With baseball season upon us, I recall the story of old friends and late lunch. Be sure to click “View original post” at the bottom to follow over to SERENDIPITY for the rest of the story.
This is a short story of politics and resistance. It is a mythical time and a mystical place, or is it? Be sure to click on “View original post” at the bottom to head over to SERENDIPITY for the rest of the story.
A short story of business, life and what they hold for some. Be sure to click on “View original post” at the bottom to head over to SERENDIPITY for the rest of the story.
In case you missed this little piece of fiction in the past, we offer this as fair warning to what could happen when democracy is bought and sold. Be sure to click “View original post” at the bottom to head over to SERENDIPITY for the rest of the story.
Episode 1: The Campaign, by Arod Serling*
Opening scene: Rural state rally, small town folks and area farmers in attendance. A candidate for office is at the podium. To the left of the stage are two of his aides.
Candidate: “If you see somebody getting ready to throw a tomato, knock the crap out of ’em, would you? Seriously. OK? Just knock the hell—I promise you, I will pay for the legal fees. I promise. I promise.”
Cut to Narrator standing at undetermined location, presumably at the rally.
Narrator: The man at the podium has recently announced that he is running for the highest office in the land. The tall gentleman to the left of the stage is Michael who is attempting to control his candidate, a reality TV star. Next to Michael is a young intern named Billy. He wants to get some experience in political campaigns. They all think they will be heading to the nation’s capital when in fact, they are about to enter “The Twilight Zone.”
Fade to opening credits, theme music. The scene will resume at the same rally.
Candidate (speaking on his own popularity): “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose voters.”
Billy (to Michael): Did he just say he could get away with murder?
Michael: All politicians are getting away with murder in one way or another.
Candidate (speaking about opponents): “How stupid are the people of Iowa? How stupid are the people of the country to believe this crap?”
Billy: I am unclear. What is he saying? The people of Iowa are stupid or the other candidates are speaking crap? (Pause) Both?
Michael: If you are unclear, so is everyone else. Don’t worry about it. We can spin it whatever way we want.
Candidate (speaking on ISIS): “I know more about ISIS than the generals do. Believe me.”
Billy: What could he know about ISIS that the generals don’t know?
Michael: Look, you ask too many questions. Just watch and learn. It’s all a television show and he’s the star. (pointing to the candidate on stage).
The candidate is giving the cheering crowd two thumbs up. Fade out for a commercial break. “The new Twilight Zone is brought to you by Preparation A, for those nasty flare-ups”
Episode resumes with quick shots of various rallies around the country.
Billy (to Michael in South Carolina): Did he just give out the real phone number of the opponent?
Michael (laughing): Yeah, that should generate some press.
Candidate (to crowd trying to eject protester in Missouri): “Part of the problem and part of the reason it takes so long is nobody wants to hurt each other anymore.”
Billy: More violence?
Michael: Whatever works!
Candidate (at another rally): “Do I look a president? How handsome am I, right? How handsome?” (Looking smugly at the crowd) “I feel like a supermodel except, like, times 10, OK? It’s true. I’m a supermodel.”
Cut to Billy shaking his head and Michael laughing.
Candidate (in New Hampshire): “That could be a Mexican plane up there. They’re getting ready to attack.”
Billy: That can’t possibly be a Mexican plane and they certainly are not going to attack.
Michael: The crowd doesn’t know that. You can say anything, no matter how outrageous, as long as you are willing to stick with your story.
Quick cuts to various rallies. The candidate is always looking smug and/or giving a thumbs up to the crowd. The crowds always seem to love whatever he has to say.
Scene: Hotel room at debate site. Michael and Billy our waiting anxiously for the event to begin.
Billy: I don’t have a good feeling about this. I mean he would not even practice for the debate. How can we get the message across if he is not prepared on the topics?
Michael: Don’t worry, if he doesn’t have an answer, he will just change the subject and throw some dirt on an opponent.
Billy: But some of those things he says are not true. That will not work in a debate.
Michael: Of course it will work. These are not real debates, they are reality TV shows and we have the star. Just watch.
Cut to the television studio where the debate is underway.
Candidate (replying to a Senator in the debate): “I never attacked him on his looks and believe me, there’s a lot of subject matter there.”
Cut Back at hotel room.
Michael: See Billy, he did not have to actually answer the Senator. And take a look at the Senator’s face. This is hilarious.
Cut to television studio.
Candidate (referring to female primary opponent): “Look at that face! Would anyone vote for that? Can you imagine that, the face of our next president?!”
Billy: Do you think insulting a woman like that is good? I mean, even if it is an opponent, people might get upset.
Michael: His fan base will eat this up and who cares what the others think. We are well on our way to success. A few more debates like this, a few more rallies and he will have the nomination. From there it is just a few easy steps to victory. I don’t think there is anyway we can screw this up now. The fans love us, we are getting a lot of press and the ratings are good. Best show in town!
