1: THE BOOKSTORE INCIDENT

Gravity pulled giant raindrops from the dark sky, slamming them onto the roof and windows of the Safehaven Bookstore. It was a loud, dense rain that kept many of the residents of the small town of Boulderdale nestled safely in their homes, cozy beneath the tall redwood trees of the Santa Cruz mountains. But despite the weather, the little bookstore had a fair amount of customers happily browsing through books and magazines--enjoying the warm ambience the bookstore offered.

The customers of the Safehaven Bookstore were a loyal lot, and word-of-mouth was the old-fashioned method of advertisement that Sarah and Dave Dugeon, the bookstore's owners, depended on most. Customers came not only from Boulderdale and the surrounding small mountain towns, but from as far west as the beach town of Santa Cruz, and as far east as San Jose. Besides the regular stock of bestsellers, they kept a large supply of rare books from smaller, more esoteric publishers. Many people wanted what the big chain bookstores refused to carry, so Safehaven supplied them.

"Do you have Sidney Sheldon's latest paperback?" a tiny grayhaired lady asked, as she looked into the pale and beautiful face of Sarah. Sarah was standing behind the counter, lighting a long stick of incense that sprouted from a small, round, intricately painted, clay holder. The incense was a vital part of the store's atmosphere, along with the classical music that softly played from speakers hidden behind white grills in the walls. A jar of instant coffee and a box of Celestial Seasonings tea bags sat next to the stainless steel hot water dispenser at the far end of the counter. The hot beverages were free, and the customers used the ecologically correct, paper coffee cups the store provided.

"Yes, we do," Sarah pointed to the best seller rack by the store's front window. "On the very first aisle. All the current best sellers are there. Sheldon would be a nice read on this rainy day." Sarah smiled down on the tiny lady. Sarah's smiles were always genuine.

People were precious to her--all people. It was part of her deep seated spiritual belief that she had had ever since childhood. People responded warmly to Sarah's easy, natural goodness. Dave would always remind her how lucky she was to have married him. He claimed his healthy skepticism of people balanced out her naturally trusting nature. But Sarah was no dummy. She could tell a phony when she met one. She just wanted to give people the benefit of the doubt.

The elderly lady walked to the first aisle and quickly spotted her Sheldon paperback. As she reached for it, the dark gray weather outside suddenly lit up with a blinding white light; the forest and the scattering of small, quaint stores were electrically outlined with supernatural brilliance. The thunder from the huge flash of lightning arrived a few seconds later, violently shaking the walls and windows of the bookstore, scaring all the customers. Sarah even let out a small scream. A man holding a coffee cup in one hand, a Time Magazine in the other--jumped-- spilling his coffee all over the magazine. The elderly lady--reaching for the Sidney Sheldon paperback--fell over backwards, and...WHUMP!--landed heavily on the carpeted floor.

Sarah ran from behind the counter and rushed to the side of the elderly lady. She tenderly stroked the woman's gray hair and asked, "Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?"

"Hell no...I'm okay young lady," the tiny woman said, as she attempted to get to her feet. Sarah gave her a hand and helped her up, again asking if she was hurt.

"I'm fine, really. But that thunder just about scared the piss out of me. I thought the bookstore got hit!"

Sarah realized that despite the little woman's frail looks, she was tough and healthy--a real firebrand. It made Sarah chuckle a bit under her breath. She admired older people with spunk. "Okay, I believe your fine. Don't want any of my customers getting hurt though." Sarah put an arm around the lady's waste and asked, "Why don't you have some coffee or tea? I'll even make it for you."

"Don't bother young lady...really. I'll just buy this book, get home and have me a shot of bourbon," she smiled at Sarah and winked. "Sometimes weather like this makes me antsy...'Specially when we get lightning that comes on like a damn A-bomb!"

This time Sarah laughed loudly. She definitely liked this old lady. It made her feel secure inside knowing that as some people aged and saw death coming closer each day, their sense of humor didn't disappear--death's specter failing to cause them depression.

Maybe some elderly people caught a glimpse of life beyond the grave--seeing death as a doorway--a portal to better worlds. Perhaps life on earth was a cosmic kindergarten and at death we graduate to the next level.

Sarah caught herself staring into the old lady's eyes for a socially unacceptable length of time.

They both walked over to the counter and the elderly woman paid for the book with a ten dollar bill. The ancient cash register clanked beneath Sarah's fingers as the money drawer popped open. She counted out the change, beaming a warm smile into the little lady's face. Sarah placed the book in a paper bag and handed it to her.

The elderly woman smiled back and adjusted a plastic scarf to protect her gray hair from the rain. She liked the bookstore lady even if she did seem somewhat vacant at times--seeing that faraway look in her eyes. It made her wonder if the young lady had used drugs...or still did. Maybe she was one of the hippy remnant--hell, there were enough of them around here. Oh well, its none of my business anyway, she thought.

The elderly lady reached for the door, but it swung open before her wrinkled hand could touch the knob. A little bell above the door tinkled. A man in a black raincoat stood outside and held the door open for her, waiting for her to pass. She could feel the man's powerful eyes drilling into her back even as she drove away in her ancient green buick. He gave her a strong case of the heebee-jeebees. Oh well...it's good she left when she did...wouldn't want to be in the same room too long with that guy...

He watched her drive away.

The bookstore was warm. The friendly glow of its golden light was like a beacon to all who passed in the wet darkness outside. That was good. That was why he came in here. The beacon drew him in...a message from the Receiver. Perhaps it would draw others in who were in need of the truth he was about to share. He pulled a xeroxed copy of a handwritten flyer from the protection of his rubber raincoat. He wiped his feet on the mat before stepping on the store's beige carpet.

Sarah was by the magazine section, explaining to the man who had spilled coffee on the magazine not to worry about it. If he didn't want the magazine, he didn't have to buy it. These things happen. She felt somebody tap her on the shoulder--whispering, "Miss--"

An intense whisper. Cold.

His black raincoat dripped water on the carpet. There was just no way to prevent that from happening. The young woman turned to see who wanted her attention and when she faced him, he was startled by the lady's beauty. Her long, blond hair hypnotized him. It was full, floating, outlining her face like a halo. She looked so intelligent, surely she could understand the importance of his flyer, the need to post it in the window of her store...he could feel it in her: her understanding.

"May I help you with something?" she asked. Her voice fell on him like a gentle rain, unlike the torrent outside that threatened to cave in the roof.

The man pulled the black hood of the raincoat from his head, revealing a shiny bald scalp. He handed the flyer to Sarah, looking hopefully into her deep green eyes. "My name is Paul. I wondered if you could put this flyer in your front window...It's a very important flyer."

The man's eyes drilled into Sarah's with such intensity, she could bearly meet their gaze. They frightened her. A hint of madness or mission lurked in his wide open orbs.

She took the flyer and gave it a quick glance, not really looking it. "I have to ask my husband about this first. He needs to approve of anything that goes on the window," she paused for a moment, feeling she may have been rude. Sarah then asked less abruptly, "Would it be okay with you if I keep this and show it to him later on...when he isn't busy?" She knew Dave was working with his computer back in their bedroom. The store was attached to their house; after they'd found out the zoning was approved for business, they'd bought the house and built on the bookstore. Safehaven was their dream come true.

Dave had a way of making dreams come true.

"Yes, that's fine." The bald man could not hide his disappointment. "But I don't see what could offend anyone in this flyer. It's about joy and happiness, the attainment of power..."

Sarah was staring at the man's face, trying to get past his intense dark eyes, seeking for some sign of the joy and happiness he had just spoken of. It just wasn't there. But there was something there, something she couldn't identify: and it had nothing to do with joy or happiness. Perhaps it was unbridled fanaticism...or even fear.

Sarah did not feel comfortable around this man, and that was a rare occurrence for her. She usually felt at ease with most anyone she met--a major reason why the little bookstore was such a success. "Well, like I said, I'll show it to my husband later on."

A rolling peal of thunder vibrated the store. Instead of diminishing in intensity, it grew--threatening to burst the storefront window. The customers, browsing among the aisles of books, all stopped what they were doing and straightened their backs, nervously looking outside and wondering if the sound would ever end.

"Okay," Paul said, and as he spoke, the thunder ended abruptly, as if the angels had turned off some huge, cosmic stereo. In answer to the thunder's sudden silence, the rain increased in ferocity. The unspoken fear that momentarily gripped everyone in the store was the horror of the biblical tale of Noah. The story had become an archetype within human thought and flowed within their minds. They were all going to drown--swept away by a huge tidal wave--men, women, children...

The fear entered into all their minds--except for Paul's. He smiled at the sudden increase in downpour. It soothed him, eased his fears, filled him with something sickly akin to joy.

Sarah silently laughed at herself for letting the foolish tendrils of fear grow within her brain. Drown in a flood? In Boulderdale? A town accustomed to torrential downpours? She mentally shook off her mood--silly of her to entertain such thoughts. It rains like this all the time in the winter. It's good for the redwoods. It's good for the ferns. It makes the forest beautiful...

"Excuse me. I have a customer...," Sarah gave a final smile to Paul and walked behind the counter. She set the flyer by the cash register. A diminutive man wearing glasses, holding a Dean Koontz horror novel in one hand and an umbrella in the other, placed the book next to the cash register and dug out his wallet.

"Some rain we're having this year," the man said. Sarah could hear the nervousness in his voice. She knew him. He was a local. In a town of only three hundred people, you eventually meet most of them.

"Yes, it's a real downpour all right, Mr. Tully."

"I don't ever remember it raining this hard before, and I've lived hear for over five years."

"Think of how rich and green everything will smell afterwards," she smiled so warmly at him that he blushed a bright pink. Mr Tully set down his umbrella and counted out the exact change, handing it to Sarah.

The rain flowed down in cold waves--ebbed from an unbearable torrential downpour, to a mere torrential downpour. This was perfect weather for a good horror novel, thought Sarah, as she watched Mr. Tully leave. He unfurled his umbrella as he left the store and walked in the rain to his car. His shoes were very muddy by the time he reached his vehicle. You live in Boulderdale, you get used to the mud. That's a fact of life in this wet, moldy, but beautiful little town.

Paul studied the small hand painted signs that identified what classification of books resided in each aisle. He quickly found the subject he was looking for. Metaphysics. The section was well stocked and Paul marveled at the completeness of the collection, many titles he had never seen before. But what could these authors really know about anything? The new truths were coming to the world now--at this very moment--truths too new to have been published yet.

The events were ongoing, and he was privileged to be one of the chosen few, one who knew of the revelations. It made him feel special...above others of his species. But it also scared him. He must work on allowing his fears to flow freely through his mind--to be unconcerned about them. It was his fault that he was not yet spiritual enough to handle his fears. The great event is happening now, and he must be a good servant...one who can live with fear. Indeed, handling fear was the key to power.

Sarah watched Paul as he thumbed through the metaphysical books. It didn't surprise her that he ended up in that section. He looked the type. She had read most of those books herself and it was her responsibility to order them. Sarah referred to them as God books, and though her upbringing was in the Methodist church and she considered herself a Christian, she was still fascinated by the unorthodox viewpoints of metaphysical writers--even believed in what some of them had to say. Truth was where you found it--that was her motto concerning such matters.

Dave would scoff at some of her ideas, although scoff was probably too strong a word. The rebukes came in the form of gentle reminders that she might be too gullible; too easily swayed on certain subjects. Sarah, instead of being offended by her husbands light cynicism, welcomed it. He made her think. And she thanked him for it.

The remaining customers bought their books and left, except for Paul, who continued to peruse through the titles, occasionally picking one and browsing through it.

The sky was so heavy with clouds and rain it was impossible to see the sun setting over the mountains. Daytime in Boulderdale was always cut short anyway, the dense population of redwood trees casting dark shadows across the few open spaces. It was Sunday and Sarah always closed the store at five on Sundays. She hoped the bald man would leave soon...maybe close up a little early, get a head start on Monday, spend some time with Dave.

Mondays and Tuesdays the store was closed and those days were precious to Sarah. Dave had long since agreed that he would not be absorbed by his computer programming on those days, that he would spend time on the important things: like trying to make a baby. The biological clock was ticking for Sarah; she had denied herself the joy of a child for far too long. She was more than ready to have a baby...only now it seemed so difficult to become pregnant. For years she'd faithfully downed thousands of birth control pills, thinking she'd wait until the time was right, when things in her life were stable. Now was the time. Past time, really.

The words crawled across the page like an army of black ants. They stung his eyes. It was a book of lies. All lies. Like all the other books he had looked at on this shelf. Like all the other books he had ever read throughout his life. Not one word of truth in any of them. Why had he not seen this before? Were his eyes free now-- now that he knew the Receiver--to see the shining truth like he never had before?

