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****** ***** The Online Magazine ***********
****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************
---------------------------
======================================================================
September 1989 Circulation: 205 Volume I, Issue 1
======================================================================
Contents
Etc... .................................................. Jim McCabe
Commentary
One Slip ........................................ David B. O'Donnell
-------- Fiction
The Problem with the Planet ............................. Derek Zahn
--------------------------- Fiction
August 1968 ......................................... Marvin Germany
----------- Poetry
Duet .................................................... Bill Sklar
---- Fiction
Picture Perfect (part 1 of 2) ........................... Gene Smith
--------------- Fiction
******************************************************************
* *
* ATHENE, Copyright 1989 By Jim McCabe *
* This magazine may be archived and reproduced without charge *
* under the condition that it is left in its entirety. *
* The individual works within are the sole property of their *
* respective authors, and no further use of these works is *
* permitted without their explicit consent. *
* Athene is published quasi-monthly *
* by Jim McCabe, MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET. *
* This ASCII edition was created on an IBM 3161 mainframe *
* using the Xedit System Product Editor. *
* *
******************************************************************
Etc...
Jim McCabe
MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET
======================================================================
Many people have asked me why I am publishing Athene. This, the
first issue, is as good a place as any to answer this question.
I love short stories. I had heard of FSFnet, an electronic
magazine that specialized in fantasy and science fiction stories, and
liked the idea of a computer-distributed magazine. The idea was so
appealing that I just assumed there must be lots of them "out there"
on the networks.
So I started looking around for one.
I posted messages to all sorts of different network special
interest groups, asking if anyone knew where I could subscribe to such
a magazine. No one seemed to know if any even existed, much less
where to find them. Usually, I would get a few responses from people
who said, "I don't know of any story magazines, but please let me know
if you find one!"
This routine continued for another couple weeks, and I finally
realized that if I wanted a fiction magazine I'd have to publish it
myself. And thus Athene was born.
But what could I do to improve upon the idea? Well, first of
all, I like a good story, ANY good story -- not just science fiction
or fantasy. Man, it would be great if there was a magazine that
published quality stories from all walks of literature; religion,
mystery, drama, politics, human nature, sports, and business, in
addition to scifi and fantasy.
I started looking around at some of the existing emags, to find
out what kind of distribution schemes they used. And then I realized
that about half of them were really ugly. Sure, they were great
magazines and the content was first-rate, but the appearance was so
distracting that I had a hard time taking them seriously. This would
be something I'd have to fix.
Laser printers are becoming more and more commonplace these days.
Why not distribute Athene pre-formatted and ready to print on a
high-quality printer? "Because not everyone has one, doofus!" So
Athene is be distributed in two formats; one for people who can use
PostScript printers and another for those who can't, or don't want to.
Maybe I suceeded in making both versions as pretty as possible.
And here we are, three months and 205 subscribers later, with the
premier issue of Athene. I think you'll agree that I met my two
goals. The content is great, and it looks pretty nifty too.
Hopefully, Athene will only get better as time goes on.
So sit back, relax, and enjoy the stories. (Or else!) Until next
month,
-- Jim
One Slip
By David B. O'Donnell
LUTHER@MTUS5.BITNET
Copyright 1989 David B. O'Donnell
======================================================================
"And with one slip...
we can lose ourselves forever"
Shriekback, ''The Only Thing That Shines''
While Rome burned down around us, we made passionate love. Then,
like insane clockwork, the meter ran out, and with a cold sputter
Denis and the ashes of Rome faded away. Leaving me, as they always
did, lying in a sheen of lukewarm sweat, stretched out on my slab of
bedfoam with that light-year stare that is all that remains of an
interrupted stint with a Hallucer.
Rolling off the sweaty durafoam, I headed over to the 'lucer,
fishing out a few of the Fuehrer's finest. But then the shivers hit
me, and the "instinct to survive" kicked in. I'd been hooked up to
the 'lucer an awful lot lately -- evidenced by the fact that only 30
new Deutschemarks were left, out of this month's payment, and it was
only the first Satur- day of the month. If you stay plugged in too
long, your sense of reality weakens, especially if you hallucinate
your past, and the shivers were a sign my body was struggling to
recall just where I was.
The Fourth Reich had promised the world an age of equality, of
prosperity -- of all the things the social democracies and
free-enterprise Bolsheviks had promised us, fifty years ago. Neither
delivered. America was defunct, torn apart in the civil war that
erupted when their 52nd President/High Priest had declared that
certain nationality-, color-, and preference-based minorities were
damned and therefore should be ''Cleaned off the face of this here
earth, yea verily, we will HEAL this planet of its sins!'' The
Sino-Soviets were still struggling with the realities of conquering
each other, were still trying to deal with the nearly four billion
hungry mouths inside their vast borders. Rumor had it that the
Imperial Australian Navy was using thermonuclear devices on the
Coalition of the People's Democratic Pacific Islands. All in all, our
world was heading own the path to annihilation faster than ever
before. In the middle of this anarchic chaos, the European Community
suddenly declared itself the Fourth Reich, and promised to usher in a
new age to this poor world.
At first, no one listened, but when the Reich started advertising
for buyers for its SURPLUS grain, then for ''Persons of any race,
creed, color, nationality, or political or sexual preference'' to join
in a ''Heraklean task: namely, that of saving our beleaguered Mother
Earth, and of securing the eternal continuance of homo sapiens'', we
listened. Hell, who cared if they chose to call what they had a Reich
or a Playground? It WORKED -- there was no war, no suppression, no
oppression, and plenty of food. The exodus from the ruins of New York
would have impressed Cecile B. DeMille, as literally millions raced
to leave the corruption behind.
The People's Democratic Republic of New Moskva capitulated over
the phone; their people were tired, hungry, cold, and many were dying
from radiation sickness. If we could deliver 100,000 coats, rations
for a week, and medical supplies, the eastern quarter of Asia was
ours. We delivered, though knowing now as I do at the price that was
paid for that first victory, I almost wonder if it wouldn't have been
easier to let them die, and simply walk in.
My watch has died, the solar cell a bloated green, but I can tell
by the way the sunlight filters through the smoke that it must be
noon. Out in the courtyard, more burnings are taking place, and I can
hear the cries, smell the sweetness as the bodies of the loyalists are
consumed by plasma torch.