Billy looks lost in thought for a moment. Then finally speaks.
Billy: I think I should leave the campaign now. It is not really what I expected.
Michael (angry): You can not leave the campaign now. You know too much, and nobody likes it when someone can give away the magician’s tricks. Our candidate has a way of getting even with people who cross him. You are in this until the end. I wouldn’t bring this up again if I were you.
Camera settles on Billy’s astonished face as the Narrator speaks over this shot.
Narrator: Billy wanted to learn politics and make his way to the nation’s capital. Instead, he found a permanent address in The Twilight Zone.
*Arod Serling is also the Narrator and Executive Producer of this program.
Candidates quotes courtesy of: “The 155 Craziest Things Trump Said This Election,” Politico Magazine, November 05, 2016.
Recovery, by Rich Paschall
Bill was to report to County Hospital at 10 AM so he had to hustle through his morning routine, if you could call it that. He slept until the sun woke him up, so he barely had an hour to wash his face, shave, get dressed, make coffee and leave the house. In his usual haphazard fashion, Bill accomplished his tasks on time.
From the kitchen window he spied clouds that might roll in from the west, but nothing could erase the shine from this day. A goal had been met and Bill would have the honor of walking the winner across the finish line. But despite his bright attitude, Bill grabbed for the large golf umbrella on the way out the door. No, Bill did not play golf. He just never knew when there might be a need for such a large umbrella.
Everyone seemed to know Bill when he arrived at the hospital. He had been making regular visits there for months, and chatting up the nurses and interns along the way. Now he only had time to smile and wave as he made his way to the fifth floor.
In room 502 a nurse was assisting the patient in getting ready to leave the rehabilitation floor to head home. Slowly he dressed, needing some help from others as he went. When he was all set, the nurse helped him to stand, and after a minute on his feet, to sit in the wheelchair. His personal items were stuffed into two plastic bags marked “Patient Belongings” and a small plastic tub, which was used a few times for washing up, was filled with a small half used tube of toothpaste, a cheap toothbrush, a small unopened shampoo bottle, a half bottle of mouthwash and some hand lotion.
The patient, a retired Industrial Planner from the Midwest, had arrived rather unceremoniously three months earlier. Paramedics brought him in after collecting him from the floor of his screened in patio. A neighbor had spotted him and another neighbor arrived with his first name. A medical investigator actually discovered his last name by visiting the home where he was found and looking on the mailbox.
Now the entire staff on the fifth floor of County Hospital knew Harold. Although he said very little due to his condition, nurses and therapists liked to stop in to have a little chat. For the first month, Harold could say nothing in return. As time progressed, he began to react more to the comments with a nod, a smile, or even a word or two.
He had spent the first week at County down stairs in ICU. For the second week he did little but lay in bed in 502. Sometimes someone would turn on the television, but it was doubtful Harold was aware of it most of the time. After that, the plan was put in motion. It was not the plan of the supreme Planner, but one on which the rest of his life depended.
It took many helpers to carry out the plan for Harold. A physical therapist was brought in to get Harold back into motion. He worked his arms and legs and soon began to prompt the patient on which action to make. When he was quite ready, the therapist would take him to the activity room where Harold would sit and roll a large ball across the room to the therapist who would roll it back. After that there was standing and walking. By the third month, Harold moved to the stairs. It was a narrow set of three with railings on both sides to grab. He went up to the top, then down the other side.
As movement improved, Harold was taken to a room set up like a kitchen. There he would practice opening jars and bottles and sometimes even cans. It was a struggle. In the third month he would prepare his own lunch. It was soft foods which he sometimes could not eat.
From week three a therapist came to teach swallowing. Weeks of exercises lead to attempt at swallowing thick liquids. Water and coffee were no good unless thickener was added. Harold looked at the therapist with a bit of disdain every time she poured thickener into a good cup of coffee. In truth, he could barely swallow the liquids when his time at County was up.
Another therapist worked on speech. Harold found it strange that someone must teach him how to shape his mouth and exercise his throat for sounds in order to say words again. It was not perfect after three months, but at least he could speak and be understood.
Bill arrived in 502 with all of the enthusiasm of a relative welcoming someone back from the dead. His smile was even larger than the patient’s, who still was working on his facial muscles and reactions.
“Ready to break out of here?” Bill said with a laugh.
Harold nodded slowly. He actually was not sure he was ready, but he was certainly glad to be going home.
“OK then, I guess we will just roll you out of here, since they will not allow you to race through the halls,” Bill blurted out, amused with himself.
A member of the hospital staff rolled the patient to the front door and Bill pulled his car right up to the front. They both had to help Harold get into the car, as his range of motion was limited.
