Captured Memories (Redux)

The plot for this story hit me as I was writing the last one. It, too, is called "Captured Memories," although for entirely different reasons.

"Are you seeing anything?"

"Does noise count?"

"No, you ass, noise doesn't count."

"Then no, I'm not seeing anything. The signal's too weak and I don't want to risk blowing another set of breakers trying to amplify it. I need a stronger impression, and you need to stop asking whether I'm seeing anything every five minutes. You're supposed to be relaxing. In silence."

"Alright, alright. Fine. Okay, stronger impression...um...okay.  I am thinking about the time I walked in on my parents having sex in the kitchen."

"Stop that! Do you seriously want our first recording to be one of your parents having sex? In the kitchen?! You remember we're submitting this for publication, right?"

"I was kidding! Give me a break, Alan. I've been floating in this goddamn tank for the last two hours. Excuse me if I need some humor."

"Well the relay didn't think you were kidding - we were getting coherent signals."

"...seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously, and of course it happens while you're running your mouth.  That was the first decent one we've had this week. I almost recorded it, but I don't particularly want to spend the next month processing visuals of your parents boinking on the kitchen counter."

"Ugh, fine, fine.  Umm...how about...this?"

"Hmmmm...oh, oh Jesus that's excellent! Strong audio, good tactile. Just ride with it if you can - I'm gonna start recording."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...shit."

"What?"

"Were we recording?"

"Yeah."

"Shit. You need to delete it."

"Excuse me?"

"I said you need to delete it."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"No, I'm."

"The hell I'm going to delete it! Those were the best results I've seen thus far. Visual, auditory, tactile - hell, we've even got some smell and taste in there."

"Dude, I'm serious. Delete the segment. This is important."

"No, this is important! I am not going to just delete the most coherent set of data we've managed to obtain in months, even if it is of your parents having sex!"

"It's not my parents having sex..."

"Then what the hell's the problem?"

"It's...uh..."

"Is it you having sex?"

"No!"

"Okay. Explanation. Waiting for one."

"It's David, alright? Our first date, our first kiss. It was just him and me, alone together."

"Why did you think of it if you didn't want it recorded?"

"You wanted a memory with strong sensory elements. I was trying to remember that day after graduation when we all went to Six Flags. He and I ended together on Kingda Ka, remember? And from there I guess I just...drifted. Anyway, I'm serious, Alan. I don't care how good the data is on that memory. I am not sharing it. Not with anyone."

"Okay, so we'll process the segment, and then you can come back later and delete what you don't want to use. There's still plenty of usable data interspersed in there, from what I can see."

"...I hadn't thought of that."

"Obviously. You could've just asked instead of flying off the handle, but it seemed like a better idea to lock us both down here for another six months while we try to reacquire some usable data. No offense buddy, but spending ten hours a day with you is starting to wear on me just a little."

"Oh fuck you! You're not the one floating in a goddamn isolation tank, you asshole! I panicked, alright? How would you have felt if you suddenly realized your most private memory just got recorded for publication?"

"I'd probably be moved to publish it out of sheer vindictiveness. The bitch cheated on me."

"Spare me the smart-ass remarks, alright? I'm done. Get me the hell out of this tank."

Solitude. Haziness. Bright lights and whirring images. The clanging of a great bell, and the soft whisper of wind behind it. Lemon drops and cinnamon, a feeling like wet rust or slimy, pitted stone. Something warm and soft ran down his arm, or maybe up. And then...

"No, I'm telling you, we can't just keep amplifying the signal," Alan said, jabbing his fork at the equations scribbled on the napkin. "There's too much noise. The quality of the final output would be so poor it'd be virtually unreadable."

"You're being stubborn," Mike replied, crossing his arms and staring into Alan's eyes. "We just have to fiddle with the filtering algorithm. In fact, I don't think this is any more complicated than changing some settings on the high-pass filters. We'll lose some quality, maybe, but we'll cut out at least 75% of the noise, and anything we lose, the PATCH program can fill in later."

"With what? White rabbits? Golden sunsets? Sugar and spice and everything nice?"

"Okay, now you're just using mixed metaphors, and badly. Look, not even the strongest memories are a complete package anyway, right. We remember things in snippets, segments. A voice here, a picture there. But now we're recording a lot more detail than your average person consciously recalls, and we can use those subconscious signals to help smooth out the output. So what if the quality degrades a bit in the initial processing? PATCH can fill the details back in with both contextual data and info from our sensory library. The very, very expansive library assembled for just this purpose, I might add."

Alan leaned back and threw his fork back onto his plate. "I think you're being way too optimistic about what the program is capable of doing."

"I think you're being negative and not giving it enough credit."

"And I think you've both let the roast go to waste - a roast I spend several hours making, I would add."

They both turned. David stood at the dining room doorway, wearing a Hello Kitty apron and carrying a steaming dish of what looked like green bean casserole. His expression was at once amused and exasperated as he walked over and dropped the dish onto the middle of the table.

"You know Alan, I didn't invite you over for dinner so you and Michael could argue about work all night."

"You're right David, I'm sorry.  I’ve been extremely rude." Alan stood up and took a grandiose bow. "Could you possibly forgive me, most impeccable of hosts?"

David rolled his eyes, but the bare hint of a grin flickered over his face.

"Alan, stop being an asshat," Mike kicked him in the shin, then stood up, wrapped his arms around David's waist, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Sorry hon. Shop talk. You know how we are when we get started."

"Why do you think I've been in the kitchen the past half-hour?" David returned the kiss. "All done?"

"We're never done."

David bopped him on the side of his head.

"I mean, yeah, we're totally done. Come on, take a load off. The casserole looks amazing."

"I certainly hope so. It took long enough to make." David walked over beside Mike, untied his apron, and sank with a small sigh into the chair. "Oh, that's much better."

"And how are things going in your department, David?" Alan asked, leaning over the casserole and inhaling deeply. Mike hit him on the shoulder with the serving spatula.

"Stop slobbering all over the casserole.  What kind of barbarian are you?"

David shot Alan a smile as Mike took up a knife and began cutting into the cobbler. "Good. Really good, actually. They've approved the new course on science fiction."

"Science fiction today, science fact tomorrow," Mike said gravely as he edged a slice of pot roast onto a plate.

"Very wise, Michael," David said with a roll of his eyes, but smiled. "Anyway, I'm looking forward to it. I've already assembled the material we're going to cover for the first half of the semester. But that actually reminds me - would you guys be willing to come talk to my class at some point?"

"Come talk to a class about Star Wars?" Mike grinned. "I'm totally in!"

"Not about Star Wars, Michael! About what you guys are doing. I know it's not science fiction, but it might as well have been twenty or thirty years ago. It would make an interesting discussion, mid-semester."

"Well, I'm not sure what we'd have to say," Alan replied, tossing a piece of roast into his mouth. "Oh, this is excellent, David."

"Thank you. What do you mean?"

"I imagine what we have to tell would be so dry and technical it'd put half your class to sleep."

"I think you underestimate kids today. Anyway, even if they don't understand the technical details of your project, it still strikes the imagination, doesn't it? Actual memories, recorded onto a physical medium that you can play back right into your brain." David gave Mike a piercing look. "I could've written an entire book on the ethical ramifications alone."

"Oh believe me, we know," Mike said as he pushed a plateful of cobbler in front of David. He made a face. "I've already been accused of playing God and I'm not even sure why. It's not like we're splicing babies together."

"You're playing with memories, though," David said, leaning on the table with an elbow. "Some people might say that's sort of like playing with identity and immortality both, neither of which is really our right to determine."

"Immortality?" Alan raised an eyebrow. "Getting metaphorical, aren't we?"

