NthDangerSpecTh e Literary Bookazine of Speculative Fiction

Winter 2013

Contents

Editor’s Notes 3

Damned Paperclips by David Jones 6

Searching for Casper by Cory Lee 12

Perchance to Dream by Ariel Rodman 24

Th e Aye-rahn Miner and the Artifact by Jake Strohm 36

Th is collection- Nth Danger Spec Winter 2013- Copyright 2013 by David Jones

Copyrights of individual contributions retained by the contributors

Editor’s Notes

Greetings, all! Welcome to the premiere issue of Nth Danger Spec! We’re calling it a literary bookazine of speculative fi ction, because it’s kind of like a literary magazine, but doesn’t have a regular publishing schedule, and it’s not chock-full of content, but instead represents the very best literary eff orts of some up-and-coming new writers in the fi elds of science fi ction, fantasy and the supernatural. And we’re calling it the Winter 2013 issue because, by golly, it still is Winter of 2013.

Th is bookazine has been a number of years in the making, because all of us on the production side are strictly volunteer, and every-one on the contributor side is also doing it for love of the what if...? literature.

Speaking of contributors, the publication starts out with a little piece of my own, called Damned Paperclips. You’ll see a bit of me in both Joe and Kaz. Joe is me in my day job, while Kaz is me at my dream job, although I like to think that it’s not too close of a refl ec-tion of my life. Th e story grew out of my observation that curs-ing seems to have become much more common, and much more accepted, in daily, public conversation than it was 20, 10, or even fi ve years ago. Words, particularly names, were thought to hold much power, at one time in our history. So what if they still do, and we just don’t realize it? What if the curses that we throw around so carelessly really still do have the power of the original meanings behind them?

Next up is a ghost story by Cory Lee. Cory works in newspapers in New Jersey, and delivers this tale in a wonderfully authentic voice. And while I’m not usually a big fan of giving the story away right from the beginning, in this instance, I did run it with Cory’s origi-nal title. And while the author claims that it is entirely a work of fi ction, I invite you to do some research on your own and come to your own conclusion about that.

Th e anchor piece of the bookazine is a piece by Ariel Rodman called Perchance to Dream. Th is was the fi rst submission selected for this collection, and serves as our cover story.

Not only does Ariel succeed in putting together a work that is both heart-wrenching and hopeful at the same time, but she also presents a version of the future that is closer than we may realize. Dream lucidity and dreaming as metacognition are the subjects of study at Stanford and other universities. In Perchance to Dream, Ariel has taken a subject from the realm of hard-sf, and turned it into a story about a human being who we care about. A teacher herself, she has taken what she knows and then she has asked what if? , and she has craft ed a piece of top-notch speculative fi ction in the best tradition of the fi eld. Ariel Rodman has earned awards from both the California and Nevada press associations for en-tertainment writing, but this is her fi rst published SF, and we are proud to present it here in Nth Danger Spec.

We close out the publication with another work in the best tradi-tion of SF, a light-hearted spoofalicious poem. Jake Strohm, like Ariel Rodman, is a teacher by day. He teaches middle school earth science, and says that it was aft er a unit on recycling that he came up with Th e Aye-rahn Miner and the Artifact. And indeed, as fun, and funny, as the poem is, it does give food for thought on a number of diff erent issues facing humanity. “I don’t know that iron, or aye-rahn, is the end-all, be-all component that we need for space travel, but it serves here to stand in for any given natural resource, or all natural resources, for that matter,” Jake writes. And when you think of the lengths that we’ll go to get a given resource-- think hydraulic fracking-- then perhaps Delilah’s actions aren’t so far-fetched aft er all.

Th e cover and interior art is provided by the inimitable and gra-cious Tanith, and we give thanks daily for her talent. Th e project could never have taken place without her.

We hope you’ll enjoy this issue. In fact, we hope that you’ll enjoy this issue so much that you will write and let us know about it. Our e-mail address is nthdangerspec@gmail.com. We also have a website at www.nthdangerspec.weebly.com. At the website, you can register for our update list, see updates about our contributors, make comments about the bookazine, or even learn how to submit your own work for possible inclusion in a future issue.

And fi nally, we hope you’ll enjoy this issue so much that you will consider advertising in an upcoming issue. Nth Danger Spec will always be free, but it would be nice to be able to off er our contribu-tors more than just our admiration and undying thanks. So please think about advertising. Send me an e-mail and I’d love to discuss the possibilities with you.

Th ank you all- the readers, the contributors, and those who have come before us- for helping to keep quality science fi ction a reality!

