Larry Correia wrote a commentary on Gun Control

    The fantasy of gun control has been raised again by hypocrites dancing in the blood of the disarmed who were shot, many of whom died recently in America.  Hypocrites because these same people who are releasing previously prepared Gun Control legislation (Diane Feinstein) and the MSM made not a peep about the deaths directly resulting from Operation Fast and Furious ( Sipsey Street Irregulars for those who have been otherwise distracted), or plea that only the Police and the Military should have guns ( David Codrea's "Only Ones" ).

Mr. Correia and I have crossed paths on gun forums for several years and I've been delighted to see his star rise and brighten as an author through perseverance and simply, honestly good books.  He sat down and organized his thoughts into a straightforward, impromptu essay that is quite thorough.  I concur with his perceptions and recommendations completely, and hope folks can calm down and read through it a couple of times and be the better for it, even to become involved in the simplest solution that mitigates, if not effectively ends active shooter incidents that maim and kill the defenseless in Gun Free Zones. 

An opinion on gun control

And those who demand government control, more bureaucracy, punitive legislation directed at the millions of sincere, law-abiding gun owners, rest easy: The first Amendment to the Constitution is intact, though the Fourth is on life support and with the NDAA and PATRIOT ACT (in all its iterations) maiming the Fifth I find I embrace libertarian principles more every day.

The Premiere of Tanifre Oso

"What do you do all day?"

Aside from the German Shepherds and the cats to share my day, there's a never-ending challenge of housework, self-study of the outside world, and that requires coffee, certainly!

But most of all I love to write.

To the very few who know for certainty that I'm not an urban myth, here's a free short story I wrote in one sitting when the idea awoke me from a sound sleep a few years ago.

The Premier of Tanifre Oso

They went through the motions of giving yet another ‘B’ grade indie movie a decent opening night, managing to keep to the budget for the rented but clean red carpet, the four oversized posters and the two billboards, the three contract limos (one was a stretch that almost didn’t smell too much of the prom night party the weekend before due mainly to industrial-strength cleaning and deodorizing products), and some of the production crew added to the handful of legit photographers and trash tabloid mongrels sniffing for fresh, if thin dirt on anyone, using any camera that had a big flash – though a few cameras probably didn’t have film in them. . .

Exactly seven states from her living room, it was muggy out, barely a breath of air, especially in the ‘Employees Only’ doorway to the Gas-n-Go across the street, and ‘free only had eyes for the searchlights on flatbeds that had just rolled up and were largely ignored while a bored lumper kicked a pair of outriggers and slapped the genney’s pigtail home.  The driver pocketed a cell phone, hollering something unintelligible to the lumper.  They both headed her way.

After two dozen times, the only thing ‘free thought about was getting better results; every time, better results.  She zipped up a worn but decently clean coverall and tugged on the bill of her L.A. baseball cap, the old web belt and sparse toolkit obviously second nature.  A crisp, new sandwich shop bag held her intentions, and swung casually from her hand as she sipped a coffee and crossed the street.

There was a rent-a-cop.  There was always a rent-a-cop.  This one was a decade past retirement, and his eyes had stopped caring about anything before ‘free was born.  He didn’t even have a radio, just a pay-as-you-go cell phone in a plastic case snapped to a belt loop.

Tall to the point of being gangly, more knees and elbows and some lean muscle from running, she needed the glasses she wore, and the knuckles of both hands left no doubt week in and week out she made her own way without apology.  She rounded the outrigger and almost smiled a little when she came to the back of the flatbed.  The clean-out on the back of her spotlight had wingnuts.  A few seconds with pliers and she had the panel of about a food wide waiting.  The sandwich wrapper came off and she handled the cardboard tube carefully.  Three, she would try three different liners this time – and no wrinkles. . .

In under a minute she was wandering towards the side of the theatre, past the dumpsters.  In the shadows she stripped the toolbelt and coverall off, both going into the empty bookbag slung across her shoulders.  Rounding the back of the building, she made the next street through the alley and ended up at the corner of the flower shop, kitty-corner from the Gas-n-Go.

