NEW ISSUE: 20 In 5 -- Volume I -- December 2011

I am very pleased to announce a new project, a monthly e-mag/e-book titled 20 In 5, published by Mis Tribus Publishing and with me as Editor-in-Chief.

The concept is simple: 20 stories you can read in about 5 minutes each. Flash fiction ranging from adventure to western themes, passing through fantasy, horror, mystery and science fiction. 20 In 5 is the perfect companion for a coffee break, a waiting room or a nightcap, a little literary rest stop in your day.

Available for $0.99, you can subscribe to 20 In 5 and save a few dollars. If you will, please give it a look-see now by clicking over to the 20 In 5 page and reading the first story FREE.

And please notify your friends, those who love to read good short stories and especially those friends who love to write: 20 in 5 is a paying market! Here are the Submission Guidelines, informative and entertaining:

If you would like to submit your flash fiction story, send all submissions to: 20in5@mistribus.com.

Submissions must adhere to the following guidelines or will be deleted:

1) Send in .doc, .docx, .od or .rtf formats only. NO .zip or .rar files, please; attachments in those formats will be deleted immediately.

2) The story must be between 500 and 750 words in length. No shorter or longer unless you've won a Nobel Prize.

3) No porn, poetry or bloody gore. Adult language is acceptable, if its use is not excessive. We deem what is excessive, damn it.

4) Each story submitted must have your name and phone number listed, either in the document itself or the e-mail message. SexyFairy69 ain't your name.

5) If a story has been published elsewhere, please let us know. We don't mind second helpings, but we mind falsely touting them as our discoveries.

6) If your story(ies) is/are accepted, you will receive a MisTribus 20 In 5 contract. You will be happy. Don't hide it. Don't overdo it, either; we're not a Nobel Prize.

7) You must sign the contract to appear in any volume of 20 In 5. It lets you make money off of our picking your story. So it's a good idea.

8) Please allow 4-6 weeks for a response. We're not slow, it's that we can get swamped by submissions. And we're slow swimmers.


Mis Tribus Publishing and I look forward to reading your comments, your submissions and above all, your fulsome praise for the awesomeness of 20 In 5.

Read a FREE story now! And then subscribe! Thank you!

Flash Fiction: SOULMATES

[There are times when you are aware you are happy and pause to think what unhappy people are missing. Often it is a matter of choice, but more times than not, the choice is really out of your hands.]

SOULMATES

            After three years of virtual monkhood, Thomas felt it was time to “get out there,” to test the dating waters again. His last breakup had been bitter, agonizingly so, as Erleen had gone from loving partner to vicious bitch, to the point where even her closest friends were taking Thomas’ side. Jumping at the chance to leave Erleen’s savagery behind, Thomas took a new position in San Diego, putting two thousand miles between him and his painful past. But the past travels well, so Thomas let time do its thing. Three years led up to a late Friday night, Thomas nursing a beer he didn’t want. With a few clicks, he pointed his browser to one of those “compatibility sites,” rated “the absolute best” and before he thought about it too much, filled out the questionnaire, chuckling at the absurdity of the whole thing.

            The next day, his Inbox had a cheery Subject line: “Your matches have arrived!” Smirking, Thomas opened the message and scanned the text. Hyperlinked numbers introduced four descriptions of women (Thomas hoped they were women) who, the message proclaimed, matched Thomas’ profile to “a 98+% degree!” Thomas had no idea what “98+%” could even mean, but he reread the descriptions and finally clicked on the third one, described as “Adventurous within reason, lover of solitude and embracer of honesty.” What the hell, he thought, It’s only a blind date.

            His overture got a prompt response (Desperate?) and an invitation for lunch on Sunday at Il Pesto, a trendy new bistro that was neither ostentatious nor chintzy. Good choice. She—Lorraine—said she’d be wearing an emerald-green dress and would arrive promptly at 11:45.

            As Sunday rolled towards noon, Thomas felt himself getting nervous. Nervous, hell, he was beginning to get scared. What the hell was I thinking? A website test to meet women? Thomas shook his head and slapped the steering wheel, driving up the quiet boulevard to Il Pesto.

