Bees on Beach Rocks

There is an island in the world where the dolphins don't come.


Among the rocks there are no tourists laden with fishy treats, nor nutrients or plants to attract fish so far out from the continental shelf to seek them.

There is only a cave, a boy, and the Bees.

Alone among the rocks, the boy tends to the hives, day in, day out, making sure they are perfectly structured, well stocked with glucose, warm and well-swept and safe from the dangers of the outside world--

And in return the bees, on their long seasonal journeys to the Lands where Flowers Grow, pluck for him every year a single lily that grows near to the Fountain of Life.

When I found him there, the boy with no name and a love for the sea, he begged me not to tell of the island and the work that he did.

"People would not understand. The bees have warned me that they would try to take me away, that they would lock me up or put me in a strange home, and that people would hurt each other trying to get to the Nectar of Life which keeps spirit and body joined. They do not know that it is only bees that have the power to attain that nectar and turn it to a palatable form, else it brings Death instead...  It is best for them not to find it at all. Far better to live a normal life and not know such things even exist."

The bees on that island are the last hope for mankind.

The work that they do, the sugars they spin into hexagonal shapes, are a tangible part of the tapestry, the matrix, the coding of the inherent patterns of the universe....

If they were to be discovered, they would likely be destroyed.

Pests.

Then the universe would shift once more- diversity would be lost, in little ways- and the thread would slowly start to unravel...

There are many places like this in the world- mostly underground.
Some are frenzied dens of calculated chaos, others peaceful willow-reeds of continuity, some balanced hives of activity. Together, they keep the realm of imagination intact, so that when one's mind wanders off into ever-expanding territories of thought, it does fall of the edge and into the Abyss.

Circus Reasoning

Days are passing by like acrobats on time-traveling trapezes...

One morning, I wake up to brightness glancing off my eyelids: a circus spotlight.... murmured voices... announcing the next act.....
 and open my eyes to find myself surrounded by surgeons on an operating table.

The surgeons in their long white coats and masks, their latex gloves and bizarre metal instruments...

They are clowns, of course. I can see them truly now, spinning round the ring on miniature BMWs, performing farce operations- and the fans, laughing as bloody paint splatters the stands...

I look down the table, fascinated by the sheer amount of red.

Isn't my blood supposed to be a different color?
This must not be mine, then.

A doctor hands me something, wrapped in gauzy cloth.

It squirms as I hold it tight in my arms, and I pull apart the covering to reveal:  myself.

"A history of the world, my child..." a voice echoes somewhere overhead:

I peer into the brightness above me, and am transported.

Images flash before my neurons:

women in fire dancing heroes fighting agents listening prince hamlet's speech fairy trees running vertically over zebras escaped convict old man little boy friends searching water sword-stalking smiling cats batting through mouse holes a rich man enslaved a guest blowing on his hot dinner tears stained glass windows and a ballgown opera...

I snap awake.

My skin falls off in the department store, and beneath it they see that I am just a female human baby, and laugh with shuddering sound waves that bring me to my knees.

I try to make sense of the judgement, but there is no reason- so the Ring Master hands me a mask and I step onstage.

The crowds are cheering and clapping and I feel them inside of me, so many voices beating incessantly at the door.

I let them in, and begin to fly...

Sunrise Songs and the Monster Man

 I wake in the fading dark.  Stretching and yawning, I head outside. Knees bend, tensing- I let go of the ground all at once, spiraling upward into the mystical depths of yet another beautifully unusual sunrise. Within the clouds, thousands of feet above the Earth, are rods of golden and flaming orange light- I’ve seen them before. They are hot, but I press one to me in a kind of dance, closing my eyes and forgetting gravity and all sense of direction. It makes a sort of electronic singing noise, and peering close, I see that it is some kind of message carrier. Curiosity aside, I know I have no legitimate reason to snoop in someone’s mail, so I let it go, and the rod zooms across the sky with the rest, keeping hidden from the unknowing populace in the thick morning clouds. After awhile, the chill repairs me to continue my journey, further down. Through bogs and swamps and hilly forests and somber valleys I race, till I come to a beautiful wooden bridge overlooking a glistening river- no cars, just people. Walking. I light like a fairy on the edge of the forest and watch the people strolling by, unheeding of life’s worries, if only for the moment. If I could read their minds like Syca, maybe I could truly share in their happiness. As it is, I am too busy preparing for today’s work. This beautiful venture is just a warm-up-- a flight to prepare me for another day of fighting crime. I walk over to the bridge and sit down, trailing my feet in the water. I wish I could just put down my job for a minute. Walk among these people as if I were one of them. The times I do that, though, bad stuff happens. More bad stuff than usual. It seems to be the curse of those who know the true dangers of the world- whether Reality or Imagination- to forever be fighting them. Once you see the fabric of the universe, you can’t very well waltz happily over it, knowing there are dangerously widening holes. You are forever fighting entropy….

