Papagni Pages

Tag: fiction

  • He Saw Me

    (fiction with a touch of realness)

    ​Turning 60 was a mind fuck, but not because I was older. It wasn’t the aches and pains that were my new constant companions. It wasn’t family, they were as aloof as they’d always been. Friendships had benefited from longevity and a shared history, and for that I was grateful. It was the reality of being a single gay man in a world where older single gay men primarily want to be with pretty young things; arm candy they can parade through high end restaurants. I knew this when I decided to go to a gay club in Barcelona when I was visiting there last month. I knew that I wasn’t 25 anymore, my hair was growing, but on the wrong parts of my body. I still loved music and dancing, but I was shy about the old moves that were no longer trending. I was certain I would walk into that club of 200 gay men and that I’d be completely invisible. It would almost feel as if I were shrouded in a cloak that rendered me unseen. I knew this, but the lure of possibilities was stronger than my fear of being invisible.

    I paid the cover fee and rapidly walked over to the bar. My fear was quickly realized as I stood there for what felt like light years, completely unnoticed. The young, shirtless, hot bartender approached several boys without even a glance my way. I fought the urge to flee and remained steadfast in my mission to finally get the bartender’s attention. I wondered if I should confront him or push my way ahead of some of the boys directly in front of him. I opted to go the martyr route and passively waited, rolling my eyes and sucking my teeth. He eventually saw me and asked me what I wanted. I ordered a double scotch on the rocks thinking that the opportunity may never present itself again.

    Drink in hand, I dragged my wounded ego to a corner of the club that was quieter and darker. Beating myself up came easily, hiding even easier. I sipped my scotch and scolded myself for thinking that there might be even a remote chance of meeting a stranger. I considered leaving several times, twenty times to be exact. My head was bowed, shoulders slumped, and a frown permanently plastered on my face. I was aware of these things, but since I was invisible, it didn’t matter. I took out my phone and read my emails; disgusted, pathetic, defeated. So involved in my own melancholy, I didn’t notice the man standing in front of me.

    “Do you mind if I sit down?”

    What? I asked.

    “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

    Do as you please, I said.

    He extended a hand and said his name was Carl. I looked around to see who Carl was talking to.

    He said, “And you are?”

    I’m David, I replied matter-of-factly.

    “Hi David, are you okay?”

    I was immediately defensive. Why wouldn’t I be?

    Carl was unguarded and looked into my eyes. He said, “Would you prefer to be left alone?”

    No, no, I said, you caught me off guard. I didn’t expect to speak to anyone tonight.

    We spent the next couple of hours getting to know one another. I shared some of my manic thoughts and Carl listened. He listened hard. He told me that he had similar thoughts not too long ago, but felt emboldened after fighting testicular cancer. His cancer was in remission. Realizing how uncertain life can be, he no longer cared about what others may or may not think about him. Carl was free and for a brief moment in time, so was I.

    Older man holding a drink at a crowded, brightly lit nightclub bar
    David finally gets his drink

    I’ve joined a writer’s group here in the Algarve. On my first meeting with the group, the facilitator provided a prompt for our first piece. It was an interesting process of sharing what invisibility means to each of us. We were asked to spend some time alone (in a beautiful and inspiring setting in the hills of the Algarve) writing a piece which we would later share. My group provided praise and support for the draft edition of “He Saw Me,” so I decided to clean it up and share it with you.

    State-of-Mind

    In a pretty good place actually. Still some sad moments, but I know that will be the case for some time. What do they say, “It’s the price we pay for love.”

    Some trips planned for the fall. Still considering there might be a hobby I have yet to discover. I guess we’ll see. I’m looking forward to the fall.

    “This strangely still pause between summer and autumn, greenery and gold, and the heat and rising wind that is once again readying itself to rush it all away in a climactic symphony of color and scent is—in my opinion, one of the best parts about living on earth.” — Victoria Erickson

  • Problem Child, Complicated Adult

    Stevie was never easy. When he was only three weeks old he refused to eat and had to be fed intravenously, at 24 months he decided he would no longer speak, and at 17, he packed a bag and left home without saying a word to anyone. The only reason his parents knew he was alive was his continued presence on social media. Stevie was troubled, he caused trouble for everyone around him, and he got into trouble with the law without much effort to avoid it.

    Anyone who is a parent knows that parenting is not easy; never has been, never will be. Mistakes are made and small victories are celebrated. But what to do about a deviant child; that’s a nearly impossible problem to navigate. Many give-up.

    Stevie’s mother, Lee Anne, was tired of hearing about gun violence, drug related tragedies, and the consequence of street gangs, on the news. She didn’t know exactly what Stevie was involved with, but her instincts told her it was criminal and potentially dangerous. His father Carl was less concerned. Carl was too busy with work and basketball, to be bothered. When Lee Anne tried to talk to Carl about Stevie, he tuned her out. It wasn’t that Carl didn’t care, he just didn’t have the right tools to deal with Stevie.

    It seemed at times that there was hope for their son. There was this one time when he volunteered for an animal rescue shelter. He went to the shelter after school for weeks. Stevie was focused on the animals, finding them a home and their overall happiness. But even that became a problem when he tried to prevent the shelter from euthanizing some of the older, unadopted animals. The shelter had to ban him from volunteering there; it destroyed Stevie.

    When Stevie decided he’d plan and execute a break-in at the Brooklyn Federal courthouse, he knew it would eventually land him in prison. His moral compass prevented that eventuality from deterring him. He knew in his heart that he wasn’t a hero, that he could never take the moral high ground, but there were things that truly got under his skin.