            He was early and let the hostess at the bistro know he was expecting someone. The tiny bar had comfortable stools and when the door opened at 11:45, he knew who it was. Lorraine was wearing the promised emerald-green dress and Thomas let out a sigh he never expected to be so deep. I was afraid it would be Erleen. He rose and introduced himself, enjoying the pleasant handshake and dazzling smile. Even so, he mentally kicked himself for checking out her throat to make sure it didn’t have a visible Adam’s apple. You never know, dammit.

            Lunch went past two and became a short drive to a museum, where Impressionists led to an early supper of Hungarian stew and rye bread in a cubbyhole café by the pier. Over that time they discovered they’d both grown up in the Midwest, been in Scouting, loved math, hated English, enjoyed picnics and family gatherings, swam well, couldn’t get enough of Disney movies, “24”, chocolate and pistachio ice cream. They’d loved Europe, yearned for Japan and would not spend a dime of lottery winnings until they’d let at least five years go by, just to get used to the idea of having all that cash. Over coffee, with topics buzzing and cavorting between them, Thomas sat back and smiled, his heart filled with a joy he thought he’d never feel. Lorraine saw his expression and smiled, her deep blue eyes alive with pleasure. Lifting her purse onto the table, she pulled out a slim cardcase and slid it across the table to Thomas.

“What’s this?” he said, picking it up.

“Your membership to SoulMates,” she said. “You’re in!”

Thomas was stunned. “Membership? What—what do you mean?” He stared at the contents of the cardcase, not seeing any of it.

Lorraine smiled. “We’ve even given you a discount.” She patted his hand. “My treat!”

Thomas noticed the hand patting his: It had a wedding ring. Thomas felt his heart thud in his chest. He felt like kicking himself.

            Lorraine sipped her coffee. “Every prospective member is interviewed by a staff evaluator to ensure we get the finest possible candidates in SoulMates. That’s why we have such a high success rate.” She frowned prettily. “You didn’t think we relied only on a website test, did you?”

            Thomas shook his head and tasted a sad bitterness he’d thought he’d forgotten.

Flash Fiction: LETTERS

[Most people that know me would say I have a romantic streak an inch wide, but that's not true: it's much wider than that. I'm also intrigued by letters, the almost-lost daily activity  (for many) of handwritten pieces of the heart and mind. I typed most of mine--lousy handwriting--but even so, several relatives and friends have told me that they saved my letters, cherishing them for years. I never agonized over writing one, essentially letting them fly, but so many of them touched the recipients more than I could imagine. I wish I'd known earlier.]

LETTERS

            The first letter sped across the intervening space, tucked within canvas, the very day after they'd met. Its response, perfumed ever so lightly with lavender, criss-crossed the county and arrived into eager hands. Words, tender and fragile as soap bubbles, were being shared.

            Letters then flew and rode and were carted like butterflies on a gentle breeze, filling the summer days with yearnings and sighs, with new memories, new hopes and new fears of being forgotten. Fall went from butterflies to equally-colorful leaves, letters now probing and confiding, seeking deeper into the illusion for the reality of souls matched in the heavens.

            The chills of winter blanketed the increasing ardor, wrapping it in the glow of its own contentment, incapable of dampening Love's flame. The eruption of Spring multiplied the letters, which then multiplied again into gilt-edged formal cards requesting a response s'il vous plait.

            For a while, the letters ceased, but a distant war and a call to honor made the letters fly, sail and truck to lands filled with the hateful violence of inhumanity. Fears and the frequent touches of despair, even thoughts of death and tear-stained lines weighed the letters with realities best left unmet. A bootie, pink-edged, made one letter bulge and two hearts squeeze with the dread possibility of hopes and lives dashed forever.

            But then letters, stiff, starched, serious soldierly letters said the time had come for the other letters to become unneeded and a flurry of letters, now tear-stained with joy, flew and raced to share the news, the plans, the changes and the future so bright and clear.

