The Wrathful Goddesses of Spring

Issue 76, Spring 2024

I stared out the window at fat snowflakes drifting down from low-hanging, gunmetal gray skies. It’s not supposed to snow in April.

My wife padded into my office in her PJs. She sipped from her wine glass while looking over my shoulder. “Are you still editing that same chapter?”

“I have no idea where I’m going with this story. I think it’s this lousy weather.”

“Just for the record, I’m on strike and wearing these PJs until the snow melts.”

“Based on the forecast, could be days.” I gave up on the story and went to shovel the driveway.

The next couple of weeks, April teased us with a glimmer of sun and a taste of warmth, then pissed all over it with bouts of frigid rain from dark clouds resembling the effluent of an erupting volcano.

Photo by Tali Khrab on Unsplash

Instead of awakening the earth with new growth, the month of May blew in on the tail of a nor’easter, dumping a deluge like Noah’s biblical flood. Robins fought constantly because the females were cranky and refused to build nests. The tomato seedlings I was fooled into planting mid-month swam away in the newly formed creek behind the house.

On the first night of summer, the humidity condensed on my skin as a lure for flying bloodsuckers. Static flashes danced on the horizon as if Zeus had an overabundance of lightning bolts to sling. Amphibious peepers silenced their mating ditties when tornado warnings blared on my cell phone. The neighbor’s garbage cans bounced across the backyard and scattered fodder for raccoons and feral cats on my lawn.

And I still haven’t made any progress on the fantasy I’m writing. Maybe I should write a short story to reorient the muse. But about what?

A single thunderbolt struck a tree in the woods behind our house. Seconds later, the resultant boom rattled the windowpane, and the calendar pinned to the wall dropped on my desk. A little idea went off in my head.

Roman gods and goddesses of the Julian calendar go on a tear against modern civilization. First, I decided, a little online research and a stiff martini to entice the muse. I could go with the four seasonal goddesses, but a few celestial dudes and a direct human connection would add spicier character development and conflict. Before risking a power outage, I opened a new Word document to flesh out a basic plot.

I began with Julius Caesar, the strong-willed new dictator of the Roman Empire and Jupiter’s new favorite human, convincing the god-king that a ten-month calendar beginning with March should change to twelve to match lunar cycles. Jupiter loved the idea and fired the deities who represented the four seasons: springtime’s Persephone and Floria, summer’s Aestus, autumn’s Demeter and Autumnus, and winter’s Chione.  

Janus (January), a two-headed god who symbolized seeing the past and future, took the honor of starting the new year, demoting Mars (March) from that lofty position. Janus further expanded his authority by establishing festivals of atonement and purification during the quieter, colder time of the year, naming the second-month Februalia (February), meaning to cleanse.

Mars, none too happy about his demotion, stormed off when Jupiter kept him in charge of March as the tertius banana. Mars decided to use his assigned month to build and train new armies. He was still the war god. What did you expect?

Enter the ladies of spring, beginning with Aprilis (April), which means to open. She brought spring rains to prepare the earth for new growth. A close associate of Aphrodite, April’s interpretation of to open might have had a different meaning before Jupiter reassigned her, but that’s ancient history. The month of May was given to Maia, the Roman earth and fertility goddess, to nurture spring flowers.

When Jupiter first married Juno, he bestowed upon her the title of protector, complete with a sword, shield, and a matching chariot like his. However, Juno grew rather snippy about her husband’s womanizing ways. Jupiter figured Juno needed a new hobby and gave her the month of June before she accidentally stuck a spear up his ass.

Since it was Julius Caesar’s idea, Jupiter awarded the month of July to his best human pal. The guy loved barbecuing fish, pork, shish kabab dormice, and rotisserie pigeon. People danced, swilled cheap wine, and watched Mars fire off Roman candles. Julius asked Jupiter if he’d give the following month to Julius’ adopted son and heir, Augustus. The lad was popular with the other celestials and unusually good-looking. The hottest time of the year was August, and so was Augustus. Even Juno snuck an occasional gander at the handsome, curly-haired boy. It had been a long time since Jupiter sparked any lightning for her.

Gods and goddesses griped about two puny humans usurping their shot at owning a month. Jupiter waved them all off when Julius privately suggested simply numbering the next four months until the god-king decided later. Chew on that, you celestial brats.

Fast-forward to the twenty-first century, when humanity’s climate contribution over the past century had turned the atmosphere into the equivalent of a smoky casino bar that generated its own weather, no gods required.

When the new year began, Jupiter ordered Janus to travel to the other side of the world to investigate how New England became the epicenter of this disgraceful seasonal disruption. Unlike the cooler, mild season of Rome in January, Janus stepped into a northeastern winter squall akin to the North Pole. His backward-facing head screamed at Jupiter, “What’s with all this white shit?” Seeing what was in store for the next two months, the forward-facing head whined, “You aren’t going to leave me here, are you?” New England’s version of the purification rituals in this desolate place had devolved into humans sliding down snowy hills on one or two boards strapped to their feet and drinking themselves blind. No one was happier than Janus when Mars took over in March.

Fractious and unpredictable, Mars upscaled his reputation for coming in like a lion to find muddy snow fouling the landscape. Soldiers forewent training by huddling in barracks, playing dice and something called video games. He overheard one of them joke that someone called Old Man Winter was overdue at the assisted living facility in Minnesota. The raucous laughter of Floria, the former spring goddess, made Mar’s blood boil. Bearing a nature more attuned to ruin than renewal, Mars added more misery but summoning freezing rain and high winds to increase the already overabundance of gritty slush. Mess with me, will they?

Aprilis went into a hissy fit to find a landscape resembling World War I trench warfare. Robins squabbled at each other because the females refused to build nests. Unable to find buried nuts that weren’t soaked and moldy, squirrels gazed listlessly at empty human birdfeeders. Forced to clean up Mar’s mess, Aprilis dispensed with gentle showers in favor of hosing down the terrain with extreme prejudice, vowing to tell Jupiter he could take the job and shove it.

Maia arrived at her appointed time in her trademark diaphanous dress, wearing a flowery garland atop her head, then sank up to her knees in mud from Aprilis’ watery temper tantrum. Instead of colorful flowers to greet her, a bumper crop of mosquitoes dove to feast on her celestial blood. Swatting herself like a rowdy game of Wack-a-mole, Maia set about the task of greening things up while spitting words that would make construction guys blush.

For centuries, Juno had stewed over Jupiter’s confiscation of her chariot to become the goddess of marriage and childbirth. If she and her husband were supposed to be role models, no wonder the human divorce rate was at an all-time high. Like a nitpicky mother reviewing a shoddy wedding venue set up by the cheapest outfit in town, she clucked in disappointment, now understanding Jupiter’s dark mood after Aprillis and Maia gave New England a one-star review. The place needed something to remind them who was in charge. Jupiter owed her a favor, and the man loved riding on the crest of a storm, scaring humans with his arsenal of lightning when they pissed him off. An evil smile creased her lips, almost hearing the human sirens calling them to take shelter.

The spirit of Julius descended to New England in his toga and sandals, ready to party. As he passed Juno, she flipped him the bird. He shook his head and muttered, women. He’d heard the reports of the earlier months, but the place looked pretty good to him. The weather was balmy, corn stalks were knee-high by July, juvenile critters flit or scampered about the land, and humans were in an amicable mood. He set up a celestial lounge chair in the clouds, laughed at school-aged children on summer break driving parents crazy, and toasted men burning meat on an open fire. The air tasted a little acidy, but the supposed climate debacle the goddesses of spring bitched about appeared to be a nothing burger.

Julius was in no hurry to go back when Augustus showed up. They high-fived, then moved their lounge chairs closer to the beach to ogle human beach bunnies. Augustus mentioned that the highest number of human births on average occurred in July and August, which meant the season for heaviest canoodling happened in October and November. Since September to December had never been assigned to anyone, maybe they’d stick around and join in the fun before winter set in.

My wife ambled into my office in her pajamas with a wine glass filled to the brim. “Storm is over, but there’s another atmospheric river about to hit the West Coast.” She bent to read my laptop screen. “I thought you were working on a fantasy story.”

“I’m just fooling around to get my head out of the clouds, no pun intended. Kind of stuck for an ending.” I scraped my fingernails on a day-old mosquito bite.

“It’ll get infected if you keep scratching.”  

I stood and beckoned her to sit. “Take a look. Tell me what you think.”

Staring out the window, I watched as muted lightning flashes illuminated the trees. I wondered if the term atmospheric river would be too scientific for the story.

My wife sat back after reading. “I gather the past few springs have got you a bit riled.”

“You think? I found a groundhog shivering in the garage yesterday and thought it might have been Punxsutawney Phil looking for a safe place to hide.”

“Your premise is a domineering father figure who disregards the feelings of several women in favor of impressing a dictator, dumping his wife to a lesser job to get her out of the house, a hooligan with anger issues messing things up, then leaving it to girls to clean up the mess, followed by other guys behaving like frat boys and taking all the credit for good weather.” She took a healthy swig of wine. “Not very original.”

Ouch. “Stupid idea, huh?”

She swirled the wine in her glass. “I like Juno. She rocks. But you need to avoid making the other women look bitchy and weak. That stuff doesn’t fly today. The epicenter of New England as humankind’s alteration of the god’s plan is a good setup, but it’s not developed. Instead of fixing the problem, maybe have the spring goddesses direct their anger at Jupiter for putting them in the situation.”

“What about the title?”

“Hmmm. How about The Wrathful Goddesses of Spring?”

I leaned against the windowsill and nodded.

She got up and stretched. “Did you eat anything tonight?” Shrugging when I didn’t answer, she sashayed to the kitchen.

What I really needed was to read a couple of her romance thrillers to learn how to characterize scorned women transitioning to influential personalities aching for retribution.

Another gust of wind pressed against the window. Perhaps a second martini wouldn’t hurt, either.

The Hunter-Fin

Part of "A Fish Out of Water" (Fall 2023)

I finished swallowing half a large tuna hooked by a fisherman near the big drop-off and a few other fish who thought they’d scarf a free meal off the bits. Didn’t live to be fifty seasons and the largest of the Great White Clan by chomping the whole tuna and getting snagged as well.

I fell into an easy glide to let the tuna settle when my laterals itched – again. Reorienting my direction to pinpoint its source, the overpowering stench of land persons interfered. There. Same frequency as before. I swam toward it as fast as my size allowed until reaching the place where the decapus, Bruno, lurked. The itching stopped when I arrived. Nothing. No sign of the multi-armed, boneless bottom dweller either. Without the presence of residual traces to follow, another false alarm. Third day in row.

