The Marriage Counselor

Digital Clock FaceI shook my head to get rid of the sudden, loud buzzing sound in my ears. Feeling a little disoriented, I looked at the calendar, which said Thursday, the day I dreaded most. Sometimes I felt like it was always Thursday. It was nearly time for my regular two o’clock appointment…the couple from hell, pardon my cursing. After my heart attack about six months before, they had begun coming to me, and were likely to give me another one. They never missed an appointment no matter how I wished they would.

I watched the clock tick from one fifty-nine to two o’clock.

My receptionist opened the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Haydes are here. Shall I show them in?”

 ***

I lifted my pen from the notepad and regarded the couple seated across from me. “Would you listen to yourselves? You make marriage sound like hell. It doesn’t have to be that way. You both sabotage it every chance you get.”

“Of course marriage is hell,” said the husband across from me, dressed in a double-breasted, blue suit, giving him an almost nautical appearance. Add a captain’s hat and he’d look like a cast member on The Love Boat. “It’s the absolute worst thing that could possibly have happened to a once studly man like myself. But just like the moth flying into the flame, I had to do it. ‘Don’t go toward the light,’ my friends all said. But did I listen? Hell, no!”

His wife snorted. “Luke always does the exact opposite of what anyone advises him to do. That’s what he gets for being a devil-may-care, I’m-gonna-do-it-my-way sort of a guy. He’s Satan. That makes me Satan’s wife. Of course it’s hell—it comes with the territory. If I can put up with him, he can put up with me.” This week she wore little makeup, neatly coiffed with not a hair out of place. In a counterpoint to Luke’s dashing attire, she wore a beige wool suit, cut to just below her modestly crossed knees, with low-heeled pumps. Mrs. Haydes could have been any proper matron from any Protestant congregation, right down to her puritanical sense of morality.

This forty-five minute session of misery began promptly at two o’clock every Thursday. They booked their appointments under the pseudonyms, Lucifer and Persephone Haydes. He preferred to be called Luke, and she preferred to be called Mrs. Haydes. After six months of working with this pair of nut cases, I was beginning to suspect they were playing a game of mess-with-the-counselor.

Last week she’d been dressed like a teenaged skateboarder, and he as an English literature professor. The week before that, she was a hippie, complete with headband and love beads, and he was a cricket player.

Every week it was something different but always opposites. Mrs. Haydes seemed to choose her wardrobe based on what she thought would annoy him most, and he went with the opposite because he really couldn’t do anything else. He had the worst case of oppositional defiant disorder I had ever seen.

“Why are you here?” I had to ask, despite knowing I wouldn’t get an answer. “I no longer understand what you are trying to save here. You never take my advice. And you’ve been aware since the outset that I am a pastor, not a magician. What do you hope to gain from this?” I tapped my foot and looked at the clock. We were only fifteen minutes into this session, and I was already exhausted. “What you really need is a good divorce lawyer, not a counselor. I can tell you every reason why you should stay married, and if you are looking for religious affirmation, I can give you chapter and verse on the apostle Paul’s views regarding marriage. Over the last six months, I have done so repeatedly.  We’ve discussed what you originally saw in each other and what you each want from your relationship, but you’re still at this impasse.  I think that at this stage divorce is the only answer for the two of you.”

Luke snorted. “Don’t bother telling me anything the apostle Paul said—I wrote that book. I was delusional.”

“I think the pastor is right,” said Mrs. Haydes, primly folding her hands. “Divorce is the only option. I’m sure no one would blame me for leaving a devil like you.”

“I’m not giving up half of everything I own,” said Luke, clearly aghast at the notion. “Do you know how many divorce lawyers she has access to? No way am I going to let her off so easily.”

“I come from a broken family,” said Mrs. Haydes, discreetly wiping a tear. “I don’t want our children to grow up in a broken home. But it would be better than Anaheim. It’s a bad environment to raise children in. I want to move back to our palace in Hell. All it needs is a little remodeling.”

I couldn’t stop myself. I had to ask it. “And you think Hell is a good environment to raise kids in?”

“Well, at least there’s no crime in hell. We have the finest law enforcement professionals in the universe.” She glared at me defensively. “Where should I be raising them? Seattle? I’m not exposing my children to a bunch of pot-smoking vegans who ride bicycles and wear socks with sandals.”

Luke brightened up. “I love Seattle—perhaps we should move there. I could get some goats or raise alpacas. They have the best coffee in the world!”

Mrs. Haydes sniffed. “The place is full of vulgar vegetarians. They’re always taking their children to yoga and soccer, where everyone gets a trophy whether they win or lose—it’s just wrong. We will most certainly not be moving to Seattle.”