            No letters for a few years, until a step up the proverbial corporate ladder made the letters reappear, from points north, south, east and west, all radiating inward and outward from a tiny hamlet that to one person was a universe and to the other an anchor that demanded to be raised. Questions became demands and accusations, words going past each other without regard to each other, speaking to themselves, hearing nothing but their own angst. The letters dwindled to postcards with perfunctory details, then one day, they stopped.

            A few months later, one large letter, papers folded over carelessly, wrapping within them the words that signaled the end of any more letters, of any more words between these two. The papers, minus a few pages, were returned swiftly, slashingly, finally.

            Four months passed.

            A tiny letter, scrawled with crayon and kisses, made its journey. Held in trembling hands for an hour, receiving a drop of plumbed sadness before resting on a sleeping chest. Its response delighted tiny hands, and then every day, sometimes twice a day, crayon, pencil and even watercolor, like butterflies new to flight, wended their path across a landscape changed: the hamlet that felt like an anchor now seemed like a world, one that gave a soul purpose.

            A small letter reached out, not to tiny hands, but to a tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, a spark burned where once a fire kindled. For days...nothing. Then, from words, from many words, from what could have once been too many words, but were now not enough, the answer whispered like a wave...maybe.

            More words, many more words than were ever used, flowed from a heart torn by its own failings. Words of apology amidst lines of regret and sorrow, words that recognized that the shared had been so much more than the perceived, that what the heart had was so much more than what the eyes could have ever seen. The folly of blindness mixed with yearnings and sighs, with memories and hopes and fears of being forgotten, the passion of long ago barely restrained by the most powerful new hope.

            Its response, perfumed ever so lightly with lavender, criss-crossed the land and arrived to eager, tearful hands that, it now said, would never need to receive another letter again.

Flash Fiction: SWEET MORNINGS

I spend a lot of time in bakeries and cafés, pretty much anywhere I can get a cup of coffee or--rarely--some chai. (With milk.) The time often passes with me watching the people; this time I chose to create the story I wanted to see unfold.

SWEET MORNINGS

            She came into the bakery as she did every morning…A little flustered, slightly flushed, her hair sporting a stray tendril or two, her hands flitting about her slim figure in a near-frantic search for keys, wallet, sunglasses or change.

            Milton was always there, often kneading dough for one of Eiffel Pierre’s delicate pastries. The quiet dawn hours were his favorites, but they gained a new aura once he knew that she—Jean Marie—would walk in. She was simply beautiful, not in the glamorous, plastic modern way, but in the natural “look twice and you’ll see” way, the kind of beauty that slips across your eyes, brings a small smile to your lips, then gradually absorbs you until you can’t remember ever thinking she wasn’t beautiful.

            Milton’s claim to fame, at first glance, or maybe down to a third or fourth, were his eyes, a deep green that shimmered with gold specks reminiscent of elves in a wondrous fairy tale. Sadly, those beautiful eyes were obscured by the heavy lenses of glasses that kept him barely this side of legally blind. His eyes were the main reason he took up baking, for the work relied very little on seeing and oh-so-much on sensitivity and feeling.

            Jean Marie breezed in and Milton, as was his habit, smiled shyly, wiped his hands of flour and stood in rapt attention as she flittered and flexed in search of…something. Milton waited patiently until Jean Marie smiled up at him and asked his usual opening question: “Will you buy a pastry or three?”

            She laughed, as she usually did. Their morning ritual complete, Jean Marie bit her lower lip and scanned the display, hovering over each item as if absorbing its essence. Milton watched, entranced, taking in her profile, the gleam in her eyes and the very sense that Jean Marie was alive in a magical way no one else was.

            Milton’s heart sped up. It always did when Jean Marie was around.

            “A maple-glazed doughnut, a pair of ladyfingers and a medium coffee, please.” She frowned slightly. “I may be overdoing it.”

            Milton shook his head. “No, ma’am. Seems to me you’re just having a solid Continental breakfast.” He quickly placed her order in a waxed box and served her coffee, to go.

