If Only...

I have a chronic illness.  For those of you who have one as well, you know that we probably wouldn't do so well without our medication.  Some of us would die.  Some wouldn't be able to function.  A few could handle it, but it would be extraordinarily difficult.

I have a student with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.  I teach him for a full hour.  It's fun, I enjoy it, but there are certainly times when it hits the upper edge of my patience.

He was recently put on a new medication, and his mother asked me to let her know if it helped.

That lesson went remarkably well.  We got a lot done, he was focused, he was attentive.  And I couldn't help but think that whatever he had taken had somehow switched my student out for someone else.

I mean, what is it exactly, that makes people decide what kind of behavior is socially acceptable, and kinds are not?  Are we just collecting enough substances to make sure everyone remains the same?  And that any sign of abnormality is brutally suppressed?

Probably not.  But this story was how I worked out the thought.

~~~

Pharmacology

The IV pulsed.  Heart rate increased, chemical signals sent through the brain, and his thumb twitched to the surface of his Attention.  He pressed twice, and opened his eyes.  Once more, and felt life roll through his body.  He shifted, reached out a hand and increased the flow of the IV.  His heart responded, and he lay back for five more minutes.

*

Water ran down his face, diluting the residue of night sweat and sleep.  The medicine cabinet and its catalogue of choices taxed his interest in the day, and he pressed the button, hitting the ceiling of his hourly proscription.

A few minutes before the reset.

*

He opened his Daily Planner; three Wit, and extra strength Professionalism, ten Motivated, thirty Sociable.  His regular mix of Amusing, Confident, and Creative.  Relaxed for lunch break.  Satisfied for the drive home.
The lid clicked shut.  He’d left out Sensitive on purpose.  He just couldn’t fit it in today.

*

A glass of water washed down the Professionalism.  He checked his watch – ten minutes till the business meeting.  A few casual taps of his Attention.  His heart was being monitored, of course, but he would need the edge.

*

Lunch break.  She was talking to him.  His Relaxed kept him bored, so he swallowed a few Sociable to compensate.

*

The conversation had been a disaster.  His Confident suppressed most of his frustration, and his Satisfied kept him focused on the business meeting – where everything had gone perfectly.

He was on the phone.  His best friend’s wife had just filed for divorce.

He hung up.  He’d call back when he got home and took a Sensitive.

*

He forgot.

*

He plugged in the IV and felt a lethargy flow through his body.

*

They shut off his vitals.  Subject Liam, version 347, had performed below expectations.  A few tests for overall health and toxicity levels revealed side effects of Professionalism and impurities in his generic brand of Sociable.

They would adjust his medication.

Abortion, Contraceptives, and Women's Health Issues

When we talk about the flu, about cancer, about heart attacks, we're usually safe with calling them health issues.  Breast cancer is a bit more specifically female - even though guys can get it too.  But when contraceptives and abortion are brought up, you suddenly find yourself in a discussion about women's health.

Women's health is important.  This isn't a story about how gynecology should be banished from the modern mind.  This is more about a particular branch of gynecology and how some people use it to justify their ideology.

*

In Good Health

“It’s good you came in when you did.”

Aiden took Sophia’s hand.  “It’s not anything serious, is it?”  They exchanged nervous glances.

The doctor smiled, politely, “Sophia, have you had unprotected sexual relations within the past three months?”

The young woman glanced at her husband, “A couple of months ago – I forgot to take my prevention supplement…”

“I thought as much,” a nod, and a few notes on her clipboard, “Even one missed dose leaves a window of vulnerability.”

Aiden shifted his weight in his chair, “What does she have?”

“When a man’s sperm makes contact with an ovum it can occasionally trigger the growth of a genetic abnormality called a fetus.”  The doctor adjusted her glasses as she took a seat at her desk.

“A fetus?”

“Yes, a parasitic organism that attaches itself the woman.  Its feeding process creates a hormonal imbalance that triggers nausea.”

Sophia had gone pale.  Aiden let go of her hand and rubbed her back.  He turned distressed eyes to the doctor, “Is it treatable?”

“In most cases.”  She was typing information into her computer, “The condition eventually results in fetal expulsion, but the chance of complications rises the more mature the parasite becomes.”  The doctor paused in her typing to give the couple a pointed look, “In rare cases, failure to remove the parasite can be fatal.”