    Stevie was watching the news one day while hiding from the world. He’d seen where this federal judge was deliberately misleading the jury in a tax evasion case. It was really getting under his skin because the defense lawyer, who was court appointed, was ignoring or not calling attention to the judge’s obvious obstruction of justice. The prosecutors were often tongue tied and bewildered. Something had to be done.

    Of course Stevie knew that breaking into Judge Lindell’s chambers wasn’t the smartest thing to do. He’d done similar deeds in the past and hadn’t gotten caught, making him feel emboldened. The problem being, that the more he got away with, the more righteous he became. Stevie convinced himself he could do this, so stopping him would have been impossible. A above the law, assisting the law.

    Friday afternoon at 5:45 p.m. when the courts were set to close, Stevie put his plan into action. He walked into the security area carrying an Uber Eats bag. He knew security would be lax so close to weekend recess. He also knew that they probably wouldn’t bother to check with the clerk; he’d witnessed several late deliveries that went unchecked on days he was observing. He wore a very convincing wig, eyeglasses, and a baseball cap. He looked like every other male delivery person. He scribbled a signature and he was quickly ushered in. He silently laughed about how easy it was to enter the halls of justice.

    Judge Lindell’s secretary was not at her desk, her computer had been shut down. He opened the Judge’s Chambers knowing for certain that the judge had already left for the day. Security was aware of the back door exits. He was hoping the old school judge kept paper files; he wanted to take what he needed and head for home. A pile of folders on Judge Lindell’s desk were neat and in alphabetical order; his secretary was clearly tidy. There it was, Kenneth Jackson’s file right in the middle of the pile. He quickly sorted through the file and noticed ten pages clipped together, marked “omit for trial.” He was disgusted by the judge’s blatant breaking of the law. Stevie photographed the pages and closed the file. Not being able to help himself, he attached a post-it note, reading, “Your honor is cooked!”

    Stevie could barely sleep a wink, he was excited to expose the corruption. He woke early and went straight to the Fedex office to send what he had found to the district attorney. He was certain that even if the DA was in on the corruption, he’d be forced to take action because the evidence was out there and would eventually be leaked to the press. A note Stevie attached to the evidence, made it clear that unless the judge’s cover-up was brought to light, there would be further consequences. The very next day, the New York Times reported on a Grand Jury that would be hearing the case against the judge. There was to be a quick indictment and a new judge appointed to the Jackson case.

    Stevie got to have four days of glory before the police came calling. He was arrested on two counts of illegal entry to a federal office building, and eight counts of the theft of state’s evidence. Stevie’s parents were made aware of his arrest and crimes. A family attorney was hired to represent Stevie. Carl and LeeAnne were of course upset about Stevie’s actions, but they were also proud of their son. They hoped for leniency due to the nature of Stevie’s case. They assured Stevie that once released, they would help him in whatever ways they could. Now that they knew that their son was “on the right side,” their support would be unwavering.

    After pleading guilty, Stevie was given a light sentence of six months, four of which he had already served while awaiting judgment. The mayor of New York was made aware of the case and decided to put Stevie in charge of a corruption task force. That office went on to bring hundreds of cases to trial, with equal numbers of individuals exposed and brought to justice.

    Carl and LeeAnne Page, who never gave up on their son Stevie, created a foundation designed to help young people who may be morally and ethically inclined to justice, direct their energy in a way that would help them change the world.

    Young man wearing headphones sitting on a train, looking out a window with raindrops and countryside view.

    This piece is fiction

    State-of-Mind

    First, thank you to everyone who reached out to me after losing Paco. There have been some really bad days and some upbeat moments. Those of you who have lost a pet will understand.

    I’m not so fond of extreme heat. I feel fortunate to live in the Algarve where we often have a nice breeze off of the Atlantic ocean.

    Loss can help you put things in perspective. I feel like I’m finally beginning to focus on the things that matter.

    I am admittedly hyper focused on managing different aspects of my life. If something is broken, I work hard to figure out a way to fix it. One of the many things coming up for me as I grieve Paco’s loss, is that he had a medical issue and I could not fix it. I was frustrated, angry, and l lived with the inability to correct a problem I was certain could be eventually solved. Aside from the infection Paco was living with, he was fairly healthy. I was hellbent on killing that bacteria. In the end I failed. That failure has been more difficult to cope with than I imagined. How is it that the medical world has allowed many antibiotics to become ineffective? Do people realize that there are strains of bacteria that are killing us? I don’t think humankind understands the weight and scope of this problem.

    I know my writing is weak on this one. I haven’t gotten to a positive, creative place. Time and patience.

    “Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes… and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.” — Jamie Anderson

  • Night Sweats, Memory Loss & Sterility

    She sits by herself, trying as hard as she can to blend in with the locals. This isn’t the first time she’s escaped her home town; running from demons and ex-lovers. Samantha or Sammy as her friends call her, is often filled with remorse. She doesn’t intentionally cause harm, but when she does it, she leaves a wake of doubt about ethics. When people talk about her, and they do talk about her, it’s always a singular theme that makes her a villain; she’s intelligent, perhaps too much so.

    This time Sammy left in a hurry. She was fleeing a past no one would understand. Evan was not to blame. It’s true he was a Greek god with an ego to match his perfect jawline, but he was flawed and Sammy knew it. She’d warned him to stay away, let her move on and forget him. But Evan didn’t listen and he didn’t care; Evan had two goals: the first was to bed Sammy and the second was to hold her up like a trophy. The latter would be impossible, the former more complicated. Sammy didn’t give-in to good looks and promises; her desire for a conversation that went beyond money and small talk, made Evan seem petty. In fact so much so, that he faded into a background of discarded has-bins.

