Concoctions

By D. R. Prescott

This eclectic collection of stories results from annoying questions that scurried about my skull over the last seventy years–typically:

•Is there life after death?
•Could music transcend life?
•What might make a person become homeless?
•Are we alone in this vast universe?
•Could the past and future be changed?
•What happens when we get too old?
•Is romance still alive after seventy?
•Is the Earth only 6000 years old?
•What could make one murder?
•Could madness be a guise for something else?
•What happens in an old sniper’s mind after too much killing?
•Is there goodness in most people?
•Is consciousness possible in silicon circuits?
•And, among others, could an idea affect reality?
Some of these stories have won or placed well in various contests; some have been published internationally; others I just enjoyed writing for no particular reason other than the act of doing it which are included for your perusal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. R. Prescott
• Release date: Aug 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370103201

D. R. Prescott

As a former Fortune 500 aerospace executive for over thirty years and a planetarium program director for an additional ten years, Donald Richard Prescott has been planning and managing successful, complex operations for decades where strategic planning is an essential tool. A revealing stint as director of strategic planning and service on local government planning committees provided opportunities to speak to and participate in groups about complex strategic issues as well as appearing in a local cable documentary about transportation and community development. He has interfaced with congressional and governmental leaders, directly participating in securing millions of dollars of governmental funding for two local projects. Prescott has also written and published award winning short stories (Concoctions), a science fiction novel (Daddy's Different), a nonfiction book about avoiding human extinction (Is There Time?), and a book of essays (Layman's License). He has written a full-length-three-act play, planetarium show/display scripts, two family histories, technical articles and business plans as well as edited several newsletters. Recent awards and published work include multiple Writers’ Journal “Write to Win! Contest” awards/publication, The Orange County Register Dreamscape Contest publication, placing in Writer’s Digest competitions, Long Story Short E-zine short story publications and internationally published short stories/essay in The Taj Mahal Review as well as awards on Writing.com among others. He currently writes and explores life in Orange, California.

Book preview

Concoctions

By D. R. Prescott

Copyright Donald Richard Prescott 2016.

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Sentience can be annoying.

C o n t e n t s

Preface

Concoction 1: Matter of Perspective

Concoction 2: Windwoods Meadows

Concoction 3 To Pay a Debt

Concoction 4: Prime Limit

Concoction 5: This Is Terrible

Concoction 6: Time to Find Out

Concoction 7: Able’s Able

Concoction 8: Bengay and Promises

Concoction 9: Math Helps

Concoction 10: Ragnarok

Concoction 11: Lights Out

Concoction 12: Mad Woman

Concoction 13: One Shot

Concoction 14: Wonder Boys

Concoction 15: When the Bough Breaks

Concoction 16: Least I Could Do

Concoction 17: Because

Concoction 18: Crossing the Lethe

Concoction 19: Dumb Idea

Concoction 20: Tribulation

Concoction 21: What Now?

About the Author

Preface

This eclectic collection of stories results from annoying questions that scurried about my skull over the last seventy years–typically:

Is there life after death?

Could music transcend life?

What might make a person become homeless?

Are we alone in this vast universe?

Could the past and future be changed?

What happens when we get too old?

Is romance still alive after seventy?

Is the Earth only 6000 years old?

What could make one murder?

Could madness be a guise for something else?

What happens in an old sniper’s mind after too much killing?

Is there goodness in most people?

Is consciousness possible in silicon circuits?

And, among others, could an idea affect reality?

Some of these stories have won or placed well in various contests; some have been published internationally; others I just enjoyed writing for no particular reason other than the act of doing it which are included for your perusal.

Writing short stories of several thousand words seems a little less stressful than shorter forms known as flash fiction. I have included some of my adventures into flash fiction; flash fiction has been defined as stories of one thousand words or less. My attempts at half of the maximum was an experience in discipline. Telling a complete tale in 500 words or less is a sobering task that challenges everything; every word is important; every punctuation matters; every description is vital. I found that five hundred words is long enough to tell a story but short enough to make one work really hard to say the right thing quickly and succinctly.

Hopefully, you will find twenty-one engaging ideas in this small space.

For your consideration...

D. R. Prescott

Orange California, 2016

Concoction 1: Matter of Perspective

He reached for the knob and switched on the radio. The President of the United States issued a warning... The monotonous tripe on the radio had little effect upon Wilbur Tremont. Habit turned on the radio; background noise masking the persistent, mechanical moans and groans about him. A montage of red lights flickered ahead as the traffic slowed and began to crawl like a grossly distended amoeba. The minutes that it took to move the next mile were maddening, a frustrating series of starts and stops. He was surrounded by a forest of useless plastic and steel. He caught a glimmer of hope ahead. Anticipation of breaking loose from the creeping ooze had him tense. Wilbur changed lanes looking for the best opening through the snarled traffic. A horn squalled. So what?