            “That’ll be $5.87,” he said. “Busy day today?”

            Jean Marie stopped suddenly. “Oh, yes. Today’s my last day at work.”

            Milton took her money and sombered a bit. She was leaving town! He was afraid to ask, but simply had to know. “Did you get a new job?”

            Jean Marie shook her head. “No. I did something better.” Her smile was half delight, half roller-coaster rictus. She seemed happy and on the verge of fainting. The she laughed happily and he let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Something big!”

            Milton chuckled. “You bought the company?”

            Jean Marie clapped once in surprise. “You almost guessed! I did buy a company, of sorts.”

            Eyebrows rising like semaphores, Milton said “’Of sorts?’ What did you buy?”

            “This!” Jean Marie twirled, a lithe ballerina under golden hair, swirling like a vision of happiness in the morning light. “I bought Eiffel Pierre!”

            Milton’s jaw dropped. His first words got lost somewhere between brain and mouth, but his next group came out audibly, if somewhat strangled. “You’re…my new boss?”

            Jean Marie dimpled, and Milton’s jaw dropped again for he’d never seen that touch of beauty before. “I guess so.” Then, with a blush of shyness that made Milton’s heart break and soar at the same time, she said “That way we can see each other more than just before breakfast.”

            And they did just that, for the next forty-one years.

Short Story: LIFE OF SLICE

This was an odd story-writing experience for me because it started out as my attempt to kill time while bored. I wrote the first line, just to have something to do while waiting for something to happen on my computer and just kept going. I know I stopped for some coffee, ignored the work I was supposed to be doing and finished the story. Looking back, it was the first "Blank screen just GO!" story I wrote, the precursor of almost all my subsequent flash fiction.

LIFE OF SLICE

            Think of this as a movie with the wrong characters. I don't mean the wrong actors, the wrong characters. You might be thinking that it's impossible for a movie, a totally fabricated illusion, to have the wrong characters. That might be true, but the fact is, movies try to imitate Life and Life sometimes has the wrong characters in it. Do you remember the Kennedy assassination? Jack? Didn't you get the sense that Oswald, that weasel-faced punk, was just wrong as Jack's killer? Like he didn't match up? On one side, a young, dynamic rogue of a family man, leader of the Free World and on the other, this Sad Sack of a loser. Really, this jerk killed President Jack?

            Maybe that's why people just can't get let go of the deed: the sense of utter wrongness they feel about its characters.

            What I'm about to tell you has the same feeling. The characters in it are wrong for the story. It's not anybody's fault, it's just the way things turned out.

            Since I started along the movie metaphor line, I'll continue. The cast of characters consists of four people, or maybe five. (I'll explain.) The main character is Vanda, a young lady in her mid-twenties who's vivacious, friendly, energetic, and attractive, but not beautiful, more like wholesome, girl-next-door type. (For casting directors, think Sandra Bullock). The kind of girl that doesn't cause men's heads to snap around as she walks by, nor do they stare long and hard at. More the type that causes men to smile softly, not cruelly like when the guy looks at a woman thinking she's lovely only to find out she's actually a dog, but with a certain warm expression, like he's reminded of a little sister or a favorite cousin.

            The other principal characters are Deke and Byron. They too are wrong; you'll see. Deke is a large, broad-shouldered young man, with delicate hands and, at best, a bland personality. (Casting Director: think young, secondary actor, maybe minor TV star.) Now bland is actually good, but no one admits to it. Bland personalities, those without sharp edges, are warm and comforting, steady and dependable. Bland personalities are the glue that hold together families, committees, organizations and friends. You can always count on them and every group has one or two. So Deke has the bland personality that is supposed to hold this little circle of friends together.

            His opposite is Byron, a small, handsome chap, with sharp wit and nonchalant viciousness. (Mr./Ms. Casting Director: Jerry Seinfeld with a manic edge, someone like that.) The kind of guy who could go from humor to cutting sarcasm within the same sentence and, even after embarrassing you, could still make you think he was being impersonal. These sharp-witted people are quietly feared, for they are aggressors when sensing weakness and almost impossible to harm in their own game. They really aren't invited: they are tolerated.

