Fiction: Home Again

It had taken a long time to get out of the jungle, and there had been many others that were just as lost.

Gradually, they found their way to the city; the ones they sought had gone, and the sense was that they had gone home. So the lost ones stowed away on the few remaining naval vessels in the area, gaining passage to the United States.

A lucky handful were repatriated in Hawaii, but most had to go on to the mainland. Once there, the search was hardly begun. The country spread out before them vast and broad and well populated. There were barely remembered place names; geography was not their strength. Still, it was better than no clue at all, and they set out singly or in pairs or groups to find their individual homes.

After years of looking, one grew increasingly eager, sensing that the search was about to end. Something about this small Ohio town felt familiar.

And – yes! Here was the house. And inside, the man dreamed.

Watch that hut, Pete. I think I saw movement over there.”

Pete grunted his acknowledgment.

Let’s move in a little closer, guys,” the lieutenant said, and the little knot of men approached the hut.

A young boy, perhaps eight years old, ran from the dark opening. He clutched a pistol and fired it blindly as he raced past the American soldiers. His shots went well over their heads, and a couple of the men chuckled at the child’s audacity even as they put their rifles to their shoulders.

I got this one,” Pete said. He extended the nozzle of his M9A1-7 flamethrower and pulled the trigger.

The boy could not outrace the blaze arcing through the air. He went down screaming, writhing. Pete gave him another shot of liquid fire and the boy lay still and was consumed.

It’s not enough to shoot the gun, kid,” Pete said. “Ya gotta hit the target.”

Pete’s wandering conscience sank deeply into him, and Pete awoke screaming.

He had willfully, callously burned a child to death. And because he had evicted his conscience, it had never mattered to him.

Now his conscience was home and happy and hard at work, and Pete’s anguished screams woke many on his block that night.

Pen to Paper: Banned Books Week 2011

To commemorate Banned Books Week 2011, the present board of the Charlton (MA) Public Library voted to override an earlier board and shelve a particular version of Eve’s Diary by Mark Twain. The seductive line drawings were apparently too much for one library board member to cope with back in 1906. As usual, Twain gets the last laugh.

But the censors are still out in force: since 1982, some 11,000 books have been challenged.

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Fiction: Rowboat

Judd glanced up from the ground he was plowing and saw movement on the river. He let go of the horse’s traces and trudged down to the riverbank.

He glared as an empty rowboat glided smoothly down the middle of the river. For a moment, he thought about letting it go on by, but he grudgingly doffed his boots and swam out to catch the boat and guide it onto dry land.

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Pen to Paper: We Will Be Replaced, Too

As previously noted, it’s getting harder to find and hold onto a decent job. And awfully few of the alleged job creators – the ones the Republicans say we can’t tax because they need that money to create jobs – are creating jobs.

I had held out hope that those of us who put one word after another to create meaning might be spared the ax. Oh, sure, newspapers have been shedding jobs for almost a decade; I’ve known that since I lost my newspaper job in 2003. Under the right circumstances, though, those jobs could come back.

Or not. Not when advances like this are being made in the field of artificial intelligence. Read it first, then continue here.

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Fiction: The Hope Chest

“You have hope chests at this sale, is that correct?” Eloise asked.

“Oh, yes,” the auctioneer’s assistant said. “Right over there. We’ll probably get to them in about twenty minutes.”

“Thank you.” Eloise walked in the direction the man had pointed. She gave each chest only a quick once-over; the one she hoped to find was distinctive.

Eloise tried to tamp down the constant flare of anger she felt toward her late sister’s daughter and that rogue she was married to. After Marnie’s death, Junie – doubtless prodded by Fred – sold her mother’s hope chest at a yard sale. Fred had conned the buyer into thinking the chest was a valuable antique that the family ever so hated to let go, but you knew how it was.

Antique it may have been, but its value was primarily sentimental.

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