I am not a superstitious man. I am a creature of reason and logic. It is how I make my living. So it was with no small amount of confusion and fear that I found myself sitting in a doctor’s office on a rainy Friday night unable to control my shaking hands.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” the doctor asked in a calm voice, his long slender fingers raised in front of his face, the tips gently touching.
“I usually find it’s the best place.”

And so I did just that, in one incoherent stream of words that made no sense, because sense belonged to the world of reason and what I wished to describe did not.

* * *

It started when I was late for work. Rushing along the pavement I ran under a ladder propped against a wall and as I did so I felt a faint pressure against my body, like the elastic pull of a thin membrane. In the instant I became aware of it I also felt it tear. I stopped and touched my face but could feel only clean-shaven skin.

Two blocks from my office I took a short cut through an alleyway and a black cat with bright yellow eyes strolled across my path. I slammed into what seemed to be a solid wall that threw me to the floor and made my mouth fill with metallic flavoured blood. When I looked up there was nothing there; the alley was empty.

I was thoroughly rattled by now and hurried to my office on the 3rd floor. The normally hectic insurance firm I work for was unusually subdued. At lunch in the work canteen I reached for the salt and spilt it on the table. Still feeling nervous about the morning’s events I pinched some between my fingers and threw it over my shoulder. As I did so I felt a hand touch me on the shoulder. Except, it wasn’t a hand. Through the thin material of my work shirt, hard scales rubbed against my flesh. I turned and looked over my shoulder. There was no one there.

* * *

“Am I going insane?” I asked.

The doctor rose slowly from behind his desk and started to pace, his forehead rutted into horizontal tracks of shadow.

“Many superstitions have an empirical basis,” he said, walking to the window.
“At some point in history an effect was observed and a cause attributed. The ladder against a wall forms a triangle, a trinity of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. By walking through it you are breaking that trinity. A black cat is the corporeal form of a demon. When it crosses your path it creates a barrier that bars you from heaven.”

“And the salt?” I asked as he walked silently around his desk and to the back of my chair.

“Did you know that Roman soldiers were often paid in salt?” he replied from behind me.
“It was extremely valuable; so much so that to spill it was considered the worst of omens. It meant the devil was about to take your soul. To prevent this you had to throw it over your left shoulder to hit the devil in the eye. The left, of course, being Satan's favourite side. The Latin sinestre, which has become our word sinister, means left.”

I could barely hear him now, the thump of my heartbeat pulsing loudly inside my head. I was slipping into a looking-glass world of absurdity, but I could not give up without one last appeal to reason.

“But…” I mumbled, “I threw the salt over my right shoulder.”

“I know, Joseph. I know,” he murmured softly, placing a gentle hand upon my shoulder.

Except, it wasn’t a hand.

Hannah had loved Jeff almost from their very first exchange. In the beginning, they’d been coworkers and casual friends, and nothing more. But soon both of them realized that theirs was a unique relationship, one they weren’t likely to ever find again. They shared a similar viewpoint of the world, as well as a passion for the same music, food, art, movies, and, unfortunately, for each other... unfortunate because both Hannah and Jeff were married to other people. After a very brief but intense affair, one that neither of them had ever anticipated entering into – after all, they had both been very moral people, as well – Jeff had applied for a transfer from the Jacksonville office to the Miami division, a move that he rationalized would put his wife closer to her family. But Hannah knew that Jeff’s real motive for moving was to keep from hurting her, and himself, any more than was too late to prevent.

Jeff’s move had been a year earlier. Since then, both he and Hannah had tried their best to work on their respective marriages. But ultimately, it was no use. Neither could forget each other, and both of their marriages had ended in divorce. And now, today, it was moving day again. But this time, it was Hannah who was moving – to Miami to start her life with Jeff.

“Miss Green? We’re about to head out!” the moving van driver shouted out the window.

“You have the address? And directions?” she asked one more time.

“Yes, Miss Green. Don’t worry. We’ll see you in Miami before sundown.”