Shuffling to the fridge, I peer inside. There is still food --
such as it is -- and distillate, enough for a week or two if I spread
it out. The protein extract bars are gooey this week, and I can only
barely repress a shudder as an old memory of the Prague Experimental
Food Processing Plant comes unbidden to mind, but I tear off the
bioplastic cover, and scarf it down nonetheless. It has no taste
(that's what the distillate is for) but it does contain all the
necessary nutrients for a healthy body. I have to grin at the irony;
my body is wracked with a dozen types of pain daily, from the wars,
and my mind is a shattered vase, only thinly held together by fantasy
and the 'lucer. Hopefully, they will be coming to take me to the
courtyard soon. I suppose I'll scream, like the others, because it is
somehow the proper thing to do, but that thought slips away as my mind
turns back to what it calls the past.
The first few conquests were easy enough, but eventually the
remnants of the old nationalist fires were restoked, and it became
necessary to fight to free the enslaved masses. We had to starve
Britain out; over seven millions died in the three years it took to
break her, and parts of the island to this day smell like rotted
flesh. And yet, it is said that the most beautiful flower in creation
grows there, and only there: St. Margaret's Thatch, thin wiry flowers
an iridescent blood-red. I had a few once; sent Denis a bouquet, but
he complained they arrived dead, scratchy, and gave him a horrible
allergy-reaction. I laughed, then, and eventually he got the joke.
We met during the South African campaign, the one of '94. I was
a leftenant in the Fuehrer's air forces, Denis was a network jockey, a
console cowboy, and a notorious philanderer. In mid May, we atomized
Cape Town (and all three million secessionists); on the day after,
Denis and I were married. My parents had died in a place once called
Baltimore, of a rouge cold virus the Canadians had let loose a decade
ago. Denis' refused to come to the ceremony. I guess that was for
the best, because they died the next week, of gunshot wounds through
the back; the Internal Police determined they were passing secrets to
Beijing. We decided to swap last names as part of the ceremony, so I
became Kelly Frustham, and Denis took my last name of O'Reilly.
In 2095, the forces of the Fourth Reich had completely subjugated
Europe, Africa, and the Americas. Heady on our successes, no one paid
attention to the unrest in Dusseldorf; everyone knew the tales of
genetic manipulation were wrong, anyway. The Fuehrer would never
sanction the use of human beings as cattle, would she?
Denis and I spent the summer of 2095 in a Paris flat, living like
artists. I was his model, and he made paintings of me in the nude,
and even managed to paint us very realistically making love. Those
were the happiest days of our lives. We were both successful in our
jobs, happy with ourselves, and bouyant with propaganda-influenced
pride in our Fuehrer. October fourth, the forces of the Fuehrer's
space fleet destroyed the Sino-Soviet battlestation; For my birthday a
week later, Denis presented me with a piece of the station, encased in
thermoplastic resin. He never told me where he found it, but I carry
it around with me everywhere. The edges are a little smooth and
rounded, but you can still read the Chinese glyphs on the metal.
It's Friday now. On Wednesday I gambled with the guard leader
for more money for the 'lucer, and lost. She made me do terrible
things to her with latin names... it took two days to rinse her taste
out of my mouth with distillate. I am ever gladder that I never liked
women. Oh, they took the Russian away last night, little Nikita. He
was a quiet, withdrawn man, who spent his time playing chess with
himself, but you would have thought they had shoved a bowling pin up
his ass last night. Maybe they did. I decided it isn't true, though,
what the Bureau of Information always said. Russians smell just as
cloyingly bad as we do when they burn. Maybe they spitted him before
turning on their portable reactor? I don't know. I need to remember
Denis, his image is fading away as the glue holding my past together
dissolves into dust.
We adopted Hans in 2096. He turned out to be a sullen, stubborn
boy. His parents were American fundamentalists, and their prejudice
had been set into the substrate of his soul. He didn't approve of me,
he wanted to kill us both. We sent him to the State Psychiatrists.
They told us to put him in the Army. He died, in 2097, in
Vladivostok, of a latent form of the same cold virus that killed my
parents. We decided to have no more children, and moved from Paris to
a spacious apartment in Wiesbaden. The sign said it had once housed
the American President George Bush, but my histories, from America,
told me he had been assassinated in 1991 by members of the ''Coalition
for a Catholic Congress'', one of the many hundreds of terrorist
groups his regime had fought against (and eventually lost to). We
bought two siamese kittens, and settled down. The news from Berlin
was good, the Fuehrer's lover had declared her pregnant with the
Fuehrer-to-be, and the world was preparing for our assault on the
Empire of Australia.
Even though we were both nearly forty, Denis and I enjoyed an
active, healthy sex life. We were always careful to immunize
ourselves before and after making love -- we didn't want a repeat of
the horrors of the Albuquerque Plagues of the early teens. But as all
things do, every- thing changed when our fleets were routed by
Australia. Denis became furtive, and our relationship suffered. I
was no longer his beau, his beloved Kelly.
Denis was arrested soon after the defeat, on charges of having
conspired to bring about the defeat of our forces through database
treason. I never saw him again. Soon afterward, we began to lose
more and more battles. I was in Rome when the forces of the Emperor
of Australia burned her; I helped defend the city, but was shot down.
I was captured, or at least that's what I remember. I was in hospital
for many weeks, and they say I did little else but call out for Denis.
They have come for me at last. I am the only remaining loyalist
to hold out, they say. Everyone else has condemned the Fuehrer, or
died in the plasma torch. I tell them that I don't care what they
want me to say, or not to say. She gave us hope, at least for a
little while. I ask them what my torture will be, and the leader, the
same woman who defeated me with her loaded dice, leers at me and
points at my crotch while making a slicing motion. It doesn't bother
me, though. I have long since been without need for that piece of me.
As we stumble out into the corriidor, I see the image the 'lucer
always fails on... As Rome burns around us, Denis and I are locked in
passionate embrace.
---------------------------------------------------
A neophyte author, Luther (aka David O'Donnell, aka
Atropos) submits that William Gibson, Roger
Zelazny, Michael Moorcock and Frank Herbert are
probably his biggest influences. While he has
written a few short stories, poetry is his main
thrust. Born and lived his life in Michigan,
Luther is a (soon-to-be) graduated senior at MTU,
in the field of Scientific & Technical
Communication. He has hopes of following up with
graduate studies at Brown University, where he is
owner of the Belief-L Listserv list. Luther can be
reached at his network address and enjoys talking
about anything.
---------------------------------------------------
The Problem with the Planet
By Derek Zahn
derek@cs.wisc.edu
======================================================================
-- Oh, how strange and delightful the planet is. Look at it,
Noo. Fascinating, odd architecture, humans scurrying to and fro. I
knew that this would be the right place to go. "Too far," indeed.