“Is the procedure dangerous?” Sophia asked in a weak voice.

“Oh no.  Minimally invasive.  The organism is removed.  Two weeks recovery.  A short checkup, and you’re better than ever.”

The couple looked relieved, and the doctor noticed their change in attitude with a mild dissatisfaction, “This could have been avoided, of course.  A fetus is a great deal worse than most sexually transmitted diseases.  It’s nothing to take lightly.”

“Of course not!”

“No, we understand!”

The doctor nodded, and turned back to her typing.

To the Land of the Rising Sun, Part 3

Over Iron, Salt, and Sea

Jackson raced through the stalls of thin cloth and dry fruit, the 4 bore clutched awkwardly in his hands, the barrel sweeping past the passerby as it jerked with the swing of his arms.  The stalls opened into a clean swept merchant square.  He panted to a halt then stumbled to an elderly tin hawk.

“Seen a woman?”  He struggled for the breath to speak, dropping the stock of his double rifle to rest on the ground.  “Blonde, thick sweater,” he tookHe H another breath, “Glasses.”

The woman nodded, “The men with her didn’t like the edge of her tongue, I take it.”

“Like as not.”  He tried to force a smile, “Never did figure how to blunt it.”

She peered at him, “I have something you might need if you want to find her.”

He straightened.  “Oh?”

“I do,” she turned to her table, bending over laboriously, and rifled through her haphazardly arranged tools, containers, and trinkets.  “Here!”  A triumphant smile lit up her face as she held up a rusted paper cutter.  “Never safe in a brawl without a blade, young man.”

“I’m in a terrible hurry, ma’am.”

She shrugged, “I’ll not have the life of a handsome boy like you on my conscience.”

Jackson bit back a curse and grabbed some coins from his pocket, “You’re right, of course.  You’re kind to offer.”

She raised an eyebrow at the coins but nodded, “They were headed to the bunker at the foot of the island.  And be careful shooting that cannon of your’n.  They were wearing rank.”

“Dammit.  Sorry!  I mean thank you, ma’am.”

He hefted his weapon and hurried off trying, unsuccessfully, to tuck the paper cutter into his pocket without cutting himself.  The island was a slow mountain of sand, stone, and dead coral.  A few paths had been cleared to the top.  It was said that an outpost was kept at the top, the last real military installation in the ocean waste. 

She wanted to see it.  Figured.

This was worse than the Hawaii. 

He rushed through the last few shanties and into the ordered square avenues of C-huts and barbed wire.  Most were abandoned.  Not much reason to be a soldier anymore.

No pay.  Not enough food to go around.

Only a handful of bullets.

He heard gunshots, several in quick succession, and forced himself a little faster.  The bunker swerved into sight from around a corner and his boots slipped against the sand as he tried to stop.  His knee scraped against the ground, tearing the cloth before he managed to catch himself and dive awkwardly back out of sight.

He stood and took a long look at the thin metal of prefabricated aluminum his shoulder was resting on, then sighed and sprinted for the door of the bunker.  The road was quiet, and as much as he cringed, no shot rang out from behind the barred windows and narrow slots that broke the solid wall of concrete.

A kick to the door was about as effective as a knock, so he leveled his 4 bore at it and fired.  The butt of the rifle slammed again his shoulder and threw him backwards.  His head hit the ground and he blacked out.

*

Blonde hair.

“Dean?”

She glanced at him, then pulled her hair back into a messy bun, roughly pinning it with a sheathed knife before putting her hat back on.  “I’ve never seen a bigger hole blown through a door.”

He sat up, winced, and put a hand to the back of his head.  It felt wet.

“Especially when the hole was two feet away from the lock.”

He blinked.  “Oh.”

“I’ve tried to think of a man more useless with a gun than you.”

“Wonderful.”

“I had plenty of time.  Since you had knocked yourself unconscious.  By shooting a comically oversized gun incorrectly.  And missing your target at point blank range.”

“Please tell me you didn’t kill anybody.”  His eyes failed to focus on anything beyond an arm’s reach away.

“’Course not.  You told me it’d bring you trouble.”

“How many were here with you?”

“Oh, ‘bout ten.”

“Ten!”  Jackson flushed, then squinted across the room, “Where’d they go?  We should get out.  Now.”

She sniffed, “They’re still here, Dr. Door Breach.  Don’t you worry none.”

            He paled as he made out the blurry forms of men scattered about the room.  “You shot them.”

            “Only a little.”  She raised an eyebrow.  “They said I looked twelve.”

