RM Ahmose Fiction Writer

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Extended Excerpts (Scroll Down to the Tale Desired)

                  “So, then, Vernon, you recommend that we go to the next phase with your

           interviewee?”

                  Vernon  Washington  looked  askance  briefly  and nodded. “Yes, yes, I do.

           Zen,  this  guy…Mr. Redd, has got some history. He definitely knows the South.

           And  his  speech,  when  he’s recounting events, is fluid and direct, not hesitant

           and  tentative.  Just  as the folks who suggested him contend, he speaks with a

           certain authority. …Yes, ma’am, I believe he’s our man.”

                  “Well,  that’s  good  enough for me, at this point at least anyway. As usual,

           you’ll  be  assessing  his credibility  as the process plays out. You’re one of the

           newer  writers  here,  Vernon,  but  you learn quickly. So far, your judgment has

           been right on the mark.”

                  “I appreciate the complement.”

                  “So,  if you’ll hand me the trial-interview hours, I’ll go on and approve count-

           ing them toward the entire session. Did you have any other matters to discuss?”

                  “No, that pretty much covers everything for now.” Vernon prepared to rise to

           his feet.

                “Very  good.  So, let’s  see…we have you scheduled for the second session

           this coming Friday, as you request.”

                  Zenobia  maintained  a  slight smile as she watched Vernon exit her office.

           Given  what  she  determined  was  his work ethic and growing skill as a writer,

           she imagined that he was headed for a bright career.

                  The  office  corridors  were  bounded  by six-foot high removable walls that

           enclosed the employees within their cubicles. Striding through, from the editor's

           office, Vernon heard the magazine’s Arts writer’s voice.

                  “Hey, Vernon, how’d the meeting go with the boss lady?”

                  “Who’s  that… Dori?”  inquired  Vernon  peaking  over  the  partition. “Hey,

           there. It went well. It’s full speed ahead.”

                  “Alright,  fella’.  You’re doing good.  …Hey, that Zenobia’s a real goddess,

           huh?”  As he spoke Dori Billingslee exited his workstation to join Vernon in his

           walk  to  his  own  area.  Vernon felt that his response to Billingslee’s question

           required tact. To achieve that end he merely smiled and nodded in a chuckling

           gesture.

                  Once  he  was  seated at his desk, Vernon donned a welcome expression

           to Billingslee who occupied one the chairs in his little office space. “Hey, dude,”

           Billingslee  intoned low, “I like the way you handled ‘big Al’ Broadus, this morn-

           ing.  I happened to be nearby and saw him when he just pops in here and tries

           to  make conversation, all on the fly. What the hell was he talking about?"

                  “It  was  a  current  event, something in the news. I think he just wanted to

           …you  know,  be  friendly.”  Being  reminded of the nonchalant, almost uninter-

           ested  attitude  he  had  displayed  toward Broadus  that morning gave Vernon

           some compunction.

                  “Yeah, he just wants to be friendly after he’s completed some assignment.

           Up  to  that  point,  though,  he’s a damned recluse in his station or in the field.

           But,  Sly  and  I both saw how you ‘iced’ him out. Good job, Vernon…good job.

           The guy’s socially handicapped. He’s just not like the rest of us.”

                  Vernon  emerged from his rented car with a sort of cool excitement, mak-

           ing the trek to the Redds’ front door. He was still mulling over the idea of giving

           Mr. Redd a series of racially charged topics to speak on. This was a departure

           from the previous request for the interviewee to give long narratives of his early

           recollections.  While  such  run-on discourse was essential to the magazine’s

           purpose  and agenda, Vernon thought he would step up possibilities for sensa-

           tion by adding this new dimension.

                  Here and there, he would return to  uninterrupted recording of Mr. Redd’s

           relevant  recounts.  But  for  now,  he  believed more conversational exchange

           would  work best in revealing  the  interviewee’s own personal sentiments con-

           cerning  race. Vernon thought he had every  reason to believe Mr. Redd would

           continue his direct and frank way of communication.