Meh. This trail of logic is depressing. I think I’ll go get an ice cream.

I walk over to the musical cart set up in the park, and fish out my new debit card. “Now…how do I work this thing--” when a scream emits from the forest I just flew over. I rush back, dropping the card in my haste, and running through the trees, call out, “Is somebody here? Are you hurt?” I stop. Under my foot squishes a strange purple lily. I bend down and pick it up. Feeling stupid, and wishing I had some sort of tracking sense, I step forward hesitantly. “Hello?”Suddenly, a twig snaps behind me, and I whirl to find- a little girl.

“You found my flower!” she cries happily, reaching out.

“Oh,” I reply, handing her the slightly crumpled lily. “Were you the one that screamed?”

“Oh, no, no!” she replies hastily. “That was my- my cousin. We were playing hide-and-seek, and he thought he saw a bear. He’s a coward.” She smiles, and runs off toward the park, and I shake my head in bewilderment.

“Children...”  I glance down at the forest floor, and then peer back for closer scrutiny- there do, indeed, appear to be some sort of large tracks here…but not bear tracks. Nothing like bear tracks. I follow them with my nose to the ground, humming a little, for it is a bright and sunny day now, and I don’t have to get back to the base until ten, by my own schedule. May as well sort out this mystery. The further I get into the forest, the darker and denser the foliage grows, until I am forced to fly yards above the dense clusters of brambles, peering intently for signs of the animal’s trail. As I go along, I start to here a faint whistling tune…

And, emerging upon a weedless field of wheat, I behold a little cabin built into the side of a tree, a giant redwood, in the center of an open space. “Hello?” I call, and immediately the singing ceases. “Is anyone at home? I don’t want to frighten you- I just had a question, I don’t mean to be a bother or anything, but if you’re here, I’d like to talk to you—” a shadow moves behind the house. I creep closer and peer around the side- on a small wooden bench lie a basket of herbs, a can of peas, half- shelled, and a long, intricately carved walking stick.  And, there, along the wall of the cabin, are blooming a plot of the strange, purple flowers. I reach out to touch one, when a rough voice cries from behind me-

“PLEASE!” I turn to find a tall, grizzled old man wrapped in thin rags of fur glaring down at me. He is standing at the edge of a cleverly hidden platform, tied round the waist of a tree with vines. It appears to be a hunting stand. The man, with a knobby hand on the string of a worn bow, cries, “Step AWAY from the flowers, lass!”

“I-I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t going to pick them or anything, I was just curious--” Looking at the man, I see that his feet, below the rags, are almost like the hooves of a Faun. That explains the odd tracks. Turning back to the flowerbed, I ask, “What are they, exactly? They’re not from around here…”

“No,” sighs the old man, lowering the bow and climbing wearily down from the tree. “No, they’re not. I’m sorry to frighten you, lass. I couldn’t risk their safety, not when one of their sisters has already been killed.”

“Killed! Then- these aren’t just flowers? But, the little girl I met in the forest had one of them. Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I was out gathering herbs from the west fields. By the time I heard the Lileth screaming, it was too late. Their spirits are delicate, and cannot survive being moved from their place of origin while in that form. I couldn’t blame the girl- she is young, and innocent- and, what’s more, human beings have always been a clumsy and nosy race, blundering into other’s forests where they shouldn’t be looking…I should have moved the Lileth as soon as they started moving in.”

“Now, sir, I think you misjudge my race. Not all of us are so brash. Curiosity can be a good thing, too.”

“Oh, I meant you no insult, lady lass. But, I am a Protector, and it falls hard upon me when I fail in my duty. And- you must understand. Your aura- I can tell that you, too, guard. I watched you. The way you ran after that child when you thought she was hurt…”

“There is nothing else I could’ve done.” I protest, but he raises his hand.

 “You could have run away.” 

“Yes, I suppose, but- what if she had been hurt! I would have to live with the knowledge that I did nothing to save her, the rest of my life. Opportunities to help do not appear for no reason.”

The old Faun smiles, centuries of laughter crinkling up around his eyes.