            A sigh.

            “Oh come on.”  Dean helped him to his feet, “It’s not near as bad as the Hawaii.”

            “It might well be, Ms. Constance!  You can NOT just go into a town shootin’ people and telling them what they’ll do for you.”

            “There’s only ten this time, Jackson.” She looked a little put out, “And I didn’t kill any of them.”

            “And they’re liable to be a mite upset when they wake up.”

            She smiled, “There comes a time in the life of every man –ˮ

            “Don’t even.”

            “ – when they have to start realizing which fights they’ll win, and which they’ll lose.”

            He shook his head, “You still going to that outpost?”

            “I am.”

            Jackson looked at his feet, “And after?”

            Her smile softened, “West.  As far as I can get.”

            “You don’t have to,” his hands found his pockets, “You’re already further west than most of the world.”

            She put a hand on his shoulder.  “You should get back to the train, Jackson.”

            He nodded, and she walked to the door.  “Dean!”

            The blonde gunslinger stopped and looked back.

            “You could stay with me.  We could ride the Rail together till we’re old.”  He met her eyes, “It wouldn’t be a bad life.”

            A silence.

            “It’s not for me, Jackson,” she looked at him from over the edge of her glasses, “You keep yourself safe.  When I come back I’ll want to see you again.”

She walked out and left Jackson alone.

*

To the Land of the Rising Sun, Part 2

Westbound Rail

A few coals added their grey heat to the stifle of the cab.  The windows and the open end let in a fitful breeze that cooled the sweat covering his face, neck, and arms. 

He held a leaf of kelp over the coals, waiting for the edges to curl.  The tip burnt too quickly, so he broke it off and ate it, holding the rest of the leaf a little higher.  Voices drifted from the station.  He sighed and tossed the leaf into the coals, watching it smolder before he hefted his 4 bore double barrel and stood.

His bowler went back on his head before he stepped to the edge of the cab, and leaned against the thick metal of the coal bin.

The Constance gang lined the road, some in sight, most already hidden.  Didn’t take them long.  Old man Constance and a woman were walking through the station.  He took a deep breath and reminded himself that these were good people. 

“Mr. Constance?  Another shipment to the farms?  I have some foodstuffs I can pass along to the San Franciscans.”

Neither replied until they were a few feet away from the locomotive.  The old man squinted up at him, “Still an elephant gun, eh?”

He grinned, “Biggest I could find.”

“Takes too bloody long to reload, Jackson.  Damn foolish.”

“There’s only one of me on the train, Mr. Constance.  And I’m a smallish man.  Smallish men need bigger guns than the biggish men.”

Noah sniffed, “I can get the food to town.”

“Any cargo for the farms?”

“Sheet metal, a box of bullets for Midway, batteries.  Not much else, I’m afraid.”

Jackson leaned his rifle inside the cab and looked over a clipboard.  “Have it packed in Car 3.  Lots of produce there.  You can take as much as you can carry.”

“All Frisco?”

“Sunnydale’s full up.  Oakland’s already been, tried to take Frisco’s food, too.  Said they’d drop it off on their way.”

“That’s a joke.”

Jackson nodded, “And not a very funny one.  Which just leaves Mount Free, and they don’t much like kelp.”

Noah gave a whistle and waved, turning back to the station.  A few men started grabbing bundles off packhorses.  “One more thing, Jackson.”

“Yes, Mr. Constance?”

“My daughter will be going with you.”

He blinked, “Uh.  Where to?”  He looked at the woman, her eyes studying him behind her spectacles. 

“The Salt.”  She replied, “Or as far west as the rail goes.”

“Well, that would be the Salt.  But,” he called to Noah, who was already walking away, “I don’t take passengers!”

“You’ve done it before.”  She raised an eyebrow, “This is no different..”

Jackson met her eyes, then glanced at Noah’s receding form.  Old man Constance was a dangerous man to cross.  He sighed.  “You can stay in Car 3.”

She looked amused, “You want me to bunk with the cargo?”

“Come again?”

“I’ll be staying here in the front.  I’ll be more useful than that cannon you tote around.”

Jackson blinked at his rifle, “Ma’am, I am in charge here!”

She stepped lightly past him, striding into the cab.  “A mite cramped.  How far is it to the Salt?”

“About a month.”

She nodded then turned to him and held out her hand, “I’m Dean Constance.  I’ll be taking over security for the Westbound Rail.”  She looked at him over the rim of her glasses.  Waiting.

So he shook her hand.

To the Land of the Rising Sun, Part 1

Let me know what you think!

