Humpty Dumpty had a great Fall.
The weather was back to normal, and egg prices were still up. He needed it after a brutal Summer. Hot, dry winds, driving dust before them, had cut grain yields and driven up the price of chicken feed.
Humpty had economized where he could. He bought cheaper food for himself and his family and cut back on utilities. Leaving his own air conditioning off much of the time nearly fried him, but the hen houses had to be kept cool.
Even worse, he had fallen behind on some loan payments, and the bank was sending threatening notices. If they foreclosed, he'd have to break up the farm.
But what could he do? Like every good egg farmer, Humpty knew that the chicken came first.
The Usual Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to any person or God living or dead is coincidental.
© 2011 All Rights Reserved
"Hey, kiddo, it's me, your Lord God.
I heard that!
You just thought 'No f***ing way!'
Well, way!
I just decided that instead of going through Organized Religion, and the Holy Book stuff, I'd start doing this directly. You're one of the first. At least in your generation. At least in this town, or on this street. Or maybe not.
I have trouble keeping track. I can do a multitude of these at one time. I'm omnipotent, you know?
No, nobody else can hear me. I'm in your head.
You can tell the difference. It doesn't sound the way someone talking to you sounds like does it? It's not air vibrating your eardrums. It sounds like when you think, only you know it's not you. It's me.
No, you're not halucinating.
Just because I'm in your head and nobody else can hear me doesn't mean you're crazy.
I'm in your head, but I'm also outside your head. I'm everywhere.
I know you don't believe me.
Let me demonstrate something. Get the deck of cards out of the junk drawer in the kitchen. Yes, I know that's where you keep them. I'll wait.
Give them a real thorough shuffle. Do it again, really mix 'em up.
Now deal five cards face down in a row.
The first card on the left, that's an ace of hearts. Go ahead, turn it over, just to prove to yourself I'm right.
Ha!
Now the last card on the right, that's the five of hearts. Go ahead.
See!
Bet you'd like to know what the others are. Actually I don't have to bet, I know you would. I'm in your head, remember?
They're the two, three, and four of hearts. You dealt a straight flush.
No, I won't do this when you're playing poker.
I could have made it a Royal Flush, but I didn't want to show off.
I'm kind of disrupting your routine, aren't I? Go get the lottery ticket you bought today out of your jacket pocket. They're almost ready to draw the numbers on the TV, and I know you always watch.
It's time. The numbers they are going to draw are 5-17-62-7-26.
Bummer, not your number. You were hoping this was all leading up to a lottery win; I know you're disappointed.
Why yes, I did tell you the numbers just before they drew them. Yes, I could have told you before you bought the ticket. But, no, I'm not going to. I'm not a get rich quick kind of God.
Your routine. I know you always pour yourself half a glass of Scotch on the rocks after you listen to them pull some other lucky bastard's winning numbers. Go ahead, don't mind me. It's not sacreligious or anything.
So you're beginning to believe me, eh? The idea of your Lord God talking to you is still pretty wierd, but it really does seem to be happening.
You have questions. You had the 'Does God really exist' question, but you seem to be leaning to 'yes' on that one. I can do more demonstrations if you need me to?
Oh, the 'If God is omnipotent, why does he let so many bad things happen?' question. Getting philosophical, are we? Actually that's question number one for most people.
Well, I'm a pretty much hands-off kind of God. There's a big set of rather complex rules. Simple ones like gravity: you trip, you fall down. More complicated ones. A tectonic plate moves, displaces water, creates a tsunami. Archimedes discovered that one in his bathtub.
Scientists are still working on figuring them all out. They keep getting better at it. But they'll never get them all, Like I said, it's complicated.
To make it harder, at the lowest level there is a lot of randomness. Einstein wrote about me, 'I, at any rate, am convinced that He does not throw dice.' He was wrong, at least about that.
Yes, I know you weren't just asking about natural disasters. You want to know why people do bad things. That's due to one of the rules that's in the realm of philosophers rather than scientists. People have free will. I don't make people do things. I don't stop them from doing things. Well, hardly ever.
The card trick? Well, I didn't make you deal that straight flush. I did manipulate the cards a bit while you were shuffling to make those five come up on the top of the deck. You had free will the whole time. Why, you didn't have to play at all.
