This has been kicking around for a long time.  Since right after college.  I think I finally got it right.  - Amy 

I tried.  You have no idea.  Every romantic swirl of an idea that came into my head, I assaulted with sharp, angular logic, arguing the notion into submission, and burying myself within my texts until the errant thought was gone. 

I read of the stars, their scorching heat, and the vast distances between them.  These truths defied the fluttering tide of whimsy.  The calculations of Newton, Kepler, Galileo and Brahe were divine, the poetry of the heavens.  The universe keeps a rhythm, the movements of the stars an elaborate waltz.  Through mathematics and diligent observation, I hoped to understand it.

Transfixed by the clarity of science, I lingered in the library until closing time.  Finally, I gathered my books and walked back toward my dormitory.

I strode purposefully – until I chanced to look up.  But confronted by the modest majesty of the universe, the light of a thousand galaxies displayed across the evening sky, and the soft pearl moon, I dropped my texts to run through the fields, heart in the heavens, marvelling at their humble magnificence.

On those nights, the books were wrong!  The stars were not unruly infernos light years away.  They were dancing, merry winks of warmth, hovering playfully just out of reach.  If I jumped high enough, perhaps I could catch one in my hands, like a firefly, and caress its soft warmth to my face.  Those nights galloping in the grass were my happiest moments.

In the morning, however, I wallowed in the facts which by night I found ludicrous.  I balked at my behavior.  Of course I couldn’t catch a star.  Preposterous.  And what was I doing gallivanting around like that, anyway?  The only solution was to knuckle down and get back to facts.  Provables.  Truth.

Eventually, this part of me dominated the other so boldly that I forgot it myself.  After winning my position at this observatory, my nocturnal indiscretions gradually ceased.  Ultimately, I went from rejoicing in the heavens’ wonder to rejoicing in my own recognition for quantifying them. 

Today I observed a newly-discovered star with a shrug.  The technology was exciting.  The process.  Another star?  No.  Just one of billions.  But tonight, at home, something deep within me awoke.

I went to my porch and strained to see the sky.  I gazed up toward where the new star would be if one could see it with the naked eye – and it winked at me!  Just a brief tingle of light, but I saw it, and once again felt that familiar instinct which long ago told me that the stars were close enough to reach, if I only leaped high enough.

My nostrils flared; my knees creaked.  I leaped over the railing into the yard, feet flying over the grass.  Stars flashed and dazzled over the trees.  The heavens were abuzz with light.  I ran to the night-time sky, felt her warm embrace envelop my prodigal soul, and, with the ecstasy of youth, leaped upward.

Copyright 1992, 2004, 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction verboten unless you ask first.

I fucking hate her. 

Bitch, bitch, bitch.  Every word out of her mouth is either a complaint or about her.  You’d think eventually she’d want to know something about me, but no.  Six months in the same apartment, she ought to at least express an interest in my life, right?  I’m the one paying the rent.  She doesn’t have a job or a boyfriend or even any family to speak of.  Most people would have made some effort to reach out to me or bond by now.  Or even say thank you for taking care of things.  Not her.  When I come home, she doesn’t even have the courtesy to ask me how my day was.  Nope, just the same endless litany about how she feels, and how her wrists hurt, and when am I going to fix her something to eat.

If this keeps up, I’m not untying her for at least another month.

Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly

Er…  I have no explanation for this.  - Amy

Immanuel Velikovsky and Erich Von Daniken are sitting in a bar.  Erich says, “God was an ancient Astronaut.  Look at the Egyptians’ Sirius-based calendar.  And the Mayans’ precise calculations of Venus’ orbit.  These ancient peoples could never have computed them on their own.  It’s proof that they were visited by extraterrestrials.”

Immanuel shakes his head.  “No, no.  No extraterrestrials, you silly boy.  An enormous comet was ejected from the surface of Jupiter and collided with the earth.  It explains the parting of the Red Sea, manna falling from the heavens, the seven plagues of Egypt.  All perfectly obvious.”

A man sitting a few stools down shakes his head.  “You’ve both got it wrong.”

Erich waves the man over.  “What’s your theory?”

He shrugs.  “It’s not a theory, it’s a fact.  It’s all in the mind.  The parting of the Red Sea, the Egyptian calendar, all of it.”

Immanuel looks thoughtful.  “How so?”

The man draws a spoon from his jacket and appears to bend it.  “Psychic power, my friend.  The power of the mind.”