“Enough,” said Luke. “I’m going vegan and we’re moving to Seattle and that’s final.” He turned to me and missed her small, satisfied smile. “What I really want to talk about is the stint we did on ‘Home Hunters.’ She destroyed me in front of millions of people, and I have to watch it every time they rerun that episode, which they seem to do three times a week.”

“Well dear, it airs on one of your networks, and you make the rules. You’re the one who decides why the television viewing public has 999 channels available to them, and all but three of them at any given time are showing the same reruns of Pawn Shop Heroes, Home Hunters, or Gator Boys.”

From the look on Luke’s face, I could see that Mrs. Haydes had the knife and was twisting it for all she was worth.

“Besides, I said very clearly that I wanted the extremely modern condo, with all the sleek furnishings and the gorgeous, terrazzo floors. I said it at least six times. It’s on the videotape of the show.” She smiled at him smugly. “You just had your heart set on that cozy, little pink bungalow with the seventies’ décor and the orange shag carpet. You insisted, and so, of course, I gave in. Once you make up your mind, it’s impossible to change it.”

“See?” Luke exploded. “See how she manipulates me? How could I not go for the house she said she didn’t want? It was like asking the dog not to eat the chocolate you left on the coffee table. I’m Satan! I’m not really an agreeable sort of guy, and she knows exactly how to manipulate me, so now, twice a week, everyone in America gets to watch me buying grandma’s overpriced, decorating nightmare. It’s been voted the most popular episode of all time! She embarrassed me in front of God and the world.” He dropped his head into his hands. “We’re moving to Seattle now, and it’s going to be hell trying to sell that dump in Anaheim. I won’t even be able to rent it out for enough to cover the carrying costs. What a life!”

I knew this session was going nowhere. Their sessions never went anywhere positive because they were masters at circular reasoning. “What is it you want from me? You must have some reason for putting me through this agony every week.”

“I despise him, so I want a divorce, of course,” said Mrs. Haydes, with a smug, little smile. “I’ll be happy with my half of everything, and, of course, alimony. I gave up my career to raise our children, you know, and of course, they will need child support.” She aimed her tight, fundamentalist smile at me. “We won’t waste your time any further.”

“No. No. No!” Luke’s eyes popped out of his head. “No divorce. I adore you, Persey—you’re the love of my life!” He kissed her hand.  “I would be lost without you. Think of the children.”

“I love you too, Luke—I just hate being around you. And now you’re going to be forcing all your hippy, vegetarian food on me.” She turned away from him, primly pursing her lips. “You know how I love steak.”

“No dear, not vegetarian. Vegan. It’s good for you, you’ll love it. Why, I’ve a recipe for smoked tofu that will put a smile on that pretty face in no time.” Luke smiled his most charming smile. “If there is one thing I understand, it’s how to barbecue. You’ll adore my smoked tofu salad.”

“If you say so, dear. I’ll likely throw up.”

The two rose and left my office. I sighed.

Luke might claim to be Satan, and yes, it was even possible given how contrary he was, but if that was case, Mrs. Haydes ruled in Hell. There was no mistake about that.

I heard my receptionist speaking in the anteroom. Yes, Mrs. Haydes was scheduling another appointment…two o’clock next Thursday.

Satan might move to Seattle, or he might not. Somehow, I knew his new penchant for tofu and coffee wouldn’t get me off the hook.

I shook my head to get rid of the sudden, loud buzzing sound in my ears. Feeling a little disoriented, I looked at the calendar, which said Thursday, the day I dreaded most. Sometimes I felt like it was always Thursday. It was nearly time for my regular two o’clock appointment…the couple from hell, pardon my cursing. After my heart attack about six months before, they had begun coming to me, and were likely to give me another one. They never missed an appointment no matter how I wished they would.

I watched the clock tick from one fifty-nine to two o’clock.

My receptionist opened the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Haydes are here. Shall I show them in?”


 Connie J. Jasperson is an author, blogger,  and member of the Edgewise Words Inn staff.

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Meet Vera Rubin

Writing a novel requires an author to make many decisions. Where a scene is set might seem like an easy one, but can actually be difficult and require a good deal of research. I once spent two hours trying to find the right location for an amateur astronomer’s perfect home-based observatory. The mountains of New Mexico near Las Vegas were my choice. Las Vegas, NM, not NV. I didn’t know there was another Las Vegas. It wasn’t an earth-shattering discovery, but it was interesting nonetheless.

