Ghost Shouter

My name is Jim Holly. I see dead people. Way too many dead people. Seeing dead people is not as much fun as the television would have you believe.

No, I don't work in the morgue. Actually, I run a used bookshop. I see dead people because I have what some people call a Gift. Bah, some gift - I'd like to know where the returns department is.

Ghosts are a pain where aspirin won't help.

I don't see all the dead people, mind - oh, no, just the 'earthbound spirits'. Do you know what earthbound spirits are? They're idiots who died and are too befogged, befuddled, or just plain stupid to follow the Light and go on to their eternal reward. In that case, they hang around annoying the living with their 'unfinished business'. In particular, they annoy me, because I can see them. And hear them. Most of them won't shut up.

Now, I don't mind the elderly ghosts. I've always enjoyed the company of old folks, even when I was a kid, and when some old duffer or sweet granny still has the touch of Old Timer's Disease and has a bit of trouble finding the door, I point them to it. They're usually very considerate, showing up at the shop during my coffee break, or walking me home after closing, careful to keep in the shadows so I don't get caught talking to myself. They usually tell me their stories before they move on. I appreciate that - I think of it as a perk of the job, so to speak.

What I hate are the arrogant younger ghosts - the ones that are so outraged that their oh-so-promising lives were cut short. You'd think they expected the world to stop spinning just because they kicked the bucket. And they always have 'unfinished business'. This usually means demands on my time, my patience, and my credibility with their relatives. If I'm lucky. They often want me to break the laws of man and physics. I've had it with them, anyway.

I was explaining this to my psychiatrist last week. My court-ordered psychiatrist. I acquired this millstone around my neck when I was arrested for causing a major disturbance at the scene of a fire a few blocks from the shop.

Of course I appeared to be yelling at empty air. What would you expect? I was calling the lame-brained arsonist who had just managed to get caught in his own fire the fourteen kinds of fool he really was, while six cats and four kittens milled around my ankles, wondering why I didn't pick them up, and the fire department overheard more than was good for me.

Yes, yes, cats go to heaven, too. I don't know much about what's on the other side of that Light, but I know that. You ailurophobes will just have to find a pet-free zone over there. All God's creatures get to go - think about that the next time your mousetrap snaps shut.

Anyway, court-ordered psychiatry is a pill, but I have less trouble with Dr Jenkins than you'd expect. That's because I've made a believer out of him. His mother had been hanging around for years and interfering with the electricals in his house. When I helped him find the keepsake doily in the attic she was dying (you will pardon the expression) to give her eldest grandchild, the old nag obligingly went away. I am too professional to comment further on the irony of a Freudian with mother problems. Be that as it may, Jenkins does try to help.

'What do they want, mostly?' he always asks. (I suspect him of morbid curiosity.)

'Mostly somebody to whine to,' I reply. 'Oh, and that I tell their loved ones all is well, they miss them, they'll see them in heaven, etc. All of which the loved ones probably already know. Waste of time.'

At this point Jenkins usually chews thoughtfully on his spectacles. (His shrink should talk to him about his oral issues.) 'Is it so very unreasonable that they ask you to convey this to their relatives?'

At which point I explode. 'Yes, it is, dammit. 'Imagine the conversation: 'Hi, I'm Jim Holly, the highly credentialled used-book dealer. You don't know me from Adam's housecat, but I have a message from the Great Beyond from your nephew Otis. He wants you to know he's happy now, and forgives you for burning the Thanksgiving turkey last year. Yes, I have secret knowledge. No, I can't tell you the winning lottery numbers. And no, I don't want any money from you. And please don't call the police or the local newspapers. I'll let myself out.''

At this juncture Jenkins usually proposes a drink. I usually accept.

Last week, over a nice double malt (the courts pay him well, your tax dollars at work), I explained to Jenkins what was so infuriating about ghosts.

'They burst in on you anytime, day or night,' I groused. 'They expect you to get all excited. They expect you to drop everything and go solve their problem. They don't have a problem. Being dead is not a problem. Being dead is - as far as I can tell, and I'm at 1500 ghosts and counting - a ticket to a better place, not to mention the best cure for credit card debt I have ever seen.'

Jenkins chuckled - at least he gets my jokes. 'Have you considered suggesting to these ghosts that they do some of the work themselves?' He asked.

