COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2011, 2012 by James C. Glass
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For short story writers near and far—
you know who you are.
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
A writer becomes a published author by writing, rewriting, and sending work to editors for their consideration. It is a process, taking months or even years before there are positive results. At first there is the form rejection slip which tells the writer nothing helpful for improving the work. Next best, often seen in the small press, is the checklist offering broad general hints about problems with the work. (‘The idea is old’, or ‘The Story moves too slowly’, etc.) Hand-written rejections with specific comments, when they begin to happen, tell the writer the work has been noticed and is being encouraged. Throughout this process the rejection slips received are the dues a writer is paying to be published. It is a process that continues throughout a professional career. A writer should learn from editorial comments and is well advised to apply them to the work, but often the writer has moved on to other projects and the rewriting doesn’t get done.
Such is the case for the stories in this collection. All are earlier stories of mine that came close to selling, but had problems and received helpful suggestions from editors for doing the necessary work. It has been an interesting experience to rewrite these stories now, after publishing so many other stories over the past twenty-three years. The rewriting has been extensive, some storylines totally changed from the originals, and I present them here for the first time. Reader comments are most welcome, and can be delivered to my web site at www.sff.net/people/jglass/
Thanks go to editors and former editors such as Stan Schmidt, Kris Rusch, George Scithers, Charles Ryan, and Patrick Swenson for their useful comments in the past, and to my editor, Rob Reginald, for putting together this volume.
WHEN HARRY MET BOB
Harry met Bob on the Brin Mesa trail along red rock buttes and spires west of Sedona, Arizona. It was a winter day: clear blue sky, bright sunshine, a cool breeze, and the temperature near sixty. Harry had made the final climb up rock and slippery skree to a ridge which sloped down to a wooden bench and a panoramic view at the end of the trail. Just below the ridge, where he now sat on a flat rock, he had an even better view of the Verde valley, its monumental buttes and pinnacles of layered sandstone, limestone and basalt stained red by iron.
His breathing was heavy from the climb, a consequence of the high gravity, and he cooled himself in the shade of a shaggy Arizona Cyprus bordered by Manzanita and one hearty prickly pear cactus. Pristine country, he thought. It has beauty, clean air and a delicious solitude. No wonder this is touted as the new-age capital of the country, maybe even the planet.
A man was climbing up towards him, moving clumsily on the rock and bent over with effort. He wore jeans, a yellow chamois shirt and black, cowboy hat. His breathing was audible from twenty meters away, and his aura was deep blue from the effort. Suddenly he looked up and smiled. He had a pleasant old face, round and flushed.
“Almost to the ridge. You doing the loop?” asked Harry.
“Absolutely not,” said the man. “This is far enough for me. I’ll take another photo, and then I go down again.” The man stuck out a hand. “I’m Bob. Only got here yesterday, and I’m one of those foreign flatlanders you hear about.”
“Harry,” said Harry, and he shook Bob’s hand. “It’s over five thousand feet here. At my age I take it easy the first few days. You wintering, or just here for a weekend?”
“A month this time. I got lucky and found a small house uptown.”
“Been here before? You are lucky. The portal has filled up on me twice. I’ve been here a week, and two more to go. Some interesting geology here. I was a geologist at home. Don’t see these kinds of formations there.”
“You’re retired?” asked bob, brightening.
“Yep,” said Harry. “The white hair gives me away every time. You?”
“Two years ago. I was an organic chip engineer for Telarts, mostly for these things.” Bob took a palm-sized module from his shirt pocket and opened it. It was a Model 20 Jaziril Telecom, still state-of-the-art.
Harry felt like he’d found a kindred spirit. “I have an older model. It’s sort of backwoods where I live.”
Bob smiled. “Small universe,” he said. “You here alone?”
“Never got married,” said Harry. “Never had the time, or stayed around long enough.”
They both laughed. “I had a wife, but she went elsewhere,” said Bob. “Got tired of my little pranks, I guess. Look, if you don’t mind company I could show you around. I don’t know geology, but I’ve been studying the culture here; fascinating, and nothing like it at home.”
“That’s what I hear,” said Harry. “Sure, it’d be good to see the most important things instead of just wandering. Takes me a few minutes to get into town. The only place I could find on short notice is in Oak Creek.”
“No problem,” said Bob, then, “Get yourself a Sedona newspaper. It comes out Wednesday and Friday and lists everything going on. Let me know what interests you. We could start tomorrow by hitting a few art galleries and some of the tourist shops. There’s exceptional primitive art here, and interesting foods. It’s a great place for indigestion.”
“One of the delights of increasing age,” said Harry, and they both laughed again.
They exchanged addresses and telephone numbers, and made a date for the following day.
* * * *
Time went quickly for Harry and Bob. They were the perfect traveling companions, interests broad and complementary, both of them eager to explore new things.
They began with the more mundane shops: western clothing, Native American arts and crafts, fine jewelry in silver and gems. They admired pottery, carvings in sandstone and alabaster, flutes of cedar, but purchased nothing. Bob was temped by an F-sharp flute. Eventually he assembled a substantial collection of books about the area: geology, early history, sacred sites, vortices, and the new-age culture in the town.
Harry made no purchases until they hit the new-age shops, and he spent hundreds of dollars at a single mineral and crystal store near the edge of town. There were phantom and rutilated crystals of quartz, a plethora of thumbnail specimens of rare crystals from around the planet, all of which he carefully packed away in a small bag. Harry traveled light. For amusement he also purchased a book on the meditative and medicinal value of crystals, many of them supposedly tuned to a specific musical note and Chakra, whatever that was. Bob explained it all to him later.
Bob seemed more interested in odors, buying a large selection of incense sticks and cones, a brass burner, several vials of essential oils and an aromatherapy lamp. Even Harry had to admit that after several days of using these products, Bob’s odor was distinctly pleasant.
“To learn the geology, one has to hike and climb,” said Harry.
“To learn the culture, one has to experience it,” said Bob in return.
Bob had to experience as many alternative medical techniques as possible. There was ear coning, acupressure, emotional clearing, reflexology, reiki, myofascia, quantum touch, rolfing, shiatsu, celestial touch massage, cranial-sacral, aromatherapy, transformational navigation and, worst of all, lymph drainage therapy! He tried most of them while Harry waited outside closed curtains, inhaling delicious odors and studying geological survey maps.
They went on long hikes together and visited sites touted for their mysteries. Near the airport they made a short climb to a mesa and found a young couple in a standing embrace inside a small circle of stones. The woman’s eyes twinkled as she smiled and hugged