His brain lit up with glistening strands of energy. Cold energy. His blood like ice--ripping, shredding through his veins. His bald head barely able to contain his bellowing thoughts, thoughts that sang and sang and sang. Songs of coldness--songs of darkness. They convulsed and throbbed and sparkled. He could feel them bursting, icy energy running from his head to his toes. So much power. So much truth. Pure and clean and raw. The Gift glittered within the folds of his brain.

Sarah looked out the front window from behind the counter as she made herself a cup of tea. The street was empty of cars. Even the small market across the street had an empty parking lot. The little town of Boulderdale was shutting down for the day. With the last of the dim gray light everyone retired to their homes to sit in front of warm fires and drink hot coffee or coco--get cozy with their spouse and kids. These imagined scenes warmed Sarah.

So when would the bald man leave? She knew Dave would be waiting for her in the back. They would work on making the baby...all night long. A fun job if there ever was one. She could hardly wait.

Truth hurts. Yes, it hurts, and it cuts you with a knife made of fear, but that's good. Very good. The revelations were coming--crushing the lies of the past with a mighty power that sweeps through your body and freezes your heart and pounds into your soul with its everlasting voice...the guiding voice.

Highly charged thoughts flowed in Paul's mind as he closed the meaningless book. The typeface melted from the pages and dripped to the floor, a black spot that spread outward on the rug. Would the liquified ink crawl all through the carpet and ruin the fibers? It wasn't his fault if it did. It was the fault of the words in the book. Empty words. Hollow words. The cold voice inside him battered his brain with glaciers of chaos. They floated to the borders of his cranium--great sweeping tides of force, crashing into the flimsy membranes of self that remained. Good. Self needed to be destroyed. The great FEAR would destroy it. The great, vibrating FEAR...so cold...so good.

Sarah saw the bald man put back the book he had been reading. Great. Maybe he was getting ready to leave. She noticed him trembling slightly, as if he were cold. Sarah felt nice and warm; the store was always kept cozy in these winter months. And she wasn't even wearing a coat. Didn't need one. Why was the man shivering? Was he sick? She certainly didn't want to catch whatever it was he had; that's all she needed: some new flu.

And what was that aura, that glimmering, that now seemed to be emanating from his body like a heat wave? It radiated an inch from his clothes, surrounding them like an undulating cocoon. Sarah rubbed her eyes, thinking her vision was at fault, that her eyes were blurring because it was the end of the day and the end of her work week--a bit of tiredness creeping into her thirty-nine year old frame. After rubbing her eyes, blinking rapidly a few times, she squinted at Paul, searching for his strange aura, but found that it was gone--she had imagined it after all. Nothing supernatural going on here. And the man was no longer shivering. Had her imagination fooled her on that matter also?

The high voltages of truth flowed in cold glowing rivers from his mind to his soul. He felt the icy neon radiation penetrate the very core of his being. It was a sign from the Great Receiver, no doubt about it--this could only mean he was reaching a higher level--right here in this little bookstore! Oh how privileged he was! So special among those who inhabited the earth! So unique among his peers! Free from death, free from lies...free to recruit others with enhanced drawing power. Just like the Receiver had promised him. He was now much more than a common disciple. He had power. Fear was becoming his friend.

Sarah sipped her tea, then set her cup down and walked from behind the counter to the front window. She flipped the sign in the window to read "Sorry...we're closed," hoping her last customer would get the hint. She also locked the door to prevent any new customers from entering, though she truly doubted anyone would be coming this late--but if they did she would let them in anyway, after all, this was a friendly family store. The locked door was only to discourage the timid.

She glanced over at the bald man to see if he had taken the hint.

He was still looking at the book titles, his face distorted by a muted maniacal grin. It gave Sarah the chills the way his expressions crawled around his face like hungry beasts. She had never seen anything like that before. It was real creepy. Maybe it was time to ring her husband, have him come out on the floor until the strange man decided to leave.

She walked behind the counter and was about to push the red button by the cash register that rang a buzzer inside their house. This was a handy way to alert Dave that she needed help in the store, but before her finger could reach the button, the bald man approached her--his dark eyes fixing her in their glare like a laser beam. Confused, she forgot what she was about to do.

"I must speak to you," Paul said. His soul was glistening inside him, sparkling with cold, raw power. The Receiver coiled frosty tendrils of fear around Paul's soul and squeezed, forcing energy into it. The Receiver worked freely in a spirit that was open to him...open for his guidance. The voice oozing through Paul's soul was distant at first, faint, but he concentrated, and now the voice filled his head, speaking with authority. "Try out the power...recruit this woman into our ranks...she is one of us...I can use her mind..."

Sarah felt a bit dizzy. What was wrong with her? She came over here for something...to do something...until this odd man interrupted her train of thought. Why was he staring at her like that? Is he dangerous? A robber?

"I mean you no harm, Sarah."

How did he know her name? She didn't remember telling him. Did a customer mention it in his presence?

This was not a normal man. He was different. Maybe even special. She knew about psychics...everyone did. But she had never put much faith in that sort of thing, never having met anyone or seen on TV any person that impressed her that much. They seemed either phony or in need of psychological help. As gullible as her husband believed her to be, and as trusting as she was of people--she just didn't hand her entire belief system over to a stranger because they claimed to have "psychic powers." But this mysterious bald man hadn't made any psychic claims...he merely spoke her name.

"How did you know my name? Did I mention it to you?"

"I just know."

"How is that? How do you `just know'?"

"The same way that I know you desire to have a child."

The darkness outside the window flashed away in a blinding light, and a few seconds later a roar of thunder shook the walls of the store. The rain fell even harder-- as if the heavily saturated atmosphere were angry at the earth, wanting to drown all the people, wash away all the trees. The constant roar of rain was conducive to madness.

"But..." was all Sarah could say at the moment. This man was scaring her. She took hold of her fear and tried to think of something to say. "What did you say your name was? Paul, wasn't it?" she finally asked.

The bald man held up his open palms in a gesture of passivity and harmlessness. "Yes, and like I said, I mean you no harm. I only desire that you read the flyer I brought in and post it in your window." He smiled a chilling smile and turned, walking briskly towards the door. "Could you unlock this door for me?"

Sarah did as he asked. She was relieved to see him go.

Dave sat with Sarah at the kitchen table, reading the flyer the bald man had given them. "This guy really rattled your cage, didn't he?" Dave said in a cheerful voice, attempting to lighten his wife's mood.

Sarah had really been shaken by the bald man. His insights into her life were direct and to the point. For him to find out her name was one thing, but to know of her desire for a child was something else again. How did he know that? "What's the explanation, Dave? How could he possibly know we want a baby?"

"It was a lucky guess. And as for knowing your name--he must have heard a customer mention it."

Sarah got up from the table and checked on the chicken she was roasting. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Sure."

She poured a cup for Dave and herself and brought them over to the table. Tendrils of aromatic steam rose from the cups. She sat back down and said, "Let me see that flyer again, Spud." Her affectionate nickname for Dave was based on his somewhat portly stature. He could not be called fat, and he was certainly not obese...husky would be a good word. Besides, he wore his weight well.

Dave handed the paper to Sarah and she thanked him. She placed the flyer on the table and glared at it intensely, scrunching her eyebrows together in concentration.

It advertised a meeting where you could listen to a channeler known as the Receiver. The source of the channeled messages was an entity called the Transmitter, which seemed appropriate to Sarah...almost too appropriate. It made her chuckle. It looked like many other such hand drawn flyers she had seen in the past, advertising the very same things, the same promises. In central California, in and around Santa Cruz, gurus and psychics abounded, and people were more than willing to be led by them. Sarah had never been interested in any of that silly business. Until now.

The look on Sarah's face began to worry Dave. "Hun, you're not thinking of going to that meeting, are you? Do you really want to see one of those creepy, egotistical channelers put on their phony act? They're nothing but charlatans, and if they're not charlatans, then they're crazy." He consciously paused for dramatic emphasis, then added, "Their sick. Mentally sick."

"Well, the meetings are right here in Boulderdale. It says, `The Receiver will appear so all may hear the newly channeled messages of power.' Sounds weird enough, right?"

"Right. And this bozo is in Boulderdale? Jeez...I wonder if it's someone we know, someone who flipped out? Who lives on this hill?" Dave pointed to the spot marked on the flyer's map indicating the location. "I can't think of ever having seen any homes in that area--must be back in the forest a ways."

"Well, there is a cabin up there, near where Spring Road dead ends. I've hiked back in the forest and seen it. A young woman, neo-hippy type, was playing with her baby daughter on the front porch. I said hello, but didn't stop to talk with her. I got the impression she lived alone-- didn't have a husband or boyfriend."

"How would you know that if you didn't talk with her?"

"I could be wrong. She just impressed me as a recluse, a druggy living on welfare, into old hippy sorts of things. She was wearing faded jeans, walking around topless, and had some items that clued me in on her thinking."

"Topless?" Dave raised his eyebrows.

"Bare boobed and bouncing."

"And what were these items she had?"

"Smudges. Smudges hanging to dry from strings attached to her porch roof."

"Smudges? What the hell are smudges?"

"A smudge is a bundle of sage tied with string to form a cigar shaped object. You light them and let them smolder. It's a Native American spiritual thing. People breathe the smoke. They like the smell. It's supposed to be good for meditation purposes."

"In other words, it's some pseudo spiritual, dated, hippy crap."

"Well, I wouldn't be that cynical, but yeah, it is."

The big question was still hanging in the air. Was Sarah, having been impressed by the bald man, Paul, going to attend one of those channeling sessions? Dave asked her again.

Sarah didn't respond immediately. She thought about it, mulled it around in her mind. The bookstore incident had made her very curious and the channeler lived close by. What was the harm? What could possibly happen? Just go for one night, satisfy her curiosity and forget about it. No big deal.

Sarah listened to the roar of the rain, sipped from her steaming coffee cup and at last said, "Spud...I think I'll go. It's no biggy. Just one night, and you can come with me if you want. Make sure I don't get carried away."

"Sarah, Sarah...Okay, go ahead. But I'll pass on the invitation. I trust your intelligence on this matter. But if you show up with your head shaved and muttering chants- -I'll call up a deprogrammer!"

Hearty laughter burst forth from Sarah. She bowed her head, and shook it in a gesture of disbelief. "Please, I promise to exercise good common sense. You've absolutely no need to worry."

Sarah suddenly looked glassy eyed. She stared straight ahead--her face expressionless.

"What's wrong?" Dave said. His wife's sudden blank look sent a chill down his spine.

"I'm receiving a psychic message."

"Oh?"

"Yeah...the chicken's done."

After dinner they tried making a baby.

2: LOST GIRL

Lisa Turner didn't like depending on her ample breasts to get rides, but it was her ticket to just about anywhere she wanted to go. Her body was slim, with boyish hips and thin legs, making her large, long breasts all the more out-of-place--the focus of every male's attention. And a runaway with no money definitely needed a cheap way to get around. But she didn't like the creeps that stopped to pick her up, the ones her breasts attracted--horny, mostly married old men that came on to her as soon as she sat her butt down in their car.

She was wearing an old army jacket over her black tanktop, along with her favorite faded jeans that, despite being tight, were comfortable. The rest of her belongings were in the battered suitcase she used for a chair-- sitting on it with her thumb out, on the side of Highway Nine, waiting for a ride. The redwood tree that toward over her head provided some protection from the rain, but not much.

It seemed that most of her time was spent hitch-hiking ever since she ran away from home at age fifteen, one year ago today. She watched the few cars, driven by people who were brave enough to face the dark, damp day, drive past her, not caring one way or the other if it was her birthday. It made her sad and nostalgic for her early childhood, the pleasant days before puberty hit her body with such force--like an evil chemical potion invented by a mad scientist, it turned her flesh into a magnet, drawing out the bad forces inside men.

Even her father's.

Hormones had hit her like an avalanche. When her periods came, and her chest began to grow and grow, the attention her breasts brought her made her feel proud and uncomfortable at the same time. Her girlfriends envied her, the way boys would almost trip over their feet to get close to her, to ask her out. Lisa had to admit she liked the undeserved popularity. She didn't act differently or dress differently than before. Her red hair was always long and healthy, but that had never been enough, by itself, to attract the boys. She had a nice face--except for her weak chin--weak enough to push her looks into the unusual category. It used to discourage some of the boys. But now, they didn't seem to mind the defect at all--not anymore. Not since The Breasts came. It was her breasts that paved the way to popularity. She began to regard them as foreign growths, benign tumors, not really a part of her.

Too bad her body betrayed her. Ruined her life.

She reminisced about her final days of high school and her last days at home. She wasn't a brilliant student in most subjects, math being the worst, but she did have a talent for drawing. She took an art class and her teacher, Mrs. Borger, would always praise her and encourage her to get further involved with art. "You have a natural gift, Lisa, and if you stick with it, you will find much happiness," Mrs. Borger used to tell her.