Fantastic. Look at all that activity. Noo, leave off the topography
plots for a minute and look, will you?
-- Ah. Strange, the brochure didn't show any vehicles like that
and I'm sure the buildings are supposed to be smaller.
-- Don't be a spoilsport. Things change over time, you know
that.
-- Looks rather dirty to me.
-- It's just technology. Think how glorious the construction of
our temples will be. How splendid the artwork, songs of praise,
sacrifices. Find a place to land for Contact. I'm nearly unstable
with anticipation. How about that clear spot over there?
-- Patience, Vee. Let's wait until the activity dies down. We
wouldn't want to lessen the impact by giving ourselves away before
we're prepared.
Johnny Westlake sat in the middle of the fifth green at Las
Palmas, his legs crossed under him. He would often sneak into the
course long after the yups and the retirees and the businessmen
playing hookey finished miscounting their strokes. He would wander
through his mysterious and empty faeryland of palm trees, bridged
brooks, and shadows, and finally choose a place to sit. To brood,
usually.
To brood, tonight.
He whiled away the time hurling carefully crafted invective at
his own life and the institution of life itself, worthless and
wretched. For Johnny was not a happy man; nor was he quite sane. He
would readily agree with that assessment, though he might raise an
eyebrow at his assessor and demand a concrete example of sanity to use
as a referent. Or one of happiness, for that matter.
His few friends had given up discussing the subject at all with
him long ago, which suited Johnny just fine. They didn't understand.
"The problem with our sick world and my sick self," Johnny said
to nobody at all, "is that we've lost our innocence. Jack climbs the
beanstalk and finds a castle. What does he do? Robs and murders the
inhabitant. Right, wrong, who knows? But surely not innocent. Not
innocent at all."
He paused, making quite sure that the point was made. "We are
given blind scientific truth and an abundance of cleverness as
substitutes. Hah!"
He imagined himself a Preacher of the New Faith, casting symbols
to the wind. "Tree of Knowledge, my ass! Mislabeling is lying. We
cannot conceive innocent gods any more than gods could conceive
innocent Man. Is there even any meaning to the word, or does it
merely echo endlessly across the generations, one more unattainable
dream?"
The question was asked to the empty air. No answer came, so
Johnny specifically addressed the close-cut grass on the green around
him. "Do you yet retain innocence, O Blades? Do you endure the Mower
and Divoting Dolts with joyful abandon? Are you unaffected by
fertilizers and herbicides, uppers and downers? Are you satisfied
with the role you've been chosen to play, O carefully stunted Blades?"
With an expansive gesture, he leaned toward the ground, listening
for a response. As usual, he got one. _We'd_be_happier_without_you
_sitting_on_us,_jerk._
Johnny laughed and sprung to his feet, full of the peculiar
mixture of anger, cynicism, and poor reality-testing that had
energized and consumed his life after Terri gave up on their
relationship, almost a year before. So long ago, and in another
world.
Very deliberately, he deposited a carcass of a field mouse in the
hole near the center of the green. He'd found the corpse earlier,
nestled in the tall dry grasses in the rough. The two of them had
entertained each other, seemingly endlessly, with songs and tales of
their worlds gone similarly mad. Johnny felt that, for the briefest
moment, he had found a compatriot.
"Surprise on five tomorrow," he said, and giggled.
-- What shall we wear? Look at this morph design I've been
working on. Three heads; one breathing fire, one breathing ice, and
one for communication. Hard green scaly pelt. I think it's
beautiful.
-- Ah. You're right, of course, Vee. However, it might be
rather disconcerting to them. Consider these designs.
-- They look just like humans.
-- Exactly. Except note the large size and some of the finer
details.
-- Well, I suppose they'll do. Anything for you, my dear.
-- You are most gracious, my dear.
-- Help me fit it, then, will you? My edges feel a bit frayed.
-- My pleasure.
Dust swirled around Johnny and into his face, and he cursed the
Furies, as if they were somehow responsible for wind and grit from
sandtraps. It gradually settled, and Johnny could sense that there
was something different around him. A certain electricity in the air.
He heard a slight shimmering, tinkling sound and two figures
appeared before him, out of nothing.
They towered over him, at least twice his height, and they were
human. Well, they _looked_ human, except for their massive stature
and faintly glowing skin. They wore no clothing, and looked vaguely
Mediterranean.
Johnny stood very still while they appeared, his eyes narrowed to
suspicious slits. Then he laughed.
He said, "I regret to inform you that night-putting is not
allowed at Las Palmas. The course opens promptly at eight o'clock.
Come back then."
He noticed no effect on the two apparitions at first. Not a
muscle moved, not a hair bent in the mild breeze. Their eyes gazed at
some spot slightly above Johnny and far behind him. After a time, the
male figure opened its mouth.
"Adore and Worship Us, Mortal!" The words thundered forth.
Johnny was stunned by the volume of the command for a moment,
then shrugged it off. "What have we here? Have Adam and Eve returned
to the scene of their crimes expecting thanks?"
He circled the pair, cautiously.
"When the blind lead the blind the result is blind faith. You
overestimate your charms, my opalescent friends." He paused,
collecting his thoughts. His own particular brew of torture and
sorrow swirled inside him, the frothy bubbles spilling from his mouth.
"Adore and worship? And what reward will great gods offer in
exchange for my soul this time? You will bring Terri back, perhaps?
You will create peace and harmony where none exists to ease the burden
of your murderous charges? The bribes offered by gods are the least
honorable of all, for they cost them nothing."
He was shouting now. "Keep your trinkets and well-polished
services, soul-catchers! They are not required here."
Johnny's breath quickened as he awaited a response. After a
time, the female's gaze converged on him.
"Adore and Worship Us!" she boomed.
"Fuck off."
-- Noo, are you sure that the translator is working properly?
-- Yes, it all checks. This is most distressing. The brochure
details the human reactions that other groups have received in the
past. All most satisfactory. Occasionally quite delightful. But
there's nothing there to account for this.
-- I do hope this planet isn't spoiled; we came so far. We can't
very well replay _this_ for Ga and Tia. We have to get the natives to
build a few temples and sing and dance and feast. A little, anyway.
-- I know, I know: it's not much fun without at least that.
Let's try again.
The male figure spoke again, loudly. "Rejoice and celebrate, my
child, for we are come!"
Johnny clenched and unclenched his hands in an odd rhythm, now
completely oblivious to anything in his world but the apparitions in
front of him.
He cackled a burst of laughter. "A song, then!" He sang a snatch
from the latest Bloodhounds tune making the playlists on progressive
rock stations.