"Aren't the memories we leave behind the only true immortality?"

"Ah, yes," Alan smiled. "I occasionally forget I'm talking to a pair of atheists. Or an atheist and an agnostic, excuse me," he amended as David began a protest.

"You know," Mike jabbed the spatula at Alan. "I still don’t entirely understand how you can be a Christian scientist."

"I wonder that myself sometimes. Lots of compromises and reconciliation, most days." Alan leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and grinned. "At least I'm not going to Hell."

"Asshole." Mike snapped the spatula at him, sending a shower of crumbs and gravy flying over the walls and carpet.

"Michael!" David snatched the spatula away and started toward the kitchen for a rag.

"I got it," Mike hopped out of his seat and intercepted him, retrieving the spatula with a kiss and a grin.

"You know, maybe just one of you should come," David said, shaking his head and sitting back down. " I think I'd prefer my classroom intact when the lesson is over."

"Oh, you wound me to the quick," Alan feigned a wounded expression and pressed a hand over his heart.

"Horseplay is cute in eight year-olds, not grown men four times older."

"Ha. You're just afraid we'd get you involved in the tussle. Anyway, I nominate Mike. Public speaking makes me nervous."

"Why me?" Mike asked as he deposited a gravy-stained napkin into the trash.

"You're prettier and you relate better to kids."

Mike looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yeah, I can agree with that."

"So you'll do it?" David asked, picking up his fork.

"Probably. We'll see how the scheduling works out, but I think I can manage it at some point in the semester."

"I know you guys have been busy, especially with the convention coming up," David said, picking at the casserole with his fork before picking up a bite. "If you can find some time, though, I'd really appreciate it."

"No problem." Mike scooped a square of casserole onto his own plate and picked up a bite with his fork.

Another rush of images - people walking by against a strangely translucent white light. He was cold, and off in the distance he thought he could see something that long and sleek and black. A blaring, like trumpets, and the smell of freshly mowed grass. A sea of faces resolved out of the blinding whiteness, young and expectant. They were laughing.

"...so when I finally get out of the isolation tank, I see him slumped in his seat, snoring like a thunderstorm, and a half-dozen pop-ups open on his screen advertising medication for penile dysfunction. Being the vindictive son of a bitch that I am, I took a picture and stuck it in the faculty lounge."

The class howled with laughter. Even David, who clearly disapproved, couldn't help covering his mouth with one hand to hide his smile.

"What did Dr. Neumann do, professor?" asked a blond girl in the back.

"He knows I hate showtunes, so he locked me in the isolation tank a week later and blasted the entire soundtrack to 'Hairspray' over the comm." Mike chuckled. The class laughed again.

David clapped his hands together when the laughter had died down. "Alright, guys, any other serious questions? No? Okay, everyone thank Dr. Frankel for coming in today. Remember to read 'The Last Question' and 'The Last Answer" for next time, and be ready to give your thoughts in class. Have a good afternoon, everyone."

The class rose almost as a single entity and for several moments the room was filled with the sound of rustling paper, of desks scraping across the floor, and of the rapid zipping of backpacks. Several of the students stopped to talk with Mike about his projects, his own experiences as a student, and alternative rock, then left chatting amongst themselves. As the last student filed out, Mike watched his husband gather his papers into a neat pile and deposit them into his Star Wars shopping bag. He smiled as his eyes lingered over the white and beige bag - strictly environment-friendly, David used the bag to shop, at the gym, to carry his textbooks. Mike had seen it slung over his shoulder so often it almost seemed a part of him.

He rounded the table and folded his arms around David’s waist and inhaled deeply into the back of his head. David smelled gently of apricot shampoo and fresh paper.

"That went well, don't you think?" David asked, taking his hands.

"Yeah. You were right. I shouldn't have underestimated your kids. They're exceptional. That one kid with the tie-dye hair and glasses really floored me with how well he understood neurophysiology."

"Mark Riechmann?"

"Is that his name?"

"Yeah. He's bright - biochem major on the premed track, but minoring in creative writing. He'd make a good doctor, but I think he'd be a brilliant writer."

"There you go again, always turning people onto the arts." Mike slowly began dancing to no particular tune, still holding onto David's waist. "The world needs good doctors too, you know. We keep people living."

"You're right, but good writers help keep the world a place worth living in." David swayed with him, closing his eyes. "You know, I thought you were great."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You were goofy, vulgar, raunchy, and you drifted off-topic more often than you stayed on. They loved you."

"Oh good. I love being adored by undergrads." Mike slowly turned his husband around, still dancing, until his hands were at David’s back and their foreheads rested together. "I think I prefer their handsome professor, though."

"I certainly hope so. The alternative makes you kind of a pervert, doesn't it?"

Mike laughed. "But I am kind of a pervert, and you love me nevertheless."

"Yes.  Yes I do."

David leaned in and kissed him. As their lips met, the world melted away, and all that existed was David’s warmth against his own and the sweet citrus on his breath.

A hot, humid blackness, with small flickering flames floating in the dark, and punctuated by flashes of a bright white room. Something soft as silk and pale against a sliver of moonlight. Clouds gathered while an icy wind blew, and the sky seemed to stretch away into an endless gray haze. The smell and taste of dust on the air.

The dripping noise was driving him insane, at least partially because it sounded like the drops were falling into a deep pool. If that were truly the case then they probably had a serious leak somewhere, which explained the abysmal responsiveness of the relays lately. On the other hand, he never heard the noise when Alan was present. Thus he might, in fact, have simply gone insane from being cooped up in the lab almost fourteen hours a day for the past several weeks. The prospect seemed more likely by the minute.

"Where the hell are you?" Mike whispered, idly tapping the end of his wrench against one of the pipes that ran the length of the room. The metallic echo briefly drowned out the dripping noise, and a cloud of rust-red dust flew from the pipe into his face. Mike coughed and spat out the taste of corroded metal.

"God damn it!" he shouted at nothing in particular and threw the wrench to one side. It clattered loudly against metal grating.

"Problems?"

Mike spun around to see Alan standing in the doorway to the lab. He was dressed in an enormous, puffy gray parka with black winter mitts and a dark green ski hat. An orange and maroon scarf had been carefully wrapped several times around his face, such that only his very pink nose and his horn-rimmed glasses showed through. A dusting of snow crumbled off his shoulders; the outfit gave him the air of a badly miscolored penguin.

"Bad out there?" Mike suppressed a giggle.

"It took me an hour to get across the quad," Alan replied as he pulled off his mitts. "I think I saw freshmen drifting around on the wind."

"Serves them right for being out in this weather.  I told all my RAs to just stay home." Mike turned back to the pipes. "Hey, have you ever heard any dripping noises back here? I think we might have a leak in the relay subsystem."

"Huh. Can't say I have, but the relay has been kind of sluggish lately. Is the synthetic myelin low?"

"Not that I can see. Still, if we're getting water contamination then it wouldn't register immediately, would it? Dammit, I knew we should've gone with higher grade photoelectrics." Mike turned and watched Alan struggle with his boots. "They really should've closed down the school today."

"You're telling me. I think most of the instructors have canceled classes anyway."

The boot came off with a curious popping noise and Alan plopped down into a nearby chair, breathing heavily. "Alright. Got the boot."

"Just fourteen more layers to go," Mike grinned and turned back to the mess of pipes in front of him. As expected, the dripping noise had vanished again. "You know, it never seems to drip when you're around. Either the system knows when you're here and likes messing with me, or I'm going insane. Here, you look for it."

Alan shot Mike a dirty look, then stood up and began stripping off the remainder of his winter attire. At length, when every hook on the coat rack was occupied, he walked over to the machine and leaned in, ignoring the proffered wrench.