My eyes widened. 'Jenkins, my man, I think you may be onto something there. I'm tired of being patient with them - I'm going to tell them to pull up their socks.' We shook hands on it, even.

Two days later I had my first chance to put Jenkins' advice into practice. I was awakened at the ungodly hour of 5 ack emma by a tugging at my bedclothes. I sat up, opening bleary eyes to a skinny vision in crop-top and low-rise jeans. In between was a (to me) unappetisingly pierced belly button. I lifted my gaze to the gum-chewing visage. She pushed her fringe out of her eyes and demanded, 'You're the ghost whisperer? But you're old, like, forty. And ugly, too.'

I sighed as I reached for my glasses. The room swam into view - unfortunately, the only thing in focus without my spectacles is the ghost. 'Sorry to disappoint you,' I said ironically - though irony is wasted on teenagers, who think they are the only ones who have mastered it. I waited while the spectre mall rat digested the let-down of not being helped by a petite young thing with soulful eyes, surgically-enhanced breasts, and a killer wardrobe.

'I'm the only one around who can see you,' I remarked. 'Since you've disturbed my beauty sleep, I assume you want something.'

Well, duh,' replied little Miss I-Don't-Talk-Unless-You-Wear-Armani. 'It's, like, just awful. I drowned in the swimming pool yesterday, my mom's picked out the most ghastly outfit for me to be buried in, I'm missing the prom, and my boyfriend doesn't know I know he's been seeing the head cheerleader.'

'How utterly tragic,' I remarked as I felt for my slippers and shuffled off in the direction of the bathroom. 'I suppose you expect me to go sort it all out? With what for a calling card, may I ask?' There are certain things to be done in bathrooms in the morning. I prepared to do them.

'Eww! Gross! You aren't going to...do that in front of me, are you?' She actually held her hands before her eyes.

I laughed shortly. 'You are dead. You invade my home with no more sense of my privacy than if I were a dog. Of course I shall go ahead with my morning routine.' I chuckled evilly. 'I may even shave. And floss.'

As I proceeded to do so, I explained the ground rules. 'I am not going to talk to your parents. They will accuse me of intruding on their grief, and suspect I want money. By the way, travelling around visiting the relatives of the dead actually costs money. And in case you haven't noticed, you've lost your credit card privileges and can't reimburse me for gas.' This further evidence of the perfidy of the universe caused my unwanted visitor to begin wailing.

'This so totally sucks! My whole future is just wasted! I can't go to the prom, I can't even break up with my boyfriend like he deserves, the creep, and I was looking forward to the new Johnny Depp movie.'

I put down my toothbrush and regarded Brittany, or Tiffany, or whatever her name was with scorn. 'Suck it up, Mabel,' I said. 'I doubt you were going to win the Nobel Prize.' Ignoring her interjection of 'the what?' I soldiered on, gesturing at the bathroom mirror.

'If you don't like the dress your mother picked out, elementary telekinesis will allow you to move it around in the closet. Just keep pulling out the outfit you like. Your mom will get the point, and be touched as well - old people are like that. You can satisfy your Deppomania - you're invisible, remember? You don't even need to buy a ticket. And I'll bet you could find a way to get through to that horrible Lothario - it means 'creep who plays around' - if you put that razor-sharp mind to it.' I winked at her as I reached for the shower nozzle. 'Now go away before you see any more of me.'

The rest of the day was blissfully peaceful. I sat in the park at lunchtime, chatting amiably with Mrs Bledsoe, who had passed on at 90 but wanted one more day to feed the squirrels. I helped her with that - she and the squirrels were appreciative. My mood was so mellow by evening that I checked out the obituaries in the local rag (that paper is right-wing, and fit only to wrap fish in and inform us of life-changing events such as weddings and funerals). Just as I thought. I smiled to myself.

There was a small crowd at the cemetery - relatives, a few friends from school, including one young man in an ill-fitting suit who looked both abashed and terrified. No sign of cheerleaders, but I suppose they don't attend graveside services in uniform.

I walked up to Tiffany Renee's mother and offered my condolences. She smiled at me tearfully. 'I don't believe we've met?' she said in that way that makes it a question. I cleared my throat and held out the bag in my hand.