                  The Redds’ three daughters fought back the inclination, on the day of the

           trial  session,  to  be present to get a look at the person sent to interview their

           father.  But  come hell or high water, once they knew the day of the next inter-

           view,  they  determined  to  be securely fixed within the Redd home, when, as

           they  put  it,  “this Mr. Washington arrives.” They were all set to be haughty in

           their  attitudes  toward the person they assumed was going to affect the man-

           ner of “an uppity colored.” But instead, Vernon’s relaxed, easy and cordial dis-

           position  elicited  all  the graciousness within them that had been modeled by

           “Ma-Ruth,” since the days that the three siblings were growing up.

                  With their curiosity satisfied, concerning the approach and demeanor of

           their  father’s  interviewer,  the sisters  repaired with Mrs. Redd to the kitchen.

           Alone  now  in  the living room, Vernon asked his subject what was his prefer-

           red setting for interview this day.

                 “Well, it’s a nice day out ag’in today,” replied Mr. Redd. “How about let’s

           do some walkin’? You up for walkin’, Mr. Vernon?”

                  “Yes, actually  I’m  down,” responded  the interviewer, noting Mr. Redd’s

           mildly cynical  expression. “That’s slang…it means I approve. Have you been

           exposed, Mr. Redd, to much of the slang the young people use today?”

(Story One)

"Home Improvement"

...Making  matters  worse,  each group seemed literally   hell  bent  on   obliterating   the   other through violent  means.

   A quiet  girl of  sixteen, Chanice  Moreno was born the year that Azure Krystal  and  his  crew  had earlier visited the skies above  Baton Rouge in  a  reconnaissance mission. The surveillance  had  involved a vast number of locations over the planet  and  had  included  Chanice’s only  inci-dentally. To date, she had dreamed passionate-ly  of only two immediate  objectives.  One  was to excel in high school. The other was to be free to  make emotional  investment  in  romantic re-lationship  with  Marquis Wilks, without interfer-ence  of  gangs. He was the young man, a year her  senior, resting  comfortably  beside her and with whom she shared a youthful, love.

   Like  Chanice,  Marquis  too  was  undergoing the  brain  regenerative  effects  of  the  “bubble” within  which  each  was  encased.  Both  had a vague  sense of the gradual return of usual men-tal  functioning,  following  the massive neuronal damage inherent in fuel-exhaust poisoning.

   They sat around the silvery, oval table with re-laxed  but  staid  dispositions.  As  a group, the seven  scientists were assigned the task of de-vising a viable solution to the problem of Weeds in  the  Earth’s  designated  areas.  They  were Ghent Kurtz, specialist in social and behavioral psychology; Evon Prysoc, specialist in physical and human planetary geography; Gypsum Reef, specialist, evolutionary-  as   -well  as  process- genetic  mutation;  Phineus  Brae, epoch speci-alist  regarding  chronology  of  both human and “sv-”  mutant  developmental  milestones;  Zoey Feather,  specialist,  neuronal   functioning  and neural  wavelength   emissions;  Lynda  Castor,  technical  specialist  in  mechanical/  physical/ genetic  engineering;  and the craft commander, Azure Krystal, specialist, phenomenology of the human and “sv-” mutant mind.

   In the discussions, Gypsum Reef tried to con-ceal her chagrin. It was a mission of Earth-alter-ing  proportions, and she had exploited her sta-tus with the group to bring about an added com-plication. The Commander, it was well known or suspected, was as perceptive and keen of mind as  anyone  in the  solar system. So Miss Reef knew it was no small task delaying the return of his   focus  on  her  temporary  diversion  of  the group’s attention away from the great matter un-der  present discussion. One tiny nuance of be-trayal in her expression or tone might cause the surfacing in the Commander’s mind of the latent inquiry. She imagined it might begin with some-thing  like: Oh,  and  by  the way, Miss Reef, I’d like  to  know just how you plan neatly to relieve us of the added burden of your…stowaways.

   So, far, though, she seemed to be holding up well,  and  their  address  of  the  real  topic  re-mained unobstructed.

Evon Prysoc: “You can see the locations, Com-mander,  of  the major problem areas. Uh, Miss Castor,  would  you  zero  in on the congregated red-radiation  regions?  Yes…right  there, thank you.  As  you can see, over the past two millen-nia,  the G-Weeds  haven’t appreciably receded at  all, unlike  what  was predicted. I believe Mr. Kurtz has generated a theory as to why that is.”