Bruno was an anomaly among sea creatures who possessed a peculiar magic that often tricked my ability to sense if Merfolk dared to break the terms of the treaty. But the Great Ray, Legisladora, may she live long, deemed the decapus harmless. On the Great Ray’s next rotation through the seven seas, however, I’ll be sure to lodge a complaint.

I headed back toward the big drop-off to lessen the obnoxious boil of land persons in my ears. With the increase of their numbers along the shore, it had been a busy season dealing with brainless troublemakers in my own clan who couldn’t tell the difference between sea creatures and humans. Why the miscreants were attracted to humans who tasted like whale dung remained a mystery. Because of it, the moment our dorsal fin was spotted above the surface, humans sent deafening hordes of floaters with blood bait on hooks seeking to kill us. Let the smaller hunter-fins do the dirty work.

When the water’s upper layers absorbed the pink tint of late day, I recognized the approach of another hunter-fin reeking of the inland bay. “I’m surprised you found me with your senses dulled by the endless buffet of garbage-feeding fish.”

“Mona. Sphyra wishes to speak with you. She has been in distress the last few days,” Taurus reported. 

The Hammerhead? She was a bit far from her standard post and too late in the season for her to bear pups. “What kind of distress?”

“Her ability to hunt has been compromised. She missed her second hunt yesterday and had yet to feed early today when it hit her. She has no drive to eat and is frightened.”

My best enforcement scanner, Sphyra’s extrasensory alertness surpassed any of her kind in known memory. My enhanced receptors detected frequency vibrations few of my clan possessed. As for Sphyra, her abilities took it to another level. Even the Great Ray praised the Hammerhead’s unique ability.

I thought of the recent incident involving a hunter fin from the Cownose Clan who chewed on a charged underwater line to get at a meal. “Is it possible she brushed against a land person’s tech?”

“Sphyra claims it progressed over the last three days. When I left her, her ability to see was failing.”

Three days. “Bruno,” I rumbled.

“Who?”

“The soothsayer decapus.”

“Oh. You mean that Bruno.”  

Sphyra was no stranger to Bruno’s odd vibrations, unless …

“Take me to Sphyra,” I ordered.  

***

Several of the Hammerhead Clan swarmed near Sphyrna as protection when we approached. My shadow from above made them zigzag in nervous circles.

“Stand down.” I toned down my voice, which normally quivered the water along my body. “Sphyra.” 

“Mona? Is that you?” Sphyra cocked her cephalofoils this way and that. “All my senses are blinded. All I feel is – something that should not be.” She nictated her eyes as if in pain. “How can you not feel the magic?”  

The other hammerheads swam in anxious tight circles at the mention of magic. Taurus drifted away with a swell of fear exuding from his laterals.

“I have detected strange vibrations from the decapus, Bruno. But when I investigated, the frequency dissipated and left no residual traces,” said Mona.  

The water quivered from a tremor that coursed through Sphyra’s body. “The Great Ray herself gave you the ability to detect Merfolk magic. Have you lost it?”

Sphyra must be really hurting to disrespect me openly. Those who did so usually lost a fin or worse. But she was not just anyone.

“I am of no use to you in this condition. Do I have permission to migrate south until I recover?” Sphyra asked weakly.

Would Sphyrna have the strength to make it? “You and a couple others help her get there,” I ordered an older hammerhead. “Try to entice her to eat something.”

When they swam away, I drifted upward to where Taurus gulped air to remain close to the surface. The tickle that buzzed inside my ampullae jogged memories from when I became an initiate, barely mature in size to not be eaten by other sea predators.

Merfolk possessed powerful magic to sustain supremacy and once benevolent folk with attributes to swim with water beings and walk on land to communicate with land people. That is until the Merfolk became interested in using newer land-dweller technology to augment their magic.

Sea creatures throughout the world feared such temperament might poison the mindsets of Merfolk and cause the destruction of balance and order. Legisladora, may she live long, prohibited them from interacting with land persons and using their magic outside their settlements. Those still residing on land were ordered to remain and never return to sea. To ensure conformance, Legisladora appointed the hunter-fins as treaty enforcers. I was among the first assigned to enforce a new treaty to end the growing hostilities.

Taurus interrupted my musing. “You – think a Merfolk crossed over?”

Before I could answer, a sudden shock wave blazed along my laterals. The intensity flooded my ampullae with static. It came from approximately the same location as before.

“Summon Carlukas. Tell him to bring his kin.”

Usually solitary hunter-fins, members of the Bull Clan were notorious for their vicious attack methods. The few times they hunted in groups, they peppered the kill zone with uneaten body parts, pretended to leave, and then rushed back to gobble hapless chum feeders for dessert.

“I want Carlukas to patrol the area where the meddling decapus lives.”

Bubbles blew out Taurus’ anus. “Are you sending them after Bruno?”

“No, you fool. Under no circumstances are they to harm him.” For now. “If they encounter any Merperson using magic outside their colony, they are free to dispose of the treaty breaker as they wish. Quietly.”

“Nothing the bulls do is quiet, especially if hunting with others in their clan.” 

“This is no mere wandering Merperson.” My body stiffened from another surge. “Go. Now.”

“After I give them the order, think I will remain in the bay on this adventure.” With a swish of his tail, Taurus took off.

Still shivering from the vibrations, I had to find the Great Ray. Steering toward the big drop-off and the open ocean, I hoped Legisladora was near enough to find before things worsened.

Top 10 Myths About Sharks

1. All sharks are cold-blooded. Sharks are fish and most are cold-blooded. However, some are partially warm-blooded: great white sharks, shortfin makos, longfin makos, porbeagles, and salmon sharks. These sharks can raise their temperature above the water temperature, which helps them move faster when hunting.

2. All sharks must keep swimming to breathe. This myth stems from the true fact that some sharks, known as ram breathers, like the Great White Sharks and Mako Sharks, need to swim to force water across their gills so they can breathe. Nurse Sharks and Bullhead Sharks, however, can stay stationary because they have buccal mouth muscles that can draw in water over their gills.

3. All sharks live only in saltwater oceans. Though most do, some sharks do survive in freshwater. Bull sharks often swim to freshwater through river channels during birthing season.

4. All sharks are aggressive hunter predators. Not all sharks hunt to feed. The whale shark feeds by filtering zooplankton through its gills like mammalian whales and is considered the largest fish in the world. The basking shark, also a plankton feeder, is the second largest fish in the sea.

Fun fact: The dwarf lantern shark is the smallest species and can fit in the palm of your hand.

5. Sharks are a threat to people. Movies and media have instilled an irrational fear in our culture that sharks hunt and eat humans. On the contrary, people are not part of their natural diet. The rare occasions when shark “attacks” are a product of curiosity, not hunger. If a shark spots an unfamiliar creature in the water, they might give it a nibble to see if it’s food. Despite their scary reputation, only about a dozen of the more than 500 species of sharks have been involved in attacks on humans.

According to the International Shark Attack File, which is a comprehensive database of shark bite cases that have occurred between the 1500s and the present, between 70 and 100 people are bitten by sharks each year. With the odds of being bitten at one in 3.75 million, you have a better chance of getting struck by lightning.

6. Sharks have small brains and are unintelligent. Another myth based on movies that portray sharks as brainless eating machines, a shark’s brain may be smaller than that of a human, but its brain-to-body ratio is actually quite high for a fish and considered quite intelligent. A shark’s brain has millions of neurons and has the capacity for a range of higher functions, including social behaviors, curiosity, and problem-solving.

7. A drop of blood in the water will set off a shark-feeding frenzy. While true that sharks have an acute sense of smell and can detect the odor of blood in small quantities, the presence of blood in the water will not necessarily set off a shark attack, much less a feeding frenzy. In fact, sharks do not engage in feeding frenzies. When sharks feed as a group, there is a complex social hierarchy to how they feed. The sharks take turns, feeding quickly, and in order of dominance.

8. All sharks have a lesser life expectancy than that of humans. Most sharks live an average of 20 – 30 years. New research suggests the Great White may live seventy years or more. But the granddaddy of them all is the Greenland shark, known to live for more than 400 years.

9. Sharks lay eggs like most fish. Of the more than 500 species of sharks, only about 40% are oviparous, or egg producers. The eggs are encased in a protective egg case with tendrils that attach to corals, seaweed, or ocean bottom. Ancient sailors nicknamed the egg case a “mermaid’s purse” when they washed up on shore.

The remaining species give birth to live young, known as viviparous.

10. Sharks are plentiful and not considered a threatened animal. Around 100 million sharks are killed each year, mostly for the shark fin trade. Sharks are also killed for their meat and liver oil, and many are accidentally caught in fishing gear. The shark and ray populations have declined by 71 percent in the last fifty years.  In total, more than 300 shark and ray species are now threatened with extinction.

Desert Buzz

Spring 2022

Nathanial Beekman surveyed the desert horizon. The cowboy hat Monty Contreras gave him shaded his eyes from the bright sunlight of mid-March. He missed the New England springtime of his former Connecticut home with its arrival of avian choirs singing for mates. One could almost hear tree buds awaken with a snap from their waxy cocoons. Here in Nevada’s version of spring outside the cities, the only sound was that of the blustery wind laden with dust, the cry of a hawk on the hunt, and the scuff of his boots on hardscrabble dirt.

“It’s so quiet, it almost hurts,” Nate said to the breeze.

He hiked back to his Toyota 4Runner that was pocked with body dimples from heavy use as if to proudly exhibit the hard miles since it rolled off the assembly line in 1997. The off-road tires popped and skidded in the truck’s descent on the lunar-like trail, obscuring Nate’s rearview with a cloud of dust.

Nate had a school class arriving that afternoon at the new Pahrump Historical Museum. In his position as Chief Archivist, Nate loved working with the kids, but he wished they’d show more interest in the museum’s artifacts than pestering for him to retell the tale of how he and his retired Bureau of Land Management friend solved the ghost town mystery of Rhyolite’s lost gold.

“Most of this is your fault, Monty,” Nate said to the front windshield. Talking to himself had become a worrisome habit since his wife, Pam, died. “You should be giving these talks.”

When he breached the subject some weeks ago, Monty scoffed at the idea, stating, “The Arctic Circle will reposition to Nevada before I lecture to a bunch of nose miners.”

An electronic chime chirped when Nate went through the museum’s front door. Less than a year had passed when he first arrived at a new building with empty shelves and file boxes of paperwork.

Hector Morales was restocking the gift shop section. “Hey, boss. Discover anything new out there?”

“Just the scenery.” Nate was still adjusting to hearing the question every time he went for a hike. “When is Ms. Duran’s class arriving?”

“Anytime now.” Hector cut open a box of new pamphlets. “A couple of folks dropped off some things for you to examine. Left them on your desk.”