"Oh, I see," he said after a moment. "We've got a busted clamp between the E and F outputs."

"You can see that?" Mike leaned in, squinting into the shadows.

"Yeah. I actually wear my glasses for just this reason. How long did you say you were staring at this?"

"You...shut up! And replace that clamp!" Mike threw the wrench into his friend's hand, then stomped back to his desk and plopped down into seat.

Alan grinned and gave him a mock salute. "Yes sir, Mr. Witty Comeback, sir!"

"And no lip!"

They worked in silence for a while; the only sounds in the lab were the clacking of the computer keys and the occasional clangor of metal as Alan hit the pipes with his wrench. At length, Alan stood up, wiped his brow, and tossed the wrench onto a nearby tabletop, where a scattered pile of scrap metal and old tools had accumulated.

"Alright, that's done. Start a control and see how it responds," he said, walking to Mike's desk. Then, "So how's David?"

"Peachy. He was going to go ahead with his lecture since the university wasn't officially closed, but decided to cancel when he saw the sidewalks caked with ice. Said he wasn't going to be responsible for a class full of bruised elbows and broken hips. He's in his office right now sorting through some essays, and then he's going to head home. I'm probably going to take off myself here in a bit."

"You're going to leave right after you made me replace that clamp?" Alan asked, an annoyed expression creeping onto his face.

Mike turned toward him and gave him a thumbs up, grinning, "You betcha. We're gonna snuggle on the couch, make some hot cocoa, and rent some movies."

"In that order?"

"Yes, in that order. David's dropping by the grocery store on his way back, pick up some hot cocoa. We're probably going to see what's new on Netflix."

"And I'm going to sit here, working all by my lonesome," Alan sighed. "I'm so unloved."

"Play the pity card all you want," Mike replied, not looking at him. "You're not getting invited over."

"Damn." Alan reached for something on his desk, then stopped. "Damn! I left my calculations across campus."

Mike glanced at him, then at the soggy pile of clothes sitting on the coat rack at the lab entrance.

"Wow, sucks to be you today."

"Oh shut up," Alan said as he started pulling his winter boots back on. "I'll be back in, oh, two days or so. Send out a search team if you don't hear from me. I'd prefer not to wait until the spring thaw to be discovered."

"I'll alert the Arctic Rescue," Mike waved at him.

A jerk, a blip almost not worth mentioning.

The equations weren't working out. Mike chewed on the end of his pen, noting somewhat absently the collection of gouged and crumpled ball-points sitting in a dejected pile in their black-wire holder. Working on the patching algorithm had brought back his oral fixation in spades. It was probable, he mused idly as he stared at the collection of Greek symbols, horizontal lines, and improbable operations flickering on his computer screen, that a quarter of his budget was spent just replacing ball-point pens he'd chewed into uselessness.

"I hate renormalization," he muttered at his latest victim. The pen, as usual, didn't dignify that with a response.

The shrilling of the telephone slapped him out of his reverie and he nearly choked on the pen cap. Spitting out the worried piece of plastic, he leaned over and picked up the handset.

"Hello?"

"Mike, is that you?" asked a gravelly voice on the other end. The sound was muffled, as though someone was blowing hard into the mouthpiece.

"Oh hey, sheriff," Mike said. "How's it going? Weather keeping your boys busy?"

"Mike, listen, I'm at Mount Tabor and Bishop. You'd better get down here."

Mike stood, suddenly aware of nothing but the smooth plastic of the phone in his hand and the grim, sandpaper voice on the other end.

"Richard, what happened?"

"It's David, Mike. I'm afraid there's been an accident."

And the world dropped away.

A collage of lights, red and blue against a black, snow-filled sky, and a sound like the wailing of a siren, yo-yo'ing through the unseen distance. Or maybe it was just him. Faces, crowded together in a macabre sea, alternately sympathetic, aggrieved, hesitant, trepidatious, all looking at him, through him. Then there was a twisted, crumpled hulk of metal and glass, all razor edges and jagged barbs, with a dizzying splash of red against its dusting of powder snow, and wrapped somewhere inside was his heart. A whirl of white and gray, in which certain words resolved themselves against a background of hurricane noise.

"...cut off the oxygen supply to his brain..."

"..clinically dead for nearly fifteen minutes..."

"...persistent vegetative state..."

"...living will indicates he doesn't wish to employ prolonged life-sustaining measures without hope of recovery..."

"Sign here, Dr. Frankel..."

One endless room, full of waiting, waiting, while hope shriveled like the flesh from his husband's bones. An incessant beeping, which turned into a dripping he just couldn't find. But it told him what needed to be done.

"I'm taking him home."

A flash of black. And then...

The signal was good. It was strong; he hadn't expected it would be. He had thought there would be holes, breaks, segments of noise and useless trash signals that would defy even the PATCH program. He had been ready to fill them in manually, if necessary, but no - it was all there. It was a prime signal, almost as though David knew what was happening, even though he couldn't have understood any of it.

The crackle and the sizzle of the encoding laser stopped, and with a soft click the holography cube ejected out of the burner. He took the cube by the corners, infinitely cautious of the treasure it contained, and laid it into the storage case beside its eight siblings like a mother putting her child to bed.

"Just one more," he breathed. "One more and we're done, honey."

He picked up another vat of the oxygenated nutria, absently noting the flecks of blood that flaked off his fingers as he did so, and refreshed the nutrient bath. Then he ran over to the power supply and, with a wince and a whispered apology, gave the switch a quick flick. The neon crackle of electricity briefly broke the darkness of the lab, and the air filled with the nauseating smell of burning flesh. Mike looked at the monitor - pulse, blood pressure, hematocrit - the values fluctuated and jumped madly for a moment, then stabilized within expected parameters. He went back to his seat and looked at the dizzying array of lines scrawling across the screen. Just as before, the signals were strong - as strong as the best trials he and Alan had ever done. He reached over, gently inserted another hologram cube into the recorder, and began again.

"Mike, what are you doing?"

He spun in his chair so quickly he almost spilled out of his seat. Alan stood just outside the light cast by the desk lamp; the pale rings of his glasses floated weirdly against the shadowy outline of his body. Mike stared at him, suddenly alarmed - he hadn't even heard him come in.

Alan looked at the array in the far corner. He coughed, raising a hand to cover his nose and mouth, and took a half-step in the dark toward where David lay.

"My God...Mike, what are you-"

"Don't touch him," Mike said. "I'm almost done with the last set of recordings. You'll disrupt the process if you go charging in there now."

"Are you insane? You're trying to -"

"I'm not just trying. I can do it. The memories are there, if I can get to them in time."

"No, you can't. The relay won't catch them if the subject isn't actively thinking about-"

"Not in a cognitive subject, no, because you can't access them safely. But he's-" he stopped, not quite able to say the words. "I hooked the relay directly into his memory centers, directly where the bulk of them are stored. There damage there is negligible - anything that's missing can be filled in using PATCH."

Alan looked at him, at the blood crusting his fingertips and splashed like spaghetti stains all over the front of his shirt, and swallowed hard.  His voice came out soft, but tight as a coiled spring, and Mike could hear his friend fighting to keep his voice even.

"Mike, do you have any idea how many regulations you're violating?  You will lose tenure for this.  You will go to jail for this.  Not to mention what this will do to your reputation, and all the work that we've already done.  He's gone, Mike.  This is not going to bring him back."

Alan took a deep breath, then moved David's body again.

"Okay, we can still fix this.  Did anyone see you bring him in?  We can just-"

"I said don't touch him, Alan.  I'm almost finished."

"Mike, listen - " Alan said, reaching for the electrodes hooked up into David's brain.


