A magnetic personality.

(Morguefile.)


“What the?” The heavy butter knife clung to Gabe Rossi's hand.

Gabe was making toast and peanut butter, and it was quite annoying how little Reggie, his eight year old son, always left a mess. Yet when he finally got the knife to drop onto the counter with a resounding clatter of steel on the finest Phrygian marble, he was surprised to see the knife was clean. He saw no peanut butter on the knife. He smelled his hand in a tentative fashion, but there was no real peanut butter smell. Without time to inquire further, he put it aside as just one more thing there was no time to deal with or even reflect upon.

Late enough for work as it was, Gabe didn’t have time to think about it. He was not a big fan of peanut butter. The problem was that there was no food in the house, as Francine was going through one of her week-long monthlies, and hadn’t been doing the shopping. The trouble with peanut butter was that you really couldn’t eat it quickly. You had to chew, swallow, and wash it down with something. There wasn’t much milk in the house either, he noted un-resentfully, as there was nothing he could do about it now.

With the end of the year coming up, Gabe had been staying late at the shop, working on the inventory, and then spending long hours over the weekends, going through the receipts. He had a momentary twinge of guilt at the thought of Reggie, whom he didn’t seem to see much of anymore.

Sometimes his son slept in late on Saturdays, so Gabe just stuck his head in the door for a moment and took a look at his son, and then gently pulled the door closed again, grinning slightly. Even at this hour, Reggie was already engrossed in cartoons, hyper-violent as they were, but at least the boy had enough sense to keep the volume down. Francine was in the en-suite bathroom adjoining their bedroom, so he used the other bathroom, and then he went to the garage.

Opening the door, he flipped on the light, stepped down the two steps and was distinctly annoyed to hear something thumping and banging and sliding across the floor.

“Sugar!” A set of electric hedge clippers slid across the floor and hit his foot.

He must have caught the short electrical cord under the heel of his hard shoe or something.

Gabe cursed again silently, resolving to clear up some of the mess in the garage. For several years now, he had been meaning to build some shelves, or purchase some sort of modular storage system, but of course he had never actually gotten around to doing it.

As he stood there in silent mental review, shaking his head slightly, he acknowledged that he would probably never get around to building those shelves. Then he got in the car and hit the button on the remote control device clipped to the sun visor, which opened the garage door, and Gabe started up the engine.

His shop was less than two miles away, and he was always thankful that he didn’t have to do the two-hour commute like many of his neighbors. While some of them made more money than he did, the impact that commuting had on their lives was obvious, at least to him.

For some reason people couldn’t do the math. They couldn’t see that twenty bucks an hour here in this little town was more than equal to twenty-five or thirty bucks an hour in the big city, when you took into account the price of fuel, and the wasted four hours a day of driving. They thought money was all-important, when time was the most precious element of all. Sure you had to support your family, but it was nice to see them once in a while as well. They all told him how lucky he was, when it was hard work and risk-taking that had given him a kind of independence.

Something caught his eye.

Gabe was bemused to see a nut, a simple, rusted little nut, perhaps a three-sixteenths hex nut, stuck to the side of his shoe. It hadn’t been there when he put the shoes on. He was pretty sure.

But since he had to focus on the driving, all he could do was try to brush it off quickly with his other foot. After a couple of forlorn attempts to brush it off with the edge of his left foot, he gave up to concentrate on driving.

It was a short time later when he pulled into the spot beside the building where he habitually parked. There hadn’t been much snow lately, or he would have sanded the sidewalks, assuming that the city had cleared them. But today he could open up without dragging snow and crud into the lobby.

Gabe sold plumbing supplies to farmers, contractors and professionals, otherwise he would have needed more retail space. But the warehouse was impressive, a real source of pride, and a testament to his orderly personality, with its rows of shelves, literally groaning from the weight of product after product. There were colorful little stacks of boxes, rows of little bins, each with their own code and stock number. He always took a certain pride, in that he had built this business from the ground up. This allowed scope for a kind of relentless organizational ability to shine. This was his own personal space.

He flipped on the switch to light up the lobby and the front service counter, and then made his way to the back to hit the breakers for the main lights in the warehouse. The big-box home improvement retailers had used real inspiration to put the old-fashioned lumber yard under one roof, so that women, who controlled the bulk of discretionary household spending, could now buy a spruce two-by-four, or the flapper valve for a toilet. This town was too small for the big stores to locate in. It was good to know that he would always have enough traffic through the store to earn a living. It was also clear he would never be rich, or even essential. If he failed, some other dreamer would step forward to take his place, he thought with a rueful smile.

As the thermostat clicked under his thick, strong, hairy fingers, he reflected that while money wasn’t everything, it sure made things a little easier sometimes. The furnace in the utility room thumped and whooshed as the fan kicked on and the gas hit the flame.