Nate had come to love Pahrump’s residents for their openness to a displaced New Englander, but too many still thought his job as an archivist included a pawnbroker’s estimation service for stuff in forgotten storage units. “Has anyone heard from Monty lately?”

“Betsy Monroe mentioned they were both headed to Duck Creek for a week or two.”

Betsy wasn’t the only lady friend, as Monty called them, interested in corralling the never-married bachelor, but it didn’t stop them from trying, to which Monty happily obliged them.

Hector handed him a letter. “Stephanie Drysdale left this you.” He grinned. “Maybe she has a cabin in Utah too.”

Nate sighed with an eye-roll, snatched the envelope, and pocketed it. Once word circulated of his widower status, he’d become the new flytrap for possible romantic interludes. In his office, he pondered the collection of corroded, so-called heirlooms scattered on top of his desk. The front entrance chimed. “Saved by the bell,” he whispered.

A boisterous group of chattering fourth-graders poured into the museum and disbursed to various exhibits to press hands against the glass enclosures. To the delight of his buddies, one boy breathed on a pane and drew a crude smiley face on the condensed moisture. The number-one item on the museum’s monthly restock list was window cleaner.

The teacher, Ms. Duran, clapped her hands. “Class. What did I say about touching the exhibits? Hands at your side, observe with your eyes.”

She was one of many volunteers with the Historical Society that managed the museum, but Nate had met her only once. In her thirties and unmarried, the soft gloss of her chin-length hair framed a smooth face and her hazel eyes sparkled with a touch of perpetual curiosity. He tucked in his shirt, ran fingers through his hair, and lingered inside the doorframe of his office to watch Ms. Duran marshal her students with gentle firmness. It took a special calling to embrace a teaching profession he considered the equivalent of herding cats.  

Hector raised an eyebrow when he caught Nate staring at her.

He’s worse than Monty. “Don’t you have a mannequin out back in need of primping,” Nate whispered to him.

“Sure thing, boss,” Hector chuckled.

“And stop calling me boss.”

“Would you prefer Nathanial?”

Before Nate could verbally express the scowl wrinkling his forehead, Hector scampered off. Damn fine man, but he can be worse than these kids.

By some miracle, Ms. Duran had the students cross-legged in rows on the floor.  Anticipation twinkled in their eyes.

Nate selected a folder from beneath the counter. “Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Hawthorne and I’d like to talk to you about the amazing heritage of Nevada’s mining past.”

A ponytailed girl in denim overalls and Wonder Woman t-shirt raised her hand. “Are you going to tell us about the Rhyolite gold discovery?”

“Settle down,” Ms. Duran said calmly when others piped in with approval. “Dr. Hawthorne is a very busy man and is graciously donating his time to be with you. I want minds open and mouths closed while we’re here.” She turned to Nate with a glowing smile. “Forgive the interruption. Please, continue.”

The hour sped faster than expected. The students applauded when he finished, with Ms. Duran clapping the loudest. Nate was about to ask if anyone had questions, but the children scrambled to their feet and headed for the exit leading to the outdoor exhibits.

Ms. Duran ambled up to him. “They are wonderful kids, but they can be . . . ”

“Exuberantly distracted?” Nate finished for her.

She laughed at his theatrical response. “Couldn’t say it better myself. Your influence on the new museum is most remarkable.”

“Oh, I think the Rhyolite discovery is what draws people here, not some old stuffy New Englander.”

“I’m not so sure that’s true. You have a unique perspective of the surroundings. Sometimes it takes that to see the hidden beauty we all take for granted.” She relaxed against the counter with hands behind her back. “You made a few comparisons to your former home. I have to imagine you miss it.”

“I was up around Last Chance Range this morning, thinking of how quiet it was for March. Spring where I come from is a bit more–animated. Something about the pop of new green after months of perpetual New England gray.”

Ms. Duran lifted her chin to stare at a fluorescent light. “Now rings the woodland loud and long / The distance takes a lovelier hue / And drown’d in yonder living blue / The lark becomes a sightless song.” 

“Did you write that?”

She tilted her head at him and smiled. “Tennyson.” 

“Oh. Right. Guess I’m a little rusty on my poetry.” Nate glanced at the thermostat. Did Hector crank up the heat? He cleared his throat. “There is a mystique to Nevada that I admire, but I do at times miss the chaotic noise of winter’s end. I was surprised to learn rainstorms are common here in cooler months. That thunderstorm a couple of weeks ago was as good as anything the east produced. Gave me a solid education on the meaning of a desert wash.”

“Oh my, yes. They can be quite dangerous. Did you get caught in one?” Ms. Duran asked.

“If Monty hadn’t been with me, I would have.” Nate exhaled a little too loud.  “Well, I better get back to …”

“Have you ever been to Scottie’s Castle?” she interrupted.

Nate had read about Death Valley National Park’s Oasis of Grapevine Canyon.  Nicknamed after a con man from the early twentieth century, Walter Scott, or Scotty, loved to brag to people how he built the place with money from his secret gold mines, none of which existed, especially the money.

“Been meaning to go,” Nate replied. “I read they’ve done a great job of preserving the site.”

“I know a Park Ranger and thought I’d visit her on Saturday. Would you like to come?”

The unexpected question tied Nate’s tongue.

“I can arrange a private tour for you,” she continued. “I think you’ll find it’s a unique jewel. Maybe find a bit of what you’re missing.” Ms. Duran turned an ear to the sounds of yelling children from the open back door. “Duty calls.” She stopped in the doorway. “I’ll pick you up first thing Saturday morning.”

Nate gaped as she walked away. She never gave him a chance to opt out.

Was it a tour – or something else?

***

Ms. Duran arrived early Saturday morning in form-fitting rancher jeans, sturdy hiking shoes, a denim shirt, and a fleece-lined tan vest. Her off-road Jeep Challenger could give Monty’s truck a run for its money.

“Good morning, Ms. Duran.” Nate stashed his backpack in the backseat and buckled himself in the shotgun seat. “Nice set of wheels.” Lame. Did people use that phrase anymore?

“Let’s make a deal. I won’t call you Nathanial if you drop the Ms. Duran thing. It’s Sandy.”

“Sandy it is.”

Nate’s head bopped the back of his head against the headrest when the four-wheel-drive kicked into gear.Instead of taking the road to Death Valley’s main entrance, they traveled south toward Shoshone.

“Isn’t there a quicker access road further north?” Nate asked. He was familiar with the major tourist stops like Zabriskie Point, Twenty Mule Team Canyon, and Furnace Creek. 

“I was waiting for when you’d say are we there yet.” She winked at him. “A detour worth your while, I think.”

When Sandy turned on Jubilee Pass Road, a sea of yellow wildflowers on both sides of the two-lane drive sprouted from cracks in the dry bed. “Desert Gold Sunflowers,” she said. “Not a super bloom we all hope for, but conditions were pretty good this year.”

A splash of blue here, a smattering of purple there, Nate never thought of Death Valley as a place for spring flowers. Nothing like it grew near Pahrump or hilly areas he’d frequented. Sandy pulled over and pointed at tulip-like red blossoms sprouting from a broad-bladed succulent. “Oh, I love Beavertail Cactus in bloom.”

Nate wasn’t sure what he liked best. The splendor of color in one of the most uninhabitable places in the country, or the schoolgirl glee on Sandy’s face when she rattled off plant names. When they reached Badwater Basin, a bleak plain of white-salted nothingness below sea level, a few flowers sprouted from a splintered slice of dried salts.

“Life finds a way,” Nate murmured in awe. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Best is yet to come,” Sandy replied.

Heading north, they passed the usual tourist overlooks and petrified borax mining equipment. When they arrived at a Spanish-influenced revival of a colonial mission house, Nate wondered how a place resembling the album cover of Hotel California could be considered a castle. A few people wandered the property, but nowhere near the numbers that crowded parks in recent years.

Sandy introduced him to the Curator of Collections. Hearty handshakes followed from staff who had a higher opinion of his reputation than he did. Sometime during the private tour in which guides dressed in period clothing of the roaring twenties, she excused herself.

Nate meandered the property after the tour and found a patio park bench beneath a mesquite tree. Absent the bothersome prattle typical of a tourist place, the setting was strangely quiet. As his ears adjusted, he detected what he thought was the subtle drone of a distant weedwhacker. He scanned the area for evidence of a gardener. Finding no one, he settled to cataloging the site’s exhibits in his thoughts.

Something zoomed near his head and disappeared. He spun around to investigate and caught lightning-fast movements of–what?  Bees?  

Pondering if he should move, he jumped when Sandy managed to sneak up. “You surprised me,” he laughed with nervousness.

“May I join you?” Sandy didn’t wait for an answer and sat close enough to make him nervous without touching.

He flinched at another buzzing flyby near his head. “Do they keep beehives around here?”

As if he’d told the funniest joke ever, Sandy giggled.  Her eyes glinted with mischief when she extracted from her purse a small thermos and poured a clear fluid in the red cap. She snuggled closer to wrap Nate’s hands around the cup. “Stay very still.”

Nate froze when a hummingbird of iridescent green floated inches from his hand. Its head flitted down and up in scrutiny of the cup and its holder. Another one of the same species buzzed to its side. Then a third. One bird alighted the rim of the cup. The other two joined in to drink.

To Nate, time stood still as more hummingbirds arrived at the liquid feast. A red-throated hummingbird boldly landed on his finger. The air near his ears hummed from the tiny helicoptering creatures.

People gathered at a respectful distance with upheld smartphones. One observer aimed a professional camera mounted with a long-distance lens. At some point, he whispered.  “Think my wrist is going numb.”

Sandy moved the cup from his hand, set it on the park bench, and clutched Nate’s arm. Hummingbirds flocked to the feast like a hungry lunch crowd surrounding a taco truck.

“We have hummingbirds back east, but I’ve never been this close to one,” Nate said.

“The raucous din of eastern birds may herald spring flowers, but the desert blooms awaken to the gentle murmur of a hummingbird,” Sandy recited.

Nate met her eyes. “That’s nice. Who wrote that?”

“I just made it up,” she said with a giggle. “When you’ve been here long enough, you acquire an appreciation for the short blossoming season. When you listen to subtle sounds carried on the wind, you’ll hear much more than the desert buzz of springtime hummingbirds.” 

A bit chastised for the wrongful assumption the desert was monochromatic, Nate lowered his chin. It took a kind schoolteacher from Pahrump to take the effort and show him that seasons in Nevada were not mere changes of temperature. If I stop to look and listen.

“Watching this is making me hungry,” Sandy announced. “I have sandwiches and apples in the car.”

“Sounds wonderful,” he said. “Been a while since I lunched on a park bench.”

She glanced at the avian-crowded airspace around the red cup. “Maybe we should move, though. Now that we’ve established trust with these little fellas, they may insist on sharing your fruit.”  

