Puente's Prose

Steve Jobs (College Speech)

2011-11-13T00:20:00.000-07:00

I wrote and delivered the following speech when I was a student at Weber State University sometime between 1998–2000. My public speaking instructor was Joel Passy. One glaring error in the essay that stands out to me now: Steve Jobs did not found Pixar. He bought it from George Lucas. :-) If there are any other errors that stand out to the reader, feel free to comment.–JLP
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Communications 3120
Commemorative Speech

Steve Jobs

The man I’m going to talk about today is known as much for his ego as he is known for his charisma. He is the founder of three companies that have indelibly left their mark on the world of computing and entertainment. The first was Apple Computer. The company which practically invented the Personal Computer as we know it today. The second company was NeXT, which was later acquired by Apple, and manufactured the machines used in the invention of the World Wide Web. The last company he founded was Pixar. The animation studio that brought us the films Toy Story and A Bug’s Life. The man is Steve Jobs.

But Steve Jobs is more than just a man with the salesmanship and capitol required to found multi-billion dollar companies. To many he is a cultural icon. His ability to motivate is legendary. He’s been known to look over the shoulder of a software engineer, see what he’s working on and declare, “That’s shit.” Was the engineer offended? Probably. But he was also inspired to do the job better the next time. How do we explain this. What is it about Steve Jobs that allows him to be offensive and inspirational at the same time? It’s been referred to by many an industry pundit and observer as the Jobsian Reality Distortion Field™. In short, it is his charisma. When he approached John Scully of Pepsico to come and be the CEO of Apple, Jobs put it to Scully like this:

“Listen, John. Do you want to sell sugar-water for the rest of your life or do you want change the world?” Scully served as Apple’s CEO for ten years.

Jobs has an incredible ability to take what some might call, the gravest of circumstances, and turn it into opportunity. The most recent example is his turnaround of the company he co-founded in the 1970s, Apple Computer. Having left Apple in 1985 to found NeXT and, later, Pixar, Jobs returned to the Apple fold when Apple acquired NeXT in late 1996. His new position at Apple was that of “Strategic Advisor.” Eight months later, Apple CEO Gil Amelio agreed to resign so that a new CEO, one who was more charismatic and with more marketing savvy, could take the reigns of the company and lead it back into profitability. Bottom line: CEO Amelio was out and Interim CEO Jobs was in.

Among the first items in the new Jobsian Agenda for Apple Computer, was getting a commitment from Microsoft, already the largest developer of software for the Macintosh platform, to continue developing Microsoft Office for the Mac for at least the next five years as well as investing $150 Million dollars in Apple in the form of non-voting stock. $150 Million dollars is a mere drop in the bucket to a company like Apple, which has about two billion dollars in cash, but it was worth a lot more in political capitol. Steve Jobs also announced a new ad campaign for the company he co-founded. The slogan: Think different.

The first ad that Apple released with the Think different message, showed black and white images on film and video of historical figures that, in Apple’s opinion, thought differently. People like Albert Einstein, Buckminster Fuller, Pablo Picaso, Mahatma Ghandi, Ted Turner, Richard Branson, Bob Dilan and others. It didn’t matter that there was no Apple Computer or Macintosh during the lifetimes of people like Einstein or Ghandi. Apple, which is to say, Steve Jobs, wanted to celebrate the ideas that they stood for. The fact that it was through their different ways of thinking that they had an impact on the world. And the hopeful thought that if there had been an Apple Computer or Macintosh, that it would have been their computer of choice because they stand for those same ideals.

As these images flickered across TV screens for the first time during the network television premiere of Toy Story from Disney and Jobs’ own company Pixar, Academy Award winning actor, Richard Dreyfus recited the following narrative:

"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules and they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them. Disagree with them. Glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones. We see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do."

Apple’s critics, and there are so many of them, and even some of Apple’s fans, thought that this was the beginning of the end. They thought that “Think different” was a joke. That a campaign with such touchy feely sentiment was totally wrong for selling computers.

What these critics didn’t realize, however, was how important it is for Macintosh users to be unique. Something that Steve Jobs, who helped make the Macintosh a reality in the early eighties, understood all too well. He knew that he was taking a big risk with this campaign. But consider the courage that it took. At a time when the whole computer industry and the business community in general is crying out for Apple to conform, to be like everybody else, to sell computers in the same fashion as Compaq, Hewlett Packard or even Microsoft, Apple, under Steve Jobs’ leadership, effectively stood up and said, “No!

“We will not conform. Our strength is in that which sets us apart from everyone else. We take pride in being different from you. Thinking differently is what made us successful in the past and it will make us successful in the future.”

After having been written off by many of those pundits and critics, let’s fast forward about a year and a half later. Apple computer is getting ready to report its sixth consecutive profitable quarter. The number one selling computer for the last quarter of 1998 was Apple’s iMac. The brainchild of Apple’s iCEO, Steve Jobs. The news outlets, when reporting on Apple Computer no longer refers to it as a “Struggling computer maker,” but as a “Resurgent,” or “successful computer maker.”

And what did Steve Jobs get in return for this turnaround of the company that has always been his first passion? Bill Gates, who is worth close to $100 Billion dollars, receives of salary of almost a quarter of a million dollars a year for his role as CEO of Microsoft. A billionaire in his own right, with stock in Apple and as the single largest shareholder in Pixar, Steve Jobs, in 1998, for his services as Interim CEO of Apple Computer, received a whopping one...Dollar. Talk about thinking differently.

Vision: A True Experience

1999-03-26T09:23:00.003-07:00

We had spent the day together, my friend Audri and I, talking and listening to music in her room. We really enjoyed ourselves and got to share a lot of special and important things. Our day together was coming to a close. She had plans for that evening and I was off a mid watch. In the last few minutes that we spoke, Audri told me that she was taking her friend, John, to visit her family in Lewiston, Maine. My immediate reaction: I wished that it was me. That wish came true several months later but on that day I left Audri’s room and went back to my own still wishing that I could have been the one she took to meet her family.

I walked into my room and started to imagine what it would be like to meet them. I had seen pictures of Audri with her mom, brother and sister before. I already had an image of them in my mind. As I wandered through this little fantasy trip, I imagined meeting Audri’s sister Valerie and talking with her. I imagined myself walking outside and seeing Ross sitting at a table and reading, of all things, a Book of Mormon. Wishful thinking, as always, on my part. As these images marched across my mind, I stood silently in my room and became caught up in them. For a brief period, I felt as if I was in her mother’s house, meeting her family and sharing my thoughts with them.

My imaginary visit then crossed a threshold from idle fantasy to peculiar vision. I saw myself in her mother’s living room. I was looking at a wall covered with framed photographs. All of them, pictures of Audri’s family. I could see Audri, Ross, Valerie and their mother. I could see myself standing before this wall covered with pictures and I then saw Audri’s mother standing beside me. I looked at the photos and noticed a small black and white snapshot of a little girl. I motioned toward the photo and asked, “Who is this child?”

“That’s my daughter,” was the reply.

“Is it Audri or Valerie? I can’t tell.”

“Neither,” she said. “That’s my other daughter. She died many years ago.”

I looked at the picture again then back to Audri’s mother and said, “You may yet have the opportunity to raise this child again.”

I immediately snapped out of this vision, though I would not have called it a vision at the time. I grew angry with myself for imagining such an episode. My knowledge of Audri’s family at the time was clear. There was Audri, Ross and Valerie. There was no other child. It was just them. Why would I imagine another sibling? And why would I imagine that she had died? Was my life so boring that even in my periodic musings I had to invent such dramatic situations? I scolded myself for being so morbid and tried to put the episode behind me.

My friendship with Audri had reached an impasse. One of many in the short time we had known each other. I wrote a letter apologizing to her for the things I had said or had done to upset her. I left the letter at her door on a Saturday. The next day I spent alone. I went for a walk in the woods near my home, imagining a portly little bear with a taste for honey as my companion and I read a book that Audri had recommended to me.

In the evening I was sitting in my room with my door open. Hoping that Audri would come in having read my letter and wanting to begin things anew in our friendship. Eventually she did.

She knocked on my door and I looked up to see her in a denim skirt and a green shirt that read “Pooh Bear” and had a picture of “the bear of very little brain” on it.

I invited her in and said, “I went for a walk today.”

“Oh really?” she said.

“Yes. I went for a walk with Pooh Bear in the Hundred Acre wood.” I then held up the book that I was reading. The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff.

She smiled at me and said, “I’ve got some pictures I’d like to show you.” We sat on the foot of my bed and she showed me pictures of her and her family. There were snapshots from her prom and pictures from her first wedding. There was a lovely picture of her brother and sister and one of her mother when she was very young.

Audri then turned to another picture. It was an old black and white snapshot. It was of a little girl. I asked, “Who is this?”

Audri said, “That’s my sister, Lori.”

With surprise I said to her, “You have two sisters?”

Audri was quiet and even seemed a little sad when she said to me, “I had two sisters. Lori died when she was four.”

My mouth dropped. I couldn’t say a single word. This was the first time Audri had told me about her sister Lori but I knew about her already. For I had seen her in a vision. I did not share this experience with Audri until several months later. I wanted to share it with her mother but was advised not to. I respected Audri’s wishes and kept the experience between the two of us.

Bill Gates: The Man Behind The Myth

1998-03-26T08:08:00.000-07:00

I wrote this research paper for my English 121 class through the New Hampshire College Off Campus Program.

"The feats I've done over my time meant nothing for I've stood on shoulders of giants."
-Sir Isaac Newton

When a verbal portrait of Bill Gates is painted, it's usually with words like: "Visionary" and "Innovator." Are they true? Visionary? Yes. It takes a man of vision to accomplish some of the things that Bill Gates has accomplished. But is he an innovator? No. Bill Gates' success has little if anything to do with his or even Microsoft's ability to write software. His success can more easily be attributed to good timing, marketing acumen and a little luck.

Bill Gates was born outside Seattle, Washington in 1955. The child of socially prominent parents, he was first introduced to computers at the prestigious Lakeside School in Seattle in the late 1960s (Gates, 1). His interest in computers and programming continued into his teens and his first years at Harvard. It was during this period, that the first micro-processors capable of controlling "microcomputers" were invented. In 1975, Gates and his friend, Paul Allen, dropped out of college to form a company committed to writing software for these microcomputers. They called it Microsoft (Gates, 17).

In the beginning, all Microsoft did was write versions of the BASIC programming language for all the new micro and personal computers that were becoming popular in the late 1970s. (Machines like the Altair, the Apple II and the TRS-80.) The most successful of these computer companies was Apple Computer, Inc. which dominated the personal computer market until the early 1980s. Apple lost a great deal of its business to IBM and dozens of other computer manufacturers making IBM compatible, or clone, computers. One of the key decisions that contributed to the success of the IBM PC was the decision to use "off the shelf" components in both hardware and software. When the original IBM PC was sold, it came with the Microsoft Disk Operating System (MS-DOS). But this choice raises some interesting questions.

When it came to big mainframe computers, IBM was the premiere company with over 80% of the mainframe market. Personal computers, however, were the things of electronics hobbyists. IBM saw the business potential of these new devices and felt that embracing an open standard was the quickest way to get a machine on the market with their logo. They approached Microsoft in 1980 to discuss writing an operating system for their machine and purchased the royalty-free right to use MS-DOS for a one time fee of $80,000. This was a shrewd move on the part of Bill Gates who would see MS-DOS quickly become an industry standard with the strength of IBM's reputation solidly behind it (Gates, 54). What most people seem to forget, however, is that Microsoft was still a very small company. It wasn't even incorporated until 1981, the same year that IBM introduced its personal computer. On top of that it was run by a 24-year-old college drop out. Why would a multi-billion dollar company like IBM approach the likes of Bill Gates, let alone bet its reputation on him coming through in time to deliver their PC? John Opel, a top executive at IBM at the time, served on the national board of United Way. This, in and of itself is not unusual, but there was one other member of the board that may have had some influence in IBM's decision to go with Bill Gates and Microsoft. (A woman by the name of Mrs. Mary Gates. Bill's mother.) It could be just a coincidence; it has been rumored in the industry that Mrs. Gates may have mentioned her son's venture to Opel. Though there's no smoking gun, one thing is for sure: Opel, who is now retired, won't talk about it (Wallace & Erickson, 189).

Another question that comes to mind is when exactly did Microsoft go from writing BASIC to writing operating systems? Well, they didn't. DOS was not originally a Microsoft product. They had actually bought an operating system from Seattle Computer Products called QDOS (Quick and Dirty Operating System), which was in turn an imitation of another operating system called C/PM. Microsoft also hired Seattle Computer Products' top programmer and, together, worked some programming magic and christened their new OS baby MS-DOS (Gates, 53). This was, undeniably, Microsoft's and Bill Gates' first big success.

The next major "breakthrough" for the company was an upgrade to DOS that looked like a revolution. The majority of computers sold today run Microsoft's Windows 95 operating system. As its name infers, it was introduced in 1995 with much hype, fanfare and blatant commercialism. People were lining up outside of software stores to buy this piece of software like rock and roll fans line up for concert tickets. A concert that over forty million other people already saw... twelve years earlier and conceived even earlier than that.

In 1973, Xerox's Palo Alto Research Center (Xerox PARC) developed what can truly be called the first computer with a Graphical User Interface (GUI) designed to be operated by a single user. This computer was called the Alto and used a system sometimes referred to as WIMP. An acronym for "Windows, Icons, Menus, Pointer." It was controlled with the ubiquitous computer keyboard and a strange looking device with three buttons called a mouse. Because of the high cost of development, Xerox never sold it. PARC was a kind of technological playground where anything goes even if it would cost too much to market. So, the Alto remained unnoticed by the outside world until 1979 when Steve Jobs and Bill Atkinson of Apple computer paid a visit and were inspired (Linzmayer, 60).

On January 19, 1983, Apple introduced the first commercially available computer with a graphical user interface. It was called the Lisa, having kept its company code name. Commercially, the Lisa was not very successful. It was overpriced and underpowered but the technology that it used set the stage for a major change in the way people worked with computers (Linzmayer, 69). And it was something that Bill Gates took notice of. Ten months later, he announced the development of a graphical user interface to be incorporated into DOS that was simply called "Windows" giving DOS users the same functionality of windows, icons, menus and a pointer controlled by a mouse. Two months later, the real revolution began when Apple introduced the Macintosh (Linzmayer, 264). (The first commercially successful computer with a graphical user interface.) Microsoft had worked closely with Apple in the Macintosh's development. The company wrote programs for the new platform, like Microsoft Word and Microsoft Excel, and remains the number one developer of Macintosh software. This investment in time and money was a calculated move by Gates. He wanted the Macintosh to succeed. The more successful the Macintosh became, the more accepting people would be of using a graphical interface on a personal computer (Gates, 59). A year later, Microsoft released Windows 1.0 (Linzmayer, 247).

The Macintosh was Apple's proverbial ace up its sleeve. It saw IBM PCs and clones eating up its market share and it had to have a product that could really compete. In an interview in the February 1984 issue of Fortune , Steve Jobs said, "We're not going to sell five million [Macs] a year by being IBM compatible. We're going to do it by making a second industry standard." In the November 26 issue of BusinessWeek that same year, Bill Gates stated that "the next generation of interesting software will be done on the Macintosh, not the IBM PC." From that point on, if software developers wanted to reach an absolute majority of computer users, they developed their software for both the Macintosh and the IBM Personal Computer.

Prior to the release of Windows, Gates felt he was in a bit of a bind. He didn't want to be sued by Apple for making Windows look too much like the Mac so he played hardball by threatening to halt development of the successful (and very lucrative) programs Microsoft Word and Microsoft Excel for the Macintosh if Apple sued. Gates and Apple's board knew that Microsoft wouldn't stop developing for the Mac. Microsoft was making a lot of money from Macintosh software, it always has, but Apple's CEO, at the time, John Sculley, was made of softer stuff and took Gates at his "word," hook, line and sinker even going so far as to sign an agreement virtually giving the Mac's interface to Microsoft in exchange for continued software development (which was never in fear of being lost to begin with.) (Linzmayer, 247).

It was after this fiasco that Gates really got cocky. Microsoft continued to develop Windows, now without fear of reprisal from Apple. Though Apple did try to sue Microsoft for copyright infringement, the courts dismissed Apple's case in part because of the 1985 Sculley agreement. Sculley would eventually leave Apple in 1993. Steve Jobs left the company in September of 1985 to start NeXT, Inc. In 1989 Jobs had complained about the similarity between Windows and the Macintosh. Bill Gates responded in the March 14 issue of MacWeek by saying, "Hey, Steve, just because you broke into Xerox's house and took the TV doesn't mean I can't go in later and take the stereo."

What's really ironic is that six years earlier, Apple succeeded in a lawsuit against Franklin Computer Corporation for copying Apple II technology to sell Apple II compatible systems. Bill Gates even wrote an opinion piece in The New York Times saying, "Imagine the disincentive to software development if after months of work another company could come along and copy your work and market it under its own name... Without legal restraints on such copying, companies like Apple could not afford to advance the state of the art."

Microsoft continued its development of Windows and in 1990 introduced version 3.0 of the operating system. It was far from being as easy to use as the Macintosh but it was given the blessed description of "good enough" by many business and home users to upgrade. Meanwhile, the Macintosh was maturing into a full 32-bit OS with System 7 and was still a graphical system from the ground up unlike DOS based Windows.

