The Great Ray

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

My manta children form circles to feed. They always have, and they always shall.

But on those times when they are afraid, they congregate in great numbers, creating circles that give even the heartiest of hunter-fins pause.

Coursing in an undulating, mesmerizing ring, they call to me. I cannot help but hear them. The more urgent their need, the greater their fear, the more that join the circle. The more that join, the clearer I hear them across the oceans.

They spin, weave, and twirl, faster and faster, until they reach a fevered frenzy. It is a wonder to behold. All the while, they call their name for me. My children in the Mediterranean call me Glistráei, “She who glides.” The sea life off the Great Barrier Reef know me as Whaea Hohonu, “Deep Mother.” In the east Atlantic, the name they chose to honor me is Legisladora, “the Law Giver.”

In every sea, in every ocean, they all bless me and my names—“may she long live.”

I wish they’d knock it off.

My name is Mabel, dammit.

And I’m tired of all this responsibility, not to mention the Gift of Sight.

I had just finished peacefully resolving a dispute between a pod of sperm whale and a shoal of giant squid. For creatures with such large brains, they have traditions that even the Great One Who Sleeps would consider backward. Both groups demanded that the peace could only be preserved if I selected one from each group to fight to the death. Neptune, protect us from the big and stupid.

But that’s neither here nor there. I was taking a well-deserved respite from my diplomatic duties in the sun-drenched waters near Cyprus, grazing in the fields of krill and a bloom of decapod larvae, when I heard the clans from the American Atlantic coast call my name.

Their cries were high and ragged with panic. The last time I heard anything that terrified were the screams decades ago, near the Marshall Islands. The land-walkers had learned the power of the Sun and had brought a burning doom down on the paradise of Bikini Atoll.

This time, however, I could tell the peril that so frightened my children was not of the land dwellers’ making. It was cause by one of our own. In response, the hunter-fins were preparing for war.

I made haste to Atlit-Yam, the sunken city off the Israeli coast, and the nearest Gate. It took half a day to reach my destination. Exhausted from such a long swim, I barely had enough energy to evoke the sleeping Gate in the central square’s underwater stone henge to life.

I passed through, and willed my way to the Gate on the other side of the world—long dead Atlantis in the exact center of what the land-walkers fearfully call the Bermuda Triangle.

In that singular eternal moment between departure and arrival, life and death, existence and oblivion, I saw them—the merman whose desire to save his people broke every law that I had set down to preserve the peace, and the land-walker that he desired. I saw the magic totem that he used allowing her to live under the surface. I saw her change into a mermaid. And I saw the Great White that thirsted for retribution.

The merman and transformed girl, stared into each other’s eyes, sharing the emotion that too few undersea dwellers understand. In a loving embrace, they spoke their names.

I focused on a strange scene behind them. A sunken ship. The merman Hudson collecting gold. And asking the advice from… I knew that decapus was going to be trouble the moment he emerged from his egg sac. I should have eaten Bruno along with the rest of his brothers and sisters when he was but a larva. But no-o-o, I had to blindly follow my vision. Mabel, you idiot.

Just before the Gate released me, I was given one last vision—Gloria changing into something else, something that I wasn’t expecting. I gasped so hard, all the plankton in my filters burst out in a cloud. For a moment, before me was a creature I haven’t seen since long before I inherited this job—a Siren.

The waters changed in an instant from the deep cobalt blue of the Mediterranean, to the sterile pastel aqua of the Caribbean. I could taste the fear lacing the ocean water rich with coral salts. I followed my cephalic lobes and headed straight for it. I swam for an hour before I found the tribe of my children, circling in a chaos that was more like seagulls fighting over a floating carcass.

“From across the oceans, I have answered your call.” I really dislike talking like that, putting on airs like a snooty all-seeing oracle. What the hey, it’s a job.

My children broke ranks and rushed to me. Surrounding me, they renewed their circle. They were more ordered this time around, but their anticipation and fear nearly blinded me. I was assaulted from every side by their confused wails.

“Legisladora, long may you live.”

“The mer-people have broken their vow.”

“A merman has taken a land-walker as his own.”

“The hunter-fins call for blood.”

“What shall we do, Legisladora?”

I’m getting too old for this crap. “I have come a long way, and know of your plight. Now be still.”

My children slowed, circling me as slowly as their breathing allowed. The whisper of their gliding was pleasant to feel, and the stink of their fear subsided.