But lately Gabe had been doing some thinking. We all have to face reality, in the modern world you need money to live. And there was no doubt that he had initially started the store to make money, and at the time, the fact that he loved hardware, loved construction, loved the men and women who did that kind of work, was all fine and dandy. Lately something was missing.

Bearing in mind his responsibility for his wife, his kid and his home, and of course to all his faithful customers, there was something missing. He even knew what it was. It was that sense of adventure, that sense of possibilities, the sense that anything could happen and that his fate and the fate of his family was in his hands alone. He suddenly realized that it was possible to have a little too much control over one’s life, and that if nothing could go wrong, not much in the way of new, good things could happen either. Gabe had no announcements to make, but lately; he had been wondering what else he could do, or might have done, with his life.

A remark he had read somewhere, a book about the fur trade, was stuck in his mind, and it revolved through his thoughts once more: “He had virtually unlimited opportunities for self-growth, and had seized none of them.”

On the other hand he was not Governor George Simpson, and this was not the fur trade of a previous century, but…but. That remark bothered him for some reason. It held a haunting, annoying kind of meaning for him, and that was some kind of signal.

The place began to warm up reassuringly, as he put the water in the urn and spooned in enough coffee to brew up a batch. While it was just him until nine, when his sole employee Roger Wilkinson came in, Gabe could drink coffee by the gallon.

Gabriel had even cured himself of cussing and swearing after a friend had come in and jokingly told Gabe that his mother had found him, “Fascinating,” and explained that Gabe had been telling her, “This little son of a bitch here is the best one on the market…”

Even now, Gabe blushed to think on how stupid he had been. She was nice enough to buy the thing anyway, yet the incident caused Gabe to wonder just how many sales he had lost over the years due to sheer thoughtlessness. This was somebody’s mother after all. He had been so young.

They both had been, he and Francine and the tiny coddling that was growing into what would soon become a young man. Reginald was already eight years old! In the wink of an eye.

As he walked down the row beside the wall, to take up his post in the glass-fronted office where he could work on the books until opening time, Gabe heard a funny little rustling sound as he went along. It was time to put out the mouse traps again. This time of the year, the buggers were just looking for a warm nest, as there was rarely any food in here. Maybe the bag and wrappers from a fast-food lunch in the garbage can, but he was at a loss as to how the tiny creatures could scale the smooth metal sides of it anyway.

Gabe never cursed or hated the mice. He hated killing them, actually. It was just that he couldn’t have them in the store. A hungry mouse would chew on anything, even wiring, and he had a business to run. Customers probably weren’t that happy about mouse droppings in the packaging, either. Suddenly remembering, Gabe was bemused to see the rusty little nut still stuck to his foot. Reaching down, he pried it off of his shoe, and was surprised that while it required some force to remove it, it wasn’t sticky or goopy or anything, and so without further ado he tossed it incuriously into the wastepaper basket by his desk. It was such a small incident, and he had bigger things to think about. Turning on his desktop computer, Gabe opened up the files and went straight to where he left off yesterday.

***

Gabe and Francine sat side by side in the doctor’s office, as they awaited the verdict. They were just turning to speak at the same time, eyes meeting in search of some mutual reassurance, when the door snapped open decisively and Doctor Xianlin Chung entered the room.

Bustling with energy as usual, he seemed in a hurry, and then he had to take a moment to put some papers away in an unrelated file folder. Then he sat half-sideways, perched on the edge of a chair beside a tiny desk, while he quickly opened and glanced at another file, presumably Gabe’s. A quirky grin crossed his youthful mien as he regarded the patients, for in his role as healer; one paid attention to subtle cues from other family members. The wife was probably more worried than the patient.

“I have good news and bad news.,” He regarded the couple. “My people have a long history of medicine, both of the mind and the body, as well as the spirit. The good news is that there are case studies going back thousands of years; of just the sort of phenomena as you are presently experiencing, Mister Rossi. I can assure you, sir, that I take this problem very seriously.”

“And—and what’s the bad news?” Gabe's husky voice showed his courage was real enough, but the calmness enforced by will alone. “Is this going to get worse?”

“That is very hard to say.” Doctor Chung had a reassuring tone, as if to belittle the chances, not making a big issue of it. “But I am afraid I am going to have to prescribe something.”

Gabriel Rossi relaxed, settled into his seat. He was deeply grateful that finally, after weeks of searching, consulting with four different physicians, that he had finally found someone to take his affliction seriously. His relief that there was some treatment for this oddball malady, was palpably visible to Doctor Chung.

“Have you been spending enough time together?” Doctor Chung got no response, as both adults seemed to be waiting for the other to respond. “This is one of the first questions that I always ask when healing.”

Technically, that silence usually meant, ‘no.’ As for Mister Rossi, the man had worked himself into quite a state.