Your routine. After you drink half your Scotch, you go in the bedroom. Go ahead, I'll wait. Well, actually, I'll go with you. I'm in your head, remember?
Now you undress. Nice panties! I'm just kidding, I knew they were there all the time.
Now you decide what to wear. Free will, remember?
Maybe just a casual look for an evening in. The flared denim skirt is cute and comfortable. The deep pink tee looks pretty with it, especially with the molded tee shirt bra and forms under it.
You're lonely, I know. You'd like to find a girlfriend, and maybe invite her in. But you'd have to make sure things were hidden, the clothes, the makeup, the wig. It would be really awkward to explain; so embarasing. And all your body hair is shaved; you'd have to explain that, how? So it seems easier just not to risk it.
Hey, hey, hey! You're crying! I know, the other questions weren't the big one for you. They were just the ones that were easy to ask.
'Why did you make me like this? Why did you make me in this body? Why do I have to suffer? Why? Why? Why!?'
Slow down; get a grip!
I didn't make you the way you are. That makes it sound like I took some personal interest in you. No offence, but I didn't. It also makes it sound like I had it in for you. I didn't, and I don't.
And by the way, I don't make kids with heart defects, cleft paletes, Cystic Fibrosis, or any other of the multitude of problems that can afflict them.
Like I said, there's a lot of complex rules for how things work. I'm not shirking responsibility; I made the rules. They include things like genetics and biochemistry. I know you've heard the phrase 'It's not rocket science.' Well, no disrespect to rocket scientists, but this stuff is way more complicated.
There are so many ways that people can turn out. Everyone is different in large and small ways. You know what they say, 'You're unique, just like everybody else!' I'd L-O-L, but instead I'll just chuckle here in your head.
So most people look more or less male or female, and know that they are male or female, and prefer partners of the 'opposite sex' and figure that's 'normal' and 'right'. So what do they know? They're missing all the shades of grey. They're overlooking all the variability in the human condition.
You're one of those variations that they overlook, one of the shades of grey. You look pretty much male, but you know you're female. You would prefer a partner who was female, and we won't get into whether that's the same or opposite sex, it doesn't matter, really. Not to me.
Why don't I help you? You think I haven't?
Remember the hotel room in San Francisco? Of course you do. You had the bottles of sleeping pills and anti-depressants you'd saved up. You bought a fifth of good single-malt Scotch; might as well make the last one the best you could afford. You sat in the frayed overstuffed wing chair and listened to Joan Jett while you washed down each pill with a sip of scotch on the rocks.
You woke up the next day on the rug in puddles of your piss and vomit with the worst hangover you could never imagine. It was neither heaven nor hell, it was still the Castro district.
I know you've often wondered why you fell asleep before you took enough to kill you. Don't thank me; I don't expect it.
I know this has been hard on you. It's a lot to process at one time. Get some sleep now."
Kris and her three vacation companions had been boyhood friends. For as long as she could remember they had taken Summer trips to a fishing camp in northern Canada with their families. As the years passed their parents became frail or passed away leaving the four to carry on the Summer tradition. This continued despite Kris' transition several years ago.
One of the many things the four had in common was a dislike of cooking. But with the fresh air and exercise on the trip they all had hearty appetites, so cook someone must. The agreed-upon solution was to draw straws before the trip. The short straw got to be the cook for the trip.
Since it didn't seem fair that the unfortunate cook should also have to put up with her buddies grousing over the quality of the fare, there was another rule. If anyone complained about the food, he had to take over the cooking duty!
As luck would have it Kris drew the short straw and became the cook; that was three years in a row! So she put together a menu and shopping list, bought and packed the supplies and soon they were off on another Summer adventure.
Two weeks into the three-week trip things were going great. Kris loved the vacation, except for the cooking part. No one had complained. They never did.
That evening on the way back to camp with a bucket of water from the lake something caught Kris' eye. She went back. It was still there.
A fresh, hot, steaming moose turd!
With an evil grin, Kris scooped it up and took it back to camp.
That evening dinner was simple but tasty and filling. Fried fish, baked potatoes, corn on the cob. A few, or more than a few, bottles of beer were consumed.
Then Kris said she had made dessert, a fresh-baked pie. She cut it and passed slices around to her friends with a smile.
They each cut into their slices with their forks. Kris noticed the sniffs and wrinkled noses. Then one lifted a bite to his mouth and in it went.