Hannah gave a quick wave to the movers and turned to hug her dad goodbye.

“Be careful, Creampuff.”

“Dad?! I’m thirty-two years old. I’m not a creampuff anymore!”

Her father smiled and shook his head. “You’ll always be ‘creampuff’ to me.”

Hannah blushed and got into her car, carefully fastening the seatbelt across her lap.

“Hannah…”

“Yes, dad?

“Please be very careful. Not just on the trip down, but in general.”

“Dad -”

“Now listen… I know I was a little skeptical of this whole Jeff business at first, but I do see how much the two of you really love each other. Still, I can’t help but be concerned for your interests, Hannah. You’re my only daughter, and I love you very much. Just… be careful, okay?”

“I will, dad. I promise.” Hannah cranked the car and released the emergency brake. “Oh, dad? Did you talk to Hank this morning?”

“I did, and I’m afraid I may lose both of my children to Miami. Your brother has apparently taken a real liking to the place in the few short days he’s been down there. Anyway, he’ll be waiting for you at Jeff’s.”

“Great! It sure was nice of him to take all my plants down for me last week, and it’ll be even nicer to have him there when I arrive. You know - a little part of ‘old’ home in my new home!”

Fifteen minutes later, barely outside the Jacksonville city limits, Hannah’s car got a flat tire. Stepping out to assess the damage, she never noticed the charter bus that was barreling in her direction. But just seconds before would-be impact, the driver swerved, missing Hannah by mere inches.

Shaken, Hannah settled back into the driver’s seat. Her primary thought was how awful, and ironic, it would’ve been to lose her life just when the best part was about to begin.

Just then, her cell phone rang. Picking up the phone, she saw her brother’s cell number on the display.

“Hank! I’m so glad it’s you!”

“Hannah…”

“You’ll never believe what just happened to me!”

“Have the movers left yet, sis?”

“Yeah. A while ago. But that’s not-”

“Listen, Hannah. I have something I need to tell you.”

She stilled. “What is it, Hank? Has something happened to Jeff?”

“Oh, Hannah. Jeff… I… we… we’re in love.”

A string of bells tinkled as I pulled open the fingerprint-smeared glass door.

“Mornin’, Jimmy.”

“Mornin’, Ron. You’re here early.”

“Yeah. Gotta early meeting today.”

Suzie, Ron’s pet squirrel, hopped across the counter to greet me. I was there the day his boss chewed him out for bringing her to work. “It’s Stop & Go corporate policy,” the boss shouted. “No animals allowed in the store.”

“Hey, I thought you weren’t supposed to bring her here anymore.”

Ron grunted, “Yeah, but the heat’s off in the apartment. I couldn’t bear to make her stay in the cold.”

“She’s squirrel,” I said. “They usually live outside.”

“But Suzie’s special,” Ron insisted. “Ever since I rescued her from that Rottweiler, I’ve felt responsible.”

I wandered over to the beverage counter. “Looks like I get the first cup of coffee this morning,” I said. I poured myself a large and grabbed a couple packets of sugar.

“What ticket you want to try today?” Ron asked as I emptied the sugar into my coffee. Every day it was the same. A large coffee. That was a given. But I allowed myself the luxury of choosing a different lottery ticket each morning. I’d won a few times, but never more than forty bucks.

“Hmm...” I pondered. “Give me one of those Lucky Golden Bars,” I said, crumpling up the sugar packet and tossing it across the counter towards the trash. The paper wad didn’t even come close to the can. In a flash Suzie hopped from the counter, scampered across the floor, snatched up the paper, and returned it to me.

“Wow!” I said, “How’d you get her to do that?”

“Oh, I’ve been working with her. At first I had to coat the paper wads in peanut butter, but she’s getting pretty good at it now.”

I stepped aside to let another customer pay for his purchases. Jimmy rang up three gallons of milk and a quart of motor oil.

After the guy left, I gave Jimmy a questioning look. “What’s he gonna do with that?”

