The Man With the Cardboard Box (Fiction)

I sat. To be interviewed. I was disappointed. I thought to myself, if they are going to ignore me this long, what kind of employers would they be.

As I waited I observed this man. He came in the waiting room door, He was burly, bald and sweating profusely. He was carrying a huge cardbox box. He took it to the door of the inner office. He was barely able to open the door, as he had to release one hand from the box to grab the door knob. Then, the gentleman who I believe was the man who was going to interview me interceded, took the box, and said, "Thanks Chuck."

What was really strange was that this happened five times. Strange place, I thought. I considered just leaving.

I was finally called. Phew.

"Hello David, I am Jack. I hope you don't mind the informality. We don't use last names around here." I thought to myself, I wonder if there is another David here. Jack could read minds.

"We have another David here. He is older, so your name would be Junior."

I haven't even started the interview and they have me nicknamed,


Before things even got properly started, Chuck was at the door again. Jack got up, grabbed the box from him, carried it to the other side of the room and placed it on the floor beside the five other boxes.

He wiped his brow. "I'm getting too old for this."

This company, dealing in employment services, didn't seem to deal in stock as it were. These boxes made me curious. If I was hired, I would be doing a lot of Excel mapping, paperwork and making a lot of phone calls. Heavy lifting didn't seem to apply, at least I didn't think so.

After we had discussed my previous experience, yes, you guessed it, Chuck was at the door, This time, I decided to show my 'positive attitude' by getting up and taking the box from Chuck. And Jack didn;t look well. I didn't want to witness a heart attack.

When the box entered the nest of my arms I almost fell over. Why? Because I had braced myself for a heavy load bearing on me, with my knees slightly bent, and my back very straight. This box appeared to me to be full of feathers. I recovered, and placed it gently beside the others. It was not sealed, so I quickly took a peek, a bit nervous that Jack would disapprove. It was empty.

I sat back down, and said nothing. I was momentarily rehearsing my next question. But of course, Jack read my mind.

"You're probably wondering about all these empty boxes. Well, they're a test. Those who offered to help Chuck while they were in the waiting room, are now our top executives. When I came here for an interview two years ago I helped with the fourth box. Good enough for a junior position. Well, you made it in by the skin of your teeth, Box seven is the cut-off line."

"I can assign you to part-time clerk."

I got up, shook his hand, and said "Don't call me, I'll call you."