I read the signs
I hate the signs
TV personalities
I hate them all
Buy Coca-Cola
I said, "Buy Coca-Cola"
Don't buy Pepsi
Drink Coke!
He coughed, and spat on the foot of the female giant. The
spittle sizzled and disappeared, as it might do on a frying pan.
Johnny stared at the glowing foot for a long time, looking inward and
outward. He ached.
-- Noo, this is horrible. I won't stand for it.
-- Quite right. I have an idea. The images in the brochure show
only groups of worshippers. I wonder if they have to swarm to behave
properly?
-- Hey, I bet that's it.
-- There is a heavily populated area very near here. Give me a
moment, my dear, to modify us for flight.
"Let me tell you a story," Johnny said, finally, quietly. "Once
upon a time there was a young archaeologist, with the eagerness of a
fresh Ph.D. in his hand and his first little hole to dig. He was in
a god-forsaken and destitute part of Iraq, looking for precursors to
the Sumerians.
"In the course of time, he discovered a small settlement and, in
particular, a stone building that he fancied a small temple.
Eventually, after much careful digging and scraping, he unearthed its
secrets. He found a small enclosure, containing a row of fairly large
urns settled next to the wall. The north wall.
"This made him very excited, for obscure reasons. He issued a
report containing a description of his findings, and some of his own
speculation on their significance and possible meaning.
"He was a foolish and arrogant man."
-- I still like the three-headed green lizards better.
-- Vee, I thought we'd decided to try these morphs again.
-- Don't get excited. I was only teasing. We don't get many
chances to vacation, especially in wild and remote areas like this. I
think you should relax and enjoy it.
-- You're absolutely right, dearest. My apologies.
"Analysis proved quite convincingly that the damned urns were
toilets, of course. Oh, the slugs in the department loved that.
_Praying_to_the_porcelain_gods,_were_they,_Johnny?_"
He stifled a giggle. "The more I think about it, the more sense
that theory makes."
Johnny fell silent then; thinking, thinking, his body swaying
slightly.
-- All set, Vee?
-- I guess so. Noo, what do we do if all humans react like this
one?
-- Call in the harvesters, I guess.
-- I suppose so. Seems sad, somehow.
The two figures rose slowly off the well-tended grass and began
to float north. Their progress was smooth and silent in the cool
wind.
Johnny broke out of his reverie. He shook an upraised fist at
the departing aliens. "You won't find what you want," he shouted to
the air. "Beware expectations in the dominion of Man."
A short time later, two o'clock arrived and the lawn sprinklers
came to life. Johnny danced playfully in the water, opening his mouth
to catch the droplets in a vain attempt to quench his terrible thirst.
---------------------------------------------------
Derek is a computer science graduate student at the
University of Wisconsin - Madison. He is studying
Artificial Intelligence and is looking for a thesis
topic, or at least a good margarita. He grew up in
a mongrel variety of southeast Wisconsin small
towns and suburban sprawl areas. "My friends call
me 'Derek.' Telephone solicitors (incarnations of
the Antichrist) call me 'Mr. Zahn.'" Derek started
writing early on, and at 25 he has nearly mastered
the entire alphabet. He has written over half a
dozen or so stories over the years and hopes to
publish some in the high-curculation paperzines
he's been reading since childhood, "if only
everyone else would stop writing such great
stories..." His other interests range from the
electric guitar, philosophy, and physics to comedy,
booze, drugs, tennis shoe commercials, netnews, and
"the usual compugeek stuff."
---------------------------------------------------
August 1968
By Marvin Germany
mng@SEI.CMU.EDU
======================================================================
It's August 1968,
and it's twice as hot
with the city aflame.
Skeets Malone
just figured it was time
to get his when he looted
the ebony sportscoat from Whitey.
Revolution was inevitable
as soon as they hit MLK.
It's bad enough they got Eldridge,
Malcolm, and Angela.
And as he could hear the marching
of guardsman and the grinding of their tanks,
he noticed something on a wall.
In a sea of beige, where nothing green
grew anymore and where families once lived,
an oriental poster survived all of this madness.
And for some odd reason, it occurred to him
America would go to Europe to fight for the White Man,
and America would go to Vietnam to fight for the Yellow Man.
But America goes to it's ghettos to hunt the black man.
The grinding of the tanks got closer, as he ran home.
Duet
By Bill Sklar
86730@LAWRENCE.BITNET
Copyright 1985 Bill Sklar
======================================================================
"Who is she," I asked myself as we walked onto the stage, "this
person with whom I've spent so many of my evenings and know almost
nothing?" There was thunderous applause but I could see as little of
the source as I could of my musical companion's mind. When I looked
up, all that was visible was a single light shining on us, as if it
were an eye, following us closely as we crossed from the edge of the
stage to our instruments.
As we sat we faced one another but not once did she look at me
until she was ready to begin. With a single nod from her we were into
the first piece. "She's the leader," I told myself. "You play with
your soul but she's holding it all together."
Music poured from my fingers with a fiery Spanish feel. I knew
those notes well and meant them when I played them. She knew them
even better than I did but it was as if she were taking dictation.
Her notes came out incredibly. They were beautifully accurate but
still-- almost as if a computer played them. My frustration was
hammered into the keys and came out in the same way. My music was
consumed with hatred and pain "Why won't you respond to me?" my
fingers asked her. She did nothing more than continue her part,
without sign of caring for the music, just intense concentration.
"Why does she call all the shots?" I wanted to know.
I went back into my memory and tried to recall what it was that
had put me in this position. "Don't you know?" a voice from the back
of my mind shouted. "Think about it," it said, "you wanted it--
remember?" That was right-- I had wanted it. "God, that was long
ago," I thought as the music ended with a furious array of notes,
fortissimo. Again came the anonymous roar as the eye looked down
condescendingly. "What the hell does it want from me?" I thought.
"You fool!" it screamed, drowning out the thunder, "never forget
that you put yourself here! She's calling the shots because you
wanted her to!"
"You're crazy!" my mind echoed back, reflexively, but the voice
was right. There I was, waiting what seemed like hours, and for what?
Only to play another useless melody. To acknowledge the applause as
smile masked her face and she looked out, as if she could see that
hidden audience. "Why is she so perfect?" came my next question.
"You're so hidden behind that wall that I can't find you."
Before I knew it we were into the next piece. My fingers knew it
so well that I was playing it as though I were the listener, not the
performer. It was a slow, relaxing piece, so I just let it happen.
"Do you remember," the voice asked, "how it happened?"
