First Dimension

By Gregory A. Kompes

As the Whispering Pines' school year ends, Bobby Brown, almost 13, has been saving his paper route tips for one special thing, The New InterPolar Radio. Bobby is surprised when one of his customers, Mrs. Andrews, gives him a radio and their garden gnome, as partial payment for lawn care. The Andrews will be gone—long gone—leaving their home for the First Dimension, an alternative universe. And the gnome? He talks.

The idyllic hamlet is plagued by tears in the space/time continuum. Some residents move through them as a parlor game and even use them to commute to work. This game becomes serious as more tears randomly appear around town. One wrong step and you're in the First Dimension; once there, you can rarely get out.

Mr. Fowler, the local printer, helps Bobby learn to use the intricate radio. Its mutating code book frustrates Bobby almost as much as the opinionated gnome. Mrs. Johnson, a gifted psychic and clairvoyant, reads Bobby’s Tarot cards in lieu of newspaper tips, and guides him toward a summer adventure. Mr. Fowler and Betty Johnson share a secret: Mr. Fowler failed at the same adventure when he was Bobby’s age: freeing hundreds of captives trapped in the First Dimension.

When Bobby’s neighbor and school teacher, Steve Arland, goes on his annual rock-hound vacation, he recruits Bobby to take care of his dog, Misty. About the same time, the Stanley’s move into the vacated Andrews' house with their children, Ben and Melissa. Ben and Bobby are the same age and become best friends. Together they discover the First Dimension.

Bobby’s mother, Sally, and Ben’s mother, Maggie, follow the boys by becoming fast friends. At Maggie’s mistaken urging, Sally is tricked into entering the First Dimension. When Sally becomes trapped, Bobby is left alone in the world. As troubling events unravel for the pre-teen, Misty acts as Bobby’s protector, the only one Bobby can trust. Bobby and Misty travel into the First Dimension to try and save Sally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory A. Kompes
• Release date: Jan 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465908988

Gregory A. Kompes

Las Vegas Psychic Intuitive Gregory A. Kompes is the scribe for The Three Sisters. Learn more about this work at Messages from The Three Sisters. Gregory is the author of Suddenly Psychic: Core Messages to Enhance your Psychic Journey, Message from The Three Sisters, Volume 1, First Dimension, and the bestselling 50 Fabulous Gay-Friendly Places to Live. Gregory is also the author of the Writer’s Series that includes: Endorsement Quest, Creating Your Online Media Kit, and Should You Write an eBook. Additionally, the author is included in Patchwork Path: Grandma’s Choice, Patchwork Path: Dad’s Bow Tie, Patchwork Path: Christmas Stoking, Patchwork Path: Treasure Box, Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Dog, Chopped Liver for the Kindred Spirit, Chopped Liver for the Gentle Spirit, The Complete Writer’s Journal, Writer’s Bloc: A Las Vegas Valley Authors’ Showcase, and Writer’s Bloc II. Gregory is co-founder of the Patchwork Path book series, co-host of the Writer’s Pen and Grill, a social evening for writers held monthly in Las Vegas, Nevada, and co-founder of Laudably Tarnished: A Poetry Workshop. Gregory holds a BA in English Literature from Columbia University, New York, a Certificate in Online Teaching and Learning, and an MS Ed. from California State University, East Bay.

Book preview

First Dimension

By Gregory A. Kompes

First Dimension

by Gregory A. Kompes

Copyright 2012 Gregory A. Kompes

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

The material in First Dimension represents the artistic vision of the author published herein and is their sole property. No part of this text may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the author. The author may be contacted through Fabulist Flash Publishing, Ltd.

All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

Fabulist Flash Publishing, Ltd

PO Box 570368

Las Vegas, Nevada, 89157

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For Todd, the love of my life.

Acknowledgements

No one travels their journey alone. Mine has been supported by Eva Shaw, Darlien C. Breeze, Kathleen Shaputis, Tena Beth Thompson, Leslie E. Hoffman, Teresa Watts, Garry Buzick, Grace Andrews, Linda O'Connor, Roger Storkamp, Douglas Davy, the Henderson Writers' Group, Joan Heppert, and Todd Isbell.