That was as far as he got. Mike flung himself out of his seat and grabbed his wrist, shoving Alan back away from the canopied form lying in the corner.  They stood for a moment, glaring at each other.

"I told you not to touch him!" Mike hissed between breaths. "I'm almost done, Alan! I almost have it!"


"It doesn't work like that, Mike. Stored memories are diffused through the brain, compartmentalized in their component pieces. You know this. Even if you could get a coherent signal you wouldn't be able to make any sense out of it. It would be junk data, useless." His voice suddenly broke, and he jerked his wrist out of Mike's grasp. "He's gone, Mike! Christ, what did you do to him? What are you doing to him? You can't keep him, not like this!"

"That's why I'm getting everything!" Mike shouted. "If I have every memory, every piece, then even if we can't decode the data now, we could come up with the algorithms later. Figure out how to break up the pieces and reassemble them. I've got him, Alan. I know I've got him!"

"Goddammit, Mike! Do you have any idea what you're saying? You're talking about terabytes of fragmented data from locations all over his brain, locations uniquely his. You're talking about decoding information whose encryption key is a trillion digits long, and you've been losing chunks of it since the accident! Are you hearing me, Mike? This is-the calculations are astronomical!"

Mike stared at him for a moment. Then, "You won't help me. That's fine, but you're not going to stop me either. Get the hell out of here, Alan. I'll do it myself." He stalked back to the keyboard, transfixing the array of signals with his glare as he rapped off another segment of code.

"Mike-"

"Leave me alone, Alan."

"Mike-"

"I said leave me alone."

"Mike-"

"GODDAMMIT I SAID LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!" Rage flooded him, searing and shocking cold, and before he knew what he was doing he'd hurled the desk lamp at Alan. He caught a glimpse of Alan recoiling as the silvered lamp shot across the office, and then it reached the end of its cord, jerked in mid-air and smashed against the floor in a halogen flash. The lab fell into shadow. All he could see was the faint metallic outline of Alan's glasses by the dim glow of the computer monitor. Silence for an agonizing moment, broken only by the sound of his own breath and the endless beeping of the EKG.

"That only works in movies, Mike," came Alan's voice out of the dark, quiet and even. "I'm not leaving." Then, softly, with the barest hint of unsteadiness, "This isn't going to work, Mike. Don't do this to yourself."

"It'll work, Alan. I know it'll work."

"No. No it won't. No matter how much you want it to."

"It has to work." It was almost a plea.

"You're talking about a mathematical impossibility. It can't-what've you-" Alan's voice cracked again. "Look at all this." He gestured toward the bloodstains on the floor, the splatter over Mike's coat, the dark mass in the laboratory corner, and his hands fell limply to his sides. "You think he would've wanted this? You. Like that? Him. Like that?! Look at him, Mike! How did you even get him here?"

Mike was silent for a while. Then, quietly.

"I don't remember. All I remember is being in that room, watching him, watching him and knowing pieces of him were dropping away and then knowing that I could save him. Knowing that if there is any point, any point at all to the work we've been doing then this has to be it, or what the fuck was it all for?" Somehow that was it, and the words came tumbling out with salt tears, as though with them he could expel the jagged lump that split him in half from chest to throat. "Why the hell did I bury myself in this fucking tomb, spending more time underground than I did in my own bed if I can't even save what pieces there are left of him. What was the point? Why did I even-why am I-" He couldn't continue, the sobs shaking him so badly he knocked the keyboard off its tray.

Alan walked toward the desk, one step at a time, and, slowly, hesitantly, wrapped his arms around his friend.

"I know, Mike. I miss him too."

Mike clutched at him, unable to shake off the sobs. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Alan let out a rasping sigh. "Remember him. Love him. Move on."

He held him until the sobs died away.

Wind and trees under a sunlit sky the color of periwinkles, that didn't at all match the even rows of tombstones, or the sudden roaring of metal against metal. A crowd howling against the oncoming wind as they fell out of the sky but never hit the ground. Something soft and fluffy, smelling of honeysuckle but tasting too sweet.

"That was really good!" David was saying, running a hand through his long blond hair, and Mike found himself momentarily distracted beyond speech. "The plot dragged a bit at first, but I found it engaging after the first fifteen minutes or so. And the songs were catchy. What do you think?"

"Huh?"

"Michael, what are you looking at?" David turned, following Mike’s gaze as they walked past the empty parking lot, then looked back at him.

"Nothing. You. The way the sodium lights make your hair look like it's glowing."

"Sodium lights, huh?"

"You could make one yourself, out of a pickle. Or I could."

David laughed. "Sodium light out of a pickle. Very romantic.  My knight in shining, nerdy armor."

"Hey, we're the best kind. Much more useful than some jock with more football trophies than brain cells. What kind of life-threatening situation will need someone to throw a ball for you, anyway?" He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"What kind of life-threatening situation will need a sodium light built out of a pickle?" David teased, then made a wagging motion with his finger. "I think I sense some bitterness there."

Mike shrugged. "Pfft. What's there to be bitter about? I'm getting a full ride to one of the most prestigious universities in the country, and the guys who used to pound me for lunch money are working at Main Street Auto. Over it."

"Clearly." David smiled, took Mike’s arm, and leaned against his shoulder. "I had a great time tonight, Michael."

"I'm glad. So did I."

"Honestly?" David looked up at him. "Even though we went to a musical?"

Mike sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, even though we went to a musical."

David laughed. "You know, I like guys who can move beyond their own prejudices. It’s charming.”

"Oh, really? Then hell yeah, I enjoyed the musical. In fact, I love musicals. I'm going to watch nothing but musicals from now on."

David gave him a light punch on the arm. "Hyperbole, however, is not charming."

"Oh, I don't know. I find conic sections pretty sexy."

"Math dork."

"English geek."

They walked in silence for a moment, watching the moonlight and lamplight vie for space on the polished hoods of cars double parked in the mall lot. A warm breeze wafted through the air, bringing with it the earthy smell of wet leaves and a curious hint of frosted cinnamon from the bakery nearby. Mike sensed something shift in the air as he walked, prompting him to ask, "What is it?"

David brushed back a strand of hair from his face, not looking at him. "Nothing. It's not important."

"Come on. I've already admitted to loving the movie, and I hate musicals - doesn't that indicate I'm a sensitive, thoughtful sort of guy?"

David looked at him for a while, then smiled. "Alright. I have a confession to make."

"Your dating me has totally changed your views on men, and you've decided to go to Italy and join the priesthood."

David looked down at his shoes, a discomfited expression coming over his face. "Ummm...that's not that far off, actually," he said slowly.

Mike stopped, suddenly feeling as though someone had punched him in the gut. "You-you're not serious!"

David continued walking. "No, I'm not."

Mike stared after him for a moment, then ran to catch up with him. "That was mean."

"You're the one who got smart-alecky before I could even start." He turned and beamed at him. "Scared you for a second, didn't I?"

"Scared the hell out of me, for a lot longer than a second."

"Good. That'll teach you."

Silence again. Then, scratching the back of his head and feeling uncomfortable, Mike said, "I'm sorry. Did I totally blow the moment?"

"Maybe."

"Ummm...well, then, can I say something?"

"You've been saying lots of somethings, all night. I think you'll do just as well with this one."

"Well, I guess what I wanted to say is...ah..." He went silent as he mustered the courage to say what he was thinking. "You know, I had the biggest crush on you for the longest time?"

"You did?" David turned to look at him, startled.

"Yeah. Ever since you started writing that column in the school paper. The way you spoke, the passion behind your writing, the thought that obviously went into every passage. You...it took my breath away."

"It did?" David was suddenly very interested in his right sleeve.