Routine.  She couldn’t wait to get back to the loft later, and see if the new samples would be just the ticket – but meanwhile, she enjoyed dinner and a show!  Okay, a PB&J from the front zip on the bookbag, and the coffee was cooling fast, but at the top of the hour the genny fired up and moments later the searchlights were scribing punctuation in the night to announce the opening of “Textbook Spies.”  She didn’t consider spending the money for a ticket (even if she could get one for that night – unlikely in the extreme): the hour spent watching the scripted charade outside was free and cause for more than one good laugh. . .

She set the alarm on her second-hand, battery-powered steel watch when the players went inside and the theatre doors closed.  There was a familiar and comfortable enough nook beneath the plywood display box with its tiered shelves for the days’ bouquets, her army surplus blanket and sleeping bag undisturbed in a trash bag.  Kenzie was a dear, finding delight in helping someone she considered a budding scientist – but the lovely café au lait woman occasionally considered her a long-lost great, great-grandaughter.  Absolutely magical with flowers, no question.  Time for a nap in decent enough comfort, before repeating the trip to her searchlight after the movie was over and the crowds gone, when the big lights were cool and then the long bus . . . She was asleep before she finished the review; the cool draft coming from between old brickwork carrying perfumes from the refrigerated display cases inside the shop. . .

Every Monday till one in the afternoon – that was her own time.  Two part-time jobs and part-time classes at Wrightwood Community College kept her in a decently clean and comfortable enough place to live with enough to eat and kept her moving closer to her dream of a University scholarship, she’d just gotten a little sidetracked, that’s all.

Kaleidoscopes. 

She could almost blame it on idly picking up an old, tarnished brass cylinder during one of her regular forays into thrift shops, noticing the dirty but uncracked lens on one end and the sticky, taped shut cap on the other.  A soldered, rectangular label mid-way down the tube held only faint remnants of lettering engraved – but she could make out ‘London’ with a little spit on a fingertip and a little rubbing.

Daydreaming again.  Tanifre Oso blinked at the sound of the wind-up timer going off, and she dashed to check on the roasting coffee.  A cast-off heat gun, a steel colander from a thrift shop, some pyrex that needed only a little modification with a torch, and spot-welded bits of scrap rebar and clean sheet metal and she had a fluid bed coffee roaster that vented up the furnace flue – so one addiction was accommodated for pennies a day and she enjoyed superb coffee.  She needed it, too.  Prone to almost uncontrollable daydreaming interspersed with bursts of frentic focus and productivity equal to the best of at least any two or three normal girls could do, well, when her aunt had let slip that she was bringing ‘free to a psychiatrist for medication – the girl hit the road and never looked back.

She grinned, smelling the medium city roast as a mittened hand cleared the glass lid and she flipped the switch to run the little vacuum cleaner for a minute to get rid of the chaff and cool the roast.  Swiping the receptionist’s laptop from the desk when her aunt had been in the bathroom and the blond had jammed up the copier was the beginning of independent thinking – even though it had been almost a year and a few too many mistakes before she found her stride and confidence. . .

In an extra-large hocky sweater and hand-knit wool socks that reached her knees in eleven colors she carried the colander of fresh coffee to the red monster.  An industrial grinder made in Italy during the Korean War, ‘free had rescued it from the trash, dismantled it down to individual screws, worn castings, and frayed, rusted electricals – and rebuilt it.  Good as new, or close enough; it purred when the two horse motor started up, and beans waiting in the five pound hopper trickled into massive steel burrs.  The hopper was refilled, right to the top, and it was time for breakfast.

Egg noodles made the day before were dry, and a handful went into boiling water, the enameled iron three-burner stove and little oven returning to service with a new (leak-proof) connecting hose to the gas main.  The percolator got busy on the second burner, and the timer got set again as she looked out the wall of windows on the south wall at the sunrise.  Four stories up, she didn’t worry that anyone in the switch yard would be staring – there was coal to load, one day the same as the one before and the same as the one to come.  The electronics warehouse would be open for business in three hours two floors down, and the techs that did repairs on consumer toys would get the floor below busy about the same time – but it was still quiet; time to enjoy breakfast and then see if the long trip to the theatre and back had been worth it.

Noodles with butter, and a few slivers of smoked sausage, a pot of coffee, and a tangerine.  Breakfast was eaten at the table.  She’d learned after the fifth time of ruining a project with either spilt coffee or sticky fingers or dropping a spoon into the ten amp, five volt, regulated, vacuum tube power supply (that had been a morning she’d rather avoid repeating) – food of any sort and her workbench weren’t compatible.  At all.  So she had a clean, plank pine table and always laid out an ironed tablecloth (or something that could pass for such) and she set a place for herself – dishes, silverware, the works – and music.  Mornings always began with music!