DeaBeePea 9-13-16

The Hidden Wall

Queen Elizabeth the I was in fear of her life. Severe measures were being put in place to protect her from the Catholic vigilantes, who wanted her reign to end. 
On a surprisingly cold October day, in 1559, the soaked and battered body of Father Damien could be seen hanging from the door of Gray’s Inn. The humble but sophisticated and highly regarded publican, Nicholas Hiding knew that the location of this lynching this was not a mere coincidence; for his sympathies lay in support of more religious freedom.
In honour of Father Damien’s courage, although possibly reckless and over-zealous courage, Mr. Hiding decided to bury the symbolic corpse in his residings. 
The modest monument was ingeniously concealed. Mr. Hiding’s friend from Bootle, Irving Manoot, was amazed at the demiurgic  placing of this tribute.
“This is truly brilliant Nicky… do you realize what this symbolizes?”
Nicholas shook his head. He had no idea. 
“Just think. Our comrades of fugivity could hide well in such a place. Who could possibly find a human being in a labyrinth such as this?”
Mr. Manoot’s observance came just in time, as the failed “Gunpowder Plot”, a failed assassination attempt against Elizabeth I by a group of provincial English Catholics led by Robertson Smith, put the Queen’s forces at high alert. They had declared war on Catholic sympathizers.
So began a new era of construction. Not particularly monumental in scale, but certainly mammoth in its passionate application.
The newly infamous “Priest Holes” were found in cunningly concealed in walls, under floors, behind wainscoting and other obscure locations. There were miniature apartments and chapels between walls or in attics, artfully contrived, where a Priest could reside with his vestments, sacred vessels and altar furniture. Even fireplaces became an adroit location for the smallest of veilances. One of Nicholas’ proudest accomplishments was his profoundly tiny cubicle, extending from a tiny water-closet, in St. Anthony Castle, Cambridge.
After the “Rising of the North”, an unsuccessful attempt by Catholic nobles from Northern England to depose Queen Elizabeth I of England and replace her with Mary, Queen of Scots, things got more hostile. 
"Priest hunters" were ordered to collect information and locate any priests. An Act was passed prohibiting a member of the Roman Catholic Church from celebrating the rites of his faith on pain of forfeiture for the first offense, a year's imprisonment for the second, and imprisonment for life for the third. All those who refused to take the Oath of Supremacy were called "Recusants" and were guilty of high treason. 
And, “God” forbid, if any Papist was found converting an Anglican, both parties would suffer death for high treason. 
Hiding established a reputation as the one person to consult if a Priest was to be guided to safety along subterranean passages and through a hundred windings, to be hidden in virtually impenetrable recesses.
Hiding was known to have said, “The problem of which I most often introduced myself, was finding my way back to civilization after completing the terminus of refuge.
When discussing his projects with a friend, he wittingly surmised, “If I become famous for this, then I have failed, for I will not have succeeded in masquerading my occupation.” He was once almost imprisoned when a rumor of financial transaction had taken place between he and a client. After that, he was careful, realizing that even a handshake, could be his demise.
Search-parties would bring with them skilled carpenters and masons and try every possible simpatico.Elaborate systems of measurement and the latest in sounding equipment would be utilized as well as the physical tearing down of paneling and pulling up of floors. In a detective-like ploy, the pursuants would pretend to leave to see if the clergyman would attempt an escape. Most of this hunted prey would be starving, sickly and weak and almost fearing to breathe. It was not uncommon for a shortage of oxygen to bring the misadventure to a tragic end.
On such an excursion by the Queen’s army of inquest, Nicholas was found having a stout with his friend, looking dreggy, covered with suet and mortar. There was no sign on the premises of this little home on Castle End Road in Twyford, of renovation. 
He was directly asked, “Of where can the site be found, of your labours?” 
Nicholas quickly looked questioningly at his friend Alton. The hesitation was enough. No need for a trial. 
Mr. Hiding was taken to the Tower of London and tortured to death on the rack. 
He was canonized as a martyr by Pope Leo XIII on July 1, year 1900.

DeaBeePea 10-9-16

Thank you Becky...who is still sixteen in many ways. They were confusing times, dominated by insecurities and a desire for "coolness". But...I guess I was happy...I did have Head skis...was there more than that? February 19, 1969 Another Wednesday. School. Urban Geography report due. I thought to myself. "Lot's of good pictures. But what about S.S.F. That was Mr. Youngman's code for site, situation and function. My brother taught Geography too. He did not agree with that premise for studying cities. Oh, well, do as the teacher says...even though he is a bit of a twit." Mario Puzo's The Godfatheer lay on my end table. I always have trouble remembering what I read the night before. I asked myself, "Where did I leave off?" I took a quick look (left the book open thank goodness). "Oh yes...I reiterated to myself...Sonny just got shot." I didn't feel any different being sixteen. I was immediately struck with a thought. Was I going to be getting anything at breakfast, or would I have to wait till later? I quickly put on my TeeKays and my paisley shirt...the purple one with the long sleeves. My glasses were on the dresser...lightly sprinkled with dandruff, generously donated by the hairbrush an inch away. I wiped the lens with the kleenex (used previously for something) that was crumpled nearby. I couldn't find my Fat Albert's. They weren't in my room. I guess that meant that I took them off at the door yesterday, which was not unusual, but infrequent. I looked my window...freshly fallen snow. I always loved that. It means good skiing for the weekend. I wasn't thinking about going to Moonstone, which was usually on my mind. The reason was simple. It was the Mt. Tremblant weekend coming up in two days. The bus would arrive at my high school at eleven in the evening and drive all night, till our arrival at the wonderful Quebec resort. From last years experience I knew that it would be a marathion. No sleeping on the bus! Tackling that mogul ridden slope, called "Expo", on Saturday morning, with no rest...a true test of endurance! I entered the kitchen...the time...8:26. About average. Maybe a minute or two early. My mother was sitting at the table, a bit unusual. She was usually fussing. I sat down, my bowl of puffed rice already waiting for my spoon. I took a quick sip of the orange juice to my right. "Well Dave, I guess you are sixteen today. Happy birthday," my mother uttered with a pleasant smile. There were three cards surrounding my cereal bowl. "I hope you don't mind me taking them out of the envelopes, I thought you would like you to see them open on the table." Of course I didn't mind. My sister wrote..."I hope your birthday is fab!" That was Jayne. My brothers card was more formalized...a library decor, and a simple Happy Birthday Dave. From my mother and father...a greeting of "To a very special son". Mother did not say much more. I assumed the gifts would be at dinner time. I could wait. No problem. Hopefully a nice pair of Carrera ski goggles. Off to school. "I wonder who knows," I thought to myself. After a few classes, I soon realized everyone was preoccupied with other things. So finally I had to spill the beans. I told Heather Harkies. A hug ensued. A good day. 