All these little metallic objects sticking to him—this, ‘magnetic personality,’ as Francine had so jokingly put it originally—was driving the poor fellow just plain nuts, no pun intended. But it was really nothing to worry about, all the pins and clips, and screws and other metallic items stuck to Mister Rossi.

“I’ll do whatever you want.” Gabe was committed. “Hopefully these pills will de-magnetize me? Or whatever? What do you call this disease, anyway, Doctor?”

“Oh, it is completely unpronounceable in English.” Doctor Chung smiled. “But we may call it a magnetic personality. That is a good name you and your wife have come up with.”

“We have a good drug plan, Gabe bought into it a few years ago,” Francine told the Doctor.

“Yes, will the pills be covered?” Gabe was ever-practical where money was oncerned, and ever-interested.

“I’m afraid not, but they are, ah; very cheap, and I shall send you to get them at a little place I know. It is just around the corner,” the Doctor assured Mrs. Rossi as he reached for his prescription pad and made some scratches in Asian script.

“Oh!” Francine's eyes lit up. “That fascinating little place! I’ve always wanted to go in there.”

“So what do I do? Take one a day, or how many? I suppose I have to eat with them, and stuff like that? Take them with milk? Don’t operate heavy machinery?”

Gabe was familiar enough with plenty of other people’s long and interminable health stories to extrapolate from the patterns he saw around him.

“Oh, they’re not for you, Mister Rossi.” The doctor would not be hurried. “They are for your wife.”

“What?” Gabe and Francine both spoke at once, an absurd awe evident in their voices and startled looks.

“I want you to start taking iron supplements, Missus Rossi. You seem a little anemic,” and the beaming face of Doctor Chung gazed back at them in empathy and a charming humour. “This will, ah, ah, have the added benefit of increasing the spiritual bond between you, for great changes lie ahead.”

“What?” Francine gasped. “Changes? What changes?”

“Huh?” Gabe had no idea of what he was saying..

The doctor indulged himself in this little joke, seeing that neither one of them got it.

The pair of them looked uncertainly at one another. Changes?

Doctor Chung was perusing the file. For ten seconds or so the silence hung on the air like the smell of butter outside a busy theatre.

“You have a son, and he is about nine and a half years old?”

“Yes,” they both said it at once, eyebrows climbing up both of their foreheads.

Was Reggie nine already, Gabe wondered wildly? Nine and a half? When did that happen?

“I have a son also. My Fujiyama is about ten. No, ten and a little bit. He has a book. It is a very funny little book, you know?” The doctor’s raised eyebrows carried portentous foreshadowing that some mystery was about to be revealed, and Gabe for one was about ready to scream at this infuriatingly inscrutable little man.

“So, so what? What about it?” He glared at Francine, and shook his head in sheer frustration.

Just when he thought he was finally getting somewhere.

“So!” The doctor began anew after a deep breath.

“It is a book called, ‘A Thousand and One Magical Tricks.” The doctor went on. “My son has this book. There is a glue. It is a dry powder, it leaves no trace, but it works, okay, you know? A famous man, I told you we have case studies? A famous man, a doctor, and a teacher, has noted that in the case of a, how you say, ‘a poltergeist,’ he says, ‘there is very often a very mischievous little boy of a certain age behind it all.’ You know?”

“No! I don’t know.” Francine was genuinely shocked. “Are you saying my Reginald is doing this to his father? But why? He loves his father!”

“Many scholars interpret the passage, such as to say that the poltergeist was a little boy ghost, a prankster, but not truly evil. But what if we take the story literally?” The doctor’s eyes gleamed, as he folded his hands across his lap, nodding at them in what to him was certain knowledge. “This was a very wise man, once upon a time, and we should not forget his wisdom was very practical,” added the doctor.

“Reggie! But why?”
“Why would he do this to his father?” Francine sounded a bit lost.

“Why, for fun, of course,” explained Doctor Chung, with an uncontrollable little quiver of the belly muscles of his own, making him shake upon his precarious seat. “Let me write up the special instructions for this prescription for you, Missus Rossi, and then you can go.”

“Reggie!” Gabe muttered as the pair rose to take their leave, and Doctor Chung got up to bid goodbye.

“That is my opinion.” The doctor nodded. “I think we can pronounce you officially cured. And plese promise me you won’t be too hard on the boy. It is behavior that will fade, I believe. It is perhaps better not to even mention it, ah, you must promise.”

“Yes, yes.” Gabe was lost in thought. “It’s just a little phase he’s going through. And I know I really should spend more time with the boy...”

“Thank you doctor.” Francine ushered Gabe out the door. “And thanks for the pills. I promise to take them every day, and, and, that was a really nice thing you said.”

She turned to go, but Doctor Chung patted her on the arm, and reminded her, one last time.