            There is another character, but he doesn't ever appear in the story, so forget casting. His name is Mike. A perfectly ordinary name for a perfectly unordinary man. Lawyer, stockbroker, former Olympic athlete, patent-holder no less and the object of Vanda's deepest desires. That's where the problems begin.

            Take the name bit, for example. (These names are real; no attempt to protect the guilty.) "Deke" is a hard-sounding name, reminiscent of a stagecoach bandit or cattle rustler. Here it's the moniker of a guy so quiet and unassuming you'd let your sister date him knowing they'd be back exactly 10 minutes before curfew ends. And "Byron" just reeks of poetic sensitivity, of which our guy has neither. "Vanda" is exotic and she's anything but. That's why guys like her so much: she's a pal, a buddy, another one of the guys, so to speak. All her boyfriends eventually end up being her friends, now a virtual legion, sliding away in pursuit of more exotic fare, but always remaining in contact with their good friend. And the unseen "Mike" should have a handle like "Demetrius" or "Alexander", names dripping with mythological might.

            But, these are the names and the story goes on.

            Vanda has fallen hard for Mike. I mean, hard. Have you ever seen a story of a tomboy, skinned knees, wad of gum in bulging cheek, cap on head, dirt on nose, transformed into a lovely princess? The change is usually expanded into a discovery of boys and first true love. Well, that's Vanda times ten. Here's a girl who's had many boyfriends, a few lovers and so many good male friends she can start a four-team baseball league and she's never really lost her head to any guy. Until now. And what a guy, practically a dreamboat in a Corvette (he actually drives a BMW). So what does she do? Go up to him and make conversation, become his pal, use her fuzzy charm?    No.

            She decides to make him jealous. Or at least, make him notice her. By doing what, you ask? By actively pursuing Deke. Deke! The immovable object.

            Sound wrong? Just wait. Deke, as well as Byron, has been a lifelong friend of Vanda's. Hell, they grew up together. There was a time when Deke was just giddy about her, but he never said a word and eventually let the feeling sleep in a corner of his mind. But he always had a suspicion that Vanda was interested in him. So, when she starts to woo him, in her own fuzzy way, does Deke remain bland and quiet, secretly savoring his quiet bloom? No. He takes to Vanda's interest like a caged bird set free and cuts loose.

            Byron can't help but notice. He's really had a thing for Vanda since childhood, but once he saw the pattern of her life (boyfriend to occasional lover to good friend), he reined in his interest, thinking that he could just step back in and sweep her off her feet anytime. He's always been a good friend, but his friendliness was overlaid with long-term interest. (A scene with Byron helping Vanda move could show him checking out her lingerie, for example. Crude, but effective.) So when he sees Vanda wooing and Deke moving in, does he jump in headfirst and try to break it up, knowing that Deke is probably his only competition? No. He makes it a point to make it easier for them to see each other, like using his influence to get them in to trendy restaurants and sold-out shows. And he does it without really expecting anything in return. That's wrong, at least for Byron.

            And the unseen Mike? The vibrant, successful, confident stud? He's so loopy for Vanda he can't see straight. He's actually intimidated by her. He figures her many male friends are a symbol for how demanding she is, how incredibly wonderful a man must be to make her his. Mike feels he's underqualified to win the love of this lady, not understanding that all she needs is for him to make an approach, because she's never felt this way before about any guy and she doesn't have a clue how to make the first move. Is everybody in this picture wrong?

            Vanda: simple and direct, trying deception.

            Deke: quiet, unassuming, now a whirlwind romancer.

            Byron: egocentric, now the Best Samaritan.

            Mike: from overachiever to underconfident.

            So what happened?

            Vanda, thinking herself safe with Deke, continued dating him every night while trying to run into Mike at all his haunts.

            Deke, thinking that Vanda was in love with him, accepts Byron's "gifts" expecting him to ask for payback and starts planning a major wedding.