Lisa believed her, and did get further involved, always on the lookout for local art contests or places to show her work. She even won a few third place and honorable mention awards--never first place though. But one of her third place ribbons came with a cash prize: fifty dollars! It was the first money she had ever made from her art, and it felt good, somehow giving her work a greater validity. She dreamed that maybe she could really be an artist when she graduated, go on to art school and learn even more. Who knows, maybe she would even be famous someday!

Famous for something besides her breasts.

Lisa was feeling good about herself. The fast boys that lusted after her soon found out they weren't going to score, but the nicer guys hung on and continued to ask her out. She never lacked for dates. Her new identity as an artist gave her a solid feeling, a measure of self-esteem that kept her from being swept away in a flood of boiling hormones.

One day Lisa brought home a watercolor she was really proud of. It was first place material and she wanted to have it framed professionally. The class was given an assignment to paint a still life from an arrangement of fruit set up on a table in the middle of the classroom. She had taken longer than everyone else to finish, but it was worth it. The painting was her first real masterpiece; the other students--even the artistic ones--were in awe of her talent.

She went to her bedroom and carefully taped the picture on her dresser mirror. The lighting displayed the picture to its best advantage. She could hardly wait to show it to her parents. Her mom would be home at half past four, and her dad was still asleep. He worked nights and usually woke up a little after her mom got home. Lisa knew they would be surprised by this painting. It was really, really good.

Lisa was fairly close to her parents, considering the distance that some of her friends kept from theirs. She supposed it was because she didn't have any guilty secrets to keep from them. She didn't use drugs or screw around. Everyone at school knew about AIDS, but even if there'd been no such thing as that terrible disease, she still wouldn't have sex. She wasn't ready. Too many of her girlfriends got into too much trouble; they'd get so confused she wondered if they'd ever make it out of high school.

It wasn't easy being a drug free virgin, especially when you had big breasts--all that pressure from her friends. But she felt good about herself. Somehow, others saw that in her and liked her for it. In fact, they were drawn to it. She was a real individual...with a certain kind of strength.

Lisa put on her EraserHead t-shirt--being a David Lynch fan ever since Twin Peaks. After that TV series, she had discovered his other bizarre movies and became convinced EraserHead was the best movie ever made! What a genius David Lynch is, she thought, as she finished pulling on her white shorts. She heard her mother opening the front door.

She ran down the stairs of their Southern California suburban home and warmly greated her mom.

"What's got you so excited Lisa?" her mom said, as she set her purse down on the kitchen table. Her mom worked in the city of Irvine at a medical supply company that manufactured heart valves. She was an inspector, and often came home with a headache caused from eye strain. Examining the tiny parts for defects was precision work; a mistake might cause some heart patient great suffering-- she certainly didn't want that on her conscience; she took her job very seriously.

"It's a new painting I just finished, the best one I ever made. Come see it."

Lisa's mom followed her up the stairs, and when they reached the bedroom, Lisa held her arm out towards the painting, palm up, in a grand gesture of pride.

"Wow. That's good honey. It's really beautiful," Mrs. Turner said. She meant every word. From what side of the family had her daughter inherited all that talent, she wondered. She couldn't think of any relative who could draw worth a damn. She gave Lisa a big hug and said, "Keep it up kiddo and you'll be famous one day."

"You really think so?"

"I really think so. The fruit in that painting not only looks real, but it even makes me hungry. I wish I could reach in there and grab one of those apples or oranges right now."

"I've got to show it to Dad. Should I wake him up?"

"Well...sure. Why not? He should be getting up now anyway."

Lisa ran off to her parents bedroom. Her father was turning over in his sleep. She shook his shoulder.

"Huh...what's wrong hun?" He said, the dope of sleep swirling down the drain of his brain.

"Dad, get up and come see my painting." Lisa knew her dad worked hard. He spent nights in a noisy steel mill in Los Angeles. She pictured him among the flames and noise, the liquid metal glowing red. It must be like hell in that place. Maybe it wasn't really nice to wake him now, depriving him of his last few dreams.

"Yeah, okay hun. Give me a minute." He opened his eyes and looked at his daughter. His gaze lingered on her t- shirt. "Eraserhead huh? What's that? A band?"

"No, it's a movie," she said, and noticed that her dad didn't remove his eyes from her chest. Her breasts were burning, as if they were independently capable of embarrassment. No need for embarrassment guys--it's only Daddy.

Lisa walked back to her room so her dad could get dressed. Her mom was still studying the painting, truly fascinated by her daughter's talent. Lisa could not help but feel pride.

Her chest swelled.

"Is your dad coming to see this?"

"Yeah, he's getting dressed."

A few minutes later her dad walked into the bedroom. He kissed his wife while Lisa pointed to her painting, anxious for her dad to see it.

"I'm going to go phone for a pizza. This new painting of yours deserves to be celebrated," Lisa's mom said. Smiling, she turned to walk downstairs to the phone.

Lisa looked at her dad's expression as he studied her painting. "This is excellent," he said. "I just can't get over how grown-up and talented you're becoming. You surprise me more and more everyday."

Lisa hugged her father. Her breasts smashed against his arm. She was smiling, a real Daddy's-girl. She felt him squirm slightly. A strange warmth seemed to radiate from beneath his clothes. It made her suddenly uncomfortable, and as that feeling grew, she pulled away from him. She had never pulled away from him before.

"Yeah," he said, a huskiness, like thick dirty oil, coated his words. "I'm more and more surprised." He turned to look down at his daughter, his eyes again fixing on her t-shirt. "A movie huh?"

"What Dad?" Lisa said, trying to control some nervousness creeping around inside her mind.

Why should she feel nervous?

"Eraserhead," he said, touching her t-shirt, touching her right breast, touching her nipple.

Lisa went pale. Was she being oversensitive now that her breasts were so big and so noticeable--her main feature--flesh thrusting aginst the thin cotton of her t- shirt, making her feel naked...exposed. It was just her father, for heaven's sake, not some pimply boy at school who was trying to cop a cheap feel.

When her mother called upstairs for her father to go pick up the pizza, a rush of relief spread through Lisa's body. Her damned body.

That uneasiness was the first hint of the New Ritual that was to be initiated in their home. An early morning ritual that began when her father came home from work and her mother slept. The ritual went on and on, everyday, until Lisa ran away.

This was the beginning, the first of The Rituals:

Lisa liked wearing big, baggy t-shirts to sleep in. T- shirts roomy enough to comfortably handle the immense expanse of her chest, plenty of room, no constriction. Breasts free to move about. The t-shirt would be long enough to cover her boyish butt, making trips down the hall to the bathroom commensurate with her modesty.

She was walking to her room from the bathroom after showering, wearing her baggy t-shirt, when she spotted her father looking up at her from his position downstairs on the couch, in front of the TV. She wanted to smile, or nod her head in recognition of his looking at her, but the strange leer on his lips and the heat from his eyes scared her.

Her own father scared her. Could the man who took time to play dolls with her when she was little be the same man who had just given her that evil look? Lisa knew about sex, and what boys did to girls. Boys had hormones that warped their brains into a single thought. But fathers didn't have hormones, at least not like that, and not hormones that made them want sex with their own daughters- -their own flesh and blood.

Lisa went to her room and closed the door. She turned off her big overhead light and pulled back the blankets on her bed and crawled in. Her breasts swung heavily when she leaned her thin body over. She was always so aware of them. She turned on the lamp on the nightstand beside her bed, and picked up the young adult romance novel she had started last night. She had to clear her mind of thoughts about her father before she could go to sleep. The thoughts would lead to nightmares--she didn't want to have nightmares. She fell asleep with the novel on her pillow, and the lamp left on.

Big hands rubbed her chest, massaged her. The hands were not attached to a body--they came from the bottom of a fuzzy blue cloud that floated above her, as she floated on an undulating ocean of warm milk. Nice warm milk. Nice warm hands. Why were the hands massaging her? She should not let that happen. Bad boys always wanted to do that. But it felt so good, massaging her breasts with such tender care--care not to wake her--not to reveal their source. But she felt the light of awareness creep into a corner of her mind, and it grew until it flushed out the soft, sleepy dream. Her eyes fluttered open.

Why was Daddy leaning over her, his hands under her t- shirt? Why was he hot and sweating? Such a look of torture on his face. Was someone making him do this? Was someone trying to punish him? He looked possessed.

A real horror show.

This was the beginning, the forging of the knife that cut the innocence from Lisa's heart with such bloody precision.

A huge blast of thunder blew out the ugly daydream from Lisa's mind. Today was all that mattered. Sitting on the suitcase that contained all her worldly possessions... waiting for some creep to stop and give her a ride.

She had heard about some dude in Boulderdale who could get her a really good phony ID. With an authentic looking ID, she had a chance at a job. Panhandling was not her favorite pastime; she'd much rather work. She had dreams, hopes, that life on the street couldn't erase--no matter how rough it got. And besides, she wanted to be in the forest of the Santa Cruz mountains. Even if she couldn't find the dude today, she could probably find some shelter up there. Maybe an empty summer cabin she could break into...there were lots of them up there in the winter time.

She didn't consider herself a religious person, though she did think about God, more so since she'd run away, wondering if He was somehow guiding her. It was the confusion in her mind--her pain--that interfered with her talking to God. She felt so ashamed, so guilty when she asked God for help. She hoped He would send a car to pick her up soon: not a car sent by the devil. It always seemed like the devil got there first--with his band of creeps-- his sexed-up demons with their sticky fingers and blood red eyes. What was a girl to do?

An old VW van, a relic from the hippy days, the first vehicle in nearly a half hour to pass this way, pulled over to the side of the road just ten feet in front of her. The van was painted with army camouflage colors, as if the driver expected to engage in jungle warfare, except a huge peace sign was painted on the back, just below the rear window.

Lisa couldn't see the driver from where she stood. Was this one more creep that wanted to grab her body the minute she got in? She didn't think so. Usually middle aged hippies--as indicated by the vehicle's paint job-- left her alone. They had some sort of ethics, or sixties style manners, that made them act differently. Almost as if they had had enough free love back in the old days, and didn't care about that stuff anymore. But she could be wrong. Demons were everywhere. She walked over to the van and got in.

The driver had long blond hair, but instead of the skinny body she expected, it looked like he worked out with barbells--everyday. His muscles were huge; she could see them even though he was wearing a long sleeve flannel shirt. His neck was as thick as her waist.

"Name's Rick. What's yours?" He asked, his voice was warm and kind.

Lisa shut the door of the van and felt the warm air blowing from the van's heater. It felt great. Comforting. "My name's Lisa."

"Where are you headed Lisa?" He said, pulling away from the road's edge, back to the highway.

"Oh, just up the road a ways."

"Boulderdale? Rock Creek?"

"Yeah, Boulderdale." He smiled at her when she spoke. The smile didn't seem phony. She could always spot phonies.

"Well, that's where I'm headed. You have friends up there?"

Lisa stared down at her lap. For a runaway, she never could adjust very well to the first law of the street, the first law of survival, which was to Lie. Lie and con. Never tell the truth when a lie always worked better. She just couldn't get used to doing it, even with all the pain that life had pushed into her young soul. "No...Yeah. Well, sort of. I just like the trees. I like the forest."

"So how are you going to stay dry? It's raining like cats and dogs...as if you hadn't noticed."

"I'll stay dry. I can find a place." She figured she would ask around, find the ID dude. No sense spilling her plans to this stranger. He might decide to become rightous--turn her over to the cops.

"You just did. You can stay at my cabin. I sense that you're no rip-off artist. You're not going to steal my stereo or anything... Are you?"

"Hey, it's okay. I can find someplace."

"Don't take offense. I meant nothing bad by my remark. I'm just offering you a place to crash for the night. I might even be able to help you out a little."

Could she trust this guy? He's being too nice. Her breasts felt hot and obvious. They seemed to grow even as she sat there in the comfortable warmth of the van. He was offering her some dry shelter. Or was he? What were his motives?

It was hard to turn down...her being drenched to the bone and all. "What do you want in return?" Lisa asked sarcastically. He's probably just another flesh fiend who can't wait to get her in bed. Strip her. Boy, would she surprise him. He'd get nothing but a great big NO.

"Oh...that's what you think. Well, you've got me all wrong, kid. I'm not that way"

"You don't know what I think."

Rick smiled broadly. It was supposed to be non- threatening, but it still sent a little chill down her spine. She shook off the feeling. The real question was, did he just want an easy lay? He was cute--didn't look like some hard-up creep--certainly didn't need to come on to a teenage runaway. Maybe her breasts made her too paranoid, too fearful of others. All men weren't like... like her dad. Rick even seemed like he might be an interesting guy. Most guys his age, with his lifestyle--if his van was any indicator of lifestyle--weren't into heavy duty body building like he obviously was.