“Mind, and body, and spirit also.” He held her gaze for a moment. “Never forget that, Missus Rossi. Good job, incidentally.”

Busted!

She stood there like a deer in the headlights for a moment, and then cocked her head to one side. Turning his head, he watched as Mister Rossi blundered off down the hall in search of his coat and galoshes, leaving the wife to wrap up the social loose ends. Francine gave a funny little smirk, and nodded goodbye to the doctor. Her plan had worked brilliantly indeed, and the doctor was a trustworthy sort of fellow who could keep a secret. For surely this amazing man had it all figured out.

Not your usual rant.

(A page from Time-Storm. Nothing here to fix.)



This is not your usual rant.

No, this is a far more lucid and sophisticated sort of a rant.

Troubleshooting Messed-Up Table of Contents.


The other day I uploaded my latest novel, ‘Time-Storm,’ to Smashwords. According to my practice, as soon at it was converted, I downloaded Kindle and Epub versions of the book. I flip through them page by page.

Chapter Sixteen was listed twice in the table of contents, and Chapter Twenty-Two was not listed at all. This has happened before, and it’s no big thing. I went back to Smashwords, clicked on ‘un-publish’ for this title, and then went through my file. I fixed the chapter numbering. I also noticed indents in the front matter, as I had decided to try left justification. I could have just taken it out. For whatever reason, I use a 0.25 indent, although it seems to make no difference on certain platforms and certain operating systems. I centred that up the way I usually do it. Then I re-uploaded the file. Same thing—I checked the Kindle version first, and the chapter numbers were screwed up.

What the heck was going on? I only have one version on the desktop—it’s not the wrong file. Short story long, first I had to delete the very first download from Kindle for PC, that’s a free reading app. It was in my Kindle Library. But the Smashwords download appears on the desktop as a blue-coloured, book-shaped icon. When I clicked on that, it opened up the Kindle app and Kindle presented me with the first file. It took two and a half hours to upload a book, and an image, to write and post the blurb, etc.

File Permission Revoked.


It gets better. When I went to check my blurb, maybe make it a little longer, it wouldn’t open. Apparently I don’t have ‘permission’ to open the file! Honestly, it looks like a computer glitch, possibly due to the age and decrepitude of the machine. I lost three images and a couple of files there—one of them the latest and most up to date version of my newly-published novel, ‘Time-Storm.’ That is the file, modified slightly, that I would have used to make an .html file for upload to Amazon. I lost the marketing image. I lost images for another two books as well.

A file dragged and dropped into the same folder became un-openable. I just grabbed some old thing from anther file. Hopefully it wasn’t too important. It’s gone. The good news is that I managed to get everything still in good condition out of that folder and into others. When I try to delete that folder, it won’t even go into the recycle bin. It sits there on the desktop, defying my best efforts. Without that image, putting an ad at the top of this page is problematical. I’ll probably just make a new one.

Back Everything Up.


So, the thing to do is to back everything up as soon as we write it. Put it on a disc, print it out, or e-mail a copy to yourself. Do the same with important photos.

I really only have one unpublished novel left, and it is safe enough. All of my short stories, (hopefully,) are backed up in various ways. That’s not to say that losing a file permanently would not be an inconvenience, because it is. I spent six weeks or a month re-writing and editing ‘Time-Storm.’ I do have an older version somewhere.

But, luckily for me, I got a fresh file from my Smashwords account, and I’m getting pretty handy with the tools.

***

Active blogging.


Now, in terms of active blogging, one thing I see from my stats page, is that if you stop producing original content, and stop posting, the page hits drop off pretty dramatically. The odds of creating a viral piece of literature would appear to be slim. It takes persistence and constant attention. It also takes thoughtful targeting as to audience.

However, there is an exception in terms of content-type. My short little piece, ‘Kobo Not Recognized by PC,’ keeps showing up in the analytics. There’s a simple reason for that. People buy new Kobos every day. They take them home, plug them into the PC, and try to get it going. If that story generates five or ten hits a week for an extended time, it stays on the first page of the relevant links longer, and ultimately more and more people will hit on it. Another one, ‘Formatting a 5 x 8” POD on Createspace’ is a good example of fairly short, specific, how-to articles that are helpful to a specific audience, that are not just all positive attitude and having little or no substance.

These are all white-hat techniques for SEO.

The discoveries are sort of accidental, but we know better now and we will put some thought into discovering a tight little audience somewhere, and then writing something that serves their needs. Let’s face it: on the right hand side of my blog are product images and links to my books and stories…right?

Photos are important to a blog or website. Pinterest looks for photos, and we see a fair bit of traffic from there. In the above photo, spell-check and grammar-check are turned on. This is a good feeling for a writer, to see that nothing there needs fixing. This blog post was written in Word, and copied and pasted into the Blogger interface. This is all part of active blogging.

