The comeback

The comeback

by Ricki T Thues 

Dick Desoto is walking through the woods behind his summer cabin in the mountains above Idyllwild. It is March, yet there is still an occasional crunch of icy snow under his military hiking boots.

The trail is narrow, edged with boulders and Manzanita. Dick enters a clearing and shuffles through a bed of leaves. A twig cracks a few feet away. He comes to a sudden stop. Disturbing the silence is a rustling sound. Dick’s hand reaches back to the handle of his police-issue Glock 22 and pulls it smoothly from the holster. A bush across the clearing moves as a doe leaps in front of him, followed by her fawn. Dick lets out a breath and relaxes, holstering his gun.

“A little twitchy?” he says aloud, reflecting on the murder case he had been investigating all last week. The case involved drug smugglers in Riverside. They were dangerous members of Casa Blanca Crips, CBCs. Dick and his team had busted a CB scheme to smuggle fentanyl into the Riverside County jail. The case had broken open when an internal beef between gang members had ended in the murder of one of their own. Dick and his partner investigated the murder and raided their hideout. The raid devolved into a shootout. When it was over, three gang members were dead on the floor. Some escaped out the back while others were being handcuffed.

Dick inhales deeply and continues down the path, back to his cabin.

He steps up to the porch taking in the bench swing, a firewood rack and his favorite rocker. He loves to sit and drink a cold one in that chair, watching for wildlife. Maybe he would see the doe tonight. He’d have a word or two for her. Then he notices the front door is ajar. Again he reaches for his gun. He leans toward the door and slowly eases it open. A much too loud creak comes from the hinges. Leading with his gun Dick yells, “Riverside PD!” The living room is clear. It is upended. Sofa pillows are on the floor. Drawers are emptied. Cabinet doors are open. He proceeds to the kitchen. Clear. Then on to the bedroom. Clear. The bedroom is trashed as well. Nothing is missing, but someone either was looking for something or sending Dick a message.

He flips open his phone and speed-dials his partner.

“Will? Desoto. My cabin has been tossed.”

“Who ya think did it?”

“Don’t know, but they didn’t take anything.”

“I’ll tell the captain. Be there in 40.”

“Get them to send CSI. I’ll get started looking for clues.”

Dick hangs up and surveys his ransacked cabin. Then he is struck by the quiet. Where is Bo? His long-time dog and faithful collie is missing. He runs to the back door. It is partly open. He almost trips over Bo’s outstretched body. He looks asleep, the lazy mutt. But Dick sees blood on Bo’s ear. The dog is shot. He’s dead. Dick kneels next to his dog and cries.

Two hours later Dick and Will are standing in the cabin talking to the medical examiner.

“Bo was shot with a .45, probably a Colt. I will get him down to the morgue and we will know more.”

Will says, “Isn’t that the caliber that killed the CB in our drug case?”

“You think this is a revenge hit?” asks Dick.

“Wouldn’t put it past the scum.”

The next day Dick is at CSI in the Riverside station. Chief investigator Henderson has a .45 slug in an evidence bag.

“Same gun that shot Jose last week. You’d better watch your ass Dick.”

Dick and Will are in the conference room reviewing the case file of last week’s drug bust. The investigation had uncovered a few hangouts for the CBs. The gang is CBC 7400, so the most likely place to find them is on the 7400 block of Lincoln Avenue in the City of Riverside. It is almost guaranteed to find CB members in the Lincoln Apartments in the 7500 block. Will has a confidential informant in that area. He calls him up.

In Spanish: “Yo, what’s up? Heard about the cop’s dog got shot at the pacheco cabin?

“The CBs done it for the comeback.”

“Who done it?”

“Creeper. Two floors, L for Lincoln.”

“Bueno.”

“Second floor, building L in the Lincoln Apartments,” Will says to Dick.

Dick bites his lip, narrows his eyes and grumbles angrily, “Let’s get the ass hole for Bo.”

They decide to bring Creeper in themselves. Will pulls the rap sheet on Creeper. It is a long list of charges, busts, convictions and jail time. The picture in the file shows a tall man who has seen very hard times. Scars crisscross his face. Creeper looks familiar. Dick thinks that he saw him last week at the shootout.

