Tag: Fiction

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The Zoo, by Will Stanton

I was told of a most extraordinary zoo, unique, in fact — the only one like it in the whole world. All of the examples at the zoo were endangered species, some of them right on the verge of extinction. I was warned that, if I did not go to see this zoo soon, some of the specimens might be gone by the time I visited it. So, I made a point of going right away

I spent an entire day at this wondrous zoo from morning to closing at dusk. I could see why my friend warned me that everyone on display was endangered of disappearing. They were all human beings, people of the most admirable qualities, apparently qualities not much valued any longer in our society.
The sign on the first display read, “Statesman.” It did not say, “Politician” or “Congressman,” or some such degraded title. I looked into his eyes and saw there deep knowledge and wisdom. I also perceived empathy and compassion. He did not have that facial affect of hate, rage, or deviousness that we have grown so used to with politicians. I spoke to him for quite some time, and he always responded in calm tones, his words truthful and rational. I then asked him where he came from, and he explained that he once was, what was called a very long time ago, a “moderate Republican.” All the others had died off, and he was the very last one. Lonely and rejected, he accepted his home here at the zoo. Out of compassion, I felt inclined to remain even longer with this lonely soul to give him some comfort, but I knew that I had much more to see and moved on.
I came to the next display, and the sign read, “News Journalist.” At first I was confused because he looked rather similar to the first display. When I spoke to him, he, too, sounded rational and well educated. After a lengthy conversation, I asked him what brought him here. He explained that there still remains a limited number of true journalists in the country, but mostly they had fled their environs because of increasing atmospheric toxicity and decreasing clean, healthful oxygen. Some of them had found new homes with lesser watched, sanctuary broadcast-channels that were attempting to counteract the toxins as best they could. He, himself, once was hired by Fox Noise but was fired after only 24 hours because he did not fit in. The fact that, after a day’s exposure to that environment, he threw up and passed out did not help. He was brought to this zoo as a dying breed.
I came to the third display, and the specimen reminded me of a weary laborer in old, mended clothes. That, in fact, was what he was. I asked him, “Why are you here? There are millions of people just like you.” “Yes,” he replied, “but many of us don’t last long. Affording shelter, food, and health care with such limited funds means that, too often, we find it hard to survive. I countered, “But, this nation has so much wealth.” “That’s true, too,” he said, “but only a tiny number of people control most of it. I met one of them once. He was a Wall Street hedge-fund manager. He reminded me of the most splendorous peacock, so well dressed was he in his five-thousand-dollar suit and thousand-dollar shoes. I stared at him, trying to understand how such a creature could exist. He reeked of smugness, and I perceived a sense of arrogant entitlement. I asked him how he had become so rich, and he answered, “Because I have barracuda blood in me.” The weary man then sighed, “I don’t have barracuda blood,” and hung his head. I moved on.
The fourth exhibit contained an elderly, blue-haired lady with spectacles and neatly pressed cotton dress. The sign read, “Public School Music Teacher.” I looked at her, and she responded with her own sad eyes and a look of resignation. “Why are you here?” I asked. “Because we no longer are wanted and are dying off.” “But, music is such a wonderful part of life!” I exclaimed. “How, can that be?” Patiently, she began to explain. “People have forgotten what quality is, and most schools have eliminated it from their curricula,” she lamented.” “What passes for music these days bares no resemblance to what once was cherished and enjoyed, music that could enhance the lives of the performers and listeners, music that could sooth animals, music that actually can create fresh new brain cells, music that can enhance the ability to learn other disciplines. Most people no longer understand its value and, frankly, don’t care.” I told her, “I care,” and we talked together for a long time, sharing our knowledge and love of fine music. Finally, she said, “Perhaps the people in the next exhibit may interest you. Go speak with them.” She sighed and sat down on a little stool, her eyes taking on a distant look, probably “hearing” in her own mind some beautiful melody. I slowly turned and walked on.

I noticed at the adjoining exhibit a sign that stated, “Singers.” “That’s odd,” I thought. “There are tons of singers out there. Just turn on the radio, the TV, go into an elevator or a restaurant or supermarket. You hear it all the time and all around us. You almost can’t get away from it. There are billboards announcing the imminent arrival of popular singers, and the $300 seats all are sold out. Curious, I walked up to the display. This one contained a young boy along with a man and a woman.