“No, I don’t suppose they do. I also noticed that you have some flight ability. Are you by any chance descended from elves?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” I reply, “At least- not that I know of. But I have met and danced with a few of the Fairy Folk, and found them quite an agreeable sort.”

“Ah,” the man sighs. “Well, I had hoped that, perhaps, you might be able to help me. As you said, no opportunity appears without reason. You see,” he continues, tottering over to the bench, “The Lileth were once lithe and graceful fairies, the last of a wise and venerated race of near-immortals. As often happens, the jealousy of a mortal- a dark witch, whose death caused nothing more than the breath of an echo in history- cursed them into this form with a strong enchantment. Over the centuries, the spell has faded. The Lileth are now able to resume their true form at night. They cannot fly, though, and they long to see the moon beyond the thick boughs of the trees which shelter them from prying eyes. I hoped that the magic of another fairy might cure them, but since I took upon my role as protector, when my successor died, I have seen none of the Folk. Nor have I been able to reach them through others of the enchanted races. I am cut off from my kin, here at the edge of human lands.” His voice, like his body, is worn with the years of solitude he took on himself in his guard of silent, ancient beings. Still, I might lift it…

“But I do know magic, Sir Faun!” I cry. “Not perhaps the ancient rites of the elves, but I can heal wounds and lift many an enchantment with the flow of projective energy. I was taught by a friend.”   

“Without knowing the true process of the Art? It sounds dangerous...” The Faun looks doubtful, but I can see hope beginning to light in his eyes, and I press on.

“Sir Faun, you are wise to doubt the words of a complete stranger, but if as you say my Aura labels me a protector, than you know my attempt to heal the Lileth, if it does no good, can at least mean them no harm. After all these centuries of hoping for a cure, you owe it to them to at least try…” The old faun sits down heavily and reaches an arm out to the flowers, stroking them gently.

“Very well.” He replies after a long silence. “They have been captive for so very long…”

“Good,” I smile, rubbing my hands together and crouching in front of the flowers. It is the greatest joy of my job. To heal, to bring good, when so much of my life is taken up with fighting and punishment of evil…it is a form of renewal.

I press the palms of my hands lightly on the ground, feeling the path of the roots below it, feeling the breath of the flowers as they photosynthesize, exhaling oxygen…

I sing a few bars of a Celtic chant a friend taught me long ago:

“Shi Ri Soiu Sha…” which means, Seek Ye The Light. The stems of the flowers stir: eyes grow from the petals, lips and teeth pushing their way out of an almost two-dimensional existence. When I am done with my makeshift medicine, seven tall elves stand before me, breathing in the sight of the wood, rubbing their velvet limbs into colour once more.   

I exchange farewells with the Faun, and happily glide back into the park- where I discover an acne-covered teenage boy trying to pass my debit card off as his to the ice cream man.

A Case for Cuba

My old Spanish teacher, when out of a job, decided to become an investigative journalist. She went undercover to solve the Watergate Case. Turns out, it was aliens that broke into that office. Somehow trying to take over Cuba... Slitheen! Can’t tell the world that. I write the ignorant-human-friendly transcript of her discoveries into the biggest news agency of the time, under the assumed name of two men, Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. My issue is due tomorrow! (So is my essay)- so I get 4.5 hrs. sleep getting it flawless. I’m sooo tired, I pray for two days’ rest- and get it, when I contract a particularly virile sickness from licking spoons in jars. Careful what you wish for.

Acting Skills

The kids from the high school theater club killed someone and buried them atop the hill behind the school. It's part of a ritual-- an initiation into the theater program. If you are a good enough actor to lie to the bio-imprinted lie detectors, than you can join the crew- or so the drunken delinquents thought. They were puffed up with pride, foolish to a fault, and begging for disaster.

To mark the momentous occasion, Norland orders us all to bury our neon school ID jackets in a circle around the body, like a protective circle. Then we skitter away, the boys giggling at how sly they were. The dead man was a new teacher, Mr. Durey, who advocated the rule of the Globalzine Corporation. (As much as I disagree with sweatshop labor, this is NOT the way to deal with contrary opinion.) Just as we reach the bottom of the hill, a siren starts up. Someone in the area must have alerted our presence! We scatter across the lower hills, running home.

The next school day, the whole student body titters with the silent gossip of the eyes. I can feel it everywhere. As I sit down in history class, digging through my bag, I hear an unfamiliar voice. I look up, see a substitute teacher, and remember what happened the night before. The moment school gets out, I rush over to the other theater kids, and realize why everyone is staring: we’re not wearing our ID vests. Outside the Dean’s office, a deep red Police corvette lurks, empty. “They know!” Josiah cries. “They know we killed him! They’ll hang us for sure!”