In 1995, Windows 4.0 was released. By this time, Microsoft had done away with version numbers. It would now name its products by the year in which they were introduced just like the automotive industry. With the release of Windows 95, through all the fanfare and the hype, there was still a voice in Apple computer. They bought multi-page ads in national magazines that said, in part: "Introducing Windows 95. It lets you use more than eight characters to name your files. It has a trash can you can open and take things out of again. It lets you drop files anywhere you want on the desktop. Imagine that." and on the following page: "In short, it makes a PC more like a Macintosh--you know, the Macintosh we built back in 1984." The ads went on to discuss numerous advantages that the Macintosh still had over Windows. But regardless of this and similar ads, Microsoft's operating system, which blatantly becomes more and more like a Macintosh with every release, secured Microsoft's place in the home and business market. (Leaving Apple to scramble to retain at least a respectable niche.)

In 1994, a little company called Mosaic Communications was formed. Their function: designing software for use on the internet. (Software for hosting web sites, networking businesses and, most importantly, selling a little program called "Navigator.") Navigator was a web browser, designed to let computer users easily "navigate" the complex and graphical world of the internet. The company soon changed its name to Netscape Communications and rose in popularity so quickly that it took Bill Gates completely by surprise.

Gates, at the time, felt that the internet was just too complicated for home users. He was certain that the future connectivity of personal computers would be through so called on-line services like America On-Line, Prodigy, CompuServe and the fledgling, albeit unoriginal, Microsoft Network. But he soon realized that in order for Microsoft to continue to succeed, he would have to bet the whole company on the internet, and he would start... with somebody else's idea.

Microsoft started by developing a web browser of their own called, "Internet Explorer." Like Netscape's Navigator, it was based on a program called Mosaic, which was written by Marc Andreeson. Andreeson went on to found Mosaic Communications and the rest, as they say, is history. The first versions of Internet Explorer didn't have all the bells and whistle's that Navigator had matured to, but it did fill two basic needs: It was functional and it didn't cost anything. In an attempt to make up for lost time in the development of a browser, Bill Gates decided that his customers would want a browser with fewer features, as long as they didn't have to pay for it.

Microsoft then got into a game of technological leapfrog with Netscape. (Each company racing to have the newest and best features in their browsers.) As Microsoft got closer and closer to full compatibility with Netscape's browser, it gained in market share. Unfortunately, the browser war between these two companies has resulted in a stalemate that only pains the end user. When each browser offers features the other lacks it creates an environment where open standards are no longer the rule. It was hoped that the internet would be a neutral zone where all platforms, Windows, Macintosh, Unix, etc., could freely communicate with each other. But Bill Gates' desire to control even the platform agnostic internet has resulted in stalled development of the language of the internet and herding of even more users to his already dominant operating system.

When we step back and take in the big picture, we see that the course Bill Gates and Microsoft has taken over the last two decades has largely been reactionary. Sure, Gates can throw around words like "innovation" and "state of the art" but rarely does that innovation actually come from Microsoft. Bill Gates has been very good at keeping his eyes open to new trends, jumping right on top of them and taking control. He did it with the personal computer, he did it with the graphical OS and, after almost missing the paradigm shift, he saw it in the internet. But, if I may paraphrase Ian Malcolm from Jurassic Park, "it didn't take any discipline on Microsoft's part to make these products. Gates read and saw what others were doing and he took the next step (sometimes backwards). They didn't earn the knowledge for themselves so they don't take any responsibility for what are often third rate products. They stood on the shoulders of geniuses to accomplish something as fast as they could and before they had products that were even worth buying, they packaged it, slapped it in a shrink wrapped cardboard box and sold it!"

There's nothing wrong with competition. Competition is healthy. It breeds innovation and offers customers a choice. Competition in the style of Richard Branson and the Virgin Group is an excellent example of profitable and healthy competition. Branson knows that he'll never beat British Airways with Virgin Air. He knows he'll never beat Coke or Pepsi with Virgin Cola or any other major product that he adds his own spin to. He does it in the pure spirit of competition. He does it to keep the big guys on their toes. But when the object of competition is to drive others out of business, even when it means delivering an inferior product by whatever means necessary, then that company has moved beyond competition and into the unfair and unethical realm of a monopoly.

Microsoft's actions over the last several years have caught the attention of the United States Department of Justice. Especially in its attempts in trying to control the Internet. It unfairly used its market position as the dominant OS vendor to force computer resellers to use its web browser, Internet Explorer, over Netscape's Navigator. Microsoft's defense for this action, "Internet Explorer is not a program. It's a feature of the Windows operating system." Meanwhile, everyone who is running Internet Explorer on a Macintosh or Unix based computer is asking, "How is Internet Explorer on my machine a feature of an operating system I don't even use?"

By calling Microsoft an "Innovative company," Bill Gates does a great disservice to the real creators that inspired him. On the subject of innovation, Microsoft is a company that holds a total of 417 patents. Is that a lot? In the high tech industry, no! Apple Computer holds over 800 patents. IBM holds the world record in patents numbering in the tens of thousands. When it comes to innovation, Microsoft is small potatoes and Bill Gates is really nothing more than a clever showman. He needs competition to keep giving him new ideas. He needs Netscape, he needs Apple and he needs that unknown programmer working in a garage coming up with the next big thing because Bill Gates isn't clever enough to come up with it himself.

Works Cited

Gates, Bill. The Road Ahead . Penguin Books USA, Inc., New York, NY

pp. 1, 17, 53, 54, 59

Linzmayer, Owen W. The Mac Bathroom Reader . SYBEX Inc., Alameda, CA

pp. 60, 69, 247, 264

Wallace, James and Erickson, Jim. Hard Drive : Bill Gates and the Making of
the Microsoft Empire . Harperbusiness, New York, NY,

pp. 189

To Serve the State

1998-03-24T14:11:00.011-07:00

This story, from beginning to end, is based on a dream I had in the last few months of my enlistment in the Navy. After I woke up from it and went to work for a mid-watch (7:00PM to 7:00AM). I said to my supervisor, Tony, that I needed to write something down and I'll probably be working on it for a few hours. He said, sure. I sat down at the computer on our operations floor and I started to write. After a few hours, I printed my story and handed it to Tony. He sat down and read it in silence. When he got to the end, he looked up at me and said, "That's f*****d up." Then I told him, "That's the dream I had last night." I was eager for my enlistment to end. After five years in the military and about a year and half of therapy, I knew that it just wasn't the right place for me to be--One of my few recurring nightmares is that I'm still in the service. I didn't want to become the person in that particular nightmare. I knew from the first day of basic training that I didn't fit in. It just took me a few years to realize that if I didn't get out, that environment would destroy the person that I really was. That being said... Enjoy the story. ;-)

We arrived in late march. It was early morning, about 0230. We filled out paperwork, were tested for narcotics and wrote short notes to our families, some of us saying goodbye for the last time. Once we became members of The State, we were no longer permitted contact with anyone from our civilian life. Those whose parents were already members of The State could count on maintaining contact at least through official channels. But for the rest of us, in the cold hours of this March morning, we were reborn, given new identities and a new family in the form of The State.

None of us were sure where we were. The vehicle we arrived in had no windows. It traveled a good two-hundred KPH and never hovered more than forty centimeters above the surface of the expressway. The ride was long and uneventful. As we traveled, we watched a video program discussing what we might endure in our training. We were told to expect hardship. Physical, mental and emotional. The training would be difficult and many of us would not complete it. There were more than fifty of us in our group. We would train with one-hundred-fifty to two-hundred more once we arrived. But the number that would complete the training would be far fewer.

When our vehicle stopped, we felt it hover for a few minutes then lower itself to the asphalt, the clang of metal on the tarmac riveted throughout the body of the transport. The interior lights went out. The video screens shut off and there was only silence. We were afraid. Our heartbeats deafened us as we waited in quiet agony for it all to begin. A door opened and a drill instructor entered the vehicle wearing the black uniform of The State. We were welcomed to the training facility with screaming and the thunder of weapons fire as we ran out of the transport and into a crude formation. We already endured intense physical examinations before arriving and met the strict physical requirements for serving The State. Thus, we were found able to endure physical punishment early on. One trainee attempted to smuggle in a portable media player. He hid the media player beneath his belt and the audio transceiver in his ear. It would have been unnoticeable, had he not attempted to adjust the device while in formation. He was pulled out of the formation and forced to the ground. His hand, still holding the device, was brought up behind his back until he released it. Then the transceiver was fished out of his ear and crushed underneath the boot of another drill instructor.

"Were you not told to leave all media behind, Trainee?" the instructor screamed at him.

"Yes, Sir," the trainee strained to say, his arm still twisted behind his back.

Two other trainees who turned to see what was happening were also brought out of formation and forced to the ground. I was near the rear of the formation and could see all that was happening. The rest of us quickly learned to ignore the disciplining of our comrades lest we be disciplined beside them.

We would see no bunk that first night. Though the air and asphalt were cold, the light of the moon revealed that we were in the middle of a desert. If anyone had thoughts of running away, the act only of a coward, we were assured that if The State didn't kill you in the attempt, the heat and the vastness of the desert would. We marched to what appeared to be an aircraft hanger to be issued our training uniforms and other essential materials and equipment. When we had all of our gear, it was time to move into our quarters. We got into formation outside of the hanger. It was morning. The sun was high in the east and the desert heat was starting to make itself known to us. Before going to our barracks, we stopped at the dining facility. We entered wearing our crisp new uniforms and looking... out of place. Though to our untrained eyes the other senior trainees looked like seasoned veterans, they were only keen to the routines of their respective levels in training. Many would still never see graduation. Training was a constant weeding out process. First, they weeded out the weak. Then they weeded out those who refused to conform. Finally, they weeded out those who probably would never survive. To graduate was more than an honor. It was more than a first step in your career. It was proof to yourself and to The State that you have what it takes to survive. It was a baptism by fire. A communion with death. A confirmation of life lived for the purposes of The State.

We dared not speak as we ate our first meal. We had only fifteen minutes to eat and then we were back in formation and marching to our barracks. Everything was always in a rush. We did little more than place our gear on our bunks before we were back in formation outside. An announcement was made throughout the training facility that all new trainees were to report to an indoctrination meeting. We marched across the facility, the sun beating down on our bodies clad in the gray uniforms of trainees. We arrived at a parade ground where over two-thousand new trainees stood in formation facing the senior staff of The State Initial Training Facility. We then played audience for the next two hours to a carefully choreographed parade singing praises to The State and its perseverance through the last century. Its survival in the face of opposition from outside and within. Its triumph over the tyrannical rule of more primitive nation-states in the world. Triumph in wars that were already won and wars that had yet to be fought. It ended with a procession of floats, if one could call them floats. Some were little more than large, primitive looking wagons. Each symbolizing the great nations and empires of the past that had since crumbled and were now eclipsed by the growing power and dominance of The State. From the ancient empires of Babylon and Rome to the fallen "Super Powers" of the Soviets and Americans. Their flags and symbols draped over floats in the procession as if they were the coffins of fallen heroes. In a way, they were. While The State was still relatively young compared to these empires and kingdoms at the peak of their power, it still had more control over the world than any three of them combined. And where there was control, there was peace. For that was the ultimate goal of The State: to bring peace to the world. Even if it meant the violent end to those who might oppose it.

Some of us could not stand through the entire program. Between a lack of sleep and the desert sun, it was simply too much for some to bear. They were removed and quickly out processed. The weeding had begun.

Our initial company of over two-hundred dwindled to one-hundred Twenty-eight in the first three weeks. A few lucky senior trainees were given a second chance by being reassigned to our company. Though they had some experience that we lacked, and offered us a few insights into what we could expect in the next couple of weeks, they were not given positions of great responsibility. In some cases, they had failed to keep up with the training of their original companies and were now given the privilege to continue their training with us. In other cases, their companies had been weakened in numbers so severely that they were dissolved and its members absorbed into new companies like ours. After absorbing these senior trainees, our company was back to its original strength.

Companies were organized into two platoons and each platoon was divided into four squadrons of between twelve and twenty-five trainees. I was Second Trainee in my squadron, so I was in a leadership position. It was my duty to motivate my trainees and supervise their learning as well as my own. In the classroom and in the field, my First and I would attend special training that we would in turn give to our subordinates. If we failed to do our jobs well, we could be replaced. Decisions of this nature were usually made by a drill instructor. In a few instances, the decision could be made by the First of a platoon.

Those of us that made it through the first half of training were now going to be transferred to a State Intermediate Training Facility. This intermediate phase of our training would be conducted in near combat conditions. Those of us who made it through would then be given the opportunity to have their place in The State secured. We would then go on to more specialized training on land, in the sea or in the air. But the first order in the next two phases was survival.

We marched to the airfield where we were greeted by two giant tilt-rotor aircraft. Each could carry a platoon of over one-hundred trainees. Here, we left behind our drill instructors. They had seen us through the first part of our training. In the coming weeks, we would look back on their heavy-handed philosophy and stern, sometimes abusive, treatment with nostalgia and even longing. The hard part of training hadn't even begun. It wasn't until we were inside and secured to our seats that we felt an eery familiarity to our situation. Once again, there were no windows in our transport. We would not know where we were going until we got there and even then, there were no guarantees. Despite having trained at the Initial Training Facility for nearly two months, we never did learn exactly where it was located, only that it was in the middle of a desert.

The wearing of chronometers was strictly prohibited for trainees with the exception of the trainee leaders like the First and Second Trainees of each squadron. However, our timepieces were confiscated prior to our departure. The flight was long enough to try and sleep. Ultimately, it made no difference as to how far we had traveled. Like the desert before, it didn't matter where we were only that The State required us to be there. The transports hovered above an asphalt airfield like they did that first morning of training. Only this time we were hundreds of meters above the ground instead of only centimeters.

When we finally landed and the tilt-rotors stopped, the interior lighting of the aircraft changed from the dim yellow they had maintained throughout the trip to an intense red. We stood up from our seats, as we were ordered, and shuffled to the door. When it opened, we were welcomed with the same intense heat that we endured in the desert but now it was accompanied by almost unbearable humidity. It was difficult to breathe and it would take us several days to acclimate. As we left the aircraft, we assumed our, now usual, formation in the field. As we formed up, we took a brief opportunity to see where we were. The airfield was a clearing in the middle of a dense jungle. The only way out was a single road that could lead almost anywhere.

We were met by two new drill instructors. They wore the green and brown camouflage of Jungle Soldiers. We still wore the training uniforms from Initial Training but would soon wear uniforms similar to those of our new instructors. Only they would be in shades of gray. Until we had completed all of our training, we did not yet earn the privilege of wearing the uniform of The State. The first instructor informed us that we would march to our new quarters. It would take an hour at a leisurely pace which, we learned, was a double time march for those of us still accustomed to the routines of Initial Training.

We got there in a little over fifty minutes. This earned us only a few minutes to rest before moving into our quarters which were tents capable of holding a squadron each. My squadron consisted of only eighteen trainees. My First and I were quick to organize our personal areas and ensure that the rest of our people were finished and in formation before the other squadrons. Though a couple of squadrons did beat us to formation, it was only because they had fewer numbers, twelve to fifteen trainees, and they beat us only by seconds. While it was only a formation prior to our first meal in Intermediate Training, we learned early on that competition was the key to success in training for service to The State. Honest competition to be the first and to be the best was an excellent motivator and, ultimately, the key to survival.

While the intensity of Initial Training often resulted in injuries on the part of trainees, rarely did a trainee lose his life. Though some wounds didn't heal sufficiently for a trainee to go on to serve The State and others were out processed with disabilities (though The State was not obligated to assist a former trainee who never saw actual service), Initial Training was not life threatening. But in Intermediate Training, where near combat conditions were the norm, it was not unusual for lives to be lost. It was very rare that a company endured its combat training without even minimal casualties. Survival at the Intermediate Training Facility didn't just mean moving on to specialty training. It meant being one step closer to earning the privilege of serving The State.

Our first meal in the jungle was in one of several large tents that doubled as lecture halls and class rooms. The rules were not as strict as they were in Initial Training but time constraints were still in place. New companies arrived two or three times a week so there was the constant shuffle of instructors and trainees about the main base. It was a far cry from the evenly spaced barracks, school houses and training centers in the desert. This new base was much larger and spread out in a maze of trails and training areas that were as tangled as the jungle vines themselves. Our training would consist of combat, search and destroy missions, wilderness survival and long, seemingly endless, treks into the depths of the jungle. A jungle that could be just as deadly as any enemy of The State. Our first lecture followed our evening meal and discussed the many ways a trainee could lose his life if he or she wasn't careful in and around the facility. Our company would lose its first trainee a week after arriving from a snake bite near the obstacle course.

It was a natural clearing in the jungle. A fire had burned through it about ten years before and it never fully recovered. Now it was a firing range. We had come here before when we trained with the more powerful and capable combat weapons which we now carried with us twenty-four hours a day. But on this day, we were training to use a new weapon. A rocket-propelled grenade. We were taken to the range one platoon at a time and spread along the line by squadron. Most had dwindled to more manageable groups of a dozen or so but a couple, including my own, still retained between eighteen and twenty trainees. My First and I decided to split our squadron into two groups of nine so we could train more easily. As was customary, the First and Second of each squadron were trained with the weapon first so they might assist the instructors in training their subordinates. I was already familiar with the weapon through lectures and reading available manuals and instructions relating to its use. But this was the first time I held it in my own hands. I familiarized myself with its weight and how it felt as I positioned it in the appropriate manner to be fired. As I was instructed, I loaded the weapon and released the safety.

