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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

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