Yours Sincerely,

David Jones,Editor and PublisherMarch 4, 2013

Nth Danger Specwww.nthdangerspec.weebly.comnthdangerspec@gmail.com

Damned Paperclipsby

david jones

The day the paperclips attacked started out like any other crisp, clear March day. Construction workers were con-

structing. Teachers were teaching. Newscasters were casting. And writers were writing. Or not.

David Kasowski (“Call me Kaz!”) was, instead of writing, sitting. Wanting to write. Trying to write. Failing to write.

Kaz’s roommate, Joe Porter (“Call me Joe.”), was at work, pull-ing espresso shots for the suit-and-tie set at the coff eeshop on the corner, so Kaz had the cramped little apartment to himself for the aft ernoon. He had fi gured it would give him the chance to get a short story, or even two, done and submitted someplace, but the creative juice just wouldn’t fl ow.

He fl ipped on the small television set that was perched on the kitchen table, hoping that something in the aft ernoon program-ming would spark an idea. Instead, he could practically feel his brain cells offi ng themselves rather than stick around to experience the gameshows and aft ernoon soaps.

“By the left hand of Portador, goddess of darkness, this is bullshit.” Kaz oft en spoke in this manner, invoking fi ctional or obscure deities. He felt it was appropriate for an up-and-coming

sword-and-scorcery author to routinely drop impressive oaths and curses into his conversation. He had been doing it for so long now that it really was an automatic, if incredibly annoying, aff ectation. He turned off the television and stared around the apartment, look-ing for anything that might kickstart his writing.

Th e only thing slightly interesting was the gun-metal gray fi ling cabinet squatting in the corner of his side of the room, looking for all the world like some sad caricature of Kubrick’s black mono-lith. Th is was where he kept his paperwork; paystubs (when he got them), tax returns (when he fi led them), and—

“Hey!” He did have a few stories still fi led away in there that had never sold. In fact, they’d been in there long enough that some of the magazines that had rejected them had changed editors. Some had changed owners. By the eternally fetid pits of Sycorax, some of them had even gone out of business and been replaced by an entire new lineup of rags. Maybe he could pitch a tale or two and get a few bucks out of some of the new blood.

Kaz jerked the bottom drawer open. It slid out as if greased, much easier than Kaz had expected, and slammed into his shin. Th e impact, in addition to giving him a bitch of a bruise, spilled a pile of papers out and onto the fl oor, as well as a small cardboard box of large paperclips. Th e lid of the latter popped open and doz-ens of the clips clattered across the green linoleum.

“Ah Puch consign you to the deepest depths of never-ending hellfi re!” Kaz mumbled as he grabbed a handful of the wire clips and picked up a copy of a short story he’d written a few years ear-lier. Th en he dug his address book out from the top drawer of the cabinet. He knew the whole process would have been much easier if his laptop hadn’t died on him. Th e whole damn thing could’ve been done in a couple of clicks, but instead, here he was grubbing around like a caveman, for Odin’s sake. Th is knowledge, plus the throbbing and swelling in his shin where the cabinet drawer had hit him, combined to put him into a pretty pissy mood.

He slammed the address book down on the table, found the information he was looking for, and then threw the book into the corner near the fi ling cabinet. It felt good to slam and throw. He grabbed a large alligator paper clip to fasten the pages of the story together, and in his slammy, throwy mood, caught his pinky fi nger in its grip.

“Oh, by the green fl ames of the inner hell of Ah Puch may you suff er damnation!” Kaz didn’t usually repeat deities but today was a particularly vexing run of events.

He threw the alligator clip to the fl oor. He was furious. He grabbed the pages of the story. He grabbed a large envelope. He began to shove the paper into the manilla and… the story tore right down the middle. His only copy. Digital fi le on a dead computer. Ruined.

“Argh! Argh, argh, argh!” he howled. His eyes fell on the alliga-tor clip that had pinched him, lying on the fl oor among the normal, fl attened oval wire clips. “Argh! Son of a bitching chunk of metal! By the jaguar head of Ah Puch, be damned!” And he stomped on the clip as hard as he could.

Not a great idea, since he had forgotten that he was barefoot. Th e stomping did much more damage to his foot than to the clip. Th e alligator clip bent slightly off of true alignment between the jaws, while the skin and fl esh of the underside of Kaz’s foot tore down to the muscle, blood gushed out and splattered the fl oor.

And that’s what did it. Th ree curses in the name of the Mayan god of death, and blood spilled in anger in conjunction with the third curse. Th e paperclips became damned. Th eir particular dam-nation came in the form of possession. As in, by demons.

Th e alligator clips started working their little jaws, biting and tearing and rending the soft er parts of Kaz’s anatomy. Th e regular clips straightened themselves out, becoming three-inch slivers of metal; they went fi rst for Kaz’s eyes, then the rest of his face, and into his ears. Th e dying wasn’t quick, and it certainly wasn’t pleas-ant.