'Tiffany Renee was a customer at my bookshop,' I offered. 'She had a truly inquiring mind. She ordered this book just a short while ago, and, well, I thought she would have wanted you to have it.' I watched as the Mrs Bryant took the coffee-table volume out of the bag and studied the cover rather wonderingly. She thanked me and I walked away.

Only to find Tiffany Renee Bryant standing beside me, looking rather attractive, I thought, in a very nice black lace dress and silver pendant. 'You had good taste,' I smiled. To my surprise, she smiled back - rather a nice smile, at that.

'Thanks,' she said. 'You were right, Mom just cried over this dress. And I took care of Justin and his skanky gf, too. But look at you - wow, you clean up good, for an old guy.' And I swear the little hussy blushed. 'Thanks for the book.' She held up the otherworld twin to the volume I had given her mother, Pirates of the Caribbean: A Collector's Edition. Her eyes shone. 'I'll treasure it.'

I waved my hand. 'Just a bit of a going-away present,' I muttered. 'You are going into the Light, aren't you?'

She nodded. 'The funeral was great, and all, but these Jimmie Choos are made for walkin'...' She looked suddenly shy. 'They aren't really Jimmie Choos, just knock-offs.'

'Nobody would know,' I assured her. 'Good luck over there, and have fun.' She nodded and leaned so close to me I could smell her cologne.

And - I swear - she winked at me as she bounced into the Light, just a teenage girl off on a new adventure.

As I sat in Jenkins' comfortable chair with a good drink in my hand, I reflected, 'The Immature Ghost Self-Help Campaign is going pretty well so far.'

Jenkins nodded. 'You are still out the wholesale price of that book,' he pointed out.

I shrugged. 'Some overhead is to be expected.'

Jenkins scratched his head. 'Overhead, yes. But what did you get in return besides a warm, fuzzy feeling that you are keeping up with your television avatar?'

I grinned. 'A phantom kiss from a very nice young ghost,' I said.

A Tale of a Tail

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzip!

Fliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!

Heh-heh. Bet you didn't see that one coming, eh? I'm faster than a speeding bullet, me...heard that somewhere. Must be from inside the 'partments, come summer they're noisy.

I pick stuff up, y'know.? You just think I'm an airhead. I'm no space cadet.
Boiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! See that? Now ain't that Olympic form? Round and round the tree branch, don't fall off once. Didn't even have to practice that move. It just came to me, y'know? The secret's in the tail. You think all that fluff's just there for pretty? Goan.

I love bark...no, not bark-ING. Dumb doggie-doggie, bark your fool head off, you're on a leash and you can't catch me, I'm up the bark on a tree, and you're barking up the wrong tree...heh-heh...cos I jumped, you see...see me fly, my, oh my. Heh-heh.

Bark-bark...smooth bark, rough bark, flaky bark...what's that you say? I ain't flaky. Flaky's my cousin Jer over by the pond. He fell in. Made the ducks laugh, quack, quack...hey lookit, watch me...up the trunk, thick branch, thin branch, little branch, think I can't stand on a twig?

I can stand on a twig. For a nanosecond, anyway...aaaaaaaaaaand....JUMP.
Wow. Sometimes I even amaze myself. Bluuuuuuuuuurp! That's me being amazed at myself.

What's it all about, Alfie? Nuts.

Nuts, seeds, whateveryoucallem. Gotta have 'em. Gotta eat 'em. Gotta gnawgnawgnaw....an' iffen I don't, pard-ner, me tooth-uls'll grow too fast. Sad, that, when the tooth-uls grow too fast, gettin' long in the tooth? Nah, not me. I'm a gnaw-deer. Gnaw-dear. Get it? Heh-heh.

Call me a tree-rat, would ya? Polititickal IN-correctness. Go wash out yer mout'.

Uh-uh. Miss Bossy Britches is out on her porch. Black cat. Pointy ears. Atty-tude. Lots of atty-tude. She looks at a feller, y'know? Like...if this porch wasn't screened-in, you'd be breakfast. Or lunch. HUH. I'll show her. Watch my fancy footwork...

Up the tree. Down the tree. Just to head height, you understand.

Looooooooooook her in the eye, Miss Bossy Britches Kittycat. Now here comes the good part....waaaaaaaaait for it...At one and the same time (ain't I amazing?) I....

