Paternal Instincts (non-fiction w. inserts)

The large dusty boulders are circled with dry, tall weeds. The leopard crawls over them, dropping into the tiny den. He emerges a moment later with a cub he has killed. Three more times he slides between the speckled grey rocks, killing the litter. A year later four new cubs are four months old. He watches as his cubs clamber and play on the rocks.

When we moved away I missed him. I dreamt he and I shared a bath. He was washing my hair and laughing. It felt so good to be close to him. His loving eyes were set in a strangely red face, which was framed with a goatee and horns. His barbed tail waved in the background before the doorway to the screened-in balcony were we slept one summer night as a family, overlooking the yard where my brothers and I were cowboys and Indians, pirates, and Tarzan.

He was a powerful man. Strong, quick, and he knew so much. He smelled of diesel, grease, grain, and sweat. He was a mysterious giant, a god, and they told me I looked so much like him. I leaned in doorways with my arms folded the way he did, and tried to swagger. And I tried to be powerful, strong, and quick.

I couldn’t do anything right. Not for him. I poured too much oil in the truck. I couldn’t pick up a hubcap stuck in a pile of dirt with the track loader racing over it at full throttle. I couldn’t even find a date (“I think the kid’s a fucking homosexual!”). I couldn’t even pick up sticks and debris right (“Get back to work! I want to see nothing but assholes and elbows!”).

The stag, protecting his harem from predators, hunters, winter, and other males, begins the process again. The cows have foaled, and the young scamper and play in hidden meadows. The young males tussle and play that will lead to real contests of strength in the fall. Some will push others out, but in the end, at least this year, all the young bulls will lose. Their patriarch will push them out, protecting his herd from within as well as from without.

My father loved me. I think he was just disappointed. I read too much for him. Or talked too much. Or thought too much. Perhaps the first-born should be different. Mike was agile enough, mechanical enough, more libido-driven.

In our teens Dad did share a dream of his with us, and so we built, Dad and us three boys, the Gxxxxxxxf Ranch. Too bad we lost it to Mom and my stepfather for back child support.

There were a couple of strange incidents after we moved under his roof. Once, in San Clemente, an old tall house was coming down so that a new tall house could stand on long stilt-like toes on the cliff’s edge, to better peer at the crashing surf below.

Mike and I played with the fire hoses to keep cool while my dad mixed screwdrivers. I was taking a nap when a shaft of water from the three inch line woke me, pushed me, and finally knocked me off my feet. We laughed and I plotted revenge.

After lunch Dad started the loader and yelled for us to grab the bucket. Mike and I jumped to catch the edge of the dinosaur-like machine, its neck stretched out level, its jaws closed. It raised up; our bodies swung against its cool metal chin while the ground dropped away. I had grabbed the sharp cutting edge and shifted quickly to a rounded metal tooth. Gently the bucket rolled downward until we could see him at the controls, laughing, cheering us for our strength.

The machine clanked slowly forward; he was watching us carefully to see if we were weakening. He looked proud of us. We watched the ground roll beneath our feet, then the rocky cliff edge, the vertical slope embracing open space, and the surf forty feet below. Under us sea gulls were dancing on foaming water.

He was smiling. Mike and I glanced at each other. This was hard!

Slowly the bucket tipped forward, its front edge lowering to dump. The bucket’s interior turned from a shelf to a downward slope. When the level was greater than 45 degrees dirt slid out, dusting Mike and me as we clung to the metal teeth of the steel-jawed monster. Dad was no longer smiling.

There was a quick up and down shake; we held on. Neither Mike nor I yelled. Abruptly the bucket tipped back up, and the mechanical dragon retreated to the pile of crushed house waiting for the truck to return from the dump.

The Emissary (fiction)

The envoy stepped away from the trees and waited for the native. This act of bravery would be long remembered, whatever the outcome.

First contact is a tricky proposition. It must be done just right. During the twelve millennia of the modern galactic culture there had been great wars raging across the stars because of mishandled first contacts. Religion, xenophobia, economics, and technology are all reasons for one species to war upon another, and the moment when a young race sees that it is but one of many is a moment when anything might happen.