Did I? I guess so. Dr. Barton had really started it off.
"Stevens!" he'd told me, "this is Kelly Johnson! You play with a lot
of feeling but you're sloppy as hell. She's as accurate as can be but
doesn't say a damn thing! I'm putting the two of you together until
you straighten one another out!" He left us in that room with only two
pianos one another. We had nothing to do but play. We started into a
piece and by the fourth measure she'd stopped.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Why don't you try following the rhythm?" she replied coolly.
"That's what I was doing!" I was getting defensive.
"Not really," she said. "Try it this way." And she played the
part for me. She was right. I had missed a beat. It hadn't occurred
to me that if I sound all right I can still be making a mistake. In
the same way it had never occurred to her that playing something
accurately doesn't necessarily mean playing it well. "Play it with
more of a flow, O.K?" I told her somewhere in the same piece.
"What sort of a flow?"
What a question. I had to show her. "Legato means a lot more
than 'notes connected.' Try it more like this." I played the piece,
exaggerating the legato so she'd catch on.
"All right," she said. When she played it back to me she had my
exaggerated legato copied perfectly. Every single bit of emotion she
put into that piece of music was mine because she wouldn't use her own
Every single rhythm in that piece was exactly as written, but only
because she showed me how to do it. We were crutches for one another,
but Dr. Barton was never really satisfied.
So there we were, in a room full of thousands of people. We were
each totally alone, even apart from each other. The light shone down,
hotter and hotter every minute, making the relaxation in the piece
almost impossible, but we still managed to pull through it alright.
Again came the lunatic roar but the light seemed more and more to
disapprove. It was so powerful that my hands trembled. Kelly must
have felt it, too. She let that smiling mask of hers flicker, even if
only for a moment.
We played a requiem mass next. It seemed too easy. Playing
macabre was not at all difficult enough to be comfortable with and I
felt as if I were growing weaker and weaker. The light seemed to dim
but in doing so it grew more and more intensely horrifying. I looked
at her and, for the first time I could ever remember, she was looking
at me as well. I'd never seen anyone so usually on top of things look
so lost. Her eyes pleaded with me to help her. What could I do? As
the piece ended we were met with a total silence even worse than the
deafening roar.
My hands were frozen. The eye was dimming-- giving up on us.
Suddenly, with a power I never knew I had, my hands broke free.
"Shit!" my piano cried through a sickeningly dissonant chord. She
echoed it reflexively but then stared at her own hands-- shocked at
her profanity. I repeated the chord and she continued echoing it back
to me, each time growing just a little louder. For one in my life I
saw a grin on her face. She was enjoying her rebellion! My fingers
were in total ecstasy as they resolved that dissonance into a
resoundedly joyous chord and again she mimicked me perfectly. My
hands went on for what seemed like hours, spontaneously composing and
proclaiming a wonder and amazement I'd never been able to speak.
Finally, after years of waiting, she came up with her own phrase. A
single chord, soft and gentle, whispered "I love you" and I echoed her
chord. The smile I'd seen before turned into a beaming glow. As we
repeated her glorious phrase back and forth, louder and louder, we
both started to cry and when we were finished, the chord echoed
through the hall as if it would never die out. I looked up. Our
eerie observer was shining radiantly and I could feel the face of Dr.
Barton smiling not at me, but at us.
---------------------------------------------------
Bill Sklar is a musician with interests in
filmmaking, biomedical ethics, gay and lesbian
issues, law and writing. He feels a driving force
to express himself artistically as well as
politically through whatever means he finds
appropriate. This summer he has expressed himself
working as a custodian for Lawrence University.
Bill lives "somewhere in central Wisconsin," where
spends countless hours composing and recording his
own music for various combinations of fretted
instruments.
---------------------------------------------------
Picture Perfect (part 1 of 2)
By Gene Smith
ESMITH@SUVM.BITNET
Copyright 1989 Gene Smith
======================================================================
"I'll soon have enough saved up to buy a camera of my own,"
thought Phil Davis as he put the finishing touches on Mrs. McCarthy's
lawn. "Once I have that I'll be able to shop in earnest!"
Phil Davis was an avid photography buff. No one at Columbia High
School, where Phil attended 10th grade, could remember a student ever
becoming photography editor of the school newspaper in their sophomore
year. Phil pursued everything he did with persistence and
determination and his interest in photography was no exception. His
talent for composing a photograph and taking a picture that expressed
the essence of the subject earned him his current position.
The irony in this situation was that Phil didn't even own his own
camera. The school had only two aging Nikons and they were often in
use by faculty members. Phil believed that if he possessed his own
camera he could improve the quality of the school newspaper. He would
be able to plan the school events he would be covering instead of
playing catch as catch can with the two school cameras. The fact that
he was the photography editor pulled no weight when signing up for one
of the cameras. Faculty had preference!
Phil returned the lawn tools to his toolbox. He had built a
small trailer that attached to the back of his bike in which he
carried his toolbox, a gasoline powered lawn mower and all the tools
he needed to trim lawns in his neighborhood. He had been maintaining
lawns for several years and had worked it into quite a business. It
was this business that was going to enable him to purchase his first
camera.
He was just packing to leave when Mrs. McCarthy came out onto
the porch of her immaculately kept victorian home and shouted,
"Philip! Philip Davis! Don't you dare leave young man. You
haven't finished the job yet and I won't pay you a single penny until
you do!"
Sighing Phil walked back up the sidewalk to where Mrs. McCarthy
was standing on her porch, hands on her hips. He had gone through
this many times before.
Ever Since Mr. McCarthy died last year it was always the same.
Mrs. McCarthy was probably seventy, or so Phil thought, and was quite
lonely after the death of her husband. She used these complaints
simply as a method of keeping him there a little longer. Phil knew
this and really didn't mind. Mrs. McCarthy had always paid and he
knew that she liked the work he did.
"Mrs. McCarthy," Phil said patiently, "the lawn is mowed, the
hedges trimmed, and I've edged your sidewalk and the walk to your
porch. I am done here and I have another lawn to finish before dark.
I have to be going."
It was 2:04 on a Saturday in July as they stood there facing each
other. Phil knew he had plenty of time before dark. The next lawn,
Mr. Pell's, would only take about an hour or so and the rest of the
afternoon would be his. He just didn't want to get into an argument
with Mrs. McCarthy which would last 15 or 20 minutes and would end
with her telling him "Alright, it does look pretty good I guess."
She may have sensed his reluctance to argue this particular day
as she said to him,
"Alright, it does... No. Philip the lawn looks just fine.
