authorjeffbaker

                                    Interlude With Wolves

                                           By Jeff Baker

            The man had been sitting on the cliff overlooking the lake for some time when the wolves approached.

            “See,” the younger wolf said. “He’s barely moved since I was here this morning. And he didn’t notice me.”

            “No wonder,” said the older wolf. “I see humans like this one at this spot quite frequently. They come here to stare at the lake, the sky and the trees.” The older wolf flicked his tail. “But they come this distance to stare at wonders and ignore the wonders in the places they live; the growing grass, children, the beginning of a new day.”

            “How is it that you know so much?” the younger wolf asked.

            “Experience. Taking the time to observe with all my senses,” the older wolf said. “This man will return to his civilization and go back to his way of not noticing.”

            “Is he here to jump?” the younger wolf asked.

            “No,” said the older wolf. “There is no smell of death here, but he may fall if he is not careful. It is how men live their lives; between death and caution.”

            The two wolves turned and walked down the cliff, the younger wolf glancing back.

            “Our lives are better,” the older wolf said.  “We meet our food. We know how to breathe and how to live.”

            The younger wolf thought about this but he still looked back at the man one more time.

                                                —end—

                                 Something About Sharks

                                          By Jeff Baker

            “Grrr! I’m a shark!”

            “Yeah, right,” the man said.

            “Benny Hill would have made a more convincing shark,” the woman said.

            “Okay, what’s wrong with the way I do a shark?”

            “The legs throw it off a little,” the man said.

            “So do the arms,” the woman said.

            “Hey, the top half was all we could afford!”

            “You’re supposed to scare people,” the man said.

            “Not wearing that shark miniskirt he isn’t,” the woman said.

            “Maybe if I stay in the water, don’t get near the shore?”

            “Good idea,” the man said.

            “There he goes,” the woman said.

            “Trust me, people will come here to see this and pay money. Even knowing the shark is fake,” the man said. “There was always something about sharks.”

            “I hope so,” the woman said. “How long have the sharks been gone, anyway?”

            “The last one was spotted in the Pacific around 2217, I think,” the man said. “That was almost thirty years ago.”

            “Thirty years,” the woman said. “Look! He’s out by the buoy!”

            “Maybe an underwater drone with a big fin sticking out,” the man mused.

                                                —end—

            Don’t Blame the Messenger

                                          By Jeff Baker

            “Okay, if you’re an angel, how come you’ve got a bicycle instead of wings?”

            “Angels are messengers,” the man at the front of the bike said. “Haven’t you ever heard of a bike messenger?”

            “Yeah, but I…Lookout!” Stan yelled.

            They swerved to avoid the car stopped in the road. Stan held onto the back of the bike for dear life. He was wishing he hadn’t listened about a half hour ago when the man had shown up at his hotel, asked if this was room 243, asked if he was Stan Howard and told him he was an angel.

            There was nothing angelic about the words the Angel spat out as he regained control of the bike.

            “Pardon my French,” he said.

            “We’re in Amsterdam,” Stan said. “And you told me this was urgent.”

            “It is,” said the Angel.

            “If you’re an angel why don’t you just OOOP!”

            They hit a bump in the road. The Angel swore again.

            “Why don’t we just fly?” Stan said.

            “I don’t have a license to fly with passengers,” the Angel said glancing back with a grin.

            “This is some kind of Amsterdam drug deal, isn’t it?” Stan asked. “I’m not into that. The only thing I ever…”

            The Angel interrupted.

            “The strongest thing you ever tried was weed; the last time was in College, January 23, 2006. That was at a party where you and Billy Mitzer went into the back room and made out.” The Angel slowed the bike to a stop. “But you really had a crush on Kev Sanchez and you never told anyone.”

            Stan’s jaw dropped.

            “Billy is straight; he’s married with three kids and was so stoned he doesn’t even remember that night.”

            “How do you…” Stan began.

            “I’m an angel. I know things. Like your needing to be right here right now. And that my telling you I was an angel was the only thing I could say that would get you on the back of this bike.”

            Stan had stepped off the bike when the Angel started pedaling away.

            “Hey!” Stan yelled. The Angel looked back and called back at Stan.

            “You might want to give Kev Sanchez a call.”

            Stan thought about running after him, but instead turned and started walking back to the hotel.

            The woman had been pounding on the door of room 243 for about five minutes when the door across the hall opened.

            “He’s not there,” the man said.

            “What?”

            “He left about thirty minutes ago.”

            “Well, then I have the wrong room,” she said. “I’m looking for my aunt.”

            “Older woman? American?” the man asked.

            “Yes!”

            “I saw her in the lobby a while back,” he said.

            “Oh. Okay, thanks,” she said heading down the hall.

            “Do you want a cup of coffee later?” he asked.

            She stopped and turned. He was her age and there was something about him.

            “Yes,” she said. “In the café, downstairs. Later.”

            She smiled and walked down the hall.

            She seemed nice, he thought as he watched her go. Who knows? Maybe they were destined to meet.

                                              —end—