I let my pectoral fins rest and floated in the center of their ring. Reaching out into the early morning gloaming I searched the depths and shallows. I stretched my senses out beyond the reefs, the wrecks drowned by islands of Sargasso. Near the cliffs that dive into the black waters below, I found my messenger, feeding on fields of shellfish.

We did not have long to wait. One quarter of my children scattered, screaming anew when an Atlantic bluefin tuna raced into their circle. “You called, Legisladora, long may you live,” he said, twisting his tail and fins to retreat and bow. “Hastara has heard and is here.”

“Yeah, whatever fills your air bladder,” I mumbled. Neptune give me patience for this claptrap. I swallowed the carpet of plankton that had collected on my filters. My next words had to heard plainly by everyone present.

“Hastara, fleet of fin, go north. Follow the line where the cold waters from the north and the Gulf Stream flow past each other. Swim for a day until you find the Mid-Atlantic settlement of mer-people. There you must find a hunter-fin named—”

“A hunter-fin!” exclaimed Hastara, as a moment of panic overtook him. He jetted away in a blink of an eye. My children and I called him back. He resumed his position, lowering his head. “A thousand pardons,” he said as bravely as he could, though the scales on his flanks still shivered in ripples.

“Fear not.” I swam up and around him three times. “I guard you with my powerful magic. Find the hunter-fin named Mona. Neither she, nor any other hunter-fin shall harm you, now that you bear my seal. Instruct Mona to take no action, and wait for me. No harm must come to the mer-people, especially those named Hudson and Gloria.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell Hastara that my “magic” was basically all that’s left of those decapod larvae I ate yesterday. But the hunter-fins will get the message. It has my scent, and it will stick to him for a whole week. He’ll be fine.

I just hope he gets there in time. Yeah, us seers don’t see everything. So sue me.

Part 6: A Fisherman

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

I got to the municipal pier before the crack of dawn. Jim and Ed were nowhere to be seen. Man, you never saw me haul my rods, tackle box, and cooler to the end of Municipal Pier so fast.

Believe you me, that spot is primo for a reason. The pier-jetty combination starts wide coming off the beach. Once past the public restrooms and main storage hut, the rocks underneath end and the pier narrows quickly. The flatiron-shaped building is four feet wide at pier’s end, and with the weather station pylons on either corner, the ocean-side rail is a fisherman’s paradise. Miles of water to yourself, and all the benefits that go with it—no tangling of neighbors’ lines, no annoying conversations to interrupt the relaxing sound of waves breaking on the pilings below. Not to mention the view for sunrise is phenomenal.

Yessireebob, this is the life—casting for striped bass in the summer waters in the morning, reeling in fluke in the afternoon, snapping up bluefish in the evening, and diving for Pabst Blue Ribbon in the icy waters of my Igloo all day long. If you bring your meals, you could spend the whole day there, with no one to witness why the guy at the end of the pier never needs to take a break and head to the Muni’s facilities.

Beachcombers strolled along in singles and pairs. The two lifeguard teams propped up their watch stands and sun umbrellas, both midway between the Muni and the next pier on either side. I scoffed at how close together their orange flags were. Swimming areas that tight is a mixed blessing—the swimmers will be farther away, which is fine by me; but it also means the lifeguards will be blowing their whistles more often as the swimmers stray out of bounds.

One thing out of the ordinary caught my eye. Uncomfortably close to my pier milled more than a handful of small teams of people staking out parcels of sand right just below the high tide line.

Jim and Ed barely made it before the tourist fishing noobs claimed the rest of the side rails that weren’t marked “No Fishing.” Ed’s face was redder than his usual shade of sunburn as he and Jim huffed & puffed their loads to my left around the corner.

“What the heck happened to you?” I said while reeling in my second striper.

“We had a flat on the Parkway,” said Ed.

“Two flats,” growled Jim. “One on da passenger side, and one in da trunk.” After he set up his tubes and rods, he calmed down and we got to jawing about the families while Ed set up his rigs. We made it quick—not just because we both knew that when it came to small talk, brevity is the soul of fishing, but because of Ed’s lousy mood.

“Quit the yammerin’,” Ed said with a hush that was louder than a shop vacuum. “We’re running late as it is, and the radio’s calling for a storm late this afternoon.”

I scanned the sky and sniffed the air. No ozone, just salt and the usual smells of decaying sea life that washed up on the beach. Ahh, heaven.