            Byron, expecting Vanda and Deke to eventually return to "friend" status, actually enjoys sharing his influence with them and starts planning his move on Vanda. It's about time, he says.

            Mike, running into Vanda (and Deke), just melts faster at the sight of her and when he discovers Byron's pitching in to "help" Deke, figures he really doesn't have a chance.

            Vanda wants Mike, but goes after Deke. Deke risks wanting Vanda, but he doesn't have a chance. Byron wants Vanda, but not now, so he helps Deke keep her out of circulation. And Mike wants Vanda, but can't approach her cause he's tongue-tied and too nice.

            Am I the only one gnashing his teeth at this point? Do four wrongs make a right?

            Here's how it ended:

            Deke asks Vanda to marry her, not even a month into their dating spree. The placid risk-avoider, Deke, takes a leap of monumental proportions.

            Byron learns about the proposal from Deke, who just can't keep it to himself. Does Byron withdraw his support, or hide behind his cynicism, or leap into action? No! He congratulates Deke! Honestly! Now Deke, who figures payback time was going to be Heartbreak Hotel time, is convinced Vanda will marry him because Byron actually approves. Where’s his ego now?

            Mike? Poor guy hears about the proposal from Byron, who doesn't see how gone Mike is over Vanda. Does Mike finally use his long-won confidence to spill his heart to her? No, he sends her flowers!

            Vanda, totally confused about the proposal, for she can't bear the thought of hurting her friend Deke, nor can she imagine NOT marrying Mike, doesn't turn to Byron, who’s right there, for she feels it would place him in the middle of a tough problem. And while she's pondering her answer, guess whose flowers appear? Right. Is the card the invitation she's been waiting for? Nah, it says "Congratulations on Your Engagement" in bright golden script (printed in Secaucus, New Jersey by a machine that doesn't care what effect its messages have on people). True, two dozen roses are nothing to sneeze at, unless, of course, allergies are present.

            Fists clench at the scenario. Will it have a happy ending? Will it have an ending?

            Yes.

            Vanda marries Mike. Surprised? Hold on. Mike figures Vanda's out of reach, so he invites his secretary to dinner where they run into... Yup, Vanda and... Byron. Huh? Byron called Vanda because he noticed she was a bit off, but all he did was wax poetic (finally matching his name) about the upcoming nuptials of his two best friends. So Vanda, strangely enough, clams up. The eatery was picked by Byron because, a) it's close to his office, b) close to Mike's office, whom he expects to see for a stock purchase and c) it's not a place Deke goes to so Byron won't run the risk of causing Deke to be suspicious. Isn't that thoughtful? Maybe too much complexity, but it has a simple side, too.

            At the restaurant, Vanda thinks Byron won't be of any help to her and when he gets up to greet Mike, she stays behind (remember: we never see Mike) and, get this, starts crying. The always cheerful, tough-as-an-Indian-scout lady, quietly dissolves in tears. Who comforts her? Mike? No, his secretary, for after all, Vanda might break down, but not in public. The ladies room is the refuge and the site of the tearful pick-me-up.

            Once composed and back at their tables, the secretary (a minor character with a major impact, so Casting Director, choose carefully) tells her boss about her good deed. All about it. We hear a voice, deep, masculine, thrilling to the female heart, say to the secretary that she is to call Byron over to this table. Cut to Vanda's table, where the secretary calls Byron away from his Poached Trout and we hear The Voice greeting a stunned Vanda and joining her at the table.

            Mike, that paragon of straight-laced virtue, fully realizing what the tears mean, has acted upon information learned in the privacy of confidants. Shocking.

            Vanda is not complaining.

            End result of wrong behavior? Mike states his case, Vanda hears the words she wanted to, they get married ten days later, Deke wrongly blames Byron only to realize (eventually) that what had really happened was inside his head and Byron actually tries to commit suicide (pills and brandy, bad stomachache, lost weekend) over his apparent loss of Vanda. Vanda and Mike are deliriously happy, Deke is stoically nursing his hurt, with eyes upon the cute redhead in Accounting and Byron recovered quickly and remains as cynical as ever.