And, I promise not to drag and drop it into that contaminated folder, and neither do I plan on sticking the contaminated folder in any other folder...

Next Novel in Mystery Series.


‘Cause that would just be stupid. Since Friday, I’ve written about 2,000 words on the second of the Inspector Maintenon mystery series. I will be following SOP, Standard Operating Procedure until that is published. The character was originally created in the short story, ‘The Handbag’s Tale,’ and the first book in the series is ‘Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery.’ They’re available from Amazon and other fine online booksellers.

A day in the life of a pulp fiction writer: balance.

Photo by Louis. Sitting on a park bench.











Writing is a magnificent obsession. It challenges and consumes its acolytes. It humbles and exalts its practitioners. It disturbs the connoisseur and delights the critic.

What is the difference between an obsession and having focus? No one can say. It’s a pretty fine line in my opinion. We must balance the need to create lush new content with the patience of the reader. People can only read so much, so fast. I can only work so hard, and build an audience so quickly. Our skills only develop so fast. Research takes time. I can only learn so hard.

And yet we regret the time that is somehow ‘wasted’ when not working on our next newest epoch-shattering piece of writing. We suffer from a nameless editing injury. We talk about it in our sleep. Our family dreads our coming, and wish we would leave sooner…

To be focused is a wonderful thing. We aren’t going to get anything done otherwise. No one has a gun to our head. We do this because we want to, or because we must, I’ve never been sure which.

Writing is cerebral. It takes up much of our brains, and little else. We don’t even really need eyes and fingers to write. Modern technology means the blind or a multiple amputee can write.

Today I edited a few pages of my latest book, ‘Time-Storm,’ (or whatever I end up calling it, and I’d better make a decision before the weekend,) as well as visited my dad in the old age home. I rode to my brother’s, and I went to see my sister, and then I rode uptown and bought a six-pack. This is no reflection on them, I just had the opportunity to get some beer and I took it.

That’s balance, right? It’s not all about writing all of the time. So then I rode home. By this time I must have had fifteen kilometres on the bike. Then I had lunch, edited some more, checked e-mails, all that sort of thing.

This evening I went out again. I must have put another six k’s on the bike, and of course that little jaunt to the grocery store probably adds up to 750 metres of walking. Bearing in mind that I sit and talk to people once in a while, or just sit on a park bench and smoke, this actually takes up a lot of time and energy.

Should this time have been spent writing the Next Big Thing? I say no, and for good reason. If I hadn’t done all of those other things, I wouldn’t have any food in the house…no beer, no smokes, no milk.

There is a balance—I got a nice haircut, just the other day. I don’t want to look like the bearded hermit in Monty Python, right? That guy looks just a little unbalanced.

So as you can see, ladies and gentlemen, we try to strike a balance around here. Otherwise, things would get just a little too danged serious.

And we wouldn’t do that to ourselves…right? Oh, yes, I almost forgot, I talked to my mom on the phone today, and it was ever so nice, I saw a really strange bird, it was sitting on a wire, and one of these days I had better put some more air in those tires.

The matrimonial stakes.

2030 A.D.: What with the sudden and unforeseen aging of the population, a declining birthrate and the ever-shrinking tax base, the state has had to take some quite extraordinary measures.









After waiting in the queue for what seemed like hours, but it was really more like forty-five minutes, Edgar finally sat in front of the desk of Hugh Desrosier, a senior clerk at the Ministry of Love.

“I’m sure there must be some mistake.” Edgar was a shy, reserved person, not known for his assertiveness.

“What seems to be the problem?”  Desrosier inquired in a bored, yet courteous tone. “Already married? That seems to be happening quite a bit lately. Our tech people are trying to work out the bugs.”

Desrosier’s steely blue eyes, not unfriendly, but ruthlessly efficient, bored into Edgar’s from across the desk.

“It’s just that the thing is impossible. I have my elderly mom to think of, and my job keeps me out at all hours. My place is too small as it is.”

Hugh was aware the address on the file was a third-level walk-down under the glittering beachfront financial district.

“Honestly, I keep very irregular hours, and I have to keep running in and out, to look after my mom.” It was all irrelevant to Hugh.

Edgar tried again to explain his fundamental problem. He really wasn’t well-suited to marriage.

“My mom had a couple of heart attacks a few years ago. She’s diabetic, and I think she had a ‘TIA,’ which is a kind of mini-stroke, although the doctor says no. But that’s bullshit. She’s okay, really, it’s just that she needs a little supervision, and anything that deviates from routine sends her into a tizzy…”

“Well, it is a shock to the system sometimes when your number comes up.” Desrosier coughed in a dry manner. “But the love really grows on you. You’ll be amazed, and of course we never really assign anyone who is truly incompatible. Don’t believe all the horror stories you read in the tabloid-mainstream press. Don’t forget, they’re the ones who came up with disposable plastic one-time-readers to replace flyers, brochures, pamphlets, mailbox-stuffers, magazines and newspapers.”