Strolling toward the car, side-by-side with Sandy, Nate hoped there might be more to her interest in him than introducing the wonders of a springtime desert. 

Top Ten Plants I Miss in Pennsylvania

After years of living in Eastern Pennsylvania, we relocated to Nevada to be near the kids and grandkids.  We’re still adjusting to a desert clime and triple degree temperatures in midsummer. Here are the top ten plants I miss living in Pennsylvania.

1. Tomatoes: I grew several varieties. Many grew over eight-feet tall in cages, that is if the critters didn’t get to them first. Hydroponic tomatoes at the story just doesn’t cut it.

2. Herbs: parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (sing it Simon & Garfunkel). Also, basil (Genovese and Thai), oregano, and tarragon. Now I have to purchase all my herbs in the grocery store. Sigh.

3. Hot peppers: cayenne for drying, habanero for hot sauce, serrano for cooking. I grew Carolina reaper one year, but even the groundhogs wouldn’t touch those.

4. Garlic: The hardneck kind. I planted bulbs in late fall, cut the flowering stem (garlic scapes) in spring for Asian dishes, harvest the bulb when the tops start to turn brown, then save a couple of the larger cloves for next year’s crop. It’ll make your marinara sauce pop with flavor.

5. Daffodils: Once the bulbs are established, the yellow trumpet-shaped flower is a spring gift that keeps on giving every year.

6. Ornamental flowering cherry tree: Another harbinger of spring, the flowering cherry tree in our front yard bore delicate pink petals that eventually sprinkled the lawn like a wedding flower girl.

7. Pansies: Another potted plant that hung from porch eaves, the yellow and purple flowers emerged all summer long if we pinched the dying buds off.

8. Vincas: Better known as periwinkles, we’d pot the pink and white varieties, then hang them on shepherd’s hooks around the rock garden. Hummingbirds loved them. Just have to be careful not to place near birdfeeders, where squirrels can use the pots as a launch pad.

9. Sedum flowers:  A ground perennial with tiny purple blossoms that flowered in late summer, it is a favorite of local bees. We’d sit close to listen to the subtle whiny hum of the nectar gatherers on a quiet late afternoon with a good book.

10. Begonias: We had paver stone planter boxes on either side of our patio door. We used to plant impatiens (touch-me-nots) for their unending supply of pink and white blossoms that lasted until the first freeze. As the year waned, however, the plants grew leggy, and easily broke at the stem. Begonias proved to be hardier and offered a greater variety of colors.

What’s in our Nevada garden? Plants tolerant of triple-degree summer temps that don’t flower. Another sigh.

Hot As Sin

Summer 2021

Leigh, as only her closest associates called her, glided across the circular top balcony of the Singapore’s Marina Sands Casino to observe people gathered around gaming tables three floors below. Though orphaned at birth with no direct kin, she took some comfort in the Singaporean-structured, yet chaotic, din of the place that filled the gap of loneliness in a bustling city-state where family was everything. A decade earlier at sixteen, her six-foot statuesque poise carried off the lie of being older when she applied as a dealer, and her high-cheek-boned, flawless Euro-Mediterranean face gave access to private gambling rooms of the super-rich.  

Leigh’s personal valet appeared in the customary black suit and tie she insisted he wear in her presence. “Mr. Rashid has arrived, Ms. Enhedana,” he said with a deferential head nod.

“Thank you, Mr. Huang.”

He led her to a private room ensconced in ruby tapestry, an auspicious color for luck and good fortune. For those who believed in such mythical nonsense.  The gambling tables empty, Leigh crossed the hand-tufted wool-and-silk carpet toward a gentleman in a tux-suit, silk black shirt, and a diamond brooch instead of the traditional bow tie.

He took Leigh’s hand. “Ms. Enhedana.” He was shorter than her by a good four inches. His pencil-thin mustache prickled the amber-wheat skin of her hand when he kissed it.  “Your reputation doesn’t do justice to the real woman.”

“Mr. Rashid.” She withdrew her hand and ignored an urge to wash it. “And which reputation would that be? I have many.”

“Hot as sin. It sounds so . . . American redneck.”

Leigh disliked the moniker from those who thought it referred to her unmatched beauty, but if it attracted the testosterone-infused, clueless rich to her net, so be it.

Rashid gestured to Huang, who’d taken the station of bartender. “A drink before we start? What would you like?”

Without prompting, Huang set a Grey Goose Martini with an olive on the bar.

 Rashid took a swig of his Balvenie single malt. “Please, call me Aaryan. May I address you as Leigh?” 

An archetypal Saudi high-born with a first name that implied strength. How droll.

Leigh sipped her martini. “I prefer to keep things formal until I get to know someone first, Mr. Rashid.”

He raised his glass. “Here’s hoping I obtain the honor of knowing you better, then.”

Who drinks a forty-year-old scotch on the rocks?She set the martini glass down. “Shall we retire to the Presidential Suite?” 

Mock disappointment pinched Rashid’s lips. “So soon?”

Leigh nodded to Huang. Rashid gulped the remainder of his drink and followed toward the maroon-carpeted staircase with the polished brass banister. It led to the enclosed Lion’s Pedestrian Bridge across Bayfront Avenue and one of three, fifty-seven-floored towers. Leigh suppressed a grimace when Rashid insisted she take his arm. Of course, he wanted as much exposure with her to enhance his station in society. The soft fabric of his sleeve felt new; a hybrid guanaco, baby cashmere, and kid pashmina, with a bit of Super 200 wool thrown in for good measure, she surmised. She bet he’d just had it tailored at CYC’s in Raffles. 

Tourists stopped in their tracks to gape admiringly at her Nefertiti stature in a body-sculpted, floor-length dress of moonbeam white. More than one smartphone camera clicked at her sumptuous raven hair that curled inward an inch off the shoulder with a subtle hint of feathered, violet iridescence.

“It’s her,” a bellhop whispered too loudly to a colleague when they entered the grand atrium.  

A female attendant in a black business dress bowed and removed the purple rope of the express elevator that ascended to the fifty-first floor. Leigh preferred the Presidential Suite; not for its suggestive allure, but for its absolute privacy. Though Singapore was infamous for its moles and sophisticated secret police, the Vegas-inspired theme of “what happens here, stays here” reigned sacrosanct.

“Excuse me a moment,” Leigh said when they entered the suite. Huang enticed Rashid to the bar while she went to the largest of two bedrooms.

She stepped onto the balcony to gaze at the polychromatic jewels of ships buoyed off the coast and the reflection of a waxing moon in its first quarter on the calm dark waters of the bay.  As if her soul was tied to Earth’s solitary satellite, it was the essential influence of her instinctive perception to manipulating global money markets. It worked best, however, during the three-day period of the crescent moon, and was the only time she accepted new clients.

But tonight, a sourness in her gut foreshadowed something off-kilter—something her unique acuities couldn’t read. 

But tonight, a sourness in her gut foreshadowed something off-kilter–something her unique acuities couldn’t read.

She smelled Rashid’s presence before he spoke. “Beautiful view, though not as perfect as Monte Carlo on a warm, sparkling day.”

Even at this height, Leigh tasted the salty tang of balmy seawater, blended with hints of ship diesel and wok-fried foods from hawker stalls far below. How could anyone compare Singapore to the over-glitzed playground of Europe’s haughty rich, reeking of suntan lotion and arrogance?

Rashid leaned over the railing. “My boat, the Desert Star, is docked at the marina. Perhaps you’d join me tomorrow for a daytime cruise around the islands.”

“I’m more of a night person,” Leigh said with indifference. “You’d know that if you did your homework. Or did Prince Assam leave that out of his briefing?”

“I thought that was just a cover. I must concede, you’re as mysterious as you are beautiful.”

“Shall we begin?” Leigh turned back to main room to hide her disgust of the man.

Huang slid a chair out for her at a baccarat table.  He poured a martini from the silver shaker in his hand, then served a freshened whiskey to Rashid, seated opposite. Huang took his position between them, moved the baccarat card shoe a few inches forward, dealt two cards face down to each, and two for himself as banker.

“I find this ritual of yours intriguing,” Rashid said with a smile.

“It helps me think,” Leigh said, turning the first card. “I understand you wish to invest two-hundred-million Euros with me.” She placed her hand on the table, a signal to pause the game before it even started. “What you didn’t tell me—the money isn’t yours.”

Rashid blanched.

“Mr. Rashid,” she said with dispassion.  “I have no issues with investments from financially embargoed countries. In fact, as I’m sure you know, it is often my stock and trade.” She moved her hand from the table and reached for the martini.  “However, I insist on full disclosure prior to a first meeting.”

His bon-vivant demeanor crumbled. “When my cousin said you guaranteed 20% or better return, I—didn’t think you’d mind.”

Leigh’s methods yielded much greater than that, often double the original investment within a month. The investor got their promised return within the time frame agreed to, and she kept the rest. Her special insight made her hot financially—hence the true nature of her nickname, Hot as Sin. Because her deals mostly mined the illegal, often vicious underbelly of global transactions, she adhered to her cardinal rules, the first and foremost being no surprises before accepting a new client.

Leigh took another sip and nodded to Huang, who stepped behind her chair to assist.

“I will speak to Prince Assam about this breach of protocol,” she said with casual finality. It would likely result in Rashid being shunned from the royal inner circle, but her rules were inviolable.  

Rashid gulped his drink and took a deep breath. “Can we please—talk about this?”

A knock on the door drew her attention and a scowl. Huang’s eyes widened in surprise. Another cardinal rule, no disturbances of any kind while she negotiated business. Leigh flicked her chin up for Huang to check.

After a few moments of mumbling through a crack in the door, Huang’s back straightened. Leigh gaped in shock when he left the suite without her dismissal. The door appeared to open of its own accord.

A man with an impeccably trimmed goatee stepped inside, dressed in a well-tailored silk suit of midnight blue. At first, he resembled a middle-aged Leonardo DiCaprio, but his hair and beard were jet-black, with a barely discernible violet iridescence. Like hers.  His face appeared vaguely familiar, but she had an eidetic memory for all the middle-eastern princes and European wannabes, and she’d never seen this man before. Something about those eyes–dark, with a twinkle of purple.

Leigh reclaimed her composure. “You’d better have a good reason for this interruption of a private meeting.”

The mysterious gentlemen craned to look over Leigh’s shoulder and spoke with a silky contralto voice. “You may leave now.”

Rashid zombie-walked out the door without a word; his eyes blank and unseeing.

“Forgive the intrusion, Ms. Enhedana.” The man smiled. “May I call you Kaleigh?”

Nobody called her Kaleigh. She’d dropped the name in favor of Leigh when she was young. Despite a nervous flutter in her belly, she answered him with an indignant glower.