The look on his face was worth the price of admission. Kris smiled sweetly back at him.
After a brief moment, he spat the pie out and yelled.
"This pie tastes like shit!"
"But good, but good."
No More Distance, No More Timeby KrisShe got what she longed for, running in the mountains. |
Photo used by permission of FreeFoto.com
The Usual Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to any person living or dead is coincidental.
© 2010 All Rights Reserved
Kris knew she was different from about the time she started school.
Her name was Chris, and she was a boy. She knew that was wrong, but everyone else seemed to think that was just the way it was. So she went along to get along; if she didn't she got slapped down, at least in a figurative, if not literal, sense.
She tried to do boy-things, but didn't really enjoy herself, and wasn't very good at them, especially team sports. She didn't really fit in with the boys or girls, so she learned how to be alone. And she learned not to share too much of herself with anyone.
With no social life, it was easy to just immerse herself in work: schoolwork which came easy to her, and after school and weekend jobs to make money.
But Kris found one thing she was good at, and it wasn't particularly a boy or girl thing, it was running! Chris had to run on the boy's cross country team, of course. And when he wasn't running, Kris just watched the girl's team when she had a chance. Soon the after school and weekend jobs had to share time with running.
She entered some local road races, 5K, 10K, but of course it was Chris who entered. The entry forms all had the "M" or "F" check boxes. If Kris entered and checked her box, and was found out, well... It would be considered cheating. It would probably get in the papers. She didn't think she could live with that.
The Internet proved to be an eye-opener. Now she could put a name to what she was: transgendered. But she also learned about hate crimes against transgendered people, in the cities or out in the country, it could happen anywhere. The idea of being open about herself became even more perilous.
She learned what hoops transgendered women had to jump through to get legally recognized and to get corrective surgery. It seemed frightening and impossible. But she also learned about do it yourself hormone treatments and pharmacies that would sell by mail order without a prescription.
Chris graduated high school and bought a beater Jeep with cash saved up from Summer and weekend jobs. It looked like a piece of crap, but didn't need much work to run. What it did need, she could do herself on the cheap; it was good to know how to do some guy things!
Kris moved to Lake Tahoe for the mountains and trails surrounding the lake, and because no one knew her there. She rented a run-down cabin and lived alone. Chris could bicycle into town, or take the Jeep in bad weather, and work in the restaurants and casinos, mostly evening and night shifts, and Kris could run the trails during the day.
Chris got a pay-as-you-go cell phone, for cash. A restaurant he worked at let him use their address; he needed that to get his Nevada driver's license and for a post office box. She could pay cash for what she had to buy, or get a postal money order to mail off for... other things.
The place was really off the grid. No electricity or phone, and of course no running water or sewer. Just kerosene lamps, a wood stove and kerosene heater, a spring, and an outhouse. No house number, no street name, just somewhere down a dirt track off a 4-digit numbered county road. The old man she rented it from lived a dozen miles away and wanted cash for the rent, which was mutually agreeable. When he died the next year, nobody ever asked for any rent. Probably whoever inherited his place didn't know about the cabin. It was out of sight and hearing of any place else, and it was likely that no one knew she lived there.
Running every day, sometimes stopping for a dip in the lake or a mountain stream, heaven!
She was in the best shape of her life, tanned, slim and taut-muscled, but had no races on her schedule. She didn't want to have to run as Chris again.
There were some running clubs in the area that got together for group runs once or twice a week. She tried one. The second group run she went to, another girl came up to her and said "I saw a guy working in a restaurant who looks just like you. Is he your twin brother? Is he involved with anyone?". First she felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck! Then it was all she could do not to turn tail and flee. But in a second she gathered what wits she could find on such short notice and replied "Yes, he's my twin brother. We aren't very close, but I know he has a steady girlfriend. Engaged, I think.". She never went back to that group, or any other.
There was a race run in the mountains, the "Tahoe Rim Trail 100", a 100 mile ultra-marathon run on the trails around the lake. The first year there, she went to the start and was awed by how many hard-bodied men and women were willing to challenge themselves to 100 miles of trails that would take over 24 hours for most to complete. She was there for the finish, and saw the winners come in at 20:27 for the first man, 23:42 for the first women. God that's fast on those trails! Could she do that?
