, one of them is Scraps) because everything here has been just pulling teeth from you (lazy) people. Please, anyone interested in submitting a work of fiction - JUST DO IT. Don't be shy. Seriously. Just write it. It's even *gasp* fun.

Ok, enough ranting. Enjoy the show:

There wasn't a single kid in Jerusaelm's Mea-Shearim neighborhood who didn't know the legend.

It was a rite of passage.

At the age of 9 or 10, you found out. Late at night, in the darkness of your room, your older brother or sister used their most adult, most serious-sounding voice possible, to pass on the story of the underground secret…that lay deep beneath the Jerusalem shtetl of Mea Shearim.

Mea-Shearim's location wasn't a coincidence -- the students of the Vilna Gaon who founded the neighborhood in 1897 understood the significance of where they were building. They too knew the story which reverberated throughout the walls of the old city of Jerusalem. Even though the legend was almost common knowledge among the tightly-knit Jewish community -- it was kept to themselves and they never discussed with outsiders. Even the old-time Christians and Arabs living in the old city, who thought they knew what their Jewish neighbors discussed deep in the dark of night...had no clue.

It was a baking hot, Jerusalem summer afternoon, and Eliyahu wiped the sweat off his forehead as he walked to the local makolet to buy groceries for his family. With 13 brothers and sisters, it seemed that someone was always paying a visit to the small family-run grocery to buy the household basics; bread, flour, eggs, sugar, oil, diapers, and Materna infant formula. More often than not, Eliyahu was the one chosen for the job. Still, it was better than taking out the garbage, cleaning up the house…or changing diapers…and walking to the makolet was always a better option than household chores in his cramped apartment.

Yet even in the summertime's sharav; the late afternoon's hot sun rays bouncing off the yellowed limestone walls of Mea Shearim did little to curb Eliyahu's enthusiasm and jittery excitement in his walk. He was almost skipping…for late last night, his older brother had told him…the legend.

Could it really be true, he wondered. Could such a fantastic story of historic proportions really exist underneath the cobblestones and shtetl of his neighborhood? He shook his head as if to clear his mind; it couldn't possibly be real. It must be "just a story"…for if it were really true, the implications were staggering.

As he entered the local grocery, Zundel the eldertly makolet owner greeted Eliyahu with his customary, "Shulem Aliechem" -- and right away noticed the gleam in his young friend's eyes.

"Ah…was someone up late last night, perhaps reviewing his summertime studies?", Zundel playfully asked.

Quickly trying to put on a solemn face, Eliyahu carefully replied, "No, everything's fine…I didn't go to bed that late at all…" But before he could control himself, he blurted out what was preoccupying him, "Zundel, the legend can't possibly be real…of what's underneath Mea Shearim…can it, can it?"

As Eliyahu continued with a string of questions, they faded away from Zundel's ears, as he was transported back in time, back through the decades to when he had first heard the story. He was only a youngster of 8 when the legend was told to him…on the 3rd night of sukkot in 1953. He would never forget the date…how could he? He was so enthralled by the legend that he too, needed to find out more. He wondered if every youngster in Mea Shearim harbored the same feelings when they found out… "They must" he decided…you couldn't hear the story and remain apathetic. The mystery…the very possibility of the legend as a reality, ignited the imagination of his soul…

"Zundel, Zundel, do you hear ANYHING I'm saying to you?" Eliyahu's words brought Zundel out of his daydream.

"Eliyahu, my young friend", Zundel replied, "Not only am I convinced the story is true, but I have a feeling that very soon, maybe even in the coming weeks, events will be put into place that will show the world that the legend is true."

If hearing the story last night thrilled Eliyahu; Zundel's dramatic pronouncement positively gave him goosebumps!

Knowing that his mother was waiting for him, Eliyahu gathered up the groceries as Zundel wrote down the amount of the purchases on the family's index card. In this makolet, no one paid cash for groceries on the spot; everything was on credit, and Zundel would get paid at the end of the month or the following one.

Quickly walking past the posters plastered on the walls of his neighborhood, Eliyahu ignored the pashkevilim and their messages of gloom and doom for those who relied on certain rabbis and not the pashkevil-approved ones. He even ignored Elka, the fair-haired girl who was walking on the other side of the street. While relationships of any sort between boys and girls was unthinkable in his neighborhood, he had run into Elka a few times lately when dropping off envelopes from his father to Elka's father. Their fathers both raised money for the same yeshiva…and he and Elka had shyly exchanged a few words over the summer. Had they lived in a different neighborhood in Jerusalem, their friendship may have bloomed, but not now, not here, and definitely not today. Eliyahu had much more important things on his mind.

Pretending to be overly helpful, so as not to get scolded for being late, Eliyahu quickly and quietly unpacked the groceries, and then went off to his bedroom room to ponder his next steps. Though everyone he knew believed the legend in their heart of hearts, no one actually knew where the entrance was; almost every kid in Mea Shearim had tried to find the secret entrance at some point in time over the past hundred years…so why should he be any different? Yet even with his doubts, something stirred inside him that gave him hope that he would be the one to prove the legend…

The evening sun majestically cast its final rays on the walls of the old city. A refreshing breeze from the east, from the mountains of Jordan started to cool the city. Lying on the top bunk bed in his room, Eliyahu drifted off to sleep as his thoughts of exciting secrets beneath his home merged with dreams of the approaching Jewish redemption. Would he hear the majestic shofar blasts that heralded the coming of the Mashiach?

Not the shofar sounds of wailing and sadness which bring one's heart to return to G-d during Rosh HaShana…this shofar sound would be completely different. The baritone, deep and powerful shofar calls would resonate around the globe, announcing to the world that the Jewish world would finally have a leader…to unify them, leading them in defending themselves from their many enemies, and to answer crucial questions that fracture and radicalize the Jewish world today.

It was already dark out, when the noise came.

Author's note: Unsure which story line to continue with, I decided to tentatively end the story here… I could just make this the end of part one if there's enough interest, and continue again in a future installment. The choice is yours!

Not Quite Perfect - Bellany

2006-10-02T21:11:00.000-07:00

Ed's Note: Our tenth (and probably second to last submission of the "first round" of submissions) comes from New York Yankee lover Bellany. And despite of this affiliation with the Yanks we are putting up her story anyway. It's a tale of greed, lust, power and ....ok I'm lying, just read it and see for yourselves.

We are waiting for just one more submission (JAMEEL!!!!) and then we will start taking submissions for round two. Scraps and I have already committed - anyone else?:

Once upon a time there was a blond haired, blue eyed girl. Many might even call her spoiled, but they knew little, if anything, of what really went on behind the walls of the castle she called home. She lived with her parents and younger siblings in suburbia. They were a normal upper middle class American family. Every winter they would even go on vacation to exotic locations. Everything looked picture perfect.

But appearances can be deceiving.

It was another family outing. She and her siblings were once again being posed for an endless session of pictures. The girls were all in matching dresses with headbands that had a cute little bow. The youngest boy, the baby, was in his little young man outfit. Her Dad was standing next to her Mom with the video camera while her Mom kept making funny faces to try to get them to look at the camera and smile. But then there were the moments when she got frustrated when there was always someone who was not cooperating. People would walk by and most of them stopped to watch, for it was always a whole production. Most of them would stay and watch for a minute or two and say, "Oh how cute". After all they looked like the picture perfect family. They even have the pictures to prove it. Albums and albums full of them.

But the reality of her life was very different from what it appeared to be. Her whole life she was always told what to do. Everything was manipulated. Every aspect was controlled by her parents. They had to consent to every detail. There were so many rules. She could not even decide what to wear in public because only they could form the appearance. Her life was not her own. She grew up to constant criticism with some love thrown in for affect. When her parents were not yelling at her they were yelling at each other. Her parents were always fighting about something. Their voices would resonate throughout the house. There was no escaping it. She had no where to run and no white horse to escape on. There was rarely peace.

It was only when the family was out in public that they would act like loving parents. She almost resented that because she knew it was fake, that it was an all an act, that they were just putting on a show. Although there were times when she wanted their love so badly and wanted her parents to love each other that she started to believe it. And then her world would come crashing down again. Vacations sometimes turned into disasters with the family packed into one hotel room for the week. The fact that it was a four star hotel meant nothing to her. When they walked around on the beautiful grounds she would often walk some distance away and watch from afar. If she sat in a secluded group of palm trees she could try to snatch a few moments of silence to just enjoy life. In an attempt to escape reality she pretended she was not part of the family and dream of a time when her life would be her own. She waited for the day when she would no longer be so alone. She longed for the day when she would no longer have to have most of her conversation in her head.

Then there were those times when they were out in public when the masks dropped. But that only happened when they knew there was no one around to hear that they cared about, no one who could spread the truth back home. So they would go right back to their routine. They would fight and snap at each other and her siblings when people's backs were turned. She hated the embarrassment they made her feel and she hated the looks people gave her out of the corner of their prying eyes. She felt like the adult as her parents acted like children. Parents were not supposed to throw tantrums and act like selfish children, but no one ever told her parents that and she never dared try to impart that lesson.

She was supposed to be the treasured princess, but it never turned out quite that way.
Everyone always saying to her, "Oh they waited a long time for you I hope you are making it worth the wait. You guys are everything they've always wanted". So she just smiled on cue and nodded. They certainly fooled everyone else. Yet at home they never acted like these were the moments for which they waited fifteen years. Hhmmm, then of course there was the story her parents always repeated about how she had been such a hard baby, as if she could knowingly control her actions, and if she had been born to anyone but them she would have been thrown out. Wow how generous. That just makes everything all better. If anything the generation gap only made things much worse. Communication was impossible. Sitting down to talk out problems was impossible because they were irreproachable. Yet everything they always did was for her own good even if she did not know it. Never mind what she wanted. She was not old enough to know what she needed. They had the wisdom that only comes with age. They had all the answers that mattered.