When he fi nally did pass, however, the curse broke, and the paperclips fell to the fl oor, inanimate once more. Th e cops liked Joe

for the death, but in addition to there being no motive, he had any number of witnesses who could place him at the coff eeshop all day long.

Long aft er the whole aff air was over and past, Kaz’s belongings collected by his parents, Joe still living in the apartment, albeit reluctantly (he couldn’t aff ord to move), he was walking across the room one night, heading back to bed from the bathroom. “Ouch.” Something punctured his bare foot. He lift ed his foot up to inspect it, and plucked the mangled alligator clip from his fl esh. “Damned paperclip,” he mumbled.

-Nth-

Searching for Casperby

cory lee

When I was young, I lived in a small town in rural New York. A lot of people hear ‘New York’ and only think of

the city, but it’s a state as well, and it’s a state with a lot of country-side to it. It was hard times. People didn’t have much, and there wasn’t the viewpoint that things were likely to get any better in the near future.

Th at’s why I always wondered about the big house on the edge of town. By today’s standards, it wasn’t much, just a wooden-frame two-story cottage, really. But when most of the rest of the homes in the area were shacks only about half its size, that house seemed fairly impressive. But no one lived there, and I couldn’t understand that. I mean, here we are, a population of at least a hundred or so families, all just one step above squalor and poverty (and some of us missing that step and falling below at times, if the truth be told) and yet this nice big house sits empty and unused. I can even re-member once, when I was really young, maybe three or four, asking my mother why we didn’t just move into it.

I don’t remember what she answered then, but I do know that when I was older, in my double-digits but not yet a teen, the com-mon knowledge among my peers was that the house was vacant due to “tax reasons.” I know the phrase “estate dispute” was also thrown around quite a bit. I would nod sagely during these con-

versations, although I didn’t then, and don’t now, understand what these really mean. But they seemed to provide a reason for the house to be empty and left to deteriorate, unkept and uncared-for.

Th e house sat just one block off my route to school, and came to hold a prominent spot in my thoughts, imagination, and even in my dreams. I would check each morning and aft ernoon, on my way walking to and from school, to see if there was any new evi-dence of weather damage or general neglect. Peering through the dirty windows, I could see furniture draped in white sheets. I asked my mother what could be the reason, and although she said that it was to keep the dust from the fabric, I secretly thought that it made them look like chairs and couches for ghosts. At night, I would of-ten dream of exploring the house and discovering a hidden treasure chest, or a closet full of antique clothing.

It would not be inaccurate to say that I became obsessed with the house. (‘Th e house’ is all I ever heard it referred to as, which in itself was odd in a rural community, where landmarks are almost universally known by their current or past owner’s names, such as the Callahan A-frame, Miller’s turn-off , or the Smith gravel pit.) I think it was probably inevitable that I would fi nally screw up enough courage to try the door in hopes of seeing just what I could fi nd inside.

And so one aft ernoon, when school had been let out early in order for the teachers to conduct conferences with parents, I found myself with extra time before the chores were to be done. I also

found myself on the front porch of the house. I did glance ner-vously and guiltily along the street, but no one was in sight. When the screen door opened with a rusty groan at my tug, my heart leapt. But the knob on the door itself was unyielding. It must have been the rush of adrenaline that I was experiencing, but I felt brave, and not to be thwarted by such a minor obstacle as a locked door. I went around the side of the house, through the dry and overgrown yard to the back door. Th is door also was locked, that is the knob did not turn, but the mechanism within the door, the bolt, was not fully engaged into the recess within the door frame. Th e door itself was locked, but swung open at my push.

I was in the kitchen of the house, a room more brightly lit than my earlier glimpses into the living room, due to its location on the south side of the building. A roach scurried under the refrigerator, and mouse droppings littered the fl oor. A layer of dust coated the counter, the small table, the cabinets and appliances, and the smell of must was strong, if not overpowering.

In none of my dreams had I even imagined a kitchen, so I was eager to move on to more interesting sections of the house. From the kitchen, I stepped into the dining room, a room dominated by a large wooden table surrounded by ornate wooden chairs. Th e fl oor here had carpet and the dust was not so apparent. One entire wall was taken up by a buff et or china cabinet of sorts, although there was no diningware to be seen. Th e cabinet doors were made of glass, to allow for display of its contents (had there been any), and

the back wall was entirely mirrored. I stepped up to peer inside, wondering what had become of the china. My own face, with just a smudge of dirt on one cheek, looked back at me. And then, in the refl ection, something moved behind me, something faint and white in the relative gloom of the dining room.

I whirled about, but saw nothing. When I looked back into the mirror, it, too, revealed no sight other than my own face and the empty room behind me.