“Are you all singers?” I asked. “Yes,” they replied. Puzzled, I then posed the question, “You can’t possibly be rare and endangered. Why are you here?” They smiled at me sadly, and the woman spoke up. “It’s all relative. There are so many people who claim to be singers, but really who are not, that those of us who truly are singers are in a small minority.” “What do you mean?” I asked. She explained, “The human voice can be used in many ways to make a sound, but to produce a sonorous, beautiful tone and a controlled technique is special. You must have a good voice to begin with; then it helps to have the voice trained properly. In the past, more people, from popular singers to opera professionals and boys choirs, used to sing well; but that art is being lost with most people these days. Now they scream, which is a different vocal mechanism. That’s not singing.”

I stopped to think about what she said and realized that it is true. It seems that, everywhere we go these days, we are held hostage to hearing screaming. At first, I thought that perhaps district managers chose recorded screaming because it could force restaurant-goers to give up their seats and leave more quickly. Then I remembered that a waiter told me that the restaurant chain was paid by the distributor of that noise with the hopes that the listeners would be so enthralled with it that they would rush out to buy or download that atavistic noise. It all came to money. Having been given food for thought, I slowly turned and continued on my way. As I left, I heard the man, woman, and boy begin singing in harmony some sublime melody. I felt a very pleasant sensation growing inside me.

The next exhibit had a sign that read, “English Teacher.” “Now how does that make sense?” I wondered. “Every school has an English teacher. How can they be rare?” I introduced myself and asked her. “Oh yes,” she replied. “There are a lot of people out there called ‘English Teachers,’ and some of them really try hard to do a good job. But, it’s difficult when the students and parents no longer read and often don’t really care about literature and well spoken language, when the English teachers take a back seat to the math and science teachers and even the football coaches. Also,“ she continued, “many of the people who go into teaching no longer have a solid base-core of knowledge, read very little, and cannot even speak well themselves. People may have heard of Shakespeare, but how many of them actually have read any? Listen to newscasters speak, to people with advanced degrees and those with professional positions of importance, even professors. Apparently, it never has occurred to them that having a good command of English is of any importance, for their constant errors in diction, grammar, and style are egregious.” Tears began to roll down her cheek. She quickly picked up a small, hardbound volume of poetry and began reading one of them aloud, trying to console herself. I left her in peace.

I began to notice that, as I walked through the zoo, my shadow had grown longer, and the sky was losing its intense blue. I looked at my watch, startled to find how much time I had spent with the first exhibits. Evening and closing time were approaching. So much more of the zoo’s endangered species remained for me to see. I looked at the zoo signs erected ahead of me along the path. The first one read, “Honest Businessman and Honest Contractor.” I saw that there were two people in that exhibit. The sign beyond that read, “Faithful Husband and Faithful Wife.” Two people were in that exhibit, also. There actually was a small group in the next exhibit marked “Good Fathers and Good Mothers.” I stopped to think about that. Perhaps the most difficult and important task in the whole world is raising children to be happy, healthy individuals who constructively contribute to society. And, whether the child is raised by a father and mother, two fathers or two mothers, or a single parent, that daunting task remains before them. With so many failed families, perhaps, after all, that small group was rare enough to be in the zoo.

As I strained to see farther down the zoo path, I saw what appeared to be an endless series of signs, far too many for me to explore in just one day. I never realized until then how much was endangered in our society. I promised myself that I would soon return to explore further; however, I better have a solid breakfast and get an early start. I knew then that there was far more to see and to think about at that unique zoo than I had anticipated.

© 29 July 2015

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Close, but No Cigar, by Ray S

We finished up our job early so we closed the shop and I somehow knew a little happy hour pick up was a five o’clock necessity.

The proximity of the new art beckoned me to the rooftop terrace and bar. The sun was sinking in the west casting a golden glow splashing against the fading deep blue above. So much for aesthetics.

God, it was good to be done with the shop and studio for another day. The deadline for our next show was bearing down on everyone. The frosted stem glass with its lemon twist boded a welcome respite from the last ten hours.

There I was seated at a high-top surveying the view north and south of Denver’s own gay White Way, although it was not evident that it was so gay or not. As my gaze came back to the deck it fell upon an older man—I would have guessed him fifty years or something—reading the paper and having his own martini.

Not wanting to be caught checking him out, I quickly averted, as they say, my eyes. Only trouble was that this handsome “old guy” returned the glance. Putting his paper down, he looked up at me and simply said, “You like yours with a twist too.” Was that a question or an obvious fact?

Responding as though we had been friends for a long while, I said, “Always a lemon twist—can’t stand a dirty martini—no olives!” With that he got out of his chair and brought his drink over to my high top.

