First, Do No More Harm Than Is Absolutely Necessary To Do No Harm

The men sat back in their leather chairs, cigar smoke gathering in layers below the ceiling.

“Boys, this is the way I see it.  We gave the women the right to vote.  A few decades later, we paid some kids to crash planes on 9/11.  From my point of view, we’re right on schedule.  Any objections?”

“Why are you so certain this will work?”

“Why?  Because it always has.  We enfranchise and disenfranchise various portions of the population to keep them off-guard and forever picketing city hall for the same rights they’ve lost and gained so many times they can’t remember.”

“If only this next one happened in my lifetime…”

“Anyone else with a question?”

“Yes.  So let me get this straight.  Your schedule shows us implementing Sharia law in Western countries within 100 years of 9/11/2001, thereby reinstating the role of men as supreme leaders…?”

“Uh-huh…”

“But it doesn’t bother you that our religion is pushed off to the side?”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t Sharia law the antithesis of ours?”

“How so?”

“Well, our religions are not exactly best friends…”

“Abrahamic, Ibrahamic, call it what you will.  At the end of the day, it’s patriarchical and that’s all that matters to us men.  Right, boys?!”

The yellow-orange glow of burning tobacco sticks bobbed up and down.

“Next item on the agenda — determining which families get first dibs on occupying the initial Martian colonies.  Any suggestions?”

“Well, hadn’t we better make sure the women we send with those families are self-sufficient if need be but ultimately dependent on men?”

“Of course, of course.  As you can see from the list I gave you, the men and women from which you will choose the best candidates have been sequestered into isolated subcultures for three generations, allowing us to control their thought patterns, dietary preferences and genetic tendencies with 99.99966 percent accuracy.”

“I don’t know.  Six sigma sure leaves a lot of room for error.  I’d feel a lot more secure if we had a 10-sigma process in place.”

“You get what you pay for.  Gentlemen, anyone want to raise the stakes to ten sigma?”

“I’ll put a wager on seven.”

“Eight for me!”

“Okay, anyone for nine?  No?  Okay, going once, twice, sold!  Eight sigma.  By my calculations we need an additional half a billion dollars for seed money to get this started.”

“I’d still feel more comfortable with ten.”

“And if you can cough up 100 billion dollars, we’ll give you ten sigma.”

“Let me think about it…”

“Sure thing.  We’ll table it until next week’s Committee meeting.  Now, looking at the list, are there any objections to the list of potential candidates?”

Cross-Market Products That Don’t Work

In an era of cross-market products, where politicians should wear jackets showing their list of highest campaign donors to help us figure who’s buying the legislation being shoved down our throats sold to us as a bill of goods good for us, there are some products that shouldn’t reach the market.

Example below:

Thirty-one years ago…

Tired of turkey and dressing for dinner, my wife and I treated my mother to a supper of pizza a few days ago.

At the table next to us sat a family celebrating a child’s birthday.

After we ate, we spoke to the family and discovered they lived about 20 miles away from my wife and me in north Alabama.

Quite a coincidence, eating at the same restaurant 300 miles from home, it seemed.

Then, the grandmother at the table spoke up and said she recognised my mother who, as it turned out, had taught the 37-year old man with graying beard whose son’s birthday was sung by the pizza restaurant staff a few minutes before.

There we stood, watching a couple with a six-year young boy, recalling when the father was six 31 years before, under the tutelage of my mother.

On the ride home, my mother described what she remembered of the man when he was a boy — smart, skinny, shy — who is now an engineer working for our government’s military.

In our country, a popular phrase called “fiscal cliff” hangs in the air, with hints of government military cutbacks threatening to dampen celebrations of birthdays for little boys who depend on their parents’ government salaries to support local restaurants.

The “trickle down theory” is no longer popular but applies in many different ways, from the effect of a first grade teacher on a boy’s future to the effect of political wrangling on the income of restaurant workers.

The future is in our hands, which are the signs of the effects of the past.

Time is irrelevant.  Action is everything.

13674

“We hit the major number today.”

“Aye.”

“Does it mean…?”

“Aye.”

“I see…”

“Aye.”

They continued up the mountain, distant valleys peaking between breaks in the trees.

They stopped at a signpost indicating the elevation.  “Fourteen thousand feet.  Finally!”

“Aye.”

She wiped her brow.  “Sorry, that’s me sweat I wiped on ye, ain’t it?”

“Aye.”

She looked at her satellite phone, the signal strong enough to make a call.

“Allo?”

“Yes, it is 13674.”

“Already?”

The voice of a creaky old man standing beside her answered before she could.  “Aye.”

She closed the connection on the phone.

“You always interrupt me, don’t ye?”

“Aye.”

She stared at the felt hand puppet, its face gray and gnarled, its body hidden in folds of brown fabric like an elderly monk.