I could have told myself that it was nothing. Aft er all, isn’t that what all protagonists do, while the reader or listener of the story knows better? But I realized right then and there that I was experi-encing something beyond the natural.

I was scared, yes. But also enormously excited. I couldn’t wait to see what might be in the living room, and pushed the door open. Th e room was just as I had seen it through the windows, with sheets on all of the furniture. Again I was struck with the thought that it made them look as if they were furnishings intended for a ghost or a spirit. And I became convinced that a ghost was ex-actly what I had seen in the mirror behind me. And I felt that, if I searched diligently enough, I could see it again.

“Hello? Hello, anyone?” Th ese were the fi rst words I had uttered since entering the house. As if in response, I heard a crow outside. Who knows, perhaps it really was in reply to my voice. But the

outside was not where my attention was focused, I wanted to fi nd something or someone here inside. And my I was rewarded with an odd sight, a faint white ball, glowing in the dimness, bouncing in the air above the steps on the stairway that led to the second fl oor. Again, curiosity and excitement overwhelmed fear, and I followed it up the stairs, it like a helium balloon and me like a nervous mouse that nevertheless smells a bit of cheese.

In the upstairs, the willow-the-wisp fl oated down the hall past what was obviously a master bedroom, to a closed door, and then seemed to pass through the solid wood. I paused at the end of the hall. My mouth was so dry that it was hard to swallow, let alone speak, so I simply tapped on the door. My knocking sounded eerie. Th ere was no echo, and the sound was dampened, muffl ed… dead.

“Yes, you can come in,” came a wee tiny voice from inside the room.

I turned the knob- it was stiff , but not locked, and it moved with a rasping, grating feel- and opened the door. My eyes had become adjusted to the dim lighting in the house, and at fi rst, I couldn’t see anything for the glare of the small window at the far end of the room to my right. But as my vision returned, it became clear that this was the room of a young boy. A wagon sat near the window, toy wooden soldiers scattered on the fl oor, and boy’s clothing fl ung haphazardly throughout.

“Please come in.” Th e voice came from my left , and as I stepped inside, I saw a bed there, in the darkest part of the room. On the bed, I gradually made out a small fi gure.

“Hello?” I hesitated. Was this my ghost?

“You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid. Well, not very afraid. Are you a ghost?”

“Yes. I suppose I am. But I’m so lonely.” He looked to be a little boy, but an age was hard to tell. Seven years old, maybe, or perhaps as old as I. In all the ghost stories I knew, a ghost appeared as they had when they died, in the same clothing. Th ose ghosts all looked just as a regular living person, but white and somewhat transpar-ent. But this ghost, this little boy, although white and transparent, did not match my expectations at all. He seemed to be wrapped in a sheet or a robe, although his feet did peek out from below the hem as he sat on the bed, hugging his knees. But more disturbing was the fact that he seemed to have no hair. His head was bare, and as I looked more closely, he had no eyebrows, nor even eyelashes. It made his head look abnormally large, although when I thought about it, I could see that his head was really no bigger than in nor-mal proportion to his body.

“A lonely ghost? But who are you?” I was scared. I was so frightened that I was trembling. But I also felt that I was experienc-ing the most important moment of my life. I had met a ghost. I

could hardly credit it, yet I knew beyond all certainty that it was true and real.

“I- I’m not sure. But I think this was my room when I was alive.” He unclasped his legs and scooted so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Oh,” I said. As noted previously, this house was unique in our town in that it had no family name attached to it, so I was not able to even suggest a family name or history to my ghost. “Do you… know how you died?”

“No.” He looked so sad. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. Sometimes other people come into the house, and I try to say hello to them, but they don’t see me. Th ey just get nervous and scared and leave as soon as they can. One time, though, a man came in, and he could see me. Th en he just screamed and ran away, even though I tried to tell him that I was friendly.”

“Th is house has been empty as long as I can remember,” I told him. Th at made him look sadder. I wanted to introduce myself, but I was afraid that it would make him feel even worse that he didn’t know who he had been when he was alive.

“Can you stay and play with me?”

I told him that I supposed that I could, but that I would have to

leave in a bit to do my chores. He got off the bed and went over to his wagon. I would say ‘walked to his wagon,’ but it was more of a glide. His feet moved back and forth as he moved forward, but it was as if they were a half an inch or so above the actual fl oor. He knelt down at a small chest behind the wagon and opened it. I was slightly surprised to see that he could do so. I had expected his hands to go right through the wood.