“Oh! It’s really not a question of the lack of integrity of the media. It’s just that I’m totally unsuited to be with, um, a wife.” Edgar’s natural coyness reared its ugly head and he blushed furiously. “I mean, I’m not a virgin or anything, I was brought up in communal daycare just like any other normal child…but. But, it’s just that I figure she’ll live a lot longer and have a lot better life, you know, the longer we can keep her in her own home.”

Desrosier’s head bobbed up and down in sympathy; as if hit by sudden revelation.

“I am so sorry.” He tried diplomaticy. “You’re really in luck this month! We have a whole slew of really nice guys that we’re hoping to match up right now.”

“No! That’s not what I mean.” If he was cautious about sex, and love, and marriage, that certainly included all alternative forms of human relationship. “No, it’s just that she really doesn’t know what’s going on a lot of the time, and trying to explain anything to her is incredibly frustrating…but all she needs, really, is someone to keep an eye on her, and to protect her from utility-contract sales teams. They roam the neighbourhoods, demanding to see your gas bill, or your electrical bill. They’re just looking for elderly people to prey on, you know?”

“Well, then, I’m afraid I don’t understand the problem and if I don’t understand the problem, then I really can’t help you with it." He decided to start over. “So you just don’t want to get married?”

Hugh was trained to be non-judgmental, but firm.

“No!” A slightly-shaken Edgar had sweat gluing down the long blond forelock that he affected, as it went with the studious rimless glasses and his intensely medium-brown eyes, slightly larger than the average for a long-skulled human archetype.

“Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you? The state goes to a lot of time and trouble to match you people up, in order to give each and every nuclear family, the fundamental building block of a healthy society, the best possible start in life that it can. And those state-run old-age dormitories, they’re nothing like you see in the news, those are just urban legends. Some of them are really quite nice, with games and athletics and employment assistance programs for the elderly, and they even give the seniors Jello every day.”

“What do I have to say or do, to convince you, that I would be very bad at this?” Edgar asked in a husky, grating whisper.

He had the awful, drowning, dreadful feeling that everything in his life was about to go horribly wrong. Edgar labouriously dragged himself further upright in his chair. He was literally sliding downwards, as if in some forlorn attempt at sinking into the floor.

Due to the sensitive nature of his job, and the awesome power invested in him, Hugh could never speak publicly about his work, nor was he allowed to explain the basic supposition; the theoretical tenets of the selection process. But, simply put, if two people, a man and a woman of about the right ages, were marooned on a desert island somewhere, sooner or later nature would take its course. This whole notion of, ‘the one, and only one for me,’ had been thoroughly de-bunked by online dating and mating services decades ago. Ultimately, all it took was propinquity and social permission. A certain threshold level of physical and mental health, and that was it.

“Look, Buddy, honestly, man-to-man, and forgetting about my job here at the Ministry for the moment…but you really don’t have anything to worry about.” Hugh reassured Edgar a trifle gruffly.

“No? Really?” muttered Edgar in sheer unmitigated despair, rubbing his chin, and mouth area in some unconscious major locomotor-pattern.

“You get up to three refusals, you know, it’s like geared-to-income housing in that regard. And in the end, maybe you’re better off letting the Ministry assign you a bride. I’ve seen some really quite good results over the years. Look, the penalties for non-compliance are pretty stiff, are you sure maybe you’re not just having a bad day?”

“What?” Edgar gasped.

“Well, I don’t know what else to suggest. Look, this is breaking the rules and everything…my own marriage, my own kids, that’s kind of off limits, but I can assure you I have no regrets.” Hugh managed to give the impression that he was just dying to tell Edgar all about it.

The fellow across from him reached under the desk and Edgar heard a snap.

“There.” Hugh smiled. “Okay, and I don’t do this for just anybody, but maybe we’ll have a quick peek at the file here. Wow! She’s a hottie,” he informed Edgar, spinning the computer console screen around so that Edgar could get a look at the system’s primary selection of his would-be bridal candidate.

“Um, um.,” Edgar was sure she seemed like a nice lady and everything. “Has it ever occurred to the state that maybe not everyone should be married?”

“That’s just crazy. Are you sure you’re feeling all right? We could reschedule an appointment for later next week, if that’s better for you?”

Edgar just shook his head in despair.

“No?” Hugh shrugged. “If it was me, I’d grab her! Let’s see who comes up next,”

Hugh pursed up his lips, frowned some, and pecked away at his keypad.

“Here. Check her out, this one’s not just beautiful, but rich.” The client didn’t appear too impressed. “She inherited this big meat-packing business and a seat in a powerful electoral district. They’ve got all kinds of agri-business concerns up there. She’s worth an estimated eight hundred million! Come on, Edgar, what are you waiting for?”