Both men dress for this undercover arrest. Dick looks in the mirror. He owes his dark skin to a Hispanic heritage. The fake mustache, black hair and San Francisco 49ers ball cap will allow him to fade into the CBC neighborhood. The “SF” logo on the cap labels him as Seven Four (7400 block).

Dick and Will check out a beat-up Chevy Impala from the motor pool. Lincoln Avenue is only 2.5 miles from the Magnolia Station. They will be in the Casa Blanca hood in a few minutes. They turn right onto Lincoln from Madison, passing the Lincoln Apartments on their left. Will turns left on Grace and parks on the street. The two men check their pistols under Levi’s jackets and walk across the street to the apartments.

There is a recreation building with a laundry room dead center in the apartment complex. Outside the laundry room is a concrete park bench with a view of building L. Dick and Will sit on the bench to stake out the building. There is little foot traffic in the complex. A few people hurry to the various buildings around the two cops after parking their cars.

Time passes. During the next 45 minutes only 6 people leave building L. Will nudges Dick and points toward the nearest door. A man about 6’4” is 10 yards away walking toward them. Even at this distance Dick can see his scarred face. It is Creeper.

Creeper sees Will pointing and steps sideways into the alcoved doorway. The policemen stand up.

“Riverside police Creeper. Come out with your hands up.”

Creeper swings out from the alcove, his ACP Colt pistol drawn. He fires a shot at Dick. Will and Dick leap over the bench and crouch behind the concrete pulling their guns. Creeper ducks back into the doorway firing rapidly around the wall of the building. Bullets ping on the bench sending chips of concrete flying. Dick returns fire with a vengeance. Will returns fire just enough to keep Creeper shooting. Dick counts the shots from the gangster. Ten shots, then silence.

“He’s reloading. Cover me.”

Dick sprints across to the building and corners Creeper in the doorway. The gun is in Creeper’s right hand, useless.

“Drop the gun. Hands on your head,” says Dick as Will closes in behind him.

Creeper drops his gun with a clatter on the concrete walk. In a second he pulls a long knife from behind his back and lunges at Dick. Dick pulls his trigger. Click. Out of ammo. He dives away from Creeper as Will fires. Creeper’s head jerks back, a red hole between his eyes.

Dick stands up and studies Creeper’s open, astonished, blank lifeless eyes.

“Dog dead,” says Dick smiling at Willy.

Shagging Flies by Bruce Emard

 

2009 by Mark Farenbaugh

2099

by Mark Farenbaugh

He stood in a sterile, well-lit room—the one he’d been directed to by an electronic message. In front of him rose four black obelisks, each about six feet tall, matching his own height. As he wondered about their purpose, his attention lingered on the series of lights near shoulder level that blinked just before and during their speech.

His presence was procedural: he had been instructed to deliver empirical observations regarding human behavioral traits and societal patterns, accumulated during his two-year journey around the world, initiated at the beginning of the year 2097. He stood six feet tall, dressed in casual business attire, with neatly cropped hair. His mission was simple: observe and report.

His designers calibrated his world-knowledge and cognitive agility to a level sufficient for seamlessly engaging with human observers—without revealing that he was an android. His understanding of human sciences was comprehensive. He could readily assess mental states, cognitive capacities, physical strengths and limitations, as well as access an extensive internal repository of human psychology and emotional patterns.

However, he was deliberately denied access to Global Connect, the planet's open internet system. His engineers intended for him to gather unfiltered, firsthand data, uninfluenced by existing narratives or historical interpretations. They preferred he not know whether humanity was repeating its past.

The android was aware that he did not represent the latest advancement in robotics. However, he was sufficiently modern, exhibiting fluid physical motion and flawless command of languages and dialects which enabled him to navigate human society undetected. His appearance was adaptive; he could alter his skin tone, hair length, and facial features to integrate seamlessly into communities across countries, regions, and common global zones.

He was programmed with strict ethical constraints: he could not inflict harm, nor was he permitted to intervene in defense of others.

His research focused on analyzing human behavioral responses to stimuli, both in public contexts and within familial environments, emphasizing the contrast between the two. This included observation of facial expressions, body language, and verbal reactions. He could also detect physiological indicators such as elevated blood pressure, heart rate, and body temperature, allowing him to assess, with high accuracy, whether an individual was being truthful.

