Angels, Love, & Crows

By Stephen Elder

A fascinating look at the world through the eyes of various beings, this collection has something for everyone, from humorous short stories about creature to science fiction, romance, and a children’s story. As the title promises, there are also several stories about angels.
“A most enjoyable afternoon,” says author Tori Napoli.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365140549

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Angels, Love, & Crows

Angels, Love, & Crows

Copyright  © 2016 Stephen Elder

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 book is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN #: 978-1-365-14054-9

Angels, Love, & Crows

by Stephen Elder

O' What may man within him hide,

though angel on the outward side!

William Shakespeare Measure for Measure, Act III

Table of Contents

The Lighter Side

An IChat with a Muse

What It Was, Was Football

Featuring Creatures

Blood Relatives

Anthropophobia

The Engineer

The Early Worm

The Lion and the Mouse

Poems

The Maven

A Modern Merry Minuet

Past Faith

Angels and Love

Upward Bound

The Interpreter

The Gift

The Darker Side

The Monster That Lived under the Bed

A Drone Visits Alice

Revenge

Love and Crows—the Novelettes

The Treehugger and the Gillie

The Crow Chronicles

The Lighter Side

An IChat with a Muse

Me: Hey Calliope, it’s me. How are you?

Calliope: Doing good. Whassup?

Me: Where are you? I’m about to put your face on ouzo cartons. ‘Have you seen this muse?’

Calliope: I’m on holiday. Happens every year.

Me: Really? Where?

Calliope: Paris! It’s gorgeous in the fall.

Me: Well, I wish you were here.

Calliope: Now, now, don’t get clingy. I do have other clients, you know. Read your contract.

Me: I know that, Callie. It’s just been really tough going without you. The well has run dry. My backlog is used up and I can’t seem to come up with any ideas. I really need your inspiration.

Calliope: Oh, come on, what did you do before you discovered me? Just think back and do that.

Me: Right. That’s like asking a teenager what he did before he got a girlfriend. When are you coming back?

Calliope: I don’t know–my sisters and I are having a blast.

Me: All of you?

Calliope: No, just most of us. We usually leave a couple of us behind to keep an eye on things.

Me: Let me guess. Melpomene, right?

Calliope: You’re so right! How’d you know?

Me: The news. Everything is falling apart. The Arab Spring is turning into the Arab Winter. American intelligence agencies are leaking like a sieve. Russia is turning back into the Soviet Union. They still haven’t caught Joseph Kony. The deranged Italian judicial system wants to re-try Amanda Knox. Julian Assange has made a parody video (politics aside, Assange is a surprisingly good singer).

I could go on for pages. Leaving the muse of Tragedy in charge wasn’t the brightest idea, you know.

Calliope: Oh, she’s not by herself. Thalia is helping her.

Me: Wonderful. Are we supposed to guess which one is on duty at any given moment? Actually, with some of the things that are happening, I really don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Calliope: Well, why don’t you do some commentary? You know, whip out a couple of think pieces.

Me: I’m too depressed.

Calliope: Sorry about that. Want me to have Thalia come and cheer you up?

Me: If she’s going to help me like she’s helping the country, no thanks.

Calliope: No need to be snarky. Why don’t you do a short story told from the POV of your cat? That’s always good for a laugh.

Me: Done that. Besides, I don’t have a cat now.

Calliope: Use your imagination, for Zeus’s sake! You’re starting to sound a little whiny. 

Me: How about I come to Paris and do a human-interest piece on you and your sisters?

Calliope: Seriously? Most people think we don’t exist. Frankly, we like it better that way. There are advantages to anonymity.

Me: Well, sure, if you’re up to something. What are y’all doing over there?

Calliope: What we’re up to is some free time without being hassled by needy artists or writers. Catch my drift?

Me: Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I just miss your help.

Calliope: Just hang in there, sweetie. I’ll be back before you know it. End.

Save chat as txt.   yes  ☐    no ☐

The End

What it Was, Was Football

My wife is not a big football fan. She tolerates it because I like it and she likes me. But there are times when I wonder why I like it—usually when she asks questions I can’t really answer. For example, some time ago in a NFL game, a defense player picked up a fumble and ran the ball in for a touchdown, or so it seemed…

She: Why is everyone cheering? Is that a touchdown?