The rain came down so thick the windshield wipers were almost useless. They weren't fast enough to sling off all the water before the outside view became obscured again.

Lisa struggled to pass judgment on her new benefactor, not wanting to make any rash decisions--when Rick suddenly slammed on the brakes so hard the van spun sideways, tilting on two wheel, threatening to tip over.

Lisa's heart jumped into her throat and she screamed.

Rick backed the van out of the oncoming traffic lane-- although no other cars were on the road--and drove forward slowly, parking the van in the mud beneath the redwood trees. He seemed a little shaken, taking a moment before he released his white-knuckle grip from the steering wheel. Without explanation, he opened the van door and jumped outside.

What in the hell was he doing, thought Lisa. She could barely make out his muscular figure through the wet, rippling windshield. He appeared to be looking for something--looking this way and that--finally walking into the redwoods, disappearing from view.

What just happened? She was still shaking from the spin-out. He'd nearly tipped the van over; they both could've been seriously hurt! This is the kind of crap you run into when you're hitching rides with strangers. You never know how good the driver is; he might even be drunk or on drugs. Though Lisa might look the part of a druggy: she wasn't. It didn't impress her at all when a driver was so spaced he barely knew where the road was.

Close to five minutes passed and still no sign of Rick. If he didn't show up soon, she'd try and hitch another ride. No sense sitting here...although it was warm, and he did offer her a place to stay. But what kind of guy would do what he just did? A good explanation was in order.

A dark, wet figure suddenly stood looking in at her from the open van door. Lisa sucked in her breath with shock and surprise.

"Hey, it's me. Don't look so scared," Rick said, as he climbed back into the van and shut the door, his ponytail stringy from the rain. He checked for traffic and pulled the van back onto the highway. "We didn't hit it...at least I'm pretty sure we didn't."

An angry scowl crossed Lisa's face. "What in hell are you talking about?"

"You didn't see it?"

"See what?" Lisa realized she was missing a key point, a factor that was going to turn Rick back into a rational man. That was fine with her; she didn't want to believe he was some sort of suicidal maniac. Despite everything life had thrown at her, despite the bad people who seemed bent on victimizing her, she really did--in her heart of hearts--want to believe the best about people.

"The deer."

"A deer?"

"You didn't see it? It jumped out of the forest: ran right in front of the van. When I slammed on the brakes, I couldn't tell whether I'd hit it or not. I looked around and couldn't find it, so it's probably okay... Damn deers anyway."

The explanation eased Lisa's mind. Rick reacted like anyone else with a heart would react. So he wasn't a maniac trying to flip his van. But her suspicious mind wasn't without justification--there were reasons for it-- considering some of the characters she'd run across.

Her loving father, for one.

Lisa continued to consider her options, analyzing all the pros and cons of where to spend the night. Suddenly the sky burst forth with a blinding white radiance, followed shortly by a bomb-blast of thunder, causing her to jerk in her seat.

"We're here," Rick said, making a sharp right turn up Spring Road. He drove a short distance and made another right turn into his muddy driveway. Mud coated the tires as the van sloshed noisily through it. He pulled up as close as he could to the wooden porch.

"You've got a cute place." It was a small cabin with shingled walls, surrounded by huge, thick, redwood trees. Smoke was pouring from the red brick chimney. It looked very cozy. "Is someone there? Your wife?"

"No. No wife. I'm divorced. Sometimes my thirteen year old son, Joshua, stays with me. He's here now, with orders to keep the fireplace going."

This guy's all right, thought Lisa. He's got a kid. He's got responsibilities. But then, so did her dad. The thought sent chills up and down her spine.

Rick grabbed a bag of groceries from behind the driver's seat and motioned for Lisa to follow him. They quickly jumped out of the van, Lisa hanging on to her battered suitcase. They ran towards the cabin, careful not to slip on the muddy ground. Joshua opened the door for them.

"You want a cup of coffee?" Rick asked.

"Sure," Lisa said, sitting on the couch, staring out the front window at the wet trees, the rain splattering against the window. Lisa had removed her old army jacket, draping it over a stool near the fireplace to dry. The glowing warmth from the hearth passed through her clothes, to her goose-pimpled skin, and finally entered her bones, filling her body with a cozy heat. It felt great.

The cabin was small. The only other rooms were a bedroom and a bathroom. The kitchen occupied a corner of the main room. Where did Rick sleep when his son was visiting? Were Rick and her going to sleep in the same room together? No chance of that happening. No way.

"So, is that your room, Joshua?" Lisa asked the thirteen year old, who was a miniature version of his dad, minus the muscles.

"Sort of, its my dad's, but we share it...its got a space heater, so it stays warm in there. I got my own cot."

A thought suddenly struck her: Joshua was only three years younger than her. But she felt so old, so removed in age from the boy. She had almost forgotten that today was her birthday.

The fire blazed in the fireplace, the rich smell of smoldering sap filled the warm air of the cabin like an exotic perfume. The glow from the dancing flames flickered across Lisa's face. This was nice. Joshua was a lucky boy.

"Here's your coffee," Rick said, handing her a steaming brown mug. He sat down in a chair by the front window and sipped from his own coffee mug. "Mmm...good," he said. Then a silence fell over them as Joshua went to the bedroom to play video games.

"They closed the school today. The weather is just too rough. My ex brought him over," Rick said, breaking the silence, anticipating her question. Did he have a touch of ESP or was she just being paranoid? Rick's eyes seemed to stare inside her head--sensing her tension and trying to ease it. There was an aura about Rick, something different that she just couldn't put her finger on. Was it good...or was it bad? She hoped it wasn't bad. She liked this place. She liked the warm fire. She even began to like Rick.

"Lisa, I know you must have problems with your family...you are a runaway...Right?"

That wasn't ESP. It didn't take a genius or a telepath to figure out that a teenage girl, hitch-hiking with a suitcase, must be in some sort of trouble. Now the question was, was he going to turn her in? Bug her for her parent's phone number? If he did, then out the door she'd go, looking for the ID dude or an empty cabin to camp in for the night. She wished with all her might that Rick would be cool--just leave her be.

He looked at her with eyes suddenly cold. Cold and intense. The man who had braked for a helpless deer was gone, and in his place was an exact physical duplicate-- only the mind and the soul were different.

"You were molested by your father," Rick said.

Happy birthday, Lisa.

3: PAUL'S PLACE

Paul stood in the small, white tiled bathroom--naked-- facing the medicine cabinet mirror. He studied the lines in his face, his aging face, his shiny bald head. He pulled off a long length of toilet tissue from the blue roll sitting on the sink counter.

He blew his nose into the tissue with tremendous effort, his whole head glowing red, forcing blood into reluctant skin cells. He blew and blew, filling the paper with gray slimy mucus. He tossed it into the toilet and ripped off another piece. The skin of his nose was inflamed from tissue paper rubbing against it.

He blew harder, but blood, not mucus, spurted from his nostrils this time in great crimson streams, coagulating into dark brown clumps in the blue tissue paper. He blew again with even greater force, until tears filled his eyes, spilling down his cheeks in saline rivers. His ears popped.

It hurt to blow his nose this hard, but the pain was worth it--if only the Gift would emerge from his unworthy flesh, a prize for the Transmitter.

He examined the last tissue closely, fingering through the thickening blood. It would be in here, if he had successfully dislodged it from his brain. It would be nestled in the dark, bloody clumps, hiding like a holy icon, a humble offering to the Magnificent Transmitter. The Receiver--being the only person able to approach such a powerful entity--would take the Gift from Paul and offer it to the Transmitter. But so far, Paul was not able to produce the gift, though he felt it growing bigger everyday.

Paul looked into the mirror at his blood stained face, tears making paths through the dark crimson. He felt like a failure; he was so sure he could do it this time. He sensed the gift growing in his brain like a pearl in an oyster (a brain pearl, that's how he liked to think of it)--if he could only dislodge it, get it to emerge. What a spiritual success that would be! A triumph!

But, possibly, the gift was not ready to come out. Perhaps it needed to mature some more, come to greater fullness. For that to happen he would need to increase his fear-tolerance by becoming more spiritual, thus able to shed the last remnants of his human identity.

He tossed the bloody tissue into the toilet.

A loud rap against the door shook Paul from his meditations. "Are you through in there yet? Other people need to use the bathroom too, you know."

Paul flushed the toilet. "Please, just a few seconds more and you can have it." He washed the blood from his face and toweled off. All the tenants had their personal towels stored in their little rooms. Paul tugged on an old pair of jeans and opened the bathroom door, his towel folded across his right arm, and faced an angry neighbor. It was old man Jones, his deeply wrinkled face scrunched up in disgust.

"What the hell are you doin' in there, anyway? Jackin' off?"

The crude remark from the old man sickened Paul; his holy mission being compared to masturbation came close to blasphemy, but then, how could the old man possibly understand the significance of what it was he was doing? "I forgive you your ignorance," Paul said, smiling down on the old man.

"Gee whiz, thanks Mr. Holy man. I'm so blessed. Now will you get your ass out of my way?

Paul removed himself from the doorway and walked down the hall to his little room. He could still hear the old man grumbling even after he'd shut the door.

Paul's abode was simple. His furniture consisted of a single bed with a TV tray beside it, and a scratched-up dresser. On top of the dresser was a hot-plate, a few cans of pork and beans and a small cooking pot. On the floor he kept a tin bucket full of water for washing his cooking pot. His entertainment center consisted of a clock radio that sat on top of the TV tray. A very simple room for a very simple existence. Worldly things held little interest for him. It was the spiritual life--the gaining of spiritual power--that his mind obsessed over.

Paul worked as a dishwasher in Feltonville at a small family restaurant. He'd been there for about a month, hitch-hiking to work early in the morning, working until four PM, then hitch-hiking back to his old tenement house in Boulderdale. The house was old but kept reasonably clean and in good repair, plus: the rent was cheap. But best of all, it was close to the Receiver's meetings. How great could life get?

It was time to meditate. Meditation was the key to maturing the Gift.

His nostrils soft inner membranes hurt, ripped open from blowing his nose so hard. But it was a good pain, the results of a sacred task that must be performed at various intervals--whenever he felt the possibility that the Gift might emerge. He could feel the Gift growing, quivering in the gray matter of his brain's frontal lobes. It was a living thing, this gift. It could move on its own, like a baby straining to burst forth from the womb. The Great Receiver told him to give it every assistance in its journey from the brain to the outside world. The birthing would not be easy.

The Gift must grow, mature. Paul sat on the edge of his bed and closed his eyes. He tried to relax his muscles, imagining the tension swirling away like water down a drain. His kept his hands palms down on his knees and inhaled deeply through his damaged nose, exhaling through his mouth. He did this over and over, until the tingle of hyperventilation spread from his lungs, down his limbs, into his hands and feet.

The Gift began to pulsate within his brain, a painful ebb and flow of coldness, sharp needles piercing delicate fleshy tissues. Paul ignored the pain, even though the frozen pinpricks hurt more and more--he wanted to scream his lungs out--but he didn't.

Be calm, be still, let the icy razors slice, the steely cold blades whirl. Don't scream...relax...relax...relax.

Paul's thoughts wandered wherever the Gift, the brain pearl, led them. It played an inner movie made of emotions that swirled like a dark tornado inside his head. He thought of childhood, of school...He was never very good at school, always at the bottom of his class. The other children laughed at him. It wasn't his fault he was dumb: but he wasn't dumb...not really...it was his mother...he always had to think about his mother...she drank all day and night...made his father leave...so drunk all the time. Her big fat face, her garish make-up smeared across her sick, pale skin...her fat flesh, all lumpy and decayed...it hung from her bones as if it were melting...melting onto the floor.

"Look at you. Your disgusting," his mother said to him as he dressed for school. "Your little thingy, it's like a little white worm," she held a bottle of cheap wine in her swollen hand. She drank from it, the red wine spilling down her chin, dripping down her undefined, blubbery bosom. Paul was trying to pull on his underwear, trying to hide his penis from his mother. She gave him her famous sneer, the sneer that made him feel so worthless, so inhuman. "You like to play with your little worm? I bet you do...every chance you get. I ought to burn it off. Burn it off." She smiled at him with her sucking leech mouth.

Paul grimaced. The brain pearl was taking him down some dark, dark roads...roads that stung him, chopped him up. It was good for him though--making him stronger. He opened his eyes, looked around the room.

His mother was there. Now.

She held a flamethrower. "Take off your jeans," she said.

Fear is a real thing. It has weight. It has mass. It is cold.

Very cold.

Paul's meditation locked onto his mind. He couldn't stop the process now even if he wanted to. The brain pearl clamped its freezing claws around his mind and squeezed...squeezed... tighter and tighter. His mind burst apart like a sun going supernova, thoughts blasting across the universe.

