by Alan C. Baird [Listed in the
Zoetrope All-Story
site's Hall
of Fame.]
For
the latest news, check this regularly-updated
list
of fiction and nonfiction placements on the Internet.
See
below for a poetry sample, To
Serve.
The Avian Quintet is a collection
of five interrelated stories, all of which have been published:
Six Hours
In Vienna [991 words] at Australia's String Can,
Cathaoir
Synge (Synge's Chair) [1728 words] in Dublin's
Electric Acorn literary
eZine,
Humming
[442 words] at British Columbia's
New Avalon,
The Sparrow
Way [1077 words] in The
Blue Rose Bouquet literary eZine, and
The
Last Lesson [1432 words] in
Soaring Online
Magazine.
Another Zoetrope alumnus,
Cumulus [1253 words]
appears next on this page (as well as in the Mumbai [Bombay]
Top
Write Corner literary eZine), and
Vengeance
On The Danube [a 444-word short-story adaptation from
one of my scripts] surfaced in
Purpleprose literary
eZine (now re-emerging at South Africa's
Slime). You may review
the details of a "5-Continent Hat Trick" here.
;-)
Cumulus
[1253 words] ^
Cabin
fever was setting in. El Niño's first tentative rainstorms
were not very impressive, but they had kept me indoors for too long;
I was in danger of going stir crazy. Stepping outside, I could see that
the clouds were far from gone, but they didn't cover the entire sky,
except in the west. It looked a little worrisome over there, but I
decided to drive up into the mountains anyway. I wanted to hike
the San Gabriels, and desperately needed to be outdoors,
so it didn't really matter that the sky was barely visible beyond the
small hills of Griffith Park. In my mind, it appeared worthwhile to at
least attempt an outing, come hell or high water.
Running
injuries were nagging me, but I could walk, so an easy expedition
to the top of Mt. Lowe seemed possible. Driving through the
front ranges of the San Gabriels was a relaxing, contemplative
experience. I didn't know it at the time, but listening to the powerful
spirituality in the music of Arvo Pärt was opening a
imperceptible crack in the door to my soul.
As
I parked and got out of the car, the weather prospects did not seem
positive. Many clouds were closing in, although it looked like there
might be a break in the west. The conditions lurking just past the
mountaintops were difficult to see. My pilot's instincts were focused
on the sky; I knew it would play an important part in my enjoyment
of the day. I didn't relish the thought of returning to my
car, dripping from a sudden rainstorm.
The
air at this altitude was cold; I could see my breath for the first
time in eight or nine months. The buzzing of insects was absent,
and that was a nice change from the last time I'd hiked in this area.
The recent wet weather had released the high-desert vegetation's
hidden scents. Ordinarily, one would not expect to smell anything
except hot dust on this trail. But now, everything was alive with
odors - intoxicating odors! It was a completely different
world, unlike anything I could have imagined. The new scents were
distracting, but I tried to relax and stretch my other senses -
to touch with my eyes, feel with my tongue, smell with my hands,
taste with my ears, absorb with my nose, see with my heart,
and listen with my soul.
The
low-hovering cumulus moved closer to the top of the mountain, and
I felt the distinct sensation of walking up into the clouds. It was a
magical moment, and I was extremely aware of all the beauty
around me. However, I could not resist trying to create a story out
of the unusual conditions. My brain was busy chattering away:
"Walking into the clouds - that will be a good word-image.
Try to remember it!" I was forcing the conditions to fit my
preconceived notion of what might be fun to read. A small ray
of sunshine struggled to emerge from the sky, and I hurried to
meet it. I wanted to be on top of the mountain when the heavens
smiled, because it would make a nice addition to my little
tale.