Me: Yes.

She: How can that be? The other team had the ball.

Me: True, but the ball carrier fumbled the ball. Once it is out of his hands, anybody can pick it up.

She: So the team that didn’t have the ball can score a touchdown?

Me: That’s right.

She: So the defense suddenly becomes the offense, even though they’re not putting a bunch of different guys on the field?

Me: Exactly.

She: That sounds strange. Wait! What’s going on? Why are the convicts waving their arms?

Me: Convicts?

She: The men in the striped shirts.

Me: Oh. Those are the referees. Some people think they should be locked up though.

She: So what’s going on?

Me: Let’s see. Oh wait; it’s not a touchdown.

She: Why not?

Me: Well, the replay showed that the ball carrier dropped the ball on the one-yard line. The ball bounced into and through the end zone. By rule, no touchdown. It’s a touchback. The ball goes back to the team who had fumbled it in the first place.

She: Why did he drop the ball? He wasn’t being tackled or anything. Actually, nobody was near him. Did his hands get cold? I would have worn gloves.

Me (searching for a way to explain the inexplicable): It was, uh, I guess you could call it premature celebration?

She: Is that like premature you-know-what?

Me: Sort of. Neither is good.

She: So how is dropping the ball celebrating?

Me: There are different ways of celebrating. There’s spiking the ball—you’ve seen that. There’s jumping up and giving a teammate a chest bump in mid air.

She (clutching her chest): Wouldn’t that hurt?

Me: Not if you’re a man. There’s also running into the stands and letting the fans pummel you affectionately. They do that in Green Bay.

She: I still don’t see why dropping the ball is celebration, particularly if it costs your team a touchdown.

Me: It’s hard to explain. See, his way of celebrating was trying to be ultra cool. You run the ball in and nonchalantly toss it on the ground as if you did this every day. Big deal. Ho hum.

She: Except he didn’t run it in. He tossed it too soon. He didn’t make a touchdown.

Me: Yeah, well, that was a mistake. A pretty big one, actually.

She: A pretty stupid one, actually. A woman would never have done that.

Me: You’re right there. A woman would have run the ball through the end zone and halfway up to the concession stand just to make sure.

She: She’d have made sure she at least got into the end zone, Mr. Smartypants. I still don’t understand how a professional football player could do something that dumb. Don’t these men get paid millions of dollars to do nothing else but play this silly game?

Me (long pause): Are you asking me to explain the male ego?

She: When you put it that way, I guess I am. Sorry. My bad. I’m going to go take the roast out now. I won’t fumble.

The End

Featuring Creatures

Blood Relatives

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Suddenly the bed sagged. The mother bedbug crept cautiously out of her crevice. She could almost hear the blood coursing through the human’s veins. It was time.

The mother resisted the primal urge to rush toward the mound of food and sink her proboscis into it because tonight was Teaching Night. Her latest brood had just hatched. They needed instruction.

Mama, we’re hungry, the chorus wailed.

I know, dears. We’re going to take care of that, but there are things you must learn first. Now, everybody, take a deep breath. Do you smell anything?

No, Mama, it…wait, it smells different over there.

That’s right. It means food is present. It’s time to feed.

The larvae started to rush in the direction of the intoxicating odor, but her command stopped them. Not so fast, my hungry little ones. Now listen to me.

She told them that the new scent came from the food’s exhalations. They should always wait until the exhalations became slow and rhythmic. That meant the food had gone to sleep. This was important because the food was much less aware of things in the sleep state. Bedbugs could then feed in greater safety.

Her young dutifully resisted the heady scent of carbon dioxide as the food gradually fell asleep. She led her children up alongside the length of the human’s legs (ever so long!). As they passed the top of the legs, there was a hissing sound, followed by an unpleasant funk.

Ew, what’s that? one of her daughters asked.

It happens, dear. Ignore it. Now, here we are. This is the back. This is where we want to feed. Never ever try to feed on the food’s hands or feet. Always go for the back. Anyone know why?