She thought to herself.  “They say I talk to myself out loud but I know better.  I hear the spirits of others and repeat them like a squawking parrot, that’s all.”

“You’re just as alive as the rest of us, aren’t ye?”

“Aye.”  The puppet didn’t blink an eye, never changing its expression, half scowl, half smile, as if the punchline of an untold joke was on the tip of its tongue.

She sat down on a rock, removed the puppet and placed it in a special sleeve of her backpack.

“Mister ‘Aye,’ it’s time I replace you with a new friend — the ‘Guru on the Mountaintop above the Clouds.'”

“Good afternoon, little lady, how are you this lovely cold day?”

She nodded back to the puppet.  “Just fine.  I have a few questions for you.”

“And I might have a few questions in response.  What do you want to know?”

“Why is 13674 significant?”

“The real question, little lass, is, ‘Why is 13674 not significant?'”

She stood up from the rock, brushing pieces of lichen from her faded blue jeans.

Sighing, she continued hiking up the trail.  “A few more thousand feet to go!”

A muffled voice spoke behind her.  “Aye.”

Diving into the shallow end

The government of the United States of CanAmMex declared the new law of the land, a modified Christian-Islamic-Jewish set of rules and regulations restricting women to work-from-home telecommuting jobs and the majority of men to meaningful menial jobs, other genders assigned to handbuilding the Martian Family Transport Ships, everyone reporting to the Network for which we are eternally grateful, the Nodes be praised.

Grave Symbols

My mother, while talking with a cemetery planning specialist, discovered that the bronze military marker for which my mother seemed to assume would only have a few religious symbols such as Christianity and Judaism, as well as some like the Masonic, has, in addition to a wide, diverse variety, a symbol for Atheists (which seems to imply that science is a religion or set of faith-based beliefs).

Hey, anything you spend more than an hour a day studying and devoting your time toward is probably indicative of your major set of beliefs, faith, religion, or whatever you want to call your m.o.

Chains of Love

To combat the rise of disrespect for parental authority and to preserve family wealth, the world government passed a law that allows parents to place an irrevocable/untouchable lien on their disobedient children’s future earnings, depositing the money in a family trust long before student debt, underwater mortgages and government wealth redistribution programs reduce parents’ investment of time and money in their progeny.

Parents now have the right to make supersocial decisions about their children who waste talent and time on frivolous activities — the children may be sold into virtual servitude to large multinational corporations and the parents allowed to convert the proceeds of the sale into the fabrication of new children for the chance to create more obedient citizens, thus giving the parents an opportunity to show their dedication to preserving their subculture one more time.

The cycle may not be repeated more than three times; after that, the government may have the parents’ childrearing methods observed more closely — those who display abnormal parenting methods will be sent to retraining camps for central nervous system reconfiguration.

Same for disobedient children who refuse to obey their new multinational corporate leaders.

Those who are completely ornery may be sent to recycling centers at any time after two attempts at retaining.

A lot on my plate…

I could write details of the continuing story of a mother’s lament at her daughter joining the ones contributing to the “end of the world” — the entitlement seekers, transgender musician patronisers, etc. — but I want to spend time on my storyline, instead.

Besides, we have to live within our conscious conscience our own way.

The daughter thinks helping people is coercively redistributing the wealth of others for politically-advantageous charities. The mother thinks helping others is deciding how to spend one’s wealth wisely on personal charities. Their thoughts are the same but different, both having built careers in the field of publicly funded primary education, one who felt most helpful guiding the intellectually gifted, the other feeling most helpful guiding the socioeconomically disadvantaged.

Mine is relating the events of a universe much like ours in linked short stories and stop-action videos for the entertaining enlightenment of others.

Right now, however, the warmth of egg nog soothes my stomach and eases my thoughts toward sleep.

Until tomorrow, then!

Margarita, Gentille Margarita, Je te plumerai la tête

The owner of the Japanese restaurant bowed.

“We hope you enjoyed our food and service. If not, don’t tell me. If so, tell others.”

He bowed again as he backed out of the Tatami room, slipping into his shoes outside.

Margarita turned to Lee.

“No, I am not Russian. I am Ukrainian.”

“Do you hate to speak Russian like other Ukrainians?”

She shook her head. “No, I love Russian. It has a beautiful sound. Do you speak the Русский язык?”

“Not anymore. Меня зовут Рик.”

“очень хорошо! So you speak it a little. Меня зовут Маргарита.”

“Nice to meet you, Margarita.”

“Thank you. You, too. Anya is Russian.” She pointed to the woman seated next to her.

“Hello, Anya.”

Anya nodded.

Margarita continued talking with the woman across the table about how, at the last train stop in Germany, a heavy German accent will announce in English thanking the passengers, or it used to be that way.