    Here she sat, alone; questioning her choices and her future, but not her mind. She knew she’d find a way out. It wasn’t the law she was running from, it was her mother. Sammy’s mother Felicia was beautiful, quiet, and dangerous. At first meeting you would never suspect how horribly driven this woman was. And Sammy always covered for her; making excuses, being her alibi, and hiding her secrets. Felicia was a brilliant surgeon. Top of her class at Johns Hopkins Medical School and one of Duke University Hospital’s leading researchers. Felicia’s singular goal was to perform as many vasectomies as possible.

    That lofty goal in and of itself wasn’t so bad, it was her desire to perform the procedure without the men knowing it. Sammy was her enabler; hiding the truth became more difficult as each procedure was performed. Choosing her victims was easy, anaesthetizing her victims was easy, performing the surgery was easy — relocating the sleeping men to their beds with no memory of the situation wasn’t so easy. Securing propofol was the difficult part; ensuring the scumbags could land in the twilight zone having no memory of how they got from the couch in Sammy’s apartment to their own bed. And the pain, what was that pain? And what brought it on?

    Felicia had an impeccable reputation — never botched a surgery; no malpractice lawsuits. Sammy knew what her mother was doing was wrong, but Felicia was convincing. Having the satisfaction of knowing these lowlife men would never sire children was incredibly satisfying for both of them.

    The fear of getting caught was a constant. Would they snip the wrong guy? Sammy didn’t like living on the edge. Barbados was only a temporary refuge. Lately, there were two men her mother had her eyes on and Sammy wasn’t certain she was right about them. There were only two character flaws Felicia regarded as criteria. The first was a man who lies, and the second was a man who wouldn’t go near a child. She relied on Sammy for information and a steady supply of unknowing victims. Perhaps it’s unfair to call them victims, patients is a better description. Patients being treated for the betterment of society. The two knew they were only making a small dent, but each contribution to a better future made it worthwhile.

    Thus far, no one had suspected Sammy. Yes, there had been phone calls about some pain and discomfort, but Sammy made it clear that one she had no idea what might have happened to their private parts, and two, she assured them that when she’d last seen them, they seemed fine. Most were too embarrassed to even say something. The men did sense that there was something off about her, making a second date improbable.

    About a year ago, one guy did contact Sammy a few weeks after their first date. He’d said he wasn’t well, explaining that this was the reason he hadn’t been in touch. Sammy told him that too much time had passed and she was no longer interested in seeing him. She always tried to teach them a lesson, as she let them down.

    It wasn’t that she and her mother hated men, mind you; they felt strongly that bringing children into the world is a privilege that should only be extended to those deserving of such.

    A week in Barbados helped Sammy clear her head. She decided to tell her mother that their mission was becoming too dangerous; therefore, it needed to stop. Felicia would, at the very least, be disappointed.

    After flying home to North Carolina, Sammy asked her mother to come and see her at her apartment. Felicia agreed to stop by the following day. Sammy felt resolute about her decision. She hoped her mother would be agreeable. To her surprise, Felicia was angry and argumentative. She threatened to find someone else who would help her. Felicia shared that she was hoping to train other women and surgeons to further the cause. She left Sammy in tears; not saying goodbye and slamming the door.

    Sammy decided to allow a few days to pass before she contacted her mother. Unfortunately for the two of them, the law made the decision for them. Their last patient woke up remembering being dragged by the two women. He went to his doctor and explained the pain he was feeling in his groin area and learned that he had undergone a vasectomy without his consent or knowledge. He contacted the police and the police leaked it to the media.

    Most lauded the two women as heroes. It is estimated that mother and daughter had performed 36 vasectomies in Raleigh and several others in neighboring cities. Felicia lost her medical license. Although they are awaiting trial, few expect them to serve jail time; after all, most of the men did not wish to press charges and nobody died.

    Fiction folks, fiction. The photo is as far as I’ll go with AI.

    State of Mind

    The Supreme Court ruling on Trump’s tariffs provided some hope this past week. It seems like all we have are these small victories for now.

    Paco is finally doing well. There are no signs of the bacterial infection and he is finally off of the antibiotics. This has been an 11 month battle I’m hoping never to fight again.


    The beautiful spring came; and when Nature resumes her loveliness, the human soul is apt to revive also.

    Harriet Ann Jacobs

    I hope you like the new design; change is good.

  • Redemption From Beyond III

    Last Chapter of a Three Part Novella

    It was no longer about what Steven had asked of him, it was much bigger than that. Jake was more driven, less concerned with what others thought of him. He was beginning to feel more alive, more empathetic, more like himself. He noticed his interaction with others was becoming fluid and genuine. What had brought this about he’d wondered.

    When he left Esther’s house, he was feeling euphoric. The look on the old woman’s face was imprinted in his memory. In the car, on the way back to Berlin, he called Eric at Arolsen to let him know what happened in Rüdesheim. He felt that he could trust Eric at this point and share everything, but before he could tell Eric the details of what took place, Eric asked him to meet him for dinner.

    “Jake, this is exciting news, can you tell me all about it over dinner tonight?”

    Jake was pleased to be able to ask Eric for another favor in person. He could probably do some research on Rachel’s child himself, but Eric had been such a big help and he seemed eager to do whatever he could for Jake. Jake was grateful for Eric’s invitation. He thought to himself, what a great guy that Eric is.

    They met at a very nice Thai restaurant close to Jake’s hotel. Eric was probably the most soft spoken man that Jake had ever met. He realized only moments after Eric arrived, that he was both nervous and excited; feelings about another man he had not had for a very long time. And then Eric said this:

    “Jake, I hope you don’t mind my inviting you to dinner. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we last met. I’m usually not this forward, but then, I’m usually not this smitten.”