            And the secretary? Vanda got her fired. Okay, another wrong act in a series of such, but can you blame her? You can only if the Casting Director picks a knockout.

Flash Fiction: FORESIGHT

From my second flash fiction anthology, working title Thirty More Stories, comes this piece. It's another example (to me) of simply writing, launching into a story with no idea of how it would turn out, but refusing to abandon it until it becomes a story. In under 800 words. Also featured in Yesteryear Fiction, for which I thank Earl Wynn.

FORESIGHT

            Madam Savarona tucked in her voluminous skirt, took another swig of wine and cracked her knuckles. Her ginger-red hair wisped around her eyes as she took in the crowd walking to and fro around her motley stall. The crystal ball in front of her looked dim and damp, while the tarot cards she fingered absently felt soft and worn. Just as she was about to take another shot from the dark-green bottle, the one she knew would push her into the land of fog, a man’s voice drew her up short. “Are you--open? For a reading?”

            Madam Savarona’s sea-green eyes focused on a tall man, his clothes well-cut, if slightly stodgy in style. His shoes were expensive, but scuffed at the toes. The hat he held too-tightly was a soft fedora, short brim, a quiet choice. Broad of shoulder, he held himself down, trying to appear shorter and maybe even smaller. Waving a bejeweled hand in what she hoped was a mystical pass, Madam Savarona forced her voice deeper. “Be seated, sir. Madam Savarona…is at your service.”

            The man slumped more than sat on the fading cushioned chair, his legs akimbo, and ran a hand through wavy brown hair. His face was an open book of confusion and a touch of despair. He cleared his throat. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this, something like this before.”

            Madam Savarona raised her hand. “You live in a world of facts and numbers, not feelings.” She saw him start and smiled behind her eyes. “I have seen this already.”

            The man’s confusion increased. “My word! That--that is remarkable. I do work in facts and numbers. I’m a--” Madam Savarona’s hand cut him off.

            Frowning, she let her eyes gaze into a distance. “You…are…I see money and…safety…I see…a bank. Yes. You are a banker.” She focused on the agape man in front of her. “You work in…I sense family…Your father is the bank president.”

            The man slumped back, his face slack and almost empty of expression. “How? How can you, uh, see this?” She waved the question away. The man lunged forward, his eyes now ablaze, his face eager. "I know you can help me! You must! Please!”

            “Ask. I shall do what I can.” Her eyes flashed deeply.

            “I--I have a quandary…There’s these two girls, see? Two women, really. They’re both--well, they’re both fabulous, in their own ways. And I, well, I--” He shook all over, as if caught in a harsh fever. His mouth chewed air and tasted despair, “I love them both! At least, I think I do, but that’s not it. It’s that I have wanted to… I want to…” He looked up, helpless.

            “You want to get married.”

            The man almost fainted. “Yes! Yes! That’s it!” Madam Savarona watched her sense of triumph fade into memory, her eyes fixed on the anguished man. “You are remarkable! I know I can ask you--”

            “Which one to marry?”

            She rushed around the rickety table to help the man up into the chair, his head lolling as if punched by a heavyweight. “Oh my stars,” he mumbled, “That’s never happened to me before.” He gazed at Madam Savarona, who dashed back to her chair. “I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this.”

            “I know,” she said, then quickly added, “It is a strong thing, what you feel. I may be able, I think, to help you.” The gratitude in his eyes gave her the strength to go on. “Do exactly as I say. Approach each woman. Ask her to name a jewel. Your true love, the one that will light your life forever, shall be the one who says ‘A ruby, red as passion.’ She you shall delight in marrying.”

            The man stood up, electrified. “’Name a jewel.’ Yes! I can do that. I will! By Jove, I’ll do that right now!” Slapping the fedora on his head, he strode out, the picture of determination.

            Madame Savarona watched him go, then quickly divested herself of clothes and wig. “A ruby, red as passion,” she whispered to herself. Yes, that’s exactly what Jonathan would hear when he asked her to name a jewel in about, oh, thirty minutes or so...