As the oldest she had no one to look up to, no one to talk to, no one to turn to for help. Behind the walls of the castle she was all alone in her misery. To try and protect herself from further damage she began to build a protective wall. It was a defensive measure, a last ditch effort to try and preserve what was left of her shattered self-esteem. Because when she did lash out and fight back the criticism just got worse and lasted longer. If she really said what she thought then the gloves came off and the hitting began. So there were times she just stood there and took the criticism. But it got to her. It hurt. The pain keeps building up inside with no where to go. It is a big burden to carry. Even when she answered back and defended herself, there was only a small release. Everything was her fault, her responsibility. She had to be perfect. She had to set the example. Not her parents, but her. She knew the situation was not about to change anytime soon and there was nowhere to go. Running away was never far from her mind, but she had nowhere to go so she never really went through with it.

By that point she had already learned a lot of the hard lessons in life. Too many to count. She already knew that money was not happiness. She knew what she did not want in life, but she did not really know who she was. She did not yet know her plans, her goals, her passions. All she knew is that she had to get out from under their control. So she continued to dream about the future, finding true love, being independent, and making her own choices.

One day she got up and said, "I have to fight for what I want because no one is going to do it for me." The fight for her independence was underway. And this was one fight she planned to win.

Mrs. P, Not Paula - McAryeh

2006-09-17T21:11:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: McAryeh gives us our latest addition to Storytellers - and it is quite a new, and most welcome, addition to our armory.

Once again -- if your name is Jameel or Bellany, get cracking on the stories you owe me. Furthermore, we are now open to new bloggers who want to giving telling a story a crack and we are also asking for seconds from our previous contributors. On with the show:

Mrs. P. Langstrom was nothing if not orderly, so her current agitation was especially troubling. Her clothes - a pale blue dress and scarf, low-heeled pumps - were laid out neatly on the chair by her bed, with a note instructing Gabriel, her oldest, that this was the outfit she was to be dressed in tomorrow morning. She had briefly considered wearing the clothes to bed, to avoid the entire issue of someone having to dress her, but decided against it when she thought they might have to remove the clothes to iron them. That would hardly be dignified.

At 82, she walked with a cane, and had a hip replaced a year prior, but was otherwise as sharp and healthy as could be expected of a woman her age. She had outlived two husbands and a child, saw her other 2 children – a son and a daughter – marry and have children of their own, retired with full tenure as a professor of literature and letters at the University of Illinois at Champlain, and volunteered in her 70s with underprivileged youth in Chicago. A full life, she thought. Some of the others had not even reached half her age.

Sitting at her writing desk, she once again flipped through her papers, licking her fingers to wet them as she turned the pages. So much paper in a lifetime. She traced the name she had signed so many times over the past 55 years…Mrs. P. Langstrom. Never Paula, always P. Paula was a stationary name, a variation on Paul. P., on the other hand, could be anything; it was ripe with mystery and possibility. She gave no thought to what name would be on her tombstone. It would be P. Just a given. Had she remembered to tell Gabriel? Wouldn't he already know? Leaning on the desk for support as she rose, Mrs. P. Langstrom retrieved her cane from the back of her chair, and made her way to the chair by the bed. In her clear, looped writing, she added a coda to her note to Gabriel, "P. on stone, not Paula, please." Gabriel did not need more. He was sensible like that, very matter-of-fact.

It was Gabriel's daughter, Sue, who was her favorite grandchild, and the source of her current agitation. She knew that grandmothers were not supposed to have favorites, at least outwardly, but she did, and she expected everyone knew it, too. That could not be helped. The girl was everything Mrs. P. Langstrom could not be, would have been had times been different. Bold and free-spirited, a sparkplug of a girl. She was now 16, and the freedom of that age was embodied in the mound of random curls going every which way on top of her head.

But the agitation! Mrs. P. Langstrom had a card she needed to fill out for Sue before the morning, a date to commit to paper for her granddaughter's viewing only, but the date was not coming to her. The entire family knew of the card. It had been tradition in the Higgins family for generations. Each grandmother would write a date on a card for her eldest granddaughter, seal it, and leave it for her to open. They all knew of the card, but only Sue would read it and hold it, until it was her turn to do the same for her own first granddaughter.

Mrs. P. Langstrom let out a sigh as her hip gave her momentary pain. She ambled back to her writing desk and took out a stack of cards in envelopes from the top right drawer. Tied with twine, they were of varying colors, shapes, sizes and stages of decay, but all were addressed to first-born Higgins granddaughters from Higgins grandmothers. At the top of the pile was the card Mrs. P. Langstrom's own grandmother had prepared for her. In very straight penmanship, her grandmother had written: "for Paula, my heart" on the outside of the envelope. Mrs. P. Langstrom had put a faint line through the "aula" at some point in her young adulthood, and so though "Paula" was still visible, a discerning eye would see that it now read "for P, my heart". Inside, on the card, it read simply September 18, 2006. Mrs. P. Langstrom had seen the card many times over the years since it was first written on January 17, 1954. Sometimes she would trace the lines of her grandmother's handwriting, imagining her sitting in her favorite seat in her kitchen, near the bay window, as she wrote the date. Sometimes she would go for months or even years without looking at the card, but it was always there in the back of her mind.

Mrs. P. Langstrom reached into the top right drawer again and took out the card and envelope she had bought in Wickson's card store the week before. It was a simple card, plain white with a subtle border of interlocking squares. She had already addressed the envelope, "Sue, fire and spirit", but the card remained blank. She stared hard at it, bent the corners a bit, then bent them back, hoping a date would come to her. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, thought of her grandmother, imagined her writing at the bay window; thought of her daughter, dead now for two years, as she wrote a date for a granddaughter she would never know; thought of her granddaughter, running through a field of wheat as a child, mop of curls the only thing visible over the high stalks. There was nothing, though. No inkling of a date.

A quick glance at the clock, and Mrs. P. Langstrom knew she must retire to bed. She had already received visits and calls from family and close friends, tidied her papers, prepared her clothes, and she was tired. Just this one thing left to do. Perhaps, she thought, it will come in a dream. She brought the card and envelope to the night table by her bed.

*************

It was an unusually warm September evening, but as usual she was cold. She pulled a thick comforter over her nightgown, and set her head in the indentation on her pillow. As she settled in to sleep, she began to recall the other grandmothers. Her great-grandmother, Betty, who had died when Mrs. P. Langstrom was only a child, was but a wisp of a memory – a woman with long gray hair, braided and pinned to her head in a bun. Sarah, her grandmother, was a tall woman with busy hands, always baking, mending, washing. The night of January 16th, 1954, however, her grandmother had seemed especially small and still. She imagined her again at the bay window, and wondered if it had been hard for her to write the date on the card. Mrs. P. Langstrom had never thought to ask. Mrs. P. Langstrom's mother had died very young, and she remembered her only as a shadow over her bed. When her own daughter, Evelyn, wrote her card, she reported that it came surprisingly quickly. Mrs. P. Langstrom didn't like to think of Evelyn. When she thought of Evelyn, she always started to question.

And now, Sue. Once Sue turned 11, the family had begun to tell her about the card and the date. Of course, the girl had cried at first, as they all had. But as with all things you are told over and again, with time, it soon becomes accepted. Mrs. P. Langstrom had been 30 when Sarah died, and was well prepared for receiving her envelope. Still, it came as a shock when she first saw it, first opened the card, and saw her date in indelible ink. Sue was only 16, of course. She wondered if that were better somehow. She hoped it wouldn't change her carefree spirit.

She tried again to concentrate, quiet her mind of all thoughts, wait for a date to come to her mind. When still there was nothing, she began to have other thoughts, frightening thoughts, rebellious thoughts. What if she picked the wrong date? What if she chose not to write down a date at all? What if she stopped the tradition right here and now?

And then in an instant, it came to her. Without thinking, she reached for the pen, and with a mad flourish, condemned her granddaughter to the date she would die.

Untitled Post - AnySara

2006-09-10T22:22:00.000-07:00

Ed's Note: It's Sunday, so it must be time for a new post at Storytellers. Anysara graces us with her work this week. Enjoy.

On a side note, this was the last one actually submitted. Those of you who owe me stories, get to it - you all have a week.

As it happened, Annabelle and Lilac's only punishment for snooping on Mr. Needlebom's property was to promise to work for him one hour each day every day for the next two weeks. Annabelle was happy with this arrangement. It was better than being grounded for the last week of school, after all.

In history class on Monday, while Mrs. Olson was droning on about the American Revolution, Annabelle's mind was on Outdoor Activity Day scheduled for this Friday. She turned the page in the notebook where she was supposed to be taking notes and started penning a note to Lilac. She heard muffled giggles to her left. Sadie and Alicia, as usual. Sadie and Alicia were the middle school girls that you were always warned about. They were tall, leggy, and had started developing breasts in the sixth grade. They wore short skirts from the Gap and tops with plunging necklines. When Mama saw them at the school open house at the beginning of the year, she clucked her tongue and muttered, “How do their mothers let them out of the house like that?” The eighth grade (and seventh and sixth grade) boys loved them. They were always “going out” with someone.

The rest of the eighth grade girls, however, were divided into three camps: they either were friends with Alicia and Sadie, they wanted to be friends with Alicia and Sadie, or they avoided Alicia and Sadie at all costs. Annabelle and Lilac fell into the last category. Alicia and Sadie were merciless. They taunted, spread rumors, and made life hell for girls in their class. It was useless to go to parents or teachers to stop the torment. When confronted by an adult, Alicia and Sadie would bat their eyes and deny the accusations. After all, no one but themselves and the tormentees ever saw or heard what happened. They were far too canny to get caught.