There was one thing out of kilter, though. The wind was wrong. This time of day, the land breeze should be dying out, and the ocean breeze should be only starting to kick up as the Jersey mainland begins to soak up the sun. But the ocean wind was already strong. Ed and his radio could be right.

Before I switched bait and lures from stripers for fluke, I also checked out the waters and the surroundings. The water was starting to lose its color and turn silty, another sign that the coming storm might be strong.

The little mystery of the sand “real estate” people was resolved as well. The teams were working on sand sculptures. Leaning past the south pylon, I made out the beginnings of a castle, a reclining mermaid, an octopus or squid, a deformed Godzilla, and—Oops! Tough luck kids, building too close to my pier. A rogue wave had bounced off the underlying jetty and clobbered whatever they were working on. At least they took the hint, and restarted in another spot farthest from my pier.

Around noon, Ed and Jim took a lunch break. Jim stuck his head around the northside weather pylon. “Hey Steverino, you want anyt’ing from da Clam Shack? Nuttin’s bitin’, and Ed’s got a hankerin’ for their clam chowder.”

I raised my third (fourth? Aw, who’s counting?) beer at him. “Nope. I’m fine.”

About ten minutes later, the power of suggestion hit me hard. My stomach growled at me for passing up the chance for Frank’s grub. Not to mention their waitresses are pretty easy on the eyes, especially the girl named… Ginger? Georgia? Gloria, that’s it. Man, if was twenty years younger…

I pacified my hunger with an Italian hoagie. It wasn’t soon after when the combination of sun, surf, and a gut full of pastrami and beer lulled me away from my rods.

A commotion from the south interrupted my little catnap. A lady wearing a fashion pink sweatsuit—with matching bullhorn—blasted out announcements, as a cheering crowd surrounded the nearly-completed sand sculptures.

“Fifteen minutes until judging begins,” screeched the pink harpy with the horn. “But don’t go away.” I couldn’t make out the rest of what she said, only that there would be some rock’n’roll band on the beach after the contest.

Just my luck. The one day when I can get away from the wife and kids. The one day when my work schedule, the sun, tides, bite times, and weather cooperate. The one sliver of time to commune with nature, and the danged township has to have some hair-brained hootenanny on the beach.

“Oh great,” I complained at the gods of fishing. “They’re gonna scare everything away with their racket.”

But I had just the cure for that—my lucky sinker.

The last time my Dad and I went fishing together, he had helped me catch a prize-winning striper. Truth be told, it was mostly his catch. He had the touch, always knowing where the fish were biting. In my pocket was a ‘65 JFK half-dollar he gave me to spend for the day. I took the prize as a sign, and Dad’s coin has done well for me ever since, as long as I didn’t overdo it. I don’t recall exactly when I got the bright idea to use it as a sinker, but it felt like that little piece of Dad would guide my hook to the fish. Nowadays, I save it for competitions, friendly wagers, or whenever I feel reminiscent. For some reason, it just seemed right to bring out the big guns now. Besides, the missus loves broiled blue, and it was time to change bait again anyway.

Another can of beer, and my Kennedy in its watertight container was ready to go. I cast my line, whipping it as far south as I could, given the limited elbow room from the pylons. The unusually strong Gulf current dragged my line to north, and I cast again. And again. And again. Ahh, this is the life.

“And we have a winner!”

I almost dropped my pole when the lady with the bullhorn blasted her announcement. The string of foul language I directed at the crowd circling the sculpture of a medieval castle—turrets, drawbridge and all—was drowned out by their cheers egged on by the princess in pink.

I pulled in my line, cursing a little more when I noticed the bait was stolen from my hook. Putting on a fresh scrap of eel soaked in oil and popping open another beer, I gave Kennedy a kiss and cast to the south again. I gagged on my brew when I spotted two kids dashing into the waters from the sculptures, far from the guarded area. Once they were thigh-deep in the drink, they dove into the next wave, all smiles and eyes only for each other. I had no clue who the surfer dude was, but the girl was another situation.

“Gloria?” I muttered to myself.

I waved at them, shouting at them to move away, then at the lifeguard half a jetty away. No soap with either of them. The kids were too moonstruck, and the guard was busy whistling at a party of teeny-boppers that had body-surfed out of bounds.

Gloria and her superjock emerged, floating closer. The guy put a necklace around Gloria’s neck and kissed her. The way me and the missus never do anymore.