"Do you see that fallen tree, Trainee?" asked my instructor.

"Yes, Sir," I said. The tree was gigantic. Centuries old when it fell, I suppose during the great fire. It was now rotting and falling apart with every rain shower and gust of wind in the open clearing.

"Trainee, I want you to finish what nature has started for you. Do you see where the tree was broken a few meters from the ground?"

"Yes, Sir. Do you want me to completely knock it over?"

"That's right. Fire when ready."

I brought the weapon up and aimed. When I pulled the trigger, the rocket fired and formed an arch of smoke between myself and the fallen tree. But it overshot my target and exploded on the other side.

"That's not what I wanted, Trainee," said my instructor.

"Then I will try again, Sir." I loaded another round into the weapon and aimed again. I heard another weapon fire nearby. It was my First aiming at a different target. The muffled applause that followed informed me that he had hit it. I then fired my weapon and this time the device fell short exploding in front of the tree. It shuddered as the blast threw shrapnel against the aging wood, but didn't fall.

"Trainee, Im giving you one more chance. If you don't knock that tree over, you will no longer be Second."

"I understand." I loaded the third round into the weapon. My position in the squadron now depended on this shot. I aimed the weapon again and fired. The smoke trail arched once again and impacted squarely against the tree, exploding and shattering the already crumbling trunk. What was left of the tree fell to the ground in a loud thump kicking up mud and decomposing plant matter around it.

"Excellent work, Second. Now show your subordinates how to load and fire the weapon."

"Yes, Sir." I proceeded to instruct the trainee behind me in arming the weapon. As I did so, I heard the explosion of another grenade. But I didn't hear the sound of the rocket preceding it. I heard screams and turned to see what had happened. The other half of my squadron was scattered from where they were firing. As the smoke cleared, I saw three bodies laying on the ground. One was an instructor; the others were trainees including my First. My instructor ordered my group to remain then had me follow him to the site of the accident. When we arrived, we knew there was nothing we could do. They were dead. The rest of the platoon halted their training and the other instructors simply waited as if this sort of thing happened before. I later learned that it had. Not necessarily at the firing range, but usually in near combat situations. They merely waited. I didn't know what to think or say. I couldn't recognize my First except for the name embroidered onto his now bloody and shredded uniform. The other trainee appeared to be standing too close when the grenade had exploded prematurely. My instructor turned to me and ordered me to gather my squadron together. I had them in formation and requested instruction.

"Trainee," said the instructor, "who is the next senior trainee after you?" I pointed out another trainee that had been with the company from the beginning. As I looked at her, I realized that she had arrived with me at Initial Training on the same transport. I called her forward and we stood by the instructor. He then looked at me and said, "Trainee, you are now the First for your squadron." He then looked to the trainee I brought forward and said, "You are the Second." The instructor brought a portable communications device to his mouth and had the other instructors end the training. The company formed up and marched back to the main base. We would learn to use the rocket-propelled grenade another day. For now, there was other training that could be done and there were bodies that needed to be disposed of.

They weren't the first to die... and they weren't the last. We lost a few trainees in a search and destroy exercise. Another was killed in an airborne exercise when her chute failed to open. And we lost a few others who simply couldn't handle the mental stress of the training. As the weeks wore on, the training got harder and more realistic. Finally, our opportunity to have our place in The State secured had come. Our last month of training was a "Full Theater Simulation." What used to be called a "War Game." The six most senior companies were divided into two opposing forces of six hundred men and women each. An objective was declared. Territory had to be taken to guarantee victory. All of our knowledge and training was to be used in this simulation. Though our combat weapons were modified to fire lasers and we wore special sensors on our bodies to register injuries and kills, there was still a very real threat to the lives of the trainees. Lives were lost, mostly in accidents. In other cases, because of carelessness. The line between these two descriptions was a blurry one.

The simulation was difficult for both forces. It required transport to the Advanced Training Facility under all too familiar conditions. Though the environment this new facility was located in seemed a temperate compromise between the desert and the jungle, it was still a harsh place to fight even a simulated war. The combat areas ranged from urban locales to open fields and dense coniferous forests. Smaller preemptive operations were exercised at the jungle facility but this State owned territory was created to simulate every possible land-based combat environment.

Very little enemy territory was actually taken by either force even by the third week. The front lines remained relatively fluid for the greater part of the simulation. There was room to extend the operation, should it be needed, but in the few times that these simulations resulted in a stalemate, it usually meant recycling the best half of the trainees into more junior companies and out processing the remaining trainees to return to their civilian families in shame for failing to live up to the requirements of The State; especially after having had so much time and resources invested in them.

Through the attrition, by various means, of certain members of the company, I was now First of my platoon but I continued to fight alongside my original squadron. I lead them on a surveillance mission one night and we found the location of our objective. It was in a bunker at the top of a hill. We weren't actually sure what it was, though rumors in our force ranged from it being a simple flag to some sort of weapon. An unarmed cannon, perhaps, or even a classic sidearm. Whatever it was, we were certain that we knew its location and we were preparing an offensive operation to acquire it. Though the company Firsts became our tactical commanders, the instructors were our strategic advisors. When we informed them of the intelligence we had gathered, it seemed that the end of the simulation was at hand.

Our force was gathered together for a final briefing by our instructors. We were informed that this final offensive in the simulation would signify the end of our training. It was the aim of the instructors at all the Training Facilities to make us warriors for The State. Our performance during the simulation was being recorded and evaluations were being made to determine what specialized training we might go on to receive after these training objectives had been met. But it was with grave determination that our instructors informed us that, "It will only be those of you who survive this phase of your training, the final offensive in this simulation, that will go on to pursue careers in the service of The State."

We thought we understood what they had meant. We were young, but we were not strangers to death. We knew because we were children of the intensity and danger that went with training for State service. Watching our fellow trainees die offered us a cold reminder of that. But we were still naive enough to think that we had already seen the worst that peacetime training had to offer.

Through the smoke and gunfire of the simulation, we moved forward. The area surrounding the objective had been secured but victory would not be ours until the objective itself, whatever treasure was hidden in this bunker, was in our hands and available for presentation to our strategic advisors. As a platoon First, I had some pull in our force and I fought for my original squadron to be the one to secure the objective. We had, after all, gathered the original intelligence which helped us determine its location. With little infighting among the ranks, my squadron was given its honor. Of the original eighteen that had arrived, despite the attrition of some and absorbing a few others, ten of us remained. Our force lost a small number of trainees in the confusion of the battle field. But we didn't think about it. Simulated or not, to us, this was war; and in war, men and women die.

The objective bunker was at the top of a hill. It wasn't steep, but it was heavily guarded by the opposing force. We didn't know, until after the simulation had ended, that they were not even aware that the objective was located there. At the bottom of the hill was a trench lined with reinforced concrete. This was the first major obstacle we had to overcome in taking the hill. Once that was done, it was a matter of surrounding it, protecting it from the opposite side and fighting our way to the top. Once we arrived at the bunker, we would fight our way in, if necessary, and claim our prize.

But intelligence was something that worked both ways. Reconnaissance units from the opposing force saw our troops preparing for the offensive so they reinforced their positions on the hill. It was a tough fight, but we managed to break through, traversing the trench and snaking our way around both sides of the hill. An entire enemy platoon was positioned on the hill but they were trapped once we surrounded it. In our fighting, up until then, we had managed to weaken their force substantially, eliminating almost an entire company in the process. Our numbers had dwindled somewhat as well but we were able to maintain a strategic advantage through extensive use of intelligence gathering and search and destroy missions. Since we knew that this would be the final battle in the simulation, we threw everything we had at them leaving minimal troops behind to protect our base of operations. The opposing force, however, didn't think that this would be the deciding battle and left a much larger defensive unit behind thus weakening the troops assigned to guard the hill. A clear battle line was drawn between the hill and the opposing force and we split our troops evenly between the enemy positions at the bottom and the platoon at the top. It didn't take long before we had overwhelmed the enemy platoon by nearly two-to-one and secured the bunker. By the time the enemy platoon First had realized what they were sitting on, it was too late.

The battle raged on at the bottom of the hill and I radioed down to the tactical officer informing him that I was taking my squadron into the bunker. He gave us the go ahead and we smashed through the locked door. I was the first to walk through and found what appeared to be a command and control station. There were maps of the area and potential troop locations plotted in a ten-kilometer radius, including those of my own force. The maps rested on what appeared to be a crate. I then heard something. A short, high pitched, sound. My former Second Trainee, now First, of my original squadron was with me.

"Do you hear something?" I asked.

"A beeping sound?" she said.

"Yeah." I swept the maps off the crate and heard it again. "Its inside of this." I grabbed a bayonet from my pack and pried open the top of the crate. We looked inside and saw a metal canister with a digital interface on top of it. It beeped again and continued slowly for a few seconds. Then it became more regular. The display then blinked and showed a countdown beginning at ninety seconds. I looked closer and saw a symbol that I thought I'd never see in a simulation. My knees felt weak and my heart raced. I turned to the squad leader and we both started to run out of the bunker, pushing others out with us. As we emerged, I screamed, "Its a trap! Run to the trench!" We started down the hill as fast as we could move. The opposing forces that sat on the hill with their kill lights blinking on their uniforms were confused at first but then started running with us. I hadn't realized how far it was to the trench. And I knew now why it was constructed with reinforced concrete. I didn't dare stop to see how many would make it with me, if any. I just ran. When I got to the trench, I dove head first and saw a bright flash of light as I fell to the bottom and I covered my ears and closed my eyes as I heard the roar above the trench. I thought I saw someone jump in beside me but I wasn't sure. I just curled into a fetal position at the bottom and waited...

Eighteen of the original twenty-five in my squadron made it to the Intermediate Training Facility. Ten of those made it to Advanced Training. Of those ten only three of us remained. Of all the forces involved in the war game, some twelve hundred men and women, only four hundred remained. Fewer than twenty died during the course of the exercise. The majority died in that last fatal blast of a nuclear grenade. I couldn't understand it at first but it started to make sense as I stood with my comrades in a quiet graduation ceremony at the end of our training. As we stood in our crisp new black uniforms of The State, I realized that winning doesn't necessarily mean taking home a prize. Sometimes it just means survival. And lessons like this would ensure the survival of The State.

A Peculiar Visit - The Nutshell

1997-03-12T09:20:00.000-07:00

A dear friend of mine lost her husband recently. They were not married for very long but they were very much in love. I was just beginning to get to know this fine young man. We spoke on the phone often and had started to correspond through the mail. I wanted so much to meet this man and my friend wanted very much for me to meet her husband. But this tragedy has, if not prevented it, postponed it for some time... my optimistic guess: about 70 years. In an attempt to resolve the loss for myself and to offer some comfort to my friend that her husband is well and no longer dealing with the struggles and pains of mortality, I wrote the following story. In my own way, I did get to meet him. Some names have been changed.

Joseph waited at the gate for what seemed a long while... He had forgotten that time really meant nothing in this dimension. Though everyone here was busy at work... There were things that needed to be done, things that needed to be resolved, questions to ask, things to learn.

An angel approached the gate and stared at Joseph for a moment. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I'm here to ask some questions," Joseph responded.

"You're not due here for..." The angel checked his clipboard, "At least another seventy of your years."

Joseph was pleasantly stunned. "Seventy, eh. Hmmm."

"Don't tell anyone I told you."

"You're secret's safe with me... Now, I've got some questions."

"You've got the answers at home... why don't you just read the instruction manual."

"Instruction manual?"

"Yeah... Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth... With supplements, you might recall."

Joseph thought about the unusual title... then he pieced the Initials together B.I.B.L.E. "Oh... These aren't those kind of questions... they're a little more personal."

"You know you're not supposed to be here."

"Yeah, I know."

"So..." the angel started to get frustrated, "Why are you?"

"I'm not sure, really... But I know I can't stay. This is just a temporary visit."

The angel was hesitant, then looked around and said, "Okay... but I can't let you out of my site."

"I understand."

"And you can't interfere with the others... they've got work to do."

"I know... I just need to talk to one person."

"Alright, then." The angel opened the gate and let Joseph in.

As he entered the gates, Joseph saw countless spirits that he couldn't see before. More people than he could ever imagine... and he marveled at the amount of work that had to be done for each and every one of them. He knew where he had to go. He wasn't quite sure how he knew, but he knew nonetheless. As they walked through this spirit world, Joseph and his angel escort bumped into countless spirits. Some were surprised to see Joseph there, others figured he had his reasons.

"Joseph?" said a familiar, yet distant voice. Joseph turned around and searched the crowd until he saw a warm gentle face that he hadn't seen in years, though he was now young and lively and not the frail old man he had seen in a hospital room years ago. "Joseph," the sweet spirit of his grandfather said again.

"Chencho," said Joseph.

"How are you, son?"

"I'm fine..."

"Excuse me," said the angel. "You said only one person... is he the one?"

"No," Joseph apologized and looked to his grandfather pleadingly.

"I understand, Joseph... Listen, when you get back, tell Bobby I'm ready."

"I will grandpa."

The angel hurried Joseph through the crowd. "You realize that was my grandfather back there?" said Joseph.

"I know, but you'll have plenty of time to talk with him later."

"I know."

***************************

"He's in here," said the angel.

Joseph waited for a moment and then knew for himself. "I know," he said. "How long?"

The angel looked at him and said, "Take your time... so to speak," and smiled.

Joseph walked through the room. It was for new arrivals. It was a beautiful and gentle place. Much like the rest of the spirit world. It was free of all pain and suffering. People smiled kindly at Joseph as he walked among them... then Joseph saw who he came to see sitting on a cushioned bench reading a book. Joseph approached him and said, "You're not as tall as I had imagined."

Justin looked up to Joseph and smiled... then stood up and looked down at his friend, "How about now?"

"So this is what you looked like to her... How are you?"

"I'm doing okay... How's Ashley?"

"She's doing alright... She's a very strong woman, you know."

"Yeah... I know. This isn't exactly how I expected us to meet."

"Me neither."

"How did you manage to come and see me?"

"Apparently I've got more connections than I thought I had," Joseph quipped.

Justin smiled... a smile Joseph had seen only in photographs. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I know... you don't have to explain."

"I'm glad you and I became friends."

"So am I."

"I know how you felt before we got to know each other. It's okay. I would have probably felt the same way," Justin snickered.

"We've got a lot in common, you and me."

"Yeah, I know."

"Tell me about yourself..." Joseph sat down on the bench and Justin sat with him. They talked for what seemed to be a long time. They learned about each other. They got to know each other. They became friends and agreed to continue that friendship into the eternities.

"I'm sorry," said the angel, "But it's time to go."

Joseph looked to his escort and said, "Alright... just let me say goodbye." The angel stepped away and Joseph shook Justin's hand, "Is there anything you want me to tell Ashley?"

Justin thought for a moment, then said, "Tell her that I love her."

These two friends embraced each other and Joseph left with the angel. As He escorted Joseph outside the gate, the angel said, "You realize this is not Standard Operating Procedure?"

"Of course."

"You two must be pretty special... You and Justin."

"You could say that."

"Take care, Joseph... I'll see you in about..." the angel started to check his clipboard again.

"...About seventy years?"

The angel smiled, "Yeah... give or take..."

the end

Home Sweet Home - The Nutshell

1997-01-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

Greetings and a belated happy new year, brothers and sisters. I just wanted to relate to you my thoughts and feelings about having the opportunity to visit with you in December. I really enjoyed having the opportunity to visit with you and see the places where I spent the majority of my youth. The experience was a fascinating one for me. As I related it to my sister, Christine, "It's not like when we go back to Utah where we only went to High School. When we were there, we were beginning to define for ourselves the roles that we would play in life. But it's in California, at our elementary and junior high schools, at church, in our neighborhoods, where we were most receptive to the external influences around us... good and bad." As I look back at my stay with you, A few things in particular come to mind. One was seeing every man I called Bishop while I was living there. From Gary Prescott to John Manacheck(Spelling?). Hearing my neice ask me, "Have you been to this church before?" and answering her with, "Sweety, this is where I was baptised." However, the most remarkable thing I remember about my trip was wondering where all the children I grew up with were. I didn't see a single one of them... Just these adults who looked vaguely familiar who just happened to have the same names as those kids. Frankly, I was blown away! I shudder to think what their thoughts were of seeing me after all these years.

This, the Oakhurst Ward, is where I first learned the basics of the Gospel... and though I have taken the opportunity to reintroduce myself to it from time to time, it was in that building where I entered the waters of baptism, at that podium where I gave my first talk and bore my testimony for the first time, in those classrooms where I first learned about the role the Savior has in my life.

I wish I could have stayed longer to visit with more of you. Tom and Robbin... I'm coming over for dinner sometime... don't know when, but I'll be there. Same goes for the rest of you.

Those Darn Mormon Commercials! - The Nutshell

1996-09-03T09:17:00.000-06:00

AFRTS, the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service, was our primary source for news and entertainment while I was in Panama, broadcast's no commercials... well, no commercials for commercial products anyway. What they do show is public service announcements. Among these are the messages from the Church. A young lady that I worked with said that only commercials from "The Church of the Latter Day Saints" are shown. I said that other churches show commercials as well, but she just said, "No they don't."

Anyway, AFRTS shows the messages because of their public message quality. "But why the name of the Church at the end?" she asked. To create awareness. Let's look at some of the commercials... so to speak. The married couple who run out of gas on a country road and go for a friendly walk to a gas station, while in the background you hear a song about being best friends. "Great friends make for great marriages..." That's the public service... especially in these days of high divorce rates and the innumerable number of quickie marriages I've seen since joining the Navy. I guess AFRTS has seen some of those marriages, too. So, they show the message. And at the end... "A message from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints."