~~~

Taking Leave

The asphalt had long since been ground to dust.  The rust of the steel mesh stained the gravel a pale red, and mile markers worn down to crooked spindles, cracked through with weeds and age.  It had taken years to clean off all the cars, many resting on rims or chassis.  It had been worth it.

Noah Constance wiped his face with handkerchief, looking over the team of ten oxen pulling the semi flatbed trailer.  A kevlar blanket was draped over each of them, thick enough to stop a single shot, but not much else.  He glanced at his daughter, her rifle slung across her back.  One shot’s warning would do.

The sun was about two-thirds through its cycle.  The cool of the day approached with a sluggish nonchalance.  They might make the White House before nightfall.  The House sent out the occasional patrol, but they didn’t have the bullets to do it frequently.  Noah had spoken to the San Franciscans, but they had their own troubles with munitions.  They sent what could be spared.

The ocean waste spread out to the west, with its small settlements and sprawling kelp farms.  He wondered what it would have looked like when there had still been water there.

“A word Noah?”

He nodded at his daughter, and she moved away.  “What is it Hollis?”

The big man wiped his hands on his sleeve, something he often did when talking to Noah.  It was difficult to tell if it improved the cleanliness of his hands or his shirt.  “Are you sure about letting her go?”

Noah’s eyes went back to his daughter.  “She’s grown, Hollis.”

Hollis shrugged, “My dogs are grown.  Don’t mean I let them bite me if the notion strikes.”

“I’ll let you explain it to her, then.”

Hollis paled, “I didn’t mean no disrespect, sir.”

“I understood what you meant.  But Dean’s still young.  Liable to the violent humours.  There’s no telling what she’d do if she heard you comparing her to a dog.”

“You won’t tell –ˮ

“Course not.  But finish what you were saying.”

“Well,” Hollis seemed less sure of himself, “She’s your daughter, is all.  She has weapons that would do us good to keep.  Weapons you’re not likely to take.”

Noah turned a frown at the man.  “She earned them, Hollis.  Makes them hers.  We’re not a bunch of outlaws that just takes what we want.”

“You’re also liable to give her more supplies than we can spare, Mr. Constance.”  Hollis kept his eyes on the ground, “This outfit’s a good one, and we all love Dean.  I don’t mean no disrespect -ˮ

“Spit it out, man.”

“The men just need some reassurance that she’s not getting no special preference.”

“Hollis, have you ever known me to have favorites?”

“No sir.”

“I’m not going to start now.  Dean bought extra supplies before we left Sunnydale.  From her own wages, Hollis.  She didn’t lend from the community pot, and didn’t ask me for help.”

“That’s right decent of her.”

“I told her we couldn’t spare a horse, and could only give her a day’s ration of water.”

Hollis blinked, “We might want to give her some more water than that, sir.  She might not reach the first settlement on that.”

“We’re taking her to the station as it’s on our way, but that’s no more than I’d do for any of you.  I’ve been runnin’ this trail for thirty years, Hollis.  You know me better than to think I’d endanger us all for just one.”  His face hardened, “I wouldn’t.  Not even for my daughter, Hollis.  Are you satisfied?”

“Yes sir.”

Noah nodded, “Get back to your work, then.”

Hollis walked back to the rear of the caravan, and Noah sighed.  He looked up at the sun, curving its way west across the ocean waste.  He wondered how close his daughter would get before she died.