First Dimension

Chapter 1

F-U-T-U-R-E. Too easy, Teach! Bobby Brown said out loud as he delivered The Telegraphic Times from his bike. He tossed a copy toward the Philip's porch. New minivan, Bobby thought.

C-O-N-T-I-N-U-U-M. Can't trick me with those double U's, Teacher Man, Bobby said to the mountain of beer cans that were the Johnson's trash.

S-O-L-A-R S-Y-S-T-E-M. Should be counted as two words, but Mr. Arland is counting it as one on the quiz. Such a dufus. Bobby tossed the Millers' paper hard at their front stoop, hoping Killer, the Millers' miniature Schnauzer, would start barking.

Mrs. Miller always complained about Bobby waking up her dog; that was the reason Mrs. Miller said she never gave a tip when paying her paper bill. How can you not wake up a dog tossing a paper at 7:17 in the morning? Bobby thought as Killer started barking. No tip again this week. Bobby had already tried getting off his bike and walking the Millers' paper up to their door, but the dog barked either way. His twelve-and-three-quarters, almost twelve-and-seven-eighths year-old brain reasoned that it was easier and more cost effective to lose the Miller tip and stay on his bike. Plus, if I'm not going to get a tip anyway, I may as well wake the little fucker up and set him to barking.

Fucker, fucker, fucker, Bobby whispered under his breath and grinned to himself. He'd recently learned the word from Billy Baker's older sister Brianne. Bobby had also learned that boys and girls are different down there and Brianne even let him touch her there. It had cost him two weeks of his paper route tips. Now, he was the only one of his twelve-and-three-quarters, almost twelve-and-seven-eighths, friends who could boast not only that he'd seen a girl there, but that he'd actually touched it. And, Tommy Peterson was a witness.

P-H-Y-S-I-C-S. Can't fool me using a 'Y' instead of an 'I', Dufus teacher. Bobby tossed a paper into Mr. Call me Bill Taylor's driveway. He lived alone with his cat, Mr. Puss. Here Pussy, Pussy, Pussy, Bobby whispered under his breath. He learned that word from Brianne, too, when he touched her down there. Bobby got an erection just thinking about it. No strange cars in Mr. Taylor's driveway this morning. I guess he didn't make any new friends last night. That's what Mr. Taylor called the men leaving his house early in the morning, my new friend. Bobby envied Mr. Taylor; adults could have friends stay over whenever they wanted, even on school nights.

V-A-C-U-U-M. Tricky double U's, Bobby said toward the Andrews' garden gnome as he started to toss their paper on the porch. The gnome chose not to respond. Yesterday's paper was still there so he stopped in mid-launch. Bobby reversed his motion by hitting the brakes, using his front tire as a pivot. He looked toward the Andrews' porch. The porch light wasn't lit. Mrs. Andrew's always turned on her porch light at night and turned it off in the morning. She never left her paper on the porch past 8:00. Plus, she always had chocolate chip cookies for him on collection days. Bobby rode his bike up the Andrews' driveway, turned onto the walk, and stopped at the porch. This is a dilemma, Bobby said to the gnome. D-I-L-E-M-M-A. I won't miss that one on today's spelling quiz, Dr. Dufus. The gnome chose not to respond. Bobby got off his bike, propping it with the kickstand. He stepped up on the porch and looked inside the Andrews' mail box: full.

Bobby heard Mr. Azzizzi's warning: Never leave several days of papers stacked up on someone's porch. It tells robbers no one's home.

Bobby liked his supervisor Mr. A's accent. Mr. A said he was from a Stan country. Bobby made a mental note to himself again to look at the globe and find the Stan countries. He never remembered his mental notes.

What should he do? What should I do you stupid gnome? You're never any help. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit, shit, shit. Damn, damn, damn. Hell, hell, hell. Those were all the swear words Bobby could remember. He liked saying them in threes, just like his dad. What would Dad do? Ignore the problem and hope it'd go away, that's what Dad would do. Bobby picked up yesterday's paper from the porch and shoved it deep down to the bottom of his bag, making a mental note not to deliver it to anyone else. Hey gnome, you freak, tell Mrs. Andrews I've got her papers if she'd like them. The gnome chose not to respond.