"Why?" she asks.

Because it creates awareness. A connection is made between the message and the messenger. The importance of friendship in a marriage... what a novel and practical concept... being friends with your spouse. That's beautiful. "A message from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints." This concept is a doctrine from this Church. They teach this as part of their religion.

The boy following a transient along a railroad track and asking him, "If you were my age... where would you go?"

The transient looks the boy in the face and says, "To school."

Message received. The importance of education. A universal concept. Some may feel it so universal that perhaps the US Ad Council is doing enough to "Spread the Word." But then we see the name of the messenger. "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints." This concept is a doctrine of this church. They teach the importance of education as part of their religion. The connection is once again made.

I admit... I haven't seen very many commercials from other churches on AFRTS. Oh, sure, the occasional "Be nice to your Mess Cook" and "Don't steal" messages from the Navy Chaplin Corps. I think about what these people must go through trying to fill time on a network that doesn't have commercials. You know they've got a budget that isn't funded by advertising... and as nice as some of their homemade public service announcements can be... okay, mostly their pretty corny, and I think they know it all too well... producing your own non commercial commercials can be pretty expensive... So what do they do? They use previously produced ads from the ad council, other networks and churches... they get somebody else to flip the bill. It makes for both better ads and happier viewers.

Well, it seems that this young woman... and her husband I might add, had this hangup about seeing the commercials from the Church. I think if I'm ever faced with a situation like this again, I'd have to ask, "Is there something you don't like about the messages?" Who can argue against being nice to your neighbor, counseling your children kindly and being friends with your spouse?

"Why does it have to have the Church's name," they might ask.

"Because it shows people that these teachings are part of our religion. I've seen and heard of advertisements for numerous churches. Some say, 'We accept you just the way you are.' others say, 'We're a family church.' Others stress the study of the Bible. Some teach of preparedness while others teach of salvation by simple faith.

"Many of these churches are local organizations. They rarely spread beyond their own congregations... indeed by stressing certain principles, no matter how correct they are, they leave others by the wayside. Alienating themselves as a people... or a flock... and alienating others who don't fit into their scheme of things.

"Within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, we find true universality. We don't take a single point or doctrine and harp on it until we turn blue in the face. We look at all the doctrines and we see how they are all necessary to living happy productive lives. If it were to be summed up into a single word, that word wouldn't be trust or prepare. it wouldn't be learn or pray. The word would be universal in nature. The word would lead the way in our understanding of all those issues and doctrines that would help us all in our lives. That word... is Love.

"'The greatest commandment,' Christ said, 'is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, might and mind.' And how do we show our Heavenly Father that we love him? by following all of his commandments. Not just one or two... all of them. And we must do so correctly and with the right intentions. Through such things as faith, learning, prayer, preparedness, strength in ourselves and in our families."

Dedicate Your Homes - The Nutshell

1996-08-02T09:15:00.000-06:00

Greetings, Family, I've returned from my temporary hiatus having learned much and wanting to share it all with you.

I want to talk to you a little bit about the home. Someone once said that the home should be the second most holy place in the Church... Second only to the temple. We all know that before any ordinance is performed in a temple that the building first has to be dedicated. Who among us has taken the time to dedicate our homes? The place where our children do most of their learning about the gospel. As I told my Elders' quorum in a recent lesson, it is not the responsibility of the church to teach our children, it's our responsibility as parents to teach them and we should call on the Holy Spirit to help and guide us. One way of doing that is dedicating the homes we live in. It can make a great difference.

When I first learned about dedicating homes, I thought, "Boy, I can't wait until I have a house so I can dedicate it." Then I realized that even though I didn't have a house like other people, I do have a "Home." It might only be a room in a Navy Barracks that I have to share with one or two other people, but it's still my home... that's where all my stuff is anyway. So I began a little tradition of dedicating every new room that I moved into. From Pensacola to Panama to Maine, I have taken the time, after settling in and organizing my place how I liked it, to dedicate it to the Lord. It's nothing fancy, it's just a simple prayer offered up to Our Heavenly Father. I would thank him for having a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in; and I would ask him for a blessing on my little room, that it would be a place where the Spirit could dwell; that it could be a place of learning; a place of comfort where my friends could feel the spirit; a place for them to come and feel safe and not have to worry about anything; a place where they can leave their problems at the door.

When I was in Panama, I was having some personal problems and I needed to seek professional help through available counseling options. Well, that usually starts with a trip to Medical and a talk with our Corpsman. He asked me why I was there and we chatted for a little bit before he said to me, "You're a Mormon, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. How did you know?"

"I did room inspections this week... Walking into your room really... Humbled me."

"Humbled? I don't think I was going for that when I was decorating."

"No, I mean that in a good way."

This is what he saw when he entered my room:

On the door to my room was a picture of Christ knocking on a large wooden door(Seemed appropriate). As he entered the "kitchen" area, he saw a picture of Jesus talking with Mary and Martha... Martha was mixing something in a bowl (Again, seemed appropriate). Above my desk were postcards of temples. On my walls pictures of gospel stories from the Bible and Book of Mormon. Over my bed was a photo of the Christus in Salt Lake City. Above my dresser were portraits of The Lord Jesus Christ (Del Parson's painting) and the Prophet Joseph Smith as well as my line of authority as an Elder. On my locker was a picture of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane.

"You know," said the Corpsman, who later told me that he was an inactive member of the church, "A person could walk all the way down that hall angry, but there's no way he or she could go into your room and still feel that way."

For those of you who haven't yet taken the time to do so, dedicate your homes. Make them a place where the Spirit will feel welcome and a place where your family and your visiting friends can feel the spirit.

Magnifying Our Callings - The Nutshell

1996-06-04T09:14:00.000-06:00

It is callings that I speak of today. Somon once said, "There are no small parts, just small actors." I have recently been given a calling. That of Elders Quorum instructor in my little branch here in Maine. I jumped at the opportunity! because one thing I've learned is to always accept a calling... especially if you don't have one at the moment. (I'm not advocating that we bog ourselves down with callings to the point of neglecting other responsibilities of course... But callings mean blessings.)

Well, I got my calling and I went home and looked over the lesson that I was going to teach when I realized, "Why have I been called to instruct a bunch of men who are all at least twice my age? What have I got to teach them... they should be teaching me!" Which reminded me of another saying, "We learn most by teaching others." As I read through the lesson, I was so thankful for the format that is used in our lesson manuals... that of directing the questions toward the members and not just toward the instructor. I realized that a lot of my teaching will be in the form of inquiry... Sure, I'll research the material and read the scriptures and pray about what I'm teaching that we can all take these lessons home with us... but that is only part of the lesson, the rest lies in hearing how these gentlemen have applied them in the past.

I spoke in my Ward in Pensacola on Fathers' Day 1994 about the role of the priesthood in the home and I took a copy of the Priesthood manual with me to the podium and held it up saying, "This is a regular how-to manual for husbands and fathers." As a single adult who hopes one day to be just that, I I think it's great that I have this interesting headstart. The combined lessons and experiences of worthy patriarchs in my quorum. So when I ask during a lesson, "How can we as Priesthood holders apply this in our homes and with our families?" even though my home and family is one room and one person, I become a little more prepared and a little more confidant that when the time does come for me to choose an eternal companion and start an eternal family, that I'll be ready to treat them with respect and give them the guidance and love that they deserve.

The Church and the Internet - The Nutshell

1996-05-03T09:12:00.000-06:00

Greetings, my extended family, from across the nation and through the icomprehensible structure of that overhyped phenomenon known as the internet. :-)

I mentioned in my last article that I had visited the World Wide Web First Ward. Since then, I've also found a few other web sites created by members of the church. Some of them have discourses on the gospel and others are simply lists of members' personal interests along with their testimonies. One very interesting site I found is none other than the official web page of the Church at http://www.lds.org. I think that is so cool.

Among the first things I found when I first started "surfing the net" were a lot of anti-Mormon sites. This was really disappointing, but in time I found more LDS authored sites aand that was when I realised what a great missionary tool we have here. People can read the Book of Mormon on line and even download it onto their computers. They can read biographies of the general authorities of the church and read their testimonies. I personally hope to see more sites like this. Gosh, I could write one myself.

Far be it from me to predict what else could happen on the internet. I'll be the first to knock down any claims that it's a revolution. Point, click and wait does not a revolution make. But maybe one day we'll see internet simulcasts of general conference and firesides. Why not? These would be great supplements to the wonderful missionary effort that's already happening. As the internet stands now, it would a small supplement. Nevertheless, in the mean time, it's a great way to spread the word to at least a small part of the population. I often wonder, how many people who stumble on these pages or catch a radio or tv ad go on to investigate the Church a little more in depth. Certainlly, there are a lot that just brush it off... the majority, I'm sure... but even if it's only one person who is moved by them... how wonderful it is.

Undoubtedly, just as radio and television have helped to spread the Gospel in addition to the ageless methods of the written and spoken word, so I believe the internet will also prove to be a formidable tool. It already brings people with common interests together in the form of chat rooms and mailing lists... One interesting feature of these is the lurker... those people who sit back and watch the ideas flow... till they get up enough nerve to make a comment or, more importantly, ask a question.

Thoughts of a displaced Mormon - The Nutshell

1996-04-02T09:07:00.001-07:00

Hello, Brothers and Sisters... Let's see, it's been about seven years since I've spoken with any of you and I first just want to let you all know that I'm doing fine and have remained strong in the faith. For the last few years... Three years to the day as I'm writing this... I've been serving in the Navy as a Cryptologic Technician Collection... or CTR. In that time, I've been doing a lot of studying... I've had the opportunity to read the Book of Mormon, close to where the events actually happened, in Central America. I've had the opportunity to visit with the Saints in Panama, New England, Florida and Illinois... I've even visited the World Wide Web First Ward...

I hope to be able to relate to you some of the things that I've learned in recent years. I've been doing a lot of reading but I haven't been able to share much of what I've learned with people... but I think I've found a voice here.

A Few Thoughts on Personal Discoveries and the True Church

I learned something about myself in early 1994. I was at the Naval Technical Training Center in Pensacola, Florida, studying for a test. The topic was radio wave modulation and I was having a hard time understanding things like non linear mixing. I could memorize the definition, but I wanted to understand the reason behind it. As I expressed this desire to my classmates, one of them said, "Oh, he's one of those people who has to understand everything." In other words, I'm analytical. Too analytical for them and I admitted it. "I can't help it," I said. "I need to know the reason behind the fact, not just the fact itself. I can't just accept that an increase in period will result in a decrease in frequency..." I needed to know why...

One night, I realized exactly how analytical I am. I'll analyze something to death if it's at all possible. I can't leave well enough alone in some matters. I keep rethinking the problem and changing the answer until I totally get lost and/or frustrated. That's what was happening to me as I tried to study for my test that night.

After our study time and before I went to bed that night, I went for a walk and thought about my analytical behavior. It was then that I came to an interesting understanding about myself. As much as I analyze things, it's a wonder I'm a churchgoing man. My personality alone, leaves very little room for "Traditional" religion.

I've written in the past of how religion, traditionally, will usually have a single reason for everything. "Because God wants it that way!" I have also written that the Human spirit doesn't like that answer because we're all curious creatures with a need to learn. A need to progress. So, the all encompassing "God's will" answer doesn't cut it for us. We feel shortchanged by Traditional religion. It puts so many demands on us yet returns so little. Less analytical types seem to be satisfied with leaving it up to the powers that be in that department. That's not good enough for me. Analysts hate to be spoon-fed information.

So, what's happened here? Me, the analyst who will analyze anything to death in an attempt to understand it. What is it that I've found in this church that has kept me in it? That has made me an active and participating member? Don't I analy he church? Sure! I analyze the church more than anything else I know. I'm always tearing it apart in an attempt to understand it... at times, even in attempts to disprove it and just when I think I have found something to completely bring it crashing down around me, something comes to the rescue and prevents that while reinforcing the church's position at the same time. Sometimes, I look at what the enemies of the church have to say and test the church on it. So far, everything that I've come up with has been totally disproved by the church. And anything that the church does not answer right away is dogeared, if you will, and given a promise to be answered later. That's when my analytical self kicks in again and says, "How can I be sure that you'll keep that promise?" And I'm given examples, evidences, truths of how questions have been dogeared in the past and then answered when the time was right, when the people needed to know or were finally able to handle the new knowledge.

So, what have I found here? An analyst's dream come true. Something that will refuse to be torn down, no matter what you throw at it. It challenges me and blesses me at the same time. There are no vague answers here. There are the facts and, more importantly, the reasons behind them. The church has given me knowledge. It causes me to wonder, to study, to learn, to pray, to understand, to be happy.

1993-03-26T08:05:00.000-07:00

Written for my English 101 class that I took at Snow College in Ephraim, Utah.

"Ignorance is Bliss." someone once said. But then Socrates said, "The only good is knowledge and the only evil is ignorance." I wonder who's right. Even though both ends of the education spectrum have their advantages and disadvantages, it is that which leads to fullness of mind and spirit that is most important.

Sure, one does not need an education to be happy. My father has a seventh grade education and has led a happy and productive life. What got him through it though was the little amount of education that he did receive. Seven grades is better than nothing, I guess. So perhaps we should change the opening statement of this paragraph to "Sure, one does not need a complete education to be happy."

Statistics are very clear. A person who graduated high school is going to make more money than a drop out. A person with an Associate's Degree is going to make more than a high school graduate. Bachelor's more than an Associate's, Master's more than a Bachelors, Doctorate's more than a Master's. Everything's relative.

You can probably tell, it's hard to compare an educated person to an uneducated person on an economic level. But an education does not make one better than another. Both types of people have the relatively same capacity for learning. At one time, Albert Einstein was not educated. Even when he went to school he flunked out of math. Today we know him as one of the greatest geniuses of the 20th century, if not all time. He understood the need for an education and had an interesting approach to the whole process. It was he who said, "The most incomprehensible thing about the world is that it is comprehensible."

From a more personal standpoint, I understand the need for an education through the eyes of the military. Specifically the United States Navy, of which I am a member. Ten years ago, one could drop out of high school and join the Navy, perhaps enlisting in their apprenticeship program. Five years ago, you could drop out of high school and join the Navy, but only after you got your GED. Today, you can't join the Navy until you graduate high school. Unless you enlist in the Delayed Entry Program, like I did, where I joined when I was seventeen on a promise to graduate. Ten years from now, you won't be able to join the Navy as just an enlisted man(An E 1 Seaman Recruit like myself) without an Associate's Degree. The reason for this is because the Navy is becoming more and more high tech with every passing year. All the state of the art technology is almost immediately brought into application in the USN and they simply wouldn't trust that type of equipment in the hands of a high school drop out.

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

. . . Arthur C. Clarke

What I'm getting at is the fact that an education can only help you. It sure doesn't hurt. Oh, maybe the process might seem monotonous, you may have a lousy teacher and you might even flunk out of every school you go to, but if you retain any knowledge from the overall experience, that's a plus in itself for you in the real world. Just being exposed to new ideas will give you a broader understanding of the way people from other cultures think and act or even people from across town. It will give you the tools with which you can find a common ground and establish meaningful dialogues to take you into the future together.

I feel I have made it very clear that in this day and age, you can't make it in the world without an education. So even though ignorance is bliss, it's also poverty and a recipe for spiritual emptiness.

BOY: Teach me what you know, Jim.

REVEREND JIM: That would take hours, Terry. Ah, what the heck! We've all got a little Obi Wan Kenobi in us.

. . . TAXI

Illusions Revisited

1993-03-26T08:03:00.000-07:00

Written for my English 101 class that I took at Snow College in Ephraim, Utah.

". . . Is this what you wanted to share with me?"

Daniel went back to the couch and sat down. Michelle joined him and waited for an answer. He took another sip from his glass and said, "No, Michelle. You see, before I go away to school, I want to share something very special with only one person. Someone that I was always very fond of but never very close to. You. I've kept this a secret all of my life. I've never written about it, in my journals or in a story. It's something very special and very beautiful. I want you to experience it."

"What is it?"

"Michelle, I want you to know what goes on in my mind. I want you to become part of me so you can know what my dreams are."

"I don't understand."

"You really don't have to." Daniel brushed some hair away from Michelle's forehead, allowing the fingers of his left hand to feel her hair's softness. Michelle closed her eyes and gently leaned her head toward Daniel's hand. He moved his hand to the back of her neck and let her lean against his shoulder. He placed his right arm around her and softly whispered in her ear, "Come with me, Michelle. Know my heart. Know my mind. Know my dreams."

* * *

Michelle felt as if she were floating on a giant lake. She looked and saw nothing but the purest white. She couldn't see Daniel, but she knew she was with him. She could feel his presence all around her. The whiteness around her seemed to open up. She saw a cloudy portal and looked through it. Here, was where Daniel's dreams were born . . .

From Dreamscapes © 1993 by Joseph L. Puente

Imagination is more important than knowledge.

Albert Einstein

Come. Let me take your hand and we'll redefine the universe together.

Are you ready? We're going to take a little trip. We're going to visit my most favorite place in every dimension. . . every dimension.

Ah, here we are.

