One of mine was actually largely fictional.

The WorldCrossing one, right?

Yep. Never heard of the place.

Anthony Jansen van Salee & Grietje Reiniers

He was young to have such wealth. He said he was Dutch, but he spoke with a Moorish accent. Son of a pirate, they whispered. Murat Reis, the Sultan's favorite, sending his son to the New World with pirate booty for a new life.

They said she'd lost her tavern job for being too free with the guests. A young man, inexperienced, eager for the world. A woman on her own, familiar with men and their ways. She caught his eye--or he caught hers.

They married on the ship headed west, raised hell and a family, died wealthy and influential, to the dismay of their neighbors.

another love story

It's not a big island. They call it the Big Island, but everything's relative. It wasn't so big that she hadn't heard his name. It was big enough she'd never met him. She was Buddhist, after all, and her friends came home with tales of him from their Christian church camp.

Michigan was smaller, really. There were only a few of them, so they'd joined the group. Love blossomed on the snow-covered campus that hadn't found root in the tropical soil. He studied metallurgy and put koi in the fountain. She learned how to teach and was never going home.

It's one of the first things they learnt as freshmen. Don't look new. Look jaded, cynical, even slightly bored.

She forgets it all as her head snaps towards the noise.

"What is that?"

"What?" asks her friend, a little deeper into the façade, and a little more intent on watching the shirts vs. skins game.

"Over there. What are they doing?"

She doesn't stay for an answer. Their movements compel her closer, their voices call to her without using her name, or even knowing she's there.

Her eyes dart around the scene in nascent panic.

"How do I sign up?"

"They said I have to go to computer class."

My father looks up from his paper. "I think you'll like it."

My mother nods.

I can't imagine what was in a scattered thirteen year old that could predict the obsession, the dedication of education, the insistence on taking courses not offered at her school, the monomania that didn't ease up until the end of her degree. Was it that obvious I'd be seduced by a combination of logic and power, wrapped up in a mystery of codes?

I suppose that's what parents do - see things they don't even understand themselves.

Warhol Days Part Two

Mary-Louise intends to dance across the fluorescent-lit aisles of every Wal-Mart Supercenter in Georgia. It’s a goal that’s brewed longer than truck stop coffee, since that fateful day at age 15 the cameras caught her stealing lipstick at K-Mart. In that instant, she realized that this was a blue light Made for Closed-Caption TV special, and this was her moment to shine.

“Because this is America,” she thought, “and you ain’t worth nothing if you ain’t on TV.”

She curled her lip and began to quiver—carefully starting with chattering teeth then building quickly until her knees were wobbly. She fell to the floor of the stage, her face soaked with tears. Not a dry eye in the place, and even the lemon-bitter manager was moved. She got off with a warning, and a star was born.

Soon, she found herself performing awkward ballet to the Celine Dion tune crooned through tinny speakers, remaining motionless when a sales assistant is paged, or a special is announced. One night, she recited Orsinio’s “If music be the food of love, play on” speech in the pet supplies department. Another night, she sang “Amazing Grace” at full volume, the stunned applause of K-Mart shoppers ringing against dilapidated shelves.

The explosion of Wal-Mart cemented the deal, her impromptu performances moved to shinier stages. It was like playing Rockefeller Center, with those clean floors and cameras everywhere, broadcasting to only God and the District Manager knows whom.

She can’t repress a smile each time she sees the lens on the corner of her vision, because it’s in these moments she knows this is America, and in America, someone’s always watching.

Oh wow, Victor. I think I know her. Masterfully done.

I think that is the best one, ita. Not that I sit around and grade these when I read them... ION, I am a research machine today. And the woman at the desk at Phoenix Homicide was charmed by my Simon reference...seperated at birth, I'm telling you. Their phones still sound too much like mine, though. :) Research calls go well when I let my Pembleton out. Not quite like "Please don't be an idiot..." more like "Of course I know what I'm doing...and lucky you, you get to help." So, yeah, going against my first instinct.

Oh wow, Victor. I think I know her. Masterfully done.

Gracias. It's all part of ... something. Don't know what yet.