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"I was afraid. Intimidated. I wasn't sure what someone like you would see in someone like me. All I really knew was math and science. Derivatives and integrals, statics and mechanics. You were so much more popular. Good-looking and socially active and smart. You'd also been all over the place, where I've never even left town. Plus you're much more well-read than I am; all I ever read are science journals and science-fiction novels. I thought I'd come across like an idiot."

He was breathing hard when he finished, his heart jackhammering in his throat. For a moment he basked in the fact that he'd finally gotten that off his chest, and then he realized David hadn't said anything. He turned to him, and realized with a start that he was crying.

"What...did I say something wrong?"

"I wrote it for you."

"What?"

David sniffed and looked at him, tears glistening on his cheeks. "I've had a crush on you since we were sophomores. I love writing, putting words to the page to tell a story or express a point, but when the editorial position opened up, what I was thinking in the back of my head was, 'Here's my chance. Maybe he'll read it. Maybe he'll notice me.' You were my audience every time I wrote anything. But I never saw you read the paper. You never said anything. So I just thought..." He shook his head.

"Why didn't you say something?" Mike asked, floored.

"The same reason as you. You're probably one of the smartest guys in school. I'm an A student, but nowhere near your caliber in anything except English. I just didn't know how to approach you, how to impress you, without looking like a total moron. So I just...hoped."

"And wrote."

"And wrote." He started crying again. “God, look at me. I feel so stupid.”

"Hey, no, come on," Mike took him in his arms, feeling an unappealing lump in his own throat. "It worked, though, didn't it? I was reading. I'd been reading the whole time. I just wish I'd had the guts to ask you out, back then."

"Stop that. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Turns out we were both hoping for the same thing." David turned his face toward Mike, eyes searching his with an expression that stopped Mike’s heart.

"Yeah. It doesn't matter," Mike whispered, and leaned in.

The kiss wasn't very good, but it was perfect, in the shadow of the maple trees, against the warm summer breeze.

Darkness again, and nothing else. Then a lightening of the dark so gradual it was imperceptible, until one realized the expanse was no longer an endless wall of black, but gray...then white. And then there was a house, an unremarkable split-level with cream colored vinyl siding on a brick foundation. It sat on a hill dyed yellow by the afternoon sun, and even a cursory observation showed the lawn's careful tending. Pine trees enclosed the house on three sides, opening just enough to allow the driveway into the nearby street, and to let the neighbors see when someone was home. A battered old Toyota Tercel hatchback sat in the driveway, a pronounced dent on its passenger-side door, antenna bent in four places. At length, the front door, freshly painted sea green, opened, and someone wearing a plain blue shirt and jeans came walking out. In his hand was a half-finished magazine with dozens of yellow sticky notes jutting out of its top.

"Hey Alan," said Mike, with a slight, sad smile. "We've talked about this enough that it doesn't really need any explanation, does it? Just...keep them safe for me."

He scratched the back of his head, looked discomfited.

"I can't find the perfect words to say this, so maybe I'll just go with the ones that come to mind." A pause, then. "Thank you, Alan. I can't express how much your friendship has meant to me all these years. All the times you've been there for me, supported me, listened to me complain, kicked my ass into gear. The things we shared, happy and sad, at our best or dog sick and dead tired. I don't know where I'm going, or if there's even anywhere to go, but I'm so glad you were with me this far."

Someone else stepped out of the house. He was wearing a green T-shirt and plaid shorts with incongruous white sneakers, and his long blond hair was pulled into a ponytail. An old Ticonderoga number 2 was stuck behind his ear, and a simple yellow notepad nestled in the crook of his left arm. Walking down the hill, he stood beside Mike and took his hand.

"Hi, Alan," David said. "Thanks for taking care of this bozo while I was gone."

Mike looked at him, smiled, and turned back. "Even if there is nowhere else. Even if this is it, well, it's still everything I could've hoped for." He waved once. "I love you, buddy. Take care of yourself."

The two of them walked back into the house and, with one last, long look back, closed the door.

Roderick Neumann slowly removed the output leads of the portable recall device from his temples as the replay came to a close. His hands were shaking, so he left the hologram cube inside the PRD and instead turned his attention to the old man lying in the bed in front of him.

"Do you understand, Rod?" Alan asked, his voice raspy.

"Yeah, Grandpa, I understand," Rod replied. He looked curiously at his grandfather. "You loved him, didn't you?"

Alan smiled. "Yes, I did. Not in the way you're thinking, but no less deeply for that.”

"What happened to Dr. Frankel?" Rod leaned over, crossed his arms on the bed, and rested his chin against his wrists.

"He died," Alan replied, "three years to the day after David. Tuberculosis, which was still a problem back in my day, but he made some stunning advances in the PATCH program before he passed away. It hasn't been modified that much, actually, and it's still used in many modern devices. I don't know when he recorded that, but he must have known what was going to happen, because he put it and its companions in a security box and left them all to me in his will."

Rod looked at the other hologram cubes neatly stacked inside the fireproof security box, which was designed to withstand a nuclear fireball with its contents intact.

"Then those are..."

"Yes. His memories of David. I've never looked at them - they're his, after all. That one," Alan pointed at Rod's PRD, "that one he obviously meant for me."

"What was that last bit, at the end?" Rod asked.

"Hmmm...a thought. A hope, perhaps. A memory, now. Mine. Your father's. And now yours," Alan smiled at the thought. "It warms me to think of them like that. Mike reading his Scientific America and taking notes on everything, as usual. David still writing with a pad even though electronic means had been available for years. It's been over sixty years. If you still remember them sixty years from now, then, in a way, they'll have lived longer than anyone else of my generation."

"Don't worry, Grandpa," Rod assured him. "I'll keep them safe."

Alan smiled at him. "You're a good boy."

A voice drifted up from below: "Roderick, Patrick is here!"

"Alright, Mom, I'll be right down!" Rod yelled back.

"Patrick?" Alan asked, frowning.

Rod blushed. "Umm...yeah. My boyfriend. We're going out tonight."

"What happened to Shannon?"

"She and I broke up, um, a while ago." He quickly added, "We're still friends, though."

Alan fixed his grandson with a stare, then said, "Well, you shouldn't keep your new beau waiting. Go on, I'm just going to take a nap."

"Alright, Grandpa." Rod leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "I'll stop by before the weekend. I'd like to hear more about Dr. Frankel, and about how you and Grandma met."

"And I'll be happy to tell it," Alan replied. "Have a good time."

Alan listened to the sound of Rod's feet hitting the wooden stairs in rapid, staccato thumps, then the slam of the front door closing. A screeching of metal and wind as the engines of the hovercar outside gained speed, then propelled the vehicle into the distance. He listened until the sound had died away, then laid his head back against his pillow and closed his eyes, lost in his memories.

This one was a total bitch to write, for reasons completely unknown to me. It doesn't SEEM to be that much longer than the first version of Captured Memories...or maybe it just feels that way because the story is virtually all dialogue. I promised myself to just write, even if utter shit comes out, but I somehow liked this story enough that it's undergone some pretty heavy revisions. Damn. There goes that project.

Captured Memories

I'd initially thought I would write one story a evening, so I'd have a huge collection of really short stories. That, it seems, proved a rather romantic ideal. So I'm just going to settle for writing them when I can without judgment about what the stories are like.

It had been a decidedly drizzly day, and as such, Michael was a bit surprised to see the table laid out at the edge of the sidewalk. It was a standard affair - brown folding table covered with a dingy white cloth, and a staggering array of knick-knacks spread to cover every possible square inch of space. There were little jade buddhas and red resin dragons, Chinese medicine balls lacquered and polished until they glowed. Crystal prisms locked bubbles into intricate arrays, such that they resembled the New York skyline or the Empire State Building, dimly illuminated in reds and greens by cheap LED lights. Exotic wooden statuettes, perhaps African in origin or at least emulation, sat in a watchful row at the back of the table. At their feet rested lines and lines of hardwood lockets, each carved to resemble a heart, each in a different color or shape.