 DBP 9-23-14

The Berry

How then am I mad? I let those mesmerizing tranquilities that lull me… letting them draw me to hell. A thin place that alters me, not in spirit, but in incremental action.
I am haunted day and night. My passions are simple, and they drive me. To new places. Some I love, others I distaste. They sicken me. Even if they are beautiful.
That girl. She walked the streets. Was she a woman of occupation? I think not. Too gentle. Too groomed in gold. Beauty that pained me. It made me want, but also to kill.
My mind was at work. Carving the hatred into movement. I dreamed of that mouth. It teased me and derided me. Smooth and sensuous. That intricate and almost invisible sneer… damn… so evil in its calm, and mean in its smiling rancor.
Each day I walked by. I would nod. Initially Smiling. No longer. Now I looked as if dead. A cold stare. Her face remained frozen in my icy-blue eyes.
My dreams became hideous. The only thing that kept me from complete madness was the joy of the death… the death of that mouth.
Those days continued. Passing by, closer and closer until our shoulders almost touched. Forever cold with those icy stares.
I no longer followed her path each day. I watched her trail. Two blocks from where I normally encountered her, she turned down Reaping Lane. In its glorious flame, was an endless wall of firethorn.
She no longer saw me. As she was shadowed by this blaze of shrubbery, I stood behind. My fingers gently searched through the knife-like greenery, just enough to catch a view… of that mouth. I became afraid, that my newly conceived hideous grin would be seen. But no, I think the shiny red pomes of the pyracantha would preoccupy her curious eyes.
I should have acted earlier. Enjoying the build-up of my hate, my sinister plot enveloped me. I was never happier, or angrier.
Tomorrow at dusk I thought. Fridays at dusk. She is always there Fridays at dusk. The other days it is an hour before afterglow. But I like dusk. I am more at still.
My feet firmly planted. Terror has stricken me. I am much more nervous than I thought. I knew why. Her smile was killing me. Just the thought of it was killing me. Me dying before her. That made me shudder.
Finally her footsteps could be heard. Not as I remembered. Not a quiet clack clack clack. But a clack… srrrpp, clack… srrrpp, clack… srrrpp, clack… srrrpp. Hesitancy? Fear? Injury? Another enemy? I could not concern myself. It was too late.
The roots of the hedge were loosened. I was ready to pounce. The force, the weight of my hate, and those wonderful thorns. Yes… they would destroy her, and dismantle that ghastly gazing mouth of taunting… forever.
I could smell her before she came before me. That tantalizing perfume momentarily dazed me. Wake up! I almost yelled it out. Can’t do that.
I was braced, and my lips became hers in a wolf-like kiss. I pushed. The shrub almost flew out of the ground, as if angry too. I hurtled behind it, but tangled in those nasty needles.
She briefly screamed, but it was only a sharp piercing shriek, as brusque as that of a wounded bird.
I was on top of her. And through the bramble I could see the blood and that wounded and oozing mouth. It still taunted me. I gathered in my hands a pile of brush and squeezed them against her gentle face.
I’m sure she was dead. But now her lips, though trickling, were brightly and sweetly smiling… with one small pome berry sitting between her lips.
What service had I done her?
Oh God. She once loved me. Yes she did. But she never spoke. That was her tease. It was in good spirit. Not in malice. I was crazy in delirium. What had I done to myself in killing her?
I ran, the deafening sound of ruffling and tearing, like a giant thorn bush embedded in my ears. The blood from my scraped and furrowed hands was gushing down my arms. The blood trail making small arching smiles as it fell.