Mother smiled at him. Her eyes changed: turned black as the abyss, shiny and moist, insectlike. They grew in her head, forcing back the oily skin like folds of hot wax. He fell into her eyes. "Take off your jeans."

He took them off, hands trembling so violently he bearly managed to unbutton them. He kicked the jeans across the room.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ," his mother said. Her insect eyes controlled his brain. The buzz of mosquitoes filled the room. Louder and louder. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ," she repeated. It cut his brain open like a knife through pudding. Gray pudding. He could feel blood dripping from his ears. Lifeless blood.

She placed the lit nozzle of the flamethrower over his penis. The organ shrank into his body. "Little white worm. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Burn it off.

Burn it off."

The light from the naked bulb, the single bulb that lit Paul's room, gleamed off the shiny metal of the flamethrower. His mother pulled the chrome trigger...in slow motion.

The buzz of insects drilled through his ears, through his brain. Deep inside his head the buzzing from both ears met. A single brilliant point of light. Sharp, growing, multiplying, turning into a pinwheel made of razor blades that spun faster and faster. Slicing--dicing.

The brain pearl grew, sucking in psychic energy. The burst from the flamethrower froze his penis as if it had been dipped in liquid nitrogen. It fell from his body and shattered on the bare wooden floor.

Shattered like a glass wiener.

The shards of penis were sharp and dangerous. He must be careful not to step on them, might cut his foot.

His mother shrank, deflating like a leaky balloon, her lumpy, shapeless body now the size of a rat. Her clothes dissolved and her naked body turned black. Six thin spiky legs grew from her torso. Her skin hardened into a skeletal covering. She became a giant ant--an ant the size of a rat.

His ant-mother scuttled over to the tin bucket that held his dish water. What was she going to do? What more could she want? She'd destroyed his penis, shattered it into tiny pieces, scattered it all over the floor. She hated him, hated his penis. Would his drunken mother like him better if he had been born a girl? Maybe.

Maybe.

She stood erect, up on four legs, using the fifth and sixth legs like arms. She stretched until she could grab the lip of the pail. Was she going to spill the water all over his floor? "Be careful mother, your going to--"

It was too late. The pail tipped over. Instead of water pouring out, an army of rat sized ants spilled from the bucket's lip. They scuttled about in confusion for a time...then, as if controlled by one mind, they abruptly stopped. For a few minutes they remained still.

Suddenly, fluidly, they each rose up on their four hind legs--all at once--with humanlike grace. Then they danced about the floor in a dreamlike ballet. It was frightening to watch, but at the same time beautiful and hypnotic. Paul stared, fascinated, a cold, oily sweat forming on his skin.

"Oh yes, it's beautiful...so beautiful," Paul muttered in excited tones. Madness convulsed through his mind, tickled his thoughts. The huge insects continued to dance as if all their movements had been choreographed. Dreamy and smooth...Such a precious moment...So exquisite. Could it last forever? Could the opiumlike quality of this vision be eternal? Every movement of the spiky, black legs sent chills up and down his spine. It was ecstasy.

Suddenly, there were miniature tables and chairs scattered across his floor--a tiny nightclub. The humanlike ants stopped dancing and sat at the tables. They began drinking, gesticulating, making conversation in piercingly high pitched voices. Most of them puffed vigorously on little cigars, the smoke forming a low lying cloud ten inches above the floor. Paul winced at the high pitched squeals that he figured to be the ants' version of laughter. The first ant, his mother, was indistinguishable from all the rest, lost in the crowd.

The room's single light bulb blew out, obscuring walls and ceiling; only the ant-man nightclub remained softly illuminated by light coming from long, stained glass lamps that hovered a few feet above the tables. Paul felt like a spy, peering into the lives of this insect community, observing their intriguing culture.

A waitress ant, skillfully balancing a tray full of foaming beer mugs, made her way through the closely packed tables. Some of the male ants made moves to pinch her backside. She managed somehow to bend her black beak into a good natured smile.

The overly aggressive customers squealed with their strange laughter, slapping each other on their black, chitinous backs. One of them spilled his beer all over the table, the amber liquid dripping to the floor. This brought on more gales of squeaky laughter from his companions. The waitress, after delivering beer to her other thirsty customers, pulled a white towel from the tray and wiped up the mess. The ant-men leered at her ant- ass, making obscene gestures for their own mutual entertainment.

Paul was delighted by all these antics. He could feel the pearl pulsing, waves of energy feeding his hungry brain cells; his emotions and aesthetic sensibilities soared skyward. He could not rip his eyes from the scene before him, a silent, objective observer into a secret dimension. The rest of humankind knew nothing of these matters, he was privy to special truths about the universe the average person would never understand. He was special- -more than human.

He just wished he could understand what the ant-men were saying. He strained his ears to detect recognizable words, recognizable phrases. Suddenly, a loud crack split open his eardrums; it was a gift from the Receiver. the Receiver knew all his thoughts, all his thinking...

The giant ants' language became understandable, but there were too many conversations going on at once; he could only detect snatches of meaningful phrases. Paul tried concentrating exclusively on five ants sitting around the table nearest him. They drank heartily, hoisting large foaming mugs of brew to their beaks, wiping foam from their faces with thin spiky arms. Paul scrunched his face in intense concentration.

"The waitress has a nice ass...I wouldn't mind getting a little piece of it," ant-one said.

"Yeah, its sweet. Real sweet," ant-two said.

"Sure, how would you know?" ant-three said.

"I just know," ant-two said."

Even the mundane, macho, sexist talk of the ants fascinated Paul. The conversation took on some sort of profound depth that would be lacking if he heard the same thing in a local human bar.

"You know, I get the strange feeling we're being watched. Do you guys get that feeling?" ant-four asked.

"Now that you mention it...I do," ant-five said, leaning back in his creaky wooden chair, taking a long swig from his mug.

The five ants looked around the bar, their shiny black eyes scanning carefully every inch of the room. Paul was safe from detection, hidden in the shadows.

"I don't see anyone looking at us," ant-one said.

"Yeah, well, guess we're paranoid. Let's drink up boys!" ant-three said, then, twisted his head around for another look at the bar. For a moment, Paul thought that he had been spotted. "What happened to the entertainment? That female piano player was a real looker."

A spotlight switched on, swirls of smoke filled the cone of light, illuminating a miniature white piano. From the darkness emerged a woman-ant; Paul could tell the ant's sex from the feminine gait. She sat down behind the piano and began playing soothing jazz melodies with remarkable skill and ease.

The ants at the table that Paul watched looked pleased, really enjoying the cool, calming music, as did the bar's other patrons. They sat silently, sipping beer from their mugs, lazily basking in the effects of alcohol and music.

Paul smiled down at the scene before him. The vision brought him great peace; he wanted it to go on forever-- this miniature elegance, this tiny rapture...

Paul's skin began to shine. A phosphorescent glow seeped upwards from beneath his epidermis, flowing from his pores, covering his entire body. This peculiar radiance expanded, grew until its glow reached the ant's smoky nightclub, illuminating the first row of tables. Paul felt a hint of panic twinge through his gut. The ant- men would see him, he didn't want that to happen...

The piano player's thorny claws stopped, frozen in flight from one ivory key to the other. Silence cut through the room, chopping off all conversations, paralyzing every skeletal limb.

The piano player was the first to break the spell as she pointed her claw at Paul. "Look!" She screamed.

All the shiny black eyes in the room turned to face in the direction she pointed.

And their was Paul. Exposed. Glowing.

Fear, like an imploding sun, burst inward and collapsed Paul's stomach. He groaned, all the lovely peaceful feelings fled his body.

Time stretched like a slab of rubber, pulled tighter and tighter, tension increasing to the breaking point. Paul's eyes widened into ping-pong balls, threatening to pop from their sockets. "Oh, no...no..." he whimpered.

Ant-one pointed at Paul, and said, "Well, well. Will you look at that. An intruder. A spy. A human spy...the very worst kind." Ant-one stood up from his chair, knocking it over. He gazed out across the throng of ant- men. "What do we do with spies? Especially human spies?"

The crowd laughed their high pitched laugh. It sent chills racing over Paul's goose pimpled nakedness. He started to feel dizzy--his head lolled from side to side, nausea clenched his stomach, twisting it unmercifully. He lifted his legs onto the bed and stretched out on his back. He didn't want his feet on the same floor with the ant-men; he had no idea what the monsters might do.

His nausea and dizziness grew so overwhelming they overshadowed his fear. The room swam around him, the slightest movement of his head sent the room spinning faster and faster. He slammed his eyes shut, but to no avail; the room was in a wild tailspin...falling, sinking, whirling down the vortex of infinity until he passed out.

Paul slowly opened his eyes.

How much time had gone by? Had unconsciousness claimed him for hours or only a few minutes? A gray light coming through his second floor window was the only illumination, filtered through sheets of rippling rain. Everything bathed in a dead, cold glow.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

The buzzing sound shocked and frightened Paul because his meditation was over now. No matter how pleasant and real most of the insectile visionary experience had been, his rational mind knew it was only that: A vision. A detailed hallucination. When it was over: it was over. Usually.

So what was that buzzing? Could it be interdimensional fallout?

Please. No. Not fallout.

Maybe he was still just hallucinating...

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ," the mosquito flew like a tiny helicopter around his right ear. Paul laughed when he recognized the sound for what it really was. How foolish he had been to let fear wash over him, grip him like that, especially now that he was rested and clear headed. The great Gift, the brain pearl, was controlled by the Receiver, and the Receiver wasn't without mercy. Nothing could ever happen that surpassed his coping abilities; what would be the point? He must have faith in the Great Receiver.

Paul tried to raise his right arm to swat the mosquito, but he couldn't move it. "What's this?" he said, turning his head to look at his arm. A thick rope bound his wrist. The rope passed under the bed.

"What!" he yelled, swiftly turning his head to the left. His other wrist was bound in the same way. He struggled against the ropes. His legs were bound also, solidly fixing him to the bed.

Panic gripped him in cold steely claws. What's going on? Someone must have broken in and tied him down. That was the only explanation. But for what purpose? He didn't own any material things worth stealing; his dishwashing job certainly hadn't made him rich. He owned nothing that would tempt a burglar. Why would anyone want to do this to him?

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

The buzzing did not come from his ear. Paul closed his eyes, breaking out in a clammy sweat. Greasy moisture covered his naked body. He shivered uncontrollably, violently, the ropes cutting into his flesh, making him bleed.

A brilliant spotlight flashed down on his bed, popping his eyelids open, illuminating his pale body like a man on an operating table. His curly black body hairs stood out in stark contrast to his paper white skin...sickly skin. How frail he seemed now. How human. He'd forgotten how human he really was, so supercharged with thoughts of power, of glory, that the Receiver had so recently bestowed upon him.

Now blood from his wrists and ankles dribbled onto the thin wool blanket, spreading outward in ugly crimson stains, absorbed into the blanket's fibers.

He tried to scream for help, but his throat locked up like a high revving engine devoid of lubrication. He could only whimper pathetically, weakly, like some battered puppy.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

The noise was louder now.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

Much louder. So loud, he dared not look down at the foot of his bed, dared not, because beyond a doubt that was where the sound originated. Whatever horror it might be, it was on the bed with him.

And he was helpless. Bound hand and foot.

But he had to look. Had to confront his enemy. Balls of greasy sweat flowed from his forehead, running in rivers down the lines of his face. He lifted his eyes slowly and looked to the end of his bed.

Like a miniature army, the ant-men stood in rows just beyond his bound and bleeding feet, their glistening, hatefilled eyes bored into his soul like electric drills. The ant-mens' war cry of buzzing noises rose higher and higher as they charged themselves up for the great campaign.

The troops split down the middle and backed off to either side, forming a path in their midst. A lone, giant ant marched up the path. Paul stared in terror and let out a long, low groan--an endless groan that stretched from one end of the universe to the other.

The lone ant had a small human face. It was his mother's face. Her fat, disgusting face. With its red bulbous nose--tiny broken veins that ran across the skin like some demented roadmap. She marched forward and stood between the V of his spread legs.

"You think you're so smart, but you're nothin' but a little shit," his ant-mother said, each word stung him like a snapping whip.

Paul's mind shredded away with her every word. A pain so large he couldn't contain the feeling; it ripped his mind open like an electric egg beater spinning at full speed inside his skull, scrambling his brain--his thoughts.

"Me and the boys are goin' to teach you a lesson, make sure you know just how weak and pathetic you really are. Right boys?" She spun around to face her troops.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ," they all said in one swelling voice-- a chorus from hell.

"Yeah, son, you were always the holier-than-thou type, always lookin' down your nose at me, just 'cause I liked a little drinky-poo now and then...you self-righteous little pig.