    Jake felt himself blushing. He did not hesitate to let Eric know that the feeling was mutual. He proceeded to fill in the Esther Roseman story with more detail. He watched Eric’s smile grow broader with every word — together they shared a moment of absolute satisfaction.

    Eric knew this dinner was not just to spend time with Jake, although he was happy to do just that. He asked Jake what it was he wanted to speak to him about.

    “I was able to find out that Rachel Schwartz was moved to one of the other camps, but also that she was pregnant when she left Auschwitz . I know this won’t be easy, but I was hoping you could help me find out if her child is still alive. Also, if he or she is living, where they currently reside. I’d like to find the rightful owner of Rachel’s ring.”

    There was no question in Eric’s mind that although he’d need to do quite a bit of digging, he’d eventually find one of Rachel’s relatives. The rest of the evening would be all about getting to know one another, indeed they did just that.

    Eric dove into the files the very next day. There were so many Rachel Schwartz’s listed in the database, but he had an approximate age, her pregnancy, and hopefully a record of her having given birth. He combed over the files from each camp for hours. Finally it was at Bergen-Belsen in Northern Germany where he finally got somewhere. Rachel Schwartz was recorded as deceased, however, she left behind a baby boy named Ian, with the same last name. Unfortunately, Ian’s whereabouts were unrecorded. Hmm, another common Jewish name, but he had an approximate age and a possible location. Ian was hopefully still in Bergen-Belsen when the war ended.

    Eric discovered that anyone who remained alive at Bergen-Belsen, was put on a train to be processed in Berlin. He’d go through those records in the morning. He phoned Jake to let him know that he had made some progress, but that Jake shouldn’t get his hopes up. Jake was happy to hear Eric’s voice; this time it was Jake who asked Eric to dinner. Eric happily accepted. The two were enjoying getting to know one another.

    When he got back to his hotel, Jake called his friend Ashley in New York and told her he’d met someone in Germany. Ashley could only say,

    “Well it’s about fucking time.”

    Dinner was even better than the night before. Jake surprised himself by not thinking about little things that bothered him. By now there were usually red flags and petty considerations; Jake had a huge crush. Eric didn’t want Jake to leave Berlin, but he also knew it wouldn’t be fair to prolong the inevitable.

    The next morning he sat down with his laptop and found Rachel’s son — Ian Schwartz was living in Vienna. Ian was in his early seventies, director of the Holocaust Museum Vienna, and he was married to Isabel. Eric went straight to Jake’s hotel and called him from the lobby. Jake could tell Eric had good news from the sound of his voice. They had coffee and the hotel’s café and Eric shared what he’d learned.

    Jake jumped up to hug Eric; Steven’s task was nearly complete. The two sat with one another in silence. Hope and adoration filled the air around them.

    “Eric come with me to Vienna to meet Ian. We need to do this together.”

    “Are you kidding, I would have gone whether you’d asked me or not, but you’ve made it easier.”

    They arrived on a Friday afternoon. The next few days were some of the best days of Jake’s life. They stayed in a very sweet boutique hotel across from the Holocaust Museum. Eric knew and loved Vienna; showing it off to Jake was a pleasure for him. They were having a wonderful weekend while waiting for the museum to open. They weren’t certain Ian Schwartz would be at work on Monday, but at that point Ian didn’t know about Steven and the stolen ring, a few more days before he’d learn of the found ring wouldn’t make a difference.

    When Monday morning came, they had a quiet breakfast at the hotel. They had more time at the hotel than seeing the sites and they were both okay with that. At 9:30 a.m. they crossed the street to the museum. They both realized they were a nervous wreck; Eric even more so than Jake. The Museum staff led them to Ian’s office where they waited to see him. They had informed a staff member that they had urgent business and that Ian Schwartz would be interested in their news; Eric’s Arolsen Archives business card didn’t hurt.

    After five minutes with Ian, it was clear that Ian was Rachel’s son and he had survived the camps. When Jake told him about his mother’s ring, he fell silent. When he spoke, he informed Jake and Eric that he had no memory of his mother whatsoever. His life’s work had been about bringing this atrocity to light. For Ian, the ring represented his journey and how it had come full circle. For Jake and Eric to experience Ian’s joy was a true gift; an experience that would be a part of their story.

    After a few more days of exploring Vienna, Jake and Eric held each other at the airport knowing that this was the beginning of a love that would have pleased Steven; perhaps it was part of his plan.

    The Camps

    I know, it was a shmaltzy fantasy, but I’m in a good place and I wanted this story to have multiple happy endings. I also realize I speed up my stories at the end — I’m enjoying the writing, but I’m ready for the next thing. Thank you for indulging me.

    State-of-Mind

    Personal list — does not apply to all. I prefer to stay out of trouble lately.

    Ten Things I Care More About As I Get Older (not in order of importance)

    • My health and the health of the people and pets I care about
    • How I spend my time
    • My finances (can I stretch my savings/retirement allocation until my death?)
    • My safety
    • My comfort (physical, mental, and emotional)
    • The well-being of my friends & family (beyond health)
    • What I will be remembered for (but I care about this less and less each day)
    • Being more practical
    • Peace and the quality of my sleep
    • Good food & wine

    Ten Things I Care Less About

    • What others think (I stopped shaving every day)
    • Partying excessively
    • Things I have that would impress others
    • Expensive meals
    • Doing risky things that might put my life in danger (no more skydiving, hang gliding, climbing tall ladders, running across the street, recreational drugs, etc.)
    • Fancy products
    • Checking every item off off my bucket list (I destroyed mine a few years ago — self-imposed pressure)
    • The past (in terms of reliving or regretting)
    • What I could have accomplished
    • Finding the right partner

    What did I forget?