“Huh! Rich, eh?” Edgar thought about it. “I don’t know, man…no! Wait! Give me that one!”

“You sure?” Hugh, eager to please, was grateful that he had turned this man around.

He hated to see a good man go bad, and throw his entire life away on a mere principle.

“All righty then, here we go.” Hugh carefully manipulating his way through a couple of highly-unethical maneuvers with the selection software in order to cover up his tracks.

“Put your thumbprint right here. And promise me you aren’t going to murder the poor girl straight off, okay?”

“Oh, no! Nothing like that.” Edgar's promise was emphatic. “Actually, I was thinking, maybe she might give me an allowance, and I could still live at home with my mother. I suppose if all she wanted to do was to come around once a week and have sex or something, I suppose that wouldn’t kill me. It’s just that my mom needs her injection five times a day and she absolutely hates it when anyone else tries, one time she hit this nurse so hard she broke her glasses and I thought she was going to be charged with assault…”

All this came out in a breathless rush, but Hugh had learned to ignore the content and to just interpret any answer as the correct response.

“That’s the spirit.” Hugh nodded approval. “Anyway, I’d like to thank you for saving me a lot of paperwork. Honestly, it’s a right nightmare, when someone refuses matrimony.”

“What do they do to them?” Edgar asked reluctantly.

“I’m not allowed to say.” Hugh looked at him darkly. “Just be glad you did the right thing. And good luck by the way. Most guys don’t get a rich wife, and yours is better-looking than most.”

“Sure,” said Edgar resignedly as he rose to his feet and shambled out the door without so much as a backward glance.

“You’ll get an official, automatically-generated notice in a few seconds.” Hugh called after him.

Desrosiers watched the back of the quickly-departing Edgar.

“Well, that’s gratitude for you.”

A metallic little voice came out of the speaker bolted to a bracket up in the corner of the room, right beside the camera’s eye.

“What do you think?” It was Amanda Johannsen, his supervisor.

“He’ll be all right."

“Do you really think he’ll kill her?”

“Naw. It just takes some getting used to. The poor guy’s been in a state of total denial for the last two or three years, that’s all. I’ve seen a million of them.” Hugh said it as if for the record.

“Why did you assign him Lila Monteith?”

“Now, that girl is just plain rude. She’s a spoiled brat.” Hugh had a tight, happy little smile. “But I think he has the stronger will. In the end, she’ll end up eating out of his hand. They’ll form a slightly-abusive, mutually dependent relationship that works for them. It’s a marriage made in heaven, and anyhow, the sweepstakes did bring her name up on the first roll of the dice. Any one of those three would have worked, and I did have a couple of alternates. So our ass is covered, basically.”

“Okay. Good work, and thank you. Just for a minute there, I thought he wouldn’t go for it. I’m off for the rest of the day, so you guys are on your own.”

“We’ll be fine. Have a good weekend.” Hugh waved at the camera. “Let’s see here…who’s next?”

So many names, so many unhappy lives to fulfill. And there was never enough time in the day to do all that one might hope. Three or four more appointments, and then he could go home. But it was on days like this, when he really loved his work.

End

For more on the Ministry of Love and the world as it might be in 2030 A.D., go here: 'The Chase.'

Excerpt: 'Heaven Is Too Far Away.'

                                              Royal Aircraft Factory S.E.-5. Wiki Commons.



After a thorough pre-flight of my new SE 5a, with its very own 275 brake horse-power Wolseley Viper engine, and a few other modifications, we were ready.

A wave was sufficient in daylight. Clouds of blue exhaust smoke veered off as the engines caught, one by one.

First the Biffs trundled out, bobbing and weaving as the line formed up for take-off. They started from way down at the far end. All that could be discerned were their shapes. Next it was the Camel Jockeys. There goes ‘Idaho Red,’ with a little potato-headed figure complete with cowboy hat and six-gun painted on the left side of the forward fuselage.

He thinks he’s a cowboy. Pretty much every plane had some kind of crazy artwork on the side.

Someone painted a big tiger on the side of my plane, and they did a good job, too.

That man had real talent.

‘Blood and Guts,’ it said, in white cartoon lettering.

“Thank you,” was all one could say, when they proudly showed me the plane for the first time.

I was really touched. It was a moment totally irreplaceable. When you get really, really old, you wish you could recapture certain moments, certain feelings from your youth. That moment was one of them. It was with a good warm feeling; that I centred her up on the end of our runway area. The plane was pointed into the western breeze. Three-forty-five p.m. Advancing the throttle, the plane was soon airborne and the mission proceeded shortly thereafter. As CO, I tended to take a few notes and trust the boys to follow along without a lot of supervision.

