Second Cup 4
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Millard Johnson<br />
Producer<br />
Welcome to the<br />
demonstration<br />
issue of<br />
<strong>Second</strong> <strong>Cup</strong>.<br />
When I began thinking<br />
of how writers in The Villages<br />
could best be helped along<br />
their writing journeys, one of<br />
the first things I thought of<br />
was how nice it would be to<br />
have a way for writers of<br />
short stories and poems to<br />
get their writings to an<br />
audience of readers.<br />
The Love Story Reading<br />
program I produced for three<br />
years had helped dozens of writers get their works to an<br />
audience of hundreds, but I wanted more. I wanted more authors<br />
to be able to get their creative output to a larger audience.<br />
My first thought was to create ebooks of short story<br />
collections on Amazon, but every ebook has to be marketed<br />
separately from the one that preceded it. Amazon has no<br />
subscription model.<br />
My second thought was the literary magazine. But paper<br />
magazines are enormously expensive to create and distribute.<br />
<strong>Second</strong> <strong>Cup</strong> is the best solution I could come up with.<br />
Easy to create and inexpensive to both produce and distribute.<br />
And once we have readers, we put them into a subscriber file so<br />
we can send subsequent issues at no cost.<br />
The only issue is this — <strong>Second</strong> <strong>Cup</strong> must be a top quality<br />
Ezine. It must be something YOU are proud to host your best<br />
writing.<br />
Tell me what you think. If this is worth doing, we will find a<br />
way to do it.
Forbitten<br />
Love<br />
by<br />
Barbara Rein<br />
Mora flicked out her tongue to lick the corners of her<br />
red-stained lips, savoring every drop of the sweet<br />
nectar. The vessel she drank from had more<br />
wrinkles than she would have liked, but vintage blood had that<br />
exquisite taste of honey. Delectable. Come morning, a retired<br />
attorney would wake in his Royal Caribbean stateroom with a<br />
vicious hangover. But he’d have no memory of being the main<br />
course at a lady vampire’s midnight buffet.<br />
Satisfying the hunger left Mora exhausted. She dragged<br />
herself to the suite she shared with her dwarf maidservant, Anya,<br />
and slipped out of her red off-the-shoulder silk dress. One of a<br />
wardrobe of red dresses chosen for its forgiving color. Letting it<br />
puddle to the floor, she yawned.<br />
“I’m sorry, Anya. I’m too tired to hand it to you.”<br />
Though the bed bezckoned, Mora never availed herself of<br />
the ship’s luxurious linens. Instead, as she had done nightly for<br />
over a hundred years, she raised the lid of an oversized steamer<br />
trunk and climbed in. Securing the vault from inside, she settled<br />
in and slept the sleep of the undead till the next sunset.
Cruising on one mega ship after another offered Mora a<br />
freedom she’d seldom had in her long past. Though the<br />
Caribbean was her first excursion on waters beyond Europe, her<br />
design remained the same: to join the throng of passengers after<br />
dark when those searching for amusement filled the cocktail<br />
lounges and casinos. There she’d have her choice from a menu<br />
of handsome morsels. Though fawning men bored her, she<br />
pretended attraction to those begging to kiss her full red lips, to<br />
hold and caress her seductive curves, to run their fingertips over<br />
high cheekbones hinting at Slavic royalty. Yet no one got close.<br />
Mora’s piercing green eyes held her chosen prey captive and<br />
immobile long enough to drink her fill. The spell always took<br />
place in the victim’s cabin where he’d collapse in a trance upon<br />
his berth. Her swift getaways rivaled those of a quick-change<br />
artist as she shape-shifted into the victim’s likeness. Some may<br />
have seen her arrive, but no one ever saw her leave.<br />
The glittering lights of Curacao greeted Mora when she<br />
woke the next evening. Donning a vermillion robe, she stepped<br />
out onto her private balcony, a chilled flute of Dom Perignon in<br />
hand as she called for her maidservant.<br />
A minion, a human slave taken into service centuries ago,<br />
Anya existed through the bite and benevolence of her mistress.<br />
The old dwarf approached, her steps shuffling.<br />
“Anya, what is wrong with you? You move as if slogging<br />
through mud.”<br />
The maidservant lowered her head, hands turning one over<br />
the other. “M’lady, I’m in need of your service. My movements<br />
weaken. My body shrinks. My skin sloughs off. If you would be<br />
so kind as to spare an elixir for one who swiftly fades.”<br />
“Please don’t grovel. We’ve never denied our need for each<br />
other—me for your omniscient visions, and you for my infusions<br />
of life. Come closer.”