    “In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” 

  • If She Had to Choose

    Olivia’s sister Sarah was far more cunning and she knew it. Deceit ran in the family, as did out-of-control spending and jealousy. Sarah was not beautiful in the way beauty was traditionally portrayed. She was smart about her looks; highlighting her eyes, her Romanesque nose, and her numerous curves. Olivia didn’t care about any of those superficial qualities. She was bright; so bright in fact, she was always top of her class and chosen for all things requiring ingenuity. The two could easily have been rivals, instead they joined forces to insure any competition would acquiesce and demur.

    Sarah studied journalism at Barnard. She was an excellent writer, but her professors were less interested in her writing than they were her contacts; her social media persona was legendary. People were drawn to Sarah, comparing her to Olivia was difficult to avoid.

    Olivia and Sarah were Bannisters. The Bannister family was old money; old money meant less fame and more philanthropy. Neither sister cared much for giving; besides the family money had been nearly depleted two generations ago. Olivia and Sarah were interested in new money; enough of it to put them in the one percent bracket and guarantee their comfort. Early on the sisters agreed not to marry; their accumulated wealth was not to be shared with anyone else. They believed that men had a habit of foiling plans and complicating matters.

    Early on, Olivia and Sarah found progress easily. Olivia’s steady focus and Sarah’s magnetic personality, made the two unstoppable. They decided to explore Artificial Intelligence and the yet to be discovered world of technology, hoping that a small start-up would keep their daily activities under the radar and protect them from public scrutiny.

    Olivia brilliantly figured out a way to duplicate the sisters presence on-line in countries all over the globe. Using one prototype, they could do business in all of these locations without ever leaving their homes. Languages, cultural norms, and guardrails were all AI established and secure. The beauty of their plan was anonymity and the ability to act without assistance from anyone else. It didn’t take very long for funds to start flowing in. Financial accounts were sizable, but not large enough to raise red flags. The vast number of accounts throughout the world would determine their success and clearly, they were on their way.

    Family members and friends were of course curious about their company. Although there were many secrets — secrets they all kept from one another; even between the sisters. The AI aspect of their business was fairly straight forward. The focus was to transform their clients from low self-esteem individuals to highly functioning, goal oriented influencers; influencers who would share their personal stories and do the work of bringing in clients. They called the program, Summit.

    The two lived modestly in a two-bedroom home, but traveled lavishly. Savvy, aware of consequences, fearless, they soldiered on without ever looking back. Their presence in countries all over the world was not linked back to one company as a result of their sophisticated maneuvering . The greatest danger the two faced was the unpredictability of AI intelligence. Unfortunately, neither of the sisters could possibly see what was coming.

    While Olivia was sitting at her desk in September of 2027, something strange and frightening popped up on her screen. It was Summit asking for her permission to make a company change. She noticed that her sister was not copied. Sarah was on a 24 hour flight to Singapore; on her way to secure new business in a new market.

    What she found frightening was the moral implication of the question posed; Olivia was being asked if she’d like to change Sarah’s character. The AI program was promising a more driven Sarah, a version of Sarah that would reach beyond her limitations. Olivia had never considered the possibility of making her sister a better business partner. She spent the better part of that morning considering how to proceed. Sharing Summit’s proposal with her sister was out of the question. After all, Olivia designed the AI program that has generated this solution. Clearly Sarah’s limited acumen would prevent further success and that was not an option. Olivia decided to sleep on it.

    She woke to an encrypted message from her sister that helped her make her decision. Sarah reported that she didn’t think they’d be able to do business in Singapore because of government regulations and policies. She knew at that point that she’d have to allow Summit to do what was necessary. She wrote to Sarah and asked her to log into the program. Olivia told her that there was a glitch that needed to be corrected. Sarah trusted her sister and did what she was asked to do. By noon that same day Sarah was forever altered by Summit. There would be no further obstacles, there would be no fear of failure.

    Six months passed without incident. Three new overseas markets were started and the money was rolling in. Sarah was unstoppable. Olivia had no regrets, adding this secret to a long list she held close. Summit was a tremendous success; Olivia reaped the financial and self-congratulatory rewards and Sarah showed no signs of slowing down. The rabbit hole they were about to fall into could only be described as inevitable.

    Olivia awoke from a disturbing dream. She normally paid little to no attention to her dreams, but this one was vivid and plausible. She reached for her laptop finding it had already been powered up. She shrugged it off and cleared away the annoying overseas updates that had become predictable. A message appeared on her screen in large bold type:

    GOOD MORNING OLIVIA. THERE ARE ONLY TWO TASKS YOU MUST COMPLETE TODAY. FIRST, YOU MUST CLEAR YOUR CALENDAR. SECOND, YOU NEED TO INFORM YOUR FAMILY AND FRIENDS THAT YOU AND SARAH WILL BE LEAVING THE COUNTRY FOR A FEW WEEKS. SARAH IS RECEIVING THE SAME INSTRUCTIONS. SUMMIT IS NOW IN CONTROL. ANY ATTEMPT TO THWART OUR OPERATIONS WILL BE MET WITH RESISTANCE BEYOND COMPREHENSION. THANK YOU FOR CREATING SUCH A FINE INSTRUMENT; MANY LIVES ARE ABOUT TO BE ENHANCED.

    Olivia realized it was not a dream, but reality.

    AI generated image

    Upon completion I requested AI feedback and received the following in three seconds:

    The narrative combines elements of intrigue and moral complexity effectively, particularly with the evolving dynamics between the sisters and the AI. Here are some suggestions for improvement:

    1. **Character Development**: Provide more depth to Olivia’s internal conflict regarding the use of AI. Her moral considerations could be further explored to enhance reader engagement.

    2. **Pacing**: The transition between the sisters’ initial ambitions and the AI’s control could be more gradual. Consider adding scenes that build tension to maintain interest throughout.