“I’m Howard Rafferty. Haven’t I run across you at the museum?” Suddenly my head was spinning and blood pressure was rising. “Be still my beating heart.” Almost speechless, I answered with a wide smile and a breathless, “Uh-huh.” By now you’ve got me figured out. I’m a pushover for older men. A little love handles or tummy never did any harm. He followed up with the usual come on’s, while in my mind at the same time I’m remembering last week’s fifty minutes with my Dr. Shrink. Boy did this slam me right between the eyes—after twenty-five minutes Dr Shrink said he felt I really had symptoms of a “Father-Son” complex. You know, unresolved conflicts in the subconscious over deep-seated incestuous desires by my struggling psyche. It was an alarming discovery at the time and now dreamboat Rafferty slid right into the puzzle part that Dr. Shrink had in mind. Come to think of it, Dr. Shrink was rather fatherly himself—but that could be another story for another day.

The martini was working its mightiest for Mr. Rafferty. Guess he’d been at the bar for Happy Hour’s opening.

The irony of this could-be fortuitous meeting as it drew to a climax was an invitation to view the original art on the walls of Rafferty’s suite. If I had been cruising a bar instead of just trying to relax before going to my apartment and preparing for meeting the boys at the X-Bar in an hour, no telling how much abstract expressionism would have overcome me.

Hastily killing the last of the cocktail, I thanked Howard, exchanged numbers, and explained I had to run so as not to be late for some other business.

Close, but no cigar!

Made it to the X-Bar and found a place at a table with my four other thirsty queens. Then went to the bar and ordered, you guessed it, another dry one with a twist from a very cute, sexy, and tattooed bar “tendress.” She sported a figure in her T-shirt that could put Venus Di Milo to shame, and MY girl had two arms—Venus could have had tattoos too if she could find those arms. She smiled so charmingly that I even forgot fleetingly that I was gay and in a crazy gay bar.

I was looking over the patio full of every shade and age of a cavalcade male pulchritude when she inquired what I would have. I told her, “Anyone of these” and quickly followed with my drink order.

My Venus looked at me and then surveyed the yard full of men and said, “One martini coming up,” and then said, “What a waste.”

Close, but no cigar.

© 28 September 2015

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Bricks, by Ray S

Victorian brick-a-brac, whatnots, antimacassars make for a stifling museum-like atmosphere. You could liken it to a visit to the mummies in the museum’s ancient Egypt department—all hushed and stuffy.

Perfectly reproduced in every detail and hermetically sealed, the era of the romanticized 19th century heralded the Post Victorian revival of the 20th century.

The restoration of the rambling home built by a gold mine owner was managed by one Sir Leonardo Q. Brickington, noted historic preservationist and design authority of this period, reportedly from the U.K.

Actually Brickington—formerly AKA in his New York days—Herbby Flassbender; employed as a stock boy and gopher for Bloomingdales display department.

What happened after Herbby completed his Victorian restoration in a little mountain town is not quite clear. However there is a rumor he went on to form a company that sold franchises for architectural plans for building historically accurate 19th century Victorian BRICK “necessities”, more commonly known as privies. The end of this story is lost somewhere in one of his creations.

Moving along, here is another unfinished story. It is 11 PM on a Friday night. The show will begin in half an hour. Long enough to find a good seat and order a tall drink.

Tonight is the opening of a new show at the Silver Pole Boys Club; a review starring BRIQUE BUFFETT and his chorus of BUFF BRIQUETTES.

The house lights dim, canned music begins and the BRIQUETTES costumed as the Village People begin to gyrate to the recorded strains of “YMCA”. The audience joins in; the boys begin the traditional striptease.

Then the stage momentarily goes dark followed by a loud thunderclap and blinding strobe light, heralding the appearance of our star Brique Buffett, his beautiful gym-built body set off by his block Rhinestone studded thong. At this point five silver poles arose from the stage floor. The pole dancing burst forth to the Village People song “San Francisco”.

The club was ecstatic, patrons stripping their shirts and dancing in the box. The poles were getting a glorious polishing and the dancers’ bikinis began to bulge with dollar bills deftly tucked in by appreciative audience.

The temperature of the club as well as the patrons kept rising. The tall gin and tonic was long gone and so was I. the tab paid, I found the front door and escaped the writhing sweaty crowd. For what some have called a “Cow Town,” tonight the Silver Pole Boys Club could have passed for a latter-day reincarnation of the onetime famous NYC Studio 54.

On the way home I wondered what would become of all that sweat, heat and craziness; and you can too.