You've done a good job. You always do. I don't believe even Edgar,
my late husband, could have done a better job."
She turned to go back into the house, the sun making her silver
hair shine like a halo, when she paused. She turned back to face Phil
and said hopefully,
"Philip, I've just taken a batch of chocolate chip cookies out of
the oven. Would you care to have a few with a big glass of cold milk
before you leave to work on your next lawn? It is getting warm
outside and the milk will do you good."
Phil hadn't expected this. Oh, he had enjoyed Mrs. McCarthy's
cookies many times. She made the best cookies he had ever tasted.
Even the peanut butter cookies that he normally couldn't stand were
delicious the way Mrs. McCarthy made them. It wasn't as though he
didn't have the time either.
"It is getting warm," Phil said with a smile, "And I haven't had
any of your cookies in a long time. You know chocolate chip is my
favorite!"
"It's settled then!" said Mrs. McCarthy beaming. "You go on
into the living room and I'll bring your cookies and milk right in."
Phil hurried up the steps of the porch and held the solid oak
door open for her as she entered the house and headed for the kitchen.
Phil closed the door behind him and headed into the living room.
The walls of the living room were dotted with pictures. Some
were photographs of a wedding ceremony that Phil thought was Mr. and
Mrs. McCarthy. These photos were black and white and showing their
age. If they were of Mrs. McCarthy she was a beautiful woman back
then. Other pictures seemed more recent. Some photos showed children
throwing sticks into a pond. Others were of children running through
a field filled with black eyed Susans.
"My Grandchildren," said Mrs. McCarthy entering the room and
noticing the pictures at which Phil was looking. She was carrying a
large tray upon which was a plate full of chocolate chip cookies and a
tall glass of milk. The room was much cooler than outside but
droplets of moisture still formed on the outside of the glass.
"Edgar took them a couple of years ago when we visited them in
Old Town, Maine," she said as she set the tray down on a table in
front of the sofa. "Come on over here and have some of these
cookies," she said. "Lord knows I can't eat them all."
Phil left his study of the photographs and sat down on the sofa.
Thanking Mrs. McCarthy he picked up a cookie and began eating. Mrs.
McCarthy could make a great cookie and these were still warm! He
sipped the milk. Chocolate chip cookies always made him thirsty.
Mrs. McCarthy was looking at the wedding pictures herself now. She
said to no one in particular,
"Those pictures were taken almost 50 years ago. My wedding day.
The most wonderful day of my life. Edgar and I were married on July
24. A terribly hot day, but wonderful all the same." She was quiet
for a few seconds then turned to face Phil as though waking from a
daydream. "Well young man, how are the cookies?" she asked smiling.
"Mrs. McCarthy," Phil said honestly, "I swear you make the best
cookies in the world." She smiled all the more at that. As Phil
finished the last of his milk he said, "I really do have to be going.
I've got to finish Mr. Pell's lawn and I want to get it done early.
I plan to do some shopping for a camera today. I've saved enough from
my lawn business, from what's left over after my mom takes the share
for my college fund, to get a good one."
Phil and his mother had reached an agreement when Phil began his
lawn care business. She was concerned that it would take time away
from his school work or that he would waste the money that he earned.
As long as his grades stayed up, Phil was a "B" student, he could work
in the neighborhood maintaining lawns. There was one additional
condition. Half of all the money he earned, before expenses, had to
be placed into a savings account to be used for college.
Phil had agreed to the conditions then. There were times however
that he regretted his decision, especially when there was something he
really wanted to buy. All of the expenses of maintaining the business
had to come out of the money left after the college portion was placed
in the bank by his mother. That left precious little for himself.
He did realize the wisdom in his mother's conditions. The bank
account was slowly growing and by the time he was ready for college it
would be a fair sum. It certainly wouldn't pay his way through
college but with scholarships (he hoped!) and student loans he should
be able to put himself through college.
Phil got up from the sofa and made his way to the door. Mrs.
McCarthy followed. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.
The heat of the day was building and it seemed to cover him like a
blanket compared to the coolness of the house.
"Thank you again for the cookies," Phil said looking at Mrs.
McCarthy who was holding the door open.
"You're quite welcome Philip. You come back anytime. And by the
way," she said as he turned to go, "you did do a fine job on the lawn.
I do appreciate it." She smiled one last time and closed the door.
Phil stood there for a second then walked to his bike quite pleased.
Mrs. McCarthy had never complimented him outright like that before.
Today she had done it twice! It was a good feeling.
He peddled his bike over to Mr. Pell's house, the trailer
clattering noisily behind him. The sidewalk over which he rode was
not level. Some portions were slanted at angles, pushed up by roots
from trees planted in yards years before. As he rode over these his
bike would bound up, then down suddenly. He had quickly learned to
stand on the peddles of his bike when going over these areas. This
avoided uncomfortable bruises and the inability to sit comfortably for
days afterward.
He finished with Mr. Pell's yard in record time. The heat of
the day not bothering him at all. His mind was completely on the
camera shopping he was going to be doing that afternoon. When he had
finished collecting for the work he had done this week he would
finally have over $500.00 to spend on a camera. He had saved that
amount over many months just for the purpose of buying a camera.
It was just after 4:00 when Phil returned home. Unhooking his
trailer from the bike he put it in the garage in the spot his dad had
reserved for it.
He went into the house through the door which led from the garage
directly into the kitchen. His mother was there preparing supper.
The aroma of spaghetti sauce was unmistakable. His mother was
standing in front of the stove stirring the contents of a large pot
from which steam and the aroma filling the kitchen was coming.
"Are we having spaghetti tonight?" Phil asked hopefully. They
didn't have spaghetti very often and it was one of his favorite meals.
"Yes we are," his mother said smiling. "I thought you might
enjoy it, especially tonight." She had known that Phil was going to
reach the goal of $500.00 he had set for himself today and she had
planned this meal in order to celebrate. She knew the $500.00 was an
arbitrary figure Phil had set for himself but he said he couldn't shop
for a camera unless he had at least that amount. She had kept track
of his money for him, not that she needed to, and knew that today's
collections would put him over that figure.
"You get yourself into the bathroom and get cleaned up," she
gently scolded. "You're a mess. I won't have you go through my house
in that state!"
He laughed. His 5'7" frame that belied the 6'2" he would
eventually become was covered with grass clippings. The knees of his
jeans were stained green from where he had knelt to trim the grass
from the edge of sidewalks, and his sneakers were also stained green
and covered with clippings. He knew he was a mess.
