Prime Movements: A Collection of Stories

By Peter Dabbene

This anthology represents the first collection of writing efforts by Peter Dabbene. Prime Movements is a mixed-bag compilation featuring tales of adventure, science fiction, a pair of children's stories, and a few compositions that, surprisingly, are not entirely fictional.

Themes explored include the search for inspiration, the quest for true love, the mysteries which lie below the surface of our everyday activities, ruminations on life and death, and questions about what the future may hold for us all.

The author's writing reflects a wide range of influences and styles, from the fiction of Harlan Ellison and H.P. Lovecraft to more personal and experimental improvisations on the classic narrative style. Regardless of genre, this volume contains something for every reader who enjoys a healthy dose of humor, a touch of emotion, and a yarn spun a bit farther than the ordinary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 13, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469117324

Peter Dabbene

Peter Dabbene has also written Prime Movements, a collection of short stories, and The Invisible Book, a nine hundred page novel about marketing fraud.

Book preview

Prime

Movements

A Collection Of Stories

Peter J. Dabbene

Copyright © 2000 by Peter J. Dabbene.

Library of Congress Number:      00-190781

            ISBN:         Hardcover     0-7388-1993-X

                               Softcover       0-7388-1994-8

                                eBook           978-1-4691-1732-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover visual by: WWW.PDImages.com

Author photo by: Matthew Phelan

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

Contents

Part I: Tales of the Cognescenti

Searching for the Muse

The Shattered Heart

Part II: 99% Pure

The Curious Conundrum of Russ ‘F or ‘T’

A Halloween Tale

Who Stole The Purple Hat?

Tension

Part III: Two For The Kiddies

In the Valley of the Chickymonkeys

The Magic Comes in Many Forms

Part IV: Possible Futures

The Face of God

SpamFram’s Maneuver

Consumption Blues

Part V: Inside Stories

The Staff

And The Silent Partner

To Close Upon A Stage

Death of a Friend

For all the people who’ve gotten me this far …

thank you.

Part I:

Tales of the Cognescenti

Searching for the Muse

MUSE: n. A guiding spirit, a source of inspiration (American Heritage Dictionary)

MUSE: n. A shadowy creature inhabiting a series of caverns just outside a small village in Africa; Panurge (Guidebook of Jack Cognescenti)

I am a man of means.

Actually, I’m filthy rich, as the expression goes. Rich beyond my own comprehension, in fact (have you ever tried to visualize a million dollars? How about a thousand times that? You see my point). This was not by my own doing, mind you. I inherited my wealth, and the obligation that fell to me along with the money was simply ‘don’t lose it all’. I’ve been pretty successful in that regard, I suppose. Oh, you’ll never see my name on any list of the world’s richest people. I value my privacy, and far too many people know about my . . .robust … financial condition as it is. I have a few trusted employees who update me regularly about how much money I have, but I really don’t even listen anymore.

I don’t listen anymore because I simply prefer to devote time to my hobby. Actually, it’s grown to become more than a hobby. I’ve been writing poetry off and on for five years now, but only recently have I dedicated myself to the art completely.

It used to be sort of a love/hate endeavor for me, because while I enjoyed the effort, I never felt like I was writing anything of value. The common wisdom says writers are often their own worst critics, but my worst critics were on my payroll—I hired people to tell me what they thought of my poetry. I made sure to keep them honest, too, slipping in an intentionally bad poem every once in a while to make sure they trashed it. They usually did.

Unfortunately, they trashed everything I did, and deservedly so. I’ve written things that bring me to tears when I review them—not because of any emotional stirrings they might evoke, but because they are so utterly and completely awful. Hackneyed phrases, cliched images, mundane stylistics—simply no imagination at all.

I had an imagination once, when I was much younger. I still have some of the stories I wrote in kindergarten and my early grammar school years. Though of course they lack the extended vocabulary that a prep school/Ivy League education later developed, they have a quality of breaking boundaries—of honesty—that is immensely appealing, even now. I tried to get myself back into that innocent mindset, delegating nearly all of my decision-making responsibilities to others, to allow myself to be as uncomplicated as a forty-seven year old human male adult can possibly be. (I considered the possibility of giving away my money in order to make my life even simpler, but if I did that, I’d have to get a regular job. I may be an aspiring poet, but I’m not completely insane). Despite my efforts to revitalize my mind, though, my poetry never seemed to improve. I force myself to stop whenever I begin thinking of an idea that seems common or uninspired. As a result, I wrote all of two lines one particular year. And those, while certainly original, really don’t make much sense at all.

