A BIT OF TRUTH, A BIT OF FICTION – WEEK 25

Thank you for your willingness to support my dream of transitioning into full time writing. Before I pass from this life, I would like to share some of what I have learned. In each of these weekly posts, subscribers can expect to find the following:

· An excerpt from a novel in the ‘Game of Life’ series

· A short story from a long dead author, whose works should not be lost to time

· Another short story by myself, many intended as plots for short and full length films

· An essay focused more on God’s truths, for those who are interested in a better life

Let us continue what will hopefully be an enjoyable journey together.

THE GAME OF LIFE – BOOK 1- THE POWER OF A PAWN

These stories were initially imagined to be movies that would underscore deep truths about how we define life. In reality, they are too long to be adequately contained in individual films. They would though, still make for a powerful six-year series, using the episodes in each season to cover one novel.

POAP Week 25 - This sequential segment is excerpted from ‘The Power of a Pawn,’ copyright 2011 by Paul F Spite. It is the first book in a series entitled, ‘The Game of Life.’ Look for the next segment of “The Power of a Pawn’ in this same place, next week.

* * *

A reporter interviewed Terrance at the entrance to his campground. Adjacent to his campsites sat the other property with the abandoned industrial facility. Paint peeled off the block walls and the roof leaked along two of the edges. But inside that building, cars and motorcycles that would be there for a while could still be parked out of the weather. The crumbling asphalt lot outside of the factory also appeared full of vehicles. As the news crew discovered, there was a minimal charge to park in either location. No exceptions were granted. Parking in the campground, other than for motor homes, could not be allowed. A small van shuttled customers between the campground and the parking area.

The campground itself resembled a small circus. There were tents and campers covering most of the open field. With no shade otherwise, most had awnings erected nearby. Use of the portable shower facilities and restrooms came along with payment of the camping fees. Short term visitors could pay for just a restroom pass. Two small speaking platforms near the open common area were rented by the hour. Also on site were food vendors, allowed on location in return for a portion of their proceeds.

The reporter asked his cameraman to pan slowly around the site, showing viewers at home all the activity. He sensed a better story than rehashing old news about Mrs. Delaney’s case. He asked Terrance, on the spur of the moment and without warning. “So would you tell our viewers at home, Mr. Edwards? Exactly how much money do you make each month from this poor woman’s problems?”

Terrance felt a brief surge of fury but kept his face composed. “Well Steve, to tell you the truth, I haven’t totaled it up yet. We’re just glad to be able to provide these services to all the folks coming to show their support for Mrs. Delaney.”

Steve commented in a dry tone, “Half of them want her to be killed, Mr. Edwards.”

“Well, aren’t you glad we live in a country that not only encourages free enterprise, but also freedom of speech? Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Now if you don’t have any other questions, I need to make sure my customers get what they need.”

“One last question, if you would. What do you plan to do with all the money you rake in here? Do you have any big plans?”

“Well Steve, I don’t have any firm plans. Any more than your network could say exactly what they intend to do with the profits they make off Mrs. Delaney’s misery. I do hope to be able to donate some of the proceeds to the Legal Aid Society. They offer counseling to those who cannot afford it otherwise.”

“I know what the Legal Aid Society is, Mr. Edwards. How much did you plan to donate?”

“That remains to be seen, Steve. That remains to be seen. But hopefully, once I determine the amount, your network will match my contribution dollar for dollar.”

“I can’t speak for my network, Mr. Edwards.”

“Of course you can’t, Steve. You just try to speak for everyone else”

The last several comments didn’t make it on the air.

* * *

They say time heals all wounds but whoever they are, they are wrong. The grieving never ceased for Amanda. Every time she thought of her children, the hurt seized her anew. Even worse, the pain of losing her husband again became a raw wound. But eventually, the paralysis gripping her mind began to lose its hold on her. She became aware that a storm of controversy brewed, and she was the eye of that storm.

It took a long time, but accommodations were eventually made for her to live in a secure unit. She would share a small common area with seven other women. All these were also in protective isolation for one reason or another. Most involved their acceptance of a plea bargain and testimony against other participants in their crimes. Housed in the general population, they would have been killed. At first, she enjoyed little conversation with the other women. She was glad for the company, but what good would it do to form real friendships when her execution loomed on the horizon? Given the nature of her transgressions, none of the other women sought friendship with her either at first. She felt almost as alone as she had been before. But at least in her new location, she had access to a television.