Bobby resumed delivering his route.

The Schillers and Fowlers didn't subscribe. S-U-B-S-C-R-I-B-E. Got that one. Easy for a paperboy!

F-U-N-D-A-M-E-N-T-A-L. He tossed the Petersons' paper and noted how perfect their yard looked. Mr. Peterson made both his boys--Tommy, who was in class with Bobby, and Terry, who was already in high school--spend all day Saturday working in the yard. Every Saturday, no exceptions, said Bobby, mimicking Mr. Peterson's husky voice. Tommy was never allowed to play ball or ride his bike with the neighborhood boys on Saturday or Sunday. Sundays were for church. Every Sunday, no exceptions!

Don't you go to church on Sundays, Bobby?

No, Tommy. My parents think all that religious stuff is hooey.

You and your family are going to Hell, Bobby Brown.

If something doesn't exist, how can you go there?

Oh, Hell exists and you'll be there.

If it exists, where is it? And, where's this Heaven place you think you're going to?

That always shut up Tommy. He'd get all flustered and red in the face and either ride ahead on his bike or clamp his lips so tight they'd turn white on his red face. Bobby hated giving Tommy a hard time. They were friends, after all; known each other their whole lives. Sometimes, giving Tommy a rough time, well, it just felt like the right thing to do.

Hell, hell, hell, whispered Bobby.

He tossed a few more papers onto his neighbors' porches and practiced his ten spelling quiz words. I'm hungry. Only one more to go. Why do I have three papers? Oh, yeah, Andrews' papers from yesterday and today. Last one. Bobby tossed a paper at the Smiths' porch, aiming for the long wind chimes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he said to himself loudly when he missed.

Watch your language, Mr. Brown.

Bobby hit the brakes, pushed his body forward on the handlebars, and used the momentum to spin his whole bike toward the deep voice. He sat back down hard on the seat and the bike stopped and balanced. Bobby beamed with pride.

Impressive, Mr. Brown.

It was only Mr. Arland walking Misty, that wonderful Great Dane. Bobby rode over to them. Good morning, Misty, Bobby said to the massive dog in the wistful voice he used with first graders like his neighbor Suzie. Misty wagged her tail and pulled the leash taut. Bobby got up close, hopped off his bike and hit the kickstand. He braced himself just in time as Misty raised her massive frame up on two legs and gently placed her paws, first the left, next the right, on Bobby's shoulders. Once in position, she lapped his sweaty face with her giant tongue.

Are you ready for your spelling quiz, today? Mr. Arland asked, not even noticing these daily antics.

You bet, Bobby said, laughing through the lapping. Someday, I'm going to have a dog just like you, Misty. Bobby said, again in his little kid voice. Misty jumped down and sat. Bobby wiped the slobber from his face with his newsprint-stained T-shirt before rubbing the dog's ears and head with both hands.

Spell, 'Fantastic,' said Mr. Arland.

F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C!

Solar System.

S-O-L-A-R S-Y-S-T-E-M. It's two words, you…

Frontier.

F-R-O-N-T- Bobby hesitated? Which is it? I-E or E-I.

Well?

F-R-O-N-T-E-I-R.

I guess you won't get an 'A' this week, Mr. Brown! First time ever. Come on Misty, you can't play with someone who can't spell his future. See you in class, Mr. Brown.

I-E, I-E, I-E, Bobby said out loud to himself as he got back on his bike and headed home.

* * *

What just happened? Dorothy Andrews asked her husband.

Joe looked across the table at his wife. I don't know.

But, something did happen? She tried to look deeper into her husband.

Look at the dried eggs on these plates. Something happened and it took some time. He waved away a fly.

Dorothy looked down at the breakfast remains, plates caked with dried egg and fatty bacon, a stack of dried toast, bowls of grey matter that used to be oatmeal, and two shriveled grapefruit halves. All of it untouched. Are you okay, Joe? Do you feel strange or weird?

Joe instinctively felt his rolls of flesh. I'm all here now, I feel fine. He felt some more because it was a big job. He stopped at his belly. I'm a little hungry.

You're always hungry so we can't base our timeline on that. How long do you think it took? It didn't feel like more than a blink, but this table says differently.