If the chest didn’t contain the sorts of treasures that I had dreamed about, like gold coins and silver goblets, it did hold inside it another kind of treasure, at least in the viewpoint of a pre-teen child. Th ere were wooden painted jumping jacks, and rubber balls, and other assorted toys, all very fi ne and bright. Th e boy stood up with a rubber ball the size of an orange and bounced it to me. We spent the next half-hour or so playing bounce catch and talking. Once or twice, when his attention wandered, the ball went through his hands, and then through his body, as if he were smoke or mist, but other than that, it was just like playing with any other kid. Well, any other kid who is see-through, and bald, and wearing a shape-less sheet for clothing.

It’s diffi cult to recall our conversation. He didn’t know anything of the things I might talk about, such as my school or the town. He couldn’t answer any of my questions about being a ghost. He only knew that he had once lived in this house and that he was desper-ately lonely for a friend. We did talk about some of the items in his room. He thought that he did sleep on the bed, and he did enjoy

his toys. I admired one of his glass marbles, a particularly pretty red one, and he told me that I could have it. I kept it for years aft er-ward, but it eventually became lost during one of my moves.

It became time that I knew that I had to leave for chores, or else face punishment. I was a bit late as it was.

“Oh, must you?” He had been happy and smiling, and now his face had the expression that we used to describe as looking as if his best friend had died. I know it’s disconcerting, given the circum-stances, but that is the thought that fl ashed through my head at the time.

“Yes, but I’ll come back, if you like.”

His face lit up again. At that moment, he looked like an angel, bald head and all. “Oh, thank you!” Th at’s when he gave me the marble. I wanted it to be a fair trade, so I gave him a stone that I had found the week earlier. It was small, not much larger than the red marble. My father told me that it was a quartz crystal, but I secretly hoped that he was mistaken and that it was a diamond. My ghost friend went crazy over it, and tucked it into a pocket. How he could have pockets when he seemed to be clothed in a sheet, I don’t know, but there were a lot of unexplained things about the whole encounter.

I never saw him again.

I went back to the house several times, whenever I could get enough time to myself. But he never showed up. Sometimes, aft er wandering through the house, poking through other rooms and waiting for him to appear, I could hear crying, very faintly. I’m sure it wasn’t my imagination, but instead, my ghost friend somewhere off alone and lonely.

I was pretty sad to think that this little boy was all alone, and aft er trying and trying, and failing, to fi nd him again, I did tell the story to my parents. I think I must have hoped that they would have some magical grown-up answer, something I could do so that the boy wouldn’t be so sad. All they said was not to talk so silly, and keep away from that old house. My Uncle Seymour was visit-ing, and he seemed fairly interested in my experience. I related the entire tale to him, in as much detail as I could. He didn’t have any advice on how to help the boy, but neither did he say it sounded crazy. And I know that the little ghost boy’s situation must have re-ally made my uncle think, because he later wrote a story about him, and had a cartoon artist illustrate it, before Uncle Seymour had to go off to the war.

As I write this, the house is long gone. I could research the town records, I suppose, and fi nd who owned the house, and what little boy might have lived in that room. But I prefer to remem-ber my friend as I knew him. In all the times I waited for him in that room, passing the time by exploring his toychest and look-ing around, I never did come across the crystal that I gave him. I

hope that, wherever his is now, he still has that stone with him, and knows that he did have a friend.

-Nth-

Perchance to Dreamby

ariel rodman

My head aches.

I never realized before how this pain can feel just like a concen-trated blast of frigid mountaintop wind. I suppose that’s what has brought me to consciousness. Or was it the solid, solitary silence? Somehow that acts as an alarm for me on days like this.

I force my eyelids to unlock, and look outside my window at the snow, which has been falling steadily for well over fi ve days now. Th e penetrating brightness from beyond my windowsill explodes like a hundred-fold soprano choir singing high C. Th e fan of pain in my head intensifi es, and I shut my eyes to the world outside.

You have to shovel. How could you have just given up three days ago? Did you expect the snow to just disappear?

I picture the snow not only covering the Jeep in my driveway, but enshrouding its entire broken-down battery charger station as well, making them completely disappear except for the antenna’s tiny blue ball sticking out, seeming to sit naturally atop the cool, white mound. I don’t know when I’ll be bringing that vehicle to light, but it won’t be today.

My laziness is a positive– I have walked more, or rather trudged

more, in the past fi ve days than I have in months. Trudge to the 7-Eleven. Trudge to the food co-op. Trudge to the forest to walk the dogs.

Despite it all, I am grateful to my parents for leaving me my old broken-down house right in the Lake Tahoe nature preserve. It was purchased by my ancestors before the eco-riots of the mid-21st century and the laws that ensued. My humble cottage is located in the Lake Tahoe nature reservation, and it was spared the bulldoz-ers of old because it was actually purchased in the 20th century. I am lucky to be that rarity of the middle class who actually owns the land in a preserve (minute slice though it is) and not just the federal abode. So stop complaining.