“Don’t know and don’t wanna know,” Jimmy said. “You’d be surprised who comes in here and what they buy. The other night this woman rushes in wearing nothing but her long blonde hair and a mink coat. I know, because I saw.”

“No way!”

“Way! And she grabs a pack of disposable razors, plops a twenty on the counter and rushes out without waiting for change.”

“Unbelievable,” I said, idly scratching the lottery ticket with my lucky penny. The silver dust scattered all over the glass counter. And this time I won. I won big. Ten thousand dollars.

Ron and I were hootin’ and hollerin’ and giving each other high-fives so we didn’t see him walk into the store. He announced his entry with a blast of his shotgun.

I had the presence of mind to grab for the lottery ticket before I hit the floor. Unfortunately, my aim was off and the ticket scooted across the glass and off the counter.

The thug didn’t say a word. He just walked over to the register and began stuffing cash into his pockets. When he was done, he threw the drawer across the store. He looked up, searched the array of cigarettes displayed overhead, and grabbed a carton of Marlboros.

He was just about to leave when he noticed Suzie. She was obediently perched on the counter with my lottery ticket clutched tightly in her tiny little paws. The guy gave a little snort, grabbed the ticket, and stormed out of the store.

Stanley Pilbeam was one of those little men who lived in a grayish world on the periphery of everyone else’s existence. The high spot of his weekends was his metal detector. Rain or shine, he would plod around some lonely area, eyes glued to the ground, ears twitching at the faintest crackle in his headphones.
On this particular day, the metal detector wasn’t just crackling but fairly humming. The sound led him to the roots of an old, dead tree.

In fact, this storm-battered site had once been the location of the ill-fated particle accelerator that had been shut down by the government. What neither Stanley nor the public knew was the project had never been abandoned at all, but had been constructed in absolute secrecy 200 feet below that very spot; five miles of intricate equipment which, at that moment, was accelerating charged particles to stupendous speeds ready to smash into a lump of fissionable material. The tree was actually a ventilation shaft.
Unfortunately, at the precise moment the particles reached their maximum speed, Nature intervened with a bolt of lightning that struck the ventilation shaft. The accelerated particles were deflected and shot up the shaft, hitting Stanley.

The physics involved in this cosmic event would have baffled Einstein.
Sub-atomic matter spewed forth. Nuons nooed, Snarks snickered, Muons mooed, Gluons became unglued, and charged particles charged at Stanley. He was transmogrified into a massive hologram whose very molecules consisted of tiny replicas of himself and his metal detector. The hologram was so big that the solar system itself fitted between its cracks – so no one on even noticed.

That is, with the exception of the Dolderons, an advanced but warlike alien race who were concealed in an orbit behind Jupiter, getting ready to invade Earth.
The sudden appearance of the gigantic hologram that was Stanley terrified them. So complex was the physics involved, they thought he was an advanced weapon of retaliation. Their top scientists worked day and night to neutralize the massive forces locked up in Stanley. But all they could do was compress him to real size and encase him, still living, in a block of transparent Dolderum – an almost indestructible material. Then they fled the solar system forever.

Stanley might still be orbiting the moons of Jupiter, a puzzled look on his face, save that just then five Neutron stars at the center of the universe collapsed into a black hole. No bigger than a pea, the black hole weighed more than ten billion Jupiters. It was ejected at light speed to arrive simultaneously at Stanley’s orbit. In an event whose probability was 10(127): 1 (10 with 127 zeros after it), it smashed through the Dolderum and drilled a neat hole in Stanley’s forehead.

Stanley did not explode or die but, in the incomprehensible paradox of massive Space/Time forces, not only was he sucked into the black hole and reconstituted, he was also deposited in front of the same dead tree, intact, at exactly the moment the lightening bolt had struck. With one minor difference: he was now six inches further to the left.

As a result of this minute change, this time the lightening bolt struck him on the head and he died instantly.

His colleagues at Madson Mortgage & Loan, embarrassed that they couldn’t remember what Stanley looked like, bought a headstone that read:
‘Stanley Pilbeam, a good man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time’.
True. But Stanley was also in the right place at the wrong time or the wrong place at the right time or even the right place at the right time.
Go figure. He saved the world.
Poor guy.

