A Chance for Life

Copyright © 2019 Farley Dunn

I pushed the clean edges of the wound aside, amazed as I was every time at the striated layers of flesh that formed the human body.

Blood seeped, but not quickly, and I called to Nurse Riley at my side, “Suction, Riley.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she said, as she snapped her gum. That was Riley. The gum was to relieve the stress, and I allowed it as long as she didn’t snap or pop it too loudly or too often.

I looked around the operating theater and took in each person present. Ritchie, our anesthesiologist for the day, watched his readouts. He wouldn’t take his eyes off them until the procedure was complete. The circulating nurse and the surgical tech, Cherise and Mona, I thought, although I didn’t normally associate with them outside the theater, had prepared trays of gleaming instruments ready for my call. I noted the surgical saw. I hoped we didn’t need it.

The one person I didn’t need in the room was the medical device rep. Still, this was experimental, and this was our chance to save a life with a new and untried device. If the rep wasn’t here, the surgery didn’t proceed, so there was nothing I could do there.

At the back, fully dressed in scrubs and ready to either observe or help if called upon were three medical trainees. One I thought might be a resident, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Their faces were mostly covered, and I didn’t know them just by their eyes.

The long incision stretched before me like the Grand Canyon, exposing rivers of arteries and boulders made of flesh and various organs. I held my open palm to Mona and said, “Sonar.” I noticed the device rep as she perked up. She had asked to record the procedure, but that was the line I drew. No recording. No notes. No one to point a finger if this went belly up. The hospital had all the releases in place, and if this didn’t work, well, the man was dead, anyway, in six weeks or two months.

I felt the device in my hand. The long, slender shape of it allowed me to push it into cavities, around organs, and underneath obstructions. Now that I was under the skin, I could go just about anywhere. There was no cord, but the screen overhead brightened with the radio signal emitted by the device. The entire surgical team would see what I saw, but I was in control. It was up to me to find the invasive parasitic nematodes and remove them before they hatched into full-blown Arthriallian Buzzers. Not only were they deadly, but they would shred the body from the inside out in a painful and horrific fashion. No one, least of all me, wanted that.

Here’s the pressure I was under. We all had the nematodes. Everyone on the Station. This man was the earliest diagnosed case. What was happening to him would soon happen in each of us. The hatching, the itching, and the scratching we couldn’t control. Then we would start to bleed, first forming tender bruises and finally leaking from our eyes and noses. The pain would increase until we pleaded for the end. This surgery was our last straw. If this didn’t work, we were doomed.

I pressed the sonar device into the opening, and within moments, a blip appeared on the screen. I pressed a button and the screen flashed. One dead, and a couple thousand to go.

Solar Sails

Copyright © 2019 Farley Dunn

Flambeau hoisted the sail on the old-fashioned craft.

It seemed odd to see the spinnaker billow off the boat’s bow, catching in the wind with its bright yellow and blue stripes.

He sighed and began to reef the new mainsail. Its real use would come later in the voyage, when the breeze off the rocks diminished, and the wind became more precious than gold.

“Oddfellow,” Flambeau called through the open hatch. “We’re away. You thinking about lunch anytime soon?”

“Yah,” the unseen voice returned. “You sail, I cook. Yah? Then we be on the same foot.”

“Got it.” Flambeau laughed. Oddfellow using the phrase on the same foot was odd in itself, matching his name. Flambeau wondered if the old fellow had read it in one of the local rags from the shore. He shrugged and turned his face to the sun. It had warmed over the morning, the first truly bright day of the week. It was good to be on the water and away from their time on land.

As the boat flew through the chop faster and faster, Flambeau reefed the mainsail yet again. At this rate, before long, they wouldn’t need it at all. The spinnaker alone would provide more than adequate thrust. He turned to catch sight of Oddfellow coming up through the hatch, one long arm first, then a second carrying a plate of steaming oyster pie.

“This be yourn,” Oddfellow said, setting the plate on the deck, and balancing on his remaining six arms. His bulbous head and his larges eyes took in the whipping spinnaker and the boiling wake spreading from the gunwales. “Be about time to kick in the grav-lifters? Speed’s up right good. Be nice to get there before nightfall.”

“As you suggest, my friend.” Flambeau lifted one claw and pulled a lever back, and the deck rumbled as the turbines inside the ship powered on. Around them, the sea dropped away, as a powered winch rolled the spinnaker into a long tube rising to the top of the mast. A slight haze filled the air around them, the resulting energy field shimmering with the air’s realigned protective nanostructure; and with a quick jerk, the boat shot into the sky, reaching for the heavens.

Within moments, the deck settled down, riding smooth as glass in the boat’s protective envelope, and Flambeau reached for his pie, pleased to find it still steaming.