Six speakers of three acutely matched pairs from obsolete manufacturers spaced precisely about the four thousand square foot open loft were fed power from warming amplifiers the size of small refrigerators.  The turntable’s strobe showed steady speed.  The diamond needle touched vinyl – and she touched the remote.  The morning would begin with piano, namely Manuel de Falla.  The sound was almost a physical presence, and the mind could not resist.  She stopped trying to think.  She let her body participate in eating breakfast, paying homage each bite, a consciousness written by a composer decades before she was born dictating how she would refill her coffee cup, how she would peel the nectarine, how the spontaneity of the squirt of juice would make her laugh out loud and come to her feet, stretch, and carry that smile to the stereo, where the volume finally was dialed down by half.

A last sip of coffee, and she came to sit at the bench.  Four kaleidoscope tubes waited to be assembled.  On the left, the small acetylene torch and big vise.  On the right, the regulated soldering station and magnifier lamp.  Behind everything and straight ahead, three tiers of boxes, shelves, drawers and nooks that held everything from a respectable electronics components inventory to beads, buttons and costume jewelry (you’d be surprised what would make a good kaleidoscope, believe me); not to mention an unsorted hodgepodge of little nuts and bolts, screws and washers, pop rivets and pretty big spools of wire in lots of colors and sizes.  But what held her attention that morning was the cardboard tube right in the middle.

Ever since reading about the remarkable kind of carbon particles that resulted from arc lamps – they were called ‘Buckey Balls’ for some reason – ‘free had wanted to see if the stuff could make a better matte black liner for her ‘scopes.  She wasn’t famous, and she wasn’t going to get rich but recently a few of them had been bought by the almost famous and the nearly rich, and they’d become a little popular, in part because they were expensive and she never made any two the same way.  And they were backordered three months.  So there was motivation to make better ones.

She held a pair of long tweezers in each hand and carefully pulled the samples out of the tube, the second one catching her eye right away.  It held a perfectly matte, non-reflective black that seemed to be tangible shadow, a strip of physical darkness.  Amazing!  Held under the magnifier, it didn’t reflect any light, stubbornly remaining black.  Flexible.  The temptation to touch the surface was abrupt – as was the reflexive fear of ruining it!  The idea was to try different layers of base materials, because the searchlights were pretty unique as a coating furnace.  They reached high temperatures, generated pretty pure wavelengths of light, and cast off pretty symmetric particles of carbon.  And everyone knew that if you wanted a better quality mirror, a better black behind the reflective layer beneath the transparency had to be the first priority.

Early base materials had literally gone up in little puffs of smoke.  She’d wandered through papers on thermal migration plating and coating processes from internet searches, and come to realize there was no reason in the world she couldn’t use that information as a starting point – instead of a result to try and duplicate.  Early coatings for window glass had proven to be remarkably stronger than the glass itself – and then ordinary stuff like the laminate used in countertops and floorings were pressure-fused into fractions of their component thicknesses. . .

Tanifre had a small supply of gold leaf, and a little larger one of barely thicker pure silver.  The months she’d played with understanding what was left after sheets of single substances went through the searchlights became her very fragile library.  Then came the systematic combination of two, and then three materials.  The night before had been the fourth test with three layers.  Six months ago, having discovered a stable backing that consistently held together and didn’t melt on to the inside of the arc lights had been the first success.  That had spudded her curiosity into a completely new, unexplored vein: a different kind of kaleidoscope. . .

And she was looking at the second.  Her PDA twittered.  Setting the slice-o-night gently down, she found it in the bathroom on top of the toilet, on top of a pipe wrench.  Gregorio, a custom jeweler across town sent her minor repairs from time to time.  There was a sterling link necklace that looked like it could double as a mobile that had a worn setting for one of the jellybean opals on it.  The PDA reminded her that it was due back in his shop at noon.  She glanced at the mirror in the medicine cabinet above the sink and read the clock on the coal elevator in reverse.  Plenty of time.