It’s also said writers should write about things they know. Well, the careful preservation of money never gave me any great ideas. I tried to write about high society once, since I’ve been a member by default all my life, and it’s probably the subject I know best. I had a temporary surge of inspiration, ready to expose the hypocrisy and jaded values of the terminally rich. But one thing about the rich is … they’re boring.

I had survived through forty-seven years on this earth, and in all of that time and distance I hadn’t found anything that, deep down, I really wanted to write about. Yet, as frustrating as it was, I found myself compelled to try. I’d read a poem by Coleridge, or Blake, or Whitman, and soon find myself desperately seeking inspiration in spite of myself. I tried everything in my ‘search for the muse’: stream-of-consciousness, documenting the first thing I saw in the morning, using character sketches—nothing seemed to work. I couldn’t even get myself to write anything meaningful about Julia.

I’ve thought of Julia often since she passed on, five years ago. We married out of University, though by the time she died, we were for all accounts and purposes living separate lives. one of the advantages of living in a mansion is that it’s easy to avoid someone, and I used this advantage to the fullest, as did she. Her death brought many emotions and deep-rooted feelings bubbling to the surface of my consciousness. I seized upon one in particular, an urge to create; a desire to stand back and look at something other than money, and say ‘I made that.’

I spent the last few years traveling the world, which I hoped would inspire me to write. It didn’t. I was captivated by many of the cities I saw and lived in, spent many nights staring at the passing faces in the town squares, but nothing came. It was writer’s block to the Nth degree.

When I returned from my trip, I found myself passing the days in an empty house, without purpose, unable to account for any of the time spent. An aimless existence, moving only in metaphors and never growing or progressing. I knew good poetry when I read it, but I couldn’t seem to write it. I could criticize with the best, but I wanted to create.

Which brings me to the reason I’m recording my thoughts. It was at this low point in my life that a man came to see me. He had no invitation, but I was disposed to allow him in anyway, merely out of curiosity. I wanted to see whomever it was that wanted to see me. All of my business dealings were now handled by my employees, and that was common knowledge to everyone I knew. I couldn’t guess why anyone would want to see me personally …

Walter, the requisite faithful butler, escorted the visitor into my study. I inquired to Walter as to the nature of the man’s business, and he replied that the visitor had claimed he ‘had information in which I would be very interested’ and that was all that would be said to anyone but me. Walter further informed me that the man had been checked by all of our clandestine security precautions, and it appeared that he was unarmed. I had never gone for the classic ‘attack dogs in the front yard’ approach, but I certainly took enough measures to be sure of my own safety. Being rich causes an overdeveloped sense of paranoia, I’m afraid.

I entered the study, and saw that my guest had made himself well at home in the few minutes he’d been waiting. The container of scotch that Walter always kept full was now, amazingly, half empty. I scanned the room for a presence, but could see no one. It was fairly dark, the only sources of illumination being a floor lamp in one corner and the ersatz fireplace that was the centerpiece of the unusually designed room. I admit, I have an irrational anxiety about fire burning all of my books, and I would never be comfortable with a real fireplace in the house.

I was moving into the room when one of the high-backed black leather chairs I was fond of swung around to face me. sitting in it was my guest.

Greetings, Mr. Holdsworth, he said. He appeared to be in his thirties, and was wearing a thick black trenchcoat that would have looked quite appropriate on him, except that it was 85 degrees and humid outside.

Bit hot for that, isn’t it? I inquired playfully.

Not that I noticed.

I paused to give him a chance to start the conversation, now that the rather unpleasant pleasantries were out of the way, but he seemed perfectly happy to sit there silently with his—my scotch, and watch me squirm.

Do I know you? I finally asked, exasperated.

Not exactly. Jack Cognescenti, world traveler, finder of rare objects, missing persons and lost loves, at your service.

He had a remarkably clear and strong speaking voice, which was fairly uncommon in itself. Additionally, his speech was not marked by any detectable accent or dialect. He certainly wasn’t from Massachusetts.

I didn’t call for you.

No, you didn’t, he said, unfazed. He offered me a drink, and had poured another glass before I could refuse.

"But although you may not know me, I certainly know pee-lenty about you. Call me the curious type, but when multi-billionaire businessmen decide to break ties to go jaunting around the globe, I become interested. And do you know why?"

No, why? I had to admit he had a certain raw charisma that made this banter enjoyable.

Because, he came closer, until I could see the strange reddish color of his irises, "they’re always looking for something."

