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Melissa and the Bee

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You can call me Buzzby Berkeley. We bees have no need for names, but we do recognize each other. A bee knows the smell of her fellow workers, the sound of their wings, the particular way each one moves through the air, and the pitch of their buzzing sounds. Each has a unique set of traits. Names are a human invention, one they need because they do not have our exquisite attention to detail. I have made up names for the purpose of this story. The first name is obvious, but the second is not named after the director of musicals. No, it is for the philosopher Bishop Berkeley who actually pronounced his name “BARK-lee.” I know what you are thinking. How would a bee with a brain the size of a grain of rice know about philosophers. Well, you would be surprised by what we know. But I don’t have the time or patience to explain it here. My purpose is to merely document my last day on Earth. I’m about to die now, so let me start before it’s too late. The first thing to know about w...
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Dancing at the Ramada Inn

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Paulie was the one who came up with the idea. It was always Paulie. He had the vivid imagination, the false bravado, and just enough poor decision-making to come up with somewhat plausible schemes that usually ended in disaster. We were hanging out on the bench on Nostrand and Ave V outside of Joey's housing project along with Paulie's younger brother Tony and Vinny who was the youngest at 17. The rest of us were 18 or 19. "Hey, you guys heard about the DJ they have at the Ramada Inn on Saturday nights? They play a lot of oldies from the 70's. You know why? It attracts a lot of older ladies looking for younger guys like us. They want young studs for some action. We dance with them a little, get some drinks, and before you know it, they're going to a room with us. Are you guys in for this Saturday?" There was a long hesitation before I broke the silence. "I'm in. At least we can have fun dancing to the oldies and have some laughs...
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The Train to Bordeaux

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The railway station was mostly empty, perhaps not surprising for a weekday afternoon after the tourist season ended. Wyatt ordered two espressos at the outdoor cafe on the way to the platform. "Do you want sugar?" he asked his partner of seven years. Lucy made a face and thought a second. "Normally I would, but I think I should cut back. No sugar for me." He put up one finger and said, "one sugar for me and none for her," to the man behind the counter. "I'll take our luggage to the table while you wait for the espressos." Lucy settled into a chair opposite Wyatt at the table nearby. "Do you ever think what might have been?" she said. "That baby could have had your brains and my looks" "What if it had my looks and your brains?" "Hey, you're not that bad looking." "And you're not as dumb as you look." "Hey, is that supposed to be a compliment?" she said sl...
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Summer Time

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The charge nurse looked at the computer screen and continued, “Summer, this is your first patient. His name is David Stover, 23 years old, was driving on interstate 78, cut off by a tractor trailer, crashed and sustained a traumatic brain injury, severe intracranial hemorrhage, broken pelvis, multiple cervical fractures, flatlined on the way to the hospital revived with defibrillator, minimal brain function, placed on hospice care on Wednesday. He doesn’t seem to have any family or friends.” “Where are his parents?” I asked. “He doesn’t have any, “she replied. “Mom gave him up at birth, raised in a series of foster homes. He aged out of the system at 18. We don't know where he has been living since. The address on his driver’s license turned out to be a mail drop.” “Has anyone visited?” “Two of his co-workers from the auto repair shop where he worked came in once, but they didn’t know where he lived either.” “I guess we’re his family now, “I said wistfully. ...
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1480 Guy

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I was about to pull my van into the interstate after making my final delivery of the day. There was a raging thunderstorm going on, the kind that instantly floods the roads and highways. They happen frequently in the Spring in this part of Kentucky. My eyes fell upon a forlorn figure beside the dimly lit road in a raggedy raincoat and little else. No hat or umbrella. Just a raincoat, a small knapsack, and his hand up with his thumb pointed out. I don’t usually stop for hitchhikers, and I had a million reasons not to this time, foremost were that it was late, and I was tired and hungry. But something about that sad figure in a driving rainstorm made me stop. “Where are you going mister?” I yelled out of my partly rolled down window. “Shelbyville,” he shouted back. “Shelbyville?” I replied. “That’s got to be at least 100 miles away.” “I know,” the man replied. “I would be grateful if you can get me a little closer. Maybe I can get out of this storm. It looks like it’s cle...
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The Last Resort