Jumping into hand-stitched leather jeans made from two discarded sofas and firing up the crucible to melt a half-ounce of silver, she got her bench cleared enough for the repair.  A few minutes and the opal was free of the setting; another twenty minutes and she had a wax casting of the setting to work with.  Matching parallel settings made touching up the casting simple enough, and then it was just a matter of waiting for the plaster to cure into a stable mold while the crucible reached temp.  A few grapes and a glass of water. . .

The intercom rang.  Startled, she turned and dropped the glass of water as she reached for the painted steel box on the pole by the freight elevator.  Screwing her eyes shut for a second to clear her head of the frustration, she hopped clear of the wet shards and hit the button.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, T, are we doing lunch today?  I’m in the mood for pastrami.”

She grinned.  Sam was pushing seventy, had outlived two wives and still put in a full day running the business.  He ignored the advice of doctors and pretty much ate what he pleased and did what he pleased – though he’d never admit he didn’t drink any more.  He rented the loft to her for a C-note a week, saying he slept better at night knowing she was keeping an eye on the place, and lunch was a rare treat.  He never tired of recounting stories of when he was a bush pilot in Alaska, his fierce handlebar moustache all but mimicking his Beech’s wheel.

“I’m good, if we can make it a half-past; I gotta run an errand.”

The salvaged drive-in speaker crackled.  “Okay – meet me at the coffin shop.  They got a new waitress!”

She shook her head, the echo of a grin still on her face as she reached for the dry mop.  Two swipes and the beam floor was clear of glass, though just pushed up against the far wall for the time being.  The crucible beeped, and she picked up foundry gloves and slipped on a face shield.  Tongs took and held the glowing flask with its small freight of smelt silver from the furnace; and with finesse, ‘free tipped it into the waiting mold.

Molten metal hit water droplets on top of the plaster cast, and with a sharp snap the temperature differential was dynamically equalized with a fine spray of metal – no catastrophe, just the first drop or two.  She grinned and finished the pour, replaced the flask in the cooling oven and stripped off the gloves, inspecting the face shield.  A mist of silver was embedded laterally across what would’ve been the bridge of her nose and the corners of both eyes.  Flexing the polymer the silver fell by the popping, cooling mold, and she swept it up with the edge of her hand, brushing it into a little pan by the oven that held similar granules from other pours.

Freeing the setting from the plaster, it took a few minutes to clean and detail it until there was no distinguishing it from its mate on the opposite half of the intricate link necklace; so with the orange-and-gold hued opal mounted again and the piece restored into place, ‘free stripped down, hit the shower and was dressing again at a quarter till noon.

Fifteen minutes to get across town didn’t faze her at all.  During rush hour, rollerblades were far and away the quickest way to get from point ‘A’ to point ‘B.’ 

Gregorio gave the piece a quick but intense once-over and dourly grunted approvingly.

“Why you don’t want a steady job and a future I don’t know.  You should grow your hair out and dress like a girl and make plans for the future; you don’t listen.”  He sighed heavily, as though it was a great burden to deal with the shortcomings his views of life laid yet again on his heart.  He handed her five twenties, and a small plastic case.

“Something for late next week, I don’t got a final sketch yet.  Don’t lose that, yes?”  On his short frame, the permanent scowl and a waistline that exceeded his inseam twice over was iconic.  Only the china blue eyes softened when he caught her eye, and a corner of his mouth twitched.

“Get a phone; I should be able to just call you like anybody else.”  Sighed.

The girl nodded gravely and pocketed the plastic case and the cash in a pocket of the sky blue camo fatigue pants, buttoning the flap.  He stood and came around his desk and opened the door; held it for her.  The narrow store had one long display case with access behind it, and room for two customers to stand next to each other – it was a small place.

“E-mail does everything I need, and I don’t like interruptions.  This is not news.”  She held on to the door frame to his office and leaned, gave him a kiss on the top of his head.

He shrugged.  “You got me to use a computer; even bad days brighten when you come see me.  I should be grateful.”  He tipped his head to one side; back.  “You get old, you get greedy.”

Tanifre backed down the aisle.  “You make sure I get first pick of the puppies!”

That got a smile.

Just inside the entrance she paused, got into position and looked back and forth at the dwindling image she made in the opposing, almost perfectly parallel diamond-dust heavy floor-to-ceiling mirrors.  A trick of lighting in the shop erased her shadow, and she spent ten seconds suspended in infinity of sorts. . .  She pointedly didn’t try and look around the corner – Gregorio had made the sign of the evil eye first time he caught her doing that.