Rotate my bee-YEW-tee-full flooffy tail in a clockwise manner, making complete circles...betcha can't do that, kitty, kitty, betcha betcha...aaaaaaaaaand....let out my earth-shattering, world-challenging war cry...

KkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkekkkkkkkkkKK!

Okay. It can only be heard three feet away. So what? A fella can dream. You ain't Tarzan in the shower, buddy-boy?

One more fliiip of my gorgeous Best Feature, and I'm off back to the nest with the tasty pinecone. Can't have my pinecones, Bossy Cat. Mine, mine, all miiiine...

I ain't greedy. I just want 'em all. Iffen I can't eat 'em, I hides 'em. Heh-heh.

What's that you say? No. I ain't got it written down on Post-Its. Silly. Can't write. No thumbs. Can't read, neither. It's all up here. (TAPS NOGGIN.) What...? You think I ? Just find 'em? By H'ACCIDENT? How dare you? (AGITATED TWITCHIN' OF B.F.)

Ho-kay. It's a fair cop. But sshhhh...don't tell anybody, okay? I gotta reputation to uphold. Dignity and like that. Whatever. Heh-heh.

Yawn. Sun goin' down, sleepy sun, sleepy me...back to the nest again, snug as a bug in a rug when he dug...tell me a bedtime story. Tell me about what it's gonna be like when I'm full, an' fat'n'sassy, and it gets cold, an' I go find someplace to hide, an' just drift off to sleep f'r'while...

See ya next springtime!

Yaaaaawn....so long, suckers! See yez in the funny papers!

A Dance in Time

'Ho-kay, what am I forgetting? Ow-ah!"

I hopped around on the unvarnished wooden floor of the office, dancing barefoot in the circle of light, trying not to fall out of the area defined by the glyph. The question was the usual one I ask myself when I'm about to go on a Jump. The exclamation was because I'd got a splinter in my foot. Smegging splinters...I'd have to ask Merle to try and sand the floor down again, and listen to him whinge on about temporospatial flux again, yadda yadda.

My name is Choraola - Chori for short - and I'm a chrononaut.

Splinter extracted, I smoothed down The Garment. Imagine, if you will, a giant translucent shower cap, big enough to put me in, okay, not so giant, I'm 4'10" – the elastic part goes under my armpits, there's more for the waist – and falling to ankle length. Okay, don't imagine it, if you don't want to. I don't blame you. It's the only thing we can wear on a Jump. The Garment enables chrononauts to navigate the time/space corridors safely, and allows us to project the image we choose to be seen in. Good thing, too. Besides being rustly, this thing leaves nothing at all to the imagination. I may be a time-dancer, but I'm not a natural stripper.

The really good thing about The Garment is pockets. Two of them. Don't leave your home time without one. I checked – typescreen around my neck, ditto access key, a sort of round gizmo that lets you dial in and out, mobile in my left pocket (I'm a lefty, or at least I am now, never back-jump through a mirror, take it from me), and packet of Smarties in my right (call me an addict, but we live on sugar). I sighed. Ready to go. I glanced once more at the plain desk –lamp is green, meaning go (doh), and date-chip says 11.13.4655, need to remember that, make sure I return to home base. Don't want to miss the office party.

I glanced at my personal chronometer and pulled the mobile out of my pocket. I had three minutes to get the petitioner on the line, hook up, and jump over there. The pet wasn't much to go on - they seldom are, I mean "Help help help' never is, is it? I sighed again, and punched in the number.

Smeg. Ten rings. Could you be there, please? Then, surprise, a male voice...my pet said the petitioner was female. Smeg. I jigged around a bit.

The voice wasn't making much sense – just grunting noises, and 'Who are youze?', that sort of thing. No surprise there. The voice on the mobile didn't really represent the RL (er, Real Life, we chronos use a lotta slang) voice of the person. It represented their evolutionary state.

This guy was a troglodyte.

I kept glancing at my chronometer, hurry up, hurry up, 1 minute left, answer the phone, honey, because I'm cutting it fine...I hate to hang up on a petitioner, they usually lose their place in the queue and time out before we can get them again, but under no circumstances can I violate the three-minute rule. Never. No telling what might happen if you go out there out of synch. Thirty seconds and counting...then...