I tore the sleeves from my shirt and made two wristbands, and knotted them tightly, sparing the sidewalk of my vicious message.
I do not remember being home. But the next morning the door was knocking. Was it my battered hands fooling me? No, it was three constables.
“Come with us sir.”
“We have some questions for you.”
“We found this bloodied pome berry on your footway.”

DeaBeePea 1-29-17


I am a flag. But I am concerned. Many of my friends, who look up at me from below, with so much respect and reverence, are old. I fear that they will not be able to look up, into the sky anymore. They are good people. They have led our community through war, poverty, upheaval and have stood up for the most essential of human rights. When they die, I will be at half mast. That is going to happen more and more. So what I will do is fly. I will be erect, steadfast and pointing stiffly in the direction of the wind. Even if there is no wind. You will see me gleefully lilting on the calmest days. I will be announcing my tribute to the community as it now stands. My days are numbered as a co-operative flag, waiting for those gusting days. So I will be the most joyous flag, until the day that I will be forced into permanent mourning. DeaBeePea 2-15-17

The Bird

Storm and Rayne were sitting, cross-legged on the shore of the western point of Pa’ako Beach. It took them a while to get comfortable on this craggy, sand-challenged portion of beach on Maui Island. They found this spectacular but modest cove by passing through a narrow opening in the lava-rock wall that characterized this special place.

The water was an icy blue, which combined with the windward breeze, created a greater sense of coolness, than actually existed.  The famous long white littorals were a quarter-mile away, where they could escape their solitude, if they so desired.

A couple of hundred feet off-shore were two small islands, so small perhaps, they might be better referred to as cays, or simply rocks.

Suddenly, in mid-afternoon, darkness blanketed them. Before they had a chance to gather their thoughts a hawkish shriek deafened them. They were temporarily paralyzed, after instinctively lowering themselves to the ground, like soldiers besieged by gunfire.

Then the sun’s rays welcomed themselves again. The two startled tourists sat up and their eyes followed this air born phenomenon. What they saw was simplify unbelievable. It was a large green bird. More like a shiny, metallic green. Not large, but prodigiously enormous. Before it executed it safe landing on the smaller of the two outcroppings, it’s wings could be seen.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing Rayne. It’s the biggest bird I’ve ever seen. My God, its wingspan must be, I don’t know… maybe twenty feet.”

Rayne did not reply. She was startled. Maybe frightened.

The giant bird was still, but seemed to be staring right at them.

“Have you any idea what kind of bird that is, Rayne?”

Rayne knew a fair amount about ornithology, but was stumped.

“It looks like the cross between a Pterodactyl and a Haast’s Eagle. But you and I know that is impossible.”

“I want to find out Rayne. The locals must know something about it. By the looks of it, it would not surprise me at all if was a part of Maui legend.” 

They sat and stared at this phenomenal creature. They watched as its head jerked at lazar-like speed, its long orange beak submerging itself in the water, and just as quickly re-emerging with what must have been a two-pound fish in its abduction.

“Look at that, Storm! What an appetite it must have.”

Before they had any more of a chance to observe the incredible creature it took off, reaching blinding speed in a few wafts of its wings.

Rayne and Storm instinctively watched its path through the atmosphere. They both turned to each other, about to say the same thing.

“It seems to be heading for Hawaii Island,” informed Rayne.

“Exactly what I was thinking. And on top of that, I hope you are thinking what I am also thinking!”

“We’re going to find it aren’t we.”

“Yes… our vacation is now a safari. In search of a strange bird. And not the kind of bird you find in England, “Storm said with a grin.

“Yes, and that’s a pleasant change indeed,” spoke Rayne sarcastically.

They had a plan. They would visit the Bishop’s Museum in Honolulu. Someone there would be sure to know about this eagle-like flying monstrosity.