With mincing steps Anya approached, easing back the<br />
hood of her shapeless frock to expose her neck. Mora bit gently,<br />
as she had done countless times before—a small nip of blood in<br />
exchange for a trickle of saliva. The vampire’s fluid coursed<br />
through Anya’s diminished figure. Recovery was swift; the<br />
intimacy fleeting. The two stood at the railing—one tall and<br />
imperious in hues of blood, the other squat and all seeing,<br />
forever garbed in black.<br />
“Look at the island, Anya. Darkness hides a beauty I’ll<br />
never see. I envy your freedom, able to walk those quaint streets<br />
by daylight. I wish I could stop hiding from the sun and drink in<br />
the sights instead of a mortal’s blood.”<br />
“Only since boarding this ship have you talked of being<br />
dissatisfied. I fear for you, M’lady. Do not wish for what cannot<br />
be.”<br />
Mora took a thoughtful sip of champagne. “I know I can’t go<br />
back to my worldly existence. But tell me, is the future so bleak<br />
that a woman can’t dream?”<br />
The clairvoyant dwarf took her time, staring out to the island<br />
lights. “I see explosion. Brilliance.”<br />
“Your vision must be of this evening’s fireworks. They’re of<br />
no concern to me. Now help me into the red strapless chiffon. I’ll<br />
dine from the casino tonight.”<br />
***<br />
Admiring eyes followed Mora as she sashayed her<br />
way through the maze of gaming tables, her focus<br />
undeterred by the blare of slot machines and<br />
boisterous crowd. Money meant little to her, having amassed<br />
fortunes through the ages. But the casino attracted a crop of<br />
eligible men ripe for the harvesting. She lusted for a heartyveined<br />
gambler to slake her thirst.<br />
Finding a seat at Baccarat, she bet modestly, careful to lose<br />
more than she won, putting on a demure pout when wagers and
cards turned against her. To her left, a raven-haired gentleman<br />
in a red-vested tuxedo bet heavily, winning often. His hushed,<br />
accented jests about their rotund dealer kept her laughing.<br />
“Look at the spread of waist. I wonder, if laid flat, would he<br />
spin like a roulette wheel?”<br />
“If he did, I’d bet on zero. The only place the ball could<br />
drop would be his navel.”<br />
Her tablemate’s eyes crinkled in delight at her witty<br />
comebacks and she relished the repartee. Yet she had no thirst<br />
for this player. Her desired meal sat across the table—a strongjawed<br />
high roller whose pulse throbbed at his neck each time<br />
he raked in his chips. Mora licked her lips, fangs aching to<br />
emerge. But her quest came to a halt when a spilled cocktail on<br />
the felted surface ran onto her mark’s lap. She sighed when he<br />
fled to change his trousers.<br />
The gentleman at her side misread her distress.<br />
“Bet along with me and you will not despair your losses.<br />
Let us find another game to play. Allow me to introduce myself.<br />
I am Striga.”<br />
Though disinclined to mingle with the unappetizing, Mora<br />
found this foreigner with a biting sense of humor intriguing. The<br />
two traversed the glitz and gold room, Striga pausing at a game<br />
of craps where a gaggle of women in décolletage cheered the<br />
rolling dice. He smacked his lips, brushing the back of his hand<br />
across his mouth, a knuckle slipping between his teeth.<br />
Mora followed his gaze.<br />
“They’re not to my taste. I mean, the game is not to my<br />
liking.”<br />
Though she enjoyed Striga’s company, her urgent craving<br />
had her searching the crowd for the return of her anticipated<br />
meal.<br />
The gentleman made a small departing bow.