“We have never met,” he said, offering a polite bow. “In this place, I am Nannar S. Leffingfield, at your service.”

She swallowed at the name, recalling a different Leffingfield from a diplomatic ball a few years ago where she had trolled for clients. Few people in this world were aware of the enigmatic man with an extraordinary influence over global leaders and power brokers. Fewer still knew that malevolent things often followed in his wake. She remembered when he shook her hand during an introduction, a perception of ethereal darkness had surrounded them for a couple seconds. Leigh never forgot it and established a new cardinal rule: never do business with him should he ever ask.

“Are you any relation to . . . ”

“My father, Whitaker,” he jauntily answered.  “I believe you’ve met him.”

A chill went down her spine. That man had a son?

Her eye drifted to the sapphire pin of a crescent moon on Nannar’s lapel. “What is it you want, Mister . . . Leffingfield?” The mere utterance of the name gave her goosebumps, and she wasn’t the type that scared easily.

The door slowly closed on its own. “Shall we sit?” Nannar said.

An intoxicating scent followed him to the chair formerly occupied by Rashid; a subtle mélange of rose, river water, and sweet hay. As if Leigh weren’t unnerved enough, Huang reentered glassy-eyed, bearing two drinks: a fresh martini for her and a snifter of brandy for Leffingfield, then left in silence.

Nannar crossed his legs and placed hands in his lap. “Your family name, Enheduanna, is ancient Akkadian, a language that was old before Babylonian times.”

“Your family name, Enheduanna, is ancient Akkadian, a language that was old before Babylonian times.”

What? He didn’t even pronounce the name right. “I know what Akkadia is. Twenty-fifth century BC.”

“My apologies for the presumption.” Leffingfield touched his forehead as a sign of respect. “Your given name, Kaleigh, signifies darkness and energy. Do you know where it comes from?”

Leigh huffed. The man was becoming insufferable.  “Probably some dead relative of my mother’s before she died from childbirth. Now, if you don’t mind . . . ”

“Yet I’m puzzled why you discarded your middle name, Istir—or bright star.”

How the hell does he know my middle name? She’d had it dropped from the birth register when old enough to do so. “I hope you intend to make a point with this.”

“Ah, Louis XIII.” He lifted his snifter, drew in its bouquet, and took a sip. “Didn’t have this four thousand years ago.”

Four thousand . . . ? This guy came across as a certified whack job, but his effect on Huang and Rashid called for carefulness.  “Are you some kind of hypnotist with a fondness for meanings in names?”

“Many centuries have passed since my last visit to this plane of existence,” he said. “Imagine my surprise when Father summoned me.”

It was obvious the man was toying with her. If he truly was the son of a person she’d vowed to give a wide berth, it was time to shut it down.  “Mr. Leffingfield, I have no idea why you’re here, nor do I want to know. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . ”

His eyes altered to orbs of flaming purple. Leigh sucked in a gasp when a halo of blackness consumed the room’s décor, leaving only her, the table, and Leffingfield. She shivered in the sudden cold of nothingness surrounding them.

She worked up the nerve to utter, “What are you?”

The blaze in his eyes calmed to a violet flicker. “I’d hoped your perceptive ability would tell you.” As if spotlighted by an unseen light, his lapel pin brightened.

She shuddered. The memory of Akkadian history went through her in a cold wave.  A deity from pre-Babylonian times, the first lunar crescent his sigil—son of Enlil, god of darkness and the underworld.

She found her voice. “Nannar was the moon god of Akkadia.”

“Still am.” He smiled.

In the deepest reaches of her soul, cued by her perceptive ability that briefly went absent when he walked through the door, she realized the truth of it.

He tilted his head in the manner of a mentor to a student. “Aren’t you weary of being a money lender?”

She found her voice. “I don’t lend money. People give it to me to make more.”

“And you find manipulating people for mere shekels fulfilling?”

“I like the life it provides.”

“A life of perpetual distrust, no family, no real friends; afloat in a lonely sea of humanity that you care nothing for?”

“It’s a necessary factor in what I do.”

He leaned forward. “Be honest with me, please. Isn’t it more that you’ve never truly felt as one of them?” he said in a gentle voice.  “You hunger for what you’ve been deprived; knowledge of who you are, family, perhaps love.”

A tickle of indignance rose with her.  “What do you know of my wants?”

“I can sense the battle in your soul as accurately as my own.”

“I—don’t understand.”

“You, my dearest Kaleigh, are my daughter incarnated.”

Leigh inhaled sharply when the darkness coalesced to the suite in its original state. She gripped her neck and took deep breaths to keep from fainting, struggling against shock burbling in her throat. When her wits returned, Nannar had translocated himself next to her.

Her cautionary insights refused to abate. “If what you say is true, where have you been for thousands of years?”

“We crossed to one of the uncountable universes when humans went all monotheistic on us. Our leader, Anu, was rather furious with it all. He left my father behind to sow dissonance in hopes the world would obliterate itself.”  The brandy snifter levitated to his outstretched hand. He took a sip. “I must admit, humans have shown themselves to be quite resilient.”   

Nannar frowned in sadness. “When Anu gathered up the family to depart this place, my daughter, Enheduanna, fell between the fabric that separated the universes. We never found her.”

“But I’m human,” Leigh said. 

“A temporary predicament. We’ll make you immortal,” he said with finality. “Together, we will make the impossible, possible.” He waggled one eyebrow in mirth. “And you won’t have to wait for the waxing quarter moon.”

“I—I’ll be a goddess?”

He set the snifter down and opened his arms. “You’re family. One of us. The first incarnation of our kind since we departed this universe. Perhaps it’s a sign that humanity is worth saving. My father, Enlil—Whitaker in this world—just don’t ever call him Nergal, unless you want to experience the real darkness of his power—discovered you when you were still quite young. He gave you just enough mystical insight to see where you’d take it. The years have shown you worthy of the family legacy.”

“Worthy? Everything I’ve done is considered illegal on all continents. I’ve had people killed to protect the secrecy of my dealings.”

He laughed. “It is probably the reason your grandfather took a liking to you.” An electrified warmth percolated through Leigh’s quivering fingers when Nannar took her hands in his. “None of it will matter anymore as an immortal.”

To never die, and to be able to participate in future centuries; travel to alternate universes like taking a cross-continent flight; and gain what Leigh had longed for since she was a girl—a family. A thought trembled her hands with trepidation: a powerful deity who had manipulated the darker aspects of human nature for thousands of years—was my grandfather.

Leigh had never cried in front of anyone. What tears she’d shed had been done in private. Years of forced callousness, standoffish to those who tried to break through the wall of detached reserve, had been necessary. Whenever remorse for all the harm she’d caused to others threatened to suffocate her, she suppressed it as bad for business. What Nannar offered was more than immortality. It was redemption.

 Hibernating emotions awakened from their hidden place, and she let the tears spill. “I have a family,” she choked. “And you, Nannar, are my father.”

He extracted a handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks. “I prefer my given name from the time our kind first arrived many millennia ago. Su-en.”

He pronounced it, sin. His real name is sin?

He brushed an errant strand of hair off her forehead. “You are a most beautiful creature in any universe,” he said in a manner only a father could.

His eyes flashed an iridescent purple when he grinned. “Certainly, hotter than me.”

-------

A native of Wisconsin and Connecticut, D.T. Krippene deserted aspirations of being a biologist to live the corporate dream and raise a family. After six homes, a ten-year stint in Singapore and Taiwan, and an imagination that never slept, his muse refused to be hobbled as a mere dream. D.T. writes science fiction and dystopia. His current project is about a futuristic matriarchal society, and a gene-altered young woman who discovers the real reason otherworldly beings saved humanity from extinction. You can find D.T. on his website and his social media links, Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

In Simple Terms

DT Krippene

(Featured Author, Summer 2018)

"What's this all about," Trevor Stanhope asked his Associate Administrator. 

    The click of Helen Martinez's low-heeled shoes kept cadence to Stanhope's brisk stride as they hurried along on the polished floors of NASA's subterranean levels. "The note mentioned recent information that needs your immediate attention," she said. 

    Six months since Stanhope's appointment as NASA's Administrator, President Barbara Preston specifically asked him to shake things up by reining-in expensive projects and the Brainiacs who were too busy looking for ET. "Bring in some solid space science we can use while getting the Mars mission off the ground, like updated satellite reconnaissance and better asteroid killers," she'd told him. 

    "Did they send a synopsis, so I can understand what they're saying when they start throwing those pseudo-scientific terms and acronyms around?" he asked. 

    "All I got was something to do with all the increased meteorite activity, asteroid close calls, and TNO's . . . Trans Neptunian Objects." 

    "Trans-nep-toonia objects . . ." Stanhope chuckled. "Sounds like that Christmas rock orchestra that pops up every holiday." A lawyer by education, and six-term, conservative US Congressman before President Preston handed him this job, Stanhope's grasp of science was limited to high school chemistry. Where did they come up with these names? 

    "Might not want to say that in front of them," Martinez said. "They're a little sensitive after all the resignations and unfilled positions." 

    Stanhope knew Martinez harbored resentment for not getting the vacant Deputy Administrator position. He almost eliminated her job as well, but he needed one senior director able to coach him on the byzantine terminology used by the space agency. Like TNOs. 

    "They should be,” he said. “The President is all over my ass about missing her promise of ‘Mars in 2032’ launch. There'll be hell to pay if the Chinese get there first." 

    "China spends more money on their program than we do, sir." 

    "They spend their money on projects that make sense, not bullshit like snapping pictures of Planet X." 

    "You mean Planet Nine." 

    "Whatever." 

    Two men and a woman rose when Stanhope and Martinez entered the underground conference room. First thing to hit Stanhope's nose was the smell of burnt coffee, stale pizza, and body odor. Do these nerds ever shower? 

    NASA’s Director of Astrophysics, Dr. Palani Chatwal, whose wisps of white hair sprouted from the sides of a bald head, offered his hand. "Thanks for coming on such short notice, sir." He motioned to the other two standing at the table. "You know our Chief Scientist, Madeline Brightwood of course, and this is Lyle Johansson of the PCOS Science Mission Directive." 

    Stanhope leaned toward Martinez. "Physics of the Cosmos," she whispered. 

    An Asian-looking guy with unkempt chin-length hair studied a laptop and didn't bother to rise or introduce himself. Stanhope took a seat, glancing at a plastic tub of ping-pong balls on a corner table. Is that what they do here, play games on government property? 

    Madeline Brightwood, a freckled-faced, frizzy red-haired woman and seemingly young for someone with numerous post doctorates, took over. "I'll get straight to the point, sir. There's been a development regarding an anomaly we've been monitoring for some years, and we expect it to have a major impact on Earth." 