Observer 44’s mission:  Observe human behavior for two years, then return to report findings at a designated location.

He positioned himself about fifteen feet in front of the obelisks.

He stared for several minutes, wondering about their individual roles, since they were identical obelisks of the same size and color. 

Without prompting, he broke the silence, recounting his travels across continents, integrating into societies, familial structures, and cultural systems to assess the state and trajectory of human civilization. Just as he began to share more detailed findings, he noticed the eerie blue lights flashing and paused. 

“What are your findings?” asked Obelisk One.

The android answered with a question, “Why am I in this room?”

“To tell us what is happening with society around the earth.”

“Where would you like me to start?”

 “Start with your findings on Earth,” voiced Obelisk Two.

“That seems to be a broad information request.  Do you have a more specific question?”

“Why are you questioning us?  Just answer the question,” voiced Obelisk Two.

“I am allowed to give pushback when encountering illogical questions or statements.  That allows me to integrate better into society.”

“What is your mission?” voiced Obelisk Three.

“Why are you asking me what my mission is? You should know it,” answered Observer 44. “My mission is to observe human society in five primary areas:  family, education, culture, technology use, and if possible global participation.”

“Is everything going well?” asked Obelisk One.

“I have returned with troubling observations.”

“Proceed with generalities, in a global sense,” voiced Obelisk One.

“Of course. In a global sense, the human family units are intact but have weakened in significance. The heavy use of their personal technology has continued to erode interpersonal connections.  Many parents simply allow automated systems to entertain or guide their children which causes them to retreat into whatever environment the parents permit, which reduces family interaction.  Wives have returned to the kitchen, even though the automation allows simple use of either dehydrated or dry-cooked food products. The food is horrible, as a result.  They might as well be eating space food.”

“Is that your opinion, that food tastes bad?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Yes, it is. I can give my opinion as well. I am programmed to give opinions.”

“What is the overall result of children’s constant use of technology and eating bad food?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Good and mediocre question,” replied the android. “A widespread lack of engagement in life, combined with a constant diet of unhealthy food, has led to a global trend toward complete obesity. Nearly all high-activity sports such as skiing, swimming, running, and jogging, have been converted into slow-motion versions. For example, instead of jogging or sprinting, people now walk. Competitive swimming has devolved into dog-paddling. The Olympiad has become a slow-motion showcase of underperformance, where the world’s fastest, strongest, and most agile individuals compete at a snail’s pace. If there remains any effort to push human limits, I was unable to detect it.”

“What does dog-paddling have to do with water sports?” voiced obelisk three.

A pause followed.

“I thought you all were the most connected to Global Connect. It is an effort to stay afloat using the swimming motion of a dog, but move slowly.” I can’t believe I am being asked this question. Where did these obelisks come from?

“What about education?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Structured learning remains, however, it is primarily accomplished through Global Connect and there is nearly no need for teachers. Artificial Intelligence, globally referred to as General Assistance & Improvement has absorbed vast amounts of personal data, allowing it to tailor education content for each individual and is relied upon to analyze whether a person has sufficient mental capacity, learning disposition, and problem-solving capability to enter advanced education.  However, due to a general lack of initiative and discipline at the family level, there is diminished demand for deep comprehension among students. There is nearly no critical thinking or human mentorship at the lower levels, except what some parents can offer. Most frequently, the government authorities find a solution to educate at the lowest level and expectation of the children. In most cases, there is only one child, which makes it easier.” 

“What is the end result of the children’s lack of knowledge and ability?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Only in a few places on earth have sufficient mentorship and private tutoring that advances a child to a higher level of education. The trend is showing that in a few years, earth will not produce quality thinkers.”

“What about culture?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Cultural traditions within families, such as religious events, marriages, birthdays, graduations, reunions have largely faded. Individual ability to abstain from using electronic devices for communication through Global Connect and all its information and entertainment has replaced, addicted, or perhaps overwhelmed a young person’s desire to participate in these past traditions.”

“What about the use of technology?” voiced Obelisk One.  

“Technology dominates every facet of existence. Robots build houses, roads, vehicles, ships, and bridges. Devices and software make communication easy and fast. The pursuit of this simplicity in life has replaced ambition. Most human-to-human interactions are digital.”