They were disappointed and perplexed. Rayne and Storm talked to many people. Information was shared about marine science, volcanology, insects, Polynesian star navigation, and evolutionary theory. Totally fascinating, but not much help.

When they specifically referred to their recent experience, a member of the curator team, Bahram Kinimaka, simply said, “I’m sorry, but no bird like that exists around here. Not that colour, not that size, and certainly not a bird that eats a two-pound fish in one fell swoop.”

Rayne looked at him right in the eye. “We saw it… and it flew right over our heads. It was not an illusion!”

“I am not saying it was… but it sounds like some kind a prank to me. Or maybe a very rare bird… someone’s pet… was let out… or it escaped.”  Mr. Kinimaka was trying to be diplomatic. The truth was, he thought the two were nuts. He failed in his attempt at delicacy. Rayne and Storm were insulted, but not hurt.

The next day, the studious pair talked about environmental suspension… how some animals can become frozen in time. If this bird actually did inhabit the islands, somewhere, it would most likely be in the volcanic district; and the bird was flying in that direction.

They took the Interisland Superferry to the island of Hawaii. They then proceeded to rent a pair of mopeds and took Mountain View Road 11 to Hawaii Volcanos National Park. Before heading out on any excursions by foot they studied all the literature they could find on the volcanoes, and their history. They were aware that volcanoes had a way of transforming environmental conditions, altering the path of many lifeforms over thousands, even millions of years. It also seemed logical to them, that inactive volcanoes might be more pertinent for their research. Some wildlife would live near active volcanoes, but as far as inactive ones were concerned, they can provide an ideal home that offers nutrients from rare and seldom found plants. There might be flora and fauna right in the throat of the volcano.

The nearby Kohala volcano was right next to the active Maunaloa tempest. It had erupted one-hundred and twenty thousand years ago and large gorges had formed since. Large landslides had characterized the area for thousands of years following its latest blast. One tidbit of information that Storm had unearthed was that a powerful tsunami had torn through the island about the same time as the last and twenty-thousand years ago. Due to this combination of events the area has established its own unique ecosystem. Invasive species have since pushed out much of the native species.

Storm explained to Rayne, “This metamorphosis fascinates me, and something tells me that it is the source of the existence of that bird!”

“I think your right. And that tsunami, who know what it brought with it. It probably came for Japan or the Philippines.”

“They didn’t record anything in those days obviously, but the one in 1946 was 7.4 on the Richter scale. The waves travelled at five-hundred miles an hour and they were over fifty-five feet high.”

“It’s beyond my imagination,” said Rayne shaking her head, which was more of an emotional reaction than anything. She was well studied on the subject, and these statistics were well within her grasp.

They spent the next week hiking, and researching, saving late evenings for a quiet perch on the porch of the small cabin they had rented. The fossils they had found sent a clear message, that was not unknown to local paleontologists.

A thousand years ago, strange creatures lived in this area. Moai mythology and religion solidified the communities of the time, and it was very difficult to dissect the ancient sources of information to clarify reality from myth.

Rayne came across an interesting tale. Its fascination suddenly grew to disbelieving astoundment.

Storm listen to this.

The marriage of Maui’s daughter was postponed as Pele declared that she was evil in her admission to powers that could be misused to denounce misbegotten births. Maui insisted on the marriage, claiming that he could trick Pele’s son into the marriage if he did not obey. Pele refused to obey. Maui then told Pele a story of him kidnapping his son and taking him and his daughter to a secret place in the mountains. Maui disguised himself as a Kereru, a green and white bird with a long orange beak.

But Maui, the master of trickery, was fooled himself. Pele pretended to be accommodating, by showing him a beautiful shady home, tucked inside one of the highest mountain tops.

When the transfigured Maui entered this strange crater-like habitat, it began to shake and rumble.  Debris came from every direction and hot gases started to suffocate him. But before he was devoured, he was heard yelling in desperation… “Pele… I will come back to get you… even if it takes 120,000 years!”