He had seen their like a hundred times, all over New York, and was ready to pass without a second glance when something caught his eye.

The instant camera was old - a white Polaroid SX-70, near as he could tell - and it bore the many dings, dents, and scratches that testified to the passage of decades. A fingerprint smudged over its right side - a grease stain, perhaps, that had gone uncleaned for too long. Its many whorls and eddies stood out from the white plastic as though etched in.

Michael adjusted his own camera sling around his neck and leaned in for a closer look. The camera overlooked a neat square of pictures - the very type you might get from such an instant shot. They were stills for the most part, although with a quality of motion he couldn't quite nail down. A birthday cake with ten candles that barely illuminated the numerous ghostly, grinning faces. Morning sunshine blazing through an open window, with a mist-clung forest hanging just beyond. Twilight on an unnamed beach - two pairs of footprints could be seen winding their way across the frame.

"Do you like them?"

Michael turned, startled, toward the man standing behind the table. He had somehow entirely overlooked his presence, but of course the man had been there the whole time. His face was the color of burnt mahogany, the deep lines stretching across it almost vanishing into the darkness of his skin. His hair was long and ashy gray, woven into tight braids with colorful wooden beads interspersed into the locks at random intervals. Most arresting, however, were his eyes - they were the color of a cloudless sky, clear and icy and penetrating.

"Are you selling the photos?" Michael asked.

The merchant smiled and shook his head.

"How much for the camera, then?"

He shook his head again. "The camera is not for sale."

"I'm not sure I understand. Why are these on display if you're not selling them?" Michael gestured at the neat rows of photographs.

"They are an example of the work that I can do."

Michael looked down at the photographs again, feeling a slow irritation creeping up his chest at this roundabout sale. They were all obviously quite old - most of them had yellowed, even browned, with age, and most were touched by what looked like burn marks at their edges. nevertheless, they were excellent photos, all clearly captured with a professional eye for composition and the emotional moment. There was a liveliness about them, a feeling of animation he couldn't quite understand; the candles on the birthday cake almost seemed to flicker.

"It's decent work," Michael muttered. "Though if you're a photographer this is kind of an odd way to advertise, isn't it?"

"You are interested."

"Well," Michael paused. Then, "The SX-70 is pretty cool. You can do some interesting effects with an instant-shot camera."

"Interesting, yes. That is a word for it." The merchant smiled. "You are a photographer, I see."

"Yeah." Michael's hand reflexively went for his own Canon EOS 1D Mark III, safely tucked away in the camera bag slung around his neck. A top-of-the-line SLR, it had cost him nearly five grand, and was a far cry from the simple-looking Polaroid sitting on the table.

"For how long?"

"All my life, I guess," Michael smiled, half to himself. "Ever since Dad left a disposable lying around on my sixth birthday. I've always had a thing for capturing the moment."

"Ahh, yes," the merchant smiled, revealing two gleaming rows of very white teeth. "This I understand. I, too, have found my life's work in capturing memories." He gestured toward the neat rows of photographs.

Michael cleared his throat uncomfortably. Without looking at the merchant, he picked up the picture of the birthday cake and feigned professional interest.

There was a moment of disorientation, and then the sun was setting, splashing the clouds with rose and gold even as the eastern sky darkened to violet. It was extremely hot outside, and muggy too. Summer had come early to Shreveport, bringing with it the kind of weather that usually gave Charlie LeMont a headache in the afternoons and drew in clouds of mosquitos dense as morning fog from the swamps. The new dress she had gotten just for today stuck to her skin with wetness. She wanted to throw it off, but everyone had thought she looked so beautiful wearing it that she also wanted to keep it on just a little bit longer. She had made one concession (that was a new word, meaning compromise, sort of) to the weather, and that had been to take off her shoes. Her feet were now streaked and smudged with green. She'd forgotten when she ran inside to fetch the new books she'd gotten, and Maw-maw had yelled very loudly that the stains would never come out of the carpet. It had been the one bad moment on what was otherwise the best day ever, and Maw-maw apologized only moments later, rubbing her hair and calling her Boo when she saw just how sorry she was.

"Here, I got you a drink."

Her best friend appeared out of nowhere and handed her a cup filled to the brim with strawberry kool-aid. Vicky (don't ever call her Victoria, or she'll knock you to the ground and pound you) was wearing her best pair of jeans and a black tank top - it wasn't the best party wear, but her parents couldn't really afford any more. What did clothes matter between best friends, anyway?

"Thanks," Charlie took the cup and drank deeply.

"You know who I saw the other day in your neighborhood?" Vicky asked, grinning from ear to ear.

"Who?"

"Walter Scott!"

"Ewww! He's such a little snot!" Charlie felt a flash of indignation. "What was he doing over here?"

"He was with his parents. They were looking at the Schumachers' house. I think they're going to buy the place!"

"Oh no!" She nearly dropped her punch. "I don't want him living down the road from me! That means we'll have to use the same bus stop!"

She remembered, with a shiver down her spine, the time Walter had filled her desk with wriggling black caterpillars during recess. It'd taken Mrs. Kline half an hour to calm her down enough that she could go back to reading her social studies. Walter had gotten a week's worth of detention, but Charlie still couldn't approach her desk without getting the willies.

"Yeah. You'd better watch your back, Charlie," Vicky made a face and squiggled her fingers in imitation of crawling caterpillars.

"Stop it! That's not funny, Vicky!" She slapped her friends hands away in disgust.

"I think he'd stop doing it if you'd just punch him in that snotty red nose of his," Vicky leaned back, grinning. "The boys never expect us to fight back, for some reason."

"I can't hit him!"

"Why not?"

"I'm not...I just can't," she replied, biting her lip. "I'm not strong like that."

"Yes you are. You told off Mrs. DeVille that time she wanted to give me detention for fighting, even though I hadn't been." Vicky put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief squeeze. "You don't have to pound them, Charlie. Figure something out. You're smart enough. I only hit them because I don't know how to do it any other way."

She smiled at Vicky, then leaned into the hug. "I wish you weren't going away."

"Me too." Then, softly, "Promise you'll write?"

"Well of course!" Charlie was suddenly indignant again. "You even have to ask?"

"And you'll come visit?"

"Of course I will! Why wouldn't I?"

"Los Angeles is so far away..."

"That's not going to stop me!" She said fiercely. "We're best friends, right?"

"Best friends!" Vicky beamed at her.

And they hugged in the shade of the pine trees as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. At that moment, Mamma came out of the patio doors, carrying the biggest, pinkest cake she had ever seen. Ten candles were glowing brightly from its top, and the peach-colored icing read, "Happy 10th Birthday, Charlie!" Everyone was singing and clapping as the cake found its place onto the huge white table that had been set out in the yard.

"Make a wish, Charlie!" Vicky shrieked at her, clapping her hands.

I wish we'll be best friends forever. She thought, and blew out the candles.

And then Michael was standing on the sidewalk, with rain now falling in misty sheets from the colorless sky. His heart was pounding, and he could still feel the heat of the candles on the cake, the smell of charred wax as the flames flickered out into darkness.

"What...what the hell was that?" He hadn't moved in all that time, but he was breathless, his heart beating a rapid staccato in his chest.

The merchant smiled, "A memory, captured."

Michael stared at him, paling.

"It is what I do, after all. Just like you."

Michael stare at him, throat suddenly dry. He swallowed, hard, and asked, "How?"