Those stupid kids were close—and oblivious to both to the jetty and my hook. I yelled down another warning at them, but my timing was off. They had already dove headfirst into another wave, large as the rogue that flattened the sand sculpture earlier in the morning. I started reeling in my line as fast as I dared without chancing a snag. Glancing down, I tasted the beer in my gullet going sour. Now the pair was close enough to either get snagged in my line, or smashed into the rocks behind me if a big enough wave snatched them up.

I yelled loud as I could, and I thought my head would split. Ouch—I shoulda paced myself with those brewskis.

Shaking my head, I opened my eyes again, squinting against the too-bright sun. Fearing I might see the worst, my jaw dropped from what met my sight instead. The two kids had tails. Bright as parrotfish they were, striped with rose, pale blue, and orange.

They kissed again. Gloria—or whatever she had turned into—dove into the darkening waters. The dude looked around, scanned the beach, seeming satisfied that no one had noticed them leaving the contest. He did a double take when he spotted me twenty feet above him, staring down with my hands frozen on my rod and reel.

The man, that is, the mer-man, shushed me with a webbed index finger to his lips, curled with a slight grin. He winked, and with a quick salute he dove under the foam fizzling apart from the last wave that broke past.

I can never be sure how long I stood there like a frozen statue of disbelief. I don’t think I even blinked my eyes until I felt the rod bend. It curled down slightly, then bent sharply from two tugs. “Oh, crap,” I cried out, and resumed reeling in my line. It offered no resistance, and up came my sinker case and hook.

I sighed with relief when the hook came up empty. But something looked off. Something else was in the container. I spotted my lucky JFK still in the clear plastic box, and yanked it up into my waiting hand.

I gave out a yelp when I pulled out what was placed underneath Kennedy. A nice shiny gold doubloon.

Off-Color Language

Christopher D. Ochs

(Featured author, Spring, 2018)

Try as she might, Sarah could not ignore the earth-toned rays that beamed out of the balding psychiatrist's mouth whenever he spoke.

"You've made wonderful progress," said Dr. Baker. "So much so, I thought we would try something different for today's session." He donned his tweed jacket, folding his spectacles into its breast pocket. Opening the office door, he led Sarah into the reception area.

"Doctor, this is Jane, my friend from work," Sarah said, indicating the woman with an auburn ponytail who was chatting up the receptionist. Sarah envied how everyone was oblivious to the orange clouds that spilled out between Jane's lips with every syllable.

"Pleased," the doctor said through a placid cinnamon smile while shaking Jane's hand. "Will you be waiting to take Sarah home once we're finished?"

"Oh no, I just dropped her off. I rode up with her in case she got elevator sick." Orange bubbles accompanied Jane's nervous chuckles. She glanced at her wristwatch and grimaced. "Oops, I really should be going – I'm late for work. Thomas was detained, so I jumped in to help. He'll take Sarah home when you're finished."

Sarah tilted her head with a raised eyebrow when the air around Jane pulsed a brief vibrant red.

"Thomas . . .?" Dr. Baker mused absently. Tea-colored overtones tumbled out of his mouth like felt balloons.

"Y'know-w-w – Thomas," Jane giggled, her voice again transforming to a deep carmine. "Sarah's fiancé?"

"Of course. Silly of me." Dr. Baker touched his fingers to his forehead in the form of a half-hearted apology.

Sarah blinked in confusion. That shade of red seemed familiar; she should know what it meant.

Jane gave Sarah a cursory hug and dashed away. Sarah watched her friend – and her string of orange "bye-byes" – as she slipped through the closing elevator doors.

"Oh, dear, we should have ridden down with her," fussed Dr. Baker, his beige tones vibrating a shade darker. "That contraption will take forever to return. Would you mind taking the stairs to the courtyard?"

"Not at all, doctor," Sarah said with a relieved grin. "That ochre and mauve elevator music sets my stomach on edge."

She padded down the stairs as quietly as she could manage, but the doctor's footfalls resonated against the painted mason brick walls in flashes of putrid mustard. Perhaps the Muzak wouldn't have been that bad, after all.

Outside, the spring air was delicious. Sarah closed her eyes and drank in the riot of floral scents mixed with the balm of freshly turned earth. Opening her eyes, she scanned the full acre courtyard nestled within the office complex.

Though some people might consider the ring of three-story walls imposing, Sarah found the Art Deco-inspired architecture somewhat amusing. The only part of the buildings that gave her discomfort was the metallic jangling that rang out wherever sunlight struck glass and steel along the west wall.