Full stop? Good. Helm, accelerate . . . now. You might feel a little crushed, but that's to be expected. Don't worry, you'll feel better later. While we're at it, let's lose the ship. Don't worry, I'll make sure you'll be okay. We really don't need a ship here, let alone bodies, but some people tend to be attached to them. But you don't need me talking. Just sit back, enjoy the ride. Enjoy the universe. . . this universe anyway.

There are glowing white points flashing past your head. They're galaxies, star clusters, suns, planets, moons, asteroids, spaceships, satellites, probes, people, spirits, gods. Time has been slowed down, just for you. You can travel the length and breadth of the universe in a millisecond if you wanted to, but you can't see much when you do it that way.

Through the corner of your eye, you see a pulsing light. It's pretty regular in its beat. Pulsar. It's surrounded by a few dead planets, their steel architecture long since vaporized during the final moments of the pulsar's previous life as an ordinary sun.

You feel like you're being crushed, don't you. Don't worry, we're just speeding up again. There's so much to see, you know.

Here's a friendly looking little sun. Its one populated planet has the cleverest people. And they have the most beautiful eyes in this part of the galaxy. They almost glow to the point that you can see them coming in the night. They live on the habitable half of their planet. The other half doesn't take to kindly to life. Sure there are a few insects that manage to survive there, but . . . well, let me take you there. . . ...............................

The sulfur stings as it penetrates the inside of your nose. There are a lot of these pockets on this side of the planet as well as a number of oases that manage to dilute the stench somewhat. Are your eyes beginning to water? Okay, we'll go, now.

I bet you've never traveled a hundred thousand lightyears so quickly in your life. Isn't this a beautiful place? Most completely forested planets are. Hold out your hand. You feel four soft little paws in your palm. You look down and you see a tiny little mammal, something like a cute rodent, but it begins to sing to you. A beautiful little tune that you may have been convinced was written by some famous and long dead composer. But all these creatures sing and each song is unique. Well, the sun has gone down. Before we leave, I want you look to the east and watch the galaxyrise. Beautiful isn't it? Very few planets are able to see a sight like this in the evening. The only real disadvantage to it is being over a thousand light years from the nearest star cluster within the Galaxy itself. Come, there's something brewing on the outer rim.

Will some races never learn? Look at them. Over a million "intelligent" life forms coming together to form perhaps the most destructive Armadas ever known in the Galaxy. Thousands of spaceships, loaded to the teeth with weapons, nuclear and antimatter weapons, lasers, Grasers, photon torpedoes or whatever you want to call them. By themselves, they won't do much. Put them in front of a destructive will and you've got hell to pay. Come, we'll let them play.

Here's another friendly looking, somewhat familiar sun. Middle aged, yellow, nine satellites. Some call this place Sol, some call it Terran, most call it Home.

As we fly passed the outer planets we come to a blue and green marble of a world. A single gray moon orbits it. Along with hundreds of artificial satellites. A few space stations, a couple of space shuttles, a Sanger, an X 30. Let's dive.

We're flying through the clouds at the speed of sound, just a constant blast pounding at our ears, but in this state that we're in, it's more pleasure than pain. Billowy mountains of whiteness rush by our heads. The picture starts to blur as we fall through the snow white canopy. Below us now is a rolling green carpet of trees and grass. We break a few branches as we lose altitude and follow a river. Before long, we come to a waterfall and plummet over the edge, we're caught up in the current for a moment, you only think you're wet, you only think you can't breath, but you remember the special state you're in. You're indestructible.

We follow the river some more until we come to a city. We go beyond it into a desert, past sand dunes and desert creatures to the shore of a great sea. Across its waves we fly, waving at ships and sea birds and we fall into its depths. We see gigantic schools of fish, sharks, submarines, whales. Tiny creatures like shrimp and single celled organisms. You feel yourself getting smaller, smaller, smaller. You're recognizing DNA, molecules, atoms. You've passed the outer cloud of an oxygen atom. You see protons, neutrons, electrons. You're getting even smaller, now. You're starting to recognize quarks.

I think we've seen enough of this. Any smaller and you'll discover that matter doesn't really exist, it's just a very complex setup of energy.

ZOOM OUT!!! Atom, cell, tissue, organ, organism, sea, desert, city, hello.

People.

Let's take a look. A lonely house in a suburb, its lonely resident on the floor, a discharged gun in his hand. A young man stealing a kiss from the girl of his dreams, who happens to be committed to another. "I can't do this," says she. "Yes, you can," says he. A tragedy, a love affair, a birth, a life, a death. Human experiences taken entirely from imagination.

It's time to go, now. You have to meet someone.

The city shrinks to a shiny point on the dark side of this planet . . . Earth? Maybe, maybe not. Beyond the solar system, beyond the star cluster, beyond the galaxy, beyond the universe itself. Exit, wormhole, stage right.

Where are we? you ask. We are in the space between dimensions. From here, we can observe every universe. As the individual side of a polyhedron or the infinite number of bubbles connected to each other by tiny tubes . . . wormholes. There are many fascinating universes to visit. Some are virtual copies of our own, others are so different, they are beyond our ability to comprehend them. Though we might try. Take this strange universe for instance. In it, round objects will cut you like a razor blade. Message coming. It's time. He's called us.

See the tiny white universe over there? That's where we're going.

We're there. I'll leave you for now. Perhaps we can do this again sometime. Actually, I'm sure we will. He's behind the desk.

"Welcome to my mind."

"Your mind?" you ask.

"Of course. How else could I describe all those wonderful and frightening places to you? Experience?"

"'My most favorite place in every dimension . . . every dimension .'"

"Exactly."

"Why."

"Because I have no favorite place. Not in this universe. Not in this part of the space time continuum. At least I haven't found it yet. To tell you the truth, I don't think I want to find it. Any physical place, anyway."

"Why?"

"Because physical places have this nasty habit of ceasing to exist. What if your most favorite place in the world was a grove in a forest. A forest can be cut down, or burned, or both. All you have left is a memory."

"But isn't that the point of having a favorite place? So you can have memories."

"I created an entire galaxy once. It was a place where I could go to think. I've never physically been there, but I still have the memory.

"What if your favorite place is a beach? Ever hear of oil spills? A house or a building? Places get condemned, demolished. An amusement park? Same thing. No one can take away from me what always has been and always will be mine. My mind. The only way you can destroy that is to destroy me. And you can't even do that because my spirit is immortal.

"What about everything my mind has allowed me to do? I can put all these places I've created on paper. Sure, no one else can experience these places the way I experienced them, but I can share them with the rest of the world. That puts me in an interesting, and somewhat enviable, position. If anyone ever wants to go to these places, they have to come to me. And all I can do is tell them about it. That's the reality as opposed to the fantasy ability Daniel had in the opening story excerpt.

"Some other advantages include being able to go anywhere, anywhen, with anyone and doing anything. Frankly I have gone to a lot of places in many times and have done a lot of things with a lot of different people. Through my mind and onto paper I can do a lot of things that many people only wish they could do. If I want to kill myself, I do it on paper. No harm done, and there's a lot less pain for everyone else. It works for a lot of things, love, relationships, travel, revenge. Maybe I just want to talk. Suppose I want to have a discussion with Pascal, or Thomas Aquinas, Einstein, Socrates . . . Jesus.

"Maybe I want to talk to the person I'm going to marry years before we meet. Okay, maybe the person I would like to marry.

"The point is this. My favorite place is right behind my eyes, right between my ears, right inside my heart. My favorite place is in the center of the universe, as I view it. Or maybe even the center of many universes. What I've shown you today is just a small glimpse at what I've created. If I had a favorite room, I've only shown you a single tile in the corner of the floor."

Reality Check!

Welcome back. Did you enjoy your trip?

One of the Unknown

1992-03-26T07:58:00.000-07:00

"Unknown" is the first story I wrote that I based in a city that I was actually familiar with, Salt Lake. I had the idea for a while but wasn't sure how to approach it until I decided to take a correspondence course from BYU on Creative Writing. My instructor was so impressed with the first draft that he offered me the opportunity of turning in a completely different story instead of revising this one. "You're story," he said, "is something I would expect anyone else to turn in as a final draft." I decided to go ahead and revise the story based on some of his editorial comments and it became another of my favorite works. (Note: There is a rape scene in this story. I mention this out of consideration for people who are sensitive to such things) I have since adapted this story into screenplay format. When writing a two hour film based on a short story, one has to go into much broader detail with the characters and setting. I also made some major changes in the screenplay that include changing the name of the main character and putting him in an existing relationship. I felt the puritan nature of the character as originally written just wasn't realistic enough for a man who's supposed to be an average unmarried adult. Despite taking place in Salt Lake City, the characters are not members of Utah's predominant religion. The screenplay has become something of a love letter to the non-mormon population (Roughly 30 to 40%) of Utah.

Ryan Jackson walked into the building where he worked in Salt Lake City, Utah. He quietly half skipped across the atrium of the building humming a piece from one of his favorite operas while looking up at the high ceiling of the room and the glass elevators as they traveled up and down the inner walls of the building.

Ryan stepped into an elevator still humming the piece and looked through the glass wall into the atrium.

A woman standing next to him looked at him and smiled. Ryan continued his humming until the woman asked, "Tosca?"

Ryan looked at her and said, "Yes, it is."

"Beautiful opera."

"Indeed." Ryan went back to his humming figuring the conversation was closed. Almost a regular attendant of the Utah Opera, he could always get away with a review of a performance or a profile of a performer for the paper where he worked, The Salt Lake Chronicle. But, most of the time, he dealt with national, international and regional issues.

Ryan's friend, Jayson Roberts sat in his cubicle in the Editorial Department polishing up one of his editorials for the paper when his supervisor, a relatively tall man of 49 named Randy Olsen, walked in.

"Roberts."

"Yes, Sir?"

"Is Jackson in, yet?"

"No, he's not."

"Well, when he gets here, call me. I have something for the both of you."

"Okay, Sir."

"You know, my son really enjoys opera. He has compact disk after compact disk in his room," said the woman.

Ryan looked to her again and said, "How nice."

"Oh yeah. He has all the great ones. Caruso, Pavarotti, . . . You know, the great ones."

"Yeah."

A bell sounded telling Ryan he had arrived to his floor. Eager to get away from the woman's ramblings, he nearly forced the door open and walked into the crowded Editorial Department and to his small cubicle of an office. He switched on his IBM computer which hummed to life as he looked at a few photos of family and friends, one of he and Jayson in Park City, that he had pinned to the cloth covered partition as well as a small copy of his diploma from the University of Arizona. Ryan remembered being hired to work for the Chronicle as an editorialist when the paper was in its infancy. Few people thought it would be able to make it in Salt Lake, but its new approach to news, through the perspective of young journalists, appealed to the young population of Utah. The Chronicle had a larger number of subscriptions going to people under the age of eighteen than any other newspaper in the state.

Ryan checked his fax machine to see if he had received any tips for his editorials while he was gone. Picking up the few messages that truly interested him, he began to jot down a few notes in the margins.

Jayson peaked over the partition from the opposite cubicle and looked at Ryan, diligently working at his desk. He then picked up his phone and called Randy.

Ryan noticed Jayson looking over the partition and listened as his friend spoke on the phone.

"Mr. Olsen? . . . He's here. . . Ryan. . . Okay. . . see you in a few." Jayson looked back to Ryan and said, "Hey, Ryan."

"Hello, Jay."

"You want to hear a joke?"

"Not particularly."

"Oh, come on."

"No. I know what types of jokes you tell, and if this is anything like the others, then it's probably rude and disgusting."

"But it's still a good joke."

"I'll have to take your word for it." On that, Ryan looked back at his work.

"Have you met anyone, yet?"

"What?" Ryan looked back up.

"Have you met anyone, yet?"

"Just where are you going with this?"

"Come on, Ryan, you know perfectly well where I'm going."

"Well, if it's what I think you mean, you know exactly how I feel about that."

"But I've got the perfect girl for you."

"I don't want to hear about her."

"You don't have to. You already met her."

"What?"

"Remember when we went to Park City last January?"

"How can I forget? You got totally wasted off your ass the second night we were there. I practically had to tie you to your bed to keep you from going . . . what did you call it? 'Skinny Skiing?' with that girl, Rebecca."

"I don't remember that."

"I'm not surprised."

"But you remember Rebecca."

"So?"

"I saw her yesterday. She said she wants to see you."

"No, Jayson. Don't you have somebody else to bother or perhaps some work that you have to do?"

"Not really."

At that moment, Randy approached their joint cubicles. "Jackson, Roberts, how would you too like to attend a play tonight?"

"Sure, Mr. Olsen. When and where?"

"The U of U, tonight at 8:30."

"That's great," said Ryan. "The newspaper's treat?"

"Of course. You can pick up your tickets in my office after work." On that note, Randy went back to his office. Really, it was just another cubicle, but with plexiglass partitions.

Jayson took the walk around the group of cubicles to Ryan's desk and said, "Listen, if you don't want to see Rebecca, I know this girl who works in Research. What do you have to say about me setting you and her up? We could all go to the play tonight then, afterwards . . . who knows what it could lead to." Jayson put on a sinister smile.

"I know exactly what it could lead to. No, Jayson. I'm not going to let you set me up. I'm just going to the play tonight by myself."

"Have it your way, Your Holiness."

"Holiness?" said Jeffrey, a friend of Jayson's. He was a very strange person with beady little eyes and a face like a character out of fantasy picture.

"Hey, Jeff."

"Hi, Jayson. What are you two talking about?"

"Nothing," interjected Ryan.

"Yeah, right," Jayson couldn't resist. "Ryan, here, took an oath of chastity about ten years ago."

"No kidding?" asked Jeffrey. "Why?"

"When Ryan was sixteen . . ."

"That's enough," Ryan begged.

"The first and last time he ever scored, the girl's father walked in on them." Jeffrey let loose with a loud cackle. "Boy, was that guy pissed?"

Jayson and Jeffrey walked away laughing and Jayson decided to tell Jeffrey his joke.

Ryan just sat at his desk, a little bit humiliated, but he kept on reminding himself that Jayson was an insensitive jerk and that he shouldn't dwell on an experience that happened so long ago. Of course, now Ryan could have kicked himself for telling Jayson what happened in the first place.

Before he left work, Jayson approached Ryan and said, "Hey, man, don't worry about what I said this morning. I was just razzing you."

"That's okay, Jayson. As long as you don't do it again."

"Okay. Listen, I've got a lot of respect for you. I wish I had your will power."

"Practice, Jay. Practice."

"Okay, man. Say, let's go to a movie some time, okay? A guys' night out, or something."

"Sure."

That evening, Ryan picked up his ticket on his way out from work and went home. He took a shower and got ready for his evening at the theatre. He picked up a bite to eat at a nearby fast food restaurant before finally going to the University.

It was a nice play written by a lesser known American playwright. After the performance, Ryan took the bus to a spot east of Temple Square. He decided to walk the rest of the way home and considered walking through the Square if it hadn't already been closed for the night. Instead, he decided to just walked around the block and admire the architecture of the Mormon temple and tabernacle within its walls.

As he walked down the eastern sidewalk of the block, looking to the top of the granite temple, he bumped into someone. A pair of sunglasses fell to the ground as well as a number of odds and ends from an old and stained ZCMI shopping bag. There were scraps of newspapers, small, broken toys, styrofoam food containers arranged neatly by size and shape as well as about a half dozen old combs and brushes.

"Excuse me," said Ryan.

"No, excuse me," said the young homeless woman as she groped around the sidewalk with her eyes closed. She was looking for her sunglasses.

Ryan then got on his hands and knees and picked them up for her. He handed them to the young woman and said, "Are these what you are looking for?"

Her eyes still closed, the woman took the sunglasses into her hands and placed them on her face. She then looked up to Ryan and said, "My other stuff. Where's my other stuff?"

Ryan decided that since he was already on the ground, he might as well pick up her other things. He didn't understand why she carried around stuff like that at first, but he then saw the stained clothes she was wearing and her unwashed dirty blonde hair and rationalized that she must have been a transient. He handed the odds and ends to her and then helped her up from the ground and said, without thinking, "Do you want me to walk you home?"

"No!" said the girl.

Why did I say that, thought Ryan. "I'm sorry. Listen, do you need anything?"

"Me? No, I don't need anything. I'm just fine. I can take care of myself."

"Uh, you're not blind, are you?"

"Me, blind? Oh no. I can see perfectly well."

"Then why are you wearing sunglasses this close to midnight?"

"Uh . . . I've got to go." She placed her things into her bag and began to walk away. Ryan watched her as she stopped by the side of the road and added a penny to her collection.

Not knowing if he was speaking loud enough for her to hear him, Ryan said, "Nice bumping into you."

That night, Ryan wrote his review for the play and turned it in to Mr. Olsen the next morning. He knocked off two editorials and then decided to take an early lunch. It was around 11:40 but he didn't feel too hungry so he decided to get a hot dog at a corner stand and go for a walk in the mall.

After his walk, Ryan headed back to his office. For the second time in as many days, Ryan bumped into the homeless girl. But this time, her things didn't fall all over the ground. "I'm sorry," said Ryan, a bit embarrassed.

"No, don't be," said the girl. "I should have been looking where I was going."

Ryan tried to look into her eyes, but, once again, she was wearing her sunglasses. He wanted to ask her about them but all that came out was, "Why?"

"Sorry, gotta go." She started to leave, but Ryan followed her.

"Wait a minute. My name's Ryan Jackson. What's yours?"

"I have to leave." She picked up her pace.

When she was a good ten feet away, Ryan said, "Will I see you again?"