Fifteen years of driving the same freeway took its toll. He spent ten, twelve or more hours, shuffling paper from inbox to outbox, trapped in a continuous loop, leaving in the morning, returning every evening to the starting point to recharge, and repeating the cycle again and again and again. Monotonous. Why was he always so harried? Habit? Or, inbred? He never gave it much thought.

Wilbur’s hands ached. He loosened his white-knuckled grip on the wheel. Too dedicated. Too conscientious. That was it! People depended on him too much. If he was nothing else, he was dependable, too damn dependable! He had two automobiles, a house with an appendage that had no room for two cars, a proper spouse and the ideal number of offspring. Perfect. Neat. Respectable. And... Dull! Why did he have to hurry? Why? He just knew he had to get out of this infernal traffic.

The traffic began to pick up. Wilbur spotted an opening and stomped on the accelerator. Forty. He grinned. It was nice to see the needle climb. Fifty. He was beginning to make some time. Sixty and moving traffic ahead. Wilbur should have been elated. He wasn’t. He was already later than usual. He hated being late. Late for what? Who cares? Look at it! Seventy.

Momentarily captivated by the speedometer, he looked up and gasped. How could that be? Time slowed, providing him a stop-action view of the mass of stalled vehicles. His right foot had already applied the brakes, making the Chrysler’s tires squeal and smoke. Frame by frame like a slide show, the undercarriage of the tractor-trailer approached. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. His body stiffened. His mind stalled mid thought.

The final impact was a series of snapshots, rather than one continuous episode. He clung to each second like it mattered; amplifying it; stretching every moment to the utmost. He watched, oddly detached. His body did what it had to do but his mind, or that part of his mind of which he was aware, intermittently stopped the action and reviewed nonessential details as the trailer inexorably came closer and closer. Hazardous materials label. Muddy Colorado license plate. A cracked brake light. Hinges…

***

Is he alive?

Don’t know. Can’t get a pulse.

Get him out of there!

Did ya see that? He just buried that sucker under the trailer. Wow! Drivin’ stupid!

Did anyone call the cops? Give him CPR!

How, stupid! He’s pinned.

Wilbur tried to focus on the voices but they were distant and obscure.

Who is he?

Don’t know.

Is he dead?

Don’t think so.

Where the hell are the paramedics?

***

Wilbur floated. The voices evaporated. He was aware, but knew not how, where or why. Nothing seemed to matter. Dazzling pinpoints of light and graceful shafts of color raced by him. A brilliant orb of white light surfaced, distant, defined. He was attracted to it. It was warm. The approaching bubble of light shimmered and undulated, translucent silken threads escaped from its surface weaving a complex pattern into which Wilbur tumbled helplessly. He tingled from head to toe.

Sudden pain blended with the symphony of sensations. No! Wilbur screamed as the seed of awareness took root within him. He knew; it needed no analysis. The circular ball of light took on a grainy, almost transparent texture. He approached it at a geometric rate, siphoned through an orifice too small to accept him, squeezed, distended; his entire being was stretched and distorted as he plunged forward out of control. He wanted to kick and bite, but realized that he had no feet to kick nor teeth to bite.

Wilbur. A statement rather than a question.

Wha... Wilbur’s rage transformed into unbridled fear.

It’s time. He heard it. No. Felt it? The words formed inside; no; not words; more like very intense impressions. Wilbur was frightened, perplexed and lost. The curtain had gone up leaving him naked center stage without a script.

Where am I? Wilbur managed, still wondering how.

In transition.

Why?

Irrelevant.

God? Why did it seem so familiar?

No.

Am I dead?

A matter of perspective.

Where are you?

In one sense, everywhere.

Only God is everywhere.

Why?

Because... Wilbur was at a loss. He folded in upon himself. All he wanted was to curl up in a ball and make it all go away. Why did he have the urge to suck his thumb? Dreaming. This is one hellish nightmare. That’s it!

No, Wilbur, you’re not dreaming. We’re here.

Us? We? Wilbur’s anger returned and peaked quickly, only to be dowsed in a siege of dread.

Relax, Wilbur. Don’t waste energy unnecessarily. You’ll fade.

Fade? Coldness seeped into every niche. True, he was becoming weak, lethargic.

Crazy! I’ve gone completely stark raving mad. Talking to myself. For god’s sake!

"Talking? A meaningless concept