Even character names can require research. Let’s say you’ve set your murder mystery in a quaint up-state New York village. It wouldn’t do to have your serial killer share a name with the village’s mayor. I researched Korean names to make up a name for a sinister corporation. Did you know Young, also Yeong, means brave, and Jang Young Sil was a 15th century scientist and inventor? Well now you do.

Scientific and technical subjects require a good deal of research for me. I don’t want my novels to reveal how ignorant I am. While researching Disturbance: The Vetting, I met a very fascinating woman, Vera Rubin.

vrubinVera was born in Philadelphia at Temple University Hospital in 1928. She was the second daughter of immigrant parents. Her father immigrated as a young boy from Lithuania and became an electrical engineer. Her family moved to Washington, D.C. when she was ten. By eleven, she was fascinated with stars. She watched them from her bedroom window intrigued by how they rotated during the night. She learned to recognize meteors and could draw maps of their paths; by the time she was in middle school, she’d built her own telescope. She didn’t care about the constellation names; it was their movements that captured her attention.

In high school, she got a dose of the macho nature of science. Her physics teacher, Mr. Himes, barely recognized her existence and rarely talked to her. He certainly didn’t provide a nurturing environment. When she shared her joy at getting a scholarship to Vassar, he said she’d do okay if she stayed away from science.

She didn’t stay away. She declared for astronomy at Vassar and received her degree in three years. She applied to Princeton’s master program in 1948, but received no response, not even a catalog. Women weren’t admitted to Princeton’s astronomy program until 1975. She enrolled at Cornell and completed her masters in 1951, and received her doctorate in 1954 from Georgetown.

During her studies, she made observations of galactic movements and noted they weren’t distributed randomly, which was the accepted belief at the time. Her PhD thesis argued that galaxies clumped together and rotated around unknown centers. Her thesis was controversial and not well received. She, and a talented instrument maker, Kent Ford, made hundreds of observation regarding the motion of the Milky Way. The Rubin-Ford Effect is named after them.

Rubin moved to the less controversial topic of galactic rotation and again up-ended accepted belief. Her work showed that galaxies were rotating much faster than traditional physics predicted. Ultimately, her noted discrepancies led to the concept of dark matter.

Don’t confuse dark matter with the tremendous mass of black holes, they’re not the same. Rubin’s work implies some kind of unknown matter is influencing the orbit of galaxies. We can’t see it; it doesn’t collapse into stars, but we can see its influence. Some calculations indicate dark matter may be ten times more massive than normal matter.

I’m very impressed by the accomplishments of Vera Rubin, particularly given the male dominated environment she’s had to live in. Vera has received numerous prizes and acknowledgements, but not the Nobel. She is still active as far as I know. There is even a grass roots movement to get her a Nobel in 2015 and a Facebook page to like for that purpose. Click here: Grass Roots Movement

Sources:
An Oral History Transcript Dr. Vera Cooper-Rubin, Also see her Wikipedia article.

                                                                                                                                                    

David P. Cantrell is an author and member of the Edgewise Words Inn staff.

Roland the Chronicler Part 1

Chroniclers Badge“Roland. Have a seat,” said Grover Bostarus, the dean of Chronoanthropology at the University of Greater Terra. “I have a special job for you.”

Special job made me nervous. The last special job almost killed me. “I’m listening.”

“Have you heard about the AmerCan project?”

“No, but I just got back from medical leave.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I had no idea how ferocious the pre-wall Asianese could be, or that they were partial to dog meat. I should have recommended you merge with a horse instead.”

Grover is my boss, and my first instinct was to make him squirm, but the look on his long face told a story of regret and concern. I couldn’t bring myself to tease him, and besides, as a mana, it was my obligation to choose my merge partner.
“It’s okay. I would’ve chosen a dog also. It’s rare that they aren’t domesticated. I have to say, though, I’m glad the arrow pierced our rumps and not our hearts. I wouldn’t have been able to de-merge and get across the portal otherwise.”

Grover ran his long fingers through his short gray hair. His eyes were moist. University deans weren’t supposed to put men in mortal danger. They weren’t generals trading lives for territory, and there hadn’t been a serious conflict among men since the Thaw began, some three thousand years ago. The super-volcano eruption and ensuing ice age changed human nature.

“Thanks for being so understanding. You’re my best Chronicler. I wouldn’t send you on this assignment if you weren’t. Three years ago, we learned that a great culture had arisen on the AmerCan continent prior to the Eruption. Brito-Franco documents indicate the AmerCan territory doubled in size in a short time period. We want to know how it came about.”

“Do you have the “when-where” specs for me?”