So Alyssa shows up a half-hour before curtain with her arm in a cast.

“It’s ok, Josh” she says. ‘You’re the director; just write something into the script about a skiing accident. You are not sending in that pig of an understudy.”

“Alyssa,” I say, pointing to a row of artificial palm trees, “this play—in case you haven’t noticed—takes place in the tropics. It’s called ‘South Pacific.’ There are no snowy mountains. We cannot write in a skiing accident. We do not rewrite Rogers and Hammerstein.”

I punctuate my remarks by punching the end palm tree. It wobbles briefly and then careens into its neighbor, setting off a cascade of falling plastic trunks and flying polyester leaves.

“Crap!” I yell. The stagehands scramble to stand up the trees, but slip on the broken twinkle lights wound around the branches.

“Fix it,” I demand.

I go looking for Alyssa’s understudy.

“Ok, Chrissy, you’re up. Alyssa’s got a broken arm.”

“Tonight? You want me to go on tonight with no warning?”

“That’s what an understudy does, Chrissy: the instant trip to stardom.”

“But Josh, I haven’t done my relaxation techniques; I haven’t worked through my motivation.”

My look seems to provide instant motivation but Chrissy says, “Alyssa’s costumes are too tight on me,” and I say work it out with the wardrobe people and she slinks off swishing past Todd who is singing "Some Enchanted Evening" with lyrics he has invented himself. Too late to do anything about that now.

‘Listen, Todd,” I say, “Alyssa’s out; Chrissy’s on for tonight.”

“No. That’s not acceptable. I won’t go on,” he says.

“What?”

“I resent her homophobia and her obvious mimicking of me, and I would rather kiss a horse’s ass than kiss her. I refuse,” he says.

“Well, I guess we can just have two understudies playing the lead roles tonight,” I say.

“Ok, ok,” Todd says, “but tell her to close her eyes when she kisses me . . . I mean it, Josh. I totally mean it.”

“Ten minutes to curtain,” the stage manager calls.

I look for Chrissy, and see her—from the back. The zipper on the back of her jumpsuit stops at the waist; above that, strips of duct tape across her back connect one side of her costume to the other.

“Ok, Chrissy listen, you’re going to have to stay upstage the entire show--what the hell have you been eating? And listen, close your eyes when you kiss Todd.”

She opens her mouth and is answering me, but all I hear is a piercing siren. It stops, and then I hear the sound guy on my headset.

“Josh, something just blew—I’m not sure what it is, but if I turn the system on, all I get is this weird feedback.”

“Ok, everybody, take off the body mikes. We can’t take a chance.”

Chrissy screams as they yank off the duct tape to get to her body mike.

“Curtain up,” calls the stage manager.

“Curtain up,” he hisses a moment later.

A stagehand walks over to me; he hands me the broken curtain cord.

In the wings, Alyssa is smiling.

Fallujah, Iraq – Jolan District – 1700 Hours

The raid started just as night began to fall in the Jolan district. The adhan would echo over the still city very soon. I have always enjoyed the Islamic call to prayer—so foreign from anything in America. I feel blessed that in my twenty-two years I have seen and experienced things others only dream about.

An “advance forward” motion from the team leader interrupts my reverie. As we move toward an insurgent warehouse I can hear angry puddles protesting our determined footsteps. The warehouse we are striking looks dark and desolate against the setting sun. Two men move to either side of our entry point awaiting the “go” order.

Our sergeant leans forward and whispers, “Remember our orders. Fire upon any hostile, proceed to our exit point, and rendezvous with the squad.” We all shake our heads affirmatively.

I feel nervous. I have never killed anybody. The fear and dread that this might be the day my hands get dirty hangs like a cold blanket around my shoulders. I joined the Army out of patriotism—out of rage at 9/11—but I can’t bring myself to end a life.

I look over at Sarge, who has apparently been staring at me.