Paul flinched at her words, a growing fear rose up from his belly, shook him. What did the ant-men plan to do to him? He struggled against the ropes, squirming, wriggling, only succeeding in rubbing the rough rope fibers through more layers of skin, causing more blood to flow. Soon, his tendons and muscles would be exposed if he continued to struggle this intensely. But what else could he do? He was driven by fear: pure, glittering fear.

"Okay guys," his ant-mother said, facing the troops, "you know what to do."

Would the Great Receiver rescue him at the last moment? Would he show mercy and release him from this torture before it went any further? Deep inside, Paul knew that that wouldn't happen. It was a test, all part of a bigger plan, another rung on the cosmic ladder to greater power. He must have faith. Faith in the Receiver's plan.

One ant-man was stationed at each of his feet. He could feel their tiny, cold breaths against his bare soles. Each of those breaths made him flinch with terror. What were they going to do to him?

"Dig in, boys!" His ant-mother said.

At first it tickled. He almost broke out in a string of giggles, if it weren't for the sharp screws of fear that drilled through him. He felt the ant-mens' hard beaks nibbling lightly against the calloused skin of his soles. Paul wiggled his feet in a fruitless attempt to get the ant-men to stop, but as soon as he shoved them away, they would come back, attacking with even greater vigor. Paul quickly learned that resisting brought more pain...so he must remain very still.

"Dig deep boys! I want holes you can crawl into!" Yelled the blubbery face of his mother as she sparkled with pride at the progress the two ants were making. Already the end of the bed was covered in blood.

To prevent Paul from dying from massive blood loss, a few ant-men connected a clear tube into his arm. It quickly filled with crimson blood. These ant-men jumped from the bed and walked to the end of the tube, which was connected to a huge black tank, shaped like a beetle. The tank was the size of a large couch. One of the ant-men flipped a red switch near where the tube connected. Immediately a low hum filled the room as fresh blood pumped through Paul's body. They didn't want Paul to die.

Pain that was no longer earthly pain, but cosmic in proportions, stretched from Paul's body to the furthest stars in the galaxy. He wanted to pass out, but some drug, a stimulant, was an ingredient in the new blood they pumped into his veins and it kept him energized, kept him sharp and alert, adding even a greater edge to the torture he already felt.

The ant-men who were burrowing into his feet had created a space large enough for them to insert themselves into. They wriggled into the tight open wounds, inadvertently stopping some of the blood flow.

"Looks real good, boys," Paul's ant-mother said. "I think we can go to stage-two now. Mr. Holier-Than-Thou seems to be holding up just fine...a little worse for wear, but he's still kickin'."

Paul's face was frozen in a permanent grimace, unable to scream--only able to observe the tortures being done to him. The careful, methodical tortures.

"Have at it, boys!" Paul's ant-mother yelled. The ant- men charged, climbing all over Paul's white, weak body. They divided his body into individual territories, each monster finding a portion of Paul's wracked flesh to cling to and begin burrowing. Ripping up flesh, blood spraying everywhere. Deeper, deeper they dug, finding their nice, warm homes of living tissue.

The gift, the brain pearl, grew and sang in Paul's tortured cranium.

It had been a very good meditation.

4: THE HIKE

Byte was smiling, wagging his tail and pushing his food dish around the floor with his nose. Sarah--beyond any doubt--knew that dogs could smile, and Byte, her large collie, had a nice one. Sarah chuckled as she filled Byte's dish from a bag of dry dog food. A collie with a sense of humor; something rare in that breed. She'd always pictured collies as very serious...that is, until Byte came along.

Byte happily chomped away at his food, while Sarah finished making a huge, mexican style omelet for Dave and herself.

Dave was at the kitchen table, studying the newspaper. Sarah cut the omelet in two and slid the pieces onto each of their plates. "Catchup or hot sauce?" Sarah asked.

"Catchup."

Pouring Dave and herself big glasses of orange juice, Sarah attempted to stare through the newspaper into her husband's face, as if she had x-ray vision.

"Your food will get cold if you don't put that thing down and eat."

"Oh...sorry," Dave said, folding up the paper and setting it aside.

Byte finished gulping down his food, then, wagging his tail all the way, walked to the back door, stood on his hind legs, and used his front paws to turn the door handle, letting himself outside into the gray, cloudy morning.

"That dog is scary sometimes," Dave said.

"He's smart, that's all. Now, I just wish he'd learn to close the door after himself and he'd be perfect."

Halfway through their omelets, Sara said, "Since the rain has let up for a bit, you want to take a walk with me?"

"Where?"

"Just up Spring Road, to that cabin I told you about. I want to ask that woman if she knows anything about the meetings, or where they might be."

"You really want to do this thing, huh? That guy impressed you that much?"

"I'll go one time, just to see what it's about."

"Hummm."

"Hey, Spud, don't worry so much. I can handle it. Cut me some slack."

The air was crystalline pure and very cold. Dave and Sarah walked hand in hand up the hill, bundled in their warmest clothes, knit wool scarfs wrapped around their necks for warmth. Sarah carried a small, folded umbrella because the sky was still dark with threatening clouds. Byte followed jauntily behind, stopping every three minutes or so to sniff at something, becoming totally absorbed by whatever odor drew him in.

"I love the air up here," Dave said, inhaling deeply. "It makes you tingle it's so clean."

"Yeah, it's like mountain spring water for your lungs. Love it." Sarah felt relieved to be outside, happy the weather had broken from the constant downpour. Although the rain didn't bother her like some people, she did miss taking walks--the dense, heavy rain putting a stop to that little pleasure. This excursion was a treat, and she enjoyed every minute of it.

Dave was enjoying it also. As obsessed as he was by computer programming, his body would scream after a few hours of desk work to get up, to do something physical. He needed this hike. Gazing at the beautiful redwood trees relaxed his eyes, cleared them of fatigue accumulated from hours of staring at his monitor screen.

He thought about how fortunate he was: married to Sarah, living in a scenic, uncrowded area, enjoying some success with (what started as a hobby) his computer programming. If he only had a child, that would make his life as close to perfection as it could get, at least on this world.

Byte began barking, his eyes fixed on some tiny object that Dave and Sarah couldn't see when they stopped to look at what all the commotion was about.

"What's the matter, boy?" Sarah asked, as though Byte could answer her.

Byte stared at something on the side of the road, circling it, barking at it, stopping at times to look up at Dave and Sarah and wag his tail.

"What the hell is he so excited about?" Dave asked, walking over to look at whatever was provoking such a response from Byte. He scowled, "Jeez, Byte, it's only a snail." He bent over to pick it up.

"A snail? He never got so excited about a snail before."

Dave inspected the snail. The little animal was hiding in its shell. There was nothing peculiar about it--just one of thousands that slimed their way across the forest floor after a rain. "Byte, you're weird...or you're playing a little joke on us. Dumb d--" the body of the snail poked out of its shell.

Sarah saw her husband's puzzeled expression and asked, "What's wrong?"

Byte looked at Dave expectantly...whining. The collie panted and let his tongue loll out of his mouth, then, unable to contain himself any longer, jumped up, placing his front paws on Dave's chest, while sniffing at the snail.

"This is weird. Look at this hon," Dave said, holding out the snail for Sarah to see. Byte dropped to the ground and walked over to Sarah.

"Jeez...its got two heads! A mutant snail!" Sarah said in a tone of surprise. "Never saw anything like that." She took the snail from Dave and examined it closely. Why would this snail bother Byte so much? How would a dog know the difference between it and a normal one--unless its odor was different from other snails. She began to wonder what could cause such genetic damage. "Is there something around here that's radioactive?"

"Radioactive? I doubt it...though you never know what some jerk might decide to dump out here in the forest-- trying to avoid some EPA hassles or something."

The four slimy eye-stalks of the snail wiggled about as the two mucus drenched heads stretched and retracted--over and over again--attempting to grasp a clearer evaluation of their situation, so high above the ground.

Sarah suddenly grew very apprehensive of the little animal, a disgust that turned to fear. She flung the creature into the forest, yelling "Yuck!" Byte started to run after it, until the invisible leash of Sarah's voice demanded him to stay. He was an obedient dog. And very loyal.

Sarah noticed Dave giving her a puzzled look. "I couldn't stand the thought of touching that thing any longer. I don't know how to explain it...it just seemed so...so...unnatural, I had to throw it away."

"Unnatural is a good word for it, but you could've handed it back to me. I'd've liked one more look at it." Dave was smiling as he spoke and Sarah couldn't tell if he was serious or not. Probably just teasing her.

"Well, too bad. It scared me."

They continued hiking up Spring Road, which changed from pavement to dirt, and eventually dead ended, the forest taking over. "Now, if I can remember where I hiked that day," Sarah said, more to herself than to Dave. "I think I hiked up the hill a ways, started walking to the left..."

"You sure you know where your going?" Dave couldn't see a cabin anywhere, at least from where he stood. Why would anyone post a flyer for a meeting that no one could find? He suspected that whoever would do such a thing must be a fuzzy thinker, or else they were a little fanatical-- somehow hoping people would be divinely led to the correct spot. Whatever...at least he was getting some exercise and breathing clean air.

They hiked further into the woods. Sarah pointed to her right. "There's the cabin!" She sounded relieved, as if the cabin might have somehow disappeared. "Let's see if the lady's home and if she knows anything about the meeting."

Dave and Byte followed Sarah onto the cabin porch and stood behind her as she knocked. Dave tapped Sarah on the shoulder and asked, "Are those the smudges?" He pointed to some green, cigar shaped objects hanging from the porch roof.

Before Sarah could answer him, the front door opened. Dave peered over Sarah's shoulder, wanting to see if the young woman was topless. He was only human--a male human, he thought, in a weak attempt to assuage his guilt.

"Yes?" The young woman said in a voice that sounded dreamy, as if she'd taken some kind of drug. She obviously didn't recognize Sarah, but after all, it had only been a brief hello.

Dave was a little disappointed that the lady wasn't topless. He pinched his wife's butt. Clown, Sarah thought, brushing his hand away from her bottom.

"My name's Sarah Dugeon, and this is my husband, Dave." Dave grinned like a jack-o-lantern. Clown.

"What's your dog's name?" The young lady said, pulling her bathrobe closed a little more, covering some of her cleavage--not to hide it, but in order to keep warm. Sarah was somewhat surprised, expecting the woman to ask why they were here, or what did they want--certainly not the dog's name.

Byte smiled and wagged his tail for the lady.

"His name's Byte," Sarah said.

"Bite? You mean 'cause he bites people?"

"No. No. Nothing like that. His name's Byte, B-Y-T-E, like eight bits to a byte." Sarah noticed the blank look on the lady's face. "You know...computer type bytes?" This was hopeless. "Anyway--he doesn't bite. Don't worry."

"Okay. He looks like a nice dog. He doesn't look like a biter," she smiled dreamily, her eyelids at half-mast. "Come inside; it's warm in here," she looked at Byte and added, "And bring in your doggy too."

The cabin was bachelor style, all one room, except for the bathroom. A crib was in the corner. The young woman had decorated the walls of the baby's corner with bright patterned cloth. Paisley cloth. She had crystals and beads dangling in strings from her ceiling, she even had a lava lamp sitting on an old coffee table. The table was made of thick wood--burned, sanded and heavily shellacked, a relic from the early seventies. Incense pervaded the cabin's air, like atmosphere from another world, and under that was the sick-sweet smell of marijuana.

As Dave and Sarah sat down on an old wood framed couch, Sarah asked, "What's your name?"

"My name's Karen. My baby's name is Sue."

Karen? Sue? This really surprised Sarah. She expected names like Morningstar, Crystal or Sunshine. Not ordinary names like Karen and Sue.

A silence fell over them. Karen casually walked over to an old dresser, opened the top drawer, and took out a hand rolled marijuana cigarette. "Do you want some?" Karen asked, lighting the marijuana with a brass Zippo lighter she took from her robe.

Is that what this woman automatically assumed? That we came here to smoke dope? This was like going back in time, Sarah thought. Karen even had black light posters hanging on the walls. Where in the world did she ever find them? "No, no. We don't want any."

Karen looked puzzled as she inhaled the smoke. She held her breath for a few seconds, then broke out in a fit of coughing so loud and raspy that it frightened Sarah; was she going to spit out chunks of her lungs? Jeez, the things people do to themselves...

"What do you want?" Karen asked, after she recovered from her fit.

"Do you know anything about some meetings held by a man called the Receiver, a spirit channeler? They're supposed to be held around here somewhere."

Karen took another drag of marijuana, went into another coughing spasm, and with glazed eyes, stared blankly at Sarah. It was spooky.

"Well, do you know anything about them?" Sarah asked again, suspecting Karen had drifted off to some very private world--far out in space. Dave felt disgusted and uncomfortable and started fidgeting. He wanted out of here. Now. Karen's lifestyle was so opposed to his, he felt as if he were visiting a martian.

"I know him."