I feel such urgency with the arrival of this new year, unlike any I have felt before. Any second could send me hurtling over the edge of here and there to out of either existence. It’s so tenuous. Nobody knows what is aft erward, aft er living and dreaming. Th ey claim to know. So many have their fantasies, and some hold them so close that they leak into life and dreams. But I feel with complete cer-tainty that even if one description of Heaven turned out to be the reality, no one, not the most religious or spiritual or laboring per-son would know it here or dream it there intentionally. No divine inspiration, no one in touch with the universe to the nth degree. Just happenstance.

Of course, we don’t know what may happen next in here or there, either. But it’s a diff erent scenario, living life, dreaming

dreams. You’re always safe in the enclosure of it. Our planet changes, but, even with human interference, it can take some time for changes to occur. Our mind changes, but the brain is so beau-tifully cushioned in our skulls, never to see the light of day (or at least one hopes). Like a babe not yet born into this world, it lives its own life fi lled with comfort, discomfort, excitement, growth.

Growth. I have to say I am proud of my brain’s growth, one of my personal accomplishments. I earned straight A’s in school, and I continued my stellar performance in college, majoring in neuro-science and philosophy. I chose not to practice medicine, although my parents tried to push me in that direction. I chose to teach.

My parents thought I was insane, of course, and my father much regretted the money he had spent on my education. But I felt that my work was necessary to humanity. Not only did I choose to teach, I chose high school. If I could teach one 17-year-old to dream, I thought, wouldn’t that be a contribution to the world? When you think of it, the evidence is stacked high that teaching a 17-year-old to dream is far more diffi cult than prescribing the right meds for her epilepsy.

I felt determination at the beginning of my teaching career, resolution to help, to save, to teach in the highest, purest sense. But teaching high school can cause the most insipid form of brain deterioration. Teaching dreams of scientifi c discovery and space travel and writing novels and wronging great injustices seep down

into that lukewarm soup of dating and obsession with appearance and waging epic wars with friends and parents. Small, developing minds. It’s a normal stage of development. But the hardest truth that is revealed year aft er year is that each batch of students con-tains a majority who develop dreams that never– I repeat, never– develop further past the high-school level.

I did have one great success: a girl who dreamed of building houseboats on Tahoe to help with the housing shortage. Now there’s a houseboat on every lake, reservoir, pond and puddle across the world, and thousands of families have roofs over their heads and beds to rock to sleep in when they would otherwise be home-less. Th at’s all I wanted, aft er all, right? Th at’s what I always said: “If I can teach one student to dream...” Well, I suppose I did. Does that make me a success? Perhaps.

Th is coff ee isn’t helping at all. If anything, the pain is worse.

Maybe I should just stay home, nice and cozy in front of my beautiful stone fi replace, as I did on New Year’s Eve. I felt so re-laxed, and my mind wandered, as it always does; I momentarily thought of chatting with my folks as the ball came down in Times Square. I was even going to apologize to my father for pouring his money down the drain by becoming a teacher. One percent of me has begun to agree with him. Not that I can conceive of practicing medicine. I’m too clumsy and forgetful. Case in point, I had even forgotten that both of my parents have passed away.

At least I slept well that night. Aft er much champagne. I drift ed off , not pleasantly but quickly, into a deep sleep. And dreams came. I spent hour upon hour there. When I awoke it was already 1:30 in the aft ernoon. Amazing. Th ey were surprisingly happy dreams. I felt so full of hope when I awoke. But then, I was an excellent student. I was able to manipulate my dreams into what I wanted and needed, even in a fi t of depression and under the infl uence of alcohol.

Stop letting your mind wander now. Th is feeling of urgency is coursing through my veins, and I no longer seek a pleasant escape from the here. I want answers. I need alternatives. I long to see a clear path ahead of me, a yellow-brick road, shiny, promising, purposeful.

So I begin the long process of layering my body for a trek through the snow, feeling the familiar annoyance that the layers will all be removed within the half hour, similar to the exaspera-tion I feel every time I do the dishes and then manage to run out of spoons the next day.

I step intrepidly, if stiffl y, out my front door and taste the cold air. Brisk-but-not-overbearingly-cold. Most of my neighbors have opted to stay in by the fi re, I see. Th at one new family with young children is sledding down the snow-packed street. Good for them. I don’t want to walk down the highway- it makes me so nervous.