It reminded her of the sound her engagement ring often made. She held up her hand and considered the glittering diamond. It tinkled like a wind chime of silver, though behind its usual delicate jingling there murmured a new discordant undertone.

The pair remained silent until they reached the main concourse encircling the inner courtyard. The immaculate cobblestone path was bordered with displays of flowers and shrubs.

"Can you tell me what you see and hear, Sarah?"

"The tulips are laughing," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

"A good start. Can you be more specific? What sounds are associated with specific colors, and vice versa? Say whatever comes to mind."

"Only the pink ones laugh." A whisper of a frown infringed on Sarah's smile. "The yellow ones hum a wandering tune, but nothing I recognize. The purple orchids emit a melancholy lament, and the zinnias are positively weeping." She flashed a timid smile at the doctor. "But your voice is the same soft shades of brown it's always been."

"Well, that's reassuring," he said between chuckles.

Rounding the corner, they startled a pair of blue jays battling over territorial rights around a bird feeder. Sarah giggled before explaining, "They're screaming bursts of lavender at each other. Their blue crests blare out like a small fire alarm and a tiny Model-T horn."

"Very good," he said, taking his own deep breath of refreshing spring air. "Any experiences that might be troubling you?"

"Not particularly, though the sunlight on the windows is irritating. It echoes like breaking glass goblets." Sarah glanced again at her ring. In the shade of the eastern wall, it remained dark and silent.

She came to a stop, considering a small blackberry bush in a hurry to blossom. "Now that you mention it, I noticed something unusual with Jane. Normally, her voice is orange. Depending on her mood it's anywhere from a pasty shade like yams, to a neon so vivid I can scarcely stand to look at her. But there were moments today when she went red."

Dr. Baker paused, dangling the lenses of his glasses in front of his eyes, while he examined a caterpillar munching on a teaberry leaf. "Any idea why?"

"It happened every time she mentioned my fiancé, Thomas. But whenever you said his name, I saw no difference, no flash of red." She regarded the doctor with an expectant stare.

Dr. Baker shrugged his shoulders and complied with the unspoken request. "Thomas, Thomas," he uttered, as though he were testing a microphone. "How was that?"

"Same as always. Smooth as latte."

"Hmm, that is curious. What do you think that means?"

"I have no idea."

Dr. Baker tucked his glasses back into his pocket and invited Sarah to proceed along the walkway. "Shall we return to my office? I don't know about you, but there's still too much of a nip in the air for my creaky joints."

Sarah felt Dr. Baker's eyes on her as they rode up in the elevator. A moment of concern flashed across his face when she pressed her palm against her stomach.

"I don't know what's worse, doctor – hearing a sappy thousand-violin version of music that was 'cool' when I was a teenager, or being surrounded by its nauseating shade of chartreuse."

Back in the safety of Dr. Baker's armchair, Sarah's queasiness abated.

"At the risk of repeating myself, Sarah, you've made remarkable progress. Think back to how you were in the hospital, when you emerged from your coma."

Sarah's cheeks flushed, and her ears itched with warmth. She often reacted that way when people spoke about her, even in clinical situations.

"It was new and terrifying. I thought I had gone insane." A fevered shiver raced through her body. "Waking up in that sterile hospital room, every shade of white screaming bloody murder at me. The beeps of the monitors exploding like fireworks. The nurses' and doctors' gentle reassurances threatened to drown me in oceans of cobalt blue." She trembled again with the memory of that horrific day.

Dr. Baker reached over and squeezed her hand. "You were comatose long after your doctors cured the underlying cause. They feared irreparable brain damage. But your fiancé was by your bedside for those three months – along with your friend, I believe. They spoke to you, read to you. I even overheard Thomas sing to you once or twice. They never gave up hope. And it was Thomas who alerted us to your first signs of recovery."

Sarah ducked her head as her cheeks and ears burned. "Yes, he takes good care of me," she said, letting out a weary sigh. She debated with herself whether to add "but sometimes he's so distant, like he's afraid to talk." Her engagement ring tugged once more at her eyes. The glitters that used to chime so loudly were muted, overshadowed by a pained moan somewhere in the heart of the stone.

"I just wish someone had an explanation why I woke up with this synesthesia."

"The brain is a strange and wondrous organ, Sarah. Given your present state, we can surmise that your brain not only healed itself, but additionally rewired the damage. And you woke up with . . ." A deep walnut tinted harrumph escaped his lips while he chose his words. ". . . these new abilities. These gifts, if you will."