Immanuel laughs.  “Bartender!  Another round, for me and my friends here!”

The barkeep, an older man with thinning hair and a bushy beard, silently brings three shotglasses filled with clear liquid.

“A toast!”  Immanuel blinks to clear his increasingly blurry field of vision.  “To extraterrestrials, comets, and psychic phenomena!  And fat bank accounts!”

“Skol!”

“Nostrovia!”

They toss back their shots.

Within seconds, Immanuel Velikovsky, Erich Von Daniken and Uri Geller are dead.

James Randi smiles and steps out from behind the bar.

Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

For Frank and Rich, at their request.

The plan was simple and brilliant.

They would leave work at 10:30 coffee break. Exit through front reception. Cross street to bank. Outside bank, just out of range of security cameras, slip on ski masks and draw guns. Enter bank at 10:36, just as the armored car agent walks in pushing the dolly full of currency. Rich holds gun to agent’s head. Frank pushes dolly through bank to rear parking lot, where Rich parked stolen van evening before. Rich would follow Frank, covering the crowd with his weapon, opening the van’s back door for Frank and the money. Rich closes the van door, still holding people at bay, and drives van around block, around to office parking garage from behind, and parks at 10:41. Retrieve soda and pretzels from cooler in van, remove masks and weapons, locking them in van with money. Walk into office at 10:43, with two minutes to spare before break ends.

Leave at end of day with fifty thousand dollars in cash, each.

10:30: Exit through front reception. Flo from Marketing tries to talk Rich and Frank into buying Girl Scout cookies for her daughter’s troop. Frank gets Thin Mints. They get out at 10:35.

10:37: masks, guns, enter bank. Armored car is late. Fat woman with small child begins screaming. Security guard approaches. Rich spins around, accidentally knocks him in the face with his gun. “Sorry!” Rich says, before he remembers he’s not supposed to speak. Frank sees the armored car agent walk in with dolly, sprints to intercept. Slips on newly-waxed floor. Falls, fractures tailbone. Gun skitters away. Small child with screaming fat mother points at Frank and laughs. 10:38: Rich points gun to agent’s head. Agent is a fast draw; he already has his own pistol aimed right back at Rich. From the floor, Frank rolls to grab for his gun. Screaming fat woman gets to it first and points it at Frank. Small child giggles.

10:39: Frank rolls away from screaming fat woman and gasps in pain from pressure on his tailbone. Screaming fat woman shoots. Bullet grazes Frank’s big toe. Frank screams now.

Rich and agent are in a standoff. Reaching slowly down to grab Frank by the collar, Rich pulls Frank up from the floor and begins edging out the door.

10:40: Rich and Frank get to the bank door, turn, and run. Followed by the security guard, armored car agent, bank employees and screaming fat gun-wielding woman with giggling child. Rich and Frank dodge a car to get across the street.

10:42: Rich and Frank stumble into front reception. Flo from Marketing and Melinda, the receptionist, stare. “Break’s not over yet,” Rich pants. Frank faints from loss of blood. Flo and Melinda are still staring.

10:43: Rich realizes he is still wearing a ski mask and clutching a gun. “Oh, this. I can explain. Uh…”

10:44: Security guard, armored car agent, bank employees and screaming fat gun-wielding woman with giggling child arrive in front reception.

Break’s over.

Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means without prior written consent prohibited.

Alex opened the door and wished he hadn’t.

“Hey, bro.  Thanks for the ride,” Ross said sourly.  “I’m crashing here.”

Alex blocked the door.  “No.  Out of the question.”

His brother shouldered him aside and stepped in.  “I got no place else.  I already notified my parole officer.”

Alex shut the door and faced Ross.  “You can’t stay here.”

“Can and will.”  Ross was already on the stairs.  “Look, I’m beat.  Long bus ride.  We’ll talk in the morning.”

Alex sighed.  “Only one night.  I just moved here.  I want to make a good impression.”  He could hear Ross moving in the room overhead.  Alex’s own room.  Bastard.

The next morning, Alex was washing some Tylenol down with coffee when Ross came downstairs.  Alex held up the newspaper.  “I already found a couple places that are renting rooms.  I’ll front you the deposit.”

His brother shook his head and poured the rest of the coffee into a mug.  “Nobody’s gonna rent to me.  Not with my record.”