“It was a pleasure to share our moments. But forgive me, I<br />
must partake in the feast. The gambling feast”<br />
He took Mora’s hand to bestow a kiss. But he jolted erect at<br />
their touch, his face registering shock. Mora sucked in her<br />
breath. Attuned to the warmth of blood flowing through a body,<br />
she detected none. He stirred no hunger within her. Yet a spark<br />
ignited, a longing from a far distant past.<br />
“Come. You must stroll the deck with me,” Striga insisted,<br />
gripping her elbow and drawing her through the crowd.<br />
Stunned by the current surging into her, she allowed him to<br />
lead her outside. At a desolate stretch of handrail, he at last<br />
released his hold.<br />
He whispered, “I know you.”<br />
Mora gasped. Was this a past mark unremembered? A<br />
vampire hunter who’d escaped detection? She turned to flee. He<br />
caught her wrist.<br />
“Do not leave,” he said, his voice husky. “I know you.<br />
Because we are the same, thriving in the dark on the blood of<br />
others.”<br />
Again, Striga’s touch burned through her, heating the cold<br />
flesh of the undead and igniting a flicker of life and lust left<br />
dormant for centuries. She shivered in the soft Caribbean air.<br />
“This can’t be happening to me. My feelings died centuries<br />
ago.”<br />
Striga stepped closer. He cupped her chin, bringing an<br />
unnatural flush to her pale skin.<br />
“In all my years of thirsting for blood, I have never<br />
considered the soul I once was. Yet since embarking upon this<br />
cruise, I have had a sense of disquiet. Now your touch incites an<br />
awakening in me for what has been long lost. I see in your eyes<br />
that you, too, have been stirred.”<br />
Entranced by his silvery voice and penetrating stare, she<br />
uttered the secret shared only with Anya.
“Ever since boarding this cruise, I’ve also yearned for the<br />
life I used to have.”<br />
“Ah, the brines of the Caribbean have caused many an<br />
undead to veer from their destiny. We would be wise for the<br />
knowing. Come. Let me show you these fickle seas from on<br />
high.”<br />
Before she could protest, Striga flared his evening jacket<br />
around them and took off into the night sky.<br />
They soared as one above the cruise ship. Circling wider<br />
over the Lesser Antilles isles, Striga filled Mora with tales of<br />
vampires lost to the whims of the salty mist. Locked in Striga’s<br />
arms, her senses heightened with exquisite pleasures that<br />
should have remained buried: the kiss of wind teasing her raven<br />
locks; the ocean’s tang and fragrance assailing her face. Never<br />
before had she flown in human form, the sensation erotic as a<br />
whisper of silk on bare skin. Her eyes, long barren of emotion,<br />
splashed tears into the sea below. What made her ache for what<br />
she’d once been? Was it the swells shimmered with moonlight,<br />
the vast spray of stars, or this kindred spirit who held her close?<br />
A hint of brightening sky had them hasten back to the ship.<br />
Mora hesitated, reluctant to leave Striga’s arms. His eyes held<br />
his own sorrow.<br />
“For many decades I have plied these waters, feasting well<br />
from this mode of existence, secure in my lidded berth. Never<br />
before has the Caribbean played its siren song for me. Now I<br />
fear it calls. I should never have held you to what was once my<br />
heart, for I am doomed by the sea to have it throb again. I will<br />
seek you out tomorrow night. Till then, it will be agony.”<br />
Stunned by their intimate journey, a dazed Mora stumbled<br />
to her suite to share the encounter with Anya.<br />
“What were you thinking? Did you even feed? Hurry, get<br />
into the trunk before full sunrise.”