"A secret, and an ancient one," the merchant replied. "One never spoken, not even in whispers, until the time comes that it must be passed on."

"Passed on?" Even in disbelief, he felt his heart leap, once. "What do you mean?"

"You are not dense, so do not pretend ignorance. You know exactly what I mean."

"To me. You mean you want to give this...this ability to me."

"No."

"No?"

"The ability is yours already. Its facets shine through in all of your work. I only offer to...open your eyes to your full potential, if you will."

His thoughts swam, a thousand denials and objections racing through his head that what he had experienced couldn't be real. Such things didn't exist. It was insane to think they did. The merchant was insane to tell him as much. He was insane to even think it might be true...

But then he thought of Charlie, and of Vicky, of the smell of that Louisiana summer and the warm glow of the candles on that beautiful pink birthday cake.

He looked up at the merchant, who was looking at him with understanding in his eyes.

"What's the catch?"

The merchant smiled, his expression turning both pleased and sad.

"To capture memories requires dedication to the moment. You would have to give up certain things."

"Like what?"

"Childhood. Family. Friends. Love."

Michael gaped at the merchant, then barked a laugh. "Not asking much, are you?"

"I don't make the rules."

"There are rules?"

"There are always rules. None will know of this ability, or how you received it, save what can be expressed in that moment of memory, the sweet or the bitter tang that touches the viewer's soul. What fame and profit you may gain will be ever fleeting, coming and leaving like the tides. Lovers you may have, and a passing satisfaction in them, but true love will flee from you as night from the dawn. And when the time comes, you will stand alone in the twilight of your years, and find what meaning you can by kindling the flame in others."

"You really don't know how to sell this very well, do you?" Michael asked. "No money, no recognition, no love. I have to abandon everything that's ever mattered to me. Why the hell would I do something like that?"

The merchant was quiet for several moments, then said. "You are right - no money, no recognition, no love. You must abandon everything that's ever mattered to you." He paused, then said. "But once, every so often, you will know true happiness. True fulfillment. The moments and the memories that you capture shall spread as the seeds of the dandelion spread, and endure as mountains and oceans endure. Whether happiness, sorrow, violence, beauty, love, or hate - what you sow will influence and impact lives beyond number."

Michael stared at him, speechless.

"Do I...do I have to answer now?"

The merchant nodded. "You, of all people, must understand the importance of the moment lost."

"You can't...it's too much to ask. You can't expect me to-"

"I expect nothing. Only you know what you truly want."

Another pause.

"As enduring as mountains and seas?" Michael asked.

"And as far as dandelion seed."

Michael was silent for a while. Then, "Yes." And in that answer he became aware of a vast release, as though sky and earth together had exhaled. Or maybe it had just been him, who had been holding his breath without realizing.

The merchant looked at him, then nodded expressionlessly. "Be sure it is what you really want."

Michael smiled. "You talk as though I really had a choice."

"You always have a choice."

"I guess that depends on your point of view."

The merchant smiled, then took Michael's head in his hands. Michael felt a sudden lightness, a peculiar sort of release, as though he'd unclenched a muscle he didn't even know he had. Then the merchant picked up the instant camera and began snapping pictures. Click. His grandmother's rose garden, blooming in spring. Click. The time he hid his sister's Barbie in kitty litter. Click. Gliding down the hill without training wheels for the first time, and his first trip to the hospital shortly after. Click. His first trip to Sea World, when his father had accidentally thrown their car keys into Shamu's tank. First day in high school, when Derek Quesenbery had pulled down his shorts in front of all the girls in gym class. That time his best friend Dan smuggled tequila into the house, and they had gotten roaring drunk before setting fire to the trash can. Click. Click. Click. Sheryl, the only woman he had ever really loved and now, it seemed, ever will. Click.

And before he knew it, he was crying, sobbing so hard that he almost lost his balance, as he watched his life appear in front of him in a neat pile of little squares. At last, after what seemed like thousands of clicks, in which the camera never once ran out of film, the merchant stopped and laid the camera down. Then, as the sky rumbled ominously, he handed Michael a box of matches.

"This is something you must do."

Michael took the box, slid it open, took out a match. His hands were shaking so hard it took several tries to light one, but at last the match ignited with a hiss. He hesitated for one eternal moment, then dropped the match onto the pile of photos.

They ignited immediately, burning with a soft orange flame that somehow gave off very little smoke. The skies rumbled again, and the drizzle became first a shower, then a downpour. The fire flickered, but continued to burn, and as he watched the photographs boil, blacken, then curl, he felt his shuddering gradually subside.

The photographs burned for a very long time, and all the while the rain continued pounding a beat that seemed to go on endlessly. At last, the pile was ashes, and Michael felt only an exhausted lassitude. He sifted through the ashes, and was surprised and gratified to see a single photograph had survived the fire. Sheryl, smiling at him their first evening together.

"The most important one to you, I think," the merchant said, picking up the photo. "I will keep it safe for you, until you feel ready to take it for yourself."

"Can I ask you something?" Michael asked as the man carefully gathered up the other photos and placed the image of Sheryl on top. "Did you know I was coming?"

"No," the man replied as he began gathering together his various knick-knacks. "But you saw the camera and the picures, and you took interest."

"But I couldn't have been the only one."

"You weren't."

Michael looked at him a moment longer, then realized, "Not everyone accepts the offer."

"Most people don't." The man leaned over and kissed Michael on the forehead. "Go with God."

Michael walked away from the sidewalk table, feeling light-headed and unexpectedly heavy at the same time. At length, he looked back, just in time to see the man heft the folding table under his arm and vanish into a sudden crowd. He suddenly realized that it had stopped raining. The clouds parted, and the sun erupted through, brilliant and golden and warm on his skin. It was a perfect moment, a unique moment, one that would never reappear this side of eternity.

He took his camera out of its bag, lifted it to the sun and snapped the shot. Peering into the display on the back, he looked at the results, and smiled.

End

Wow, um...I started this story intending to write a sort of horror story, and it went into a totally different direction. I've heard lots of writers tell stories about how a story dictated its own terms to them, but this is honestly the first time it's happened to me. It's really interesting. I might actually revisit this one, because I like how it turned out, and I want to smooth it out a bit.

What's also really interesting is that I actually hesitated a long time over how to end this one. I really wasn't sure how Michael would choose - it's a lot to sacrifice, and it's a lot to gain as well. I think the choice he ultimately made is the right one for the story, although I, personally, have a lot of reservations about it. Family, friends, and love is an incredible amount to give up...I don't know that I would do it, myself.

Ten Thousand Worlds

I wrote this story just a short while ago, and am re-posting it to give this blog a sense of beginning. The story is part of a series I'm writing with no real expectations except to write. Contrary to my usual routine, I'm choosing not to edit these except to correct grammatical errors here and there. Basically, it's to help rid myself of my (substantial) inner censor...and possibly to expulse the numerous terribly bad stories I have within me.

It's worth noting that the story is entirely fiction - I have never lived in Queens, nor have I ever been accosted on the subway.

"You have the greenest eyes..."

This was completely untrue. My eyes were not, nor have they ever been, green. I glanced up from my Differential Equations and Boundary Value Problems textbook to see a disheveled-looking man staring down at me. His appearance was typical New York subway panhandler. His hair hung like strands of limp seaweed, squashed underneath an extremely dirty Mets cap. A faded denim jacket at least two sizes too large draped on his shoulders as though off a very knobbly coat rack, and his black pants were ripped in many areas; shreds of it dragged behind him, barely hiding the lace-less black sneakers that he wore. His face was unlined, and what bare patches of skin I could see made me think he was Caucasian - he was so caked in dirt that he resembled the pictures I'd seen of miners in the early 1900's.