Once we emerged from the ooze of creation, and the “First Couple” with their misguided offspring, accompanied by knowledge, dressed in snake-drag got the show on the road, and civilization was on its way. The “Ah Hah” moment was the appearance of the adobe brick. From the earth and water came the building blocks of prehistoric architecture, from which followed the culture of mankind. Good and evil (There’s that drag queen snake again.)

The resulting temples built brick by brick, have resulted in wars, power struggles, avarice, and hate; and there are the eternal temples of good bricks that will prevail. Maybe, you can work on the end of this muddy little myth.

© 12 October 2015

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Scarves, by Lewis

It was a night much like any other for the watchman at Glasgow’s Dock Number Three, Lewis James MacScarvey, as he made his rounds. The only sounds were that of the water sloshing against the piles and an occasion distant fog horn or well-sotted human being noisily making his way home after closing time.

It was his habit to pace to-and-fro in front of a streetlamp and park bench where said humans were prone to sleep and dispose of their spent bottles in the nearby trash receptacle in hopes of averting a disturbance. When he turned to the north he could see about 100 meters away another bench with trash receptacle and lamplight nearly identical to his. Only there was no one patrolling that space so he liked to occasionally cast his eye in that direction to make sure there was no mischief-making going on.

On this particular night, at about 1:30 in the morning, he thought he saw a figure standing near the water. It appeared to be a woman, perhaps wearing a red full-length coat and something on her head. He had made several turnings on his well-worn loop and each time checked to see if the person was still there.

After about 15 minutes or so, he turned and noticed that the figure had vanished. Curious, he rushed down to see if there was a problem. When he arrived at the spot where the woman had been standing, he saw only a pair of earrings carefully placed on the seat of the bench and, when he looked into the water, a red scarf floating on the surface. Not even a ripple disturbed the water’s calm. Using his nightstick, he was able, with some effort, to retrieve the scarf. Embroidered on one corner were initials. He could barely make them out in the dim light–“LJM”. They were his initials. He backed away from the edge of the water until his legs collided with the bench, whereupon he sat down hard.

Although he never learned the identity of the mysterious lonely woman he saw that night–no body was ever found–he could not bring himself to reveal to the police even the existence of the scarf. He kept it for himself and every night before he went on-duty, he would tie the scarf around his neck, hoping against hope that the rightful owner would some night come looking for it.

© March 23, 2015

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Mayan Pottery by Lewis

I haven’t much to say on the subject of pre-Columbian Mesoamerican art for the simple reason that this is all made up and I know nothing about the subject. However, were that not the case, I would probably write something like the following–

Sadly, my only exposure to Mayan pottery was a very brief time of possession of a single artifact, purchased by a great uncle at a Pottery Barn in La Paz and given to me as a gift three Christmases ago. I say “brief” because over a year ago, I was visited by a brace of scientists from the Smithsonian Museum of Columbian antiquities. I say “sadly” because of what happened soon after. The scientists were interested in the piece because of the hubbub over the legend that the Mayan calendar prognosticates that the world will end in the year 2012, exactly on the day of the winter solstice. One of the frescos on the piece that I had interpreted as the second coming of Christ with souls being lifted into heaven was, according to them, actually what happens when Earth’s gravity suddenly stops gravitating.

They offered a tidy sum to “borrow” my vase for a few months, which I readily accepted, as I was in dire need of replenishing my hash stash. To my horror, who should show up a few weeks later than the Drug Enforcement Administration, armed with a warrant for my arrest for pot possession. It seems that when the Smithsonian technicians upended the vase to get to the bottom of the apocalyptic mystery, three cannabis seeds fell out. So, actually, you see, for me this whole farce is more about the end of my world as I knew it than anything else. By the way, if you’re interested, the vase was returned to me and I have put it up for sale in the classified section of The Onion under “antiquities.”

December 17,2012

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Reframing Reality by Will Stanton

Some years ago, I had a very curious experience with my elderly Aunt Muriel. She never had married and did not socialize very much. The person closest to her was her own Uncle Fred, some years her senior. Muriel was very fond of Fred and deeply felt the loss when he passed away.

Muriel apparently believed in mysticism and séances. Eventually, she thought that she could reconnect with Uncle Fred through a medium at a séance. I tried to dissuade her, telling her that séances are just a scam to take money from the gullible; however, Muriel was convinced that communicating with the dead through a séance was real. So, I reluctantly agreed to take her.

The medium welcomed Muriel and me to her appropriately decorated parlor, colored beads hanging in the doorway and the expected crystal ball in the middle of an old, oaken table. Fortunately, the medium did not ask for more than twenty dollars.