Watching a news channel, she became aware of the scope of the protests outside. Samuel mentioned them to her, but she paid little attention at the time. There were probably sixty men and women picketing outside of the gates of the prison at any given time. The gate lay within easy walking distance from Terrance’s campground. Some protestors held signs containing slogans against the death penalty. Some were for it. She felt slightly chilled by one man who carried a sign that said, “The soul that killeth, it shall surely die.” She wasn’t real sure and didn’t have a Bible available to reference, but she thought he might have blended a few scriptures together to suit his cause.

He had a good set of vocal chords at least. He screamed out, “Let the Delaney woman die,” every time he saw the cameras focused on him.

* * *

After a few weeks passed, Amanda watched the same news program. She realized that the crowd outside had swelled to over three times its former size. Cars passing slowed down to gawk or simply to keep from hitting those in the roadway. She could see signs representing Americans for Amnesty, the group providing legal representation for her appeals hearings. She also noted signs for Let Justice Prevail, Sacred Life, Every Life Matters, Citizen’s Rights, and Back to Basics. She had no idea what the last group represented. She was too busy trying to determine why the crowd swelled into hundreds of protestors.

She would ask Samuel next time she saw him.

* * *

When she called him, her former attorney always came as soon as he could free up time. He could be trusted that way if not in others. Samuel’s frequent compliments about her appearance had to be lies. She never felt less pretty in her life. Still, when he told her this time she looked nice, she commented on the painted walls to cover her sudden confusion. He looked a bit baffled and then made the connection.

He smiled, “You just can’t keep those trustees out.”

That crisis safely negotiated, she got down to the purpose of her request. “Samuel, I’ve been watching the news. Three weeks ago, they showed a group of protestors outside of here. I wondered then whether those people had lives. But that was a small crowd compared to what I saw last night on the news. What’s going on?”

He regarded her with curiosity. “You tell me what’s going to happen in a few days.”

“What do you mean?”

“Has Mr. Franz kept you abreast of the developments in your appeals process?”

Amanda’s face reflected her confusion. “I know I have another hearing in two days. He said it was a very important one. Why?”

Samuel looked a little grim. “Amanda, it’s your last hearing. Unless they overturn your case at this one, and the chances of that are mighty slim, your conviction and your sentencing will stand.”

“What does that mean?”

Samuel stood up and drew a deep breath, turning away to allow her emotional privacy. “It means that if the court allows it to go ahead, your execution is scheduled for two months from now.”

She drew a shuddering breath and began to cry. “That is why all those people are out front. They’re running out of time to make their statements. You are running out of time, period.”

Samuel turned around and opened his arms as she came into them. He let her cry it out against him. Always a gentleman, he let her use his handkerchief first before using it on his own eyes.

“I’m really going to die, aren’t I?”

As gently as possible, Samuel answered. “It looks that way.”

“So then why are all those people out front wasting their time?”

He shrugged. “For some, it’s a chance to plead their cause in public. A few are actually doing what they think is right. Some are curious. Most are just after free press exposure for various reasons.”

“I want them to just go away and leave me in peace.”

At that, he smiled. “You were in peace until you started watching the news.”

She considered that and laughed. “You have a point there, my friend. Thank you for being blunt.”

He smiled in apology. “If you really want to get upset, you won’t need to watch the news. Wait until you see who all shows up at the courthouse to protest your last hearing.”

* * *

He was right of course, about all the protestors.

The van carrying her from the prison required a police escort to clear away the crowd. That just made it possible to pull to the curb. To see the stately old building, she peered through a forest of cardboard. She counted signs identifying at least six groups against capital punishment and lost track counting those who were there in support of it. The officers with her let her collect herself before leaving the van. As they escorted her from the vehicle, it seemed like a hundred microphones were thrust into her face.

She shrank back and the reporters were brushed aside by armed officers. They pulled her as quick as possible into the courthouse.

* * *

SHORT WRITINGS BY LONG DEAD AUTHORS

I have always considered O Henry to be the maestro of the short story form. Here I present one of his masterpieces for your enjoyment.