Throwing off her dress, Mora paused. “I can’t explain what<br />
happened. Our connection was powerful. Intense. Unbearably<br />
so. You see into minds. Do you have any idea who he is?”<br />
“Sleep now. I will look deep to discern his roots.”<br />
The next evening, as the minion swept her mistress’s ebony<br />
hair into a nape-clinging nt Striga Vlonsky, a Romanian vampire<br />
of heinous tastes. He is said to do more than drink the blood of<br />
his victim. He sometimes ingests the heart.”<br />
“Well, I find him captivating. I’m meeting him later this<br />
evening after I feed.”<br />
“Be wary, M’lady.”<br />
But the loyal maid’s warning was lost as Mora rushed out<br />
the door.<br />
For her meal, Mora chose a young medical intern from<br />
Philadelphia. She toyed with him at a lively poolside bar, willing<br />
him to drink only Perrier so as not to dilute his blood. Her green<br />
eyes mesmerized him into taking her to his stateroom where he<br />
obeyed without thought, unbuttoning his white dress shirt so she<br />
could drink her fill. His blood had that zest of youth—fresh and<br />
bracing. Sated, she shape-shifted into the intern’s likeness and<br />
emerged from the cabin just as a young blonde in stilettos<br />
swayed by.<br />
“Follow me,” said the blonde in Striga’s voice.<br />
The two rushed outside as a thunderstorm abated. Lone<br />
passengers on the deck, they huddled under a canopy, laughing<br />
as they reverted to their own human forms. Mora’s smile fell<br />
away though, when Striga took her by the shoulders, his<br />
penetrating stare boring into her with alarming ferocity.<br />
“The ice in my veins is heated by a hundred fires. In all the<br />
ages I cannot remember a hunger as powerful as my attraction<br />
to you.”<br />
His hands lit a craving in Mora, a wild yearning resurrected<br />
from a life forgotten. Her breath came shallow and fast.
“Don’t let go. Your touch makes me feel alive again.”<br />
Obsidian eyes devoured hers. “My hands ache to caress<br />
you. My lips seek to consume you. But there is danger. The<br />
ancients warned of this when two vampires come together in<br />
passion. Our thirst will no longer be for blood, but for the light we<br />
now shun. We will be altered, existing in a way we have never<br />
known.”<br />
Her green eyes beseeched him. “I don’t care. As long as I’m<br />
with you.”<br />
“You must care. We will be inseparable yet transformed.<br />
The change will take but a moment, yet a moment so sublime<br />
even mortals would give life for it.”<br />
Mora felt faint, her words coming from a heart that ceased<br />
beating long ago. “I think I’ll die all over again if you don’t kiss<br />
me.”<br />
Striga took her in a gentle embrace, his lips a whisper away.<br />
“Are you sure?”<br />
“Oh yes,” she breathed, her lips rising to his.<br />
***<br />
The crew on the bridge told of seeing St. Elmo’s fire that<br />
night. But Anya, standing inside the doorway of the deck,<br />
watched in tears as Mora and Striga burst into flames, their<br />
entwined images spiraling into the sky. The cold ashes of<br />
centuries fused in the tropical air. Transformed into crystal, the<br />
embracing pair descended back to the ship, settling as a small,<br />
translucent figurehead onto the prow. The black-clad creature<br />
scurried away in the dark, returning with a bottle of champagne<br />
to christen the diminutive statue, “Due Vampiri Amore.”<br />
***<br />
Without Mora’s fluid to extend existence, Anya<br />
withered to dust. Yet her shadow haunts the decks<br />
at daybreak, guardian to the sheer sculpture<br />
clinging to the bow: two vampires locked in eternal pose,<br />
devouring each other with their eyes, their crystal faces etched
with passion. An endless Caribbean sun shines through them,<br />
fulfilling the ancient prophecy—Mora and Striga, once trapped<br />
by the thirst of night, now forever drink in the light.<br />
Barbara Rein debuted<br />
her first book series in<br />
fourth grade, The<br />
Adventures of Cassandra<br />
McGillicuddy in Outer Space,<br />
complete with stick figures<br />
drawings. Admonished by her<br />
teacher for doing book reports on<br />
her own books (and didn't she have<br />
chutzpah), she put writing aside for<br />
years while stories piled up in her<br />
head. One day she opened her<br />
laptop and out they poured. She's now an award-winning and<br />
Amazon-best-selling author. She lives with her husband and<br />
dachshund, traveling with a well-packed suitcase between New<br />
York and Florida.<br />
Barbara writes strange, fantastical, and downright weird<br />
short stories. Darkly brilliant tales that teeter on the edge of reality.<br />
Reimagined nightmares concocted from a childhood diet of<br />
macabre fairytales and endless episodes of Twilight Zone.<br />
"Forbitten Love" is one of twenty-two stories in her book, Tales<br />
from the Eerie Canal," available at Amazon.<br />
She also writes chuckle-inducing personal essays inspired<br />
by the quirks and oddities that bounce her way.