The lights were turned low, and the session began with the medium connecting with her usual spirits and imploring them to contact Muriel’s departed Uncle Fred. I was startled when a man’s, distant and wavering voice answered. Muriel’s head straightened, and she appeared to be excited. I, on the other hand, quickly guessed that the medium had strategically placed some small speakers around the room.

Then Muriel eagerly spoke up. “Uncle Fred! Uncle Fred! It’s so good to hear your voice again. Oh, please tell me, what’s it like on the other side?”

The man’s dreamy voice responded, “Oh, it is so beautiful and peaceful. When I awake in the morning, I am blessed with the sun shining warm on my face and the sound of songbirds singing. I am not obligated to be up right away or to go anywhere. I can relax as long as I like. When I feel like it, I can take as much time as I like having something to eat. During the day, I can take a leisurely stroll through the woods, listening to the breeze in the trees, enjoying the flowers, and watching the butterflies flitting from blossom to blossom. And in the evening, I enjoy just relaxing and watching the sunset.”

Thrilled, Muriel exclaimed, “Oh Fred, I had no idea that heaven was like that.”

After a moment of silence, Fred responded, “What do you mean ‘heaven?’ – – I’m a moose in Minnesota!”

© 9 June 2014
About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Exaggeration by Ricky

In civilian life, fairy tales usually begin with “Once upon a time… .” The military equivalent phrase is “This ain’t no shit … .” When used properly, these expressions are essentially the same but not always. Sometimes the fairy tales sound more real than the story told by a military member as the actions of the military are often unbelievable; activities which we never heard of due to security classifications, cover-ups, or possibly just the passage of time. I would relate some of those unknown activities, but then I would have to kill you to protect the secret, and I don’t want to do that.

All advertisements for commercial products contain major exaggerations or out-right lies. I do not believe that statement to be an exaggeration in any way. Ever since I was 5-years old, I hear about the “New and Improved Tide” for washing clothes. The only thing I know that changed is the box it comes in. During all that time, I have not seen any of my clothes get cleaner than in any previous version.

Some exaggerations are in common usage. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times;” “I’ll bet you a million dollars you can’t do it;” and “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” are just three of the hundreds of possible examples.

Myths are similar to fairy tales. Another type of exaggeration is the myth type of story that is so outrageous, no one would believe it. This type is of the category Tall Tales, which is just a nice way of saying it’s a big lie. This type is not so much harmful as entertaining, in effect; a big white lie as it were. For example, most people believe the Grand Canyon is the result of river and wind erosion. The reality is a fact well known; the Grand Canyon is the result of Paul Bunyan dragging his axe along the ground while walking from Minnesota to the redwood forests of California. (I actually believe this is probably true, because the story was in my reading textbook in 3rd grade elementary school in Minnesota. Schools never teach bad information.)

I cannot count high enough to list all the dining establishments that proclaim their cuisine is the “best” in town, state, nation, world, etc. If I tried to add them up, I would fry my brain or burn out my calculator’s batteries.

Did you notice that even the Weather Channel is not above reproach on this issue? It seems that each-and-every common and routine weather event is portrayed as being a major disaster in the making. So, I’ll end my story today with a warning to all of us, “global warming” will kill us all, because we did not do something about it a hundred years ago, and now it’s too late.

I’m so thirsty from reading this paper, I’m going drink ten gallons of water before I go home.

© 3 June 2013

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los
Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm
in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.

When united with my mother and
stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at
South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.
After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where
I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from
complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the
summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is
TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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The Shooters: A book review by Louis

Telling Your Story theme of the day: Reading

Plot Summary of The Shooters (2008) by W. E. B. Griffi,

Genre: International spy thriller

Style of writing: soap opera, episodes based on quickly shifting scenes.

Carlos Castillo was an officer in the Department of Homeland Security. Then there was a Presidential Finding that authorized the setting up of another agency, the Office of Organizational Analysis in reaction to the assassination of some important ambassadors in Uruguay, Paraguay and Argentina, one of whom was Ambassador Jack Masteson. Carlos Castillo’s middle name is Guillermo. He is the son of Jorge2 Castillo who, when he was stationed in Germany in the U. S. Army, had sex with a German woman who later became pregnant. J2C did not know she was pregnant and was shipped off to Vietnam where he died in combat.

12 years passed and the unnamed mother of Carlos learned she was soon going to die of pancreatic cancer. She goes to local army base and inquires about Jorge2 Castillo’s whereabouts. She learns he died in combat in Vietnam. For his first twelve years Carlos Guillermo3 Castillo was named Karl Wilhelm3 zu und von Gossinger. In other words, he was a German boy growing up in Germany in an impoverished German aristocratic family. Even when he was older, he was blond and fair-skinned, Nordic. Still he was half “Texican,” the grandson of Juan (Don)1 Castillo and Doña Alicia Castillo. A “Texican” means a native of Texas whose ancestry is Mexican especially those who were living in Texas when Texas was still part of Mexico.