A SERVICE OF LOVE – O HENRY

When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard. That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China.

Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.

Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine-tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go “North” and “finish.” They could not see her f⁠—, but that is our story.

Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandt’s works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong. Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other, as you please, and in a short time were married⁠—for (see above), when one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard.

Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat⁠—something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be⁠—sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor⁠—janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.

Flat-dwellers shall endorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close⁠—let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long⁠—enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.

Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister⁠—you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light⁠—his highlights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock⁠—you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.

They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every⁠—but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.

But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat⁠—the ardent, voluble chats after the day’s study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions⁠—ambitions interwoven each with the other’s or else inconsiderable⁠—the mutual help and inspiration; and⁠—overlook my artlessness⁠—stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.

But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn’t flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices.

When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling. For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated.

“Joe, dear,” she said, gleefully, “I’ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General⁠—General A. B. Pinkney’s daughter⁠—on Seventy-first Street. Such a splendid house, Joe⁠—you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before. My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She’s a delicate thing⁠—dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I’m to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don’t mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let’s have a nice supper.”

“That’s all right for you, Dele,” said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, “but how about me? Do you think I’m going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two.”

Delia came and hung about his neck. “Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week. You mustn’t think of leaving Mr. Magister.”

“All right,” said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. “But I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn’t Art. But you’re a trump and a dear to do it.”

“When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard,” said Delia.

“Magister praised the sky in that sketch I made in the park,” said Joe. “And Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window. I may sell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Delia, sweetly. “And now let’s be thankful for Gen. Pinkney and this veal roast.”

During all of the next week the Larrabees had an early breakfast. Joe was enthusiastic about some morning-effect sketches he was doing in Central Park, and Delia packed him off breakfasted, coddled, praised and kissed at 7 o’clock. Art is an engaging mistress. It was most times 7 o’clock when he returned in the evening. At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, triumphantly tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8×10 (inches) centre table of the 8×10 (feet) flat parlour.

“Sometimes,” she said, a little wearily, “Clementina tries me. I’m afraid she doesn’t practise enough, and I have to tell her the same things so often. And then she always dresses entirely in white, and that does get monotonous. But Gen. Pinkney is the dearest old man! I wish you could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano⁠—he is a widower, you know⁠—and stands there pulling his white goatee. ‘And how are the semiquavers and the demisemiquavers progressing?’ he always asks.

“I wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing-room, Joe! And those Astrakhan rug portières. And Clementina has such a funny little cough. I hope she is stronger than she looks. Oh, I really am getting attached to her, she is so gentle and high bred. Gen. Pinkney’s brother was once Minister to Bolivia.”

And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five, a two and a one⁠—all legal tender notes⁠—and laid them beside Delia’s earnings.

“Sold that watercolour of the obelisk to a man from Peoria,” he announced overwhelmingly.

“Don’t joke with me,” said Delia, “not from Peoria!”

“All the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woollen muffler and a quill toothpick. He saw the sketch in Tinkle’s window and thought it was a windmill at first. He was game, though, and bought it anyhow. He ordered another⁠—an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight depot⁠—to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it.”

“I’m so glad you’ve kept on,” said Delia, heartily. “You’re bound to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before. We’ll have oysters tonight.”

“And filet mignon with champignons,” said Joe. “Where is the olive fork?”

On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his $18 on the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands. Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages.

“How is this?” asked Joe after the usual greetings. Delia laughed, but not very joyously.

“Clementina,” she explained, “insisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her lesson. She is such a queer girl. Welsh rabbits at 5 in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run for the chafing dish, Joe, just as if there wasn’t a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn’t in good health; she is so nervous. In serving the rabbit she spilled a great lot of it, boiling hot, over my hand and wrist. It hurt awfully, Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But Gen. Pinkney!⁠—Joe, that old man nearly went distracted. He rushed downstairs and sent somebody⁠—they said the furnace man or somebody in the basement⁠—out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind it up with. It doesn’t hurt so much now.”

“What’s this?” asked Joe, taking the hand tenderly and pulling at some white strands beneath the bandages.

“It’s something soft,” said Delia, “that had oil on it. Oh, Joe, did you sell another sketch?” She had seen the money on the table.