“You can’t stay here, Ross.  I’m happy to help you find another place, but you’re not spending another night under this roof.”

Ross slammed the mug onto the counter, spilling coffee everywhere.  “Nobody’s renting a room to a registered sex offender, Alex.  Deal with it.”

“Can you think about me for a second?”

Ross sneered.  “You turned me in, bro.  I think about you all the time.”

Alex swallowed.  His throat was like sandpaper.  “Don’t do this.”

The sneer became an ugly grin.  “The notification letters have already gone out to the whole neighborhood.  They don’t mention my name or address, just that I’m living in this area, what I did, and my physical description.”

Alex went white.  “No.  For the love of God.”

Ross looked up at the clock.  “Eight-thirty.  You’ll have to leave for work soon, won’t you?”

“I’m calling in sick.”

“How many days can you get away with that, bro?  You got a mortgage to pay now, don’t you?  You need that paycheck.  Me, I’ll be sitting here, reminiscing about those little boys.”

“God damn you to hell.”

“Letters might not have reached everybody yet.  You should go to work.  This could be your last day before they know what I look like.”

Alex looked at his identical twin and started to cry.

Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Vincent turned to his wife in triumph.  “Irene!  We did it!”

His wife nodded in pride.  “Three generations!”

“As of today, it’s been six years.”  That was their goal.

Irene bounced up from her stool and wrapped joyous arms around her husband.  “Darling, I have never been happier in all my life.”

He leaned down to kiss her.  “Let’s celebrate.”

For fifteen years, Drs. Vincent and Irene Lovell had been working in their basement laboratory on an anti-oxidant drug that rejuvenated tissue and prevented disease.  With her background in bioengineering and his in biochemistry, they were uniquely suited to the task they’d set themselves: to create an immunization against tissue breakdown that promoted longevity and possibly facilitated immortality.  In less time than they’d ever dreamed, Vincent and Irene had achieved the impossible.  This batch of test mice had lived exactly six years, without a single one falling ill or requiring veterinary care.  The control group had all died within two years.  Naturally, more tests would have to be performed, more data accumulated and analyzed, but this was a true scientific breakthrough.  Data had been kept every day, videos had been taken of the mice, regular physical checkups had been done, DNA collected, progress graphed.  They had scrupulously observed the conventions of empirical data, and as a result, the Lovells had just accomplished one of humanity’s greatest achievements, with meticulous documentation . 

A knock at the basement door roused them from their triumphant reverie.  Vincent opened it to admit Irene’s brother, Ignatius.  “Am I interrupting something?”

Vincent put a proud arm around his wife.  “You know our experiment?  The one we’ve been working on for so long?”

Ignatius nodded.  “The mice die?”

“No!” Irene beamed.  “As of today, they’ve lived three times the normal lifespan of a mouse.  We did it!  We reached our target!”

Ignatius sighed heavily.  For years, he had dreaded this day.  He pulled out the gun he’d carried for the last four years and shot his brother-in-law, point-blank.  Irene gasped.  “Sorry, Renie,” Ignatius wept, and blew her away.  He took the fire extinguisher from the wall and emptied the tank on the mice, asphyxiating them.  Then he went to the Lovell’s garage and brought out the gasoline can Vincent used for the lawn mower.  Knowing fire always burned upward, Ignatius took extra care to pour all three gallons on every inch of the basement.

On his way back out the basement door, Ignatius lit a match and flicked it into the doorway.  The blast knocked him flat on the driveway.  Still weeping, he crawled back to the hearse, shifted into gear, and drove back to the funeral parlor.

He was truly sorry for what he’d done.  He’d tried to tell them ever since they began this stupid project, but they wouldn’t listen.  They brought it on themselves, he rationalized – they’d always known the mortuary trade was a very competitive business.  It wasn’t like he had a choice.

Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Thanks to Doug Morse for some useful details. 

Absence of evidence.  That was his only goal, apart from murder. 

His victim worked graveyard shift, returning while it was still dark.  This left him nearly nine hours to enter the darkened apartment and set the scene.  Prior to entering the apartment, before even touching the doorknob, he slipped on new surgical gloves and a surgical cap.  Over his own clothing, he donned a new plastic coverall.  It was hot working under all this protection, but it prevented any hairs or fibers from escaping.  Surgical booties over his shoes eliminated footprints. 