Don Fernando1 Castillo was wealthy and owned a Learjet, that is, he was also an airplane pilot.

When Karl Wilhelm’s mother contacted this elderly Texican couple, Doña Alicia flew to Germany and met her grandson whose existence she did know of until then. Karl’s mother was bedridden. Karl’s impoverished German family could not really help him. Of course, Karl was technically illegitimate and was a minor embarrassment. Dona Alicia took right over, took good care of Karl and dying mother. Once mother died, Doña Alicia brought Karl back to Texas where he was of course renamed Carlos Guillermo3 Castillo and where he spent the rest of his childhood, that is, in San Antonio, Texas.

As a result of his childhood in Germany and his subsequent service in U. S. military, CG3C speaks English, German but also Hungarian. As an adult, CG3C worked in the American military, he was a Gulfstream airplane pilot, and all his colleagues called him Charlie. Many other characters in the novel have first name Charles or Charlie. So when reader reads Charlie said this or that, he has to be aware of which Charlie is being referenced (which can get complicated). One of CG3C’s colleagues, Alfredo Munz, is German, so he calls CG3C “Karl”. Other of his colleagues call him “Ace.” Reader gets confused.

Before entering military service in the U. S. Army, CG3C went to West Point as a cadet. He and a fellow cadet, named Randolph Richardson, let’s call him RRIII, frequently played dirty tricks on one another. This led to a serious dispute between the two that resulted in a hearing before the Cadet Honor System Tribunal. RRIII lost his case but never forgave CG3C and his cohorts. And vice versa.
Later CG3C went to Fort Rucker, Alabama, to learn how to fly an updated version of the Gulfstream super airplane and again met RRIII and his fiancée, Bethany2 Wilson, daughter of Harry Wilson, deputy commander at Fort Rucker, Harry Wilson had an important connection with CG3C and that was that he was copilot in the Vietnam War with CG3C’s father, Jorge2 Castillo. The name of Bethany2 Wilson’s mother was Bethany1 Wilson. Both women called themselves “Beth” just to confuse the poor reader even further. B2W and CG3C were of course at odds with one another since her future husband and CG3C would never really get along with each other and she sided with her future husband, RRIII. After a while, however, CG3C and his colleague, TomPrentiss, recounted his biography to B2W and she was so impressed, let her guard down, and she started getting attracted physically to CG3C and eventually had sex with him. They were both of course hush-hush about their romantic interlude, their tryst.

Once the Office of Organizational Analysis was set up, CG3C was sent to Uruguay to protect the Masterson family. Jack Masterson a U. S. ambassador to Uruguay was assassinated in a massacre that took place on the Estancia Shangri La, located in central Uruguay and owned originally by Jean-Phillippe Lorimer, the son of another retired Ambassador who later on in the novel went down to Uruguay to live in his late son’s estate, estancia, despite OAA’s opposition. His son had been assassinated. Presumably, all these assassinations were committed by drug lords.

The novel does not discuss specifically how CG3C was held accountable for his technically unsuccessful task of protecting the Masterson family. He was sitting with his innumerable colleagues in a safe house, a mansion in the Pilar suburb of Buenos Aires, called Nuestra Pequeña Casa. It had originally been purchased and set up by two CIA agents, Paul and Susanna Sieno. While he and his colleagues were sitting in the quincho (a sort of fenced in patio), assuming they were operating in complete secrecy, CG3C’s dog Max detects the presence of an intruder, Colonel Jacob (Jake) Torine, a black U. S. Air Force Colonel who tells them he and a significant number of local U. S. Air Force personnel inferred why and how CG3C’s “secret” operation was all about. CG3C and company were horrified that their so-called secret operation was virtually public knowledge. A bit later, Colonel Jake Torine was inducted as another officer of OOA. Torine was actually motivated to ask for CG3C’s assistance in preventing harassment of his fellow USAF personnel by drug lords.