Ghent Kurtz: “Yes, well, I conclude that in man- y  of  these  areas  where  we  would expect the mutant forms to start to dominate, certain, shall I  say, traditions, of the low-vision and no-vision Weeds fortify them against the loss of their grip on the terrain.”

Azure Krystal:   “Hmm. Okay…I’m sure  I know what  you  refer  to.  I’ll ask you to elaborate on that  later.  For now, we need simultaneously to be  discussing  possible  strategies  for halting the dominance of G-Weeds in the targeted are-as. And we need to accomplish this while simul-taneously  accelerating  the  prominence of the mutant species with Second Vision.

   “As  you  know,  the  order  comes from H2S Central. They aren’t happy with the evolutionary stagnation evident on Home-One and they want change,  or more accurately effective measures for initiating change. Now, we have a few radical options  at  our disposal: population decimating catastrophes, events with the potential for alter-ing  accepted realities, and the most controver-sial of all—planting a network of Ezsoan-spawn-ed  humanoid  imposters to manage population control over a quarter-millennium.”

Evon Prysoc:  “Commander…  and  colleagues, considering  our ability to pinpoint the locations of  the G-Weed, might we contemplate a ‘surgi-cal’  removal?  Through engineering techniques devised  by Miss Feather, their character emis-sions  are  now  on  ignoble display. The greed-laden drives of some and irresponsible sloth of others now exhibit, in bright visual imagery, ren-dering them perfect targets. So, it seems clear to  me  that  a  program of specialized removal might readily be undertaken.”

Azure Krystal:  “Yes, your idea certainly consti-tutes  a welcome alternative to the MASS catas-trophe  option,  initiated  in the targeted regions. Of  course the specialized Weed by Weed pro-cess,  carefully bypassing the ‘sv-’ Flora, would be  as painstaking and nearly as time consum-ing as the humanoid invasion plan. Neither ‘sv-s’ nor ‘nv-s’ could be allowed to know the intent. Nevertheless,  as  of  this moment I consider it one of the viable options at our disposal to pre-sent  to  H2S.  …Now,  I  understand that there may be some ideas to be advanced from either the mutation or engineering specialists?”

Lynda Castor:  “Well,  sir,  Gypsum  and I have been,  well …volleying about the idea of putting into  effect  mass  exposure  to mutant genetic material  for  populations  on  Home-One.  You know  how, in on-going observations of our pre-mutant  cousins  of  Earth,  we  took  note of a common  workplace  joke among them? It con-cerns the sudden onset of pregnancies within a job site.”

Phineus Brae:  “You mean when they say ‘must be something in the drinking water’?”

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(Story Three)

"Last Meeting at Frannies'

 ...So, unless you have significant information to add to those reports, let’s not rehash them.”

   Detective  Provolli’s  eyes first stretched wide then  narrowed  in  intense examination of com-puter-screen data he took to be the fruits of dis-covery.  Seconds  earlier  and  in an essentially random gesture, he had typed a few words in an Online search box. They were the names of the two  “sister”  cities,  Luzernia and Bristol, within which   had   occurred   Ms.   Fragg’s   reported crimes, supposedly. Set within the slightly larg-er  of the two, was the police department where Provolli continued investigations on his cowork-er’s behalf.

   Showing  in the search box, before he clicked “go,” were “Luzernia” and “Bristol” along with the name  of  his  state, just as he had typed them. At first he thought it would yield only a long list of  both  known  and  obscure  townships within each   of   those  municipalities. That,  in  itself, would  not lead one to expect any useful revela-tions concerning the alleged crimes reported to his colleague.

   But  Provolli  found that the search brought, in addition  to  the expected list, a further option. It was  an  invitation  to  explore  townships called Luzernia  and  Bristol,  in a neighboring county. An  examination  of the map showed that these were  tiny  backwater  communities that Provolli didn’t  even  know  had  existence  in  his state. And  he  was  fairly  certain  that,  like  him, the average resident of the “real” Luzernia or Bristol would  be  hard  pressed  to demonstrate know-ledge of those two miniature versions, if so ask-ed.