'Hullo?' A woman's voice, breathy, modulated, posh accent, sorta Coral Browne-ish (cinema buff, here). I had my party. I didn't just jump, I leapt.
And oh smegsmegsmeg and doublesmeg. I'd cut it too fine. I was in the soup.
I looked around. Nothing better to do, as my tootsies appeared to be rooted to the...floor? More like an ice rink, only less cold. The walls were, well...weird. Canted in too many directions at once. There was no furniture, but ugly little things I couldn't quite see head-on kept drifting past my peripheral vision.
My first thought was to call for backup. Bad idea. What if one of those horrible Government thingies Merle was always warning us about had built itself a nice little chronotrap? I'd be the Judas sprite in this, for sure. Nope. Solve it yourself, Chori girl. Use your noodle.

I studied the ugly little things...glyphs? Really bad Government?...out of the corner of my eye, and then I started Barney Googling for all I was worth on my little typescreen. Come on, come on, symbols...funny thing looks like a crooked cross...aha, got it.

Gulp. Not letting these people in here, no sirree bob, not letting them in here...just because I jumped at the last second, how do I get out of here, oh Mother Ceres how do I...? Barney Googled some more, thought about what I knew about that time...I smiled.

I concentrated first on straightening out the walls. When I'd got them plumb, I painted the walls pink, with panelling beneath. Then I put in a fireplace - no fire – with a huge mirror over the marble mantel. Oh, yeah, clock and a couple of candlesticks on the mantelpiece. Then I waited.

When the little choo-choo came steaming out of the fireplace, I was ready. Muttering the magic words 'Ceci n'est pas une pipe', I broke the inertia and sprang onto the back of the train. Ride 'em, cowboy, or however that comes out in French. In a few seconds my time, I was out of the trap and into...
...a child's bedroom. A snub-nosed girl, about 8, pigtails, jammies with feet, red hair and freckles, crying, while her big brother, a blond lummox of 10 or 11, held her storybook over his head.

'Give it back, Reg! I'm telling!'

Shake of lummoxy head. 'Nah. I think I'll just go feed it to Mrs Witherspoon's goat. You don't need this old...'

It was the leer on his ugly mug that got me to do it. I loathe snotty little boys, and he was the living end, even had chocolate on the corner of his mouth, and I'll bet he didn't share. So I held up my chronokey and muttered, 'Oh, that God the gift would gie us, to see oursel's as others see us.' That did it.

The book in his hands turned into a mirror – a magic mirror – at least, to him. To his sister, it still looked like a book. Her mouth made an O of astonishment as her brother suddenly dropped the book on the floor – I could see its title now, 'Peter Pan', what else – and backed away, rubbing at his hands and arms as if they had become foreign objects, his face contorted in (to me, at least) comic fear. The kid backed out of the room, almost stumbled over the threshold, and righted himself just in time to tear down the hallway like a bat out of Holo-Hades.

I laughed, and 'materialised', that is, projected myself into the room, about a foot high, green outfit, de rigeur feather in cap, yadda yadda. The laugh came out musical. It was intended to.

The O of the little girl's mouth became even rounder. 'Oh, my goo'ness. A real, honest-to-goo'ness fairy!' I laughed again. Costs nothing. Gives the punters a treat.

'What's your name?'

'M'lissa. What's yours? And what happened to Reg?' I laughed again, warming to the role. Hadn't done a fairy in ages.

'That's a nice name, none of your business, nosy, and Reg just got a go-od look at himself. He didn't like what he saw. Now, I can't stay long, what can I do for you?' I hated to be so brusque, but after that way station stop I was anxious to move on.

Melissa thought. You could see her doing this. It takes some kids that way, thinking - big surprise, involves that wrinkle right above the nose...she looked cute that way, though. I waited.

'Well, I really was just lonesome, and I thought it would be fun to have a playmate...' I could see the wheels turning...'But now you're here, I'm going to put you in my dollhouse and keep you for always.' And she reached for a big jar, probably the one she kept frogs in. I bolted, straight for the ceiling.
Oh, smeg, I thought, a collector, no less. What next today? That puzzled me, though, as I dodged and wove around the room, and Melissa with her specimen jar clambered all over the furniture. Usually we declass this kind of petition, why in the world had it popped up as a number one, meaning 'needs direction in life'? This little minx had direction, more than enough, in fact she seemed to be coming from all directions at once...I did the fluttery number, and was about to say goodbye, when...