________________________________________________

She checked the time and raced to make her lunch appointment.  The ‘coffin shop’ was a nick that Sam cheerily advertised the long-established and completely respectable Jewish deli and restaurant mid-town.  It had stuck for decades, a word-of-mouth tag that just wouldn’t go away, so Mr. Levi stopped trying.  No one remembered his last name was the same as the hand-lettered sign on the window – probably didn’t realize he had a last name. . .

She split a sandwich with Sam.  More than anyone short of a lumberjack or a shifter fresh from the dry and a shower could possibly eat, it certainly wasn’t loaded three inches thick with cheap, greasy meat, anything but.  They shared a mutual glance with twinkling eyes as the enormous dill pickle was sliced lengthwise, the silent joke a ritual, and as close to saying grace over the meal as either would ever be.  The new waitress was cute enough to be remarkable, he’d been on the mark with that, no question – but ‘free paused half-way through the meal as Sam’s manner resolved into some unspoken news that tugged at him, was probably the reason for lunch.

“You don’t carry water in your hands very well – and no one can manage it at all if their hands are in their pockets.”  She tugged on her iced tea and waited.  The clatter and overlay of the restaurant was no more than distant surf.

He knocked back most of the rest of his coffee, motioned the new waitress over.  Elise was fresh on the plastic name tag.

“I’m dying, girl.  The witch doctors give me a month – two, tops.”  The moustache pitched up, rolled right, leveled.

Tanifre looked at him with aplomb.  “You heading back to the cabin, then?”

He sighed, his eyes calm, relieved.  “At the end you either demand a fantasy come true or you go to known ground.  Someplace to take the pain meds and just watch the sun rise, drink coffee and know that the tower’s cleared you and the winds are calm.”

She laughed.  “You started out a storm-chaser; you’re not going out like left-over compost!  Wasting time always earns you exactly what you deserve – so why are we having lunch?  Hmm?”

“I think I came up with your new lens!”  He beamed, the Beech’s wheel all but doing a barrel-roll as strong fingers fished out a sparkling, pale blue lump of glass about the size of his nose from his breast pocket.  “I’ve been using survey lasers to match precision diodes – the old opposite polarity trick with mirrors – a nifty bit of pocket change now and then, right?  Well, I was tinkering the other day with some optical glass, doping it with this and that, checking refractivity with one of the lasers. . .”

She gave him a menacing look.  “You fell asleep again?  You’re going to burn the place down, and me with it!”

His teeth parted a little, clicked shut as he changed his mind.  “Okay, yes.  I think for a few hours – at least it wasn’t all night!  Anyway, this was the result!”  He pushed it towards the girl, picked up his sandwich again and took an enormous bite.

She stomped; his eyes twinkled.  He cocked his head and looked pointedly at the sparkling glass.  She all but ground her teeth – but she forgot all about theatrics and social territories when she actually did look at the stuff, picked it up and held it to her eye, one hand wrapped around it.

She put her hand down, blinked.  Couldn’t think of quite what to say.

Sam washed the rest of his half down with a fresh sip of coffee, Elise coming and going without notice.  “Yep.  The sparkles aren’t fixed.  And the blue gets brighter the longer you look through it.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, something she did whenever she saw past the obvious, actually set the little grey cells to work.

“I may, just may have an active black.”

It was Sam’s turn to be surprised.  He raised both eyebrows and said quietly, “That could be worth a pretty penny, you know.”

She pushed her plate away, sucked on her lower lip lightly.  “Maybe this time I’ll make a toy or two just for me.”

He sighed, taking the check and getting to his feet.  “True.  Everything worthwhile doesn’t have to go to weapons development.”  An even smile brought the girl to her feet easily, even with the ‘blades.   “That glass barely registers on anything, but the fact that it does at all – well, you’ve more sense than most.”

The pale blue lump went into the opposite thigh pocket from Gregorio’s inventory, buttoned in, too.  Elise sent a smile her way that held a few possibilities – no one had ever coped for more than two months, three days, nine hours and twenty-two. . .

Sam watched Tanifre disappear into the day with a grin.  Better to have known and loved someone so new, even as an old man than to have seen the new millennium proceed with the vapid, bored status quo he’d seen spread unchecked.  He’d been a fatalist before that stray had shown up, banging on the door.  She’d shown his grounded perceptions of most everything to be of no concern at all; shown him there was light out there in the eyes of the young. . .