“Did I?” said Joe; “just ask the man from Peoria. He got his depot today, and he isn’t sure but he thinks he wants another parkscape and a view on the Hudson. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand, Dele?”

“Five o’clock, I think,” said Dele, plaintively. “The iron⁠—I mean the rabbit came off the fire about that time. You ought to have seen Gen. Pinkney, Joe, when⁠—”

“Sit down here a moment, Dele,” said Joe. He drew her to the couch, sat beside her and put his arm across her shoulders. “What have you been doing for the last two weeks, Dele?” he asked.

She braved it for a moment or two with an eye full of love and stubbornness, and murmured a phrase or two vaguely of Gen. Pinkney; but at length down went her head and out came the truth and tears.

“I couldn’t get any pupils,” she confessed. “And I couldn’t bear to have you give up your lessons; and I got a place ironing shirts in that big Twenty-fourth Street laundry. And I think I did very well to make up both General Pinkney and Clementina, don’t you, Joe? And when a girl in the laundry set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all the way home making up that story about the Welsh rabbit. You’re not angry, are you, Joe? And if I hadn’t got the work you mightn’t have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria.”

“He wasn’t from Peoria,” said Joe, slowly.

“Well, it doesn’t matter where he was from. How clever you are, Joe⁠—and⁠—kiss me, Joe⁠—and what made you ever suspect that I wasn’t giving music lessons to Clementina?”

“I didn’t,” said Joe, “until tonight. And I wouldn’t have then, only I sent up this cotton waste and oil from the engine-room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with a smoothing-iron. I’ve been firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks.”

“And then you didn’t⁠—”

“My purchaser from Peoria,” said Joe, “and Gen. Pinkney are both creations of the same art⁠—but you wouldn’t call it either painting or music.”

And then they both laughed, and Joe began: “When one loves one’s Art no service seems⁠—”

But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. “No,” she said⁠—“just ‘When one loves.’ ”

----------------

SHORT WRITINGS BY MYSELF

Here I present short stories, created for your enjoyment and for my own. I have always imagined these as the basis for family-friendly films. Perhaps that will become a reality someday.

TIME ENOUGH - Copyright, Paul Spite

The silver-haired old man slapped paperwork from his doctor’s hand. He knew his prognosis was grim. The doctor shook his head. Perhaps he should spend his remaining time getting his house in order. A better use of his resources than chasing every rumor of eternal life or fabled elixirs.

The outline of light had morphed into a doorway, framing the man who fell through. Jason staggered from the crude bombardment chamber, clothes smoking. Sweating profusely, he raised his head to stare at the shimmering oval hanging in the air before him. Hesitantly, he touched it. Before he could scream, he was again sucked into the void and was no more.

In a form more ghost than human, Jason floated in a rushing stream of colors and light. They blew right through him. His scream transformed into outward ripples of energy. Consciousness faded.

Lost in time, Jason remembered Julia too well. He promised he would love her forever. She promised she’d always stand by him, supporting his dreams and research.

Then came so many arguments. She was embarrassed by ridicule received after he published his theory on the nature of God. Did he seriously believe, based on scripture, that God contained all forms of energy? Perhaps he should bombard himself with all those forms and become a God. Her harsh laughter became the harsher voice of a middle-aged woman, demanding answers. How had he remained unchanged since their marriage. She’d aged, but he hadn’t. What was he?

Julia’s father held a gun, also demanding to know why his son-in-law hadn’t aged. If Jason remained silent, he’d keep him there till authorities arrived. They’d have better ways of asking questions.

As Jason gravely regarded the old man, a shimmering oval appeared behind him. He sadly told the old man goodbye, stepping backwards. But the old man seized his arm as he disappeared. The oval collapsed around the old man and the room was empty when the constables arrived. In another time and place, a second shimmering door appeared and Jason stepped through. He brushed a coat of dust off, muttering.

“Sorry about that, Sir! Didn’t know that would happen.”

Jason kissed another woman goodbye, who told him as he left that she loved him. He seemed less than thrilled.

Parson Brownley was taken aback by his question. “What do you mean, is it fair to love a woman if you’re not what you seem? Are you married to another?”

“Well, no!”

“Unfaithful?”

“Never!”

“Then what is the problem, man?”

“I won’t be alive much longer.”