"Maybe we'll bump into each other some time."

Days passed. Then weeks. Ryan went through his daily routine of getting up, going to work, seeing an occasional play, writing his review or editorial on which senator accepted money from what organization.

It was a sunny Saturday morning when Ryan was sitting on a park bench reading a book when he heard a familiar voice from behind say, "Hello, Ryan Jackson."

Ryan turned around and saw the homeless girl. "Hello," he said bashfully.

"Mind if I join you?"

"No, not at all." Ryan almost wished he hadn't said that, afraid that his sitting with a homeless girl would draw attention. But he looked at her and what she was wearing. Her clothes were dirty, but they weren't too torn up, she didn't have her usual ZCMI bag, but she did have on her sunglasses.

She sat down on the bench next to him trying to look a little dignified. "What are you reading?"

Ryan looked down to his book and said, "The Fisher King."

"Really? I don't do much reading."

"I don't have much of a choice. It comes with the job."

"What do you do?"

"I'm an editorialist for the Chronicle."

"You work for a newspaper?"

"Yes. That's not a problem, is it?"

"I don't think so. You write a lot for the paper?"

"I manage to get in just about everyday. Sometimes, I'll be out on assignment."

"Assignments? For editorials?"

"Sure. Sometimes my supervisor asks for crossfire pieces. You know, 'Yea or Nay on Toxic Waste' or something."

"Interesting. Maybe I'll read something by you one of these days."

"That would be nice."

They sat for what seemed to be a long time. Only an occasional bird or squirrel would draw their attention to the same thing. Finally, Ryan said, "You know, I still don't know your name."

She looked into his eyes through her dark glasses and said, "It's . . . Julia."

"Julia what?"

"Kowalsky."

"Why did you run away from me the other day?"

Like a shy child, Julia said, "I don't know."

"Why do you always wear those sunglasses?"

"Can we talk about something else?"

Ryan felt a little ashamed for prying. "Sorry. Sure, we could. What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know."

"That's okay." He felt a little anxious for a moment, then said, "Could I see you again?"

Julia was a little surprised. But not much. "Sure," she said. "When?"

For some strange reason, Ryan was very excited by this. "Oh, I don't know. Do you know where the Chronicle building is?"

"I think so."

"Okay. Tell you what, meet me outside of the building on Monday at about 12:00."

"Sure. What are we going to do."

Ryan hadn't thought of that. "I don't know. I guess I could treat you to lunch."

"Then, maybe we could talk."

"That would be okay."

Julia smiled and Ryan gave her the address for the building. She then walked away, turning back only a few times to wave at Ryan.

A few weeks passed and every day at lunch, Ryan met Julia outside of his building. He treated her to lunch and they often sat on a concrete bench outside of a mall and talked. Ryan was still a self conscious about being seen with Julia, as far her appearance was concerned, but eventually he got to a point where he would try not to think about it. To hell with everybody else, he thought. Julia got to know Ryan very well. He told her almost everything about him. But whenever it came down to Ryan wanting to know more about Julia, there was silence. So, all he was left with was speculation. Did something happen to her? Was she beaten or perhaps . . . no. All he knew for sure, was that Julia Kowalsky was perhaps the most mysterious person in the world. Mysterious and beautiful. Ryan couldn't help but note her soft, almost innocent, voice. Her hair, if it was washed, would probably be incredibly beautiful. He imagined what it would look like in the sun. And her eyes . . . Her eyes. Always behind those damned sunglasses. As they walked on the sidewalk back to Ryan's building, one day, he asked her, "Why do you always wear those sunglasses? I don't know what color your eyes are?"

She looked away for a few moments and said shyly, "I don't want you to know what color my eyes are."

"Why?"

"Because they're ugly."

"I guess I'm supposed to take your word for it."

"Maybe," she said, sounding almost disgusted. "I'm sorry."

They stopped in front of his building and just stood there. Julia looked to Ryan and said, "Can I see you after work?"

"Sure."

"Do you think we could go to the Administration Building?" She was referring LDS Church's headquarters.

"Yes, of course."

"Cool." Julia then approached Ryan and almost kissed him on the cheek. She quickly changed her mind and walked away.

After work, Ryan walked out of his building and found Julia waiting for him, sitting on a large concrete flowerpot. Without saying a word, Julia took Ryan's hand and walked him all the way to the Administration Building.

When they got there, Julia led him through the lobby and to the main elevator. She held his arm tightly during the ride and didn't say a single word through the whole trip until they arrived at the top.

They stepped out of the elevator and walked to the west side of the building and looked out over the city. They could see the temple, the capitol and the Great Salt Lake.

"What are we doing here?" Ryan asked.

Looking around, Julia said, "I come here sometimes, when I just want to think."

"What do you think about?"

"Lots of things. Children. My . . . friends. But lately, I've been thinking a lot about you."

"Why?"

"Because you're nice to me."

God, thought Ryan. What am I going to do? What do I say?

"I wish I'd met you a year ago."

"Really? Why?"

"Because then you wouldn't know me like this. Like some homeless person." They headed to the glass enclosed reception area where they could sit down.

"I don't "

"Don't try to sound like you had no idea. It's only obvious."

"You're wrong. I wasn't going to say that at all."

"Really?" she looked into his eyes. "What were you going to say?"

"I don't care about how you live. Sure, I would like to have met you a year ago, but I'm glad I met you now. I've never had a friend like you, before." They entered the glass room where they sat together on a polished wood bench.

"You mean like someone who has to look inside of a garbage can for food?"

"No. I mean someone as . . . I don't know, mysterious as you are. I don't really know you. And yet, I feel very close to you. I feel I can trust you and if I could know you better I . . ."

"You would know that you trust me?"

"Yes."

Julia put her hand to her face and touched the frame of her sunglasses. She almost pulled them off but then changed her mind and just pushed them back up the bridge of her nose and turned to face the opposite end of the room.

Ryan gently touched her chin and brought her face toward his own. Ever so slowly, he touched the frames of her sunglasses and pulled them away from her eyes. He placed the glasses behind him on the bench and turned back to Julia. Her eyes were closed and she held her chin against her chest, trying to hide her face from Ryan. But he just touched her chin again and raised her face until he was able to look into her eyes.

With a single tear falling down her cheek, Julia slowly opened her eyes to reveal what she tried so hard and for so long to hide from the rest of the world. Her eyes were a beautiful green surrounded by what seemed to be pure white and, themselves, surrounding two small dots of ebony.

Ryan released a sigh of awe. "Julia. Your eyes are beautiful."

Still crying, she said, "No, they're not."

"Why are you crying?"

"I hate my eyes."

"Why?" Ryan took her hand and held it, trying to comfort her.

"Because . . ." Julia couldn't go on. She couldn't bring herself to tell Ryan that she was raped one night because her attacker couldn't get over her eyes. She just placed her free hand over her eyes and cried on Ryan's shoulder.

"It's okay, Julia. It's okay."

"Can I have my sunglasses back?"

"Yes, of course. Here." He handed her her glasses and and watched as she fumbled to place them on her face. After a few moments, she was more composed and even gave Ryan a kiss on the cheek.

Ryan wiped away her tears and said, "Would you like to do something this Saturday?"

"Yes."

"Tell you what. We'll go where ever you want to go. Okay. I'll meet you here Saturday morning at around 11:00 in the lobby."

"Okay, Ryan. 11:00."

"Great."

Ryan went home that night, wondering why Julia was so upset. Did something happen to her? Was she hurt? He asked himself over and over again, why he didn't ask her if she needed any help.

"Me? No, I don't need anything. I'm just fine. I can take care of myself." He remembered her saying, that first night they met.

But that night, he tossed and turned in his bed worrying about how she was doing. Where she was. If she was even eating. Saturday. He'll try to do something for her on Saturday.

Saturday, 11:06. Gray clouds were beginning to gather themselves over the city. Already, a few scattered drops of rain were beginning to fall. Where is she? Ryan asked himself. 11:10. He sat in the lobby. 11:17. By this time, he was counting cracks in the marble floor

He looked around the almost empty room and, hoping, maybe, that she would answer, said, "Where are you?"

"Over here!," yelled Julia as she ran through the south entrance. "Wait a minute. I'm on my way." She ran into the lobby, almost tripping over her feet on the polished floor.

To slow her down, and to keep her falling on her face, Ryan grabbed Julia and held her still. "Whoa. Slow down, there."

"Sorry," she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and caught her breath, "I'm so late."

"So, where are we going?"

"We're going to go to my place."

"Your place?"

"Yeah."

"But I thought . . ." Ryan cut himself off before he made a total and complete fool out of himself.

But, he was too late. "You thought being homeless meant not having a place to stay? Well, you're wrong. At least in my case. I happen to have a place of my own."

"What? An apartment?"

"Of course not. But I was lucky in finding this place."

"What is it?"

"Just wait a little while. You'll see."

They walked together to the south west side of town ducking into doorways and under awnings on their way. They passed many homeless people. The problem had been getting steadily worse over the years. From tent cities under bridges to people camping out in front of the capital building.

They walked through alleys and through welfare apartments dodging drug dealers and prostitutes on the way. They finally arrived to their destination. Julia led Ryan to an alley strewn about with shreds of cardboard and old paper wrappers now soaked with rainwater.

Ryan followed as Julia went toward a concrete stairwell that went into the ground leading to a locked basement door. The basement hadn't been used for years, but that wasn't Julia's destination. She went down the stairwell and when they were both at the bottom, Julia said, "This is it."

Ryan looked around himself. The ZCMI bag was hanging on the door knob. There were pictures from old magazines and news papers held to the concrete wall with old pieces of chewing gum. Ryan found it hard to accept the fact that a human being could actually live under such conditions. On the "floor" was an old piece of carpet. Next to it, an old tattered blanket and a small piece of foam rubber. Her pillow. "What do you do about food?" he finally asked.

"Oh, Mrs. Santangelo gives me food almost every day."

"Who's Mrs. Santangelo?"

"She owns the restaurant on the other side of the alley."

"Restaurant? I didn't see a restaurant."

"Actually, it's the back end of one. That's where the kitchen is. Mrs. Santangelo comes out sometimes and leaves me some food. Spaghetti, lasagna, a slice or two of pizza. She's a really nice lady."

"So, she takes care of you?"

"No. She just gives me some food now and then."

Ryan sat on the steps and wondered for a few moments what on Earth was happening. He was very confused.

Julia sat next to him and held his hand. "What's the matter?"

"How can you live like this?"

"I don't know. I just do. To tell you the truth, I really haven't thought about it that much."

Ryan felt a lump in his throat. "Where do you come from?"

She hesitated for a moment then said, "The Midwest. Nebraska."

"Did you come from a big city or a small town?"

"An average sized community."

"How did you end up here?"

Her voice became very somber, "I had a boyfriend who was supposed to take me with him to California. But he dumped me."

"Couldn't you have called your parents?"

"No, I couldn't. They didn't want me to go to California in the first place. And besides, I couldn't go back after . . ."

"After what?"

"Nothing."

Ryan tried to understand her, but he couldn't. "Didn't you try to find work?"

"I tried to get a job, but there weren't any to be had. Pretty soon I ran out of money and I started living on the streets. And because I was homeless, no one would hire me when jobs picked up."

"What has it been like for you? Living the way you do?"

"It hasn't been fun."

"I can imagine."

"I've had to beg for food and money. I'd look in garbage cans for anything to eat. Pizza crusts, half eaten hamburgers, soggy ice cream cones. I didn't care. You don't care when you're hungry. Then I found this place to live and Mrs. Santangelo would give me food, fairly regularly."

"Do you have any homeless friends?"

"Not really. There are a few people I know. I don't talk to them very often though. Then there are . . ." Her voice broke.

"There are what?"

Julia began to cry, but continued to talk, "There are the bad people."

"What bad people?"

"They're always in groups. They follow you around until you're alone. And then . . . they hit you. And they . . ."

"They what? What did they do to you?"

"There was one man. He was with his friends. They chased me into an old warehouse."

"And what did they do?"

Breaking down with tears almost streaming down her face, she said, "He raped me."

Ryan couldn't help but to cry with her. He put his arms around her and held her as she wept. "Hey, hey. It's alright. Nothing's going to happen to you, now."

"He said he liked my eyes."

Now Ryan understood why Julia was so concerned over the way her eyes looked. She knew that she had beautiful eyes. She just didn't want to admit it, or show them to anyone out of fear. He felt so sorry for her.

"Julia, let me help you."

"No. I can't let you do that."

"Please. I want to be there for you. I don't want you to be scared anymore. I want to take care of you."

"No. Please. Don't do anything for me. Just be my friend."

He looked into her eyes, through her sunglasses, and said, "I already am."

"Thank you."

Before he left, they decided on a new place to meet for lunch the next week. After it was decided, Julia gave Ryan a kiss on the lips before saying goodbye.

While walking home, while eating dinner, while lying in bed, trying to go to sleep, Ryan thought only of Julia. Of her voice, of her smile, of her eyes, of her lips. How he cherished that first kiss. Before finally falling asleep, he whispered to himself, "I think I'm in love."

It was about 9:30 in the morning while Ryan stood by the Xerox machine waiting for his copies to come belching out of the plastic and metal monolith. They were articles about the city's homeless. Ryan felt that it was about time he wrote an editorial about one of the cities most serious problems and what could be done to solve it.

Copies in hand, he walked back to his cubicle, where Jayson was sitting at the computer reading Ryan's outline. "Can I help you, Jay?"

"Oh, Ryan. Sorry, I was just looking at your outline here. Pretty interesting. When are you going to have the article written?"

"I don't know. I talked to Mr. Olsen about it. He decided to let me take as much time as I needed to finish it."

"So, what inspired you to write this?"

Jayson got out of Ryan's chair and let him have it back. Ryan sat down and thought of Julia. "Jayson, can you try to keep this between you and me?"

"What?"

"I met a girl about two months ago."

"No kidding? Did you . . ."

"Don't even start."

"Sorry, Ryan. Well, what's she like?"

"Oh, she's pretty. She's in her mid twenties. . . She's homeless."

"What?"

"She's homeless."

"Wait a minute. You're telling me that you're seeing a homeless girl?"

"Yes. What's wrong with that?"

"Well. . . Nothing, I guess. It just seems a little weird, that's all."

"Jayson, you've got to understand. She's no ordinary homeless girl. She's really special, you know."

Jayson tried to understand Ryan but he just couldn't accept the fact that his best friend was seeing, of all types of people, a homeless person. If she had a room in a welfare hotel, maybe, but this girl probably lived on the streets. "No, Ryan, I don't know."

"Oh, well. Just promise me that you won't tell anyone. People just wouldn't understand."

"Okay, Ryan. I promise. Hell, you know me. I'm not one to keep many promises, but when it's something really important, you know you can count on me."

"Thanks, Jayson."

"No problem." Jayson started to walk back to his own cubicle. "Hey, Ryan."

"Yeah."

"Listen. . . I am happy for you. Really. I just wanted you to know that."

"Thanks, Jay. I appreciate it."

Jayson started back then said, "Do you love her?"

Ryan had to think about it, "Yes. I think I do."

"Okay."

Throughout that week, Ryan and Julia met to have lunch and to talk. Most of the time, he treated her to lunch with a corner stand hot dog or some Chinese takeout. Once, though, Julia gave Ryan lunch. She took him to the restaurant she lived behind and introduced him to Mrs. Santangelo, a nice, middle aged Italian woman with graying, brown hair. She was apprehensive about having a customer, that could pay, be the guest of a homeless girl that she only gave food to out of the goodness of her heart. But Julia eventually convinced Mrs. Santangelo to do it, explaining what Ryan had done for her over the past couple of months.

As they sat eating a couple of slices of pizza on Julia's steps, Ryan said, "Would you like to go out with me on Saturday?"

"Sure. Where to?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just out."

"I guess."

"Why don't you meet me outside of Temple Square and I'll pick you up."

"Okay. What time?"

"Let's make it early. Around 10:00."

"10:00 it is."

This time, it was Ryan's turn to be late. But, only by ten minutes. Julia waited for him in front of Temple Square. He walked up to her and apologized for his tardiness. He then said, "Are you ready to go?"

"Sure am."

"Okay." He led her around the corner where his car was waiting. They pulled out of the parking lot with fifteen seconds of parking time to spare. A few minutes later, Ryan pulled into the parking lot of the apartment building where he lived.

Julia looked out of her window, "You live here?"

"Yeah."

"What are we doing?"

Ryan parked his car and got out, "You'll see." He opened the door for Julia and, taking her hand, led her to the building. They went into the main lobby and took the elevator to Ryan's floor.

When they entered his apartment, Julia was afraid to touch anything. Not that Ryan had anything of real value, she was just afraid that she would smudge a picture or stain a chair. "What are we doing here, Ryan?"

"Come here."

Unsure of what she was doing, Julia walked to Ryan, who again took her hand and led her to the bathroom. On top of the counter, was a set of clean clothes and some towels.

Ryan looked into Julia's eyes, as usual, through her sunglasses, and said, "You can clean yourself up here. I don't know how long it's been . . ."

"Mrs. Santangelo let's me wash up in her restaurant bathroom all the time."

"Well, now you can at least do it in privacy and not one body part at a time."

Julia looked at the clothes and in the shower.

"I'm not to sure if those clothes are going to fit you, they belong to my sister. She left them behind, the last time she came over to visit. Soap, shampoo and anything else you might need are in the shower."

Julia looked at Ryan and smiled. "Thank you, Ryan. You're too good to me."