“A custard pie’s wait’n when you finish that,” Oddfellow offered, as he dropped to the deck and began to wriggle below. His final arm wrapped a cleat, its suckers holding tight, perhaps to steady himself, just before he disappeared into the cabin.

“Looking forward to it, my friend.” Flambeau balanced his plate on his crusher claw and used his smaller pincher to pick the juicy oysters from the pie and let one at a time slither down his throat.

It was good to be aboard his craft once more. He looked forward to reaching a high enough elevation to redeploy their new solar mainsail. They would really fly then.

A Change of Seasons

Copyright © 2019 Farley Dunn

I woke up with the breeze blowing from the wrong direction.

“It’s summer,” I remarked, for no apparent reason. I had no idea what that had to do with the day. Winds could blow out of the north at any time of the year. Still, it seemed pertinent, so I repeated my words.

“It’s summer.”

Feeling somewhat better, although still aware that something was not quite right, I pulled on my leggings, donned a light jacket, and made my way out the front door and onto the sidewalk in front of my house. I noticed Jerry from next door was raking leaves. I called to him.

“Jerry, what goes? I thought that was for fall.” I mimed a leaf rake, as I pretended to drag it along the sidewalk, and I laughed.

“So it is,” he returned, with a grin and a wave. He turned back to his rake and began to vigorously stab at a pile of brightly colored leaves.

Odd, I thought. Leaves from last fall would be brittle and brown. Not colorful. How very odd. I wonder how that could be. I had no time to think further on it, as something smashed at my feet, and I leaped backwards before I was injured.

“Sorry, Mr. Jenkins. I was aiming for Marjorie.”

I looked to see Barry from across the road with a large slingshot. A pile of miniature pumpkins filled a basket at his feet. I realized the walk just in front of me was littered with the remains of one of Barry’s pumpkins.

Before I could reply, an attack cry startled me. Marjorie was hiding behind a bush to my left, and a water balloon whizzed into the air. It was yellow and translucent, very large, and it undulated through the sky as if in slow motion. About halfway over the street, I saw it was perfectly aimed for Barry’s torso, and I wondered if he would move out of the way.

“Barry,” I called, hoping to warn him. He looked my way just in time for the water balloon to impact him on the chest, sending a shower of water from his neck to his knees. I raised a hand in apology and called out, “Sorry!’

I ducked my head, feeling guilty. I walked quickly down the street, and I looked forward to turning the corner. I could see green grass filling the Hooper’s yard, and their son, Abe, was just starting up the lawnmower.

Perhaps it was summer, still, on Magnolia Avenue. That’s where I wanted to be. Roosevelt Road could keep Halloween. I had enough of hooligan pranks months ago.

I picked up the pace, watching the green of Magnolia growing ever closer.

The Christmas Snow

Copyright © 2019 Farley Dunn

Texas isn’t a place for snow.

Not that you can plan for. We do get the white stuff, and sometimes a lot, but it’s here and gone, rarely when we want it or find it convenient.

Except that one Christmas Day … when everything Texas went up in a puff of white.

See, the Metroplex (that's Fort Worth-Dallas) does get snow, but it's the messy type. Texans who want to avoid the stuff head to the Gulf Coast for Christmas week.

Galveston, to be specific.

That year, as December wound up, and Christmas grew ever closer, it wasn't Santa on everyone's mind. The forecast suggested an ever-increasing chance of Christmas ice storms for Fort Worth.

Not even Santa would be able to make it through. No Christmas for anyone! Bah-ha-ha!

No!! We were going where Santa could find us, and that meant driving 300 miles to the sun and the sand! It was the only way!

We lit out a day early as the snow started to fall, glad to leave the winter weather for the Christmas stay-at-homes. Ice-slick streets and downed powerlines? Not for us! Galveston! Sun! Sand! Christmas on the beach!

The first night north of Houston, we thought we had it made. Then, we woke on Christmas Eve to MORE WHITE STUFF. Again, we outran the storm, taking off for Galveston for the safety of the sand as soon as we could throw ourselves and our things into the car. It never snowed on the beach. Never! It was the safest place we could go.

Two hours later, we crossed the causeway onto the island, laughing at how we’d outwitted Mother Nature.

We set up a Christmas tree in our condo, laughing at the weather and the fools back home. The sunset over the water said our "Christmas Perfect" was to be ours.

Then the world changed. Santa shook his fist, God laughed, and Mother Nature said, "I don't think so!" We awoke on Christmas morning to eight inches of snow covering everything. EIGHT INCHES … IN GALVESTON … ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

We had them fooled. It was the best Christmas present ever. We took the Jeep to the beach and did donuts in the snow … on the sand … on Christmas Day!

That’s my Christmas snow, the best Christmas anyone could have. 

The snow was gone by the next day, and we enjoyed the sun and the surf for the rest of the week. Who could ask for more?