Across the aisle, Annabelle saw Sadie whisper to Alicia and point toward the front of the room. Annabelle followed their gaze and realized with horror that they were pointing at Lilac leaning forward at her desk, a full inch of her white flowered panties stuck out over the top of her new low-cut khaki shorts. Annabelle had to stop them before they pointed the fault out to anyone else. She had to get word to Lilac to fix her shorts. Her note to Lilac became a warning. “Pull your shirt down – I can see your underwear.” She quietly tore the paper off and folded it just twice before passing it to Anthony in front. “It's urgent!” she whispered into the back of Anthony's sticky head which smelled heavily of hair gel. Anthony turned. “To Lilac,” Annabelle mouthed. She could count on Anthony. He lived down the road from the Griffins. When they were younger, Anthony would come over to run through the sprinkler in the yard and have watermelon seed-spitting contests. Annabelle watched the note make its way forward, praying that Mrs. Olson wouldn't look up from the overhead where she was writing “Causes of the American Revolution” in green marker. She didn't and the note was tossed onto Annabelle's desk by Kristin, an Alicia-Sadie-wannabee. Annabelle watched Lilac unfold the note, refold it and pull the edge of her white tank top as far down as she could.

Annabelle sat back in relief. Crisis averted. She took a quick glance over at Sadie and Alicia to find them both glaring at her. She gulped and looked away, eyes glued to her notebook for the five remaining minutes of class.

At lunch Annabelle and Lilac had almost forgotten what happened. They laughed about their Saturday night adventure as they ate their sandwiches.

“Did anyone else see my underwear besides you?” Lilac asked taking a sip of her juice.

Annabelle hesitated. “Sadie and Alicia saw.”

Lilac groaned. “Of all people, why did they have to see? At least this is the last week of school."

“Yeah. I wouldn't worry about it. They'll be more concerned about coordinating their wardrobes this week.” Annabelle flicked her wrist and said in her best imitation of Alicia, “Oh Sadie, should we wear the pink shirts or blue with our new American Eagle skirts?” Lilac cracked up, nearly spewing juice out her nose.

Across the cafeteria, Annabelle watched Sadie and Alicia stand up and begin walking from table to table, placing a single sheet of paper on each one. At the jocks' table, one of the boys grabbed it and laughed, passing it to the kid next to him. This scene repeated itself all over the cafeteria. Soon, Annabelle saw fingers pointing in her direction. She had to see what was on that paper. She didn't have to wait long.

Alicia sauntered over and flipped one onto their table. Annabelle snatched it up. There, in black and white was a rudely drawn charicature of Lilac, rear end wider than in real life with flowered panties exploding out the top of too-tight khaki shorts. Lilac, her back to the rest of the lunchroom, munched obliviously on her turkey sandwich as the laughter in the cafeteria grew louder and louder. Lilac grabbed the flyer. “What is that?” she said through a mouthful of turkey. Lilac stopped chewing and her eyes welled with tears. “This is supposed to be me, isn't it?”Annabelle didn't know what to say.

Finally, she packed up the rest of her lunch and Lilac's and she led her friend from the cafeteria. On the way out, Alicia called out, “Nice undies, Lilac.” The whole cafeteria giggled.

“You witch!” Annabelle spun around, eyes wild. “I'd watch my back the next few days if I were you.” She stormed out of the cafeteria after Lilac.

That night after school, Annabelle hatched her plan. For years Alicia and her best-friend-of-the-moment had terrorized the entire school. Annabelle had tried to keep herself and Lilac out of the way, but this was too much. Alicia had to be stopped.

Right after school on Tuesday, Annabelle pedaled out to the Salvation Army thrift store on the shore road south of town. A cool breeze came off the channel, sweeping over her bare arms and making her shiver slightly. The channel was beautiful today – a ribbon of deep blue surrounded by different rich shades of green.

Annabelle left her bike leaning on the rail outside the thrift store and made a beeline for the underwear section. There, she looked for the largest, ugliest pair of old lady panties she could find. Settling on a giant yellow pair splashed with purple and green flowers, she went to the cash register to pay.

“Now what would a young lady like you be wanting with a pair of drawers like these?” Mrs. Simkin, the cashier, raised an eyebrow at her.

“Er...” Annabelle hesitated. “I need the material for a project for school and these were just the right color.”

“I see. Well, good luck on your project. Must be the last of the year, eh? You enjoy your summer, now, my dear.”

“Thanks,” Annabelle was relieved to leave the store.

In first period on Wednesday, a folded piece of paper landed on Annabelle's desk when Mrs. Olson wasn't looking. She looked around to see where it had come from, but there were no tell-tale glances in her direction. Slowly, Annabelle unfolded the note. Scrawled in black magic marker was a warning, “Don't even think of doing anything to Alicia. You'll regret it for the rest of your life.” Annabelle crumpled the paper and stuffed it in her notebook. She'd have to keep a low profile and avoid the lunchroom for the next two days. The lunchroom was a giant free-for-all. The moms who came in to monitor the lunchroom were clueless. Annabelle could never figure out if they just didn't care or if they really were that dumb, but they often let kids get away with almost anything.

After class, Annabelle told Mrs. Olson that she had a headache and the lunchroom noise would really aggravate it. Would Mrs. Olson mind if Annabelle and Lilac ate in her room? Mrs. Olson said she'd be delighted to have the company. Annabelle told Lilac the news between classes. Lilac had been hiding all day under her sweatshirt and long blond hair even though it was nearly eighty degrees outside. She looked relieved that she wouldn't have to face the cafeteria again.

“Cheer up,” Annabelle whispered. “I have a plan!”

“Annabelle, you can't,” Lilac protested.

“Don't worry. I'll tell you about it at lunch. Gotta go or I'm going to be late for science.” Annabelle flew off down the hall toward the science wing.

Friday morning arrived at last. Annabelle had hardly slept. Today was D-Day – the day when Alicia would finally get what was coming to her. Today was also Field Day and the last day of school. Annabelle was on cloud nine.

She left for school thirty minutes earlier than usual. She had to time it right if her plan was going to work. Locking her bike into the rack at the back of the school, Annabelle made her way to the front. Good. No other kids lingered outside the main entrance, yet. The custodian was just raising the flag for the day. Annabelle waited for him to go back inside before rounding the corner of the building. She quickly unpacked her supplies and set to work. Two minutes later, she finished and disappeared inside the building to wait and watch until her handiwork was discovered. She found the choir room unlocked and slipped into the alcove where she could hide and look out the window.

It didn't take long. The first kids to be dropped off stopped in front of the large poster board sign Annabelle had taped to the flag pole. The sign read in large black letters, “Has anyone seen my panties? Please return ASAP to Alicia Thomas.” It took the kids a minute of staring at the sign before one of them looked up. He nudged his friend and pointed. There, right below the flag hung the enormous flowered panties from the Salvation Army. The kids cracked up and moved off to play hacky sack next to the door. The next kids to be dropped off figured it out sooner because the first kids yelled out, “Look up!” Most kids laughed loudly. A few looked uncomfortable and tried to hide their snickers behind hands.

Finally, a black BMW rolled up. Out stepped a tall slender girl with long brown curly hair. She wore sunglasses, a tank top with “Princess” in glitter across her chest, and a khaki skort. Her flip-flops slapped her heels as she approached the crowd that had gathered around the flagpole. The students quieted and loud whispers could be heard, “It's her! It's Alicia!” Like the Red Sea they parted as Alicia, now looking confused, continued up the front walk. She couldn't miss the sign, however. With a perfectly manicured hand, she pushed her sunglasses back on her head, lips pressed furiously together. The crowd followed her glance and then, before Alicia could figure it out on her own, simultaneously looked up. Alicia followed their gaze and stood staring for a moment before erupting, “That little brat!” and stalking into the school, a trail of wannabes fanning out behind her. Soon, one of the wannabes returned to remove the sign and panties from the flagpole. Annabelle sat back from her perch in the choir room alcove, satisfied that this would be the best day ever.

The Wave Dancer - Ayala

2006-09-03T18:42:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: Well, it's a new week so that means it must be time for a new Storyteller's submission. Here's one from Ayala, fresh off her summer hiatus. Ayala is fairly new to the blogverse and she has a great writing style for a young-un. She can use Storytellers for practice any time she wants.

When the souls of the sea whisper to each other and tell the stories of their past the waves stop and the entire ocean calms. Silence overwhelms the night and the stars shine with all of their strength onto the surrounding sands. They whisper, but we cannot hear them. As hard as we may try and as much as we may hope we cannot listen to the stories of the sea. She knew for she had tried.

She had heard them whispering under the sparkling sky. Slowly, silently, she had walked to the edge of the water. But the sands had felt the warmth of her feet and had warned their beloved ocean of her coming. The waves then started to swirl, creating a pattern around her. At first she had tried to resist the movements; she wanted more than anything to hear the stories they could tell. But the motions were too beautiful to refuse so she let the waves spin her back to the shore; back to the world she was a part of, a world where you do not hear the voice of the ocean.
_______________________________________

“Is everyone ready? Take your places, please, time is our enemy here. Now is everybody ready? Good. Begin.”

The pianist started a gentle tune, his fingers barely landing to rest on the keys before moving on to the next ones. Softly the violins joined in, then the flutes. They played calmly, quietly. Suddenly they played harder, more intensely, their sound drifting higher and filling up more of the surrounding space. The cellos began, bringing the air of excitement with them. The sounds blended together so flawlessly to create a symphony unlike any other.