Once Torine showed them that their operation was not all that secret, they had to return to another safe house in Alexandria, VA. Once things cooled off, they returned to Nuestra Pequeña Casa. CG3C and company, that is, the Office of Organizational Analysis, were sent back to Argentina, to Nuestra Pequeña Casa, safe house, to retrieve Byron J.3 Timmons, the grandson of Byron Timmons Sr. who was a close friend of the unnamed POTUS, and POTUS owed him a favor. Byron Timmons Sr. was a retired chief of police of the Chicago Police Department. BJ3T had been kidnapped by local drug lords, tied up in a secret location with two other Uruguayan anti-drug police officers. 
Until recently, the drug lords never killed drug enforcement or any other law enforcement officers in Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay. BJ3T with two anti-drug trafficking Uruguayan police officers were turned by their kidnappers into drug addicts themselves. The three were tied up with hands over head to a cable above their heads and were injected intraveneously at regular intervals with heroïne.

During the course of the novel, after much hopping from air base to air base, CG3C returns to Fort Rucker, Alabama, and, in order to observe the damage wrought by Hurricane Katrina along the gulf coast, jumps in an airplane, accompanied by RRIV, son of RRIII, and RRIII’s father-in-law, Commander Harry1 Wilson. They fly east first along the southern coast of Alabama then the Florida pan-handle coast. CG3C even lets the 8 year old RR-IV pilot the airplane for a few minutes, of course under his close supervision. One of CG3C’s colleagues takes a picture of this outing on one of his cell phone photography devices.

On this reconnaissance flight were CG3C, RR-IV, Niedermeyer (one of CG3C’s colleagues), Commander Harry Wilson, RR-IV’s maternal grandfather. Later Niedermeyer shows the photos to CG3C, and RR-IV uncannily looks a lot like CG3C. Coup de foudre, CG3C realizes he is RR-IV’s real father, and RRIII does not even know or suspect the truth. If he did know or find out, then what? CG3C writes a report on what he found out in an encrypted message to himself on his laptop. His grandmother, his abuela, Doña Alicia Castillo nagged him about not having a family. Little does she know she has a great grandson. RR-IV is of course the result of CG3C’s romantic interlude with Beth2 Wilson, and Commander Harry1 Wilson is not aware either of his grandson’s actual paternity.

CG3C’s superior is General Bruce J. McNab at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, but CG3C is given so much leeway and independence that General McNab’s input into the plot is minimal. CG3C is actually directly responsible to unnamed POTUS. To reiterate, the OOA or Office of Organizational Analysis was set up in response to the Presidential Finding which gives it legal authorization to set up clandestine operations on foreign soil. The Presidential Finding came into being as a reaction to the assassination of U. S. Ambassador to Argentina, Jack Masterson.

CG3C recommends that a fleet of Huey helicopters, being kept originally in Fort Rucker, Alabama, be flown to Jacksonville, Florida, where they were to be landed on an aircraft carrier, the Ronald Reagan. Once on the Ronald Reagan, they could be transported to a certain point off the coast of Uruguay. Three different officials are hostile to CG3C’s mission, and they are Milton Weiss of the CIA who feels CG3C’s mission is going to interfere with his mission of interdicting illicit drug sales in Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay. Eventually these illicit drugs, mainly heroïne, are smuggled inside of cruise ships. CG3C requests permission from José Ordoñez, Uruguayan Policía Nacional Chief Inspector who tells him, in so many words, that he would rather that he, CG3C, and his operation stay out of Uruguay altogether, but he does not enforce his real wishes, and CG3C is able to plan to refuel his Huey helicopters in the Lorimer estate in central Uruguay, the Estancia Shangri La, which previously was the seen of a massacre one of the victims being Ambassador Jack Masterson. His other 3rd nemesis is Liam Duffy, Commandant of the Argentine Gendarmería Nacional, some of whose anti-drug police operatives had recently been assassinated by drug lords. Duffy was originally an Irish cop from Brooklyn, NY. He would rather CG3C and his operation not conduct business in Argentina at all.

To make a long story short, OOA does send in the helicopters and rescue the three anti-drug police agents, including Byron3 Timmons. He had been turned into a drug addict, but was subsequently detoxed.

Moral of story: Despite one’s intense desire to act on one’s patriotic instincts and on one’s general need to enforce the law and out manuever criminals, in this case, South American drug lords, one’s efforts can be foiled by human foibles, politics and in-fighting inside the establishment of the powers that be. CG3C does triumph in the end, however.

9-26-13

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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An Exaggerated (Fairy) Tale by Ray S

Once upon a time there lived a very big bear. He was a grand specimen right down to all necessary details. He was at least ten feet tall on his hind legs. All the lady bears desired his attention and services, but he could not seem to be attracted to any special beautiful shiny black bear. He spent many occasions visiting and playing with the ladies but could not decide which one he could please the most like he was supposed to do.