No choice. I can’t even see the dirt that passes for a sidewalk dur-ing our six-month snow hiatus. I reluctantly decide against musi-cal accompaniment for now; I need my absolute full concentration to avoid calamity. Th ere’s less than a breath separating me from those cars and trucks, and too many of them have California plates. Which ones passing know how to drive in this kind of snow? Th at perfectly-coiff ed driver with her spotless red luxury car straight from its garage? Th at teenaged driver in his old pickup with the cracked solar panel? Th at driver fl aunting his Los Angeles bumper sticker? If I’m not hit by one of them on my walk, it’ll be a miracle. My daily miracle. I want to run but I’ll just slip and fall if I do, and I’ll make myself a better target. I’m not going back home. I took the gamble and I’m following through with it, even though it doesn’t quite seem worth the danger.

Maybe I should have stayed at home. Edge around this berm. Careful.

Finally. Th ere’s the 7-Eleven shopping center. I made it. Too bad I have to repeat the dangerous trek back home. I fl ick my thumb and forefi nger together and the glorious, ancient, Preconser-vo sounds of Mozart’s Requiem ironically celebrate my non-demise. Lux perpetua luceat eis. Th ere it is, the familiar old yellow sign: “Stateline Public Dream Center.” I’m glad I made myself bundle up and come. I’d be going crazy at home. I have to be here today. I hope there isn’t a wait.

As I look through the frosted window, I can see no one else is here. I let out a sigh of relief and pent-up urgency, and it coils through the air like the smoke from my chimney. I suppose a lot of people are on the slopes. Not a bad a use of time. Th e food co-op was packed the other day with locals stocking up before the next wave of snowstorms. A good percent of the population is hibernat-ing with hot chocolate and potato chips as I have been for the past fi ve days. Th e dream center looks just like the library did last week. Unused and lonely.

I walk inside and immediately feel the delightful change in temperature. I inch up to the counter and gave the woman my d.c. card. “Can I have more than two hours since there’s no one else here?” I say with a hopeful smile, but I know the answer. Th e lady who runs my local d.c. is far stricter than my librarian, who gladly gave me ten antique books just the other day, even though I had left my library card at home.

“I have to give you the standard time slot,” she answers. “Sorry.” But I know she isn’t.

I do get to choose my favorite room, though. It’s the only one with windows, and it has a peek-a-boo view of the lake. Most people don’t like this room during the day because they fi nd it hard to fall asleep with sunlight pouring in at them. I never do. Th e L-dopa that the d.c. monitor administers always does the trick for me. I am completely middle-of-the road when it comes to L-dopa.

I don’t believe in stronger drugs being administered to people with sleep disorders, especially not by the government. And I certainly don’t agree with all of the coff ee-drinking, oxygen-bar-hopping, medicinal-dream-aides attackers. Th e for-profi t dream centers that have begun to pop up in major cities (and will doubtless appear in my quasi-rural setting, much like the Starbucks of old) are advertis-ing new and improved drugs. Not surprising, since it is the phar-maceutical companies who are funding the new centers. Th ank goodness for the public dream centers. Dreams, like education, must be available to everyone, not just moneyed citizens.

It amazes me that they would have us return to the days when

Americans only had the opportunity to sleep and dream at home. Th is new coalition spouts a belief in “privacy” and a “substance-free system.” I believe in dream centers being open to the public, open to anyone, even to homeless people. I have no problem with my dreams being recorded and placed on public record. I have nothing to hide. If by some miracle I were to fi nd a cure for Infant Clone Ailment, I wouldn’t worry about receiving the credit. It is nearly impossible to decipher other people’s dreams (unless the dreamer is being lazy and the dream is thinly veiled... but then utilization of brain matter is not taking place to the full capacity, is it? And then the cure for I.C.A. wouldn’t be popping up.). I don’t believe, as this new anti-dream coalition does, that dream centers are wasted on the masses who don’t control their dreams or use them for forward-thinking purposes. Obviously, not every American spends his or her time looking for answers in dreams. Some of them don’t even

think it’s worth their while.

But there was that one student. And she was just my personal success. If every high school produces one of her, think of the pos-sibilities.

I’m trying to be optimistic. I still believe that I make my small contribution to the world by teaching teenagers to dream. Th e brain mapping that took place at the beginning of the 21st century had a phenomenal impact on our civilization today. And then the breakthrough that brought us Forward Th inking Brain Capacity Utilization, the simple realization that major problems and puzzles could be fi gured out by using the brain to its greatest capacity, not staring out of a window or working with hands or eyes, but at rest, eyes closed, letting your brain do the work. Th e concept that the brain can function highest when the rest of the body is leaving it alone, shall we say, seems so obvious to kids now. Perhaps that is how they felt about gene therapy so long ago.

I suppose I feel, as many teachers do, that I really am not creat-ing anything, no matter how much I accomplish. I just connect the dots for my students, point them in the right direction.

Maybe that’s all that we teachers can, or should, do. I cannot tell them what to dream. I really only want to teach them to dream.