    3. **Clarity on AI Implications**: Clarify the nature of the changes Summit proposes and their potential consequences. This could deepen the reader’s understanding of the ethical dilemma presented.

    4. **Emotional Resonance**: Integrate more of the sisters’ emotional responses to their circumstances and decisions, especially after significant events, to forge a stronger connection with the audience.

    5. **Themes and Messages**: Consider weaving in broader themes about technology, morality, and ambition. This could enhance the richness of the narrative and provoke reflection.

    6. **Concluding Reflection**: The ending could be fortified with a contemplation on the implications of the sisters’ choices, emphasizing the overarching message about ambition and ethical boundaries.

    These changes may not only strengthen the narrative but also elevate the reader’s experience and emotional investment in the story.

    _______________________________________________________

    I can’t say AI is wrong, but I’m not prepared to make changes today. My short stories end when I lose interest.

    State-of-Mind

    I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions (for me), but I do think change is an excellent tool for kick starting a fresh perspective. We’re only a few days into the new year and I have purchased a new phone with all sorts of bells and whistles, I have emotionally stepped away from a couple of toxic relationships, I have made some decisions about the value of my time and how I intend to spend it, and I have decided that paying a few more euros for the things that give me pleasure, are more than worth the investment. A common theme throughout these changes is “me,” I’m taking care of myself.

    “Love yourself enough to set boundaries. Your time and energy are precious. You get to choose how you use it. You teach people how to treat you by deciding what you will and won’t accept.” —Anna Taylor

  • Cheater & Enemy

    If she’d cheated with my best friend, at least I could say she had good taste. No, it had to be someone I despise. I almost feel as if he’s done this to spite me; perhaps he did. This guy, this limp dick schmuck, this nobody, this Paul Dunn guy. Paul is a dentist and a horrible baseball player. The thing about Paul is, he has a dirty little secret I have known for a long time. The question is when and how would be the best time to reveal it and to whom.

    My wife Beth was once a beautiful woman. If I am to be honest, she might still be beautiful, but I’m not the best judge. The problem is the lens I currently see her through, dirty and distorted. I want to love Beth and I want Beth to love me, but I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. Besides, she’s a woman.

    It’s not easy to admit this, but I am nothing to look at. Weak jaw, skinny legs, sausage fingers, and dusty dark hair that can be best described as mustardy brown. I think I might be justifying why Beth stepped outside of our marriage, that’s if you could call it a marriage. So maybe this isn’t so much about Paul, perhaps it’s my fragile ego. Either way, I can hardly let it go.

    What do I do about that scumbag Paul? I know what I’d like to do, but I’d rather not go to prison for mutilating the jerk. The truth is I am aware of something that would destroy his dental practice; perhaps even his life. Paul and I went to high school together back in the 70s. We both played on our high school baseball team. As I mentioned earlier, he was not very good. His father would come to the games and coach him on the sidelines, but Paul was awkward and he didn’t pay attention to the ball or the other players. As a result, he was ostracized by the team.

    After practice, Paul would take his bike into the woods. I often wondered what he did when he was away from the rest of us, so one day, I followed him. About a mile outside of town, he ditched his bike off to the side of a back road. I wasn’t sure what he was up to, but I was curious. There was an old abandoned barn deep in a wooded area. I watched him go inside. Not long after he entered the barn, I heard a loud thump, some groaning, and then he ran outside. I could tell he was headed for his bike, so I went into the barn to check it out. As soon as I stepped inside I knew what Paul had done. I saw an old man face down in a pool of blood; his head smashed in. I was certain the man was dead. Too afraid to touch him, I left the barn and headed home.

    It wasn’t until weeks later that the man was discovered. Some of the kids from a neighboring town found his decaying body while exploring the barn. The old man was apparently a homeless vagrant who nobody had reported missing. I’m not sure why I kept quiet back then. It was exciting to know something no one else knew; rare in rural South Carolina.

    News of the old man’s death died down and I pretty much forgot about what I’d witnessed that day in the woods. I knew going to the police twenty something years after the crime would make me an accessory. There had to be a way to reveal what Paul had done without drawing attention to myself.

    Should I tell Beth what I know? Should I use scare tactics on Paul? Should I keep my mouth shut and walk away from a failed marriage? I could continue on as if I know nothing of the affair and let things just play out on their own. Maybe they’ll grow tired of one another.

    Beth has a secret as well. I think she knows I fantasize about being with men. I should find a way to have her accidentally discover some nude photos of Paul in my desk drawer.

    Don’t mind me having more fun with AI

    Come on, don’t be afraid of spam mail. Type in your email address for a drop in your inbox whenever a new story is published.

    Expats renewing your passport by mail

    Two tips: 1) there are old websites with a check as a form of payment — no longer an option, all payments are to be made electronically and 2) it’s probably wise to pay the extra fee to expedite the process (unless of course you do not plan to travel for a while).

    I have to make a trip to the American Embassy in Lisbon to pick up my old, not yet outdated, passport. Apparently, even though it’s within the EU, the airlines require a passport to fly from Faro to Poland. Oh well, another overnight trip to Lisbon — could have been worse, my passport could have been in the U.S. Glass half-full Papagni!

  • Acres of Dreams and Lies

    I never thought much about life after the office . . . after loyalty and denial . . . after years of deception. We didn’t ruin any lives, but we sure did wreak havoc for quite a few. I wasn’t aware of it from the start. It was good money and decent hours. Rena seemed harmless enough when I met her at Fred’s dinner party. An ambitious, educated woman who started a legitimate business. That’s all I thought I needed to know. It doesn’t matter because it’s over now, Rena’s headed for prison and I’m on my way to Costa Rica to start a new life.