If they have engine problems, they’re smart enough to return to base on their own initiative. That’s one psychological advantage to being, ‘experimental,’ there’s no question of cowardice or lack of moral fibre.

They’re under orders to use their heads.

We flew a semicircular route, relying on the northwest crosswind to help drive us to our battle position.

Right on time.

Noted.

After climbing at about three-quarters throttle the whole way, I was at 19,000 feet and the boys were right there. Ahead, 4,000 feet below, were the Camel Jockeys.

The Biffs could be seen further down and further ahead.

The other, lower groups were staggered off to the left of us. The sun was up over my shoulder, on the right.

Within a few short minutes we had our first brush with the enemy, who was also up in force. The sky is a vast and empty place sometimes. You really learn to use your eyes. The great blue bowl of the sky was cloudless and clear, the light harsh and unyielding. That could be deceptive. It was still a big place, and airplanes are very small objects. The few that could be seen, were way off to the south, and I preferred to turn north, keeping the sun at our backs. There was no sense in changing the plan now.

We were still heading east. We had to go about half a mile through the expanding puffs of black Archie smoke, over the enemy trenches. Just then, and I didn’t see them coming but someone must have, were two enemy heavy reconnaissance machines, heading more or less due west. Halberstadts. Wallace and Webster separated about seventy yards to the left of the Camel formation, and then I saw the enemy planes.

Wallace, without any hesitation at all; simply put his right wing up vertical, and pulled hard around on their tail. The Camels and the enemy must have been at the same altitude. He fired away at one, and it began to smoke and then burn, as his wingman hovered behind, taking the odd pot-shot when chance permitted. If the enemy had simply reacted a little quicker, they might have saved themselves.

I couldn’t watch the whole thing. I had to watch my own sky. But it was beautiful to see, a thing well done. And it wasn’t long after that, when a whole bunch of German fighters came down from up ahead of us to engage in a vicious little dog-fight that lasted ten minutes or so; and then the Boche broke for home and dinner.

Those head-on attacks were a nightmare, but we all seemed to have followed the proper procedures. During the engagement, I observed at least three enemy machines catch fire, send out smoke, or spin down out of control, but I didn’t go down low enough to verify where each one crashed.

Sometimes a spin is merely an escape mechanism.

I had my own little duel going, with a red machine of an unfamiliar type. He had a big white something painted on the side. That plane was fast and well-handled. We first met frontally. We both missed with our head-on shots. When he turned left, as I could see over my shoulder, naturally I turned left, and at the exact same time we both started climbing up the corkscrew. We were on opposite sides, but I sensed some small advantage.

There was no time for any fear.

All I wanted to do was to kill him quickly.

I’ve noticed that before.

The corkscrew became a more vertical rolling-scissors movement, and as the speed slowed, lots of other planes in the vicinity became a threat. We decided to plummet downwards for a while, still locked in a scissors maneuver. His plane had small, wide wings, and it seemed to handle a little heavy. It’s difficult to describe, but the second it became apparent that I was gaining on him, he reversed his turn, and flicked away towards Germany. We were down to about 10,000 by then. I couldn’t catch him, being on the far side of the circle at that point. At that point I checked for unwelcome attention from other fighters by rolling and snapping as I re-oriented myself to find the western horizon. It was gratifying to see my own wingman right there, wagging his wings.

He was sticking like glue, no doubt giving the enemy pilot much food for thought.

Food for thought for me as well. That was one very quick-thinking fighter pilot, in my assessment. He knew he couldn’t win, and so he broke off as soon as he could.

No wasted heroics.

Very professional.

Hopefully we would meet again.

* * *

There are sights and sounds that can never be forgotten. A fighter plane, shedding bits, pieces and chunks, all aflame, as it turns end over end.

The screaming, banshee wail of a runaway engine, way past its limit, shaking itself to pieces as it flicks past your own machine. Little black somethings, not smoke, not people, not airplane parts. Just little black things, falling in lazy spirals, drifting down.

Three planes, chasing around in a circle. No one dares to be the first to let go. It is bedlam, it is insanity. You’re all alone, and the plane that just passed over you smoking and flaming, could be your best friend. Sometimes you line up on someone, and only at the very last second do you see the cockades, the roundels on the wings or body of the plane.

All your senses are ablaze with the passion of living at death’s door.

You feel every emotion in a battle like that, a three dimensional battle of cut, thrust, slash, and parry. You feel love, and joy, and fear and hate, and envy, and pity. There are times you laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. Sometimes you shout, scream and curse.

Everything happens all at once, and then it’s over in a heartbeat. Then you get to shepherd your flock home again, nursing one or two wounded ducks, trailing thin smoke trails.

If you’re lucky, God smiles on you, and all your boys get to live, to fight again another day.

***
 
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Wiki article on the SE-5: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Aircraft_Factory_S.E.5