Paul G.
Wright

Line of Sight

Vogel was growing irritable. This was taking too long, and she wanted a cigarette. Leaning forward in her chair she locked eyes with the heavyset man.

“Malachai, I am, by nature, blunt. I think this conversation might go better if you kept that in mind. Now, why don’t you tell me just what in the hell you’re proposing?”

Malachai removed the cigar from his mouth. He was silent for a moment and when he spoke again his face was darker. “Very well,” he said. “The people of the earth need help. Food is hoarded on one side while starvation takes place on the other. Money and education are wasted by the privileged while others live in ignorance and squalor. Governments do nothing but argue and make war. We intend to abolish this way of thinking and implement a new system.”

“What kind of system?”

“An empire.”

Vogel’s eyes grew wider. “With you as the emperor, I suppose?”

He nodded. “Precisely.”

Vogel’s breath hitched, a cold shiver running down her spine as her heart raced. He’s crazy, she thought. Mad as a hatter. This was the stuff of comic books and Saturday morning cartoons. And yet there he was, in full color, actually saying it-and worse, believing it. She didn’t know whether to laugh or call for a straitjacket.

A College Story

Dean Faber had rearranged his office. The fish was now on the opposite wall and the globe was in a different part of the room. The chairs were still in the same place however, and so was the little sofa. Denise and I sat on it with blank expressions and everyone else stood.

Faber sat at his desk with his forehead in the palms of his hands. Jackie and Steve were straight as arrows, with their fingers laced, as though they were about to be shot.

After a few moments I coughed, quietly.

“Uh ... sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Bishop?”

“Don’t you even want to talk about it?”

“No, I don’t,” he said, looking up. “Because, it doesn’t seem to matter. No matter what I say, you guys keep popping back in here, like ping-pong balls.”

“Yes, sir.”

He folded his hands and began rubbing the back of his knuckles, absently.

“But just out of curiosity, what in the world possessed the six of you to hold a mock wedding service, in our Fine Arts Building at one o’clock in the morning? Nothing on TV?”

“Well, sir,” said Tom. “It was just one of those spur-of-the moment things. You see...”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Faber said, waving him away. “Look, if you wacky kids want to get married that’s fine. Use a church, or at least have the common courtesy to let somebody know about it in advance.”