His eyes, however, were green - so brilliantly green they almost glowed underneath the brim of his baseball cap.

I quietly cleared my throat and went back to my textbook, steadfastly ignoring the stomach-turning smell of soured alcohol and caked sweat.

"I saw the sky bleed yesterday," the homeless man continued. "I saw the sky crack open and bleed butterflies - they were red and green and purple and they streaked across the sky like a lightning rainbow, and they sparkled. I caught one, but it turned into an orange peel in my hand."

I tried to focus on how one solves a first-order differential equation and didn't look up. A woman sitting next to me, who could charitably be called fat, made a badly-disguised look of disgust and struggled to her feet. As she walked away I noted that she looked a bit like a wobbly beach ball in her red and white polka dot dress, then mentally berated myself for being unkind. I shifted down to where she had been sitting and hoped the panhandler would leave me alone.

"I once left this planet," the homeless man continued, oblivious of my discomfort. "I floated on streams of cerulean and velvet stars to the rings of Neptune, and I watched the mermaids of Triton swim underneath the violet waves and listened to them serenade the coral beasts."

I cleared my throat again and stared violently down at my differential equations. This was a little...weirder...than I was used to on the New York Subways.

"You have the greenest eyes," the man repeated, sitting next to me.

"I...ah, really don't," I responded, then silently cursed myself for responding.

"You do!" He replied vehemently, causing me to flinch back. A few of the car's other occupants, including the lady who'd fled earlier, glanced down in my direction, and I felt my neck grow hot.

"Your eyes don't look green, but they ARE green, and that's where everything matters!" The homeless man leaned in, gazing at me intently, even as I tried to lean away inconspicuously.

"Ahm...right. They don't look green, but they are green. I getcha." I glanced out the window, and saw only a rushing of black outside. To my dismay, a sudden shrieking of metal filled the air and the entire train lurched forward as it slowly shuddered to a stop.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen," announced a bored-sounding voice over the intercom. "We are currently being held by the dispatcher. We should be moving shortly and apologize for the inconvenience."

"Terrific," I muttered under my breath. Snapping my book shut, I struggled with my backpack zipper even as the man beside me continued in a hoarse whisper, "My eyes are green too. They didn't used to be green, but then I got the gift, and everything changed colors. The sun shined for me alone and I saw the gods and the goddesses of the clouds, and the fairies that live underneath the subways in the dark hollow places of the earth. I could hear the moles digging underneath, and the restless dead shifting in their coffins as a slow leaking calcified their bones and turned them into bedrocks."

He reached a stained hand out to me, and I almost bashed my head against the far end of the car as I flung myself out of the seat. Resolutely not turning around, I started toward the other end of the subway, hoping the crazy homeless man would latch onto somebody else. Then I could go back to my differential equations which, although boring, seemed unlikely to manhandle me while total strangers watched. I glanced back once - the homeless man remained at the other end of the car, swaying almost hypnotically even though the subway still hadn't started moving yet. His oddly green eyes bored into my back. The subway car rumbled into life with a shudder and slowly began accelerating its way back up the Queens-bound tunnel.

I breathed a sigh of relief and sat down in the nearest empty seat - one that, in an odd stroke of fortune, was next to the woman in the polka-dot dress who'd sensibly walked away earlier. She threw me a smile: half sympathetic and half worried, as though I were somehow a magnet for crazy homeless people.

The assessment, it seemed, wasn't entirely incorrect.

I heard a rapid staccato of feet hitting linoleum (or whatever the hell they use to coat subway floors these days), and a sound like an Indian warcry smothered in years of smoking and god only knows how many gallons of cheap whiskey. Half the occupants of the subway stood up, me included, in a motion not unlike the flight of a startled flock of birds. I saw the homeless man dashing down the subway lane toward me, every passenger in his way instinctively retracting feet and bags and purses even as they gaped at him with goldfish eyes. I half-turned to run, but my feet tangled with the bookbag I'd left on the floor, and I only succeeded in looking vaguely silly as I crashed to the ground. My arm and right leg smashed into something hard and unyielding and promptly sent agonized protests shooting into my brain.

In spite of the pain, I twisted my head around just far enough and just soon enough to see a blur of blue denim and black jeans soaring into the air, bizarrely graceful with arms and legs outstretched like an Olympic diver. The last thing I saw was a teenager with bleached blond hair scrambling furiously for his cell phone, and then the homeless man plowed into me with all the grace of an NFL linebacker.

The breath whooshed out of me so fast I felt a momentary sympathy for punctured balloons, and I couldn't even make a noise as the homeless man grabbed me by the shoulders and started screaming into my ear.

"I saw the dawn at night and heard the whalesong of the long lost green belugas as they soared from the peaks of Mount Meru! I saw the watchmen of twilight with their silvered swords and their wings of light and their eyes as black as night, and they let me pass through the gates of ivory and bone and horn. I tasted all the colors of the sun and put them into a dish made of broken dreams, and I burned them and I scattered the ashes into the seas of maiden's tears on Mars!"

I struggled underneath the weight of the man, trying to knock him off and catch my breath, but flat on my stomach with nothing nearby for leverage I was as effective as a flopping fish. The man wrapped an arm around my wrist - his grip was hard as iron and just as cold. A wave of numbness show up my arm, as though I had suddenly been shot with a needleful of novocain.

"All these things I saw as I wandered through the ten thousand worlds, and I saw them because my eyes were green, and because I knew there was more to the world than the earth and the sky. Because I agreed when the traveler asked me if I would."

The man stood up, finally easing his weight off me, and flipped me around onto my back. He leaned down and grabbed my other wrist with his free hand before planting himself on my chest. His breath flowed in quick, putrid waves, and I gagged even as he transfixed me with his burning green eyes.

"Just want to, and I can stop wandering and pass on the fire," he whispered into my ear. "Say yes, or everything dies here, and the ten thousand worlds fall into darkness like all the other ones."

I was moved to respond with something along the lines of "I...uh...wha...?" but the best I could manage with the man sitting on my chest was a wheezing sort of gasp. Over the man's shoulder, I could see that some of the subway's occupants were finally moved, undoubtedly by my puce coloration, to help me out of my predicament.

Two very large, burly men who looked like actual football linebackers flanked the homeless man, one of them half-standing on the subway seat to do so, and lifted him up from underneath the armpits. He struggled, fruitlessly, all the while hissing at me, "Just say yes, boy! You don't understand! The withering and the dying and the cold will seep into the world, and the phoenix will go the way of the dodo and nothing will rise from the ashes ever again!"

I just coughed. The polka dot woman rushed over to me.

"Are you alright? Do you want to call the police?"

I shook my head no, and was punished by a momentary blackout punctuated with blinking stars. I wanted nothing more than to go home, take a long shower, and plump into bed. Fortune and the subway obliged me by sliding with a screech into the Astoria Blvd stop. I grabbed my backpack and hurried out of the station.

"Don't go! You don't know what you're doing!"

I spared the homeless man a momentary glance - he was still being held by the two linebackers, both of whom looked uncertain now that the crisis was over. His green eyes followed me as I ran up the subway stairs in twos and threes. I didn't stop until I reached the front steps of my apartment.

It wasn't until two days later, after I'd aced my differential equations exam, that I really stopped to think about the homeless man and what he'd said on the subway. Crazed and rambling, to be sure, but at the same time I couldn't help wondering what it meant if everything he said he'd seen was, somehow, true. If the ten thousand worlds had, indeed, crumbled into ruin by something so simple as my refusal.

I let the thought pass and went back to studying my vector calculus. I had enough trouble dealing with this world without worrying about ten thousand other ones.

End