So the council debated on how to best approach the new race emerging into space. And it was finally decided, with much contention, to send a member of the noblest species of the Galactic Confederation. The Ecnoubs were small and therefore non threatening. They were ancient, both as a species and as individuals, and this age provided them with a great deal of wisdom, and respect. And they were beautiful. Their alcohol-based blood was colorless, giving their thin, rectangular and slightly crumpled bodies a translucent, shimmering, pearl-like appearance.

From this graceful and powerful people the United Galactic Council selected an important individual as ambassador, Ynwod. His shimmering beauty proclaimed to all that he was of royal blood, a prince of an ancient house. The crisscrossing creases of his body proclaimed his rank, caste, and family, a clear statement of the honor being bestowed upon this new people.

Ynwod had a versatile tongue and spoke several thousand Union languages. He had already prepared himself by learning six major languages of this world. He was courageous, and would go naked and alone to greet this new species. The envoy stepped away from the ship and fluttered past the “trees” to wait for the native.

The starship, and its pilot, Yenned, waited at the edge of the complex, a "farm." The native, a "farmer." A raiser of food. Each morning he tended his animals, and was certain to be alone. A perfect time for this meeting.

The ambassador of the Union waited near a "barn" a cavernous structure that held animals and their food. Ynwod sweated in the heat, alcohol fumes slowly rising from his body. He came from a world far colder than this "winter"-chilled place. Earth is too warm for a creature with alcohol-filled veins. Moments ago he had discovered with horror some of the dangers of this environment. While circling the barn, he had to pass a pile of feces, one and a half meters high, radiating deadly heat.

The envoy lifted his front plane to straighten up, and crinkled his mid section to communicate non-aggression. Though his sponge-like body had shriveled in the planets warmth (he was now a mere centimeter in thickness), he still retained his overall rectangular shape, and softly glowed a pearlescent white. If he could have fully straightened in this heat, he would have stood nearly a half-meter tall. But crumpled and bent over in the middle, swaying in the warm, just-above-freezing breeze, he posed no threat to a nearly two meter Earther.

The Earthman emerged from his "house." He lumbered along the ground, staggering from one foot to another (bipeds move so strangely!). He carried buckets, and from one he spilled liquid water, so warm it was free of ice, and even steamed a little.

These moments, when galactic culture grasps a new hand reaching for the stars, are epic. Often these encounters are revered by the young race, and become the sources for much drama, pageantry, and sometimes religions. Knowing his role in history Ynwod straightened as much as possible.

With great dignity the envoy stepped into the open and gently swayed his flat body back and forth in the universal gesture of goodwill. With the grace royalty Ecnuob bent over, and let the breeze blow him softly toward first contact.

The Earthmen strode by, actually stepping on a corner of the envoy, and opened a door to a cage containing animals. In a thundering voice the giant spoke. It was loud, and Ynwod had difficulty understanding. Perhaps it was a greeting? Something about the weather?

"So how are you guys this morning?" Mel joked with the rabbits. "Cold enough for you? I see your water is frozen." He opened cage doors, pulled ice off water dishes, and poured in warm water. He put green food pellets and a carrot in each tray, and locked the cage doors.

"Who's got eggs?" Cold hands prompted annoyed, sleepy clucks, while five fresh eggs went into a bag. Food and water quickly appeared, the door shut. Mel turns to the bleating sheep pen, thinking about hot coffee.

Ynwod rolled gently before the barn door, and flattened himself as much as he could. He knew he was beautiful. He hoped he was not intimidating. With his soft, crackling voice, he spoke.

"Fellow sentient! I welcome your kind to the stars!"

"Well, there you go," he said to the animals. The farmer held the bag of eggs in one hand as he shut the door, and snatched up a sheet of paper on his way back to the house. The paper felt a little weird, spongy, like a large sheet of that fabric softener his wife used in the dryer; it twisted and clung to his hand in the morning breeze.

The living room had grown cold through the night, the wood stove had nearly died out, and Mel turned to coax a morning fire out of it. He opened the metal door and checked the small bed of glowing coals. He tossed in the clinging paper, a few slivers of kindling, a small piece of wood, and blew gently. The paper crinkled loudly and erupted in a beautiful blue flame.