"It's no big deal." Ryan started out the door than said, "Don't worry about using up all of the hot water. I tried once. This building's got about a million hot water tanks. So take your time."

After Ryan left the bathroom, Julia closed the door and began to undress. She didn't take off her sunglasses until very last. She stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror and took off her glasses. For the first time in many months, she looked at her own eyes. For a few moments, she actually liked the way they looked. She smiled, then quickly closed her mouth. She looked around the counter for an extra toothbrush.

There was a knock on the door followed by Ryan's voice, "Oh, yeah. There's a new toothbrush in the drawer on the far right as well as some dental floss and a new tube of toothpaste. Feel free to indulge."

"Thanks. I was just about to ask you about that."

"Okay. Well, now you know."

She opened the drawer and grabbed the toothbrush, still in its plastic wrapper from the drugstore. She ripped open the plastic and grabbed the tube of toothpaste. After putting a generous amount on the brush, she began to brush rigorously. Her gums began to bleed, but she didn't care. She just continued to brush. After a few minutes, she spit into the sink and rinsed her mouth out. She then looked into the mirror and smiled again. Her teeth still had a slight yellow tint, but it wasn't too noticeable. Something was still wrong. . . Her hair, her face. Still stained from months of city dirt and trash.

She turned and opened the door to the shower. She pulled out the single knob for the shower head. A steady spray of water shot out of the fixture. She put her hand under the water and adjusted the knob until it was just the right temperature.

She stepped in and closed the door behind her. At first, she just let the water fall over her body allowing the pressure to massage her back. She looked to the floor of the shower and saw a steady stream of brown colored water swirl on the floor in tiny eddies until they finally seeped through the openings in the drain.

Julia tipped her head back to soak her hair. Again, the stream of brown water fell to the floor, only this time, it was from her head. She looked at it, and though she felt lucky that she had never contracted head lice, she still couldn't help but to quietly say, "Ick."

She grabbed a bar of soap from the nearby dish and started to do some serious washing. Ryan was right. It was a lot more convenient to wash her entire body instead of one part at a time. She washed her hair about a half dozen times with three different types of shampoo. She washed her face the same number of times, if not more. She even found a new razor in the shower which she used with some shaving cream that was right next to it.

After a nice long rinse, Julia turned off the water and stepped out of the shower onto a clean bath mat and grabbed a towel. She proceeded to dry herself off. Her body seemed almost pink from scrubbing. She turned to look in the mirror, which was now fogged over with steam. She wiped it clear and looked into it. For the first time, in a long while, Julia felt beautiful. After brushing her teeth again until they were gleaming white, she looked at her reflection and smiled.

Ryan looked up from his novel, an installment from Arthur C. Clarke's "Space Odyssey" series, and checked the clock on his microwave. Damn, she's been in there for almost an hour.

At that very moment, he heard the bathroom door open. He looked while a beautiful blond, green eyed young woman dressed in a pair of white denim jeans and a pink sweater walked out of his lavatory. She wore a clean pair of pink socks and white Keds. "Hello, Ryan. Do you recognize me?"

Ryan couldn't talk at first. All he could say was, "Venus?"

"Come on. I'm not that pretty."

"Pretty isn't the word. Beautiful can't do you justice. Julia, . . . you look great."

She blushed and said, "You're just pulling my leg."

"No, I mean it. You look exquisite."

"You're really shoveling it on, aren't you," she laughed.

Ryan got off of his couch and almost tripped over his coffee table trying to get to her. When he did, he brushed her hair away from her face and looked into her eyes. She wasn't wearing her sunglasses. "You do have beautiful eyes."

She blushed again and touched his chest saying quietly, "Thank you."

"Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To the mall."

"Why."

"I want to get you some new things."

"Oh, Ryan. I don't know."

"Come on. We'll at least have some fun."

Julia was hesitant. "Oh, okay."

As promised, they toured the mall. Ryan bought her a number of new outfits and a few toiletries that she needed. They shopped the whole day and late that afternoon, Ryan took her out to dinner at one of Salt Lake's finer restaurants where they talked and laughed.

After dinner, Ryan took Julia back to his apartment where they sat down together in his living room. He held her hand and looked into her eyes and said, "Listen, don't worry about the things that I got you today. I'll hold onto them for you. You just come over here whenever you need something to wear or a place to wash up."

"Thank you, Ryan. I don't know where I'd be right now, if it wasn't for you. How can I ever repay you?"

Ryan was waiting for that. Ever since he asked Julia to be with him this Saturday, he knew he wanted to really help her. "Let me help you?"

"What?"

"Julia, after seeing how you live and what your life is like, I want to help you."

"No, Ryan. I can't."

"You won't have to worry about anything. You can stay here with me until you're ready to get back on your feet. I know how hard this must be for you "

"Do you?" Julia was very upset. "Do you know what it's like to be in my position? I can't do what you want me to do! I can't be some sort of welfare project for you!"

"Julia, I don't mean it like that. I just want to help you."

She got up and went into the bathroom. A few moments later, she came out with her old clothes. "I can't do this, Ryan. I can't go back. Not like this." She headed toward the door, but Ryan followed her.

"Julia, please. Let me explain." She opened the door and walked briskly down the hall. "Julia, please stop."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

She stopped for a moment. But she didn't turn back. She just continued down the hall and hit the elevator button.

"Julia, can I please see you again."

The elevator doors opened and, as she stepped in, she said, "No, Ryan. I can't see you anymore."

The doors closed and Ryan stood, by himself, in the hall.

He turned around and went back into his apartment. His empty apartment. Oh, how he hoped that Julia would have accepted his offer. She could have stayed in his apartment that night. Instead of . . . Only God knew where she would be sleeping now. Perhaps at her place. If you could even call it a place. Living like a mole in a concrete burrow.

He grabbed the bags of clothing from the floor and took them to his hall closet. He slammed the door and then went into the bathroom. When he walked in, he saw Julia's sunglasses on the counter. She hadn't worn them all day. She hadn't worn them because for that entire afternoon, she felt beautiful. He picked them up and went into his bedroom, sat at the foot of his bed holding them in his hands, looking at them, thinking of Julia's beautiful eyes. Clutching the glasses in his hands, he leaned his head against them and began to cry.

Ryan didn't see her for most of the next week. The first three days, he went to her place to see if she was there at lunch and after work, but every time, the place was empty. She even asked Mrs. Santangelo, but she didn't have anything to say except, "She's not my daughter. She has her own life to run. I try to help any way I can but she is the one who makes her own choices." Every day, though, Ryan carried a small plastic bag with the toiletries he had bought for her, just in case. The bag contained her toothbrush, the tube of toothpaste, a hairbrush, some soap and a washcloth. When asked by Jayson what the bag was, he replied, "Nothing. Just a few things I need to take to somebody."

Ryan tried to drown his sorrows in his work. He wrote six or more editorials a day, some of them on completely ridiculous topics. He didn't care too much at the time, rationalizing that Mr. Olsen would intercept them soon enough. He did go to a play at BYU that Wednesday, though. It took his mind off of his worries for a little while. His review made the next morning's paper.

On Thursday, Ryan took a long lunch and spent most of it walking around central Salt Lake. He was walking along the same sidewalk as the night that he met Julia. Off in the distance, through a crowd of people, he saw some familiar, flowing blonde hair, as well as a pair of familiar green eyes, normally hidden behind a pair of cheep sunglasses. Ryan picked up his pace until he met Julia. She looked into his eyes. He brushed her hair away from her face. Simultaneously, they said, "I'm sorry."

"Please," said Ryan, "don't be. I shouldn't have acted the way I did. I'm sorry if you feel like I've been treating you like some sort of welfare project."

"I shouldn't have said that, Ryan. It's just that I'm not ready to go back, yet. I need more time."

Ryan held her close to him and said, "I understand."

Julia then looked up at him and, placing her hand on his face, she kissed him on the lips. "I knew you would."

Ryan reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the plastic bag of toiletries for Julia, "Here. I brought these for you."

She looked in the bag and said, "Thanks.

"Julia."

"Yes, Ryan."

"I really do love you."

Unsure about how to take it, she said, "I know, Ryan."

Ryan saw her again after work and they had dinner.

The next day, Ryan was sitting at his desk when Mr. Olsen approached him. "Jackson, What is this?"

"What's what, sir?"

"This editorial about putting drinking fountains at every crosswalk in Salt Lake City."

"Well, sir, I was just thinking about it one day and I wrote up an article on it."

"You didn't actually expect this to go in the paper, did you?"

"No, sir, I just wrote it up as . . . an exercise of sorts. It shouldn't have even gotten to you."

"Well, try to keep your practice material out of my IN box, alright?"

"Yes, sir."

When Mr. Olsen left, Ryan let slip a quiet chuckle.

Ryan saw Julia again after work. When he asked her if he could see her on Saturday, she politely said no. She wanted to have a day to herself without having to worry about anything. Ryan understood and told her that he would see her on Monday.

For only 10:30 in the morning, it was looking like a good week. Thanks to some important national events over the weekend, Ryan had enough material to keep him busy with editorials for the next two weeks. As he sat in his cubicle, Jayson peered over the partition and said, "So, Ryan, how's that girlfriend of yours?"

"Oh, she's fine. I'm seeing her for lunch today."

"Really. I was just about to ask you if you wanted to join me for lunch. Perhaps you and . . . what's her name? Julie?"

"Julia."

"Yeah, perhaps you and Julia would like to join me."

"That sounds pretty good. She usually meets me outside of the building at lunch. We'll see you there."

"Okay, pal."

At lunch, Ryan went out a few minutes before Jayson to find Julia. When he did he said, "My friend Jayson wants to meet you. How about lunch?"

"Sounds fun," said Julia, excited to meet one of Ryan's coworkers.

A few minutes later, Jayson walked out and saw Ryan standing on the sidewalk with Julia. She was wearing an old pair of dirty blue jeans, a pink sweater(the one Ryan gave her, now a little dingy), dirty white Keds and she carried an old ZCMI bag. Despite her slightly disheveled appearance, Jayson thought that if her hair, which was a little dingy, was washed, she would look pretty good. Then he saw her eyes. Jayson froze in his tracks. Never before had he seen eyes so beautiful. He felt that he could look into them all day. With eyes like those, thought Jayson, she could be a leper and I wouldn't care. He approached them and said, "Hi there. I'm Jayson Roberts."

"Glad to meet you," said Julia.

"The pleasure's all mine," said Jayson as he took Julia's hand and kissed it. Okay, I guess I would care if she were a leper, he thought. I wouldn't want her hand coming off when I kissed it.

"Well," said Ryan, "Now that we've all met, who's up for some Chinese?"

As they ate lunch together, Jayson still couldn't get over Julia's beauty. He commented over and over again about how beautiful Julia's eyes were. In the past, Julia would have denied it and asked to talk about something else, but now, she took pride in her eyes. They provided a great boost to her self esteem and made her feel good about herself. The best she had felt in a long time.

After lunch, she walked Ryan and Jayson back to work, keeping pace between them and holding their arms. After Jayson said goodbye, Julia gave Ryan a kiss on the cheek before he went into the building and said she would see him the next day.

That evening, Julia was walking down a sidewalk, window shopping. It was an evening custom for her. She enjoyed looking into all of the shop windows, eying everything from dresses to toys and even sporting goods. She was looking into the window of a fabric store where there was a display of baby furniture. A white crib with a lace blanket, some oversized alphabet blocks, toy soldiers and teddy bears.

She stood in front of the display imagining what it would be like to be a mother. To be a wife. To just settle down somewhere when she heard an unfamiliar voice say, "Little kids sure are nice, aren't they?"

Without looking, Julia said, "Yeah, I guess so."

"Funny. The way you're looking at this little setup, somebody might think you wanted children." Julia began to get scared. Slowly, she began to walk away, but the stranger followed her. "Where you going?"

"I have to leave."

"Oh, come now. You don't have to leave so soon." He grabbed Julia's arm and pulled her towards him. Julia saw his face. He wasn't shaven, his clothes were dirty, he smelled. "Now, where do you think you're going?"

"I have to leave," said Julia as she tried to free herself from his grip.

"You know, you have got the prettiest eyes I have ever seen on a girl."

"Please, let go of me." Julia tried harder to pull away.

"Now, what's a pretty girl like you, with eyes like that, afraid of?"

"Just leave me alone!" Julia stomped as hard as she could on his foot. When he let out a cry of pain, Julia began to run.

"You little bitch! I'll show you!" He began to chase her down the sidewalk. They were in an out of the way part of town with very little traffic. He chased her across four blocks, disregarding Walk/Don't Walk signs and any pedestrians that he shoved out of the way.

Julia dropped her ZCMI bag after the first block, with it her set of toiletries that Ryan gave her. But all she cared about now was getting away from that man. She gasped for breath as she ran, occasionally looking behind her to see if she had outrun him. But every time she looked back, he was in pursuit. Finally, she ducked into an alley, hoping that it would lead to another street. But it didn't. It was a dead end. When she discovered this, she turned around to get out, but he was there. As she stepped back, he stepped forward. He was breathing heavily and saying, "You shouldn't have done that back there. . . All I wanted to do was look into your pretty eyes." He bent over and picked up a piece of wood from an old crate.

"Please," said Julia. "Please, don't hurt me." She backed up as far she she could, but the wall wouldn't let her go any further.

"Don't hurt you?" He stepped closer, gently tapping the piece of wood into the palm of his hand. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you stepped on my foot."

"Please," she cried. "Please, I'm sorry. Please, don't hurt me."

He was only a few feet away from her when he raised the piece of wood.

"NO!!!" . . .

Ryan sat at his desk putting the finishing touches on one of his new editorials when Mr. Olsen walked up to him and said, "I really enjoyed your last editorial, Jackson. I hope we'll be seeing more work like that in the future. It seems you've been on somewhat of a role since this weekend."

"Well, I try my hardest, Mr. Olsen."

"Great. Keep up the good work. Roberts."

"Yes, Mr. Olsen," said Jayson from behind his partition.

"I'd like to speak with you later today about the governor's press conference. You know, the one you covered last week. I haven't had a chance to speak with you about it."

"Yes, Sir." After Mr. Olsen left, Jayson looked over the partition at Ryan and said, "I sure don't hope it's a negative review."

"I don't think so," said Ryan. "I read it. I thought it was pretty good."

"Thanks."

"Say, Jayson."

"Yeah?"

"Would you like to join Julia and me for lunch again?"

"Julia? You mean bright eyes? You bet. You know, Ryan, she is one hot chick."

"Okay. Then lunch it is."

When lunch time rolled around, Ryan and Jayson walked out of the building together. Ryan looked all around the front of the building for Julia, but he didn't see her anywhere. "Where is she?"

"Maybe she's a little late," said Jayson.

They waited for ten minutes. Finally, they went to the sidewalk around Temple Square. They walked around it twice. No sign of her. "Man, if she's not in front of the building I usually find her around here."

"Well, where else do you two hang out, Ryan?"

"Oh, the Administrative Building, I guess. And the park."

"The park? By the time we find her, it'll be time to get back to work."

"Come on, Jay. I need to find her."

"Okay, Ryan."

They walked to the Administrative Building. They checked the lobby and the roof . . . nothing. They went to the park and toured the entire area looking for Julia. No sign what so ever. Ryan was really worried, now. "Where could she be?"

Jayson tried to be comforting. "Listen, Ryan. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she has something else she has to do."

"What else is she going to do? She's homeless, she jobless. Hell, she's lucky she lives behind a restaurant that gives her free food."

"Ryan, don't worry about her. She's a big girl. I'm sure she can take care of herself. If she's managed as long as she has in down town Salt Lake City this long, Without you, I think she can handle herself for one day. Now, come on. We need to get back to work."

Ryan looked around as far as he could. Still worried, he said, "Are you sure?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

On their way back to work, Jayson stopped by a hot dog stand to get a quick bite to eat. "You want anything, Ryan?"

"No thanks. I'm not too hungry."

"For God's sake, stop worrying about her."

"Okay. I guess I can stop by her place after work."

"Fine then. Now, come on."

After work, as he promised himself, Ryan walked all the way to the alley behind Mrs. Santangelo's restaurant. He looked around, but saw nothing. "Julia?" he called. "Julia, are you here?" Nothing. Then, he heard a quiet whimper. "Julia? Is that you?" Ryan ran to the stairwell, where she lived. He peered down the steps and saw a young girl lying on the floor in a fetal position. He ran down the steps and put his arms around her. It was Julia. He lifted her up and held her in his arms. Her face was badly beaten. She had two black eyes which were so swollen she could barely open them to see Ryan. The whites of her eyes, which normally seemed to gleam, were now pink from punctured blood vessels. "Oh, my God. Julia, what happened?"

Julia just cried at first, then she said, "He raped me."

"Who? Who raped you?"

"I don't know his name. Some man. He hit me with a piece of wood and then he raped me."

"Oh, God. How could this happen? Do you know what he looks like?"

"It was dark." Ryan started to cry and to rock Julia in his arms. "He said he liked my eyes," she said, then cried harder.

"Hey you," said a woman with a heavy Italian accent. "What are you doing?"

Ryan turned around. It was Mrs. Santangelo. "Mrs. Santangelo, Come here, Julia's been raped."

"Raped?"

"Yes, please, come and help her."

Mrs. Santangelo stepped briskly down the steps and and helped Ryan bring Julia to her feet. Then, they both took Julia into the back of the Restaurant where Mrs. Santangelo began to do her best to dress Julia's wounds. She gave Julia an ice pack for her eyes and a glass of water.