"Gifts?" Sarah shook her head. "When was any gift this difficult?"

"I'm not diminishing your struggle, by any means." He released Sarah's hand. "In fact, quite the opposite. But it is my hope that you can grow to draw inspiration and strength from it."

Sarah gaped at Dr. Baker, her forehead creased with incredulity.

"There have been famous cases of synesthesia documented over the years." Dr. Baker settled deep in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Franz Liszt saw his music in terms of color; Duke Ellington experienced musical instruments' sounds as textures; like you, Nabokov had multiple senses commingled – he interpreted words as colors, and observed numbers floating about people's heads."

"That's all very interesting, doctor, but I don't–"

"The point I'm trying to make, Sarah, is that those notable people didn't permit themselves to be victimized by their condition. On the contrary, they used it to enhance their talents. I think, with practice, you can use this new ability to your advantage as well."

Sarah chewed on her lower lip.

"Or consider it this way," Dr. Baker offered with a rub of his chin. "Think of your synesthesia as a means to observe things you never could before – perhaps to understand people better. Imagine how helpful that might be."

The intercom on Dr. Baker's desk chimed with a happy violet tone.

"Goodness, that was fast. But I think we had a productive session, nonetheless. Will you give my suggestion some thought, Sarah?" The doctor leaned forward with a reassuring smile, and the inviting warmth of his dark mulch words undulated about him. "Look for new inspirations – fresh applications for your newfound talents."

"I'll be happy enough when I can get my driver's license reinstated."

Dr. Baker chuckled with embarrassed sympathy. "One step at a time, Sarah. We'll pick up where we left off at your next session."

Thomas was waiting for Sarah in the reception area. His black hair buzzed like a beehive in the ambient light. "Hello, dear," he greeted her with a vibrant green, and pecked her on the cheek. "How did it go today?"

"All right, I guess," she said with a noncommittal shrug. "Though I am feeling a little tired."

"Jane told me you might be a little out of sorts," remarked Thomas, flashing a troubling shade of carmine.

Sarah froze mid-step. "What . . . what did you say?"

He pushed the elevator button, and the door opened without hesitation. Sickly mauve vapors poured out of the overhead speakers and through the sliding doors. "Oh, good. It's still here."

Thomas guided her inside, and pressed the button for the ground floor. As the doors closed, Sarah repeated her question.

"Jane told me you felt a little queasy," he said, not meeting her eyes. The entire elevator car pulsed beet red at the mention of her friend's name.

Sarah glanced at her engagement ring. The sparkles stabbed her eyes like screaming daggers in the fluorescent light. Its moan had increased to a menacing growl.

Unbidden echoes of Dr. Baker's chocolate voice whispered to her. "Understand people better." Her heart sank with a sick quiver.

Thomas thumped the butt of his palm against his forehead. "Oh, that's right – I'm sorry, Sarah. I forgot Muzak has that effect on you now." But Sarah hardly noticed, her mind preoccupied with the hidden messages that were before her all this time.

They were halfway to the car when Sarah halted in the middle of the parking lot.

"Thomas," she said, waiting for him to turn back to her. "I've put you through so much – both of you. You and Jane have been an enormous help during my recovery. But I need to know something." She tried to relax her shoulders. They wouldn't budge, as if they were preparing for an onslaught. Scarcely louder than a whisper, she asked, "Tell me that you still love me?"

Thomas embraced her, closing out the chill air of early spring. "Oh, Sarah, you know I do," he breathed.

Green – still his sturdy, stalwart green.

She edged herself away and asked again. Her eyes focused on his mouth. "No," she said flatly, "I need you to say it."

"I love you, Sarah." A whisper of guilt slipped past the confusion in his eyes and the crimp in his smile. There wasn't a single hint of carmine in his viridian words.

"I see." Sarah fought the plaintive sob that threatened to accompany her words. The arguing pair of blue jays fluttered past, still in their whirlwind of lavender car horns and fire alarms. Thomas stood still for what seemed an eternity of silence.

"How long . . ." Sarah stumbled. "When did you fall in love with Jane?"

Thomas spluttered in disbelief. "What? Don't be silly, Sarah. I–"

"Thomas, I know." She waved her fingers in front of her eyes. "I know."

She started to sob, but a strange relief transformed it mid-breath into a chuckle. "It's almost like lipstick on your collar, when you say her name. And when she says your name."