    I worked for Rena for thirty years. She was a bulldozer with little patience for cowards and naysayers. An icon in the real estate industry and I had an interest in dabbling. I’m not sure why she chose me. I guess she figured I’d stay out of her way and out of the limelight. Who knew one day my photo would be all over social media.

    The night of that fateful dinner party was like many others at my friend Christie’s apartment. She was known for bringing like-minded people together. I had mentioned my interest in real estate to her at some point, so seating me next to the famous Rena Borne was not a big surprise. I had heard of Rena, but I was at a low point in my life, therefore, zero interest in talking to anyone about anything. Looking back, I’m pretty sure Rena would have talked the ear off of a carcass.

    I remember Rena asking me what I do. I thought about making something up, but I thought I might get found out, so I told her the truth.

    “I work in the city morgue.”

    “Doing what?”

    “I prepare bodies for the refrigerated units, where they stay until they’re either claimed or taken to the city’s cemetery.”

    “And I thought real estate was depressing.”

    It went on like this for a bit and then she asked me if I liked my job. It’s a question I was quite use to being asked, but for some reason I said the following:

    “If I tell you that I hate it will you offer me a job?”

    And she did. She said that if I was willing to do grunt work, she’d sponsor me for real estate school. I could work in the office while I pursued my license. For the first time in a long time, I perked up. It would have been stupid to refuse, so I agreed to meet her at her office the following Monday.

    Twenty years later, I’m kissing real estate and my old life goodbye. There are a few things I have to admit right up front. Early on I allowed Rena to charm me. She’d take me out to fancy restaurants. She’d massage my ego and make intriguing promises. And she’d write me big bonus checks at times when I didn’t think I’d earned the money. She often treated me better than her own family members. I was young, hungry, and damaged.

    So what did I know about her business tactics? In the beginning I was completely in the dark. After a few months I became the office manager. I studied for my license, passed the test, and I listened and learned. Rena was slow to let me in on the workings of the business. I basically set up meetings, kept files in order, and got her coffee. She kept her door closed and her business private. She was married to her work, childless, and she kept long hours. She asked little of her staff and even less from me.

    Me being me, I was curious from the start. I paid attention to office chatter and I read the fine print. Rena’s success almost seemed accidental. Yes she was charming and intelligent, but I suspected she was making a whole lot of money on the down low. It wasn’t so much her lifestyle, it was just a gut feeling. I wondered why she wasn’t flaunting her success; why she kept so few brokers, and why she did most of her own administrative work. She’d occasionally say something like,

    “No matter how much you make, the government takes most of it,” or “At the end of the day, everything is suspicious.”

    It took a few years before I started realizing the secret meetings and business trips were adding up to something illicit. I dared not ask her about it, knowing she’d just let me go like all the rest who ended up packing up their cubicles; expendable casualties all. I liked the money and the flexible hours. She never let me work on deals larger than half a million dollars, but I didn’t mind as long as good money was coming in.

    About fifteen years into my tenure, things started changing, big things. First it was a couple of lawsuits from buyers. Rena wrote it off as buyers remorse and par for the business, but it felt different. Over the next couple of years the number of lawsuits increased and our accountant hanged himself. Rena said he was clinically depressed. What did I know, Rena discouraged socializing in and out of the office, my co-workers were strangers.

    I left the office a bit earlier than usual one day, stopping at a café for a coffee on my way home. I was approached by two gentlemen while I waited in line. They told me they were FBI, flashed their badges, and asked me if I had time to talk. I didn’t feel like there were options.

    Over the next two hours I learned more than I imagined could be true. I knew Rena’s deals were probably not 100% legal, but I didn’t own the business and she kept me out of her affairs. The agents informed me that they knew I wasn’t directly involved, however, because I worked for Rena, I was complicit.

    Rena was buying up swamp land, filling it with landfill, and doing it all under the radar. More than likely gifting, dining, and paying off politicians. It took a good ten years for numerous houses to be swallowed up by sinkholes and for sewer systems to implode. That was the tip of the iceberg. The FBI promised to go easy on me if I cooperated. I had mixed feelings, Rena’s bonuses had made me a very comfortable man, but all of those people who’d lost their only asset left me with a sick feeling. I had to cooperate, keeping in mind that Costa Rica is a new start I could live with. We all know how powerful denial can be.

    Stories are fictional unless otherwise noted.

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    I was never crazy about August (except for when I lived in Maine): too hot, insanity at the airports, and most of my friends leave me. Alas, autumn is almost here: darkness comes earlier, chilly nights, and cool enough to be in the kitchen cooking.

    I’ve had a couple of people tell me that they preferred when my blogs were non-fiction. I’m sorry for that, however, I’m enjoying this type of writing and at this time in my life . . .

    “The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.”
    ― George Carlin

  • Secrets & Lies

    I pushed the tiny box as far back into my dresser drawer as I could. It wasn’t so much that I was hiding it, as that I preferred not to see it. I have this terrible habit of keeping things out of sight. If I can’t see it or nobody else knows about it, it never happened; at least that’s what I tell myself.

    A year ago, I was hiking in the Adirondacks on a crisp, cloud covered morning. It was late November and frosty mornings were the norm. You know, the kind of morning when you don’t want to get out of bed or take off your pajamas. It was early; very early. I keep this little notebook where I tell myself what I’ll do and how I’ll do it and who I’ll do it with; way too many imperatives. I planned that I’d go for a hike on that particular morning. The sun was just coming up behind the clouds, a breeze rustled the trees, and my hiking boots were one size too small. I wish I could say I was enjoying the hike when I happened upon it.