    Wearing a proper tie, and the only respectably dressed presenter in Stanhope's opinion, the tall, lanky Dr. Johansson operated a colorized 3D hologram of the solar system hovering above the conference table. 

    Stanhope sputtered when the projection highlighted an artist’s conception of an anomaly commonly called Planet Nine. "You’re kidding me. You dragged me down here for this?" 

    Chatwal and Martinez exchanged glances when Stanhope pushed his chair back to leave. 

    "Please, hear Dr. Brightwood out, sir. It's important," Martinez urged. 

    The four of them exhaled with relief when Stanhope settled back. The guy on his laptop kept reading as if uninterested. 

    Johansson magnified the projection of a black, featureless sphere while Brightwood narrated. "We've had difficulty in past years observing what we thought was a low-end gas giant class planet, 17 times the mass of Earth, on the outer fringes of the Kuiper Belt. We calculate it to be near its aphelion position, about 1200 AUs from Earth." 

    "Can you give me that in simpler language?" Stanhope asked. 

    Martinez leaned over to whisper. "Aphelion – furthest point on its estimated 10,000-to-20,000 year orbital cycle – over a hundred-billion miles away. In simple terms, it behaves like a comet, and is suspected to be a contributory factor in Earth's abnormal tilt in planar orbit to the sun." 

    “It's too dark and far away to reflect light, and until recently, it registered no infrared signature,” Brightwood added. 

    Stanhope thought it was more theoretical nonsense. “I read something about it in Popular Mechanics like – decades ago. Why are we still spending money on this?” 

    “We . . . haven’t, actually . . . spent much,” Martinez said. “Most of what we’ve learned is from older data, supplemented with new information from other agencies.” 

    Stanhope wanted to inquire what other agencies, but he decided against it. “What about the satellite that took pictures of Pluto—what’s the name . . . ?” Stanhope snapped his fingers in thought. “Cassini.” And here they think I don’t know jack-squat about space. 

    “Sir, I think you mean New Horizons,” Martinez said. “Cassini went down in Saturn’s atmosphere in 2017.” 

    “We lost New Horizons' signal when it neared a KBO back in 2019," Dr. Chatwal clarified. "Extraterrestrial satellites still functioning today are concentrated on the moon, Mars of course, Jupiter, and the asteroid belt to search for mineable resources.” 

    "What is a KBO?" Stanhope asked impatiently. 

    "Kuiper Belt Object," Martinez answered. 

    “You still haven’t told me why we’re still studying this. If it’s . . .” He turned to Martinez. “What did you say, a hundred-billion miles away? Why do we care?” 

    Johansson began a holographic animation. "We've recently picked up a surge of x-rays from the position of the anomaly. Based on data from the last two years, we've observed small planetoids and ice bodies beyond Pluto moving away from established orbits." 

    Martinez sighed. "Dr. Chatwal, I think you need to just tell him." 

    Chatwal took a seat. “The evidence is indicative of a developing dark matter black hole.” 

    Stanhope nearly choked in disbelief. "You mean like star-eating black holes?" His teenage son played a holographic game called "Galaxy Death" with a black hole as the nemesis. “You're asking me to believe a kid's game scenario, and by no longer calling it Planet Nine, you expect me to tell the President to take seriously something you can't see, because it’s . . . black.” 

    Chatwall threw his head back in disbelief. Brightwood rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger. Johansson stared at Stanhope, grim-faced. The Asian laptop reader was still in a world of his own. 

    Brightwood gave it one more shot. “X-ray emissions, which have never been detected before, and KBOs moving toward the anomaly are verifiable observations of a considerable gravitational force.” 

    "Because it’s a magnet to a bunch floating rocks nearby?" Stanhope shook his head. “I’m supposed to tell the President about this, like it’s big deal?” 

    The scruffy Asian dude slammed his laptop shut. He scratched his scalp, raining dandruff on his navy-blue shirt, and finally joined the discussion. "We have corroborated the same phenomena as your agency, as well as the European, Japanese, Indian, and Australian agencies," he said with a thick Chinese accent. "The evidence is irrefutable." 

    Stanhope squinted at him. "Excuse me. Who are you?" 

    "Dr. Deng Wei is from the China National Space Agency,” Dr. Chatwal replied. “He arrived yesterday to share their findings with us." 

    Stanhope's first thought was how the hell did a Chinese national get in the building? "You didn’t think to tell me about this Dr. Dings presence?” he growled at Martinez. 

    “It’s Deng,” the Chinese scientist corrected. 

    Martinez jutted her chin. “He has the proper clearances and authorizations.” 

    She stiffened when Stanhope leaned over to mutter an inch from her ear. “What's he here for? To spy on our progress with the Mars mission?” 

    “You may be interested to know, Administrator Stanhope," Deng responded, "in view of the collective data, the CNSA has cancelled its Mars expedition.” 

    Stanhope sniffed. So he says. Probably coached by China’s Ministry of State Security to keep us off balance. He assumed a posture of command. “So, Mr. Deng, would you be willing to share with us the reason why?” 

    "It's Dr. Deng" he replied, before gesturing at the mysterious dark orb. “My colleagues in China, and the capable people of your NASA and other agencies, strongly suspect this to be the development of a cosmic event we have never observed before.” 

    He adjusted the projector settings. The animation restarted, and as the x-ray readout increased, the black sphere shrank in size. “Our collective theory believes the anomaly has been a dormant, dark matter object since before our sun coalesced from interstellar dust and gas to become a protostar. Analysis of unique CMB radiation – excuse me, cosmic microwave background radiation emanating from the anomaly strongly indicates it may be as old as the universe itself." 

    Convincing these NASA's eggheads had to be an elaborate ruse to hide what the Chinese really intended, and now he expects me to buy this bullshit too? Stanhope sat back and crossed his legs. “Okay, I’ll bite . . . Dr. Deng. Let’s say this thing is what you theorize it is. Why is the Chinese government so interested in something that far away, based on an ability to suck a few rocks toward it?” 

    “It will be of interest to everyone before long, Mr. Administrator. Our survival as a species depends on what we do in the very near future. The data confirms the mass of the anomaly will increase steadily as it shrinks, until it overcomes our sun's effectiveness to sustain planetary stability." Deng unplugged a crystal flash drive from his laptop. “Allow me to show you.” 

    Stanhope gave Martinez a we’ll-have-words-about-this-later glower when the room lights were lowered. 

    Deng’s 3D holograph display expanded to the Oort Cloud at the edges of the solar system. Stanhope inwardly admitted the projection had strikingly detailed resolution, each planet realistically rendered from satellite photos taken over the years. Deng zoomed in on the dark matter sphere and accelerated the timeline into the future. As the anomaly shrank smaller and smaller, the x-ray, infrared, and gamma radiation readouts spiked. 

    “You're theorizing this anomaly is a credible threat to Earth?” Stanhope asked, finally understanding what this meeting was about. 

    “We are not speaking theoretically anymore,” Deng said. 

    As the year counter ticked off, rock, ice, and asteroids of all sizes in the Kuiper Belt and Oort Cloud were pulled toward it. Changed gravitational forces altered the orbital plane of Neptune and Uranus. 

    "This event appears to not follow the current known processes of black hole formation, and we believe we are witnessing a unique cosmic disturbance which will result in the eventual destruction of Earth." Deng halted the animation to make his point. “If the event remains linear, we calculate the orbital stability of the solar system will become slowly undone, and Earth will begin to experience what we call ‘lethal rain’ from the millions of asteroids and ice bodies nearest us.” 

    For a long moment, Stanhope wavered with the revelation of a potential apocalypse, but the well-honed, skeptical lawyer in him refused to believe a mathematical fairytale without further proof. 

    The sphere continued to shrink, until the diameter index reached the size of a tiny moon, and the view of background stars distorted. "We expect gravitational lensing as the anomaly reaches critical mass, but by then, it will be too late for us,” Deng said. 

    Stanhope turned to Dr. Martinez for translation. "Extreme gravitational forces capable of bending space-time itself and light along with it," she explained. 

    “Bending . . . space . . . time and light,” he parroted. She’s talking sci-fi movie shit. On a hunch, Stanhope pulled out his palm tablet and typed 'black holes' in the search option. He skipped over anything with big science words and mathematical formulas. He finished scanning and looked up with a scowl to find Deng lounging in a chair with his feet propped up. 

    Deng smiled at him. “What did you find out on Wikipedia, Mr. Administrator?” 

    Stanhope's anger flared. “Enough to learn it takes a tremendous amount of mass and energy to form a black hole. What you're proposing is impossible.” He waved at the paused animation. “A nice video presentation, but forgive me if I choose not to believe it until someone comes up with some hard facts, not some mumbo-jumbo theoretical algorithm.” Martinez straightened her posture in undisguised resentment. “I continue to be amazed . . . sir, of how flippant you are of vetted research corroborated by several trustworthy sources. This anomaly is not mumbo-jumbo and is not going away, just because you refuse to believe it.” 

    Stanhope inhaled sharply through his nose. “Is that so, Dr. Martinez.” And soon to be an ex-employee of NASA. “So where does a thing like this get its energy if you can’t see it?” 

    “We see only 4% of the physical universe. The rest is composed of dark matter and energy." Martinez' chair slid back a few inches when she abruptly rose. "Even high-schoolers know that,” she shouted. 

    Neither Stanhope nor Martinez made a move to break from the showdown of glares. 

    Deng brought his feet off the table with a clump. “Mr. Administrator, this planet will lose its protective atmosphere and become like the cratered surface of the moon from a tempest of meteors, comets, and planetary debris long before the anomaly even achieves critical mass. Now is the time for us to refocus our efforts to save as many humans as we can before the inevitable happens." 

    Stanhope clasped hands and straightened to a trial judge's posture. "If the Chinese government wants to spend resources for life boats in space, that is your prerogative." 

    "Perhaps you have a suggestion how to prevent the obliteration of all organic life on Earth . . . ” Deng glanced at the year tally. “. . . in less than eighty-years.” 

    “We have orbiting, outward-facing weapons arrays for such a thing. Had to use it twice in the past year, not that I’m divulging anything you don’t already know. You can thank us anytime.” Stanhope adjusted the knot of his Italian silk necktie. “If what you’re claiming is true, we’ll choose to devote the resources of this agency to produce more asteroid busters. I suggest China do as well.” 

    After several moments of stunned silence in the room, Deng nodded with a grunt. "My superiors in the government responded in a like manner when we reported our findings. Allow me then, to present you the same demonstration I gave to them when they too, thought our proposal–Yúchun. 

    Stanhope glanced at his watch. Late again for another meeting because of this crap. “You've got two minutes, Dr. Deng. Keep it brief and keep it simple.” 

    Deng set the plastic tub of white balls on the table. “Do you play ping-pong, Administrator?” 