It was expected that this music would be extraordinary. Of course they would practice relentlessly, there was no doubt that they would play for hours and then go home and go through the notes a hundred times more in their heads. For, you see when you are the musicians for the greatest dancer of your time you do not merely play. For if you miss a beat, if you hesitate for a moment, the dance is lost, a second too early or too late and she will loose her concentration. The music needs to become so dependable that she can blend with it until they are one, so that it looks as if the music came from the same place that her movements did: her heart.

With that knowledge in mind the musicians worked harder than every before. They studied and practiced and now it was over. Tomorrow she would dance in front of the world with their masterpiece accompanying her. Tomorrow.

“That was beautiful.” The conductor had a tear in his eye as he spoke. He had pushed them hard but they had come through. He had dreamt and they had made his dream a reality. Tomorrow she would bring her magic to this very stage. Tomorrow.

___________________________________________

The ocean had been kind today; she could see David from her window, his boat filled with fish. It will bring in good money, she knew, for their home. She looked once again at his kind face and gentle eyes and she wondered why it was that she hated him so.

“If I wasn’t being forced to marry him I might actually end up loving him on my own.” She had not meant to say that out loud. She knew if she was heard she would be punished for being ungrateful. Ungrateful. What a stupid word. She had come to hate that word as much as she hated his face. It could be worse, she thought. Her sister had been forced to marry a merchant from the next town. He had been fat and almost twenty years older than her teenage sister, but rich and so they had wed. David was not rich, which quite honestly she was happy for, although she knew her mother had hoped for a wealthier match. She hated money. She hated fish. She glanced up again at the boat and David waved at her shyly. She waved back. She hated fish.

Fish were gifts from the ocean. The waves guided the boats and the ocean decided which fishermen would succeed. She resented that gift, for it was not the one she wanted. She wanted to hear their stories. Sometimes she still sat up late at night straining her ears to hear their tales. But the sea had learned her tricks by now and they whispered softly to each other so that she could not hear. So she made up her own stories. Of ships and mermaids, of love and of faith. But her favorite story was the wave dancer, a story her mother had told her when she was a little girl. She would whisper it to herself until she fell asleep, her own story of the sea.

Once upon a time, when the land was controlled by the power of the ocean, there was a girl who loved to dance. Every night she would leave her small home and dance under the moonlight. Well, the sea saw the beauty of the girls face and the grace in her movements, and desired her. Although the sea controlled the land it could not make the earth bring the girl to them. They wanted her to dance among their waves and swim through the depths of their waters. But the earth wanted the girl to run through valleys and rivers and to dance through the trees of its forests.

The sea knew that they had to be smart to convince the girl to dance for them, so at night, when they would gather to share their stories, they let her listen. The souls of the sea would whisper to the girl about dances of far away places and movements that she did not know. The girl was smart and knew the dangers of dancing with the sea, but her body desired the movements, her heart wanted the dance. So she started to dance closer to the waters. She let her feet sink into the soft cool sand with every movement. The brave waves came up to touch her toes, and then rushed back into the safety of the sea. Slowly she became braver and danced into the waves. She danced only until the water reached her ankles and then moved back to the warmth and comfort of the earth.

For nights they danced like this. The sea whispered around her and let her hear their magic words. Then the sea began to whisper to her, as if she was part of them, and in a way she was. She had become a part of the sea.

She began to dance everywhere she went, spreading the movements and patterns that the sea had taught her. She amazed people with her talent and her unique dances, and she was careful never to tell them where she had learned her secrets. For you see, they were not really her secrets at all, but the secrets of the ocean. But the ocean is powerful and beautiful, and hard to resist, and the girl soon started to forget to be careful.

Her life on earth kept moving, she grew, she married, and she lived. And no matter what was happening in her life she kept dancing. Soon she had a child. The pain had been outrageous and she had feared that she would never see the ocean again. But she survived and had a beautiful baby girl. That night, while her daughter slept, she went outside to dance with the sea.
That night her happiness was stronger than ever before, her movements sharper, her heart more content, and she forgot to make sure she did not dance too far into the waves. She forgot to be careful of the height of the water against her skin.

That morning her husband woke to his daughter crying and his wife gone. She had danced too far. She had gone too deep. He wept for his wife and for his daughter who would grow up without a mother, and, to protect her, he made sure that the baby would never dance, that she would never go near the ocean. But the souls of the sea were inside of her and so she found a way. She grew quickly and soon found the knowledge of dance that was deep inside of her. And the sea loved her as well. But she was smarter than her mother and never left the shores; she danced with the waves around her feet but was careful not to lose concentration.

She grew up with the sea in her soul. She grew, she married, and she lived. She had a daughter who also had the ocean inside of her. So they danced together by the light of the moon. And at night, when they had danced and came inside to sleep, she would hold her daughter and whisper in her ear “Forever you will carry the secrets of the sea. You will pass them on to your daughter and then to her daughter. Be careful never to tell the secrets of the sea. And dance. Always dance.” With this message she would send her to sleep. Night after night, year after year. She grew, she married, and she lived. And her mother’s words came true. So even now the soul of the sea is passed down through the generations. And there is always one who cannot resist the urge to dance with the sea.

The story always calmed her. It reminded her of her mother and it put her to sleep. She knew the story was not real but it always reminded her of her own mother. Her mother would go outside to sit by the water every night. She had said it was to think, but she knew her mother danced; she had stayed up one night to watch. Her mother had been so beautiful; the moon shining on her face, and the ocean swirling around her. And when the night was over she had asked the sea one thing; that the ocean should not share its secrets with her daughter.

In the morning she had woken up and rushed to ask her mother about the dance she had seen. Her arms already aching to feel the movements. But her mother had been harsh when she mentioned it. She told her it must have been a dream. And now, after so many years, she had trouble remembering if it had been real or not.

_______________________________________________

He had a secret. The mirror was leaned up against the ugly dressing room wall. He adjusted his suit, smoothed his hair one last time, and checked his watch to find that he still had twenty minutes until he had to be on stage. Ah, his secret. Tonight he would play the piano for the greatest dancer he had ever seen. And although he would be playing with twenty other musicians he knew she would only see him. He knew because the sea had told him. His name was David and the sea had told him that he belonged with this girl, this girl who danced like the waves.

______________________________________________

They married in October. The ocean was starting to get cold and tossed angrily in the background. She smiled, nodded, hugged the appropriate people at the appropriate times, but all the while she was wishing she could jump into the water and swim away.

That night they sat together in their new home. She was leaning against the window with the moonlight falling across her face and David gave her a gift. He gave her a small stone in the shape of a heart, with the pattern of the sands that had shaped it so still on its face. He told her that the sea had given it to him to show her that they would love each other in time, and that when it came this love would last forever. And this time, looking into his eyes, she took the gift of the ocean.

They lived happily together and grew to love each other. She grew, she married, and she lived. They have a daughter the following spring. She had hair as dark as the depths of the ocean and eyes as blue as the waves in the sun. And every night she would tell her daughter the story of the wave dancer. The daughter grew, she married, and she lived, but the magic of dance and the desire of the sea was lost in her. Here the story ended.

_____________________________________________

The silk of her bodice shimmered in the light. She wasn’t nervous; she had done it a thousand times before. Ever since she was little her mother would tell her a story that mothers had been telling daughters for generations. It was the story of the wave dancer. She did not know but her mother had changed the story. She told her daughter that a long time ago her great great grandmother had married a man named David, and on their wedding night he had given her a gift from the ocean. For you see, she had always wanted to dance with the ocean. She had the desire to hear the secrets of the sea, just like her mother did and her grandmother did. But her mother had made the sea promise to stop the cycle of the ocean, and so it had stopped. But, her mother told her, now it would start again.

When she turned thirteen her mother told her the story of the wave dancer and pressed a small package into her hand. She opened it and saw a smooth stone in the shape of a heart: the gift of the sea. That night she walked to the ocean and laid the stone into the waves. She asked the ocean to take back its gift and give her another in its place; the gift of dance. So the ocean took back the stone and danced with her. The souls of the sea whispered in her ear and the waves swirled around her feet in a pattern unlike any she had ever seen. The cycle had returned.

She had shared the gift of the ocean with everyone she met. She danced. And the more she danced the more she realized the beauty of the water. Whenever the souls of the sea whispered to each other she heard, she learned, she danced, and she continued the pattern of the sea. But she knew that the sea had once given her great great grandmother the gift of love in that stone and she had exchanged it for the gift of dance. She had asked to be able to hear the stories of the ocean and she was scared that it would be instead of love.

“Five minutes ‘till show time.” Only five minutes.
_________________________________________________

The show was over. She had danced with the waves whispering in her ear. She had danced as if the moon was shining on her face and the warm sands supported her feet. She was at the beach now, here to thank her friends for the gift they had given her, for the cycle of magic they had restored to her family. She had come to listen to the souls of the sea whisper to each other.
______________________________________________

He had played like never before, with the crashing of the waves against the shore keeping the beat in his head and the moon lighting the notes so he could see what to play. He had watched her. He saw the moonlight shining on her face and he heard the sea whispering the movements in her ear. He knew she would be at the beach, here to thank to ocean. He too came to thank the waters for the gift they had given him; her.
______________________________________________

They met at the beach one night, a long time ago. She danced and his music accompanied her. The sand had felt the warmth of his feet and had warned their beloved wave dancer of his coming. They did not speak. They did not have to.

He pressed a small package into her hand. She slowly opened the familiar wrapping and, with a tear in her eye, she saw the beautiful stone that she had returned to the sea so long ago. The ocean had given it back to her; the ocean had given her him. The moonlight fell across her face and David told her that the stone was a gift from the sea to show that they would love each other in time, and that when that love came it would last forever.