The hospital worker handed into Harold a cane, the kind with four feet on the bottom. “I guess you will be needing this for a while.” With that, the two retirees drove away.
Leaving the hospital was not the end of the journey for Harold. It only took him part way down the long road.
This short story originally appeared on SERENDIPITY (teepee12.com).
It is Fête de la Fédération in France, or more commonly know as Bastille Day here. It is much like our Fourth of July. It reminded me of one of my favorite short stories from a few years ago.
It was a grey and gloomy Paris morning where occasional rain drops did not seem to chase the patrons off the sidewalks and into the many cafés that were sprinkled liberally around the area. This particularly grimy part of town was liberally spray painted with “street art.” Teams of youths and an occasional solo artist spent many evenings decorating the buildings, fences and a few trucks with their personal designs. When we arrived at the nearby train station the afternoon before, we noticed the last few miles before the station contained a nonstop view of this French city artistry. Back home we would call this graffiti, nothing more.
We approached a corner cafe with no thought of sitting outside. My travel companions did not want to “take our breakfast in the streets.” I would have preferred to be outside where I could watch Paris stroll by, but was left with the view from whatever window we could sit near. My friends never actually took breakfast. It did not fit their normal routine and they were not about to change for Paris or Strasbourg or any town in between. One ordered Coke while the other attempted to order “jus d’orange” in his best sounding fake French accent.
“Café américain and croissant,” I ordered without any attempt to sound French. I figured the waiter knew we were Americans before we sat down. They always seem to know. He smiled and wandered off to fix our drinks. My tired friends stared off aimlessly as if sugared drinks would be required to bring them back to life. I studied the room as we waited for our order. Two men were standing at the counter enjoying espresso and talking loudly, as if that was the thing to do at 8 hours 30 minutes on the morning clock. Paris life does not begin too early, unless you are a baker.
As our drinks were being set down in front of us, I spied a grey little man in a tattered grey coat walking slowly past the window to my left. He was elderly, I presumed by his grey hair and grey stubble. His open coat revealed a grey or dirty white shirt and several keys which hung on long strings from around his neck. He carried a baguette in one hand while using the other hand to pull a cart with a small case attached to it. I imagined the dirty, beat-up looking case carried his most valued possessions, whatever they may be. Before too long, he disappeared from view. My friends had not noticed him at all.
Our bill had come to fifteen euros. Even at a good exchange rate, this would seem a high price to pay back home. As it was a Paris cafe, I figured we were paying for the view of dirty streets and the indifferent service of our handsome waiter. I really did not mind, however. I was just glad to be anywhere we could take the pace of life as we pleased. In that regard, we could blend in well for a week.
We left the cafe and were on our way to begin the tour of famous Paris landmarks, monuments and churches. There is an ample supply of all three in the French capital. A few days in the city of lights would not be enough to see them all, but one always hopes to return to Paris. It will not matter how many times you go, there is always the belief deep down that you will return.
We moved up to the corner and waited to cross the boulevard lined with trash from the day before. Although the city cleaned the streets often, it did not seem to matter as the locals tossed their trash anywhere along their path. Perhaps they expected trash to be collected by city workers every day. It is not for lack of trash receptacles that they throw garbage to the ground, as containers are everywhere. I guess those must be for the tourists.
Down the center of the street was a parkway with a paved center and grassy areas along the sides. We took the pathway which was lined with park benches. As we moved toward the sign that said “Metropolitain” at the far end of the parkway, I noticed the little grey man just a short distance ahead of us. He was standing in front of one of the benches and had the baguette firmly in hand. As he tore a piece of the bread and put it in his mouth, pigeons flocked to him as if he was their leader and they were his faithful followers. As a reward for coming to his side, he tore off a chunk of the baguette, then ripped it into small pieces and tossed them all around him. At this site even more pigeons came to visit and soon the old man stood in a sea of birds, alternately eating some of the baguette and tossing some. His subjects cooed their approval in a tone that I always found annoying.
As we wandered past the grey patch of ground where the old man stood, many of the birds took flight in order to clear the way before us. We could not be slowed down on our trip to the stairway that would lead us into the ground and to one of the many subway trains of Paris. I thought it was a shame all the birds were leaving the old-timer so I turned around to take a look after we had walked on by. Since the old man had more baguette in hand, the black and white and grey pigeons all returned to continue the feast. This would be the most attention the man would receive that day. As a matter of fact, it was the most attention the man received most days. As long as he returned each morning baguette in hand, his somewhat loyal avian subjects would appear to greet him. This would bring him his daily moment of joy.
Jeff, Jason and the short story of pride. Be sure to click on “View original post” at the bottom to head over to SERENDIPITY for the rest of the story.
How is your lawn doing this year? Here is the short story of Mr. Wilkins and his lawn care. Be sure to click on “View original post” below to head over to SERENDIPITY for the rest of the story.