“Calm down,” replies Norland, “They’re not gonna kill us if they can’t catch us. We’ll stay hidden. The Dean doesn’t have any concrete evidence. It’ll all blow over soon- you know how these things go. It’ll be blamed on the rising taxes for public schools. Angry citizens kill teachers all the time nowadays.”

“Yeah, but not those in with the head honchos at Globalzine!” says a kid who’d been reading some confidential papers he just nicked from the police car…bad news.

“Wait…Norland…if they know he’s missing, it’s only a short time before they go out with dogs and find the body…and if they find the body…” We run back up the hill, dig up our neon jackets, and flee. I fly home, get Mum and Gran and Lyle, and we hideout under fake names at an obscure little hotel. “Remember- you can’t leave the hotel premises in case someone recognizes you and informs the authorities.”

“Whatever,” replies Lyle, going to do homework in the Jacuzzi. A Jamaican dude starts hangin’ around her. Agent in disguise? I stalk him suspiciously. Turns out, he’s just a tourist.

But- wait: why was I part of a murder? I’m supposed to be a hero, to save people and right wrongs! Heroes don’t succumb to peer pressure! Or do they…

The SAT...

I've always had a suspicion that the SAT was run by aliens.
Turns out I am right.

I wake up late, really afraid I am going to be late for the test, and am about to wake up mum, but decide instead that I should try out the teleportation device I've been working on...
And wind up on a cloaked spaceship hovering on the edge of the outer atmosphere.
Which Whoopie Goldberg is on, for some reason.
They are in league with the dolphins, these aliens, trying to devise a job system which will keep us all ignorant of the true meaning of life, keep us serving a greater unknown empire's desires-- which competitive standardized tests accomplish pretty well. They are measuring the results, and taking the best and brightest moments after they leave the testing facilities, cloning them, using the real kids for experimentation, to see if they can prevent the rest of the population from reaching their level of intelligence. Thankfully for me, I did quite poorly on the maths section of my test the first time--partly due to my forgetting my calculator- so they never even took notice of me.

Dozens of other humans are on the ship as drone slaves, their minds controlled  by small "headlamps," their clothes marked with yellow clearance stripes, so I sneak in and (sorry! I had to!) knock one out and dress to match, following two others with refreshments into the main conference room.

"I just can't understand it!" one alien with a prestigious badge on his chest hollers, banging the table for emphasis. "They are still getting smarter, despite all our efforts. I was assured that humanity was a stupid race, easily capable of domination, when I bought the planet. These scientists are worthless, Pague!"
"Now, don't get all ruffled, General," a smaller form soothes, motioning us servants forward, taking a drink off my tray. "I'm sure that when the Steward gives his demonstration, it'll all be straightened out."

Just then, a holovid on the desk jumps to life, and a tall, spiky alien in a white labcoat greets the room, beginning a presentation. I sneak away with my empty tray and continue to explore.
The ship is huge, but luckily for me I wander straight into the engine room.
Because I really do have school tomorrow, and my subconscious is worried I won't get up in time, and to show-up all my previous doubts, I shut the whole system down with a flick of the wrist and free all the humans on board, then jettison the ship back out into space.
That's right.
We speak for ourselves, thank you very much.
Humans rock.

But I still haven't done any homework...

Robot Wife

"It really sucks when you're programmed to kill your betrothed," she tells me as I block her lazer eyes with one force-field, and parry the blow of her rocket arm with another.
"I mean, it's not like I had any choice in the matter. I actually thought he was kind of nice."
Grimace, throw back the weight of her foot, jump up before she crushes me.
"Then--why--don't--you--STOP?!?"
She sighs, a mechanical simulation of breath, and then sweeps around and tries to cut off my head.
"You supers. You think everything is that easy, don't you? Well, not everyone has free will. When you are programmed, disobeying a direct order can cause system shutdown, circuit malfunction at the least. It's the rule, so we don't get out of hand." Hanging out of the sixteenth story window, I leap sideways onto a turret of the building. "Nonsense! Rules don't make that happen, only your belief in them does! You don't have to be evil! Besides, Jeremy is really kind of cute, and intelligent, and very sweet. You'd be doing a grave and terrible thing for some unknown employer, and I really think Jeremy merits more than that. You should at least find out why you were summoned to kill him before simply following orders; it's not logical." I plead, ducking as Emilie throws a chunk of masonry. She pauses, considering.
"Perhaps I could do a little research," she concedes, as I smile in relief.