When it was time to think, ‘free knew pondering and getting a headache accomplished nothing: she had built a three-dimensional course of uneven bars, spring-pads, a set of randomly-spaced rings, and three ceiling-to-floor mooring lines in the northern half of the loft.  That her bed just happened to be in the middle of it seemed unremarkable. . .

For the next two hours she more resembled a lemur with a caffeine drip than anything, but you have to understand how the girl resolved questions in the first place.  It’s easy to just think in terms of action and reaction.  Some people think in terms of chess, several possible moves ahead for possible choices.  Some people talk to themselves, even to having full-blown debates with themselves (though that worries the neighbors).  Well, ‘free acted the cerebral process out.

Do you understand?  One can write music, conduct it, play it, orchestrate it for a hundred, be inspired to paint from it – what she did was just her way of cutting to the chase.  And she hit the shower after with a guess at where there might be an answer to a question she hadn’t begun with.

Sleep took her barely minutes after hanging up the bath sheet to dry.

And her dreams were new.  Infinite black, her dreaming eyes opened without fear to see nothing unfolding into nothing and from nothing.  She took deep breaths and saw traceries of movement, nothing of substance though her mind knew she was seeing her breath as manifest energy – not that different from seeing one’s breath on a chill morning.  She laughed, and set out to explore the dreamscape of black, guessing it to be a comprehension of what lay beyond the senses; that place where dimensions intersect in balance, where the particle is in truth both substance without mass and energy without charge or polarity.

It was supposed to be a day full of responsibilities.  She broke pattern and decided to work on her own project; a little voice in the back of her mind a little nervous of the consequence.  Dawn was an hour out.  Coffee!  And today, chocolate!  She dove for a semblance of clothes and hit the elevator in a clean dive.  Only Murphy’s Donuts would do, and the second set of racks should just be cooling now!

Tanifre was back inside, upstairs, and had fed the cast iron stoves coal enough to wipe the creeping chill from the floor and had slipped on her hockey sweater, had a pot of coffee brewed and was taking the first bite from the second double-devil’s food chocolate masterpiece in under twenty minutes.  Looking out the windows she watched the rail yard ceaseless in activity, lifted her eyes to see real color spreading across the rim of the horizon, watched and ate without distraction.

Finished, it was into work clothes and then to try and make something brand new.

The lump of pale blue had to become a lens - without accidentally harming what had been a result of coincidence, accident and boredom-inspired tinkering in the first place.  Small lenses.  There was a vacuum pump from the HVAC shop a block over, leaking, they were tossing it into the trash after eleven years; thumbs hooked in her pockets and a lopsided grin and they’d brought it over to the freight elevator during lunch – they’d been happy as could be with a pound of fresh coffee. . .

A transit compass sight provided exactly the template she had in mind.  Smaller by three-quarters than other ‘scope lenses she’d used, she figures it might be just the right size to try and vacuum-form flash-melted grindings from the main lump; that meant that she needed a precise cavity mold that would boundary ambient, and keep a temperature coefficient. . .  Hands flew as her eyes followed a sense of herself in the rings, sideways up the far rope so she could reach. . .

By twenty-two after eleven, she was finished polishing the new lens, almost perfectly transparent – and had more questions about the pale blue glass than answers but that was for later.  Why carbon steel would cut the stuff like aged cheese when her diamond wheel didn’t mar didn’t make. . . later.  She had a two-section copper tube made, silver soldered from plate and lined with the first of the latest liner black.  Go figure, there was an almost invisible misting of silver droplets in it, should add a little counter-reflection.

Above a transparent floor that held the shiny bits and such was the symmetric, flattened prism, there to throw on to the mirror liner of the tube shuttered reflections that would collide and eventually meet the lens.  Something brand new, just for me.  Suddenly she shifted into specific purpose, and the balance of the construction was accomplished with remarkable speed.

Whim saw her take and gold-leaf a crystal juicer after cutting away the bowl – and she had her prism.  Two old hair dryers surrendered their fans and she had patterns to make the shadow shutters; it took another slice of her latest liner folded on itself for stiffness – done.   She meticulously cleaned the red monster – and fed it a piece of the pale blue; she had her random reflectors.  A matched circle of spare plate from the loft was their floor.  The translucent face would be cut from the vaseline plate in the kitchen.  And the pieces were assembled.