Blonde, Bespectacled, and Dangerous

My first attempt at a western. Let me know what you think of the protagonist. This is a short sketch for the main character. Not quite sure if it's the right tone or not.

~~~

Dean Constance

“And that’s what happens when a girl tries to play a man’s game,” Cutter smirked, pulling the money to his side of the table.

“Oh, you’re right. When men play cards, they win every hand.” She glanced at him over the tops of her glasses, and pushed her cards to the dealer.

“Heh. Yeah we do.” Cutter crossed his arms over his chest.

Josh Garfield shook his head, “You’re an idiot, Cutter.”

“An idiot that’s been winning your money!”

“Another hand?” The dealer asked quietly.

The four nodded and the cards were moved across the table.

The brief interruption of silence ended as bets were made and cards exchanged.

Cutter swore, “What kind of hand is this?” He stood and grabbed the dealer’s shirt, “Are you settin’ the deck on me, you miserable sharp?”

“Sit down,” Josh leaned back in his chair, “Just a bad hand is all.”

“I don’t get bad hands!”

“Excuse me,” the woman knocked softly against the table with the barrel of her revolver, “I’d like to finish this game.”

Josh pushed away from the table.

Cutter blinked, “Are you threatening me?”

“Only by implication,” she smiled.

He reached for his gun, and she shot twice. Cutter stumbled away from the table, and his holster fell from his belt.

She raised an eyebrow, “Guess it’s not an implication anymore, is it?”

A step took Cutter back to the table, and he threw it onto the dealer. She shot again, and blood bloomed from a small hole in Cutter’s boot. He fell to the ground, his eyes bulging.

“This has been fun,” she handed her hat to Josh, and pinned her hair up with a small, sheathed knife. She took her hat back, and stood. “I pass through this town every few months,” she drew her revolver, and put the barrel against Cutter’s ear, “And I’ll make sure we finish this hand.” She pulled the trigger, and the man jerked away from the gunshot.

She holstered her gun and put her hat back on, hiding most of her blonde hair, and walked to the door. At the door she turned back to the silent room and touched the brim of her hat, “Evening, gentlemen.”

The door closed behind her, and Josh let out a breath. “Why the hell would you make a fuss like that, Cutter?!”

“Huh?” Cutter squinted at him, dabbing at the blood trickling out of his ear.

“You’re lucky she didn’t kill you.”

“A woman?” Cutter winced as he tried to stand, collapsing back to the ground, “Why? Who is she?”

“Dean Constance.”

The blood left the man’s face.

Josh Garfield shook his head, “You’re an idiot, Cutter.”

Mexico City

This is my take on two year marriage licenses. Enjoy!

~~~


Felicity

“It’s time David.”

He looked up the newspaper and smiled, “Of course, dear. You look beautiful, by the way.”

“You’re too sweet,” she waved a manila envelope at him, “now let’s work out our marriage like a good couple.”

*

“Salary has gone down, but so has the number of vacation days you were allowed to take.”

“I had to take a pay cut,” David looked uncomfortable, “It was that or lose my job. We’ve talked about this, Shelly.”

She nodded, “I know, babe. But we have to keep every detail fresh in our minds so that we can make an informed decision.”

“Right.”

Papers shuffled across the dining room table, “You only washed 40% of the dishes this past year. Down from 48% the year before.”

He blinked. “You were counting?”

“Weren’t you?” She raised an eyebrow. Then sighed and flipped open a top bound notebook, “It’s a little disappointing that you don’t care about the small things anymore, David.”

“I do care, honey.”

“Mmhmm,” she made a scrawling note several pages into her notebook, “We’ve been averaging less sex each week, and you haven’t been as attentive.”

“Um.”

“And you only got me two gifts for Christmas.”

“You said you liked them!”

“I did, dear. But if it’s a choice between two or three, what do you think you’d choose?”

He ran a hand over his face, “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

She sighed, “John. Makes six figures,” she met his eyes, “Three times as much as you. And he says he would get me at least five presents each Christmas.”

“This is not a big deal, Shelly! I can get you more presents!”

“It’s not about the presents, David. I can’t believe you’d make this about materialism. This is our marriage we’re talking about.”

“I know, Shelly. I’m just saying –ˮ

“Charlie,” she consulted her notes, “says he’s willing to make a contractual obligation of sex six times a week.”

“That doesn’t mean –ˮ

“He’s a masseuse, David.”

His shoulders slumped.

“It’s a tough field, babe. You won my heart, and I love you very much.” She pushed aside her notes, “But you can’t rest on your laurels. We can’t afford to be complacent.”

“I’ll try harder. I’ll do anything to make you happy.” He leaned across the table and took her hands in his, “I love you.”

She smiled, “And I love you too. But the facts are clear.” She gently pulled her hands away, “You can’t compete.”

The papers were carefully placed back into the manila envelope. She walked around the table and ran her fingers through his hair, “If things change – you can always re-apply in a couple years.”

*