Simon Says

By Sister Trillium

Sister Trillium need but touch pen to parchment for an astonishing array of strange creatures to begin parading before the reader’s eyes. No human foible or delinquency misses her keen gaze as she toils long into the night by candlelight.

What prompts her rare off-the-wall skill? Is it black magic? Hallucinogen? Or simply indigestion?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Feb 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483425269

Book preview

Trillium

Copyright © 2015 Sidney Ledson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Decorated Initials © Shambhala Publications, Inc.

Cover: Essel

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2569-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2526-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901248

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 02/05/2015

Contents

1    The Mozart Connection

2    Enter Rama Singh, Crown Prince of the Bihar Province

3    The Spaghetti Connection

4    Home Schooling

5    Sleeper

6    Snakes and Ladders

7    The Setup

8    Thundering Monday Blues

9    The Bingo Connection

10    Conclusions

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Known primarily as an educator (see SidneyLedsonInstitute.org), Sidney Ledson occasionally lapses into comedy, seen in Scratch ‘n Win, Talk About a Bad Hair Day and Simon Says.

Now, will the real Sister Trillium kindly stand up?

Born prematurely while her mother was purchasing raffle tickets, Trillium Shapiro learned early that life was a gamble. In grade school, Trillium skimmed kindergartners and junior graders by playing nearest-to-the-wall with quarters, and ran a bookmaking service for the higher grades. Sensing divine guidance, Trillium heeded the call and entered the Gold Nugget Convent. The young novitiate graduated swiftly from Crown and Anchor to the Blackjack table, then on to become head croupier at the roulette table.

On discovering that fate had blessed her with the ability to talk to dice, Sister Trillium transferred to the craps table. Profits and attendance soared as visitors traveled from far and wide, and even further, to watch ‘the nun with the magic elbow’ in action.

When the Mother Superior graduated to that great casino in the sky, a simple roll of the dice (which Sister Trillium had chatted with) won her the coveted vacant post. After sixty glorious years servicing the convent’s bankroll, Sister Trillium called it quits, hung up her dice cup, and began writing books.

With thanks to Dave Butler, Leanne Dalgliesh,

Lou Dickson, Ray Stone, and Dixie Wood

for comments and suggestions.

1

The Mozart Connection

If you chew your fingernails, don’t spit pieces onto the cell floor because it attracts cockroaches who favor this special source of high protein. Submitted by Officer Hillock J. Garvey, Surveillance Specialist First Class, E Block.

image1.jpg eonard Lucas Stoth, inmate R260385, began folding an airplane with the paper that bore this sage advice from The Piddlin Municipal Jail Chronicle, a fount of knowledge that included, among other things, an article by the warden’s wife, Senora Carmen del Rio-Silverman, entitled Knitting to Pass the Idle Moments. It included a pattern and instructions for knitting a tea cozy.

Stoth chewed off a slice of fingernail and spat it to the floor. He wasn’t really nervous about the trial tomorrow. Just apprehensive. And with reason.

Reps from the attorney general’s office were planning to nail him for counterfeiting. Ah, yes, but the feds hadn’t taken full measure of Leonard Lucas Stoth—not by half; tomorrow he planned to pull out every defaming federal nail as fast as it was hammered home.

Stoth had waived representation by a lawyer. He would defend himself—a David versus Goliath sort of thing. Though it is said that the man who represents himself in court has a fool for a lawyer, we might reserve judgment in this case because Stoth planned to employ a secret weapon in the proceedings. Little did the feds know that the circuits of Stoth’s brain had been flushed, primed, and hyper-energized by a process Dr. Victor Frankenstein would have envied.

Stoth flicked the start button on the cassette player beside him. Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos in D major, the third movement, blared forth. Mozart was not Stoth’s first choice in music, of course, but studies at the University of California showed a startling rise in IQ when students listened to this particular musical composition for just ten minutes. In preparation for tomorrow’s titanic courtroom confrontation, Stoth had listened to Mozart’s dizzying dual pianoforte piece three hours a day, for two weeks. In the parlance of cranial mechanics and others who deal in hard neural circuitry, Stoth’s brain was now fully Mozartized. In fact, Stoth guesstimated that his super-charged brain was zipping along at the upper limit of human potential—perhaps beyond it. Thus, with his newly acquired intellectual power and profound legal knowledge gained by an exhaustive study of Courtroom Procedures for Dummies, Stoth believed his disputative skill tomorrow would be as brilliant and blinding as a Fourth of July fireworks display.

As the sole inmate facing a federal charge, Stoth was confined to a cell on the third floor of a separate wing. Just as well, too, for the choice and volume of Stoth’s music might have prompted colorful comments from neighboring stir birds. Sitting quietly now, concentrating on the meteoric ascents and descents and dazzling cascades of Mozart’s wizardry—a high-speed, roller-coaster musical extravaganza—Stoth failed to hear a heavy, metal gate being unlocked along the corridor or the slow, echoing footsteps growing louder.