"You know the Receiver?" Sarah asked, happily. She was aware of her husband's discomfort and wanted to cut this visit short.

"Yeah...he uses my cabin."

"He uses your cabin for the meetings?"

"Yeah."

Great. Dave relaxed, and stood up. He patted Byte's head and took hold of Sarah's hand, pulling gently. Now maybe they could finally leave.

Karen let her marijuana cigarette go out. She placed it in a big brass ashtray on top of her dresser. Through red, torpid eyes she gazed curiously at Sarah, as if judging her in some way, her worthiness.

"I would like to attend one of those meetings. When's the best time?"

"Every night, around eight, the Receiver comes here. Sometimes only a few people show up. Paul always comes though. You know Paul?"

"Paul gave me a flyer advertising the meetings," Sarah said, as Dave tugged lightly on her hand, signalling he wanted to leave--Now. Sarah wanted to ask lots more questions, but she also didn't want her husband to suffer. Still, she couldn't resist asking just one more. "So...Karen, you're really into this thing then? Really into this spirit message business?" she asked, walking with Dave towards the front door.

"Nah, I don't get off on it. I could care less about their weird shit. I think that's one of the reasons they come here. I'm what they call a neutral. And besides, the receiver doesn't want anyone to know where he lives."

Dave grinned at one of Karen's words: Think. She can think? It wasn't really funny though, it was sad. Karen was a welfare mother who sat around on her ass all day, watching soap operas and smoking pot--at least that was his first impression of her and he didn't believe himself to be wrong. He really felt sorry for her kid, having to grow up in this environment. But what could he do about it? The welfare system was a mess. Karen and all her ilk were a burden to society, using the system so they could avoid legitimate employment. California drew them in like a magnet.

Sarah was relieved to hear Karen's words. If Karen was a product of the Receiver's gospel, she would've lost all desire to attend a meeting. Karen was the worst advertisement for the efficacy of the Receiver's teachings.

Sarah opened the cabin door and slipped outside--Dave and Byte close behind her. Karen stepped outside too, looking up at the threatening sky. The clouds were nearly black they were so pregnant with rain.

"Yeah, Paul showed up here with his friend, the Receiver, about a month ago," Karen said, as if Sarah had asked her another question. "They told me they'd give me some money each week if they could use my place for their meetings. I said sure."

Sarah could smell the rain getting ready to fall. It was going to be another downpour. Byte was pacing nervously.

"They never tried to get me interested in their spiritual thing. I guess I wasn't their type. The Receiver, he's a strange dude, really weird. I never know what he's talking about--and he doesn't even get high. Spacy guy."

Thin strings of lightning traced patterns against the dark clouds. A few seconds later the roll of thunder reached their ears. Byte looked up at Dave and Sarah expectantly, as if wondering why they weren't hiking down the hill.

Karen continued, oblivious to her company's concerns about the weather. "There are only two special followers, people that really interest The Receiver. They show up more or less regularly. The others...people who read the flyers and come out of curiousity, people that don't click with the Receiver--they drop out. Usually the first night. If they don't, he tells them to leave."

"Hey, hun, we need to get started," Dave said to Sarah. He felt a raindrop fall on his nose. Why did Karen decide to get so talkative, just when they really needed to leave? Was she doing this on purpose? Idiot.

"Yeah, let's go before we really get soaked." Sarah adjusted her thick wool scarf.

"So...when are you coming to the meeting?" Karen asked, her heavy eyelids in stark contrast to the interested tone in her voice.

"Soon," Sarah said, walking back to the main road, Dave holding her hand and Byte following behind, happily wagging his tail.

Karen heard her daughter starting to cry. "Bye," she called out to Dave and Sarah. Without turning around, Dave raised his arm and flicked his hand in a farewell gesture.

Karen went back into the cabin, shut the door against the rain, and walked over to the crib. Her little girl was hungry. She didn't smell like she'd messed her diapers. Good. Karen picked up Sue from the crib and gave her a hug. "How's my little baby," she said, rubbing her nose against the baby's nose, making the baby giggle.

The baby was happy. Karen opened her bathrobe and brought Sue to her breast. She sucked on Karen's dark nipple contentedly. Karen went over to the couch and sat down. She liked to nurse her baby. It was such a motherly type trip. It felt so natural and earthy when she did this--like she was kin to all female mammals on the planet. Ms. Natural. Yeah.

Karen blinked her eyes as she watched her baby nurse. Something was wrong. She blinked again, thinking it must be some sort of hallucination. Her nipple was too long. Way too long. Had the marijuana effected her more than it usually did? It was good stuff...but not that good.

Sue's little mouth had moved more than two inches from her breast, yet the nipple was still in her mouth. It stretched out like a long, thick tube. What was going on here? Karen opened her robe to expose her other breast. It was large and milky white, a few blue veins visible beneath the taut skin. With her thumb and forefinger she grabbed the breast's dark nipple and pulled on it. To her surprise, it stretched over three inches from her breast, as easily as a rubber band. Milk spurted from the end. Instead of fear taking hold of her mind at the bizarre changes to her body, she was fascinated.

Karen positioned Sue so that she could stick the other nipple in her mouth too, just for the hell of it. It was easy--the erectile tissue stretching to accommodate her wishes. "What a trip," Karen said to her baby, who now sucked on the two nipples at once.

She was amazed. She was some sort of super mother. No one else she knew could do this. And it was kind of sexy too. Just wait until guys see these, she thought. Her nipples would blow'em away. She could hardly wait to show someone. When the rain quit, she would go down to the stream where everyone swam naked, and show off her little nipple trick.

Karen's habitual state of drug intoxication, along with her naturally slow mind, buffered her consciousness against fear inducing events--the Receiver had no use for such people.

Sarah unfurled her small umbrella against the downpour. It offered them little protection, but it was better than nothing. She thought it was sort of exciting to be walking in the rain anyway--so what if they got a bit wet? A little water never hurt anyone. From the smile on Dave's face, he appeared not to mind either. Even poor, soggy Byte was still wagging his tail.

"I was so glad to get out of that house," Dave said, giving Sarah's hand a gentle squeeze.

"You didn't like it when she started getting high. I could feel your tension."

"All I could think of was her poor baby, having to be brought up by a mother with a drug problem--probably has other problems too." His imagination conjured up some ugly scenes. He shuddered.

"Well, when we have our baby, we'll do such a great job of parenting, we'll put a little goodness back in the world--make up for other's mistakes."

"That's a positive way to see things."

"Besides, when I go to the meeting, maybe I can talk to Karen and wake her up, get her to see she's making some big mistakes."

"I doubt if it'll do any good, but it can't hurt to try." Dave was silent for a few moments, his eyebrows scrunched together in worry. "You know, I wish you'd just forget about this thing. Something about all this seems so...I don't know...sleezy."

A thick, white streak of lightning flashed from one end of the sky to the other. Dave and Sarah braced themselves for the thunderclap. When it came, the ground shook. Byte let out a yelp and tried to squeeze between them, almost tripping them both. "Oh...poor Byte. He's scared," Sarah said. "Don't worry boy, we'll be home soon and you can cuddle up next to the fireplace."

The chill in the air was like a living entity, making every effort to penetrate clothing, slip under flesh, and cut through bone, satisfied with nothing short of the bone marrow itself. It was starting to succeed. They hugged together and speeded up their walk. Home seemed more and more like Paradise, a shining goal of warmth and beauty. When would they ever get there?

Beneath the white noise of raindrops falling through the icy air, Sarah heard a growling. At first she thought it was Byte, but he was innocent, his ears standing up, listening along with her. Where did it come from? "Dave, did you hear that sound, something growling?"

"Yeah, I did." He didn't complete his entire thought-- not wanting to worry his wife--but he couldn't help but think of the wild dog packs that sometimes roamed this area. People were always dumping unwanted dogs in the Santa Cruz mountains, thinking it more humane than bringing them to the dog pound. It wasn't. It was downright dangerous to the residents of the mountain community.

Not so long ago, a five year old boy, someone they knew, went missing for three days. Sarah and Dave were part of a volunteer group that went out searching for the boy. The child's parents, the Coopers, were hysterical-- their lives centered on their little boy, such great love they had for him. They'd been on a picnic in the woods. One moment the boy was playing happily among the trees; the next moment he was gone. They had barely taken their eyes from him--

On the third day, a deputy sheriff found the boy's body, or rather, what was left of it, heaped at the foot of a redwood tree. The ground beneath the body was rust red from blood. It took two more weeks to find and destroy the wild dogs.

The Coopers would blame themselves the rest of their lives for what had happened.

Children would follow the dogs, thinking them as friendly as their family pets. That's what happened to the Cooper boy--just an innocent little kid playing with the doggies. Dave thought dog dumpers were criminals. They ought to be jailed. How could people be so stupid as to...

The growling grew louder.

Byte's ears perked up again. He stopped and sniffed the air. "Come on boy," Dave called to him. They must get home. Back to Safehaven.

What an appropriate name it now seemed.

Dave kept up a brisk pace. "Just keep walking, hun. Don't run. Don't turn around. Try not to be afraid. Dogs can smell fear." He hugged Sarah's waist.

There was movement behind a thick growth of ferns a little ways from the road's edge. Byte froze again. "Damn it Byte," Dave yelled, "come on!" Byte, usually so obedient, decided now was the time to become obstinate. Sarah, worried, looked at Dave and whispered, "Just keep walking, he'll follow us."

He didn't. Byte ran behind the clump of ferns, barking and growling without fear at the unseen intruder.

"Damn that dog!" Dave let go of his wife and chased after Byte, but before he followed the collie behind the ferns, he grabbed a stick that was lying on the muddy ground. It was big and heavy enough to provide good protection--just keep a cool head and everything will turn out all right.

Beyond Byte's growling, another, more vicious growling threatened the Dugeon's family pet.

Dave raised his makeshift club over his head, into the damp cold air, following byte's trail behind the ferns.

"Dave, what're you doing? Be careful!" No matter how much she loved Byte, she certainly didn't want her husband walking into some confrontation with a wild dog.

"Don't worry, hun, I've got this stick..."

Dave found Byte, teeth bared, staring into the face of a--

"What the hell!" Dave yelled, stunned into paralysis, rain water drenching his body, his hair washed down over his eyes.

"What's going on?" Sarah asked, walking over to the edge of the road, towards the clump of ferns.

Almost to shocked to speak, Dave managed to warn his wife to stay put. She didn't need to see what he was about to do. Not now. Not ever.

With a burst of willpower, he began waving the big stick around in a threatening manner, yelling, "Go away! Get the hell out of here!"

Byte let out a series of rapid barks, his teeth clacking together loudly each time he snapped shut his mouth. Sarah had never heard Byte so furious before. What was going on? Was he being bitten? Hidden as Dave was by the ferns, she couldn't see him when he finally brought the big stick down with a whump, solidly smacking wet flesh. An angry, hissing noise--like a hundred vicious snakes--rose eerily from behind the ferns. Had Dave killed the wild dog...or whatever the hell it was?

Dave brought the stick down again. More hissing. More barking from Byte. "Sarah, please, call Byte over to you."

Sarah whistled and called out for her pet. Nothing. Byte continued barking. That dog needs some retraining, she thought, as she called for him again. This whole scene began to feel surrealistic, dreamlike: Byte barking insanely. Dave, like a mad man, pounding away on some animal. All of them getting soaked to the bone in this downpour. And that unearthly hissing. SSSSSSS...

It started to really scare her.

Byte let out a piercing yelp, and ran whining from the clump of ferns. He limped over to Sarah, tail between his legs, a sad, pained look on his doggy face. Dogs could frown as well a smile, thought Sarah, as she held out her arms for her hairy pet. Blood leaked from one of his rear legs. Poor thing. A thought came unbidden to Sarah's mind- -what if the animal that bit Byte had rabies? Dave better be careful. She started to cry. "Please, Dave...let's get out of here."

"Can't leave," he panted, "got to finish this thing off now..." He held the big stick with two hands, and brought it down with all the force he could muster. There was a loud crunching sound that made Sarah wince, then a long, low groan--a groan infused with pain, the final death rattle.

It was over.

Dave stood still, almost peaceful, staring down at the corpse. He threw the bloody stick into the woods. It had been snapped in two.

"Dave?"

"Yeah," he said, dazed and soaked.

"Are you okay?"

Dave shook his head and wiped his wet, blond hair from his eyes, as if trying to wake from a dream. His wife's voice had a sobering effect on him and he phased back into the moment. "We're going to have to take this animal back with us, get it checked for rabies."

"And get Byte looked at. His leg is hurt pretty bad." She hugged Byte and gave him a deeply sympathetic look, "poor baby..."

Dave bent down, and with a disgusted look and reluctant hand, grabbed the creature by the rear legs. Careful not to get any blood on himself, he drug the carcass from the clump of ferns.