Being cautious, he brought plastic sheeting with him.  After entering the apartment, he spread the sheeting along in front of him, never once letting his foot touch the unsheeted floor.  This complicated his movements to some degree, but he felt it was both prudent and necessary.

The gun was a 32-round 9mm semi-automatic pistol.  It had been stolen from a would-be mugger two years before, rendering provenance difficult.  Its serial numbers had been filed down and brushed with acid.  A foam pillow was secured over the barrel as a silencer.

He made his way to the bedroom and switched off the breakers.  The apartment was now without electricity or light.  It was nearly time.  He put on his helmet, which had a miner’s light attached, and waited behind the door.

His victim opened this door at precisely 5:11am.  She reached for the light switch, flipping it back and forth in the light from the hallway.  Satisfied that the foyer bulb had burnt out, she left the door open to illuminate her way as she walked to the lamp on the console table.  Noticing the plastic on the floor, she glanced around.

He closed the door gently and switched on the miner’s light.  She turned in surprise.  He took aim and fired.  The silent bullet hit her squarely in the forehead.  She sagged to the floor.

The heat from the charge had ignited the homemade silencer.  Gasping, he threw the gun to the floor, melting the plastic and setting flame to the carpet beneath.  Immediately, the skirt of the tablecloth on the console table caught fire, blocking his exit.  The fumes from the melting plastic were intense, the heat in his plastic coveralls brutal.  He tried staggering to the window over the melting plastic.  He got as far as the couch before losing consciousness.

He awoke to bright lights and blinding pain.  “You have second and first degree burns on 70% of your body,” said a cheerful nurse.  “You’re also suffering from smoke inhalation.  We’ll get you back on the morphine drip just as soon as you answer these detectives’ questions.”

“The perfect crime,” he whispered.

The detective snorted.  “Yeah, you set yourself on fire.  Just perfect.”

Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

“Hello, is this the party to whom I am speaking?   I have Mr. Cosgrove, of the law firm Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian on the line for you.  Please hold.”

 “Cosgrove here.  About this case of yours.  Can’t do it, I’m afraid.  Terribly sorry, but the workload…  I’ve passed your case along to young Gossage—well, not so young, forty if he’s a day—excellent counselor, your case is as good as won with Gossage at your side.  In fact, I have him on the line now.  Just a moment, we’ll make the transfer…”

 “Good morning, Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian, is this the party to whom I am speaking?  Oh, excuse me, sir, you must have been transferred to the receptionist’s desk by accident.  You’re wanting young Mr. Gossage.  Please hold.”

 (Cough cough)  “Gossage speaking.  Ah, yes, I’ve just been looking over the details of your case, and I’m afraid I’m overbooked.  However, I have managed to get Vardebedian Three—excuse me,  I meant to say, Mr. Vardebedian the third, a founding partner’s grandson—to take the case.  He’s sharp as a tack.  Hold on, I’ll put you through to him now.”

 “Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian, is this the party to whom I am speaking?  Oh, dear, I do apologize.  I’ll transfer you now…”

 “Beady here.  No, that’s me.  T. Horatio Vardebedian the Third, Beady for short.  You don’t want to know what the T stands for, trust me.  Now, let me look at your file…  Cripes!    What the…  Er…  You know, we have a member of the firm who specializes in cases like this.  He’s still a little green, not yet a partner, but I think…  I think he’s the man for the job.  Name’s Porridge.  Let me look up his extension…”

(Telephone rings four times, is picked up.)   “Huh-hello?  Hello?  I…  Um.  (Cough)  I don’t think this phone’s working.”

 “Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian, is this the party to whom I am speaking?  You again?  No, Mr. Porridge’s telephone is in working order.  Just a moment, I’ll connect you.”

 (High squeaky voice)  “Mr. Porridge’s line.  No, Mr. Porridge isn’t here.  Uhhh… he’s sick.  No, wait, he’s on vacation. A, uh, business vacation.  Where did he go?  Uh…  Disneyland?  Hello, hello?  I can’t hear yoooooou…” CLICK!

 “Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian, is this the party to whom I am speaking?  No, I assure you there is absolutely nothing wrong with Mr. Porridge’s telephone.  I’ll put you back with him now.  I think I can get him for you.”

 “Hey, Sandy, thank God you called!  They just gave me this case, and you wouldn’t believe what this nut job…  Oh.  I beg your pardon.  Oh, Christ.  (Sigh.)  About this case of yours…”

Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.