Of course, nobody knew the answer. They had been alive all of thirty-five minutes.

The mother said, Daughter, reach out with your antenna and touch your brother.

The youngster did as bidden and her sibling recoiled.

Your brother jumped back because he felt you touch him. His nerve endings told him. All creatures have nerve endings. Well, most all. Your father didn’t have a whole lot of feeling. Anyway, the food has a lot of nerve endings in its hands, but not very many on its back. That’s why we want to feed there.

So it won’t feel us. Right? her bright little daughter inquired.

That’s right, dear. Now, you all have a proboscis.

What’s that, Mama? a male larva wanted to know.

That’s the long tube beneath your mouth. Okay, everybody extend your proboscis like this.

She demonstrated the proper technique. The larvae imitated her. Three of the four got it right, but the fourth had trouble managing his segmented feeding tube. She sighed. There was always one problem child.

Now listen. This is very important. When you stick your tubes into the food, do not start sucking right away. First you must blow. What this does is put something into the food that dulls its senses.

Is a nerve ending a sense? the little female asked.

The mother smiled to herself. This one was going to be a survivor. Right again, dear. We do this so the food can’t feel you. If it can’t feel you, it is much less likely to swat you. We don’t want to be any flatter than we already are.

Her children smiled, except the one who was having difficulty with its proboscis. He didn’t get it. She went on with the lesson.

After you blow, then what do you do?

Suck! the larvae cried happily.

Right-o. Pull that delicious red blood into your little bodies so you can grow big and strong. But that’s not all! What comes next?

Her children looked at each other. Nobody knew the answer.

You run back home and hide. Safety first! Don’t stand around talking or playing! Get out of there! You don’t want to be out in the open if the food should happen to wake up. Another thing: walk on cloth instead of skin whenever you can. The food can’t feel us through its bedclothes.

What if it’s not wearing any? one of her sons wanted to know.

Walk softly. Don’t stamp your feet or jiggle the hairs on its body. Its hairs are sensory devices just like ours are. Remember B-S-R. Blow, suck, run. Now line up and follow me. Here we go.

She lined up her eager little charges and led them up the cloth covering the human’s rounded bottom and onto a bare spot on its back. Her problem child was not looking where he was going and, predictably, ran into a hair. The human’s breathing stopped for a brief second and the bedbugs froze in their tracks. Then the breathing resumed its normal cadence. She gave the clumsy boy a stern look and scolded, Watch where you are going, dear. You could get all of us into trouble. Now everybody spread out. It’s time to eat.

The happy little bedbugs extended their feeding tubes and sank them into the human’s warm flesh, injecting the anesthetic as their mother had taught them, and then sucking in the nourishing red fluid. The cycle of life continued.

The End

Anthropophobia

She was feeling a little peckish. It was time to eat so she wandered into the kitchen. There was always something to be found there.

She scurried up the side of a cabinet and stopped on the countertop to look around. It didn’t take long for her large anterior median eyes to spot movement on the edge of the windowsill.

She did a quick 360-degree check for danger without moving her body. There was nothing in front, and her backward-looking posterior lateral eyes didn’t pick up any movement behind her either. She stood very still, her sensitive feet alert for any telltale vibrations.

There was nothing. The kitchen was quiet.

She ran across the countertop, up the backsplash, and thence up the side of the window trim. From her new vantage point she looked down to see what was for lunch today. Ah! She was in luck. It was a juicy house fly, a young one. That boded well for her hunt–the young ones were notoriously careless.

In its customary twitchy way, the fly turned this way and that, looking around for its own lunch. It spotted a lump of something on the countertop and flew down to begin feasting.

The jumping spider had a decision to make. Should she drop straight down from the sill? Or should she return to the countertop, sneak up, and jump on the fly in the namesake way of her species? She quickly weighed the pros and cons of each strategy. The fly’s bulbous eyes were more apt to see an attack from above, whereas if she approached from the rear, the fly’s body would partially block its vision. Ground attack was definitely the way to go, she thought, and returned to the countertop.

She dropped