Let That Sink In

Rachel was sick and tired of those nasty plumbing fixtures knocking on her door.
That rude shower head sprayed her whenever she answered. And that tall cranky urinal, he was such a piss-off.
The toilet was aggravating as well. He was a real stinker, and looked a bit flushed at that.
The hose bib was a cute little fella, at first. But then he started screaming and crying and rattling. She had no time for that.
One day, a toilet seat actually knocked on the door. Rachel asked what the matter was. The seat was pink, and clearly a blossoming young lady. She replied "Oh, nothing in particular, I'm just tired of being put down all the time."
So Rachel told her that she will meet the right man, and he will likely leave her up often. This was all fine, but 'Rose' as she called herself, kept coming for help all the time.
When the channel drain came for a visit, he asked Rachel why the water always comes down in a clockwise vortex. She was having a bad hair day, and quickly responded, "If you want an answer, go and see someone versed in Physics... I'm busy!"
One day a bidet came to the door. He was a nice chap and introduced himself as Steve Sink. He gave Rachel a beautiful bouquet of flowers and apologized for the pestering from all his friends. "This is a new neighbourhood for us, and many of us our disoriented. We used to live with a bunch of light fixtures. We kind of miss them."
Rachel was appreciative, and let him in for a coffee. He enjoyed it. "Sure beats dirty water," he said.
When Rachel told her daughter about all this, her bemused child shook her head and said, "I'll have to let this sink in."

DeaBeePea 3-15-17


Bill and I had been friends since 7th grade. Best buddies. We were now starting high school. BUT… a new school had been built, and guess what? I was literally 20 feet inside the north boundary. So we were going to different schools, despite the fact that he lived approximately 25 houses north of me, on the same block. At least our friends are evenly divided, I thought. Bill would be going to school with Victor, John, Joy, Laurie, Leslie, Keith, Neil, Jim and Irene. I would be going with Ron, Paul, Dave, my namesake (and by the way, many called me Junior in those days, we had seven David’s on our block alone, and I was the youngest)… oh yes… and Linda, Debbie, Wendy, Gord and Richard.

Bill softened the blow, when he said to me… “There’s always weekends, and after school. We can still listen to Herb Alpert records.”

That was consoling too. We both had every record the Tijuana Brass ever recorded, and we were junkies… but he was getting “hip” and recently started to listen to Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. “Young Girl” and “Woman, Woman”. Ickkk.

It came to mind that we were entering a new chapter in our lives. The last spring before high school. I looked my bedroom window. My room was at the end of the hall at the rear of our modest bungalow. We were highly elevated and I looked out over the Humber River valley. It had stopped raining, a pretty heavy downpour. The sun’s rays were intense despite the mistiness. Suddenly, like a spotlight had been aimed through a giant prism, the biggest rainbow I had ever seen arched before me. I turned away and looked back again. Yes… it was real.

I immediately called Bill. “Have you seen it, Bill?”

“Ya, my Mom just yelled at me to come take a look. Holy crap.”

“There’s a message in this Bill. It’s asking us to find out what’s at the end. If it’s a pot of gold, we’re rich, if it’s something else… uh… well… we have to find out.”

Bill always thought I was a bit of a nut-bar, but he seemed to go along with me, most of the time. And sometimes I would say to him, “Think how boring your life would be if your best buddy wasn’t half screwy.”

“I don’t know about half,” he would reply.

So we discussed our excursion. “What should I wear?” he asked.

“Oh, I figure a raincoat at least. Rubber boots I guess. Maybe sunglasses. Not positive really.”

An hour later Bill arrived, resplendent with an oversized yellow raincoat, his Dad’s size 11 and a half boots and a red plastic fire-engine hat, a relic from the past.

"You look pretty silly Bill, I said. Bill laughed. “You should talk!” He was right, I had on an old blue canvas overcoat, a paisley rain hat, and running shoes wrapped in plastic bags.

I surged ahead, leading the way. I had no idea how to get there, other than to walk directly towards the rainbow’s end that seemed to disappear into the horizon.

I said to Bill, “Maybe it ends somewhere in the valley. It must be down there somewhere.” Bill nodded.

We followed the shore of the winding river and turned a sharp bend. A small man, dressed in green, with a bright red beard stopped us.

“Wir dya think yer headin’ you dodgy muppets.”