There were years I thought our story<br />
had as much to do with timing as with love,<br />
years I thought we’d never make it through.<br />
Then, of course, there are<br />
the years now entirely lost unless<br />
I’m drifting through scrapbooks.<br />
Pam O’Brian<br />
But lately I’ve been thinking<br />
about you--<br />
how your hand holds the coffee mug<br />
how the edges of your eyes crinkle when you drive<br />
how we still lie in bed at night<br />
wrapped around each other like Smoky Mountain quilts,<br />
marvel over the boy and girl who<br />
put together the high school yearbook,<br />
laugh remembering the Easter you scared<br />
the children with that pink insulation bunny,<br />
wonder how we’ll do<br />
when these aging limbs stop working,<br />
when the terrifying disease hits.<br />
I don’t know.<br />
Perhaps the children were the reason we stayed<br />
through the careless summer days.<br />
But now, now<br />
you are the reason I will still be there<br />
when winter ices in<br />
and you are the map<br />
to those few things<br />
I do know about love.
The Golden Calf<br />
The Golden Calf<br />
by<br />
Clay Gish<br />
Glaring, a massive bison bull strutted toward me while<br />
I snapped photo after photo. “Roll up the window!”<br />
my spouse yelled. Reluctantly, I did as told. The bull<br />
snorted and turned to threaten the next human. Around me,<br />
other drivers faced off against a squad of equally fearsome<br />
bulls. The line of cars lengthened on either side of the road,
stuck in a bison traffic jam. No one dared honk a horn for fear of<br />
setting off the giant, shaggy guards. In the center of it all,<br />
gazing around with curiosity and wonder, stood a small fuzzy<br />
golden calf.<br />
Who knows how long the face-off would have endured?<br />
Finally, the calf’s mother took the situation into her own hands<br />
(hooves, that is); she walked into the road and nudged her little<br />
one to a grassy area on the side. On spindly legs, the calf<br />
trotted after her,<br />
oblivious to the problem<br />
he had caused. The<br />
team of bulls<br />
swaggered after them,<br />
releasing the cars to<br />
continue on their way.<br />
Theodore Roosevelt<br />
National Park in<br />
Medora, North Dakota<br />
may well be the most<br />
exciting, unusual place<br />
in the national park<br />
system. Home to roaming herds of bison, the park bursts with a<br />
vitality befitting its namesake. Though set in a region known as<br />
“the badlands,” I encountered a landscape that conjured up<br />
fairy castles more than outlaws. A labyrinth of candy-colored<br />
mountains — ribbons of creamy sandstone with stripes of pink<br />
and green sediment — created a magical backdrop for wild<br />
west adventures.<br />
My first stop of the day was at the South Unit Visitor<br />
Center just inside the park perimeter. Rangers armed me with<br />
maps and information about the local flora and fauna. A small<br />
museum featured exhibits on the history, nature, and geology of<br />
the region.
Theodore Roosevelt’s first home in the West, a small<br />
hunting lodge called Maltese Cross Cabin, sits just behind the<br />
visitor center. With no one around, I spent some time exploring<br />
the cabin; I walked where Roosevelt once walked and enjoyed<br />
the views as he once did. Before arriving at the park, I knew<br />
nothing of Theodore Roosevelt’s time in the West and the<br />
important influence his experiences here would have on him<br />
and the nation. He later said, "I would not have been president<br />
had it not been for my experience in North Dakota."<br />
Roosevelt first came to the Dakota Territory in 1883 to hunt<br />
bison. The skinny, bespectacled young man became enamored<br />
with the cowboy life and bought a small ranch. He hired a ranch<br />
manager, constructed this one-and-a-half story cabin of<br />
ponderosa pine logs, and bought a herd of cattle. His ranch
ecame known by the cattle brand, an eight-pointed Maltese<br />
Cross. For a while, he split his time between his home in New<br />
York and the Dakotas.<br />
On Valentine’s Day 1884, Roosevelt tragically lost both his<br />
young wife, Alice, and his mother. Heartbroken, he sought solace<br />