"And go back into the garage and take those sneakers off!" his
mother said in mock seriousness. "I don't want you tracking half of
the neighborhood's lawns into my bathroom."
Again Phil laughed as he went back into the garage to remove his
grass stained sneakers. He took them outside to knock out the grass
that had managed to work it's way inside and took off his socks that
were also covered with grass. He knew his mother would send him back
out if he entered the house with them on so he figured doing it now
would save him a trip.
He walked back into the kitchen and passed his mother's silent
inspection as he made his way to the bathroom carrying his socks. He
placed them in the clothes hamper then stripped off the rest of his
clothes and placed them in the hamper too. He quickly showered and
washed his hair. He was amused to see small blades of grass make
their way through the soapy river to the drain as he rinsed his head.
Having completed his shower, and feeling much cleaner, he wrapped
himself in the oversize towel hanging next to the shower and made his
way to his bedroom to get into some clean clothes. He hadn't bothered
to dry himself so drops of water fell to the floor on the entire
journey from the bathroom to his bedroom. He knew he would hear about
it if his mother happened to notice. However on a hot day like today
the water evaporating from his skin felt great and it was worth the
risk of a scolding.
His room was tidy, his mother insisted on that, and perhaps more
organized than a typical 15 year old's room would be. On his desk was
a notebook filled with dates and places of events covered for the
school newspaper the year before. This notebook traveled with him
every time he covered any event. He kept track of the event, the
shots he took, the names of the individuals in the photographs, if
they were to be mentioned in an article, and copies of completed
release forms. He requested people to sign these forms in order to
use their pictures in the paper. Everyone thought it was an
unnecessary procedure, but you never knew.
The walls of his room were covered with pictures of the school,
pictures of action shots of the football team of which he was a
member, pictures of the cheerleaders, and other shots that had nothing
to do with school. He liked the pictures of the cheerleaders best.
If someone looked closely at them they might notice that one girl
appeared in every picture. He liked Cathy Danis but would admit it to
no one.
He dressed quickly and returned to the kitchen where his mother
still worked preparing supper. "Mom", he said entering the kitchen,
"I'm going down to the ShutterBug to take a look at some of the
cameras there. I want to price some of them before making a
decision."
The ShutterBug was one of the local camera stores where Phil
bought all of his film. The school provided him with bulk black and
white film, Tri-X and Plus-X, for school assignments, and a small
amount for his own use. All color film he bought at the ShutterBug.
He had his color film processed there as well. While he had access to
the school's darkroom for processing black and white film, the school
didn't purchase the chemicals necessary to process color film.
Phil had done quite a bit of business with the ShutterBug and he
felt that Mr. Jenson, the owner, would give him a good deal on a
camera purchased there.
"Supper is going to be in just over an hour," his mother reminded
him. "Be back before then."
"I will," he assured her. Phil gave her a quick kiss on the
cheek on his way out to the garage. He got on his bike and headed to
the ShutterBug.
Peddling his bike was much easier without the additional weight
of the trailer. Quieter too. He nearly flew over the sidewalks on
his way to the camera store.
On the way Phil had to pass by several clothes stores, the local
hardware store, the local mom and pop grocery store, and a deserted
storefront that used to contain the video arcade. The arcade had
moved when the new mall was built outside of town. The arcade had
located inside the mall where there was more space and more pedestrian
traffic. The storefront had been deserted since then.
Phil was surprised when he reached the old location of the
arcade. The big picture window, previously dusty and streaked by
rain, was now sparkling clean. On the glass in place of the large
garish painted letters which once read simply ARCADE, was neatly
painted lettering which read FOLLISS' CAMERA.
Stopping his bike next to the plate glass window, Phil held his
hand up to the glass and looked within the store. He was surprised to
see neat displays of cameras and photo supplies. Phil got off of his
bike and parked it on it's kickstand then went inside.
As he opened the door he heard the small bells attached to the
door jingle, announcing his presence to anyone inside. There wasn't
anyone behind the counter, which wasn't unusual in a small town store,
so Phil walked over to a display case to look at the cameras there.
He spent a few minutes looking at the cameras in the display cases.
"Can I help you?" asked a friendly voice. Phil turned to see a
tall man just coming into the store through a doorway leading to a
portion of the shop in the back. "Sorry to make you wait," said the
man apologetically, "but I was in the process of arranging the
inventory in the back." With a motion of his thumb he indicated the
doorway through which he had just come.
Phil looked at the man for several seconds before replying. The
man was tall and had very angular features. His hair was jet black
and cut close to his head. He had an accent to his speech that Phil
had never heard before. He knew several foreign exchange students at
school but this man's accent was completely different than any he had
previously heard. As he stood there contemplating the storekeeper he
was also aware that the room was a little too warm to be comfortable.
As though he had read Phil's mind the storekeeper broke the
silence by saying, "Don't let the heat bother you too much. I just
opened the shop this week and the air conditioning isn't working yet.
Luckily I haven't stocked any film so it can't be ruined. Now, how
can I help you?"
Phil was a little bit uncomfortable as he replied, "I'm planning
to buy a camera and I was on my way to the ShutterBug to price a few
when I noticed your shop." He added, "I was a little surprised to see
a camera store here. I decided that since it was on my way I'd stop
in to see what you had."
The storekeeper smiled. Phil felt a chill run through him in
response to that smile, even in this heat. He thought it must be the
sweat. He could feel it forming on his forehead and running in a
little trickle down his back.
"You've come to the right place!" the storekeeper said
confidently. "I don't carry an extensive line, well actually I carry
only one type of camera, but you won't find another like it anywhere!
The camera is called the Follis 138," the storekeeper continued in his
unfamiliar accent, "and it takes pictures that are beyond compare."
Motioning to a counter in the front of the store the storekeeper said,
"Come on over here and see for yourself."
Walking behind the counter the storekeeper reached into a drawer
and produced a stack of pictures that he spread out over the counter
top. "I took these pictures myself," he said helpfully, "Take a
look."
Phil looked at the pictures and was stunned. The quality of the
pictures was beyond anything he had ever seen before. One photo
showed a scene from a beach where the waves were lapping the sand.
The photo appeared so real Phil felt he could reach into it and take a
handful of sand. He thought he could almost imagine the sound of the
waves against the beach.
He looked at another of these photographs, unaware now of the
heat in the store. This photo showed a scene of winter desolation.
The snow was blue white. Cold dunes made their way into the distance.
Phil felt as though he could feel the chill air and hear the icy wind
tearing at the dunes.
He examined picture after picture with the same stunned awe.