A six-foot-three guard lumbered awkwardly down the corridor, swinging a chain full of keys and catching them. This was Officer Hillock J. Garvey, Surveillance Specialist First Class, E Block: affable, mild-mannered, and at peace with the world. Ah, yes, but his peace with the world had diminished considerably since Leonard Lucas Stoth had taken up residence. From that depressing moment on, Garvey’s life had taken a turn for the worse. Now, seeing Stoth’s cell door standing open, the turn swerved violently worse and Garvey’s spirit sank to a new low.

Damn it, Stoth, I told you to quit monkeyin’ with this door. Garvey paused, glanced nervously back along the corridor, then very quietly closed the cell door and began searching for the appropriate key to lock it.

"Hey, Garvey, I see in the Chronicle you’re an expert on cockroaches. Do they run in your family?"

Listen, Stoth, you leave this goddamn door locked or Daddy’s gonna spank.

Stoth turned the cassette player off and seized the moment to elevate Garvey’s knowledge of locksmithing.

That Apex G-5 series was badly designed. The lifter flange on the key-plate pivot is sensitive to vibration. A five-year-old could open it with a popsicle stick. If he was expecting applause, it wasn’t forthcoming. Stoth shrugged and pressed the rewind button on the player.

Finding the appropriate key, Garvey locked the door quietly. And another thing, Stoth. Blakeley’s office is right below you, and he’s had an earful of that piano crap.

Hey, that’s Mozart crap, in case he’d like to know. Tell Blakeley to listen up. It could make him chief. It supercharges the brain. It’s thinkin’ music.

Well, you’ll have plenty of time for that in the next twenty years, won’t you, pal?

Ho-ho-ho, Garvey! You’re a riot. Stoth stood up and stretched. I’ll be outta here tomorrow. They haven’t a hope, and they know it. Nobody saw me pass bills. Sure, maybe a few phony bills were passed onto me by the real crook, whoever he is, but they’ve got no printin’ press, no plates—just a little green ink on my fingers. Hey, they gonna charge me with havin’ green fingers? In a grave, menacing voice, he slowly added, We find the accused guilty of green fingers in the first degree. Chortling, Stoth opened a thick book and moved to the bars. You wouldn’t know about this, Garvey, but there’s a legal precedent in Weintraub versus the U.S. Government, 1937, Statutes Volume 8, page 963.

Garvey’s eyes fastened on the fingernail parings by the bunk. Hey, thems bits of fingernails on the floor!

Huh? No, they’re toenails.

"You chew toenails?"

Doesn’t everyone? Now get this. Stoth scanned the relevant details again before continuing. The feds busted into Weintraub’s workshop, y’see, and while they were standin’ around congratulatin’ themselves and pickin’ their noses, Weintraub dumped the plates—which had been made of special high-tensile, drop-forged, commercial-strength sugar—into the toilet. They dissolved. Good-bye plates. Hello syrup. Good-bye jail.

Yeah, well, they got your plates, pal.

But Stoth was too wound up with the details of Weintraub’s success to catch Garvey’s message.

The judge announced no plates, no case. So Weintraub danced outta court.

Yeah, but like I said, they found your plates.

Still only half-alert to Garvey’s voice, Stoth continued. The attorney general’s office protested, but … what … what did you say?

If you’d been listenin’ to the news instead of that piano crap, you’d ’a heard they got your plates.

Stoth managed a barely audible, How, how’d they find ’em?

Garvey snickered. Your dog dug ’em up.

"Asphalt?"

Yeah, real smart dog you got there, Stoth. Does he listen to Mozart too? Garvey slapped his leg and chortled merrily. Coughing, he withdrew a packet of cigarettes and lit one. The good guys always win. Haven’t you noticed? Hey, cheer up. Have a smoke. He extended the packet to Stoth, who shook his head. You sure picked a dumb time to kick smokin’, Stoth. Shoud’a waited till everything was goin’ your way, which’ll be … let’s see … about twenty years from now.

Feeling expansive, Garvey sat on the bunk in the adjoining cell to smoke and gas awhile. "Y’know, there’s somethin’ about that cell you’re in that seems to attract weirdos and kooks. Like you with that music. Another guy we had in that cell a couple of weeks ago—from somewhere in India, I think—he’d sit all day, right where you’re sittin’, rattlin’ beads. I found out they were called worry beads. I asked my doctor ’bout ’em. He said sure, they can relieve tension, but he said you don’t need beads. Just get one of those little puzzles with the rollin’ balls. And while you’re concentratin’ on gettin’ the balls in the holes, you’ll be worryin’ less.