in the Dakota wilderness. He even considered making ranching<br />
his sole career. Roosevelt bought a second, larger ranch, which<br />
he named Elkhorn, and added a thousand head of cattle.<br />
Eventually, politics beckoned. He sold the ranch in 1890 to his<br />
managers and returned to New York and public life.<br />
While in the Dakotas, Roosevelt wrote three books about<br />
his adventures in the West. They became his treatise on<br />
conservation. Though an avid hunter, Roosevelt bemoaned the<br />
loss of habitat and wildlife he witnessed. He predicted a collapse<br />
of the cattle industry because of ranchers’ unsustainable<br />
practices, particularly overgrazing.<br />
In the Dakotas, he helped form the Boone and Crockett<br />
Club, one of the first fair-hunting organizations, and established<br />
a stockmen's association to help preserve the region’s natural<br />
resources. As Governor of New York and President of the United<br />
States, Roosevelt made conservation a key policy. During his<br />
presidency, he protected nearly 230 million acres of land as<br />
national forests, parks, monuments, and reserves. Small wonder<br />
this national park bears his name.<br />
A 36-mile loop drive through the park, with plenty of pull-offs<br />
for wildlife and scenery photo-ops, brought me closer to nature.<br />
The bison traffic jam occurred about two-thirds of the way<br />
through my journey. Along most of the drive, I passed small<br />
bands of bison grazing safely in the distance. At one dramatic<br />
junction, a large herd grazed high on a mountain ridge with a<br />
magnificent overlord bull standing on the peak. I foolishly thought<br />
this glorious moment would be my bison highlight!<br />
Small wildlife colonies abounded as well. Rabbits hid in<br />
shadows and hopped across the plains as my car approached. I
encountered several elaborate prairie dog towns, whose<br />
residents posed for photos far more happily than the bison — at<br />
least as long as I remained in my car. When I got out of the car<br />
trying for close-ups, they quickly scooted into the nearest burrow.<br />
Hiking trails twined through the park. I chose one that<br />
traveled along the Little Missouri River. From atop a bluff, I<br />
looked out at the river winding its way through the painted<br />
desert. The river had carved a deep valley in the candy-colored<br />
mountains. The sand along its banks glittered in pinks and<br />
greens. As I contemplated the beauty, a scene right out of the<br />
Old West materialized. Across the river, a herd of wild horses<br />
rose majestically over the crest of a bluff. Their dark outlines<br />
contrasted sharply with the pale blue sky.<br />
Here at this moment, I felt Roosevelt’s presence far more<br />
strongly than in his hunting lodge. Gratitude flooded me. His<br />
foresight preserved this land and the stunning wildlife it supports<br />
for me and for all the generations of Americans to come.
For 25+ years Clay Gish worked as an exhibit designer,<br />
developing the vision, educational goals, and scripts<br />
for museums around the world. A historian and<br />
educator, she wrote about child labor and taught American<br />
history and government. Currently, Clay is a travel writer and live<br />
in Florida.
Dancing<br />
by<br />
Allen Watkins<br />
While dancing on the moon at night<br />
At least in thought my love I see<br />
We glide across the treeless height<br />
While dancing on the moon at night<br />
Bathed forever in silver light<br />
As hand in hand you waltz with me<br />
While dancing on the moon at night<br />
At least in thought my love I see<br />
Allen Watkins was born and raised in Neodesha,<br />
Kansas. After graduating from East High School, in<br />
Wichita, Kansas, Allen worked for the Boeing Aircraft<br />
Corporation for twenty-four years. In 1985, Allen and his<br />
wife Pearl moved to St. Augustine, FL. where they both<br />
worked for Northrop Grumman Corporation until<br />
retirement. They moved The Villages Florida in<br />
November 2002. Allen joined numerous writing groups<br />
as well as the Poetry Workshop. The written word,<br />
stories and poetry, is very important to Allen.