   With  an amused chuckle, he likened his dis-covery of the two townships to the discovery of a  small  community  called Philadelphia within Reading,  Pennsylvania.  Most  folks outside of Reading  would  likely  never  suspect  its exis-tence.

   Quickly, he dialed the headquarters of law en-forcement, for both communities. In each town-ship, he was lucky enough to get transferred to someone who could address his inquiries. As a courtesy  between police departments, the indi-viduals  to  whom Provolli was referred gave full cooperation.  They   researched   reports   filed relative  to  events,  dates and times Ms. Fragg gave  in  her  statements  to  Detective Mousse. Comparing  information  relayed to him over the phone  to  that in the account made available to him  by  his  colleague, he became increasingly apprehensive.

   Frances  strained  to come up with the details of  the  cons,  the swindles, the drug deals, and even  the  names  of  associated  suppliers she had   heard  mentioned  and  described  by  her mysterious confidantes. These, reportedly, were the  activities  of  the  second two of her four ac-quaintances.  Throughout  the  presentation, the detective  was  becoming  more  and  more  an-noyed at how artificial the accounts appeared.

   After  twenty or so minutes, finally she had fil-led  several  pages of her pad with notes on the store  of  Frances’ significant offerings. By now, Stephanie  Mousse  had  developed an idea on how to spend the remaining minutes of her plan-ned  time  with  the informant. She thought that by  asking  Frances  to share her knowledge of personal characteristics of the four, it might aid in  the  ongoing  task of determining the inform-ant’s credibility.

   “Okay,  Ms.  Fragg, before I leave, let me just make  sure  that  the  picture I have of these off-and-on   associates  of  yours  is  accurate.  In terms  of  physical descriptions, this Rocky fel-low stands around six feet in height?”

   “About six one and a half or six two.”

   “Weight last time you saw him was about the same as in earlier years?”

   “I  guess  so. He’s maybe a few pounds heav-ier…one ninety-five or so.”

   “He’s middle aged I believe you said. Any dis-tinguishing  features  to  help  us  know  him on sight?”  Frances  seemed  at a loss for a helpful response.

   “Is he average-looking, ugly, totally or partially gray?”

   “Brownish  hair,  graying  at  the  sides,  like I said  before…and  I think that most would agree with my description of him as handsome.”

   “Okay,  this  Necra  person. Tends to dress in …well  you  tell me again what his typical mode of   dress  is…and  he’s  a  fairly  young  fellow, right?”

   “Well,  he’s  like…middle forties. He’s usually dressed in black shirts—pull-over, button down, sweater-types…also dark pants, dark jackets.”

   “He’s  the big-time drug dealer—any jewelry?” The  detective  kept  up  the battery of inquiries. “What’s his speech like? He’s kind of a fat guy, I believe you said.”

   “No,  he’s  quite  tall  and  slim. And, yes, he wears  medallions  and  rings  and  stuff.   …He talks  real…street-wise,  I  guess you’d say. He knows…he uses, like, the latest slang and he’s got the gestures….”

   “What’s this Astasia look like again?”

   “Olive skin toned….she’s very pretty.” The de-tective’s  silence  was designed to prompt Fran-ces’  continuation.  “She’s  average  height, just slightly  shorter  than  me.  I think she dyes her hair   coal   black,  because  it’s  always  totally black.”

   “You   said  she  has  an  attractive  face. So, she’s what, fifties, sixties?”

   “She must be about forty-seven, forty-eight or so.”

   “I  notice  you  don’t  seem to know the exact age  of  any  of these folks. Surely the occasion of  birthday  must  have  arisen  at some time a-mong you.”

   Frances  seemed  to think a few seconds be-fore  she  spoke.  “I believe it did come up? But I’ve just forgotten a lot of things. That was years ago  that  we used to hang out close. And I was in the hospital a lot. I just have forgotten a lot of …things.   …Feli is fiftyyyy-three. She was born … Decemberrr…eleven."

   “Oh,  finally   you  remember  an  exact age…even a birthday. Okay, that’s really good.” Actu-ally  the  detective was thinking: Well, that was transparent  as  hell…nothing like a convenient sudden moment of recall delivered on cue.

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