She saw the other runners come in over the hours, every one a winner for finishing, really. Thirty-four finishers, the last in over 34 hours. Some were high with the excitement of finishing, some were so beat they seemed almost catatonic, and a few were hallucinating and had to be stopped and sat down and reassured they were indeed finished with the race. Did she want to try?
Now her usual ten mile runs seemed so... puny! Once a week she started doing a longer run, 15, 20, 25 miles. There were no aid stations for her, so she learned to stash water and food at a few key points, so she wouldn't have to carry too much on the long runs.
On her best runs, she was entirely in the place and moment. It was like there was no more distance, no more time, just here and now. The miles, if they existed, just melted away. The time, if there was such a thing, just slipped by like the wind against her skin. Just the lake, mountains, trails, and Kris.
The next year she volunteered at an aid station 50 miles into the race, helping the runners get food, water, and electrolyte drinks. Other volunteers tended to runner's feet. A few runners dropped out here, sometimes with a wry comment like "Stick a fork in me, I'm done!". Most of the runners headed out again quickly, often with a friend who joined them at this point as a pacer, to run the rest of the way with them for emotional support and encouragement. Now that might be something she could do! As a pacer, she wouldn't have to check an "M" or "F" box on an entry form.
To get ready for the effort of a 50 mile run as a pacer, she did some long runs back to back, 25 miles or so on two consecutive days.
But the thought of pacing a 50 mile run was really just an excuse for more running. Running hours were the time Kris could think, about life, the universe, and everything. And her thoughts always came back to her own predicament.
She always had to be Chris or Kris. Chris had the papers, the birth certificate, the driver's license, the Social Security Card, that made him a legal entity. Kris was the real person, who had the lake, the mountains, the trails, the running! But outside the mountains, where Chris worked, Kris was like an illegal alien, moving furtively, with stealth, hoping not to be found out.
She wished sometimes that she could just be.
Like she was when she was running.
She wished sometimes that she could just run forever, until there was no more time and no more distance. No more Chris or Kris.
Kris went out alone as always that Saturday evening for her run on the mountain trails that undulated above the lake.
She never saw it coming. The silent, tawny, muscular cat, crouching on a ledge twenty feet to her left, waiting for one of the deer who often used the trail in the half-light. One leap, one bite to the back of the neck.
Chris didn't show up for work, and the boss was concerned. Chris was a hard working and reliable employee, and never missed a shift. He was quiet, easy-going, but hard to get to know. No one seemed to know where he lived, and though they tried calling for days, he never answered his cell phone or returned messages. When they called the police, they got brushed aside. The police said lots of young people in that resort area just picked up and left without telling anyone, and they wouldn't investigate unless a relative requested it.
That fall, a fire burned through a few hundred acres of forest outside of town. There was no damage except to a few hunting and fishing cabins. The authorities found a burned out Jeep at one, but they checked and found no bodies, so everyone must have made it out OK.
She got what she longed for.
There is no more distance, and no more time.
There is no more Chris or Kris.
Just Kris, running.
A muscular, tawny body, running effortlessly along the mountain trails.
THE END
Author's Note
Running mindlessly along old dirt roads and game trails near the lake I came upon the burnt-out ruins of a hunter's cabin and a Jeep. Taken with curiosity (and in need of a blow!), I poked through the ash and found a small steel box - a fire safe. The box yielded to the gentle ministrations of a mini-multi-tool. Inside was an assortment of papers and documents, including what comprised about seven-eighths of the story presented here. Thus I felt it appropriate to give Kris the author's by-line for her story.
The remainder of the story was compiled from these sources:
Well, I did think I saw a cougar along the trail, and I had a feeling there was a girl running with me, too. But those are pretty common hallucinations, aren't they?
That's One
The young farmer offered his hand to his new bride and helped her up onto the seat of the buggy for the ride back to his farm, her new home. The trip was not unfamiliar to her since she had grown up next door to him on her parent's farm. They were boyhood friends, and now through a twist of fate, they were husband and wife.
No one else in town knew that this girl was the boy who had left home several years before and apparently disappeared. But her husband, he had always loved him, really her, he knew.
The horse's hooves clopped-clopped on the packed dirt road. As they got further out of town the road was bordered by high grass on each side. The approach of the buggy flushed a pheasant from the verge which startled the horse who whinnied and bucked, threatening to upset the wagon. The farmer settled the equine then said: "That's one."