...it hit me. The voice. That was the voice of a mature woman. It wasn't Melissa's childhood self that needed help, it was...I frantically typed. I busily dodged. I wove, I dialled, I flew...

The nursery was familiar somehow, twenty-five years into the future. A big casement window, moonlight shining in, three beds, the mother, hair a dark auburn now, the nose just perfect in that delicate face, singing softly, how did I know she would be singing?

'Tender Shepherd, Tender Shepherd, let me help you count your sheep...'

I waited until the last 'safe and happily, fall asleep' had echoed away before activating my appearance. This time I, too, was a grown woman, hair up (I went chestnut), long green silk gown, satin slippers. Tried to make my voice musical, but got about to Audrey Hepburn level rather than Coral. Never mind.
'Melissa.' She turned, gracefully, and when she saw me, her hands flew to her face in an equally graceful gesture of alarm.

'Oh! Have you come to take them, then?' I shook my head, noting that where the moonlight fell on her face, she looked drawn, older than her years. But I looked around at this room...and I knew what she'd been trying to make for these children, what kind of haven this room was supposed to be. I shook my head again.

'No. I came in answer to your call. Do you remember the fairy?' I smiled, and something in that fake cybersmile of mine triggered her memory, and she gasped a little gasp of laughter.

'Oh, yes, I do! You were the fairy, weren't you? Oh, and I was such a naughty little girl, I tried to put you in a jar...' Her eyelashes fluttered, she had nice ones. 'I am so sorry. I suppose I'm too old to go to fairyland with you now? Are you sure you won't take the children?' Her voice faltered. 'I'm afraid...I have so little to give them.' Her clothes, and the furnishings in the room, were expensive, but I think I knew what she meant. I smiled and shook my head again.

'You're wrong. Look around.' I indicated the room, typing furiously to make myself do elegant things. I made a sweeping gesture. 'You've given them the most important thing a mother can give her children - you've given them your dreams.'

I remembered my lines now, and my indicator light was blinking, so I knew I had to get them out quickly. 'Always remember, Melissa, to follow your heart. And the light of fairyland will bless your little ones.' Three, two, one, fade...
...and back home. Whew. I hate those fairy numbers, wish on a star, yadda yadda. I was relieved to see that the datechip still said 11.13.4655, the light on the desk was still green, and Rob, a co-worker and good buddy, was sitting behind it smiling at me.

I just hoped he hadn't seen the tear I'd brushed away as I ran behind the screen - damask, not computer - to change, as Rob merrily chatted away, filling me in on the latest water cooler gossip about Merle and some ninny from the secretarial pool. I was half in love with Melissa, though I'd never see her again. I wish I'd asked about Reg...as I dressed, I grinned. Bet he cheated at cards.
I pulled on my after-work glad rags - for me, pink chiton and sandals - did something fast with my hair, just glad to get out of that plastic bag, and ran hand in hand with Rob down the steps from the shack, down the path, under the willow tree, round the standing stones, and down to the fire in the grove.
We ate, we drank, we danced all night, the way we usually do, and overhead, the stars danced with us - as they usually do.

Another day, another dance, we say.

What do you say?

The Pack Howls for Ivan

Ivan Mishukov, age 6, was taken from the streets of Moscow in 1998. He had been living with feral dogs for two years, having run away from his abusive family. The dogs protected the child, and shared food and warmth with him. The pack foiled the first two attempts to rescue Ivan, some of the dogs attacking the humans while others led the boy away. Ivan has now been adopted. No word on the dogs.

Where are you, puppy-puppy?
The pack misses your smell.
Last night was cold, there was snow on the streets.
Were you warm?
How could you be warm, without the pack to huddle with you?
Did you get enough to eat?
We found some chicken bones - your favourite - out behind the place that always smells of warm food,
The place where the humans go, the ones that smell like flowers and alcohol,
The place where we find the food in the big boxes
When the angry man gets tired of shouting at us and goes away.
We ate the good chicken off the bones, and would have given you some,
But you were not there. We missed you then.
You would have climbed into the box so easily, not like us,
But like us you would have shared all you found.
Big-Dog is worried, he growls and growls
And looks for you everywhere. You're his to look for, to look out for,
And you are not here. It bothers him.
One-Eye has a sore foot, he limps behind,
And Broken-Tooth has the itch. He scratches and scratches, and wakes us up at night.
Curly-Tail has new puppies. They smell like Big-Dog.
Long-Tongue is dead. Some kids got him with rocks. We ran and chased them off,
But it was too late for Long-Tongue. His head was broken, and he walked around in a circle,
Then he lay down and panted, and then his breath stopped.
We howled for him,
As we howl for you, when the moon is up full
Above the buildings, above the snowy streets,
We howl
And then we smell for you, but we do not find your smell.
Where are you, puppy-puppy?
The pack misses your smell.