"What in the name of God..." were the only words that Sarah managed to mutter once she saw the creature.

Dave finished dragging the body onto the wet pavement; blood on its head became diluted from the rain and disappeared as it ran down the street. "I don't know if God had any thing to do with this," he gave a concerned glance at his wife, adding, "Be careful. Don't let any blood get on you."

Byte shied away from the creature, walking around Sarah so she stood between him and it.

Sarah, both fascinated and frightened, examined the creature. Its body was like that of a pit bull: short, thick legs and a large, barrel chest. That part she could except, that first, brief impression--but the shock of discovering that it was hairless, that the black, shiny covering was naked skin and not hair, made her reel backwards with faintness. Its skin was like an eel's skin, slimy and slick, belonging more to the depths of the sea than dry land. And there were no flaws in the skin, no roughness, no uneven coloration--it was all uniform, giving the animal a manmade, artificial quality.

When Sarah's gaze finally rested on the animals dead eyes, she was in for a further shock. The glassy orbs were a pale violet: like nothing she had ever seen in nature. And again, the eyes were monochrome, all one color and much too even and perfect.

"Come on hun, let's go."

They walked quickly, nearing Highway Nine from Spring Road. The queasiness that rolled through Sarah's stomach made her forget how wet and chilled she was. She fought back a growing nausea that crawled up her throat. "What kind of dog is that? Or is it even a dog?" She asked.

"I've never seen anything like it. As far as I'm concerned, its something straight from the Twilight Zone."

"There's no such thing as the Twilight Zone," pleaded Sarah as she patted Byte's head.

Dave thought of himself as a realist, a logical man, so he surprised himself when he said, "Apparently there is now."

They turned right on Highway Nine. Safehaven bookstore, their home--warm and cozy and safe--was only a little ways up the road.

5: PARTING THE VEIL

Lisa stood by the fireplace, the palms of her hands turned towards the heat. Rick had left Lisa to her thoughts after his powerful display of extrasensory perception. She thought of walking out the door, leaving this weirdness, but the comforting warmth of the fire made her think twice. And besides, Rick's ESP, or whatever it was, did fascinate her after the initial shock had passed.

Rick was in the kitchen, removing items from the grocery bag. He quietly went about preparing a hearty stew. After about thirty minutes, the wonderful smell of vegetables and meat drifted from the boiling pot to Lisa's nose, removing any lingering thoughts about running off. She was just too hungry. Her stomach growled and churned in anticipation of a home cooked meal.

Lisa was homesick for real food, since her diet consisted mainly of greasy fries and hamburgers--food she bought from the money she panhandled. Once she had her fake ID and a job, the greasy fast-food days would be gone. She was fed up with begging and leeching off people; it did nothing for her self-esteem. After all, she knew what it felt like to feel good about herself. She was an artist.

Standing before the crackling fire, she let her mind drift to dreams. She pictured herself with her own place, not a big place, but big enough to set up an easel--a place to paint--a place to make her art. Maybe she'd even get into a gallery, show the world her talent...

The ringing of Rick's telephone startled her. It sat on the kitchen counter, a bar that marked the boundaries of the kitchen from the rest of the cabin's interior.

"Hello. Oh...hi."

Must be his ex-wife, Lisa thought. She heard something shut down in Rick's voice, a constriction of his vocal cords.

"Tonight? But I thought Josh was going to...Okay. Okay. We'll be here. I'm fixing something now. Yeah...Bye."

Lisa figured out the conversation. Rick's ex was coming by to pick up Josh. That meant she would be all alone tonight with Rick. Oh well...she could handle it, and besides, it was pretty clear by now that Rick wasn't some sex maniac.

But then...you could never really tell.

Stretching out on the overstuffed couch, Lisa drifted off to sleep. Just a little nap before dinner...

A large table, piled high with all kinds of good food, was provided by the gallery for the art show opening. Cheese and carrot- strips and olives. Paper thin slices of roast beef and ham. A huge, sparkling, crystal bowl contained a bright red punch.

Hundreds of people walked before her paintings, drinks in hand, studying every paint stroke, every subtle change in color.

Lisa walked among them. Some would excitedly approach her, others shyly: all of them awed by her genius. They questioned her about her technique, her mentors, her philosophy. How could she have reached such hights of emotional expression at such a young age? Her paintings would surely turn the art world upside down, redefine the very meaning of the word, art.

She saw a pair of identical twin sisters approach her. They were young, no older than ten. They wore frilly pink dresses. Each limped on a crutch. Each wore a pink cast on their legs. They hobbled over to her in perfect synchrony with one another. They had pale, perfect faces. They smiled at her, their wide grins chilling Lisa to the marrow of her bones.

She wanted to turn and run, but this was her reception, her grand entry into the world of high art. Panic raced through her veins, charging her with a supernatural fear. Her soul turned to ice when the twins finally stood before her. They didn't seem quite human, more like living symbols. Some kind of archetypes. Did the crutches have meaning? The children seemed without innocence.

Everyone turned to stare at her. Don't look at me, thought Lisa, look at the art! Look at the art! This gallery opening was not going according to plan. The twins were ruining it. She wanted them to leave, to limp away on their crutches and go back to whatever bizarre world gave them birth.

"When will you sleep, Lisa? You need your rest," the twin on the right said.

"Young girls need to dream," the other said.

"But I am dreaming!" Lisa said.

The twin to the left looked puzzled. Suddenly she perked up, illuminated by an idea. "Let me give you a pinch and see if you're dreaming!" Lisa was suddenly naked. The twin reached out with her frail, tiny hand towards Lisa's left breast. She grabbed Lisa's nipple. Lisa flushed. How embarrassing, but what could she do? Hide? The little girl pinched her as hard as she could.

It felt good.

"Ouch!" Lisa screamed, rubbing her nipple through her black evening gown. She wasn't naked after all.

"That didn't hurt. Your faking!" the twin to the right said. "I would have felt it."

The twins stared at one another in deep telepathic communion. The nodded their heads in agreement.

"We're going to hypnotize you. You need your sleep."

"I don't want to be hypnotized!" Lisa screamed. She wanted to be awake, alert, able to deal with situations-- situations like this.

"Relax...count backwards from ten..."

"No! I don't want to!"

"Count! Now!"

"Ten...Nine...Eight...Seven..." Lisa shut her eyes, the gallery walls were spinning, whirling, sweeping away her thoughts, her will...

A man held a pink pill to her mouth. Where was the gallery? Where were her admirers? She was in a grocery store. Long rows of food on either side of her. Boxes of every size and color. Her grocery cart was empty. The man with the pill stood in front of her cart. He wouldn't let her go until she swallowed the pill. Shoppers passed by, ignoring her, busy looking for bargains.

"I'll scream if you don't get that thing out of my face," Lisa said, becoming angrier by the second.

"Hey, I'm doin' you a favor. Is that how you treat people who try to do you favors?" Slobber dripped from his gray stubbled chin. It looked as if he hadn't shaved in days. His clothes were dirty and torn. She realized now that he was a bum. He was homeless, and yet he offered her what little he had. She had to accept his gift--it just wouldn't be polite to do otherwise...

"What kind of pill was that?" Lisa asked, after she had taken it from his greasy hand and dry-swallowed it.

"A sleeping pill. Very strong."

"I don't need to sleep," Lisa said, feeling the clean crisp sheets of her hospital bed through her thin gown.

"We all need our sleep. Especially little girls," the doctor said. Lisa noticed he needed a shave. Gray stubble grew stiffly from his chin. Plastic bags of blood hung above her body, crimson fluid traveling down shiny tubes that ended in her arms.

"Why am I here?" It was hard for lisa to form words, her tongue so thick and swollen she could barely close her mouth. And her tongue was dry. Cracked.

"I'm sorry, but we had to amputate." The doctor's flesh was like Silly Putty, artificial and glistening. His gray stubble was gone, no hair follicles--no pores. All his flesh one even color. His words were razor blades, slicing her, stinging her.

The endless rain battered against the hospital windows, driven by a fierce wind. The doctor looked more and more like her father, his plastic skin rippling into new configurations, sucked inwards against a newly formed skull. "I'm sorry, but we had to amputate. No choice really."

A series of lightning flashes exploded in photon rage, light particles filling all available space--followed by the blast--it shook Lisa's bed, rattled it against the floor. "No choice at all. I hated having to do it." The bags of blood swayed back and forth, back and forth.

Lisa, too scared to move. Too afraid that movement might reveal what body parts were missing. What had they taken? What had they stolen? If she tried to stand, or reach, or grab, or...

Mrs. Borger, her high school art teacher, came to visit her. Such a nice pretty face Mrs. Borger has. She leaned close to Lisa, stroking Lisa's hair, comforting her. "Poor girl, you were always so talented--a true artist. What a tragic thing to have happened...and at your tender age."

"The surgical team is waiting outside your room, Lisa," the doctor said. "They want to speak to you. You'll enjoy them--no finer group of men or women anywhere. All of them, brilliant. Simply brilliant. Didn't leave one little scar."

"I don't want to see them," Lisa said, her tongue so big and dry. It felt like a dying, furry rat, unconnected to her body--foreign, with a will of its own. Lisa knew the surgeons would scare her, talk about her operation. She would rather die than know what they'd done. She just wanted to lie here on the bed, feel the nice clean sheets, the comforting, crinkling sound they made with her every movement. Better not move too much though...

"Oh, Lisa," Mrs. Borger leaned into Lisa's face, a huge hot sun, filling the sky. "You must be brave. I have had it done to me, and I'm all right." Such a sweet smile graced the teacher's face. So truthful. So kind.

Lisa wondered which of Mrs. Borger's limbs were mechanical. Artificial contrivances to emulate living, vital flesh. Bionic plastic, born from the sludge of ancient vegetation--long ago extinct--now a part of her body.

"Here they come," the doctor said.

Five surgeons, dressed in green smocks and still wearing their surgical masks and rubber gloves, walked into the room and stood by Lisa's bed. She looked into their faces but could not detect any emotions in their eyes. One of them pushed a stainless steel cart. On the cart was a bloody towel covering some large lump. Blood pooled around the towel, like blood around a slice of meat in a butchers shop.

They all removed their surgical masks at the same time. Lisa gasped. Froze. No flesh, no skin covering their jaws. The bottom half of their faces raw exposed skull. Grinning heads of death. Gleaming, glistening bone--so white and brittle.

But the surgeons all had tongues. They all could speak. She could almost see the pink organs hiding behind their teeth. Please don't say anything...don't say what happened...

The doctor patted one of the surgeons on the back like an old buddy. "This guy here has hands like a surgeon," the doctor said with a deadpan expression. They all looked at one another. Time paused, like freeze frame on a VCR. Suddenly they burst out in laughter; it rolled out like an avalanche...uncontrollably...

"Show her," the doctor said when he regained his composure. One of the surgeons whisked away the towel from the stainless steel cart to reveal the bloody lumps beneath.

It was Lisa's breasts, served up like two firm melons.

"I'm thinking of having them stuffed and mounted," the doctor said.

Little Josh came into the room and walked shyly up to Lisa's hospital bed.

Lisa was crying. Giant sobs of grief. But underneath the crying, a hint of relief, as if now her problems were forcibly solved.

Fearfully solved.

"Its time to eat, Lisa," Josh said, from somewhere far away...even though he stood right next to her...

"Yes, eat up," a surgeon said, poking at one of the bloody breasts.

Lisa shot up from the cushiony couch gasping, greasy sweat rolling off her forehead. Josh--startled--jumped back from her, eyes wide.

"Its dinner time, Lisa. Come eat with us," he said, timidly. Lisa saw that she'd scared him. Poor little guy. For some reason she felt like checking her boobs. What was that nightmare about she'd just had? Or would you call it a daymare, since the sun was still out, although hidden behind dark clouds.

Lisa composed herself. Embarrassed, she wiped her hand across her forehead and rubbed her eyes. "Sorry. I fell asleep and had a bad dream."

"Its okay. I have bad dreams too," Josh said, his little voice expressing great sympathy.

"Come on guys, over to the counter," Rick called out, ladling the aromatic stew into bowls. Josh and Lisa took their places on bar stools at the counter. Rick sat on the kitchen side, across from them, since he was serving.

Lisa rubbed her eyes like a small child, wiping away the sleep--and the dream. Despite the fact that life on the street had made her wise beyond her years, she still had much about her that was childlike.

The stew contained large chunks of meat. Lisa thought Rick would've been a vegetarian, with his long hair and all. But then there was the fact of his muscles, the evidence of nineties style workouts at the local gym. He confused her. And frightened her. He'd read into her life, knew she'd been molested by her father; how could he know so much about her?

Sometimes Rick seemed like a regular dad, caring for his son, doing fatherly things. It gave her a degree of confidence in him, but at the same time made her wonder if he would turn her over to the cops, or to