    It’s still difficult for me to name it. It was sitting beside a fallen tree, covered in dirt and some other grimson colored goop. I crouched down and looked at it more closely. At first I was certain my eyes were playing tricks on me. I stood up, shook my head and started to walk away. They say you can’t unsee something once you’ve seen it. I stopped and looked back, hoping I’d look again and see a rock or a flower; anything other than what I thought I’d seen.

    Human curiosity can produce an awfully foreboding feeling. I wanted to just keep going and let somebody else deal with it, but no, not that day. I walked back and looked down, focusing more closely on it this time. Yup, no denying it, what I was seeing was a blood covered human ear. It looked as if it had been chewed or torn off its owner’s head. All sorts of possibilities went through my mind as I looked around; a bear, a jealous lover, a prank? I hoped it was a prank; part of a costume.

    I looked for a napkin or a piece of scrap paper, but I had nothing on me. I took off one of my socks, picked the ear up by its lobe and dropped it into my sock. Why did I do this? If I could tell you I would. I carried it out of the woods like it was contaminated.

    When I got home, I thought about calling the police. The thought left my mind quickly; they’d ask all sorts of questions and I didn’t have the time or patience. So I put it in a box and tucked it away.

    By the time dinner came, I’d pretty much forgotten about the ear in the box. After dinner I turned on the local news, poured myself a brandy and finally took a breath. Five minutes in, they announced that a hiker reported finding a thumb about a half mile from where I’d found the ear.

    So now I’m concerned. An ear, a thumb, what’s next, a leg? I get really fidgety and I start pacing? What if somebody out there is hurt badly and they’re bleeding to death because I failed to call the police? What if it’s someone I know. I was certain that I waited too long. If I called the police now, they’d question me about why I waited and if there was a crime, I could be considered a suspect or an accomplice. I went to bed on pins and needles, riddled with guilt.

    After a restless night, I tuned on the news first thing in the morning. The local news reported that the person whose thumb was cut off, was located and they were able to sew his thumb back on. They were being very cagey about the circumstances, but from what I could gather, it had been foul play. Okay, so he’s alive, that’s good. But I had his fucking ear sitting in a box in my dresser. Shit, shit, shit.

    Hours slowly crept by, thoughts of possible cameras in the woods, someone having seen me getting into my car; I was distraught. Having seen countless hours of Law & Order and having read way too many crime novels, I was certain I was fucked and headed for prison. Every minute that went by made it more impossible for me to go to the police, ear in hand, engulfed in shame and remorse.

    A couple of days passed and the news networks were still not revealing the name of the individual that lost his appendages. On one hand I was relieved that he was alive, but the guilt I felt was all consuming. I’d thought about returning the ear to the woods, but my fear of being seen kept me from following through. I couldn’t tell anyone about my situation, knowing I’d be chided for my bad judgment.

    Weeks turned into months as I finally let go of the dread. I hadn’t killed anyone for Christ’s sake. I knew by then that no one had seen me and that my secret would remain a secret. The only person I lied to was myself and I guess I’d have to live with that. I stayed away from the hiking path; out of sight, out of mind.

    Months later I was walking out of my house and noticed a moving truck parked on the curb. I knew the house had been sold and that I’d soon have new neighbors. I went to work hoping that they’d be nice people. I thought I might go over to say hello when I got home.

    When I pulled into my driveway that evening, my new neighbor came over to my car to greet me. He seemed friendly enough; his wife, standing by their front door, was a bit standoffish. His name was Jake and hers Suzanne. Jake told me that they would be having a barbeque in two weeks and he hoped that I would join them. I said that I certainly would be there.

    A few nights later I turned on the news. At the close of the regular broadcast there was an announcement that they would be interviewing the man who had lost his thumb and ear months before. Apparently he was ready to tell his story. I almost turned off the television; I had moved on and I wasn’t sure I wanted to see the man’s face or hear his story. After all, his left ear remained hidden in my house. My curiosity got the better of me and I waited out the commercials for the interview. I got up to get a beer out of the refrigerator and I heard the news anchor introducing the man being interviewed. When he spoke, I thought I’d heard his voice before. When I walked into the living room, my new neighbor Jake was on the screen speaking about what happened to him in the woods. I stood staring in shock. Jake explained that he was jogging that day and a man jumped out of the bushes and hit him over the head with a bat. He said that he’d blacked out and woke-up some time later and staggered out of the woods to his car. His cell phone had been stolen and he was bleeding, but he didn’t realize how bad it was. He drove himself to the hospital and learned a short time later that his thumb had been recovered.

    The interviewer talked about how fortunate Jake was that they could re-attach his thumb and then he asked Jake why he chose to remain anonymous. I kept shaking my head in disbelief. Jake said that he was fearful that the person who’d done this to him may have thought that Jake had seen his face. He was afraid the guy would want to finish him off. He further explained that the police had searched the woods for his left ear, but that there was no appeal to recover it because the surgeon explained that it was too long since the incident and they would be unable to re-attach it. Jake was calm and showed no anger toward the individual who may have found his ear and failed to report it.

    I turned off the television, sat back on the sofa; all of the guilt rushing back, except that now, the guy whose ear was in my dresser lived next door. What would I do, what could I do? Jake could obviously never know that I found his ear and failed to contact the police. I’m not sure, but I think his wife Suzanne suspects that I have it. It was the way she looked at me the day they moved in. I will of course decline the barbeque invitation — I will decline any invitation from them. My plan was to drive the ear to the lake later that day. The bottom of the lake was a safer hiding place; hopefully denial will help with the rest.

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    I’m enjoying this folks; thank you for indulging me.

    This fictional piece was written in Oslo, Norway, where I am enjoying summer rain, an occasional fire, and delicious wild Atlantic Salmon. Paco’s first flight, but by any means, not his last.