Lee observed the people in the room — a few native-born Americans, a Japanese, a half-Thai, a Russian, a Ukrainian, a German, a Greek and a few others he hadn’t identified.

The evening was going to be more interesting than he thought, surrounded by members of the intelligentsia working together on a plan to bypass Earth-based political movements and governments.

After the recent elections and government leader transitions around the world, several billionaires were willing to finance an offworld colony now more than ever, looking for a few visionaries with concrete ideas to implement as soon as possible.

A bird in hand is worth two military birds locked down on an aircraft carrier deck during a dogfight.

Lee turned to Karen. “Excuse me a minute.”

Karen adjusted herself uncomfortably. “Hurry up. My feet and knees are killing me.”

Neill yelled across the room. “Hey, Lee. Now I know what a six-foot tall person feels like. You can actually look down at the table from this view.”

Lee stepped into the hallway and bumped into Guinevere, the host and guest of the birthday party.

“Thank you for the gifts!”

Lee smirked. “You’re welcome.”

“The Estes rocket was funny. I’ll have to read your book sometime. Thanks for autographing it.”

“No problem.”

“The book on von Braun looks interesting, too.”

“Yes. It’s sort of ‘behind the scenes’ biography of his life that is often overlooked.”

“Cool.”

“Makes me look forward to the day when we can send people into space without worrying about…oh, never mind.”

“No, no, Lee. What were you about to say?”

“Uh…well, Margarita is an interesting woman. Very spirited!”

“Indeed. But weren’t you going to say something else?”

“Maybe. Let’s talk at the dance later tonight.”

“Okay. See you then!”

“Happy birthday once again.”

“Thanks!” Guinevere beamed and turned toward some friends getting ready to leave.

Border de Cayenne

Her PhD complete, Guinevere set her sights higher.

“So, Lee, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“My new look.”

Lee leaned against the rickety railing of the old wooden deck.

“Well,” he sighed, “one side of your hair is a pigtail and the other side a ponytail?”

“What? Oh yeah, I forgot. The ‘drunken college coed’ look from last night. Nope, not that. This!”

She pointed at her fingernails, every one a different color with small symbols Lee couldn’t read in the bright sunlight.

“A new invention of yours?”

“Yeppers. I saw all this wasted real estate on my hands and decided to turn my nails into sensor displays. Now, I can spend less time looking at the computer screen and more time out here, watching that white-tailed hawk, in nature, getting a suntan.”

Lee raised his head to get a better view of the sky. A large shadow moved through the bare tree limbs. “Do you think the hawk is chasing the vulture?”

“Maybe. Aren’t you going to ask me about my nails?”

“Sure. What do they do?”

Guinevere explained the wireless radio technology embedded in the nails, tuned to the frequencies of the supercomputer sensors in the third subbasement of their wooded hideaway which appeared to be a decaying old house in an abandoned suburban lot.

“When did you find time to do this?”

“Oh, why sleep when there’s so much to do!”

Lee yawned. “At your age, yes. At my age, young people like you realise my dreams for me.”

Guinevere reached out her arms. “But you can create a new dance form with me without even thinking!”

Lee pulled Guinevere into a waltz frame and danced across the creaking platform, a gust of wind blowing Guinevere’s walnut-brown hair hard enough to undo the scrunchies forming the ponytail/pigtail dichotomous duo, her locks flowing in the air like sea grass in a storm.

They bobbed up and down, combining the steps of Balboa with the silent beats of a Viennese waltz.

She laughed and he grinned, their thoughts tuned to the same idea that they were tracing the lines of Gustav Klimt’s painting, The Tree of Life.

A few last brown leaves of a pin oak joined them in their dance, the leaves falling and lifting in the wind.

One of Guinevere’s nails beeped, cutting off the silent refrain of a the waltz.

Lee stared at the nail attached to the hand on his shoulder. “What does that mean?”

“We have a new formula.”

“We do?”

They both smiled.

For years, Guinevere and Lee had separately been working on the next evolution in the field of space exploration, a being wholly human but genderless, able to work long hours and perhaps decades of outer space travel without the conflicting emotional/hormonal effects of sexual orientation.

During a discussion at Guinevere’s last birthday party, she and he accidentally revealed to each other their secret research.

In the months that followed, they used the cover of dancing lessons to combine their data and see where holes in their theories had prevented significant progress.

“Is it time to celebrate?”

She nodded. “I’m pretty sure it is. Shall we go inside and see what we’ve got?”

Lee watched a squirrel scurry down a hickory tree.

He had stashed away a bottle of Prohibition whiskey for an occasion like this, his winter of discontent over, ready for the next phase in his grand plans.

How many days left? Thirteen thousand plus?

He sprinkled cayenne pepper powder into the birdseed feeder on the deck and turned toward the dusty front door with faded brass knocker.

“Yes, let’s do. Besides, you may get a good suntan but I tend to burn.”