“What’s wrong with you today, man? Pay attention. ” He whispers harshly.

I nod and bring my M16 to the ready position.

The sergeant’s arm chops down with the “go” order. The warehouse door explodes inward and we rush into the room. I follow Sarge to the left as the other two go right. The lighting in the hallway flickers—outlining a door in front of us. I can hear voices on the other side, as well as the distinctive bolt action sounds of Russian rifles.

Sarge motions for me to open the door. I move forward and grip the door handle. Unlocked. I give him a thumbs up and he nods back. I fling the door open and rush toward some barrels to use as cover before the door has even finished slamming against the wall. Gun shots echo out and I feel chunks of concrete bounce against my back. Sarge tosses a grenade behind a stack of crates while diving toward my position. A thunderous explosion erupts behind the crates and we are pelted with heat and wood.

Everything is silent—except for the rustling sound of fire.

I nudge Sarge. He points to his leg. I can see in the smoky, electric light that he took a bullet.

The scraping sound of wood being moved alerts us to another hostile. I take my 9MM out of its holster and aim toward the direction of the noise. A small, dark shape is coming. I should fire—but I can’t. Fire. Fire. I try to will the gun to go off, but my finger isn’t budging. The shadowy form turns into a little child—holding a detonation device.

Sarge screams at me, “Fire, Corporal! Shoot the little terrorist!”

I can’t. I stare at the dirty kid with the bomb strapped to his chest. He keeps coming toward me.

Sarge grabs his own sidearm and points it at the kid. My 9MM swings toward Sarge’s head.

“Don’t do it. We aren’t killing a kid.”

Sarge’s gun goes off loudly and the dirty kid’s little chest explodes inward.

Before I can stop it my finger squeezes the trigger. Sarge slumps to the ground against the rusty barrels.

The loud speaker of a nearby Mosque suddenly plays the adhan. I listen to the wailing cry—wondering over and over how this happened.

FADE IN

(Ada the Adventurer is standing on a dirty city sidewalk. Standing next to her is her friend Gloves, the glove wearing Armadillo.)

Ada: (Overly cheerful and waving) Hello, everybody. I'm Ada. And this is my friend Gloves the Armadillo.

Gloves: Jambo!

Ada: Today we are going to the pharmacy. My Mama needs her medication and Daddy says Mama gets very difficult without her medication.

Gloves: But Ada, we don't know how to get to the pharmacy.

Ada: Who do we ask when we don't know where to go? (Pause for audience response)

Gloves: The Map!

Ada: That's right! The Map! Say "Map".

Gloves: (Excited) Say "Map!" Say "Map!"

(Ada's talking backpack responds.)

Backpack: Ada, we don't have the Map. Your Daddy used it to line the bird cage last night.

Ada: (Still cheerful.) Oh well.

Gloves: How will we get to the pharmacy?

(Ada looks around and spots a disheveled looking blue bull sitting next to a trash can with a half drunk bottle of wine between his legs.)

Ada: There's our friend Benny the Bum! Maybe he knows how to get to the pharmacy.

(Ada and Gloves walk over to Benny.)

Ada: Hello, Benny!

Benny: Hi, Ada!

Ada: Benny, we need to get to the pharmacy, but we don't know where the pharmacy is. Do you know where the pharmacy is?

Benny: The pharmacy is across that busy street.

(Scene switches to show a busy city street full of fast moving cars and trucks.)

Ada: (Undaunted) We need to cross that busy street to reach the pharmacy so we can get Mama's medicine.

Gloves: Ada, look at all the fast moving cars and trucks. How will we ever cross the street?

Ada: (To viewer) Will you help us cross the busy street? To help us cross the busy street, you need to say the Swahili word for run: "Chaupa".

Gloves: (Excited) Say "Chaupa!" Say "Chaupa!"

(Ada and Gloves pause for a moment to allow for audience response. After a moment, girl and armadillo take of across the street. Ada adeptly weaves in and out of traffic, making it safely to the other side. Gloves, however, isn't as lucky. Just prior to reaching the far side, a pick-up truck's right front tire strikes the armadillo squarely in the side, shattering it's shell and spraying the asphalt with a mixture of blood and innards.)