“Ah! Then make sure she’s provided for and love her as deeply as possible until then.”

Jason, in full view of others, slipped at the top and fell in an active volcano. In another place and time, a shimmering hole opened above the ocean and a an fell through to the waves below. Fortunately, Jason was a strong swimmer.

Parson Brownley consoled the still attractive widow. At least she knew she’d been loved. And Jason hadn’t suffered. The pastor had spoken with their banker and she’d been well provided for. Once done grieving, she could move forward with the rest of her life. Anytime she wanted to talk, he’d be there.

In another time and place, an insurance agent consoled another widow. Wherever Jason was now, he’d surely be missing his beautiful wife. Falling in an acid tank had been rough, but Jason had left a healthy life insurance policy. The agent would personally see to it, she received every penny.

Jason kissed his latest wife goodbye, making a fundamental error. His puzzled and suddenly suspicious wife wanted to know who Julia might be.

“Why are you staring into space like that? Answer my question. Who is Julia?”

Jason snapped back to the present, shaking off memories. “She was my first love. Dead now for a very long time. Don’t begrudge my memories. She taught me to love. I promise you! I’ve never been unfaithful and never will be.”

Amelia believed him. It had been a wonderful ten years. He seemed so young and carefree sometimes. Like the years never touched him.

Just a few weeks ago, he’d asked if she would relocate to another country. She believed in the Abraham and Sarah covenant. It was his prerogative to determine where they lived. But she was still hesitant to leave her family.

Meanwhile, the silver haired old man was perusing reports. His agents had chased down myths on El Dorado, Shangri La and the fountain of youth. His agents had hacked satellite cameras, seeking the lost Garden of Eden. In a burst of anger, he demanded to know. Had anyone ever conducted scientific research on immortality?

An operative hesitated long enough to irritate his client. A lunatic at a small college back in the early twenties, had been widely ridiculed for theories about a timeless God. But he’d vanished without a trace in the mid-forties

Jason really enjoyed this marriage, but dreaded the inevitable. He was heartily sick of saying goodbye to those he loved.

In his office, Jason set down the latest stock exchange quotes. He locked the door and vanished in a shimmering haze. When he reappeared, he called his broker to buy several thousand shares in a small start-up. The broker protested, but did as requested, before buying shares for himself. Mr. Jason had a string of unbroken success.

In Jason’s bank, a robbery suddenly ended. The robber armed suddenly began jerking around, and when he stopped, his rifle lay on the floor and the robber’s hands were bound. Moving faster than light, no one saw Jason disarm and bind the thief. No one saw him afterwards, wheezing as he slowed to normal time behind the dumpster.

The strange events made one local paper and all the sensational tabloids. An old man with silver hair frowned thoughtfully as he lowered his copy.

A quick Internet search found another disaster, averted in an equally peculiar way. Thirty years earlier, a rail switch was thrown by a young man who suddenly appeared. He’d averted a head-on collision between two passenger trains. His picture was snapped while talking to an engineer. When he noticed the reporter, he just vanished.

The old man with silver hair compared the clipping to one even more faded, of the professor who vanished fifty years prior. “Well, well, well! What do we have here?”

Back at home, Jason kissed his wife goodbye. He was meeting a student in minutes and didn’t want to be later than necessary. As the door shut, he jogged out of sight, between two hedges. A bright light flashed, but no one emerged.

His student knocked for the third time and then tried the doorknob to his office. The open door revealed a cluttered, empty office. With a sigh, she closed it. Mr. Jason was so hard to pin down for a meeting. Before she’d taken ten steps, she heard the door open behind her. He called her in, ignoring her confusion. He had no answers for her newest questions.

The student was worried she wasn’t adequately prepared for the final and couldn’t afford to fail. Jason smiled broadly. He was sure she was far better prepared than she realized. How he could be so sure? A frown flitted across his features. “Intuition isn’t a trait of women alone.”

Back at his home, two men knocked politely. Jason’s wife opened it wide, supposing he’d forgotten something. She probably should’ve used the peephole.

Jason was returning, when he was suddenly no longer alone. Friendly men walked on either side of him. They came to extend an invitation for a quick meeting with Mr. Geanom. The professor might’ve heard of their boss? Jason assured them, but he had no time to meet their employer..