When hibernation time ended and spring time came Bear’s special pastime was hunting for berries, fruits, and nuts and sometimes a red blooded animal or two. But Bear’s diet was almost vegan inasmuch as he drew the line at eating humans.

Humans could be dangerous and killers, but so many had good feelings for the animal world, and he evidenced that many humans had great love for one another.

Bear especially enjoyed and appreciated observing the youngest human’s childhood.

Because he was invisible at will, her would patrol his territory visiting all of the young human girls and boys in their sleep. He would always see that they were loved and safe and developing all of the necessary physical and emotional attributes to grow into kind, loving, brave, questioning and joyful humans–because that is the way they were meant to be.

He carefully checked each innocent body to see that no harm or disorder occurred in the development of each child

That the little girls were all perfect in body and spirit so as to grow emotionally as well as physically beautiful women.

That the little boys were all perfect in body and spirit and that they too had all the necessary potential intelligence and body parts to insure the survival of generations to come.

While on a territory hunt for food, Bear came upon a pair of beautiful lady bears who were gathering berries in a nearby thicket. He noted how warmly they treated each other. How they would feed one another berries and speak softly to each other.

The startled lady bears looked up and invited Bear to have some berries too-if he wished. He thanked them and asked if he frequented this part of his territory often. They replied only when it is Magic Time in the woods. Bear was curious about what happens during Magic Time and they asked him, if he wasn’t lonely for the company of one of his kind?”

He wondered what that had to do with his inquiry until he looked away from the ladies at a blinding flash in the darkest part of the forest.

To Bear’s amazement there appeared a duplicate image of himself. They carefully approached each other. Hesitantly one reached out to the other, not in anger or aggression, but gradual recognition of a like being seeking friendship and maybe love.

With another blinding flash where the two lady bears had been reclining through the mist appeared two lovely nude maidens.

And then simultaneously Bear and his duplicate shed their bear skins and stood naked staring in wonder at each other.

The maidens were amused by the two young men and their wonderment. They chided the boys and said, “Watch us loving each other and then follow suit. That is why you found us in this part of the woods–to find a loved one.”

Now you have learned what Magic Time is all about and become wonderful Bare Humans, to live and to love as you were meant to do forever and ever.

About the Author

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Being Held by Will Stanton

It was a balmy evening, and the scent of tropical flowers permeated the air. Through a gap in the high jungle canopy, distant stars twinkled in the dark sky. Parrots, macaws, and a myriad of mammals sang their evensong, the music of jungle depths. I lay dreaming in my hammock, drink in hand, and with a sense of contentment.

Andy joined me, sensuously sliding into the hammock with me. I’d known Andy since he was little. It was a curious relationship over the years, Andy and I; at least, some people thought so. Actually, some people worried that Andy was not very trustworthy and said so. Joe, the guy who brought provisions to me from the village, frequently looked askance at me and made critical comments. I knew that he genuinely was concerned, but I grew tired of it; they didn’t understand. That’s why I moved way out here so Andy and I could be pretty much alone.

Andy certainly was affectionate, though. He snuggled against me for warmth and gently flicked his tongue in my ear, giving me a slight, chilled shiver. Andy could be rather dominating at times, but I had to be careful how I responded. If I rejected him too abruptly, he could become rather temperamental. So, I usually let him go ahead, wrap himself around me, and hug me. He was strong, but that was not surprising. He was grown now.

That night, Andy seemed more interested in me than usual, and a little rougher. He gave a little squeeze, and it left me breathless. “Not so hard, Andy,” I said; but Andy’s hug grew stronger. Was he trying to engage me in a little sadomasochism, or what? He brought his head around to face me. I didn’t like the look in his eyes, cold and determined. I actually began to be rather frightened. Was Andy as dangerous as some people said? A hug is one thing, but making my ribs ache was quite another.

“Don’t move! I’ve got him!” came a familiar voice. I caught a glimpse of Joe running up to where I lay with Andy. A loud explosion shattered and pained my ears, followed by a loud ringing. Blood splattered across my face. Horrified, I wrenched myself away from the bloody mass that used to be Andy’s head. His body loosened, and I scrambled out of the hammock. Gasping, I lay on the ground. “Are you alright?” asked Joe. Still out of breath, I nodded.

I gradually gathered myself up and stood there with Joe, gun still in hand, and looked down at what once was my friend Andy. I was in shock, but I also could feel a sense of relief. Joe had been right all the time; Andy could not be trusted. He might have been cute when little, but it was downright foolish to keep him around after he had grown so big. Forty feet is pretty darn big, even for a green anaconda.

© 08 October 2012

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.