The office of The Employer is deep in the heart of Very Splendid City, a place with gambling and music and politics galore. He sits in a huge comfy chair, half submerged in a jacuzzi, half surrounded by monitor screens and computer wires.
"Why should I tell you the reason for E-13's objective? Jeremy Stone needs to be killed. That's all there is to it." He stares at the two of us with obvious disdain. Emilie shuffles her metal feet. I look up in resolve.
"You will tell us because it would be dangerous not to do so. A man's life hangs in the balance. That is more important than any objective."
"Ho-ho!" he laughs, pudgy eyes glinting. "We have a fighter on our hands! Very well... Mr. Stone, whether he knows yet or not, is the heir of a soon-to-expire competitor's business. I need to make sure it goes instead to the other nephew, who is- shall we say- on more amicable terms with my own corporation."
"I see. So you would kill him for more money."
"Business is business, my dear."
"Then like all businessmen, you know that one day your corporation will dissolve into another, just as you have devoured others. It is an endless cycle of greed. Unless you stop, I will be forced to close your account early. "
"Will you, now?" his eyes narrow. "But you haven't even met my latest creations yet." He presses a button under his desk. A door slides open on the side of the room. "Business is booming. There have been many more models since Emilie, or E-13, as she is properly called. Let us see how you deal with them."

And, yes.
Robot ninjas pop out.
Crap.
Being a superhero, though of course not through any sort of school or accredited training program or whatever, I should be able to handle this, right? I mean, I read Dr. McNinja! I should have that whole one-against-many rule on my side. Even if they are robot ninjas...
SLAM! reeaallly did not see that one coming. I was too busy thought-monologuing and one of the attack ninjas sneaked up behind me and...Ow. My head hurts.
I whip around and bash the robot on his very shiny metal nose, which obviously ends up hurting only myself. Another extends a scintillating octopus-like protrusion, reaching for my face, but I wise to it and leap upwards, landing upside down on the ceiling, and ram my fist into the back of its neck, sending the head spinning across the room. One creeps up behind me and this time I kick backwards into its chest, sending it crashing out the window of the very tall skyscraper. Smash! One is down with twisted legs. Klunk! Another piles on top of its ally. And another. This isn't so bad, I think, whistling, only then I remember I can't whistle, I've tried several times but just can't get the cheery layers of it,  when another robot takes advantage of my distraction and hurls me out the window as well.
Only they don't know I can fly. "HA!" I cry triumphantly. "Thought you could get rid of me that easily, did you?" I surface back up to the cracked window, hands on hips, "You'll have to get a lot more creative--"
Just as the nose of a heat-seeking missile-launcher pokes out over the ledge, and one of the robot ninjas smiles and says, "Okay."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"

After an epic battle with the missile, huffing and with torn sleeves, I flop back onto the window sill and puff, "Now listen, Mr. Employer Guy, I'm gonna give you one last chance--"
They all burst out laughing. The goons, the girls in the jacuzzi, even the robots. The Employer, wiping tears from his eyes, replies, "Seriously? After that humiliating performance, you still think you can insist upon anything from us? You're nothing but a small-time would-be hero, engaging in the marital squabbles of others to distract from your own pitiful life. There is nothing you can do in the matter. Stone will die, as millions do every day. Water under the bridge, my dear. Go home, to whatever small town you are hailed as a hero in, and get a real job."

Now, this is where he really messes up. Ya see, preying on a person's tangible inner doubts like that can produce one of two consequences. The first, the one he hoped for, is that the person will give in to those doubts, accept that they are a reality, and go cry in a corner and hang themself. The second--and more likely--is that they get angry. Really angry. And I'm this type. This is like the time I was the last one left on my dodgeball team in PE, hiding behind the garbage cans, and the teacher said something taunting and I ended up striking out the entire other team in my sockfeet. And then there's the hockey rage of seventh grade...ya really don't wanna make me mad. I'm not responsible for the very unladylike consequences...besides, I've never believed in a concrete "Reality" of any sort.
So, naturally, I burst into flames. My eyes are flame. My hands are flame. My feet are flaming jets of fury and I really don't want to recount what happens next, except that Emilie does not kill Jeremy Stone, and that I remain, as always, an innocent and obscure superhero who really does try to do the right thing...
Just, doesn't always succeed in reigning in her own pride.