She looked outside, jumped at the lost day.  Her stomach kicked her in the ribs as if to say, “A mug of coffee and two donuts!?  Are you crazy!?”

Six minutes after eight.  Judith would still probably have dinner out, and she couldn’t wait to show her new ‘scope to Gregorio – it was excuse enough.  Homework and catching up she could do when she got back.

The old couple lived in the back of the shop, a tiny studio of an apartment, but their door had always been open to ‘free, especially with her schedule.  Their three children were grown and had moved away, the youngest two, twin girls both awkward at their parent’s perceived orthodox and frugal lives, so it wasn’t a stretch that they welcomed ‘free much as a lost daughter.

Beef and cabbage and potatoes and sweet red wine, Judith had a place served in front of ‘free almost as soon as Gregorio had his guest seated.  Beethoven’s 6^th was playing on the console turntable, the old vinyl in superb shape – the old man paid attention to the stylus.  He fingered the new project appreciatively, commenting quietly beneath his breath at the fit and finish.

“You have tried it out yet, yes?”  He tipped his head to the side, a dry smile at the sight of the youngster caught with a full mouth and a very nearly empty plate.

“Gee-Oh, you make that scarecrow of a girl choke, you get lentils and water one little bowl a day till the Second Coming, I promise!”  There were still notes in her voice; opera had been so very much to her, until she met the young man who delivered the costume jewelry. . .

Between some embarrassment and bursting with the specifics of what she’d made it was a near thing.  She swallowed with almost decent manners, used her napkin.  She shared co-conspirator’s smiles all unspoken, girl-to-girl; and was handed to her feet.  Seeing Gregorio in the shop, all the lights on and the blackout shades drawn, she was at his side in the blink of an eye.

“Not yet!  I thought the lights would be better here, and I want to see the bounce effect – may I?”  She was handed the ‘scope, and Judith brought the magnifying mirror forward to the aisle before the parallel mirrors.

“Sam came up with some glass, and I have my best backing black yet, so this one is simplicity!”

She went down on one knee, brought the face of the kaleidoscope to about eighteen inches from the magnifying mirror that was exactly at forty-five degrees to the exact center of the parallel mirrors and Gregorio adjusted the lights.  She looked.

It began with a dawning of pale blue that held sparse, random, intermittent sparkles of light, and the light brightened.  She could see the compound bounce between the mirrors, and with the condensate silver on her otherwise flawless slice-o-night liner the only inner bounce, as she turned the end and rotated the slivered raw blue micro-splinters across the shuttered gold reflector she began to be disoriented.

The sense of seeing through one eye was no more.  The transient dots against purest black expanded as the residual weak charges interacted, fractionated randomly and intersected endlessly.  She could see the compound mirror-in-mirror image, but this was the folded space of her dreams, this was the reality.   She was seeing around the corner, literally, and it was so real she involuntarily reached out to an afterimage of sorts that was just over there.

And found herself in Sam’s house, sitting on the tapestry rug, holding her kaleidoscope, laughing and crying at the same time; completely incapable of explaining herself.

Copyright of first publication, all rights reserved 2012

It's one challenge to row, row, row your boat.

It's quite another to be schooled, on acting out the decision to seek relief with a swim in what must be cool, sweet water that there be schools of box jellyfish immediately nearby.  This is both a time of complication and rapid decision-making.

How to build the future, carefully changing course to the demands of the day while eying the horizon circularly with the whispered prayer that prejudiced myopia not rule the day and ruin the week?  It is, after all, a lovely day.  How did I come up with the protagonist's demographic title of "Grinder" holds more questions for now.

At the quiet light through the open window - no, no screen; there, can a weigh of conscience be apt quest for calm?  The price is reasonable enough: live today well and full to the laugh of some self-consciousness and take the receipt.  No remorse.

There's about fifty pounds of green coffee in house now, barely half the stock I would were there not so many other choices and tilt-table marbles of priorities.  Word reaches even here that there's a run on canned goods and shotguns and generators; I delight in securing an eighty-year old cast iron frying pan to replace the decades familiar one that cracked at the handle.  Twenty-nine dollars well spent.

I could have bought a few shares of stock.  Some out there are of interest, with the new four-cycle beginning.

Fried chicken sounds perfect for supper.