They grew, they married, and they lived. Always together. Late at night they would come together and listen to the stories of the sea. When they had a daughter they would bring her with them. They would lay her little feet into the wet waves and let the ocean caress the daughter of their beloved wave dancer. The three of them would dance with the water; they would swirl and spin together with the sea along side them.

When the daughter turned thirteen her mother took her aside and told her again the story of the wave dancer. When she was done she held her close and whispered in her ear, “You are the dancer, my love. The ocean will tell you their secrets; the waves will show you their movements. But always remember they are not your secrets to tell. And dance. Always dance.”

Then she took her daughter by the hand and went out to the ocean. Together they unwrapped the stone with the pattern of the sands that had formed it still on its face, and they laid it in the water. The ocean took back the stone so that one day, when the daughter was ready to grow, to marry, and to live, the ocean could return the stone to the right person. So that the cycle would forever continue.

______________________________________________

When the souls of the sea whisper to each other and tell the stories of their past the waves stop and the entire ocean calms. Silence overwhelms the night and the stars shine with all of their strength onto the surrounding sands. They whisper, but only some can hear them.

Saturdays - Sheyna Galyan

2006-08-27T20:04:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: The newest Storytellers post (and it's a fine, fine effort as well) is from an actual, published author. WOW!

We are honored to have a submission from Sheyna Galyan, an honest to G-d published author. You can learn more about her, and the publishing company she is affiliated with (Yaldah Publishing), at the Yaldah Publishing website linked here.

(And if you don't think I'm being extra nice to Sheyna because she is an actually published author - well then you don't know me very well at all):

I used to like Saturdays but not anymore. Saturdays were my days to sleep in, rent an old movie and watch it with my feet up on the couch, eating extra-buttered popcorn that left my fingers greasy and my mouth sated. On rare occasions, I’d get some crazy-assed notion that I should do something to fix up the apartment that I pay two bucks a square foot for the honor of calling home.

The last time I liked Saturdays was one of those project days that spilled over into Sunday. On Saturday I’d done all of my laundry, shampooed the living room/bedroom carpet, cleaned out my closet, and bought groceries. By Sunday I was incensed by Dances with Cockroaches playing nightly in the appliance-filled niche that passes for a kitchen and, suited up like a superhero from a bad comic book, I was damn well going to do something about it. I emptied two spray cans before the fumes were unbearable, congratulated myself on my hunter’s skills, and decided to reward myself with an Angus Steak Burger at the Burger King just down the street.

I never dine in at fast food places. The smell reminds me too much of part-time jobs I took to pay the bills back in college. I guess by that logic I shouldn’t use a telephone since it reminds me of the job I took to pay the bills now, doing phone-in tech support for a crappy company that makes crappy products and spending day after day listening to people call in with stupid questions. But I make a decent wage and I figured that by summer, I’d have enough saved up to quit and apply to the police academy, which is all I’ve ever wanted to do anyway.

I took my lunch to a small grassy park boasting an out-of-order fountain encircled by graffittied benches as if we were invited to sit and wait for the geyser to start working again. I chose a bench where Steven had professed his eternal love to Danya and Matt had been present. The burger was drier and the onions milder than I liked, but the melted cheese and extra large Coke helped.

I had escaped into a quiet, responsibility-free reverie when a man sat down next to me on the bench, invading my solitude and pissing me off.

“Sorry, this bench is taken,” I said, my voice sounding far more polite than I’d intended.

The man merely nodded, looking at the waterless fountain as if it were a thing of beauty. His khaki trousers, open-necked button down shirt, and brown leather flight jacket were clean and appropriate for the late spring day, so he probably wasn’t homeless. He had medium-length brown hair that looked windblown and a serious but youthful face. He didn’t look deranged or threatening so I figured maybe he just didn’t understand.

I tried again. “Hey, man, I’d like to sit here alone. Can you choose another bench?”

He looked at me with slate gray eyes and I felt my lunch harden in my stomach. “I’m here to talk to you, Jacob.”

“Right. Well, clearly you don’t know me, because if you did, you wouldn’t call me that. Now leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’m here to talk to you.” He paused, a hint of a smile on his face. “Coby.”

I dropped the rest of my sandwich into the paper bag at my feet, my appetite gone. “How do you know my name?”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

“What’s your job?”

Again the shrug. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Okay, I don’t know who put you up to this, but ha ha, you’ve had your fun and the joke’s over. You can go now.”

“It’s not a joke, Coby.”

Gray Eyes went back to watching the broken fountain and I tried to think of what to say. This was starting to freak me out a little. Finally I decided he wasn’t going to leave anytime soon and I might as well be willing to have a conversation.

“All right. You know my name. What’s yours? And don’t tell me it’s irrelevant. If we’re going to have a conversation, I’d like to know who I’m talking to.”

He didn’t bat an eye. “You can call me Mike.”

“Mike, huh? Is that your real name?”

Mike turned his cool eyes on me again. “No. But that’s what you may call me.”

Great. “Okay, you say you’re here to talk to me. So talk.”

For a moment he looked almost compassionate. “You’re angry and impatient. You’ve been hurt and you’ve turned away from everyone who can help. This has protected you in the past, but it will become an obstacle to pursuing your dreams.”

This was the last thing I wanted to hear. “Thanks for the free therapy, but I could have gotten that by watching Dr. Phil.”

Mike seemed unfazed as he gazed around the park. “In approximately ten minutes, a man will walk by here and need your help. You will respond in whatever way you see fit. As a result, you will be asked a question. In order that you may move closer to your dreams, and to having the life you were meant to have, please consider answering yes.”

“How can I say that I’ll answer yes if I don’t even know what the question is?” This was definitely freaking me out, and I wanted Mike – or whoever he was – to go away.

“Once you’ve heard the question, you’ll understand.” He stood up from the bench and looked at me. “Maybe we’ll talk again.”

I stood as well, unsure of the protocol in this situation. “Sure.” I hope not.

He began walking back toward the street, out of the park, and without thinking I called after him. “Hey Mike! Just for the record, I don’t believe in fate or angels or God or any of that… stuff.” I stopped myself just shy of using a less civil but more accurate adjective. He didn’t answer and disappeared on the crowded sidewalk.

Just to prove my aversion to fate, I picked up my BK bag and dumped it in the nearest trash can, then headed back to my apartment, sipping my mostly-flat Coke. If some guy was going to come through the park in ten minutes, someone else would have to be waiting at the bench to help him.

I was a block from my building and waiting to cross the street when a man stumbled in front of me and collapsed, his bearded face searching mine, pleading.

“Diabetic,” the man gasped, breathing heavily and visibly trembling. “Need… sugar… help…”

Without thinking, I knelt by the man, cradling his head in my arm, encouraging him to drink my soda. His lips grasped the straw weakly, barely able to suck any of the sugar water up the straw, so I ripped the top off and poured a bit into his mouth. I held him that way, giving him small amounts of liquid until his brown eyes cleared and his breathing became slow and steady.

He clutched my arm. “Help me stand, please.”

I helped him to his feet and now noticed that he wore a black knitted yarmulke on his head.

“Thank you,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed. He brushed himself off and loosened his tie. “I usually carry hard candy with me but I ran out. You may have saved my life. Thanks seem insignificant.”

I struggled to remember anything from Hebrew school, wishing for the first time that I’d treated it then as something more than merely an escape from the drunken tirade at home. “It’s a mitzvah,” was all I could think to say.

“That it is,” the man nodded, fumbling in the pockets of his sport coat until he found a small black zippered bag. He nodded toward the bag. “I’ll have to test my blood sugar, but you don’t need to watch. You’ve been subjected to more than enough of my illness.” He held his index finger up. “I know.” He dug around in his pockets again, pulling out a business card case. His long fingers extracted a card and he replaced the case. “I live not far from here. Please do me the honor of coming to my home for dinner Friday night. It’s the least I can do to repay you for your kindness.”

I hesitated. Friday nights were my time to hang out with the guys at Finnegan’s Pub. But what the hell; they wouldn’t miss me for one night and the guy was offering free food.

“Please?” the man asked. “It would mean a lot to me.”

I shrugged. “Okay. Yes.”

“Wonderful!” He smiled and handed me his card. “You know where this address is?”

I squinted at the tiny type. It was no more than half a dozen blocks in the other direction from my apartment. “Yes. I know it.”

“Good. Come to this address Friday at six o’clock. I’ll walk you to my home. My wife is a genius with food and I promise you a pleasant evening.”

“Okay.” I already had aberrant thoughts about showing up with a bag of hard candy. “Thank you…” I looked at the name on the card and swallowed the sudden lump that had formed in my throat, “…Rabbi Silver.”

“Nonsense,” the rabbi scoffed, waving his hand as if flicking something away. “Call me Dan. And you? What is your name?”

“Coby,” I said, thinking about my strange conversation in the park. “But you can call me Jacob.”

* * *

I guess it’s no surprise that Dan and I hit it off. He’s had me over quite a few times for Shabbat dinner and he’s right about his wife’s cooking skills. Apparently, it took a month for the guys at Finnegan’s to realize I wasn’t coming anymore, but I’ve got new friends now. Last week, Dan and I started studying together in my precious time off from the police academy, where I’m doing well. Both Mike and the cockroaches have been absent from my life, and for that I’m grateful. Most of the time.

But my Saturdays will never again be the same. If I don’t have to report to the academy, I’m at Dan’s synagogue or enjoying the afternoon with people from the congregation. I used to just like Saturdays. Now I revel in them.

Copyright © 2006 by Sheyna Galyan. All rights reserved.

There Is No Tomorrow - Sara (Trophy)

2006-08-17T09:15:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: With minor apologies to Lvnsm27, below is Sara's submission. I'm cutting Lv a few days short because Sara is going away for a little summer- internet free- R&R and I promised her that she would get to see her story on the "big screen" before she went.