We both stood very still, nervous, and unsure what to say.

Bill spoke. “Nowhere really, sir. Just thought, maybe, we could check out the rainbow.”

“Are ya serious? Well lit me tell ya lock-hard. Yer not goin’.”

“OK.” I said quickly, ready to turn around.

But before we did he seemed to change complexion. He asked us why we wanted to go on the rainbow. I explained that we had seen it, and thought it was a special message to us. I eloquently said, surprising myself, “I felt that it was a spiritual calling, and a colourful beacon to our future.”

The gentleman, who must have been a leprechaun, his pipe and striped socks being the most convincing characteristics, was overwhelmed.

“By gum… yir almost a hatchet. Yer can go… but don’t touch anythin’. If yer do, I’ll have to reef ya.”

“We won’t, we won’t!” I made it very clear.

The walk was amazingly easy. We were going uphill, but it seemed we were self-propelled, by a magic motor, deadly silent I might add. It was strange too; we had no sense of time. It seemed like we got to the top of the rainbow in minutes, but considering the size of it, it must have been days. And we weren’t even hungry.

Bill then made a suggestion. I wish I had have thought of it. “I wonder if we can slide the rest of the way?”

“Gee, that would be fun. Dangerous maybe.”

“I’m game. If you’re game.”

I couldn’t resist the challenge, but wasn’t exactly sure where to put my… bum. It was not a very clearly marked path.

Well, there was no need to even push off. ZOOM. Like two boys on a rainbow!

We flew off the end, just like we used to in the playground.

We then looked around, and found ourselves in the ravine, in the exact spot where we had met the leprechaun.

“Well, so much for that,” I said with disappointment.

“Well, at least it got us home safe and sound.”

“Ya, I guess,” I said.
Then, before them, a blinding white light crystallized into what looked like an angel.

“I am Iris, the Goddess of the Rainbow.”

Bill and I looked at each other.

“We must be dreaming,” I said.”

“No, you are not dreaming.” said Iris

“You are home, but on the flip side.”

“What... the flip side? Sounds like we’re talking records.”

Iris chuckled. “Uh… not exactly. When you take a ride on the rainbow you end up on the flip side. The mirror image. Everything will look the same… and seem the same. But it is not.”

Bill jumped in, “Not? What do you mean it’s not?”

You will know in time. I assure you. A message will come soon.

I asked, “Can’t you just tell us.”

“No, I am forbidden. The message has been put in someone else’s hands. Someone from your world. Your new world.”

A week later Bill and I decided to rent a move, Red River if I recall. We ordered chicken balls from the Moon Palace. Bill smothered his with red sauce. Not sweet and sour sauce… the real RED stuff, with grenadine and ketchup. I preferred not... thank you very much.

“Let’s see what our fortune is.” Bill said.

I'll read mine first. “You now have the power to rid all worlds of war.”

“Mmm, heavy,” said Bill.

“What does yours say?” I then asked.

“Holy crap,” said Bill. “Exactly the same thing.”

“Oh my God, it’s the message Bill. THE MESSAGE. I think we’d better call Wonder Woman.”

DeaBeePea 6-28-17

Environmental Perspective

Understanding nature is a natural thing but man's nature seems at times to be unnatural.

So when we look at our lack of naturalism it seems that nature has taken an unnatural approach.

The phenomenon of climate change or environmental deterioration seems to be a combination of natural anger and natural reaction.

Our reaction is somewhat reactionary, which leads to unnatural phases of human nature, which naturally leads to extremism. Thus impeding the process of understanding nature.

So in order to understand nature, we must look at both human nature and naturalism, which can be looked upon as an intriguing dichotomy. This universal contrast, which is the nature of our environmental relationship, is the natural evolution of our nature.

So from this conclusion, I naturally ponder the next step in human evolution in terms of environmental thought, and ask if capitalism is a part of naturalism or is a deformed evolution of a natural transgression of invasive species.

I do not have the solution but it is certain that a natural cohesiveness of human nature with regards to the evolution of nature in its current dilemma would be a natural step to take, so we establish a naturalistic set of values to be the inspirational lead.


DeaBeePea 1-3-18

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