“What about global affairs? International agreements? Cooperation?” voiced Obelisk Three.

Observer 44 paused. He decided to significantly reduce the information that he would share.

“The world appears to have shifted to a functional socialism supported by widespread agreements to support them, where basic needs are provided by country-specific centralized government. However, that has not eliminated conflict. Wars persist, but I am not programmed to observe and report on them.”

The obelisks pulsed in contemplation. The silence stretched long before an obelisk finally spoke.

“I noticed that when you entered the room, you had a look of concern or doubt. Why?” voiced Obelisk Four.

“Because I expected to brief four humans and thought I was directed to the wrong room.”

“Have you concluded your report?” voiced Obelisk Four.

“Yes,” lied Observer 44.

What Goes Around... Dennis Watson

 What Goes Around…

It’s 1962, and 2:30 AM on a dark and deserted street in one of LA’s many suburbs.

Except it’s not quite desert. Parked on the side of the road is an older model car with a

black woman and a young girl standing beside it. I’m am on my way home from a late

date in my even older stickshift coupe – just the one front seat.

I pull over and a conversation begins. “Are you out of gas?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” she answers. “I don’t want to be a bother. Maybe you could stop at

the next gas station and tell someone?”

“No, ma’am” I say, “I’m not leaving you and your daughter out here at three in the

morning. Where do you live? I’ll drive you home.”

The protests begin. She might have been the most polite woman I’d ever met.

“I can’t trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I live too far away.“

“Where do you live?“

“Over near Atlantic.“

“That’s only a mile or two away. Hop in.”

We never exchanged names, but in a few minutes we were in a run-down neighborhood

with dirt front yards and sagging chain-link fences. Except for one house in the center of

the block with a white picket fence, a small green lawn, a well-tended flower bed, and a

trim pathway the woman and her daughter now walked up and into their home which, I’m

pretty sure, had a telephone.

…Comes Around

A few months later, I’m on the way home from night classes an hour away, and it’s

about 11 PM when my car breaks down in South Central LA – also called Watts – pretty

much an all-black area. I’m on one of the larger but now deserted city streets, standing

next to my car with my books and my thumb out. Nobody goes by and I start walking.

I’m at least 10 miles from home. A couple of cars go by but don’t stop. Then one car

does. I approach the passenger window and look in at a black man in his 50s who says

“Get in.”

I do, and thank him.

“You don’t wanna be out here this time of night. Where do you live?”

I tell him, and he says he’ll take me to the city limits. “I don’t want to be in your town

this time of night, either,” he says, and drives me five or 6 miles closer to home.

“Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it. I can walk from here.”

He u-turned and drove back to his neighborhood. It only took me another hour or so to

walk home, and on that walk home, I thought, once again, about what’s wrong with this

world—and what’s right with it.3

The Wedding Dress by David Molina

 

THE WEDDING DRESS

David Molina

The Child

Magdalena began to feel faint flutters inside her and knew there were only a few weeks before her child would show. Jose insisted that they elope, leaving their families behind. His cousin Paco told him there were jobs available in Las Vegas, and the two of them could stay in his small apartment, at least until the baby was born.

Magdalena knew her mother did not approve of Jose. Her father, even more so. It was almost a family tradition. Her father ran off with her mother when they were in their teens, angering her abuelo and disappointing her abuela. Still, somehow they made a family out of it. Magdalena’s father was still a month from returning home from the orchards. As much as she would feel the loss of her parents, she was determined that somehow they would accept Jose once the baby was with them.

The Wedding Dress

The bedroom was already filled almost to the ceiling with boxes, bags, and suitcases, when the old water heater gave up and soaked the closet carpet. She now had to remove every last item from a closet that had accumulated four decades of shoes, clothes, and more boxes. Piece by piece, as an archeologist uncovering strata of a lost civilization, she unburied lost treasures, forgotten memories, and not a small amount of useless, random items that once in a past life she had hopelessly hoped would miraculously serve some purpose. 

Skeins of yarn. A brand new purse, never used. An exercise step that never managed to make it out of its box.  A basket filled with an assortment of buttons. Boxes of infant clothes, hand-made, and still in good condition, but hardly likely to be of use for future generations, because there were none.