Sara's work is a great effort for a first time fiction writer and a fine addition to Storytellers. Enjoy:

“And God called to the light: “Day,” and to the darkness He called: “Night.” And there was evening and there was morning, one day.” Genesis 1:5

She slipped a twenty dollar bill into that page of the bible and made a mental note. Twenty dollars, and God created day and night. She repeated it a few times in her head. That would be easy enough to remember, even if she was in some seedy bus station or kneeling behind a phone booth.

With that accomplished she climbed into bed, taking the time to smooth the sheets over herself. This was her last night in this room. God created day and then He created night. In the same way that the first day passed, every day that came after would follow that pattern. It was a forever kind of thing, something that could be depended on. Days go by. And there was evening and there was morning.

This morning came all too quickly, but she knew that that was just the way it was. Days pass quickly and, once the day is gone, nothing stays the same. As soon as the next dawn arrives, everything has changed. You just can’t step in the same river twice. You will be a different person and the river will be a different river. That was the pattern. So she registered no surprise when she opened her eyes to find her room drowning in sunlight. She wished that she had savored last night more, or appreciated it more when she had it.

But now it was gone and there were things to be done. With that bracing thought she swung her legs over the side and propelled herself towards the bathroom. Getting started is always the hardest part but, as with everything, the morning situation is improved with immediate action.

Showered, dressed, and packed she stood in the doorway of her bedroom and knew that this was it. Once she ran away, there was no taking it back. No crawling home, no accepting more favors. Coming back would be admitting defeat. Besides, she would never feel the same way again. Yesterday had passed and the past cannot be replicated. Without touching anything, without saying good-bye, she walked away.

~

Who was she kidding? She had no plan. There was nowhere to go, no job waiting for her across the country. She had the will to travel and ten twenties sprinkled through the pages of an old bible.

She made it to the end of the block before her need for a plan paralyzed her. With a self-hating grin she ducked into a yard and collapsed behind a bush. Her mind groped for a plan, for a spark, for something. Even for that old unworried apathy that had gotten her packed and ready. She couldn’t find it. She wanted to leave, but she also wanted to get somewhere. Going and coming are two very different things.

She reached into the front pocket of her backpack and fished out her small black notebook. There had been a time when she never would have done this, but now she almost savagely ripped a creamy page from the back. She didn’t have time for this, but she needed a map. She pulled out her Bic Z6 pen and got right to work.

Salem, Oregon to Sacramento, California. How long would it take? At least eight hours, she thought. There were two options and one virtually crossed itself out on her paper. She sighed, exasperated at her own cautiousness. Hitchhiking would have been free.

Instead she walked quickly to the greyhound station. You can do this, she told herself softly. But then something in her released. For God’s sake, she called to herself, do something. Just once stop thinking and actually be the person you want to be! There’s no risk here, she screamed on the inside. You have nothing to lose! Do this today and you will not regret it, because tomorrow will come and everything will be different. Nothing of today will stay, except the knowledge that you have conquered yourself. There are no real mistakes.

Her mind hardened with that knowledge. There are no true consequences. There’s nothing to ever worry about, because tomorrow is sure to come and then today will be gone. Just as there is no one here today to witness her victory, there will be no one here tomorrow to remind her of her mistakes. She was free, and she walked into the office and bought her ticket.

That Summer - Lvnsm27

2006-08-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note - Once again slightly out of order. Here is Lvnsm27's effort.

Happily, I am able to report that I am expecting a number of new submissions this week. Thanks to everyone who submitted and everyone who is about to. And the doors are always open for anyone else who wants to write some fiction. Enjoy.

School has ended and vacation has begun. Evan who’s 14, was walking down the street and then passed by a pizza shop and saw inside the window, a group from school who were seniors, sitting at a table. He always wanted to join them but felt shy because they are older than him. And so he just walked on.

Inside, the group was eating lunch and talking. Ryan said, "What's really annoying, is when drivers don't look before turning left and almost him you." "What happened?" Natalie asked. He replied, "What happened was, I was crossing the street and made sure while I was walking that no cars were coming. And then all of a sudden a car turning left was coming straight towards me before quickly stopping." "I hate when that happens." Jonathan said. Then Jessica remembered something that she saw and said, "Okay guys, I saw a really funny billboard today while I was driving." "Where?" Amanda asked. "Like about a mile from here." Jessica replied and continued, “It showed a picture of Smokey the bear and said, "Remember, only you can prevent bears in hats." They all chuckled. "What was it an ad for?" Steven asked. "I don't know." She replied. They continued to talk and eat for a while and then they finally left.

It was night time, and for a while now, Evan has been having a hard time falling asleep and didn't know why. And so he got out of bed and looked out the window. The sky was a medium blue. And the leaves on the trees were rustling in the mild wind. He stayed out of bed for awhile and then decided to go back to bed and try again.

The next day, Evan told his parents about his problem and that it takes a long time before he finally does fall asleep. "Is there something on your mind that's bothering you maybe?" His mother asked. "No, not really." He replied. Then they gave him suggestions that he could do to help him, like reading or clearing his mind of thoughts. Later on, he was using the computer and then went to go play basketball with those at the park.

Amanda and Natalie were at a shopping center and in the store Forever 21, looking through the clothing. Natalie, who was talking about others from school said, "So have you seen Erica and Jason and their friends recently?" "No." Amanda replied. "Why not?" "Because everything was getting too dramatic for me. At first, things were fine, but then a couple of them became very annoying, constantly complaining about different problems and making up stories about being chased by people. And so I decided to leave." Amanda told her. "Yeah it's probably best that you do. You don't need that." "Yeah. And I'm not that close to them anyway, which makes it easier to slip out."

Steven and Jonathan were in the store Tower Records nearby, looking at the albums. “What do you prefer?” Jonathan asked. “Going to a concert or just listening to the band's CD?” "Going to the concert, of course." Steven answered. "Not me, I prefer listening to the album. I can't enjoy the music with everyone in the place screaming and can't see the band either with others standing in front of me. Plus the album is much cheaper and I can hear it when I want." "Yeah, but at a concert you're with your friends and even with the inconveniences you still have a good time."

Evan was using the computer again and was looking at different things and then went to a certain blog. It had a message on it about a computer worm that's been spreading recently. And it claimed that the culprits are... he couldn't believe it, the group he knows from school. "What the.." he said. And just sat there and starred, in his horrible shock.

Later that night, he was at the beach with a couple of friends, along with other teens there and others in their early 20's. He and his friends Matt and Alex spotted a bonfire. "Lets go over there." Matt said. And they went towards it. Sitting there was the group Evan knows. They sat down next to them and all greeted each other and then conversed about different things. Evan looked at the flames. And then looked at those sitting around and their glowing faces. He thought about what he read and felt a little on edge. He just never expected this from them and now feels that he doesn't really know them.

Finally, the next day, they found out too when Amanda saw the message and called the others. They all met at Steven's house. “Wait, so let me get this straight.” Ryan said. “Someone is claiming that we are responsible for the worm that's going around?” "Apparently." Amanda said. She showed them the message and they were astonished. "Who's doing this and why?" Jessica asked.

"That's what we have to find out." Steven answered.

Untitled Submission - Elster

2006-08-06T16:00:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: First order of business - I wanted to thank Scraps and Jack again for being the sacrificial lambs at Storytellers.

We are slightly out of order this week. Sara was supposed to go third, but changed her story concept at the last minute so I am filling in here to buy her another week.

Please not that after Sara next week, we are going first come first served. Many of you have committed stories but to be honest, I have not gotten anything in yet (bad times). Please send me your stuff via email when you can in order to avoid me having to email all of you to beg. Now without further ado, here's my shot at telling a story:

Dante Reynolds sat at the bar, draining large quantities of tequila and fixing his homicidal stare in the wall-sized mirror. I approached him gingerly and inquired of his poor mood.

“Paula left me,” he said gloomily.

“Paula always leaves you,” I replied, trying to be reasonable.

“This time it’s different. She got all into Buddhism and she thinks my profession negatively impacts her Karma.”

“Well, you have to admit that our mutual profession could be considered a karma killer if viewed in the wrong light.”

He shrugged and ordered another double of Jose Cuervo. When the bartender set the amber liquid in front of him, he took out a sterile alcohol wipe and carefully cleaned the top of the glass.

“If you’re so damn worried about germs, why the hell don’t you just buy a freaking bottle and drink in your immaculate, germ free apartment?” I asked for the three-hundredth time.

“I like the camaraderie,” he replied.

“But your anti-social,” I reminded him.

He shrugged. “Still...” He drank the tequila in two long gulps and sucked on the obligatory lime (bought from an organic fruit and vegetable store, sliced with a carefully hot water and alcohol washed JH Henkle Eversharp blade smuggled into the bar). “You think there’s anything to this karma shit Mike?” he asked me.

“Isn’t karma that nonsense about what colors surround you?”

“No, that’s aura. Paula used to be into that too. She went around telling me my aura’s real black.”

I thought about it. “Wow, it must suck to have bad karma and a black aura.”

“If I got it then you got it too asshole.”

I nodded in agreement. “Well, that may be true, but I have some news that should cheer you up.” He looked at me expectantly. “I got us a job.”

The death look left his eyes and he broke into a smile. “Well partner, that certainly calls for a drink.”

“You sure you have enough Sani-Wipes?”

* * *

Four weeks later, we are back at the bar, this time at a very secluded table in the back, staring at a month’s worth of our shadowing the subject. Our surveillance has been supplemented by a dossier supplied by the potential client.

“He beats his wife,” I throw out there for starters, already knowing the answer.

“Big deal.”