I don't know. Joe went back to inspecting his body. The search was incomplete because he couldn't reach all of himself.

Well, don't tell anyone. Dorothy's face flushed, the timbre of her voice rising. We don't want people to think we're crazy.

People already think you're crazy, Joe thought. He remained silent, contemplating the stack of dried toast. Maybe it's worth trying.

People think I'm crazy because I stay married to you, Dorothy replied. I don't think that toast is edible. Dorothy didn't wave the fly away. I can't eat it, you may as well.

You heard me? Will you make some breakfast?

Dorothy got up from the table. What would you like? Like it matters. You'll eat anything.

Wait, think something, said Joe.

Why don't you make your own damn breakfast, Tubby!

Well, are you thinking something? Joe closed his eyes and strained to hear his wife's thoughts.

Do you think it was aliens? Dorothy whispered.

I heard you and you sound excited.

I said it out loud.

I heard that, too.

Joe, open your eyes. I'm actually speaking to you, not thinking it.

Joe opened his eyes. Oh.

Don't look so disappointed. What would you like to eat? Joe didn't answer. Do you think it was aliens? Dorothy asked again opening the refrigerator.

I don't care. Joe hoisted himself up from the chair.

You don't care if it was aliens or you don't care what we eat? Dorothy looked over the refrigerator door at her husband. Where are you going?

I'm going to get the paper to see what day it is. Joe left the kitchen working hard not to think anything negative about his wife.

Alone, Dorothy pulled meat, cheese and bread from the fridge. The bread was moldy and the meat smelled offensive. The cheese looked edible. She tossed the spoiled food into the trash and pulled out a cutting board. There was a thin film of dust on it.

What has happened? Dorothy contemplated while washing the butcher block board.

Joe returned to the kitchen and dumped a mountain of mail on the table. No papers, but the mailbox was overflowing. The grass is about a foot tall, too.

Bobby's a good boy. He obviously didn't want to leave a stack of papers on the stoop. Dorothy picked up the phone and dialed the Brown's number. I got the machine, she said to her husband. She waited for the message to finish and chuckled.

What's so funny? Joe asked as he sorted through the mail.

Bobby, this is Mrs. Andrews. We're back from our trip, please resume delivery of our paper. Dorothy hung up the phone and went back to the cheese and cutting board. The Brown's message is Bobby and he says, 'What, you didn't get your paper? You don't need no stinkin' paper' and then he laughs, apologizes for the inconvenience, and says he'll get right back to the caller. He's cute. What's that line from?

Um, something with Robert De Niro, I think. Cheese? That's it? Stingy bitch. Or is it Al Pacino?

We've been gone long enough for everything in the fridge to spoil.

Joe made a mental note. He'd have to watch what he thought at all times.

Yes, you better watch your thoughts from now on. Dorothy said. Glad Tubby can't hear what I'm thinking. YOU FAT FUCK!

You're the one that keeps feeding me, Joe said without thought.

You heard that?

I guess I'm just a little slower to arrive. Maybe because I'm a fat fuck!

Dorothy brought the cheese cubes to the table and sat down with her husband. She tried to clear her thoughts. The rules have changed.

You bet your ass they have.

They ate their cheese and mentally raged at each other. The slights of marriage collected over twenty years were played out between them in mental combat, but virtual silence. Joe and Dorothy fumed, shouted, screamed, whispered, and remembered their lives together, all in a conversation that took place only in their heads. To any Whispering Pines neighbor peeking in the window, Joe and Dorothy looked like an average, middle-aged, childless married couple sorting through their mail after a long trip.

* * *

Hi, Bobby! Dorothy called and waved from her flower bed to the boy on his bike. He's always so cheerful and confident.

I hate weeding, Bobby said as he rode up to her. You keep pulling them out and they keep growing back. Why don't you take care of this horrible job for Mrs. Andrews, gnome? The gnome chose not to respond and Bobby continued: It's a never ending job. It's how I imagine the Peterson's hell.

You think the Peterson's are in Hell? Dorothy listened for Bobby's thoughts, but heard nothing.