Another mile out of town they came to the creek crossing, dry much of the year, but now a foot-deep ford. The horse stopped and even after much prodding by the farmer wouldn't proceed. The farmer climbed down from his seat, grabbed the horse's bridle and led it across, soaking his trousers in the process. After remounting the seat he firmly said: "That's two."
Two more miles and they were almost to the turnoff that led to his farm. The horse pulled up and almost fell having stepped in a gopher hole. It favored it's left front leg and refused to take another step, even with much urging by the farmer.
The farmer reached behind the buggy seat and pulled out his shotgun, loaded with double-aught buckshot. He dismounted, walked around in front of the horse, and said: "That's three." He put the barrel to its head and fired. The horse dropped where it stood.
The new bride was shocked beyond belief. She yelled "How could you kill that poor beast, you brute! I don't know who you are anymore! I hate you! Take me back to town!"
The farmer said, "That's one."
by Kris
This came to me after reading these blog posts:
http://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/blog/20438/my-purpose-joining-big-closet
http://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/blog/20454/could-i-be-loved-be-considered-beautiful
© 2010
In my town, there was a coffee shop. Not one of the modern St*rbucks-type places, but a real old local coffee hangout. The woman who ran it, Erin, imported varieties of beans from all over the world, and roasted and ground them in the shop. Sometimes the neighbors complained when she over-roasted a dark roast, but she mollified them with a bag of (not over-roasted!) coffee, and some chocolates (did I mention she also made and sold chocolates?).
The patrons were a varied bunch, college students, local shop workers, old hippies, and people who came from considerable distances to visit the shop and drink and buy custom roast blends to take home to savor. These were people who knew and enjoyed their coffee. They chatted about the merits of different blends, roasting techniques, growing regions, and fair-trade practices. They not only drank coffee, but they celebrated coffee in songs, recited poetry about coffee, and wrote stories about real and imagined coffee drinkers and experiences.
One night Jess came into the shop and sat at the counter drinking a glass of ice water and talked to Erin and some other patrons about how he was trying to not drink coffee. He said he had urges to drink, and had sometimes given in, but now he really was trying not to drink coffee. He explained how the coffee drinkers that had sometimes imbibed with him didn't understand him, now that he was trying to quit. Other folks that he knew who didn't drink coffee couldn't understand these urges he had and how he was trying to resist them.
He wondered if this was a place where he could be understood? The patrons here seemed so nice and friendly, and since they drank coffee, surely some of them must understand his desire to not drink?
Erin thought for a while.
I'm sure, she said, that many of the people here have tried to give up drinking coffee, some many times. Some were told by parents, friends, or SOs that they drank too much coffee and should stop. Others were told by religious leaders that coffee drinking was a sin and they must stop or be damned. Others were told by doctors that they should quit, or at least cut back, for their health.
But what you need to understand, is that the patrons here have come to terms with their coffee drinking. Some drink a lot, some just a little. Some hang out here all day, others just stop by now and then. They all have accepted coffee drinking, in what ever way they practice it, as part of their nature.
The patrons here won't think any less of you because you're trying to not drink coffee. They know you can still be loved, and be a beautiful person inside, whether you drink coffee or not. You're still welcome to come in and drink water, as long as you don't mind them. They'll continue to drink coffee, to write about it, sing about it, and rhyme about it.
Now if you're serious about not drinking coffee, this might not be the best place to get help. Perhaps you should talk to a therapist who has experience with people with drinking issues of all sorts.
Smiling, she said, "Perhaps you would be happier at the bar down the street?"
The End
The Second Wave
A man stood in the surf watching the waves come in. He saw a large wave approaching, planted his feet firmly, took on a boxer's stance, and waited. The wave broke and crashed over him.
Still standing, he yelled: "Yes, I've got this! The ocean can't beat me!"
He turned, watching the beach, the ocean behind him. The surf washed around his calves, In and out, in and out, six small gentle rollers. The second large wave rose behind him.
The wave crashed into him. He was blindsided, fell, and was dragged across the rocks and shells on the bottom. He got to his knees, then stood, sputtering and trying to get his breath, bloodied from head to toes.
Be vigilant, or the second wave could take you down.