“He’s obese.” I can’t resist. Dante has a thing for fat people.

He gave me disgusted. “What else?”

“Client says he’s into kiddie porn.” Dante makes another face, like he just bit into rancid meat. There’s really nothing worse than a fat man who likes to look at naked pictures of kids.

“Now we’re cooking,” he replied. He’s drinking beer from a sanitized glass tonight. When you decide a man’s fate, there’s no place for tequila. “Oh, and he drives an American car. Anyone who drives American deserves to die.”

We are drawing some interest from a couple of college muscle headed monkeys sitting at the next table trying to impress their girls. They seem to be listening in on our conversation. Bad idea. Dante simply fixed them with an unblinking stare. In under two minutes they have vacated their table. “Assholes,” he mutters. Dante has little use for people, except as a source of income.

He turns his eyes back to me. “I dunno Mikey. I mean yeah, he’s an asshole (Dante’s universal word of disdain), but I’m not convinced he should be a dead one.”

Dante Reynolds is the best partner a mechanic like me could ever hope for. He’s a solid pro with an artisan’s eye for detail. His plans, and execution of such plans, are always perfect. No witnesses, no evidence and no cops sniffing around us two weeks later. But genius always has a drawback. In this case, it’s Dante’s morality standards. No one gets offed until he decides it’s a righteous kill. Sure, to you it probably sounds stupid. Trust me, I think it’s even dumber, especially in light of the fact that his reasoning never makes any sense anyway. But that’s the price you pay for perfection. And if we have to pass on a couple of hits here and there, that’s ok too. We’re still making money hand over fist.

Dante leaned back in his chair. “Look Mike, this is just another case of one drug dealer wanting to muscle in on another, fatter dealer’s turf. There’s no Karmic balancing.”

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I’m starting to feel a twitch in the corner of my eye.

“I said there’s no Karmic…”

“Dante, please stop spouting off your ex-girlfriend’s bullshit. I have been listening to this nonsense for four straight weeks. I’m going insane.”

He sipped his beer thoughtfully. “Don’t be so unenlightened. There’s really something to this Buddhism stuff. I’m telling you.”

“Yes, you’ve been telling me for weeks. I’m begging you to stop.”

“Fine. What else you got?”

It’s make or break time. The truth is, except for the fact that the mark is a dealer, he seems like a pretty decent guy. I play the only card left in my bag. “Client’s offering a hundred and fifty grand if it looks like an accident.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared, possibly contemplating Buddha. He stayed that way for a while, but I knew better than to interrupt him and he made his karmic balance accounting. Finally, he settled forward and drained the rest of his beer. “Hundred and fifty grand huh? Fuck it, let’s ice him.”

* * *

It’s two weeks later and we are back at the bar. Dante’s returned to drinking tequila and I’m nursing a beer. The job was, well it was perfect. Dante’s an artist. The way he pulled it off, “accidentally” bumping into the mark, the polite “excuse me” and he slipped the syringe into the mark’s arm, the moment of confusion, followed by a burst of pain. The “heart attack” that followed. Just a masterful piece of work.

Dante is saying something but I missed it. “What?”

He gives me annoyed. “I said, the beauty is that this will not have stained my karma.”

“Dude, you killed someone. From what I know about karma, you’re gonna come back in your next life as this guys toilet bowl, and he’s gonna come back with weak bowels.” I shudder at my own mental image.

He smiles at me condescendingly. If he starts calling me grasshopper I will take out my .45 and shoot him dead on the spot. “I have made my peace with Buddha. I have promised him many gifts will go deliver them to him at the Buddhist temple in Queens.”

There’s a Buddhist temple in Queens? “And what gift would that be?”

“The Buddha will receive three hundred hard boiled eggs and three hogs heads. Then my karma will be squared.”

“Eggs and pig heads.” I shake my head in wonder. Maybe I’m totally missing the boat with this Buddha thing. This religion seems to kick some serious ass.

“Yes, the Buddha has odd tastes. Of course, us westerners couldn’t possibly understand his great ways.”

I drain my beer and take out a twenty for my portion of the tab. “Okay Dante-san. I am gonna take my split of the goods and head down to Miami for two weeks of dog racing and Jai Alai at Hialeah.” He nods, lost in his world of hog’s heads, no longer concerned with the physical world the rest of us mere mortals are inhabiting, while he exists on a higher plane.

In truth it’s all good. By the time I get back, Dante will have forgotten all about Buddha and will be back with Paula and all will be right with Mike’s world again. See I have a religion too, cycles and patterns. And that’s the beauty of cycles and patterns; they tend to constantly repeat themselves.

Untitled Story - Jack

2006-07-30T20:25:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: This is Storytellers going in an entirely different direction. Jack's story is not quite along the same line as Scraps, our first contributer, but it's a damn fine "snippet" of fiction (though pretty long, this is clearly a part of a much larger story).

As with Scaps, we thank Jack for contributing.

I was almost 25 when I left the city of my birth. It was time to go, time to move on and get away. There were new experiences to be had and the pain of what I had once been, what I had once had was too much. Everywhere I looked there were signs of the glory and the fall.

For most of my life I had been a scrapper, never afraid to fight, never willing to give up and not smart enough to get out. It was a self imposed punishment for sins that I had committed but was unwilling to discuss.

It is not much of a description, not very colorful at all. In fact it is rather ordinary, but that is ok, I am ordinary and I prefer it that way. If you stuck me in a crowd full of people you would be hard pressed to pick me out. It was like that in school, never did or said much in class. No need to draw attention to myself I did what I needed to do to get through and nothing more.

And for the longest time that had been enough, an average, nondescript existence. It suited me fine to be a guy who punched a time clock. But sometimes even the average man find himself in a situation that is beyond his control,a time in which he becomes something more than he has been.

But the question is not what he does to elevate himself but how he handles the elevation.

It was Friday night and I had just finished my shift at the plant. There was no rush to get home because there was no one to get home to, no wife, no family, no girlfriend, not even a dog. Just an empty house that was sparsely furnished.

Friday nights were not much different than any other night of the week. I'd go home, pop open a can of beer and stare blankly at the television screen content to let my brain turn to mush.

On this particular night I decided to stop at an ATM. I wanted to order a pizza and I had nothing but the spare change from the last time I had visited the liquor store. It wasn't enough to buy a pack of gum, so I was forced to go to the bank.

There were two people ahead of me in line, a man and a woman and behind me there were a couple of teenage boys.

I didn't see him approach. I didn't notice anything about him including his presence until he was standing in front of us, waving a gun and shouting for our wallets. I have a bad habit of giggling when I am nervous. I don't like being the center of attention and now was certainly a bad time to laugh, but laugh I did.

5'8 or so and about a buck twenty sopping wet with a bad haircut and a Judas Priest shirt, that is all he was, oh and he had a big gun and an even bigger attitude. He grabbed my collar and asked me what was so funny. Before I could answer he had grabbed the woman in front of me.>> She cried as he pulled her in front of him and asked me if I thought that this was funny. I choked back a snigger and told him that it wasn't. He told me that if I so much as smiled he would kill her. I wiped the smile off of my face.

It was the wrong thing to do, but I didn't know it. The jackass cuffed me in the side of the head and laughed. It infuriated me, brought back memories of years of being teased and tortured by my someone who had been like an older brother to me. So I just reacted. I kicked him in the balls and smacked him in the head.

In the movies the gun falls and the hero (there has to be a hero) grabs it. Not here, not in my world. In my world when I slap him there is a flash of light and a loud noise. I am splashed with something, but it feels like hours before I realize that he just shot the woman, and that he did it involuntarily. The wetness I feel on my face is her blood.

I stand there in shock, numb and not really aware anymore of what is happening. The guy she had been with is beating the crap out of the jackass, the Judas Priest shirt is stained now, but it is with his blood.

There is a cop speaking to me, but I don't answer. The real hero is lying, telling the officer that I saved everyone's life, that if I hadn't hit him the guy would have killed us all.

I didn't hit him, I hit Georgie. It was Georgie I saw in front of me. It was Georgie taunting me, I just snapped and reacted. But I guess that somewhere inside I began to hear and to believe that I had been the hero, that when the bell rang I had come out swinging.

And that was really the beginning of the end. Life offers two types of pain, one physical and one mental. Man still hasn't found a tougher prison than the one he encages his mind in. There is no greater pain than the mental anguish we inflict on ourselves and there is no tougher warden than the person we see in the mirror. For some there is no midnight reprieve, the governor doesn't offer clemency. There is only one way out and no two people can share the path.

We all live in our secret worlds, but some of us never have the strength to leave our shelter and walk under sunny skies. I used to.

I used to live in a place I called paradise. I could look out on the world and from my window and gaze upon waters that called out to me. Deep blue seas that embraced me like a child in the womb. The seas were always calm and at night they would gently rock me to sleep.

But it wasn't real. I didn't live on a boat. I didn't live on the beach or remotely close to the water. It was all an illusion, a mindfuck that I created to make myself happy. The problem was that I hadn't realized it. I didn't have a clue as to how precarious my own happiness was and once that was shattered I knew nothing but darkness. I wandered aimlessly in a fog, not knowing where I was going or what I was doing. It didn't matter, I didn't care.

I said it before, there are two kinds of pain and mental is far worse than physical. You can always find a way to escape physical pain, but you can't run from your own mind. Philosophers had long ago figured out that hell existed, that there was a devil, except he wasn't a guy with horns, a pitchfork and a tail. The church had made that guy up. The devil was someone familiar with you, someone who knew your most intimate secrets and your darkest fears. The devil knew you, knew how to torment your soul. The devil knew all this because he was, he is in you.>>

That's right, the devil is not supernatural. There is no Lucifer, no Satan, and no Beelzebub. It would be better for us all if he did exist. No, the devil is just a man, a person that lives inside us all.