I assure you, you have nothing that I could possibly want or need, Mr. Cognescenti.

"Call me Jack. And yes, I think I do have something you want, and need. As I said, everyone is looking for something, be it love, fame, power or whatever else gets you through the night. He added, a little too casually to be casual, Been having trouble with your poetry lately?"

How did you know about that? I demanded, outraged. As soon as I vented my reaction, I regretted it. It was a disadvantage to allow any sort of emotional display when dealing with a prospective business acquaintance, however unlikely a deal might seem to be. But how could he know about my writing difficulties? I speak to no one about my work.

My guest made no effort to hide his amusement at my outburst. Let’s just say I have my sources, and I’m very persistent. It’s no fault of yours or your staff’s, I’m just smarter than they—or you—are, he said matter-of-factly.

I was not accustomed to being insulted in my own home, especially by a traveling salesman, which for all his claims to the contrary, was what Mr. Cognescenti appeared to be. And to make matters worse, he still hadn’t told me what it was he was trying to sell me.

Please leave.

Whoa there, brother. His hands, one still firmly grasping his drink, went up in a defensive posture. Calm down. I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just a fact, that’s all. I have a genius level IQ. Got the test scores to prove it.

You’ll pardon me if I don’t believe you—I’ve never heard a genius speak so … colloquially. To be blunt, you don’t come across as one of the educationally elite.

Allan, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. He drew himself rigidly erect, pulled his coat down smartly, and put on what I can only describe as an unmistakably aristocratic sheen. Does this come more in line with your requirements of a genius? he asked, obviously having difficulty keeping his face in a sneer while saying it.

All right, all right. Your point is taken. Just tell me what you’re selling so I can kick you out.

He returned to his previous, comfortably disheveled repose. I know where you can find the muse, he said, smiling.

I stared at him for several moments, and he never stopped smiling that self-satisfied grin of his, as if all would be right with the world now that he had revealed this bit of information. He sunk back down into the chair and put one hand behind his head, the other still holding his drink.

What? I could summon no other words to express my confusion, or my disappointment. I’d expected some sort of expensive high-tech gadgetry, which might at least warrant an entertaining demonstration and sales pitch.

You heard me. He put the drink down and leaned forward. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the muse. You, an aspiring poet.

Of course I’ve heard of the muse. It’s a mythical figure called upon for inspiration in poetry and writing. I stood amazed at the man’s brazenness. You’re telling me you want me to pay for your advice and inspiration? I couldn’t believe that anyone would try to sell such a service door to door. Certainly can’t be very profitable.

Not me, my friend, he explained patiently, the muse. I told you, I know where you can find it. once we do find it, you can beg, buy, or steal its favors for all I care. All I’m saying is I know where it is, and I can take you there—for a price.

"What? This is a legend we’re talking about—an abstract concept, simplified and summarized and represented by a mythical entity—it’s not a real being.

Ah, but you’re mistaken, Allan.

Call me Mr. Holdsworth.

He laughed at this, although I didn’t intend it as a joke. "It is a real … he paused, as if searching for the appropriate noun, … creature. I’ve seen it. And by the way, its proper name is Panurge."

Oh really? Well, what does Panurge look like?

I, uh, never actually got a real good look at it. Likes to hang about in the shadows, you know how these artsy types are.

Ah. I see. All right, this might be fun. I’ll play along, I thought. "What does it sound like, then?"

Hmm … let’s see … I guess it would be something of a tenor, though I’ve never been much good at telling those apart. I do have some drawings by natives who say they’ve caught glimpses, if you’re interested.

I’ll see them.

He gave me a curious look. oh, you will, will you?

Yes. Please.

That’s more like it. He handed me a manila folder plucked from his long overcoat, marked MUSE in large black letters.

I examined the drawings. Quite colorful, some of them, though extremely raw from any real artistic perspective. There seemed to be no consensus as to what the muse looked like, which convinced me all the more that I was being taken for a fool by Mr. Cognescenti. some of the more comprehensible drawings pictured a lizard-like creature, a half-man/half-fish, a large bird, and a rather demonic looking turtle, respectively. Another had to be a self-portrait by one of the natives. The rest were, to my eyes, random spatterings of paint, with no obvious denotation at all.

Which of these depictions is most accurate?

oh, I couldn’t choose one. I mean, when I saw it it didn’t really look like any of those.

Well, it can change its shape, of course, I said sardonically.

He answered me seriously, and I don’t know if he noticed the inflection in my voice or not. In retrospect, I’d wager that he did and simply chose to ignore it.