They disagreed with guns in hand. Mr. Geanom thought it likely he had all the time in the world. He was needed, so no harm would befall his wife, currently with two of their associates. They shouldn’t have said that. He could’ve left them far behind, but instead a shimmering door appeared, into which they were all drawn. As Jason strode up to his door, he brushed dust off his clothes.

He entered at high speed, casually disarming both abductors before slapping them unconscious. Slowing down to normal speed, he called the police. Before they arrived, he untied his better half. She was under the influence of some drug. trying desperately to tell him about a trap. He shushed her by kissing her soundly. At which point his world immediately went away.

The old man played the part of a grand host, introducing himself as Mr. Geanom, investor, inventor and now dying cancer victim. Before him lay Jason, tightly bound and strapped on a table. On another table lay his wife, to assure his cooperation.

The old man spoke again. “I hope you’ll forgive me calling you Jason. After all, you’ve had several last names. The Internet is a wonderful thing, yielding pictures of you teaching back in the twenties. Interesting theories you had. There you were, saving trains, thirty years later. Now here you are at the same university, Sloppy, don’t you think? Especially for someone who doesn’t age. That interests me, Jason. Given my condition, it does so quite a bit. So you’ll tell me exactly how you manage that and how I can. I won’t even ask you what happened to my men.”

“Let me up and we’ll talk.”

The old man chided. “I’ve had you watched. You start moving, there’s a bright light and you disappear. No, I don’t think I want you moving. At least, not till I have answers.”

The old man knew Jason and his wife had things to discuss. He’d be back in a few minutes.

Once alone, Jason created portals, but couldn’t bring them to him. He’d always gone through them before. He was well aware everything he did was being recorded.

Still, he answered his wife honestly. Yes, he was really timeless. He’d known time was running out at that location, so he’d suggested moving overseas. Yes, he’d had several wives before. They all thought he died when he finally had to move on. No, he couldn’t create a portal and drop it over her. Even if he could, it would kill her instantly. Nothing living made the journey but him. Why not? He didn’t know.

The old man strode back into the room. “Too bad, Jason! She almost got me my answer. Now we’ll have to do it the hard way. Before we begin, do you have any questions for me?”

“How’d you trap me?”

The old man chuckled. “Oh, I knew you’d come back for your wife. The young are so romantic, no matter how old they might be. My men coated her lips with a contact poison as soon as they had her. She was trying to tell you, when you kissed her. Now let me tell you why you’re going to tell me.”

The old man moved over, untying his wife.

“I’m going to free her and then leave. While I’m gone, she’ll try to free you. I assure you, she won’t succeed. Watch her and witness her love. Because when I return, my men will systematically beat your wife. You will have till she dies to save her by giving me answers. “

Chloe just had a few questions. Her eyes were bright. “You realize you can’t give such an evil man your kind of power, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“But you probably won’t let them hurt me either, will you?”

“Of course not!”

“Can you transport someone through one of your gates if they’re touching you?”

“Not without killing them. Even animals are vaporized.”

“Could someone else transport you if they touched you and touched a gate?”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Not without killing them at the same time.”

She smiled tightly. “I’m sure you can come up with an answer for that. Make a gate.”

As the door of the chamber burst open, she seized his hand. With her other hand, she touched the shimmering oval before her. Bullets hit the wall behind where they’d vanished. A very angry Jason brushed the dust of his wife off as he walked into the home he once shared with her.

Sometime before that, an old man was perusing reports from the Internet. He muttered, “No one’s that lucky with stocks. Is what I think really possible?”

Behind him, a cold voice answered, “Yes it is.”

He turned to see Jason behind him, gun drawn.

The man from the pictures continued. “I really can’t afford to have you kill my wife in a few weeks. Sorry, Old man.”

Gunfire punctuated the night. When the police arrived, Mr. Geonom’s body was alone in his locked study.

Jason helped his wife from his new bombardment chamber. It would be gone shortly, but first he had to know if it worked. It had indeed been and done everything he’d described.

His wife paused for a moment. “I knew you could travel through both time and space. That’s why I wasn’t afraid to die. Am I really timeless too?”

“As far as I can tell. So what was your favorite year in our marriage? Before we leave for it, I guess I should ask. Will you be my wife forever? I wouldn’t hold you to it, since you didn’t exactly bargain for that.”