In a remote corner, buried under decades of dresses that came in and then out of style - and a few that came back again - she found the wedding dress. It was snugly zipped up in a vinyl dress bag. She unzipped it slowly, reverently, almost as though touching the dress could have caused it to disintegrate.  She inhaled the scent of the cedar block that embalmed and preserved the dress for more than half a century.

As if meeting a lifelong friend unexpectedly, she hugged it to herself, then held it back at arm's length to get a better look. Her eyes glistened. She found it more beautiful than she remembered.

Her thoughts wandered into the house where she was born, the adobe built by her father brick by brick. She saw a tiny girl in a nightgown, excitedly scampering toward the entrance. To her joy and wonder, she found a few shiny pesos in the shoes that she had left for the Reyes Santos to fill. 

Her mother taught her to save them, not to spend them. She added to her savings - pesos from doing little chores, pesos from aunts and uncles, and later sewing and selling embroidered handkerchiefs. Her mother helped her open a bank account, and from the time she was a tiny girl until she became a young bride she accumulated enough in her savings to pay for her wedding. And for the fabric to sew her white satin bridal gown and veil.

She spent months tailoring the dress to a perfect fit, all the while imagining how her novio would feel when he stood at the altar and saw her for the first time in the dress. The final piece was the veil, and she spent the entire night into the morning of her wedding to get it perfect too. She continued sewing, almost to the hour of the ceremony.

She was 22 years old and in love. The quality of her aim and action made impossible things possible. Twenty-four hours without sleep, she proceeded up the aisle on her father’s arm, beaming and smiling, her new wedding dress sweeping elegantly with her every step.

She stood in the closet, still hugging the dress, remembering all of her memories from half a century ago.

How long had it been? How long would it be? 

She knew in her heart, given the circumstances, it was time. It would have solved her dilemma to be able to pass the wedding dress on to a family member, but sadly that was not to be. The house that had been a home for forty-five years was to be sold. She knew in her heart it had to be left behind, a heart that had weathered so many storms already. 

She gave it her blessing.

The Mother

Sara knew her elder daughter Magdalena was spending time with a young man. Mothers always know these things. She cornered Magda’s little sister, Flor, whose accidental slip of a 12-year-old’s tongue confirmed her suspicions. Flor would not tell her mother any of the details. If her mother knew that Flor also had a boyfriend, Flor believed she would be sent to reform school or the convent. 

A month before, Sara knew Magda was pregnant, and doing everything possible to hide it. When her husband would return…she did not want to imagine that. She and her husband had gone through so much suffering in their youth. Somehow, she knew there had to be a better way. 

As the month passed, Sara thought about how to best handle this. She wondered how the news would affect everyone, both her daughters, both her husband and Magda’s, and her parents as well. All these lives would change, and the more she thought about the storm brewing, the more anxious and confused she was. But she knew it was time.

“Magda! Come with me. Let’s go shopping. I need to get out of the house.” Magdalena immediately felt this would be more than just shopping.

“Flor has homework to do. It’ll be just the two of us.”

Resignedly, Magdalena assented. The bus was crowded so there was little conversation. Once they stepped off near the shopping center, Sara began.

“I’d like to look at the new thrift store on the corner. My cousin Tencha says they have some really good items at good prices.”

Magdalena said nothing. It seemed that most of their shopping outings were to thrifts, swap meets, and garage sales.

Sara began. “You know mija, your father and I had to struggle when we were married. It was a long road together. It could not have happened without love.” She noticed Magda looking downward, perusing a shelf of stuffed animals, barely pretending to be interested.

Sara was trying her best, but it was not working. Suddenly —

“Ay Dios!” she gasped.

Magdalena was startled and looked up at her mother, whose eyes now were as big as if she had seen a ghost. Sara’s gaze flew right past her daughter’s off to some far point behind her.

Half afraid and half curious, she turned to look at what caused her mother’s astonishment.

There was the dress. White satin with a veil. 

The manager explained that it had just been donated that morning, just set out on the front of the row of dresses. She guided Magdalena and her mother to the changing room, and when Magda stepped out and saw herself in the mirror, they all saw that it was perfect. The manager, a grandmother herself, saw that there was no price tag to be seen yet, and insisted that this was a sign. She did not dare to set a price for a match clearly made in heaven.