"Oh, God," he said in a pale green resembling over-boiled peas. Thomas' smile left him, and his head sank between shoulders bent heavy-laden. "You're right. But we didn't . . . we didn't mean to. We grew close while we sat with you in the hospital. After two months, we feared you wouldn't come back." He rubbed his forehead as he stared at the asphalt. "Before we knew it . . . Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, Sarah. But . . ."

Puffs of yellow struggling to turn red poked through his green aura. It was his turn to shake his head after a chasm of silence. Eventually he looked up, meeting her eyes. "So what do we do now? Will you be all right?"

"Don't feel sorry for me, Thomas. Strangely enough, I don't." Sarah stared into the azure sky, listening to cumulus clouds sing in cheery harmony. "If anything, I worry for you and Jane."

She curled Thomas' hand around the engagement ring, the dying embers of its sparkles whimpering into nothingness. "You and Jane believe you love each other now, and that's wonderful. But things may change, just as they did between us . . . only it will come without warning."

Stepping back, Sarah fixed him with a sad stare of certainty. "But one day, if I'm lucky enough to find my special someone, he'll say 'I love you.'

"And I'll know it's true, because I'll see it."

The Top Ten . . .   Music Synthesizers

Christopher D. Ochs

As a writer I express my creativity through the computer keyboard. My first love was creating music through the 32, 61, and 88 keys of various music keyboards. Though I cut my musical teeth on the piano, I enjoy tickling most any flavor of the ivories -- harpsichord, electric piano, clavinet, etc., but most notably classical and theater organ. However, there shall always be a special place in my ear, hands and heart for the synthesizer. These are my favorite electronic instruments in which I have dabbled.

1. Theremin - Though not a keyboard, it was my first exposure to the world of electronic music (through movies). Eclectic in its reach, it pervades popular art forms as diverse as Bernard Herrman's score in "The Day The Earth Stood Still" and countless other sci-fi and horror flicks, to the Beach Boys "Good Vibrations"; simple in construction, its two antennae that control volume and pitch are fiendishly difficult to master. My favorite recording is "Claire De Lune" performed by Clara Rockmore.

2. ARP Odyssey - My first hands-on synth! Oh, how I loved this gadget. It was my gateway drug to more enticing and complex doomsday machines!

3. Mellotron – This seminal instrument, first made popular by King Crimson, has a special place in Rube Goldberg Heaven. Sounds were created by playing loops of recording tape at varying speeds, though modern versions now use digital memory to store audio samples.

4. Moog System 55 - Sounds from this magnificent beast are crafted by plugging cords from any module output to (almost) any input. Lots of them. The more complex the texture, the hairier the rats nest of wires. I would spend three hours capturing a single sound in Moravian College's synth lab. And love every minute of it! I first heard this synth in Wendy Carlos' album "Switched On Bach." Her renditions of "Sinfonia from Cantata No. 29" and "Brandenburg Concerto No. 3" are astounding, especially when you consider that synths of that day only produced one note at a time!

5. MiniMoog - The utilitarian baby brother in the Moog family of instruments. Rather than ask, "Which rock groups used this?" the more appropriate question should be, "Who didn't?"

6. Prophet 600 - An early polyphonic (up to 6 notes simultaneously) synth. A real workhorse and incredibly versatile, despite having no patchcords. A worthy competitor to pit against the MiniMoog.

7. Prophet 2000 - In addition to its basic function as a sampler synthesizer, it was one of the first machines to include pressure sensitive keys, which increase volume with force (just like a piano), and aftertouch (where the sound changes by how you hold the key).

8. RMI Harmonic Synthesizer - Allen Organ's toe-in-the-water into the synthesizer world. It was unique in that the user crafted the actual waveform, shaped by a linear array of slidepots.

9. Voce V3 - A synth with a single purpose in life -- emulate the bluesy Hammond B3 organ, including their gah-roo-vy Leslie rotating speakers. It is so accurate, it is spooky.

10. Yamaha TX81Z - One of Yamaha's FM Synthesis family. A tough one on which to manipulate the sound canvas, it fortunately has a wide encyclopedia of presets that satisfies most any need. I particularly like the growly and gritty "Box Cello" setting.

Now, if anyone has access to a Synclavier II or an ARP 2600 with which I may putter around, drop me a line!

The Origin of Specious

Christopher D. Ochs

(Featured Author--Jan/Feb 2016)