It certainly can. Tell you what, Allan. I’m a busy man, and I don’t have time to sit here while you dissect my offer from every possible viewpoint. Why don’t I come back tomorrow, same time, and you can give me your answer then. It was more a statement of intent than a request. I agreed, since I did want more time to consider his proposal. However insane the offer was, it appealed to my passionate, adventurous side, a side that had long lain dormant.

I opened the study door again, and saw that Walter was patiently waiting outside.

Fine then, come back tomorrow. Walter will see you out.

Cognescenti stood up and walked toward the door, but not, I noticed, before pouring himself yet another glass of scotch and draining it at an instant. One for the road, he smiled.

I expressed concern for his condition, though he really didn’t show any indications of being drunk. But he had to be, didn’t he?

I spent that night musing on the muse, as it was. I could not deny that my visitor seemed an intriguing fellow, and something inside me believed he was trustworthy, certainly not dangerous to me, anyway. The whole idea just seemed so ridiculous … a living creature that provided inspiration to any who came into contact with it? I could accept the concept of a rare beast living deep in the jungle, unknown to most outsiders but a familiar sight to the native population. But beyond that, Cognescenti’s claims rang false.

After all, how could an animal spark the creative depths of the human mind?

That night, I stared for hours at the paintings Cognescenti left behind. At first, they seemed crude and immature. The more I looked at them, however, the more I fell under their spell. There was something here, an intangible eloquence in each of the paintings, an undeniable articulation raw with emotion veiled behind the bright dyes, which only revealed itself slowly, one layer at a time. I fell into the paintings, exploring their depths and finally emerging not as an outsider viewing a creation, but as the artist himself, with a genuine understanding of both the work and the mind of the creator; in that time, the inexpressible became clear to me.

The experience transcended any I had ever known, and I felt an immediate compulsion to track down Cognescenti and find the muse.

The practical side of my personality, honed razor-sharp after years of financial responsibility, quickly offered a contention of this impulse. I knew almost nothing about this man who had come into my home offering a glimpse of the virtues of true creativity, while also providing the means to develop it in myself. Normally, I would have ignored his solicitations. But as I said, there was something genuine about Cognescenti, as with the paintings. He, like them, was not perfect, but I intuitively knew that I could believe what he told me.

Besides, what was I doing here in Massachusetts anyway? Accomplishing nothing, that’s what. If nothing else, perhaps I could find inspiration among the natives of this village he spoke of. And if the muse in fact turned out to be real, so much the better.

I knew there would be an uproar from anyone I informed of my plan. Being a multi-billionaire, there is always the danger of kidnapping or even murder. In this respect, however, I was fortunate in that I had no surviving relatives, and thus had no familial concern binding me to my home. I told only Walter of my plans; if something happened to me, he would inform the proper authorities. otherwise, it would be assumed that I was on an extended vacation in one of the usual resort areas, and not off gallivanting with some mysterious transient in search of a semi-mythical creature.

I spent most of the day preparing for the trip. I was all but committed to doing this, regardless of cost. I had Walter and a few of the other servants pack my clothes and baggage, arrange for passport and other necessary papers, and prepare a contingency bag containing, among other things, camping gear that hadn’t been used in ages. It was unlikely there would be any decent hotels wherever we were going.

It dawned on me that here I was, a forty-seven year old man, packing camping gear for a trip to an unknown destination with a man who was basically a stranger.

It felt good.

It felt liberating and … youthful.

The next evening, I was waiting in the study, pacing and reading a recent analysis of Milton’s lesser-known works, when a knock came at the door.

Enter, I half-shouted across the room.

Walter poked his head over the threshold. Mr. Cognescenti is here, sir.

Good. Show him in.

I walked over and sat down in the chair Cognescenti had taken such a fancy to last night. I was determined to make it clear that this was my home ground; I would not allow him to make himself as comfortable as he had yesterday.

A few moments later, he strode into the room, again wearing the black trenchcoat, along with the white dress shirt and dark tie. He looked exactly as he had the night before. I wondered if he had been wandering the streets since our last meeting, doing who knows what.

He greeted me and asked if I had made my decision, even as he fished another bottle of scotch out of the cabinet.

You like that stuff, don’t you? I observed.

Oh, uh … do you mind? He hesitated momentarily.

I rather enjoyed being in control.

No, go right ahead, I granted.

Thanks. Here’s to you. He gestured in my direction with the glass. So … back to my question. We going or not?

We haven’t discussed price yet, I told him.

How much money do ya got? He looked at me seriously for a moment, before his stare dissolved