A Woman Is Only a Woman

John looked at Michael quizzically over his beer glass. 'So you've decided women are a lost cause?'

John was not too troubled. He and Michael had this conversation about once a month, usually. At six weeks, it was overdue, but the most recent girlfriend had lasted longer than predicted.

Michael nodded gloomily. 'It wasn't just what she said,' he ruminated, moving the glass around to study the foam in a different light. 'It was the way she gloated when she said it.' He gave up visual appreciation for a more sensual pleasure, and took a long draught of the beverage in question, an accidental libation to the gods of disappointed affection running down his chin. John chuckled as he got up to get the next round, and fetched meat pies (with mushy peas) while he was at it.

'Here,' he said to his friend, 'Mushy peas and more lager. The best cure for a heartache I know.' Michael started to object, but when the aroma hit his nostrils, he succumbed, and stopped whingeing long enough to imbibe and partake.

Michael squinted at the last pea on his fork. 'You know,' he opined, 'Life is a lot like a meat pie...' John groaned inwardly, but nodded, as Michael went to get the next round, leaving John to mull this one over.

When he returned with the beer and pretzels, Michael continued as if he had not been away. '...hotter inside than you thought it would be.' John downed half his drink before nodding sagely, pretending that had made sense. The evening was taking the turn he had expected, so they were about two more rounds from Confession Time. Michael ploughed on regardless.

'I went to her blasted support group,' he said, glowering at an innocent bead of foam as it lay on the wooden table. 'All they did was bash on at Men in general. When I ventured to suggest that it might be a two-way street, I got hit with Labels.' John winced in recognition, took the glasses, and got the next round. When he returned, Michael was stacking beer mats into a pyramid.

John decided it was about time he said something cogent, while he still could. 'Er, I thought Donna was a bit of a looker, anyway, ' he ventured, only to be rewarded with a reproachful look.

'We're not talking about Donna. This was Melanie.' Oops, thought John. That's right, Donna was Girlfriend Number 4, or was it 5? He spread his hands in apology. 'Sorry. Melanie's the university student, isn't she? Philosophy?'

Michael snorted. 'Women's Studies. If we had Men's Studies, there'd be the devil to pay, now, wouldn't there?" He pushed himself away from the table, managing not to topple the chair, and went over to the bar, a bit unsteadily.
He returned with a pitcher and two glasses. 'Thought I'd save us time,' he remarked. John agreed complacently, holding up his glass.

They managed it without spilling, and toasted each other in congratulation, then sat, not talking for awhile, while they drank more beer.

John broke the companionable silence. 'Well, the good thing is, you take a moment for reflection, look back on it all...' he began. Michael shook his head.

'No. That's the problem. You don't. You aren't thinking. You just get wrapped up in somebody like Donna...'

'Melanie,' John corrected.

Michael waved this away. 'Sure, Melanie, whoever. And your common sense flies out the...out the...' He looked around in the dim pub light.

'Window,' John supplied.

'Yeah, window.' Michael yawned. 'Speaking of which, I'd like some fresh air.'

John agreed. 'This might be a good time to take a stroll over to the park. Feed the ducks, you know?' Michael brightened at this.

'Good ol' duckies, yeah.' As the two headed out the door, Michael, leaning a bit on his friend's shoulder, looked at him with tipsy affection.

'You always know what to do to cheer a fellow up, John.'

John shrugged as he managed both door and Michael, looked down at his wobbly friend, noticing just exactly how beautiful his eyelashes looked in the late-afternoon sunlight.

'Thank you, kind sir, ' he laughed. 'Now let's go feed those ducks. I've got some breadcrumbs here...'

The Lunch Break

The noon whistle sounded.

Josh, Pete, Jack, and Jimmy headed away from the big cranes and found themselves an open space to eat their lunches on the big building site, a little bit away from the knot of Mexicans, who had snagged all the shade and were arguing in their own language.