    “I play tennis.” 

    “The principal is similar.” 

    Stanhope balked when Deng handed him a paddle. “Humor me, please,” Deng implored. “It won’t take but a minute.” 

    Stanhope snatched the paddle from Deng’s hand, grinding his teeth. Deng went to the opposite end of the table and gently tossed a ball. Stanhope batted it away. Deng flung three in rapid sequence. Stanhope easily deflected them, smirking when one of the balls popped off Deng’s chest. 

    “Like your asteroid killing satellites, I see your tennis skills are good,” Deng smiled. "Dr. Martinez, would you assist me please." 

    A sly smile arose on Martinez' face as she joined Deng and gripped one end of the tub. On the count of three, Martinez and Deng emptied balls at Stanhope with a mighty heave. Stanhope dropped the paddle and shielded his face from the onslaught. 

    Chatwal and Johansson struggled not to guffaw. Balls still bouncing on the floor, Stanhope shot to his feet. "Ms. Martinez, report to my office before you leave this evening." 

    "You don't get it, do you?" Martinez crossed her arms. "What we're trying to demonstrate in simple terms, is the futility of stopping a hailstorm with a pistol." 

    Deng leaned forward with palms flattened on the table. “If we choose to ignore this, Mr. Administrator, it will guarantee the end of our species. Is that brief and simple enough for you?” 

    Stanhope tugged on the hem of his suit coat. "Mr. Deng, my regards to the CNSA." 

    His face mottled with anger, Stanhope spun about and stormed out the door. 

*** 

    Helen Martinez gazed at jeweled sparkles of the capital city at night from her office window. Carefully folding the resignation letter, the emotions of a long career torpedoed by politics, and the eventual end of life on Earth, saddened her. 

    She paused outside Stanhope's cracked-open office door to gather courage. The tinny voice of a newscaster stilled her hand from knocking. She gently pushed the door open. Stanhope had his back to her, listening to a cell phone held to his ear. She edged toward the news monitor, and scenes focused on what appeared to be the aftermath of a massive explosion. 

    Ice crept up her spine when she read the scrolling banner. "Fragment from latest asteroid buster falls near Shenzhen. Quarter of the sprawling Chinese city destroyed—thousands feared dead." 

    "Oh my God," she said aloud. 

    Stanhope clicked off his cell and turned to her. His face had gone pale. Facial cosmetic surgery failed to hide age lines deepened by anxiety. 

    "Happened less than an hour ago," Stanhope said. "That could have been any city in the world." 

    Martinez placed the letter on his desk. "I want to apologize for . . . well, Dr. Deng is known for colorful theatrics . . . I got caught up in it." She fought the rising gorge in her belly from flash-carding devastation on the newscast. 

    Stanhope switched off the monitor and set his cell phone down. "That was the President. She's called an emergency meeting with the Joint Chiefs, Secretaries of State, Defense and National Security . . . asked me to attend as well." 

    "What can I do to help?" Martinez asked without a hint of reservation. 

    He ran a hand threw his hair, mussing its coiffed styling. "You really believe this Planet Nine anomaly, is responsible for this?" 

    "The observational evidence is conclusive of a growing disruptive gravitational force that will destroy our solar system. So yes, I do." 

    Stanhope went to the window to gaze. "We've come so far, only to have it all erased in a generation or so." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm about to be a grandfather." 

    He finally gets it, but it took a disaster to convince him. "I often have to remind myself that if we reduce our nearly fourteen-billion-year-old universe to the span of an hour, human civilization is only fourteen-seconds old." Martinez paused to let it sink in. "Dr. Deng believes this dark matter anomaly was written in the stars before the existence of our solar system and for all we know, it will be here long after Earth returns to cosmic dust." 

    Stanhope picked up her letter of resignation and without reading it, tore it in three pieces before dropping it in a wastebasket. "Effective immediately, I'd like you to assume the Deputy Administrator position, as well as all mission directorates and research." 

    Martinez's jaw dropped. He'd just handed her the keys to all of NASA's scientific efforts outside of general administration. "Uh . . . thank you." 

    "Now, Deputy Administrator Martinez," Stanhope said. "We have meeting to go to at the White House. I need your help convincing the President to divert all satellite missions to monitoring the anomaly." 

    He held the door open for her. "But do us all a favor. Try to keep it in simple terms."

----

The Top Ten . . . 

Foods I Hope To Never Eat Again

DT Krippene

I've been fortunate to experience the diversity of global culture and cuisine first hand. It also came with a few "local" dishes that didn't resonate well with a western palate. My encounters

number well over ten, but these head the list. For the record, I didn't make this up.

1. Dinuguan

Defined as a Filipino stew of pork offal simmered in rich, spicy dark gravy of pig blood, garlic, chili, and vinegar, I refer to it as "Blood and Guts Stew" As a Peace Corps volunteer and one of very few American "Joes" on the island, I was invited to all the barrio fiestas, of which dinuguan was the specialty. I drank a lot of beer to wash it down.

2. Balut

Another Philippine delicacy, Balut is a fertilized duck egg in which the embryo develops for about 20 days, then boiled and eaten from the shell. A common street food I called "Filipino McDonalds," you have to get past a naked embryo staring back at you after the first bite. I've heard overdeveloped eggs with feathers are a good source of fiber.

3. Sea Cucumber

Considered in China to have medicinal value, this relative of the starfish looks and feels like a rotting cucumber. {Kind of tastes like one too). It closely resembles my irreverent description, a "sea turd." Only medicinal equivalent I can think of is Ipecac syrup.

4. Whelks

Typically used in the Chinese version of conch soup, I was treated to a "Heaven from the Seas" dinner in Dalian, where an entire eight-inch snail was served plain, steamed . . . no sauce or flavoring. I had to dig its slimy ammoniacal, multicolored organ body from the shell with a chopstick. My senior executive colleague turned green and said, "They don't pay us enough for this shit."

5. Drunken Shrimp

Live shrimp in a bowl at a Singaporean seafood place, the server dumps rice wine on them at the table so they flop about like Mexican  jumping beans. It proves their fresh. It's also great entertainment for the kids.

6. Lutefisk

Salted cod that's been hung outside to dry until it smells like the dumpster at Subway, then soaked in lye for several days, was the main event for years on my Norwegian mother-in-law's holiday table. It has the consistency of a gelatinous blob when boiled, of which drowning it in butter doesn't help. We drank lots of Aquavit, because there's no way it was going to swim to the stomach all by itself.

7. Dog

I'm not sure where to start with this one and not get a summons from PETA. It's fairly common in Korea, but my story hails once again from my Philippines Peace Corps duty.

Traveling with a USAID representative, he was nipped by a mangy dog while visiting a barrio family. Told we needed the dog for a rabies check, we went back a few hours later to discover the dog was the main entrée for dinner, and would we join them. I got a rabies shot and I wasn't even bitten.

8. Durian

Durian may look like a smaller cousin of the jackfruit, but these pebbly-shelled fruits aren't even related. Prized by folks in Southeast Asia, food writer Richard Sterling described its odor as turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock. It's supposed to be good for you. Thanks . . . I'll take a pill.

9. Haggis

First ingredient on the list is "offal," mixed with onion, oatmeal, suet, and spices. Scotland's version of black pudding, it's traditionally stuffed in a sheep's stomach and boiled. Bottom line . . . it's awful.

10. Turtle Fluids

I save the best for last. At that very same VIP dinner in Dalian years ago, we were served a glass of rice liquor mixed with turtle blood. Rose-tinted cocktails raised in a toast, our host claimed it would bring success in future business endeavors. Two courses later, a green-colored drink appeared before me – liquored up turtle bile. I didn't hear the Chinese parable during the toast, I was too busy concentrating on not upchucking.

Snow Belt Sanctuary

D.T. Krippene

(Featured Story, Winter, 2017)

Topped with several inches of lichen roof sod, the ramshackle cabin of splintered, bug-eaten logs belonged in one of Lloyd’s antique picture books.

I dropped my pack on a snow-salted boulder. “You got to be kidding me. Millions of deserted homes and you come up with a haven for rats and who knows what else?”

“You want to take your chances with roving gangs who’ll turn you in for a few cans of expired cat food – that’s if they don’t eat you instead,” Lloyd replied with a chuckle. “Aren’t many of these structures left in the world.”

“Gee, I wonder why. What’s holding this thing together, termite carcasses?”

Lloyd un-padlocked the door and scanned a smudged, pregnant sky. “Looks like you’re going to get some practice snowshoeing.”

Decades of dust and molder assaulted the nostrils when I opened the door.

“I’ll leave you the shotgun, Winchester, and plenty of ammo,” Lloyd said. “Let me walk you through the power cells and hydro unit.”

"I’ll stick out like a bonfire on Directorate sat-scans out here.”

Lloyd jerked his thumb skyward. “Won’t get through this shit. Even if it did, you’ll blink red like all the other wildlife in the area. Probably tag you as a hibernating bear.”

“Wildlife? What wildlife?”

"Thought you were seventeen, not a six-year-old sniveler afraid of the dark.” He laughed and patted the stubble of my face. “You need to man up, Ryan."

A spider web sealed cupboard groaned when I opened it. It took a little finger scrubbing to read the expiration date on a can of SPAM. “This shit is over twenty-years old.”

“Nobody’s been up here since the plague ended. Long as the can isn’t blown; expiration dates aren’t what they used to be.”

It took concentration to focus on Lloyd’s instructions. The clench of anxiety was hard to ignore, a silent voice ached to beg Lloyd to stay. “What if I get hurt? Can I call you if I need too?”

“Don't get hurt." Lloyd extracted the battery from my com tablet. “Directorate satellites can track these things, bonehead.” He tried not to laugh when I gaped at him. "If you absolutely need to contact me, use the encrypted R-Sat function I loaded. Keep it under thirty-seconds, and make sure to remove the battery.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. "I’ll swing around in a couple weeks.”

Lloyd’s snow-cat disappeared down the trail until distance and snow-fall consumed its chugging rumble. The silence of a winter forest pressed against me with its suffocating mantle.

Loneliness was not a new concept to me, but it was always in a sea of survivors, distraction and noise. Dark took on a new meaning. Wind moaned the melancholy of a first class haunting. Its womanish howl practicing scales ranging from a bone-strumming bass to banshee soprano. I swear at times it called my name.

Hoooo - Ryaaaaaan.

It snowed for five days; the fifth a whiteout blizzard that flayed the skin. I muttered curses to the idiots who screwed up the earth's environment and reestablished the Arctic Circle in what used to be the Adirondacks. Welcome to the new Snow Belt, Lloyd laughed in my head. Belt my goose-pimpled ass. It was a belt, suspenders, flannel shirt, and a hat.