“Yes, July 14, 1803 in President Thomas Jefferson’s office.”

***

Manas die in a stasis chamber if their essence is trapped in past-time. There’s no way to anticipate all risks, but knowledge of a when-where is a big help. That’s why I sat in the libraries’ reference room wearing holo-glasses, watching a brief lecture on the Brito-Franco culture.

“The Brito-Franco culture consisted of two sub-groups that controlled the political scene for five hundred years. Their influence waned during the Electronic Age. They shared many characteristics, such as architecture, agricultural methods and technology. Their languages were distinct, but shared many words. A language infusion course is available if you wish to learn more.

“War between the groups occurred frequently during this period, but when not fighting they were civilized—”

I stopped the playback, satisfied it would serve my needs and hurried to the artifacts museum for weapons research. I wanted no surprises like the first time I saw a bow and arrow. They didn’t look threatening individually, but when combined they were.

* * *

“I’m scheduled for a language infusion tomorrow and will need a night’s sleep for it to be effective, so I’ll be ready the next day.”

“What’s this?” Grover said with a twinkle in his eyes, “A Chronicler needs time to learn something. I thought you could absorb infinite amounts of data in that oversized brain of yours.”

“Infinite is a bit much, and my brain’s no bigger than yours. I’ve just learned to use all of it. But, the infusion process requires three sleep cycles to work. It has nothing to do with my Chronicler training.”

“Are you truly ready to go?” Neetang said smiling. “I noticed you limping a little. I find it mind boggling that an injury to a merge partner can cause so much pain and discomfort. If you’re not ready, I understand.”

“I’m okay. The limp’s a lingering neurological effect and should dissipate soon.” I hoped it was true. It’s what the doctors had said, but they weren’t sure, and I knew it. I’d taken enough time off; it was time I got on the horse.


 David P. Cantrell is an author and member of the Edgewise Words Inn staff.

Writing Life #1

Ape Writing is WorkAs a regular feature, our authors periodically will answer an interview question to provide a glimpse into the mysteries of their minds. We begin this series with an appropriate starting point:

How and when did you begin writing?

David P. Cantrell:
I came to writing late in life. I think the reason had more to do with a pent-up desire to be creative than anything else. I started writing short glimpse-of-life stories after a spinal cord injury forced me to give up woodworking. Encouragement from friends and loved ones led to longer tales.

Something special happens when I’m focused and ideas are coming faster than I can type. It’s difficult to describe, but it’s very rewarding. On occasion an idea will flicker like an intransigent candle wick and fail to light, but that’s okay, it’s part of the process. Writing is not easy for me, but I find more pleasure in it than pain.


Lee French:

I wrote my first book at the tender age of 7. As soon as I figured out how to read, I began writing my own stories down. That first, fateful tome sits on my shelf–six pages of painstakingly handwritten and drawn cardstock between plaid fabric-covered cardboard covers. My Mom entered it into a school district-wide competition, in which I won nothing but a participant sticker. The New Adventures In the Mean Old Man’s Backyard features turkeys, because that was the only thing I knew how to draw besides stick figures and houses. As it turns out, this remains the extent of my drawing skills.

This story came from love I had for E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web. It stoked the fires of my imagination in ways that my Mom rather wished it hadn’t, because I went on to assert that clocks could feel, lobsters could scream, and stuffed animals could have prissy catfights with each other. I was one of those kids that got The Talk about how fiction is Not Real. Of course it is, Mom. Hey, look, the clock is staring at me. I think it wants to tell me that it’s bored.


Connie J. Jasperson:

It was the late 1980’s. I was a single mother working three part-time jobs. I was too financially challenged to be able to afford cable, so we only got one T.V. station–the local PBS Station out of Bates College in Tacoma. For entertainment, we read, and I often read aloud to them.  But the local library was unable to stock books I liked to read fast enough to keep up with our habit, and the second-hand bookstore didn’t get them in fast enough, so during the evening when they were doing their homework, I would sit at my old second-hand IBM Selectric typewriter (which was right next to the gerbil’s cage) pounding out short fairy tales for my kids.

After a while, I found myself writing for my own amusement, as all my favorite authors, such as David Eddings, Anne McCaffrey and Roger Zelazney, didn’t seem to write fast enough for me. I would only get two or three new books a month, and I would plow through a book in three days, so I was constantly looking for new stories.

My first actual full-length book began its life as the story-line and walk-through for a sword-and-sorcery video game that was never built. I had retained the rights to my work, so when that tech company folded in the 2007 financial crisis I turned it into a novel. That novel, Tower of Bones, will be republished sometime in April.