But I feel the urgency to create. Seventy-fi ve seems like such a

big year to me. It’s young, I know, but I need to create something of my own. I feel a slight touch of bitterness towards my students, envy towards the successful dreamers, disappointment toward sthose who do not even try. Dreaming about a movie star is fi ne for fun. But there are so many dreams to be dreamed… what if the dream that shows us the way to everlasting peace is never realized because it seems like too much work to the dreamer to even dream it?

It’s a new year now. Th e L-dopa is starting to work. Th e pain in my head is beginning to subside. Sinatra’s seraphic voice croons “Dream” in my room aft er the new center musicologist searched and searched for it (“It’s 20th century,” I helped her. “I know it’s on the computer at this d.c. because I live a few blocks away and I’ve requested it before. Yes, I’d like a copy of my dreams today. Yes, I let the center monitor know.”). I’m looking for answers to big questions. Who knows what I’ll fi nd? I’m falling asleep. I’m go-ing from here to there. I’ll then go from there to here. Th at’s the point. I have to take what I learn from my dream and apply it to our world... while I’m still here... maybe my sense of urgency will help me...

-Nth-

Stay current with

Nth Danger Spec!

Visit the website

to register for our

contact list!

www.NthDangerSpec.weebly.com

-Nth-

Th e Aye-rahn Miner and the Artifact

by jake strohm

Out where it’s empty, vast, dark and cold toils a woman who’s solid, steadfast and bold

turning big rocks to little, and little to sandwith a shine in her eye and heat in her hand.

Delilah’s her name, a miner by trade.She doesn’t know fear, no, she’s not afraid

to roam through the asteroids out deep in the black.What we need is out there, and she’ll bring it back.

In a little pod ship, she roams rock to rocka slave to no person, nor to the clock

searching for aye-rahn, that sweet heavy oreshe may fi nd a lot, but she always needs more.

Back on the planet, it’s all gone, you see,we used it all up when we strove to break free

of the world’s soft embrace, the smothering grip,the gravity trap at the start of the trip.

We spent it like water, like light or like air,foolishly thinking it would always be there.

Till one day we blinked and looked all aroundand cried when the aye-rahn, there was none to be found.

We tried to recycle, we tried to reclaim,we made lots of laws and we laid lots of blamebut more aye-rahn existed in only one place;

It would have to come in, from cold outer space.

It takes a tough breed of person to handle this life,someone who’s lonesome, with no husband nor wife.

Independent! Strong! Tough, free and bold,mining for metal more precious than gold.

One time (not a day- there’s no days out in space!),She happened upon a strange little place.

It seemed, at fi rst, like a regular spotbut no, oh no, it was certainly not.

Delilah set down, started looking for ore,and suddenly realized, there was oh so much more.

Th e rock wasn’t natural; she scratched her head,“Th is thing’s artifi cial!” she fi nally said.

It’s no lie, it’s a fact, it’s honestly true,and had you been there, then you’d say it, too,

‘cuz there, plain as day, like a thumb that is sore,in the ground of the rock was an obvious door.

She opened the door, what else could she do?It swung open smoothly, she walked right on through

to a room that was lit with a dim, bluish glow.Delilah stepped easy, she took it slow

To a box in the center of the tiny, dark room,set all alone, right there in the gloom.

A box ‘bout waist high, a beautiful cube,a button on one side; the other, a tube.

She pushed on the button (I said she was brave!)and the box started to rumble, to rant and to rave.

Sounds came out of the tube, and the box, on the top,showed pictures and scenes, it just wouldn’t stop.

Scenes of a world that we’ve never known,people and places that just aren’t our own.Proof of a race that’s diff erent than ours,

Proof that humanity’s not alone in the stars.

“An alien artifact, what do you know?”said Delilah the miner, aft er the show.

Th en picked up her tools, got to work on the box,breaking it down to a big pile of rocks.

Th e artifact was made up of ay-rahn, you see,almost pure aye-rahn, to the last nth degree.

Aye-rahn depleted from Earth and from Marsbut needed in order to visit the stars.

An artifact, a box, well, sure it is nice,a way for an E.T. to come break the ice.First Contact, at least, in sort of a way,

SETI’s been waiting a long time for this day

But it’s contact we want, and aye-rahn we needso Delilah went on with her work, yes indeed,

breaking it down, to harvest the ore.Contact is nice, but we need aye-rahn more!

Out where it’s empty, vast, dark and coldtoils a woman who’s solid, steadfast and bold.

She won’t be distracted, she won’t go astrayno matter what novelties might come her way.

Delilah’s her name, a miner by trade.She doesn’t know fear, no, she’s not afraid

to get us our aye-rahn, come hell or high-waterShe does what she has to, humanity’s daughter.

-Nth-

-Nth-