You’ll be safe, Lloyd had said. No one will find you. Life in the wilderness is a freeing experience.

Bastard.

***

Roused from deep hibernation to full panic alert one night, I sprang-up so fast, the zipper of my sleeping bag ripped. Retinas burned from sudden flashlight glare, my watch read 2:36 AM. I sucked in a breath and held it, despite a rocketing heart that wanted every molecule of oxygen I could send it.

A scream, muted by walls of the cabin.

A design obligation of all zippers was to jam at the most inappropriate time. It budged a few inches, enough for me to worm myself from its trap. Cold air blasted me full awake when I burst outside in long johns and unlaced boots. My neck throbbed with the millisecond delay of my heartbeat.

Growling drifted from somewhere deep in the woods. Sounded like feral dogs. Their populations exploded in years, but I never thought the animals ventured far from the former populated areas that gave birth to them. Many animals sounded human-like when attacked. Rabbits make the most heart-wrenching squeal when hawk talons sweep them from the ground. My heartbeat descended with the presumption of a natural thing.

About to go back inside, my eyes adapted to the dark picked up a ghostly red glow deep in the woods. A campfire? Couldn’t be.

Then I heard it. A distant shout muffled by snow-laden branches.

“Ah … bugger off.” Definitely human.

My heart returned to the panic treadmill. Adrenalin broke safety seals and sent me back to fetch the shotgun. I chambered a round, and shoved spare cartridges in a jacket pocket. Snowshoes fastened, I sucked in a huge breath. You sure about this? Could be bounty hunters looking to bag the only human born after the plague ended. Nah. I’d hear gun fire by now.

Weaving between trees in the purple glow of starlit snow, I plodded toward a fiery-red glimmer and sounds of snarling. When I cleared a hillock, down in a protected hollow, someone in a hooded white snowsuit fended off a pack of large black-furred dogs with an emergency flare.

Damn, those are big dogs. Wait. Holy shit. Wolves. Five of them.

After the plague removed their only predator, wolf packs swelled with the unexpected bounty of livestock left to fend for themselves. I wasn't aware wolves had migrated east, or were unafraid of humans.

Two wolves snapped at the torchbearer, never getting close enough to get swiped by the flare. The other three circled. The flare sputtered. Soon, light-blinded retinas would fail for both of us. Wolves didn’t need to see. The nose would guide them like a programmed missile in a flesh-ripping frenzy. I gripped the halogen flashlight along the barrel, and switched it on.

“Hoooooo,” I yelled to distract them.

Five sets of animal eyes and the hooded man turned toward my light at the same time. The wolves formed an offensive line. My hands shaking, I inched forward, swaying the gun from one to another. My adrenaline pump injected its magic as if to say be scared later.

Two wolves spread out in a flanking maneuver. Yellow eyes glared into the flashlight, driven by a stronger sense that could taste the warm blood in my veins. I took a knee to steady my aim. Can’t believe I’m actually doing this.

The wolf closest to me, turned to look at the torch person behind it when the flare spit and fizzled. Seconds from blindness, I had to force a move.

“Hey dog, you going to stand there all night?”

I absolutely excel at spouting lame lines under stress, but it worked. The wolf turned its attention to me with bared fangs. Rumbled growls thrummed the air. I inhaled and held my breath. Got you. Didn’t like being called a dog, did you. The alpha wolf charged me at a full run atop packed snow. Another two followed a second later. I exhaled and squeezed the trigger when the lead wolf got within twenty-feet.

The shot slammed the beast full in the snout and flipped it backward in a high-pitched screaming yelp. The other two stopped in their tracks to register what happened. I had precious seconds to load another cartridge, or I’d be a meat Popsicle.

I needed a game closer to ensure one of the beta wolves didn’t become the new alpha and chose the one with the most deadly I-want-to-kill-you stare. My aim went wide of the wolf's torso and blasted its tail clean off. The injured wolf limp-sprinted toward the woods, followed by fellow betas with tails tucked between their legs.

I quickly chambered another round, and did a lighthouse sweep with the flashlight. Satisfied, I flicked the safety on and stared at the dead wolf a few moments to calm the shakes. A cough behind me broke through the storm drain of dwindling adrenaline.

Head concealed inside a fur-collared arctic hood, the guy looked like a coal-mining snowman, minus the carrot nose and button eyes. He dropped the flare stub and sat on a rock with hooded head in hands.

“Our friends probably won’t be back tonight, but I don’t want to take any chances.” I swept the light in a circle. Snow skis leaned against a pine tree near a mountain tent and wilderness pack. “How’d you get out here?”

The white polyester blob rocked back and forth, and didn’t answer.

“Um, look, I have a cabin nearby. Isn’t real big, but it has a stove, a roof and a door that locks.”

The rocking motion stopped.

“Unless you have a better idea, you shouldn’t stay out here.”

Snowman hesitated a moment, then grabbed his pack to follow me.

My new camping friend stood in the doorframe, probably still sorting out if I was a werewolf in disguise. I removed my jacket, and worked on the potbelly stove.

“Are you hungry?” I rifled through cupboards for dried noodles. “When was the last time you ate?”

It was like trying to friend a stray cat. He eventually shuffled toward the stove and sat on a stool. I took apart the shotgun to clean it while the water heated. It had saved my butt this day and it deserved a little loving care.

I retried to initiate conversation. “Wow, that was scary. Good thing I heard you.”

When I turned around, hood, scarf and the top part of the snowsuit had been removed. I had to blink a few times to be sure I wasn’t experiencing a post traumatic hallucination.

Bedraggled chestnut hair matted to the oval, pale face of a young woman. She couldn’t be much older than me, which would have made her a child when over ninety-eight percent of the global population perished. According to Lloyd, as if the plague preferentially selected the young and elderly for extinction, people over fifty died off completely, number of survivors under the age of ten was infinitesimal. I imagined her worth to rover gangs must be priceless.

“If you’re – on the run, that’s fine,” I said. “Oh, I’m Ryan, by the way. Kind of a refugee myself.”

Water boiled over and hissed on the stove. I dumped a package of chicken-flavored noodles in the pot and stirred.

“Jenny,” the girl said. “Name’s Jenny.”

Strange accent. I handed her the soup. “Go slow, it’s hot.”

She took the pot and sniffed it.

“Noodles are a little dated, but then isn’t everything these days,” I laughed. “The accent, heard a recording once – sounds British. Is that where you’re from – before the plague?”

“Why is it you Yanks think it’s always British?” Jenny slurped her soup. “Australia.”

“Australia?” I didn’t mean to bark it. “You mean, like recently?”

The intensity of her green eyes sparkled like candle-lit emeralds. “Hitched a ride with a bunch of drongos on a sailboat. Hit the west coast few months ago. Been on your outback since.”

A girl sails from the other side of the planet without drowning, actually makes it across the unprotected expanse without getting caught, and nearly ends up as wolf scat a stone’s throw from my front door.

A gazillion other places she could have headed, how the hell did she end up in the middle of Five Ponds Wilderness in the dead of winter? More importantly, where is she going?

The Top Ten ...

Favorite

Authors

D.T. Krippene

Choosing ten favorite authors is no easy chore when you read as much as I do. I picked ten authors who affected me most growing up, which influenced my writing.

In alphabetical order.

1. James Clavell – I read Shogun while living in the Philippines as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Living in Asia during the seventies gave it special meaning, and I became hooked on everything Clavell wrote. I credit the desire to embrace foreign cultures to his books. The chance came in 1997, where I embarked on a ten-year stint in Singapore and Taiwan.

2. Michael Crichton – Especially intrigued by life sciences in high school, Andromeda Strain introduced me to a bold new world of futuristic thrillers involving engineered pathogens. Crichton's books were always richly researched and fast-paced. My favorite of Crichton's is Timeline, where time travelers go back to 14th Century France to rescue a professor.

3. Ken Follet – Where Clavell may have set the bar for historical thrillers, Ken Follet took it to a new level with a 12th Century monk's drive to build a cathedral in a two book series, Pillars of the Earth, and World Without End. Follet spares no ugliness in the oft-violent world of the European Middle Ages, but he balances it with the hidden beauty of a simpler time. Follet is must reading for anyone world-building in this timeframe.

4. Robert Heinlein – I was ten when I first read Heinlein's Tunnel in the Sky, about a futuristic final exam for advanced survival that goes wrong and students become castaways in an unknown universe. Must have read it a dozen times as a kid, and I credit Heinlein for starting me on the sci-fi highway, absorbing every novel the man wrote. Podkayne of Mars remains a favorite.

5. Robert Jordan – Author of the Wheel of Time series, no one (except maybe George R.R. Martin), paints a complex fantasy world like Jordan. Admittedly, Jordan wandered inside his plot line as the series grew, and had a tendency for diarrhea of the word processor when drafting a scene. Jordan died before he could finish the series. Jordan's wife tapped fellow fantasy author, Brandon Sanderson, to bring it all to a close with Jordan's notes. I loved the damned series, and the awesome cover designs by Darrell K. Sweet.

6. Stephen King – Believe it or not, King is another key author in my life discovered while serving in the Peace Corps. Try reading Carrie beneath a mosquito net, to the sounds of a sweltering Philippine barrio night, and not get the shivers. I've read most of his works, but The Stand remains my all time favorite, an apocalyptic tale that started my love affair with all things dystopian.

7. Barbara Kingsolver – When asked who my favorite literary fiction authors are, Kingsolver is first on the list. Poisonwood Bible stands out as her most notable, and Animal Dreams a personal favorite, but it was the more recent Flight Behavior that resonated with me. A story of a potential ecological disaster involving Monarch butterflies , a small town, Appalachian mother's life is irrevocably changed inside an arena of political, climatologically, and religious interests.

8. Dean Koontz – My first Dean Koontz novel was Lightning, a story of a young girl's rescue from a man who appeared on the heels of a lightning bolt. Like Stephen King, Koontz has the ability to write stories that appeal to sci-fi, fantasy, and horror aficionados. Koontz can breathe life into characters like no one else.

9. Kim Stanley Robinson – A late entrant to my top ten list of favs, Robinson was recommended when I lamented the glut of space operas, and I'd had enough of Einstein-bending captains traveling over light speed and evil lizard-like aliens. I started with a recent novel, 2312, in a future of colonized planets within our own solar system, enhanced humans, and the dark element of Artificial Intelligence. Not an easy read, Robinson keeps it real by adhering to the established tenets of Einstein and Hawkings, yet offers new ideas of what the future may hold for mankind.10. J.R.R. Tolkien – What can I add that hasn't already been said. Another pivotal series in my adolescent years that began with The Hobbit, you can't really get a feel for the richness of Tolkien's epic fantasies in the movies. You can't call yourself a Tolkien reader unless you've read his other works, like The Silmarillion.