So what the hell! I bought one. Lotta stress in my job, y’see. Garvey removed a small puzzle from his breast pocket. Whenever I’m feelin’ the pressure now, I just work away here and try to get the two little balls into Mickey Mouse’s eyes. See? And it ain’t easy ’cause it’s raised up around the eyes. Got ’em in the holes for the first time last Thursday. He held the puzzle up for Stoth to see. It really works! Most relaxin’. But hey, get this, when I press this button here, listen up. He pressed the button and children’s high-pitched voices sang:

We’re singin’ in the rain,

Just singin’ in the rain.

What a glorious feelin’

We’re happy again.*

"Get it? The idea is that no matter what worries you’ve got or whether there are clouds all around and it’s rainin’ buckets, you just keep smilin’. Neat, ain’t it?"

Garvey rose and left the cell. Hey, you wanna play with it for a while? Might make you feel better.

The blank look on Stoth’s face made him wonder if Stoth had heard anything he’d said. Garvey shrugged. Well, give a call if you change your mind. I’m just here to spread joy and happiness. He turned and plodded down the corridor swinging his keys and catching them.

Suddenly Stoth didn’t feel well. He sat dejectedly on the cot. It won’t be a trial tomorrow, he said to no one in particular. It’ll be a roast. I gotta get outta here.

Garvey hadn’t been gone ten minutes before he was back, noting with satisfaction that Stoth’s cell door was still locked. Clean up your cell, Stoth. We’re gettin’ visitors. Oh, I forgot to mention. Your dog’s a real hero at headquarters now, so the chief wondered if he could borrow him for the annual police parade next month.

The stunned expression on Stoth’s face suggested that an immediate reply was unlikely, so Garvey merely entered each of the empty cells, picked up litter, and left.

Stoth moved to the cell window. Yellow school buses bearing Annual Scout Rally banners along their sides filled the parking area. A crowd of Scouts stood laughing and joking around the lawn and steps leading up to the jail entrance. Stoth watched their antics for several minutes before spiritlessly launching the paper airplane he had folded.

The disorder Stoth viewed from his third-story window was a major concern to the Regional Scout Director, Bernard Wintergreen. Scout conversation and laughter drowned his every attempt to capture their attention. Mounting a few steps higher up the jail approach, Wintergreen – a gaunt, knobby-kneed figure in short pants – waved his arms wildly and shouted for silence. By degrees, in a manner best represented by a bell-curve, the youthful voices faded to the point where Wintergreen’s shouts could penetrate a few rows back. All right. Can I have your attention! Quiet, please. The last few voices were hushed. OK, the Chief of Police is due here any minute. Pay close attention to everything he says and stay together inside. Now, I’ve seen a few boys chewing gum. I want the gum disposed of immediately – but not on the ground. At this point, Lieutenant Blakeley beckoned Wintergreen to one side for a discussion.

The first boy to solve the problem of where to dispose of gum affixed his blob above one of the I’s on the lawn sign that read MUNICIPAL JAIL – PIDDLIN, TEXAS. In short order, the other four I’s were dotted. The comma was then processed. Wads of gum were next affixed down the legs of each letter, across the horizontals, and down the diagonals, to create a unique bubble-gum sign. Some Scouts simply swallowed their gum. One placed his large blob in a breast pocket but, seeing what glee the resultant ‘boob-effect’ aroused, he quickly pressed it flat – an action taped by WKTD-TV newsman Cody Sewell who saw the comic act as a sparkler for the evening news presentation.

Beautiful! he muttered. Barely into his twenties, Cody Sewell exudes an air of genial impotence; one who cheerfully faces life’s challenges and gets sandbagged every time. Redirecting the camera, he focused on Police Chief Leonid Voitkus now joining Lieutenant Blakeley. Chief Voitkus, lofted to power by an administrative blunder, is an overweight simpleton whose characteristic expression of puzzlement gives the illusion of deep thought. On taking office, Voitkus demanded a restyling of the chief’s uniform and accessories. He therefore stands before us laden with braid and tassels, in riding breeches, brown knee-high boots with jingling spurs. A white Stetson sits atop his balding dome and .45 caliber pearl-handled six-guns are securely strapped to his pudgy legs, gunslinger style. A silver-plated scepter – bearing the yellow roses of Texas down its length in enamel work – conveys ceremony and protocol for the issuance of official edicts. Lieutenant Blakeley, the only officer permitted to carry the scepter, holds the decorated staff ready for Voitkus’s use.

Following heated debate over the provision of a scepter, the taxpayer’s watchdog committee flatly refused to provide a silver handled sword with an ancient Roman armorial design running down the scabbard. Despite this dunning refusal, Voitkus remains grand to behold – though somewhat less grand to behold when he suddenly spat a large blob of bubble-gum onto the steps (to Wintergreen’s dismay) before clearing his throat into a bullhorn.

"Hur-r-r-u-u-m-m-ph! Hello, lads. Welcome to Piddlin Municipal Jail. I’m Chief Voitkus.