Albert<br />
by<br />
Millard Johnson<br />
Albert… it's your mother.<br />
—<br />
Nothing’s wrong. It isn’t all right that a mother should call her<br />
son?<br />
—<br />
I know you’re at work. I called your work number. Where else<br />
would you be?<br />
—
Because I haven’t heard from you. You never call any more.<br />
And when I call at night, you’re always busy.<br />
—<br />
But that was Wednesday. Your father has been worried. Bless<br />
his soul. He is not so well sometimes.<br />
—<br />
Better. He’s eating like a horse. You know how he loves his<br />
brisket and latkes.<br />
—<br />
A little gout. And my breathing. It's not so good anymore. I<br />
think it's maybe my heart. But don't worry about us, your father<br />
and I. We'll be fine. I'll be fine.<br />
—<br />
No. I don’t mind waiting. It never bothers a mother to wait to<br />
talk to her son. Just set the phone down. Go see what your<br />
friends want. I’ll be here waiting when you get done talking to<br />
your friends.<br />
—<br />
—<br />
Was that Mrs. Kopelman?<br />
—<br />
Ester Kopelman, I thought I heard her voice.<br />
—<br />
The Kopelman’s, from up on Rhine Strasse. You know the<br />
Kopelman’s. They’ve got those three daughters and the boy….<br />
You went to school with him. Herbert Kopelman? He went off to<br />
medical school. I see his mother at the bakery every morning.
She’s forever talking about Herbert — how he is doing so good in<br />
medical school.<br />
—<br />
Yes, Ester Kopelman. Right. Right. And the daughter, the pretty one<br />
with the limp. Not a big limp. Just a little limp so you could hardly notice.<br />
You know you should maybe call her.<br />
—<br />
No. Not Ester Kopelman -- the daughter. You’re 25 years old, you’re not<br />
a boy anymore. You’ve got a good job at the post office. A young man<br />
with a job at the post office should think about such things.<br />
—<br />
Of course, she would. You went to school with her brother, the big shot<br />
doctor.<br />
—<br />
Trust me, Albert. You’re a good-looking boy. A girl like that would be<br />
happy a boy like you should call her. A few years and you could move up.<br />
That Mr. Zimmerman, he’s not going to be there forever. And you know<br />
Albert --<br />
__<br />
Really? They’re going to publish your story? That’s wonderful. How<br />
much will they pay?<br />
—<br />
Are you sure? Those magazines have plenty of money. You’re sure<br />
you’re not mistaken?<br />
—<br />
You should have asked. I’ll bet they pay some of the people whose<br />
stories they put in those magazines.<br />
—<br />
Oh. I see. Well, I am still very proud of you. You should write maybe a<br />
couple of more. After a while, people will start looking for your stories.
Then maybe you can sell one of your stories to another magazine that<br />
does pay.<br />
—<br />
Don't be so sure. Other writers get paid plenty. Now, what is the<br />
name of your story?<br />
--<br />
Wait a minute. I want to get a pencil so I could write it down. I want I<br />
should be able to tell that Ester Kopelman. She’s always talking about<br />
her son, the doctor. I want that she should see that my son can get a<br />
story in a magazine. Maybe she’ll read it. Maybe she will set it on a<br />
table where her daughter — the pretty one — will read it.<br />
—<br />
--<br />
Okay. I’m ready. Now tell me slowly. I want to write this down<br />
because I won’t remember if I don’t write it down. What is the story<br />
called?<br />
—<br />
Okay. "The Special Theory of Relativity," in the September 1905<br />
issue.<br />
—<br />
Now, Albert, I have to tell you, I am very happy that you are enjoying<br />
your hobby and that somebody is printing your story in a magazine –<br />
even if they don't pay. Your father and I are very proud of you. He is<br />
always talking about your interest in physics, but if these magazines<br />
don't pay, you need to be especially careful to not neglect your job at the<br />
post office.<br />
--<br />
One more thing Albert … button up your coat on these cold nights.<br />
You know how forgetful you are. You could take pneumonia.<br />
—<br />
I love you too, son. — And Albert, don’t forget to call your mother. I’m<br />
not as well as I once was, but don’t worry about me.”
Credits<br />
Larry Martin — consultation and initial input for a proof of<br />
concept test of Yumpu software<br />
Mark Newhouse –– consultation<br />
Paul Lewin –– consultation<br />
Barbara Rein –– consultation, content<br />
Pam O’Brian –– content<br />
Linda Dickson –– content<br />
John Mellon –– consultation<br />
Dick Walsh –– editing<br />
The following people graciously offered content that was<br />
not used in this sample issue: Mark Newhouse, Jim<br />
Stark, Patrick Miller, Billy Wells<br />
Producer<br />
Millard Johnson<br />
Please send constructive comments to: zendog3@mac.com