She turned coy. “Do you want to be married to me?”

He swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly. “Are you kidding? No one’s ever died for me before.”

The room grew bright. As they faded away together, a timer detonated the bomb on the chamber.

They’d left, just in time.

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ESSAYS FOCUSED ON GOD’S TRUTHS

For those who are interested in a better life, because no other writer can really compare to God.

WE CAN BECOME GOD’S ENEMY - Copyright, Paul Spite

There are only two Biblical eternal destinations for our souls, heaven or hell. Unfortunately, purgatory is a man-made concept. There are preparations we can make before entering eternity, but making ourselves God’s enemy first is a poor choice.

Saul made a bad mistake in that regard. In the book of 1 Samuel, Saul had once relied upon Samuel for wisdom and guidance from God, but Saul had long since begun rebelling against God. Now he was facing an enemy he knew he could not defeat without God’s help and he desperately needed Samuel’s advice. The problem was that the prophet had died. Saul’s solution involved enlisting the help of a witch, whom he had kept alive despite God’s command to kill all who practiced witchcraft. This woman called the spirit of Samuel back from the dead so Saul could once again consult with him. In 1 Samuel 28:16, the response was chilling. “Wherefore then dost thou ask of me, seeing the LORD is departed from thee, and is become thine enemy?” The spirit went on to tell him, that because of what he had done, the kingdom was being taken from him and by the next day, he and his son would be dead.

Disobedience to God always brings us into conflict with our Creator. Romans 8:7 informs us we can not be subject to God while ruled by our carnal natures. What is not subject God’s laws is then in rebellion against God.

It is not enough to say that we are just staying neutral. Where did we get the idea that neutrality was possible? Jesus said in Matthew 12:30, that those who were not with Him were against Him, those who did not gather, scattered. Being a friend to those who oppose God is also the same as opposing God. There is an old saying. “The friend of my enemy is my enemy.” James 4:4 said whoever is a friend of the world is an enemy of God. Whether we want to or not, we always choose a master, and which we choose is evidenced by our actions. Romans 16:16 indicates who we yield our bodies to is our master.

It is only possible to serve one master at a time. Jesus said in Luke 16:13 that we will love one and hate the other. God warns those who consider themselves to belong to Him, not to play the harlot with other Gods, not to try to serve Him and other Gods. It makes Him angry. Israel’s worship of idols in Exodus 20:5 provoked a jealous God to assure them their infidelity would lead to punishment. Although carnality, which we are assured is the same thing as enmity with God, is a natural state of mind, if we want the friendship of God, rather than His anger, there is a way to change our minds. Romans 12:2 speaks of a renewing of our minds to help us follow God’s will.

Abraham found it preferable to serve God rather than the gods of this world. James spoke of this in his second chapter, “And the scripture was fulfilled which saith, Abraham believed God, and it was imputed unto him for righteousness: and he was called the Friend of God.” David found joy, as have millions of others, in serving God rather than pursuing unrighteousness. In Psalms 45:7, he praises God for the oil of gladness that anoints those who love righteousness.

If the benefits and the joy are not enough motivation, then perhaps fear will suffice. David said in Psalms 111:10 that “the fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom.” Even not having an interest in the things of God carries grave consequences. Read what Paul had to say in Romans 1:28-32. “And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient; Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whisperers, Backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, Without understanding, covenant breakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful: Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.”

We like to dwell on the loving aspects of God, but it is also possible to earn His hatred. Proverbs 6:16-19 speaks plainly of this attribute of God. “These six things doth the LORD hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.” As mentioned before, entering into eternity to stand before a judge that hates us is a poor way to enter eternity. Hebrews 10:31 assures us it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.

It does no good to call Him Lord, if we disobey Him. He is only our Lord if we are subject to His commands. In Luke 6: 46, Jesus said to His disciples, His closest followers, “Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?” That problem is a simple one to remedy. Change our minds, or let God change our minds for us, and do what He tells us to do. Paul said in the second chapter of his letter to the Corinthians, “Knowing therefore the terror of the Lord, we persuade men; but we are made manifest unto God; and I trust also are made manifest in your consciences.”

Paul preached repentance and turning life over to God, because the only available alternative was terrible to consider

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