Mrs. Santangelo held Julia by the shoulders and said, "Julia, you know I have to call the police."

"No. Please, don't call the police. They can't do anything."

"But Julia, you have been raped. I have to."

"No, please don't."

"Listen, Mrs. Santangelo," said Ryan, "Maybe if you waited a while."

"You, I don't have to listen to," the old woman said. "I think you should go now."

"Well, I think I should be here for Julia."

"No, go."

"Julia, listen. Come with me. I'll take you to my apartment and then we can see a doctor tomorrow, together."

"How many times do I have to tell you? Leave. Get out of my restaurant. I'll take care of this. Don't you worry, she'll stay with me tonight." While their arguing persisted, Julia just kept on crying.

Reluctantly, Ryan finally left and told Julia that he would come back the next day to see her.

He went to the front of the restaurant and called a cab. He cried all the way home, feeling sorry for himself and for Julia. He wished he knew who raped her, but at the same time, he was glad he didn't know. If he knew who it was he probably would have gone out to find him and then beaten him to within an inch of his life.

At home, he couldn't eat and he couldn't sleep until exhaustion claimed him early the next morning.

Ryan forgot about work the next day. He went straight to the Alley behind Mrs. Santangelo's. It was empty except for a dumpster and the randomly strewn pieces of cardboard and paper wrappers. He went to Julia's place and looked down the steps. It was empty. No blanket, no foam pillow, no pictures, no ZCMI bag(but he had no way of knowing that Julia lost it the night before). Everything was gone. Only a few pieces of wet cardboard were in the place of her things. Worried, he ran to the back door of the restaurant and began banging on it. He banged on it for ten minutes until it was finally answered by one of the cooks.

"What you want?" said the cook, who only spoke broken English.

"I need to speak with Mrs. Santangelo," said Ryan.

"Wait here."

Ryan waited as he heard the cook call for the old woman in Italian. A few minutes later, she came to the back. "Mrs. Santangelo, I'm Ryan Jackson, Julia's friend. I've come to see her."

"Well, she's gone," said Mrs. Santangelo.

"Gone? What do you mean?"

"Just that. She's gone. I wake up this morning and I go into my son's old room where I put her for the night and she was not there. I come down to see if she is in her stairwell, and she is not there. She's gone."

"Did she at least leave a message?"

"No. No message, no letter, nothing. All I know is she took a pair of my son's sunglasses."

Ryan couldn't believe it. The first girl he had fallen in love with in such a long time had disappeared. He looked all over the city for her. Temple Square, the park, almost every alley he could find. She was nowhere to be found. There was no use calling the police. Officially, she wasn't even a resident of Utah. She was one of the unknown.

Ryan felt very sick. He went home and tried to sleep. But he couldn't. He just held onto his pillow and cried.

On Thursday morning, Jayson Roberts sat at his desk and set about editing one of his latest editorials. Mr. Olsen then walked up to him and said, "Roberts, do you know where Jackson is? This is the second day in a row that he hasn't showed up for work."

"I don't know, sir. I tried calling his apartment last night, but all I got was his answering machine."

Mr. Olsen gave an expression of sincere concern then said, "Well, you're his best friend, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why don't you stop by his apartment at lunch and see if he's alright. I need an editorial from him for the evening edition."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Olsen began to walk away when Jayson's fax machine began to pour out an editorial titled, "One of the Unknown. by Ryan Jackson." When it finished printing, Jayson ripped out the paper and began to read it. It was the homeless article Ryan had been working on for such a long time. After he finished reading it, he found out what had happened to Julia.

"Mr. Olsen," said Jayson. "I think your editorial has just come in."

Hindsight Is Always 20/20

1992-03-24T16:02:00.004-07:00

I got the idea for "Hindsight" when I was a young lad at the hight of the Cold War, but I didn't actually write it until after the break up of the Soviet Union. This was before the first Gulf War and the War on Terrorism. I made up for this by being somewhat vague in the naming of my superpowers in the story and still stand by the work as a "alternate reality" approach to Cold War fiction.
Even though the Cold War is over, we can still look at Cold War fiction as a way things could have turned out. At the same time, we look at it with a sigh of relief that the chances of such events happening now are far less than they were a few years ago. But we can't ignore the fact that nuclear weapons still exist in the world and many maniacal, third world leaders are still trying build or buy atomic weapons. Given this, the possibility of a terrorist supporting dictator using nuclear weapons for international and/or political gain could start a war that no one wants and no one would know how to stop.

The following is not about a terrorist act with nuclear weapons. It's about the aftermath of a nuclear war, not necessarily on our planet. How this or any other nuclear war starts is not at issue. What's at issue is the human cost of such a conflict.

Two helicopters flew toward each other over the frozen wastelands of the North. One from the West, the other from the East each baring the political markings of the superpowers they represented.

The Western leader sat in his helicopter drinking a glass of water and looking out over the ice and snow outside. A synthesized ping was heard in the small private compartment of the aircraft followed by the Western leader's somber command, "Come."

The navigator of the aircraft entered the room, "Three minutes until rendezvous, Sir."

Without looking away from the window, the Western leader said, "Very well."

The navigator returned to the cockpit, leaving his commander in chief to his thoughts and his conscience.

The Eastern helicopter, slightly larger than its Western counterpart, carried its leader over identical terrain on an intercept course with the Western aircraft. Neither ship was armed, only the few secret servicemen aboard each aircraft carried weapons.

The Eastern leader sat quietly next to his wife and young daughter in the traveling compartment when the navigator of the helicopter entered and gave the Eastern leader a message similar to the one received by the Western leader.

A little more than two minutes passed when the pilots of the aircraft could see each other in their windscreens. Thirty seconds later, the two rotary wing aircraft began to slow down as they faced each other over the ice, blowing gusts of snow into the air. They circled each other like two panthers, as if they were waiting for one or the other to make a suspicious move. They circled each other twice and landed, fittingly, with the Western helicopter to the West and the Eastern ship to the East.

When the blades of both helicopters slowed to a stop, their main doors opened, lowering small sets of steps for the two leaders. A few moments passed and finally, the Eastern leader came out of his aircraft. When he stepped onto the ice covered ground, the Western leader modestly peaked out from the door of his helicopter. He then walked down his own set of steps.

They faced each other for a good thirty seconds then, finally, walked toward each other through the snow. They stopped a few feet apart and looked into each other's eyes. They were both tired and fatigued. The Western leader, in an attempt to make himself and his counterpart more comfortable, said, "Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, thank you," said his counterpart.

"It certainly is cold."

"It is." They stood quietly, trying to think of something else to say before they faced each other with the truth of their visit. "Do you have enough food?"

The Western leader made a quick glance to his aircraft and said, "Yes, we're quite alright . . . for the time being." A quick and cold gust of wind blew past them. In an attempt to shield themselves from it, they both stepped a foot closer to each other. When it subsided, the Western leader asked, "Do you have enough food."

"Yes, we do. As well as some wine."

"Do you have anything with you now?"

The Eastern leader gave a shy smile and then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a bar of chocolate. A Western bar of chocolate. With a sorrowful smile he said, "Sadly ironic, is it not?"

With a similar, sorrowful expression, the Western leader said, "Indeed."

"Would you share this with me?"

"Yes."

The Eastern leader broke the candy bar in half with the wrapper still on it and gave a piece to his foreign adversary. For a few moments they ate a couple of bites of chocolate. He licked a smudge of chocolate from his thumb and asked, "Do you still have factories that make this in your country?"

"I don't know."

"I am forced to wonder how it all might have been. I have always admired your society."

Holding back tears, the Western leader asked, "Then why . . ." He tried to remember who fired the first shot. On which continent did the first salvo of missiles originate?

"Will you be alright?"

"I don't know. As long as we have food and fresh water, I suppose we'll be fine. And you?"

"The same. . . Actually, not the same."

The Western leader couldn't help crying, now. "What have we done?"

The leader of the Eastern superpower glanced around himself and very matter of factly, as well as somberly, stated, "We have destroyed our world."

"Why?"

"That," said the Eastern leader with regret, "is for the historians to figure out."

The Bomb

1991-03-24T14:36:00.003-07:00

I'd have to say this is one of the first stories I ever wrote that I thought was cool and definitely an original "Joe Puente." I've always been proud of it, even today, especially when I describe it to someone and they give me a double take before they ask, "You wrote this?" I've also since worked on and off on a screen adaptation that deviates a great deal from the original tone of the work but I figure that since I wrote the original story, I can change it however I darn well please. I think I'll change the title for the movie though, for a couple of reasons: 1) "The Bomb" has since become a clichŽd expression for something really cool and it fizzled fairly quickly as a euphamism... not quick enough for my tastes. 2) When a movie is a faliure at the box office, they usually say it bombed. Who's going to say, "I'm going to see 'The Bomb' at the movies," when the immediate response would be, "Why waste your money on seeing a bomb?"

There's a bomb in my hand, But I can't let go of it. You see, if I do... it'll explode. I messed with the wrong people, and they knew their stuff... their drugs, their money, their enemies and, of course, how to take care of them.

I must admit, they're good. All they said was catch... and I did.

"All right, Jimmy, let's go," said the first man. Jimmy walked out of the hangar. The thug took a long evil look into Robert's face and with a sardonic smile said, "What ever you do, don't let go."

I haven't let go either, for the past five hours.

Let me describe the bomb for you. Judging from the malleability when I first took hold of it, it seems to be made of some sort of plastic explosive, probably C 4. They'd be able to get a hold of some. It's completely surrounded by a black, plastic membrane like that on some microwave ovens. This is probably the switch. I can feel the detonator between the small and ring fingers of my left hand.

The device itself is about the size of a tennis ball. If I know explosives, that's enough C 4 to torch a small apartment, and everything in it.

Robert, what have you gotten yourself into? You screwed with the Mob, and they screwed you.

What time is it?

It was about 9:25 AM when Robert got the phone call.

"Mr. Erickson?" the voice asked.

Robert didn't recognize the voice; it was male with a slight Italian accent.

Robert responded, "Yes?"

"I believe we have some unfinished business to take care of."

Robert felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins, "What sort of business?" he asked.

"The kind that involves some property of mine."

"Who is this?"

"Never mind who this is!" he paused as if to calm down, "Where's my snow?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about."

He sure did. Robert licked his lips with a dry tongue, "What do you want?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Erickson. Meet me at the abandoned hangar out on the west side in twenty minutes, or we're coming to get you." The phone went dead.

God, my hand's getting tired. How long has it been? 3:34. Another twenty five minutes or so, and I'll be hitting six hours. How long can I hold out? I've been in this hanger all day. After they gave me the bomb, they hung around outside for about an hour, then left.

Robert worked at a law firm, and was very well to do. He was a bachelor, so there was no one to welcome him home at night... except for his cat.

He pulled up to the old hangar in his BMW. It was supposed to have been torn down about eighteen years earlier, but a group of people from a local Smithsonian affiliate had fought to keep it up and won. A caretaker was supposed to keep the place in shape about every month, but he learned that his employers came by for inspection about every six months, so he did the work accordingly. There was a good layer of dirt and dust on the surrounding pavement and the tread of the BMW's tires left a near perfect impression. Dandelions and tufts of Devil Grass broke free of their black prison
of tar and gravel all around the parking lot.

Robert stopped the car by a light post that was being choked at its base by some incipient Ivy. He was about twenty yards from the hangar; on the other side of it would be the runway, which was probably in worse condition than the parking lot.

He stepped out onto the dirty asphalt and checked his watch: 9:45, right on time. But where's the man who was on the phone? He slammed the door and walked over to a commemorative plaque in front of the hangar entrance. It was titled, "Clark Field." He read it slowly. What a bunch of B.S., he thought. His watch read 9:50. He read the plaque twice more to pass the time.

"Come on, it's ten o'clock. Where are you?" he said, "you're late."

"No, we're not," said the voice as Robert spun around to see the man. About ten feet behind him was another in a gray silk suit which seemed to hang on him. He was sickly looking with a receding hairline, and was carrying an aluminum briefcase.

The first man, whom Robert had spoken to on the telephone, was shorter and had a full head of brown hair. His face was round yet handsome. Robert felt he had seen him before.

"Gentlemen," said Robert.

"I doubt you have it with you," said the first man.

"Have what?"

"Don't start that with me again," He looked to the side in mild frustration, then back at Robert with a hideous smile, "Where's the snow?"

"I don't have it."

"Don't give me that crap, man. Where is it?"

"I told you already, I don't have it. And how would you know anyway.?"

"I was there when you took it... right after our man had his accident." Then, Robert remembered. He caught a glimpse of the man putting a gun into his coat across the street from a "car accident." Robert went to help the victim who lay in a bloody heap in the front seat of the car. he then found a large amount of Cocaine in the open trunk. He took it.

"You call a bullet to the head an accident?"

"Forget the details, man. He screwed up, and we just rectified his mistake. Now where's the Coke?"

"It's gone."

"Don't tell me you snorted it all!"

"No, I turned it into the cops... anonymously," he lied.

"But how much?" he said in a sinister tone."

"It doesn't matter now." Robert's hands were shaking.

The first man turned to the other, "Jimmy." Jimmy pulled out a Tech 9 from under his coat and pointed it at Robert, who started sweating.

"Inside," said the first man. Robert raised his arms, turned slowly, and walked through the hangar door. Inside were a few dusty old airplanes with their own explanatory plaques. Robert walked to the open center of the building where he was told to stop.

"So, when did you guys get here? I thought I was early," Robert would say anything to postpone the inevitable.

"Turn around," said the first man. Robert did so and put his arms down cautiously. Jimmy responded to a look from the first man, and set the brief case down gently on a nearby bench. He opened it up as the first man walked over. He picked up a shiny black ball from the case. He held it between his right thumb and middle finger at points marked on the ball. He looked to Robert and said, "Think fast!" Robert caught it with his left hand. The black plastic crinkled under his grip.

"It works like an explosive booby trap," said the first man, "It takes one move to turn it on, then another to set it off."

Well, I guess this is how I'm going to die. In an old airplane hanger from a
mysterious fiery explosion. I can't drive away, my tires are flat. I guess Jimmy tried to scare me into letting go of the bomb by blowing out my radials, but I expected as much. But you know, I don't think I want to die. Not yet, anyway, and certainly not here. I'll go out with a bang alright, but I won't go alone. I'm going to take that king pin with me.

Robert looked around for something to brace his hand, anything. He happened upon a tool box in the far corner of the hanger. He opened it with his free hand and started rummaging around. He found a roll of duct tape under a bag of six penny nails and pulled off about an eight inch strip with his teeth, then wrapped it as tight as he could around his left hand. Now for the moment of truth. He was going to relax his hand, if the tape wasn't tight enough, he'd die. If it was, he planned on dying with company. He relaxed... nothing. He was tempted to stretch it, but if he did, then that was it. He had to move fast.

Robert stepped out of the hanger and looked around... nothing. He walked over to his car and opened the driver's side door. He bent over and pulled the trunk release lever. Then he walked to the back of the car, and opened it. Searching with his free hand, he pulled up the floor plate, "At least they didn't shoot the spare," he said sarcastically and grabbed a wrinkled tan overcoat he saw stuffed into a corner. He opened a small box and pulled out a paper bag. In it was a small .22 caliber pistol... unloaded. Robert tore around the box looking for ammunition. There was none to be found. Oh, well, he thought, at least I can bluff.

He struggled to put on the coat. When he did, he stuffed his left hand into the coat pocket, and left it there.

Robert walked briskly toward town. He thumbed it for about a mile, until he was picked up by an old hippy in a beat up, Chevy convertible.

Throughout the ride, he tried to think of where the first man would go. Then he remembered the accident. It was outside of a high class restaurant. There was no guarantee he was there, but Robert had a hunch. He asked the hippy to take him there.

The Chevy pulled up in front of the restaurant and Robert got out. He pulled a fifty from his pocket and gave it to the hippy.

"Hey, thanks, man," he said.

"No problem," said Robert, and he went in.

Robert walked over to a small podium with a reservation book on it. He scanned the room, hoping. Then Robert saw him.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked the host.

"Oh, yes,"said Robert in mild surprise, "Could you tell me that man's name?" he pointed to him, "Over there."

"Certainly, that's Mr. Vincent." The host turned back to Robert and asked, "Why do you wish to know?"

"He gave me a gift this morning, and I wanted to return the favor. May I speak with him?"

"I don't see why not, go right ahead."

"Thank you very much."

Vincent was sitting alone in a small rear booth. On the way over, Robert grabbed a menu with his free hand. He opened it and stood it up on the end of Vincent's table and sat down, "Hey, Vincent."

Vincent looked up startled. Now he felt scared, "What are you doing here?"

Robert pulled out the pistol and held it behind the menu, "Get up." Vincent did so, and then Robert put the empty gun into his pocket, yet kept it pointed at Vincent, "Outside."

Vincent walked through the restaurant and its unsuspecting patrons, "Where's the bomb," he whispered to Robert, who was right behind him.

"In my pocket, so don't try anything."

"You'll die, too, you know."

"I know, but if I wasn't going to die, I wouldn't be wasting my time here with you." They walked through the door and out onto the street, still lit by the sun in the westward sky. The lamps wouldn't kick on for another half hour. Vincent tried to run for it, but Robert caught up with him in the middle of the street. He freed his left hand and gave Vincent a bear hug from behind. Vincent tried to bend over so he could break free, but Robert opened his left hand...