No, that's how I imagine the place the Peterson's call Hell. They were both silent for a moment. You were on vacation for a long time. Next time, let me know and I'll cut your grass while you're gone.

But, you won't weed, right? Dorothy smiled, stepping out of the flower bed, brushing dirt off her knees with her gardening-gloved hands.

No, I could do that too. We know the stupid gnome won't do it and I need the money.

The gnome chose not to respond.

Speaking of money, how much do we owe you for the paper? We'll pay for the whole time we were gone because we didn't tell you. Dorothy wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her gardening smock. How many weeks do we owe?

Bobby laughed. You just wiped dirt all over your face.

Oh. It happens.

Shit Happens, Bobby thought to himself remembering a bumper sticker that made him laugh. Well, you were gone for three weeks and there's the week before that, so that makes four weeks. Plus, we're in the middle of this one… Bobby quickly did the math in his head. $2.50 per week, four or five weeks, It's ten dollars or twelve-fifty if you want to pay in advance for this week, too, Mrs. Andrews.

I'll run in the house and get your money.

Thanks, Bobby said to her.

Bobby looked at the mostly weeded flower bed. The Andrews may not keep their yard up like the Peterson's, but Mrs. Andrews sure does have a green thumb when it comes to flowers. Just look at the size of those roses.

Roses in varied shades, from light pink to a red so deep it looked almost black, lined the Andrews' porch; flowers the size of football mums, like the girls wore at homecoming dances, covered every bush. Wait, those weren't there a few days ago when I started delivering the paper again. The bushes were, but the flowers were insignificant. What's happened here, gnome?

The gnome chose not to respond.

Dorothy pushed open the screen door, leapt off the porch, and handed Bobby a twenty dollar bill.

I don't have any change, Mrs. Andrews.

I don't want any change. I wanted to give you a nice tip. Oh, and this is just for the past four weeks. You come back on your regular collection day for this week, okay?

Gosh, thanks. Bobby's eyes lit up as he stared at the crisp bill in his hands. With this big tip he could now afford The New InterPolar Radio he'd been saving for. He'd had to make up a little ground after the Brianne thing, but Bobby viewed that more as an investment. Mr. Taylor put The New InterPolar Radio in the window of Taylor's Electronics on Main Street almost a year ago and it was soon to be his.

You're welcome. They stood in silence for a moment. Well, these weeds won't pull themselves. I better get back to it.

Bobby got back on his bike. Mrs. Andrews?

Yes, Bobby?

I don't mean to be rude, but where's Mr. Andrews?

Dorothy didn't miss a beat. Mr. Andrews decided he liked vacation more than being at home.

Bobby thought for a moment and said, Grownups are lucky. I would love to go on vacation all the time, too.

* * *

Today's the day! That big tip from Mrs. Andrews gives me just enough to get The New InterPolar Radio. Bobby had a good stride going on his bike. He'd kicked it up to eighth gear and used his strong legs to quickly move down Main Street.

Super Sale! 50% Off! Today Only! Bobby loved reading the sale signs in the Main Street shop windows as he flew by on his bike.

2-4-1 Sale! 1 Cent Sale! I love those one cent sales. How do they make a profit if they're selling stuff for a penny? Bobby made a mental note to ask Mr. Taylor. Mr. Taylor knows everything about stores, he thought as he pulled up in front of Taylor Electronics.

Bobby got off his bike and looked dreamily toward the store window. He let go of his bike and it dropped to the ground with a crash. It's gone. The New InterPolar Radio he'd been eyeing since its arrival in Taylor's window was gone. Bobby fingered the wad of cash in his pocket, the collection of small bills and loose change adding up to three-hundred dollars and twenty-nine cents: two hundred and seventy-nine dollars for The New InterPolar Radio, plus twenty-one dollars and twenty-nine cents extra for the sales tax. It took a year of saving paper tips, birthday money, and his allowance to get to this day and now his dream was gone.

Mr. Taylor saw the crestfallen boy through the store window and came out to the street. Bobby, I've already ordered another one. It'll be here in a few weeks.

Bobby didn't respond.

Really, Bobby. I've already ordered it. I know you're disappointed, but you've waited a year. The next few weeks will go by quickly.

Bobby turned and