Ada: (Remaining perky in spite of just witnessing her friend‘s demise) Oh, no! Gloves didn't make it. Poor Gloves. Now he's roadkill! But we made it across and there's the pharmacy. Now we can get Mama's medication. Daddy will be very happy when Mama gets her medication.

(Ada enters the pharmacy and walks up to Mr. Wilkins, the pharmacist.)

Ada: Hi, Mr. Wilkins.

Wilkins: Hi, Ada.

Ada: I’m here to pick up Mama’s medication.

Wilkins: I’m sorry Ada, but I can’t give you the medicine.

Ada: But why, Mr. Wilkins?

Wilkins: Because it’s only been fifteen days since her last refill. The insurance company will only cover one refill a month.

Ada: (Still wearing a wide smile) Hmmm. I wonder where the medication went? (To viewers) Do you know where the medication went?

Wilkins: Do you really need to ask, Ada? You talk to maps and backpacks. You think glove wearing armadillos and blue bulls are your friends. And you are so darn happy all the time. I think we both know where your Mama’s medicine is going.

Ada: (Shrugs her shoulders, yet still beaming) I guess the gig is up. Won’t Daddy be upset. (To viewers) I sure had fun going to the pharmacy with you today. See you next time. (Waves) Bye!

FADE OUT

John rose early from bed at the sound of the neighbor’s rooster. After showering, shaving and getting dressed he looked at the clock and realized he was an hour early. This weekend had been daylight savings time. John vowed, he would obey Chik-Fil-A and ‘Eat Mor Chickn’. “Rooster cordon bleu,” he thought. But he gave up the thought of revenge and went to the kitchen for breakfast.

Dishes filled the sink and trash overflowed from the wastebasket. Something scurried under the refrigerator. He went to the cupboard to extract a cup and was greeted by a hastily disbanded roach family reunion. Hurriedly, he slammed door back in place before they could cover the counter, then it struck him. Not only was he up too early, he had taken off today to renew his driver’s license.

Groggily he left home and headed to the local DMV office. On the way, John stopped at a convenience store and bought a package of powdered donuts, a bottle of chocolate milk and lottery ticket. He stuffed the ticket in his pocket and ran out of the store as he saw a kid running a key down the side of his car.

“Hey you little twerp,” he shouted to the fleeing youth.

John bounded in pursuit across the store lot and lurched on an oil slick. Head over heels he tumbled and ended sprawled on the pavement, dirt and grime covering his hands, knees and back. A man rushed over to his side.

“Are you okay, sir?” The gentleman inquired.

“Yeah, just a little banged up. You mind giving me a hand?”

“No problem.”

John loudly groaned to his feet.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, I’d want some help if was clumsy too,” offered the gentleman.

John wanted so badly to snap at the guy, but he just gave a fake chuckle and headed to his car. He sat in front of the store for a few moments trying to regain his thoughts. Then he noticed a girl he had dated in high school furtively glancing at him over one of the shelves in the store. He bowed his head and started his car in panic. Though his neck was sore he turned halfway in his seat, backed out as quickly as possible and sped away.

Only when turning into the DMV did he realize he had been on auto-pilot, mentally rehearsing the previous scene. He wondered what his ex had witnessed.
Wandering in the front door he looked at the line and grumbled. Everyone and their mom were at the DMV. The wait would be at least an hour but he was still shaken from the earlier encounter and needed the time to regroup.

John took a number and waited until, two hours later he was called. He stood in the short photo line and when it came his turn he handed over his expired license to the clerk who looked at it and typed a few things into his console.

“Do you mind if I get a drink really quick?” the nerdy clerk asked

“Well, I guess,” John tentatively replied. “Can you hurry, though?”

“Sure thing.”

The clerk disappeared through the back door.

“How rude,” he thought and wondered whether he should report the incident. “You pay good tax dollars and get treated like you’re nothing,” he mused.