Jack's dog, an old spotted bird dog that half–answered to 'Rebel', trotted out from behind the furthest shade tree to join the men, wagging his tapered tail in satisfaction at the arrival of lunch break.

Josh opened the cooler, and started tossing his friends beers, glancing over at the Mexicans.

'You know,' he drawled. 'Simple folks is good people. They'll do all right.'

Pete nodded. He liked it when Josh talked like that. They all did. It made the lunch break more interesting.

Josh popped the tab on his beer, and chugged half of it, leaning back on one elbow, a big, raw–boned fellow in a flannel shirt. He took off his hard hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with a muscular forearm, knocking back the damp, straw–coloured hair. He grinned.

'Folks that ain't all stuck up'll do all right, too. They're the salt of the earth.'

Nods of agreement. Josh cocked his head. 'I figger sad folks'll do all right, too, 'cause they'll cheer up. People who wanna do right, and help their neighbour, and don't cheat nobody, they'll do all right.'

He grinned. 'But if you wanna make peace, you're in for trouble. People gonna pick on you.' Jack grunted assent as he gave Rebel a good rub behind the ears.

'Yep, I seen it.'

Jimmy handed out pickles. He knew Josh loved pickles, and he saved the biggest kosher dill for him.

'Tell us one o' your stories, Josh. You know, about the Commonweal of Heavy.'

The others chuckled. This was their favourite pastime, goading Josh into yarning for them over a meal or a beer. Hard–working men, all of them, and none too bright, but they did like to hear their buddy shoot the breeze.

Josh wrinkled his brow in thought. 'All right. Here goes.' He crunched on a pickle, thinking, and then clapped his hands.

'The Commonweal of Heavy is like...a repair man who gets sent out to fix a washin' machine. He gets there with the replacement parts, and the tools, and then he finds out the lady told 'em the wrong model number. So he's gotta reorder, and wait for the truck. And he waits. And then it turns out it's a furrin model, and he's only got tools in inches, and he's gotta try and make 'em work. And he fiddles around with it so long he misses his lunch break.'

There were murmurs of dissatisfaction at this, and Jack demurred. 'Don't sound like a place I'd wanna work, then.'

Josh's grin grew wider. 'AND the Commonweal of Heavy is like a man who is tryin' to drill holes through a wall. But he's gotta know what's on the other side.'

Pete looked interested at this, he being an avid DIYer. Josh winked. 'So his partner's on the other side of the wall, supposed to tell him what's there when he taps. So he taps, and he makes marks, and he taps some more.' He grinned. 'But when he walks around the wall, he finds his partner is listenin' to the Rolling Stones on headphones. He was just callin' stuff out at random.' Laughter from the gang, and shaking of heads.

Pete sighed. 'Sounds like that–air Commonweal of yourn is a whole lot more trouble'n it's worth, Josh.'

Josh sighed, too. 'Sometimes seems that way to me, too, buddy.'

Taking the ensuing silence as a sign that everybody was ready to eat, Jimmy was about to unpack the sandwiches, when a shadow fell on his face. He looked up in annoyance, to find the littlest Mexican, hat in hand, standing over him. He scowled at him. 'Go back to your shade tree, Pancho.'

Josh sat up and smiled at the man. 'Hey, compadre, what kin we do for you?'

The Mexican, who had been about to leave, stopped, and gave an embarrassed grin.

'Senor, we don' get paid till Friday, and, well... we have no food.'

Pete, the biggest appetite in the group, groaned. 'Well, our wives packed this stuff for us. We ain't got no extry.' He looked around for support – and saw that, as usual, all other eyes were on Josh.

Josh smiled a slow smile. 'Well, we'll just have to make extry, now, won't we?'

And with that he held out his hand for the bag of sandwiches, which Jimmy gave him, and began unwrapping ham and cheese, splitting the sandwiches into even pieces, and handing them out. He winked at the Mexican. 'Tell your friends to come on over. I'll bet I've got some beer left, too.'

And don't you know, there was plenty enough for everybody, even after Rebel stole half a sandwich? Pete just shook his head.

The back–to–work whistle blew, and a dozen men picked up their stuff and sauntered back to work, Josh trying to wrap his tongue around the Mexicans' word for 'fork lift'.