See when they wrote the bible and told the story of getting banished from the Garden of Eden they were not talking about a mythological place, they were referring to the end of innocence. They were talking about that time when life hits you in the mouth, knocks you down and beats you senseless. They were talking about getting hurt in places that bandages don't stick, cuts that you cannot stitch, they just keep bleeding. And even if you manage to stop the bleeding that stinging sensation never really does go away.

The truth will always come out, or so they had taught us in school. One way or another it would find it's way to the surface. The problem is that sometimes the truth had all the beauty of a victim of drowning. The weights that anchor the body slip off and it shoots to the surface where it floats and bobs upon the water.

Face up or face down, it doesn't make a difference until you get close enough to take a closer look. And the smell, the smell is something that you never get beyond. There is a putrid stench that sticks with you, gets locked in the back of your throat and grabs a hold of you like some alien parasite.

Anyway you look at it, that body is not pretty, not graceful, not anything but ugly. And that is what the truth can be like, ugly. Our teachers would have use believe that there was something noble and majestic about it. Movies portray the hero as someone who never falters, who uses the truth to defeat the bad guys. I was a streetwise guy. I knew that the truth was never black and white, that there were shades of gray, but even a mug like me can get caught up believing his own hype.

I wanted to blame the jackass at the ATM for bringing this shit storm down upon my head. If he hadn't tried to rob us all, if he would have been honest, if he would have done a million other things the girl he shot would still be alive and I wouldn't feel so miserable.

And then again she might still be alive if I hadn't reacted like the frightened little boy I had been and maybe still was. If Georgie hadn't spent years tormenting me, picking, poking and prodding me, she might still be walking. A father wouldn't miss his daughter and a mother wouldn't cry herself to sleep.

Maybe if I would have learned how to deal with the bullying I could have stopped myself from just reacting. Goddamn Georgie, he was dead too. Gone for years and still I could hear him mocking me, feel his presence. They say sometimes the absence of someone is palpable. The only thing palpable about Georgie's presence was that even in death he still walked alongside me.

If I believed in G-d I would have prayed for something, forgiveness, death, anything, something to give me peace of mind. I hadn't had it since I had left home, if not longer. The very thought of prayer was laughable. Any faith that I had possessed had been beaten out of me.

She was dead because Georgie had proven to me that I was weak and that I was lacking in value and worth. Really it was my fault. Georgie was right, kick a dog enough times and he'll evolve. He'll pass through stages of confusion, denial, anger and then he;ll reach a point where he just doesn't care what happens, he'd just as soon bite you as crap on your porch.

Georgie had made sure that I experienced all of it. He said that he was helping me and I wanted to believe him. He said that he was making me into a man, making me tough enough to deal with a world that bent you over a hot stove and laughed at you.

The first time Georgie beat me I was scared. I didn't defend myself. I didn't try to, I just let him kick and punch me. And when he stopped I looked at him through teary eyes, not sure what to expect. He gave me a handkerchief and stuck out a hand to help me up.

I was wiping the blood off of my face when he hit me again. I didn't see it coming and when I came to I was lying in the dirt and he was gone, as were three of my teeth. Georgie didn't believe in giving or accepting help, to him it was sign of weakness and he couldn't have that.

Georgie taught me about burning anger. It was he who trained me, rather molded me into someone who was angry all of the time. Prior to his entrance into my life I was just another Joe, nothing particularly noteworthy about me, but Georgie placed me on his forge and made me into something different. Not someone, something, his words, not mine.

Georgie's influence was profound in the worst way. He claims that he saw potential and did nothing more than tap into it. And in my darker moments I tend to believe him, but most of the time I think of it differently. Georgie made me mean the way you prepare a pit-bull to be a fighter. Stick glass in his food, kick him, beat him and do what you can to make him feel battered and bruised. Place the animal in a position that makes it feel like it is never safe and never secure.

But humans are not animals, maybe at our most basic level, but even so there is still something more there, a sentient being who can go one of many directions. Georgie once told me that the fact that I wasn't catatonic said a lot about me. He said it with the sick smile he used to wear when he thought that he knew a secret that no one else knew.

If it had been about something else, someone else, I would have felt differently, but this was about me and that made it worse. No one wants to think badly of themselves, even Charles Manson wants to believe that he is just a misunderstood soul. It was just another one of the wounds Georgie inflicted on me. It would have been better if he had hit me, I had grown accustomed to that, was familiar with the pain, but the mental torment never left me. I could drink or smoke the other pain away, but I couldn't find a bottle big enough to take the edge off that cut, it was too deep.

"30" The End, Finito

Just Friends - Scraps

2006-07-25T09:37:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: Our very first submission is from my ex-Travel Mates partner Scraps and is found below.

At this point, I think it's important to note some legal mumbo-jumbo. We are not responsible for the content of the stories, which does not necessarily reflect the views of Storytellers. Oh and also, anything you put up here is your to keep, I certainly won't steal it - BUT I cannot guaranty that no one else will. So anything you submit here can get ripped off 100 ways to Sunday. You all need to realize that.

So, without further ado, I present you with our very first Storytellers submission - a little Jewish-themed satire called "Just Friends".

Note, of course, that your submissions do not have to be J-related, nor in the foirm below. The beauty of fiction is that the rules are limited. Enjoy:

She glanced at the new guy in town from across the room. He was pretty cute—not too short, but not towering over the crowd, either. Short brown hair. His eye color was hard to tell, from a distance. He was chatting it up with a few other guys she knew. Still, she turned away, lest he look in her direction. It wouldn’t do for him to know that she was interested. She pretended to be completely absorbed in the senseless chatter of her friends, though what she really wanted to do was go over to him and flirt a bit. She was eating by one of the guys he was talking to that night; maybe she could check him out later.

He noticed her talking to her friends and stealing the occasional look across the room at him. She was a pretty girl—blonde hair just past her shoulders, petite but not anorexic-looking. Yeah, he was interested, but this was the kind of place where asking a girl out on sight just wasn’t done. He’d get a rep for being too forward, or something similarly uncomplimentary. No, there was no chance he could go up to her and introduce himself. Maybe later he’d see if any of the guys knew anything about her. If he had to, he could ask one of her friends.

* * *

She tried to be casual about the way she brought up the new guy. She couldn’t sound too interested, or people would get ideas.

“So, Yehuda, who’s that guy you were talking to tonight after shul? I haven’t seen him around before.”

“Yeah, he just moved in last week. His name is Michael, and he’s from Teaneck. He moved into 740. Why do you ask?”

“Oh nothing, just curious.” My building, he’s living in my building!

He wanted to try to be indirect about finding out who the blond girl was, but there really wasn’t any good way to do it, so he finally just asked Shira, whose meal he went to Shabbos day. He’d seen them talking to each other Friday night.

“Who’s the girl with the blonde hair, I think she was wearing a striped skirt last night or something?”

“Oh, her? That’s my friend Malka, she lives in 740. She’s from Woodmere. She’s a really great girl. Why’d you want to know? Are you interested in her?”

“Nah, no reason. Just curious.” She lives in my building—score!

* * *

“Hey Yehuda!”

“Hey Shira, what’s up?”

“Nothing much. Hey, you had Malka G. over for dinner Friday night, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I had this guy who’s new to the neighborhood, his name is Michael, over for Shabbos lunch, and he was asking about her.”

“No way! She was asking about him, too!”

“Oh. My. Gosh. This is totally bashert! We’ve got to set them up somehow!”

“She lives in 740, right? He just moved in there. Maybe we should have someone else who lives there invite them both to a meal or something.”

“That’s such a great idea, Yehuda! Who do you know in that building? I know Rina, Alex, Mara, and Liz. Mara and Liz are Malka’s roommates, though, so that might be weird.”

“I know Donny, Jonathan, and Devora. Devora is Rina’s roommate, right?”

“Yeah…but I don’t think they do co-ed meals.”

“Okay, fine. So that leaves Alex, Donny, or Jonathan. I think Jonathan’s away this Shabbos, though. You want to call Alex, and I’ll call Donny?”

“Sounds great. I’ll call you later!”

“See ya around.”

* * *

She officially met him that Shabbos at Alex’s meal. They were sitting at opposite ends of the table from each other, but at some point mid-meal everyone ended up playing musical seats and she managed to sit and shmooze with him for a while. He was three years older than her, they’d gone to brother-sister schools in Israel (but three years apart), and he was applying to medical school. They talked about books, politics, and a bunch of other conversational fillers. She found out that his eyes were green. She wasn’t sure if she was interested, but at least he was a pretty nice guy.

He officially met her that Shabbos at Alex’s meal. Though they started out at opposite ends of the table, she came and sat next to him when someone else sat in her seat, so they had some time to talk. She was three years younger than him, and she’d gone to the sister school to his yeshiva in Israel. She worked as a junior accountant and was studying for her CPA. They made decent small talk—it seemed like she was pretty intelligent, especially compared to some of the girls he’d gone out with. And it didn’t hurt that she was even more good-looking up close than she was across the room (he hoped she didn’t notice him staring).

* * *

They met again at a few other Shabbos meals. He became friends with the same people that she hung out with, so they did a lot of stuff together on the weekends—motzei Shabbos parties, Sunday trips. They enjoyed each other’s company, and to some it may have even seemed like they sought it out.

One night, Shira called her.

“I thought of a great idea for you, Shira!”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“What do you think about going out with Michael?”

“What? Michael? I can’t go out with him—I’m friends with him!”

Yehuda called him that night, too.

“Hey Michael, what do you think about Malka?”

“She’s a nice girl, Yehuda, but we’re just friends.”