But the wait didn’t last long. Moments after the looser of a clerk vanished, the rear door opened revealing a hulking state trooper who strolled to John’s side.

“Come with me,” he offered.

“What’s the deal?” John inquired.

“Unpaid speeding tickets turn into warrants” he smiled.

Picture the scene, I had been a victim of bullying for the last year in school and through much encouragement from my mother I had finally decided to confront my abuser in the school playground. It’s the kind of adrenaline-fuelled decision that would end happily; if only you had sat down for just five minutes to plan it out. Of course, I found myself stood before this goon with no idea of how to cope with the situation I had in fact initiated.

My sudden realisation of my surroundings and the acceptance that I was in for a beating removed every shred of what little courage I had mustered. I gazed upwards towards the larger kid and cringed, knowing full well that I was completely out of my depth. Far from impressed, Mr Bully grasped me by the scruff of the neck and decided that I was fair game for a slapping. Why did ever I listen to my mother?

The world appeared to slip into slow motion as I watched his fingers clench into a fist. Envisioning a bloody nose, I struggled against his grip as he drew his arm behind his head, bent at the elbow and ready to pummel my angelic features. I kicked and flailed against his hold, but it was of no use as his fist drove forwards.

Right then, with both us of grappling in our greatest moment, a bird hovering overhead let fly with the most strategically placed dump I have ever seen, landing right on the fist of my tormentor mid-punch. I glanced from fist to face repeatedly in quick succession, and then promptly burst out laughing. Obviously the humiliation of being felled by a mere seagull didn’t sit comfortably with him as he hurriedly ran off crying, leaving me to see another day.

Well what can I say, s**t happens.

"Listen Brian, I told you I'm good at this stuff. It's hardly a cliché to call it a gift, eh?"

Ted was almost out of his seat, frustrated rage colouring his usually calm countenance. Although used to dealing with forthright applicants, Brian's realisation that he would have to really put his foot down hit him hard.

"Mr Williams, you have to realise that we get applications for all kinds of startup funding, and your idea is clearly..."

"You don't get it, do you? Any idiot can be a clairvoyant these days." His eyes defocussed slightly, and suddenly he said in a quieter, unaccented voice, "Your mother says she still thinks it's hilarious that you 'went' in your dad's briefcase when you were six. She's giggling uncontrollably." His voice returned to normal, as Brian blushed deeply. "So you see, it's only a matter of me having the grant to set myself up to become a Parrotnormal Communicator, making a living talking to people's deceased talking family pets. As I said in my application, mostly parrots and maybe the odd minah bird."

Ted sat back and smoothed out his suit, the smile returning to his face as a rubber stamp approved his plan.

Over the coming weeks, Ted moved into his office, bought furniture and pot plants, placed some adverts, and with a kind of excited awe sat back in his huge leather chair playing Solitaire on his PC waiting for the phone to ring. It was one thing to talk about this, but he had never actually spoken to the spirit of a talking bird before.

Nervously the little man before him ran his hands round the rim of his hat, before finally releasing it and putting it on the huge leather topped desk in front of him.

"You see, Mr Williams..."

"It's Ted. Please."

"Oh yes, of course. Well, you see Ted, I really loved Polly, and if there was a chance to talk to her just one more time..."

"Just tell me a little more about, Polly was it?" He scribbled on the little notepad.

"Well, she was a beautiful bird. Small green feather in her left cheek where it should have been red. Loved to sit on the bottom perch, swing over and grab the top perch with her beak and let go with her feet and swing there. Beautiful bird."

Ted scribbled, then slowly drifted to a familiar place, his eyes losing focus, his mind connecting as he expected it would. He spoke, flat and without intonation.

"Polly pretty. Polly want a cracker."

He pulled back slightly, looking at the puzzled man in front of him.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Williams," said the little man standing up, his hat once again in his hands. "That's quite a gift you have."

As Ted left the office an hour later, he locked the door for the last time and pushed the key through the letterbox.