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The sign on the door seemed fitting for the last bar in a dying resort town in upstate New York nestled in the Catskill Mountains. In its glory years, the town was filled with glittering hotels where New York City residents came to escape the summer heat. Then cheap airfares offered vacationers more glamorous locales and the tourist dollars dried up along with the town’s prospects. As the last watering hole on the once bustling street downtown, the bar known as “The Last Resort” was the refuge of the dwindling population that had nowhere else to go. The core of the regular inhabitants would drown their sorrows in cheap whiskey and lifelong resident Fred Reed was happy to have one of the few steady jobs left in the town, having been the chief bartender since the joint took over a shuttered barber shop twenty years ago. Fred took pride in his ability to measure out just the right ingredients in a cocktail and know just how much to shake or stir a drink to please the veteran drinkers...
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The Evil that Lurks Within

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Rick Lambert walked into the executive conference room holding his binder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He greeted the three people already sitting at the foot of the oblong, mahogany table that filled the room. “Good morning,” he said, as he settled into the seat at the other side of the table, “thanks for coming in today.” Across the table to his left sat Jen Morillo, a serious looking woman in her late thirties, her dirty blonde hair tied back in a bun, and wearing a cream-colored pantsuit. A slight smile curled the sides of her tight lips and she briefly looked up at Rick, but then went back to the paper she was staring at before he came in. To her left, Gary Williams sat in his three-piece charcoal gray suit, looking a bit nervous as he fidgeted with his pen with his right hand. This was his first big professional job interview at 25, and he was immaculately groomed, with his thick, straight black hair combed back, glistening with hair gel. You could smell h...
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Johnny Bizarre

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“What’s your name son?” asked the varsity baseball manager. “Johnny Buzhardt, sir,” replied the young hopeful. “Johnny Bizarre?” “No, Buh-ZART." Nevertheless, his teammates referred to him as Johnny Bizarre. Since Spring training began, he certainly lived up to his nickname. No one at school seemed to know this kid. Even students in his classes were barely aware of him. Yet he showed up on the first day of Spring training claiming he wanted to be a pitcher. He made an unlikely athlete, tall and gangly, all arms and legs, and a string bean of a body. One thing he could do is throw the ball hard, really hard. As a fifteen-year-old sophomore, he threw harder than most college seniors. The first time he threw the ball, heads turned as the ball hit the catcher's mitt with such force that it sounded like firecrackers going off. After about 10 pitches, the catcher had to walk off the field and take off his mitt because his hand was red and swollen from the impact ...
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If Numbers could Talk

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When One came home from school and entered the house, his parents Four and Seven were waiting for him. His father, Seven, looked at him sternly. “What’s the matter?” said One. “What did we tell you about hanging out with negative numbers?” his father asked. One looked down sheepishly. “We were just hanging out after school for a little while. What’s the big deal? They are just like us.” “Just like us!” the father roared back. “There are no such things as negative numbers. Everyone knows you start counting at one. You should be proud that your number comes first. Now these numbers claim they come before you. Have you ever started counting with a negative number? Have you ever seen a negative distance or measured a negative time? No! Distance has to be positive and time always flows forward. The nerve of these negatives to claim to be real numbers like us. Why, in my day we never even heard of them. But there they go, moving into our neighborhood, brazenly carrying their minus si...
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The Ring of Truth

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The long and winding road seemed endless as it snaked around a lake. Was I just going around in circles? I looked in vain for a street sign or some indication of whether there was someone who lived on this road. When I was just about to give up and retrace my steps back to my car, a figure appeared in the distance. It appeared to be an old man in overalls holding a rake, heading in my direction. When he got close enough, he nodded in my direction, with a look of surprise on his face, as if he didn't expect to encounter someone on this road. "Howdy," he said, can I help you?" "This here is private property." "I'm sorry," I replied in an apologetic voice. "I didn't see a sign. I didn't mean to trespass, but I was looking for a house on Robin Lane. Is this the road that leads there?" The man with the rake smiled and said, "Oh you're looking for old man Robertson. "Lots of folk come here looking for him....
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Museum of Alternate History

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I came out of the night shift at the electric plant on an ordinary Wednesday evening, walked to the corner and made the usual left turn heading for the bus stop and a groggy 45-minute ride home. There was a full moon out and the streets seemed lit brighter than normal this evening. I figured it was due to the full moon until I realized the unusual illumination was from the light in front of a building I never noticed before. When I got closer, I saw the sign in front of the door which said “Museum of Alternate History.” I never heard there was a museum scheduled to open around the corner from the plant. I figured it must not have opened yet, and even if it did, it must be closed by 11 pm. I looked at the door for a list of hours or an admission price. There was nothing on the door, just a glass pane from top to bottom. My curiosity was piqued, so I gingerly turned the handle and was surprised to find I was able to open the door. There was eerie silence that greeted me as I slo...
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