Here a primeval forest scene, here what appeared to be a medieval
castle. Another showed the storekeeper himself laying on an
inflatable raft and floating in water so blue and at the same time so
clear as to be unreal.
The storekeeper smiled when Phil got to the picture of himself
and said, "Well, I didn't take all of these. That one was obviously
taken by someone else. But all of the rest were taken by me using
nothing but the Follis 138."
"What kind of film were you using?" Phil asked almost absently as
he studied the rest of the pictures. "There is no grain in any of
these pictures. The edges of the subjects are crisp and clean. The
depth of field is astounding." Phil was looking again at the picture
of the storekeeper floating on a raft in the water. Not only was the
image of the storekeeper crisp and clean but through the water he
could see fish and on the sandy bottom shells who's images were just
as sharp.
The storekeeper again smiled his unnerving smile and said, "Ah,
that's the beauty of this camera," indicating the cameras in the
display case. "It uses any color or black and white 35mm film, not
that that's unusual," and he laughed a bit. "The real beauty of this
camera is that the pictures you take will be of this quality
regardless of the film you use!"
"That's impossible." Phil objected. "Tri-X is much grainier than
is Plus-X and the pictures will show it regardless of the camera
used."
"Not so," corrected the storekeeper, "I don't fully understand
all of the technical details behind the camera, but it senses the film
type you are using and adjusts accordingly. I guarantee that the
pictures you take, regardless of film used, will turn out exactly like
these." Again he smiled that disconcerting smile.
"That is really hard to believe," Phil stated flatly. He knew
that he didn't know everything that there was to know about
photography. He was also aware that camera manufacturers were coming
out with new, even more sophisticated models all of the time, but he
had never heard of a camera that could do what this strange man
claimed this one could. He again looked at the photos spread out on
the counter. Their quality was hard to ignore.
"Are you telling me that this camera is fully automatic and to
get this kind of quality I have to do nothing?" Phil asked.
"Oh, absolutely!" replied the storekeeper. "All you have to do,
as the ads say, is point and shoot! No aperture adjustments, not
shutter speed settings, no focusing, nothing! Believe it or not every
picture you take will turn out just as good as these."
Phil was still not convinced that this camera could be as good as
this man claimed. He thought that there had to be a catch. With that
thought in mind Phil asked, "What does this camera cost?"
"Ah," said the storekeeper smiling. If a cat could smile you
might expect the same smile when it had cornered a mouse, "perhaps
that is the best part. The Follis 138 costs only $200.00."
Phil was again stunned. "Two hundred dollars! Is that all?
I've looked at some of the better Nikons, Canons, and Pentaxs and they
cost considerably more than that!" Phil again looked at the
photographs on the counter. The beach and water photo looked more
real than ever.
The storekeeper just stood there smiling in the heat. After a
few seconds he asked, "Do I have a sale?"
Phil thought for a second then reluctantly said, "No, not today.
I didn't bring my money. Besides, I want to talk to a few people
before making a purchase."
The storekeeper nodded then said, "When you decide come on back.
I will be here." Then without another word he walked to the doorway to
the back room and disappeared through it. Phil was left as alone as
he had been when he had entered the store. Glancing at his watch Phil
saw that he had spent over an hour talking to the storekeeper. He was
going to be late for supper!
He quickly left the store. Running to his bike the air felt
almost cold compared to the heat that was within the camera store. He
raced home as fast as he could. He quickly parked his bike and ran
into the house. His family was just sitting down to the supper table.
His mother gave him a disapproving look and said "Go to the
bathroom and wash up for supper."
Phil did as he was told. As he was washing his hands he looked
in the mirror and was a little shocked. He looked as though he had
just gone swimming with his clothes on. Every piece of clothing was
soaked with sweat and his hair was matted against his head. No wonder
his mother had looked at him so. He took one of the hand towels and
dried his hair then combed it. There was little he could do about his
clothes before supper.
He went back to the table where his family was enjoying the
spaghetti and sat at his usual place. His mother served him a
plateful of spaghetti and covered it with a generous serving of the
sauce that she had been cooking all day.
Phil thanked her absently and began eating. He really didn't
taste the food. His mind was on the camera and the pictures he had
seen at the shop. How could a camera take such pictures with any type
of film? How could a camera adjust the depth of field to cover such a
range as was evident in the ocean picture. He remembered the image on
the sea shell on the ocean floor and the shopkeeper floating in the
water above it. Both images had been crystal clear and sharp!
"Philip!" his father demanded, interrupting his reverie. "Your
mother is talking to you!"
"Huh? Oh, I'm sorry. I was just thinking Mom, Dad."
"Well did you see any cameras you liked at the ShutterBug?" his
mother asked.
"Never made it there," Phil replied. "There's this new camera
store where the old arcade used to be. I stopped in there. By the
time I got out I had to come home." He added a little sheepishly, "I
was a little late."
"You looking at anything in particular?" asked his father.
Phil's father was an accountant and didn't share his son's
enthusiasm for photography. He was glad his son was into something
creative and he knew his son had a talent for photography. However he
didn't know one type of camera from another. His question was more to
show that he was interested in his son's activities than to discuss
specific camera makes and models.
"Well I saw this one camera Dad," Phil began, and described what
had taken place at the new camera shop. He decided not to mention his
impressions of the store owner.
"Two hundred dollars is a lot of money to spend on a camera you
know nothing about," his father advised. "I suggest you wait until
you've learned a little more about it before you buy it. Is there
anyone else you could talk to who might know more about it?"
"Hmmmm. I hadn't thought about that Dad," said Phil
thoughtfully. "I could talk to Mr. Riley on Monday. He's probably
teaching a summer school class. Someone is always failing physics and
it's a graduation requirement."
When Phil finished his supper and asked to be excused. He went
straight to his room and sat cross-legged on his bed staring at the
pictures on his wall. How pale these now seemed compared to those he
had seen this afternoon. How good Cathy would look if he could take
her picture with the Follis 138. The more he thought about it the
more he convinced himself that he wanted the Follis. He was
determined to talk to Mr. Riley and get his advice before making any
final decision. Still....
---------------------------------------------------
Gene Smith currently works for Syracuse University
and, if there is such a thing, is a "true Gemini."
Right now he works two jobs and runs his own
business -- all at the same time. His interests
include astronomy, carpentry, music (frustrated
musician), gardening, geology, the occult, classic
eroticsm, thunderstorms, and anything he hasn't
done yet. Gene was born on June 15, 1952, and
lives in the country.
---------------------------------------------------
Note: The final half of this story can be seen in next month's
issue of Athene.
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