However,
even after reaching the summit, the break in the overcast had not
yet arrived. I felt a little disappointed, but I was already rewriting
the story in my head. Looking west, I noticed a certain cloud moving
closer. The bottom edge was lower than my feet, and facing its
inexorable approach felt like standing in front of a slow-moving
freight train. I became more and more excited, as I watched the
almost-mystical transformations in the cloud's shape. At such a
close distance, I could see the effect of tiny updrafts, swirling and
rearranging the massive, billowing form. The ever-changing patterns,
of the ethereal moisture folding in upon itself, suggested the idea of
a celestial dance. More good words to remember!
But
the soft cloud was not going to hit me. It approached the peak and
moved up over my head, almost as if refusing to yield to my
growing excitement. I gradually became deeply disappointed; I
discovered that I very much wanted to touch this transitory shape.
As I looked around, I could see delicate wisps of vapor trailing lazily
past the sides of the peak. I could not run to catch them; it would be
too much stress on my injured leg. For some reason, I desperately
yearned to caress that unworldly mist. After the anticipation, the
build-up of tension, I almost felt as if I might be able to touch the
very machinery of the universe. My eyes filled up with burning
tears of frustration. It seemed like the cloud was intentionally
avoiding me.
Then
I looked around. In all directions, the summit was surrounded by
a canopy of cumulus. Visibility was completely clear down all sides
of the mountain from where I was standing, but I couldn't see the
nearby peaks at all. A powerful shiver ran up through my spine; I
was smack in the middle of an ephemeral cathedral of clouds. I
no longer needed to touch them; a protected space was being
provided for me alone. I could see that I had unwittingly entered
a holy place, although it would not last for very long. However,
while it covered this area, everything seemed consecrated.
And I was being blessed, too. My eyes were uniquely privileged
to witness this sacred space. All thoughts of writing a story went
completely out of my head, because I knew that I could not create
a scene as wondrous as this. It seemed appropriate to be quiet,
to simply behold what my Creator was showing me, and to hope
that I could remember enough of it to give a decent account of
what I had observed.
My
tears dried, and my craving to touch the mechanics of the firmament
disappeared with them. I felt foolish. Anyone could see that I'd been
granted a much greater gift; I was being allowed to meditate upon
the mysteries of existence in a private house of worship.
My
feet were getting cold. I hesitated, wondering if I was supposed to
stay and see what happened next. I wanted to do the right thing,
but it seemed reasonable that my mind could not appreciate very
much more, if it became too concerned with the issue of warmth.
So I stumbled down off the mountain, in a daze. I could not believe
that my little outing had turned into such a momentous encounter.
At every turn in the trail, I stopped to look up at the cloud cathedral,
and murmured my gratitude. I felt protected, as if I were being
cradled in a warm, benevolent hand. I walked around one corner,
and a tendril of cloud caressed my cheek. I cracked a very wide grin,
and a sunbeam sliced through the clouds, returning my joy.
As
I walked further, the clouds came down to embrace me, until I could
barely see the path. Every now and then, across an enormous chasm,
a small portion of the adjoining cliff would appear, like a living portion
of some Japanese watercolor scroll. I laughed out loud at the wonderful
images which were being revealed. I fancied that my host was showing
off for me! That thought seemed almost sacrilegious, until I realized that
such private spectacles are being created for all of us, all the time, if
we can only turn off our chattering brains long enough to see
them.
Poetry
[79 words] ^
Verdugo
Hills Hospital's 1995 anthology "Putting Others First" marked the
initial publication of To Serve:
For
the past few months, I've been studying the mystical poetry of a
Sufi called Rumi. He was a spiritual teacher seven hundred
years ago in a village halfway around the world, but his words
reached out over the vast time and distance to influence me
profoundly. So I wrote this poem in the spirit of Rumi, and
dedicate it to my fellow volunteers:
To Serve
Our time of illness has come and gone,
and, perhaps will come again.
But while we are whole,
and walk with steady legs,
we pledge our help to those in need -
as we know,
in their turn,
others will rush to our aid.
We have only a short time
to shine our inner light,
and brighten the way
for our fellow travelers.
So we choose to serve
for selfish reasons,
but the choice transforms us
into pinpoints
of radiance.