The Real Magic Kingdom

for bridget

For the happiest place on Earth, there sure were a lot of grumpy parents and crying kids. Victor was hoping that he wasn’t wasting his time in this line. He had been turned away from Space Mountain for being too tall. TOO TALL! How many people can say that they’re too tall to ride a roller coaster? The man in front of him was arguing with his pre-teen daughter about whether it was worth leaving the line to get chicken strips. When the man saw Victor, he turned ghost white and agreed with his daughter that now, after spending 43 minutes in line, was the appropriate time to go eat overpriced food.

Victor was accustomed to this reaction. When people saw him, they generally reacted with a combination of horror and disgust. It was like they were face to face with an extremely unfortunate burn victim whose features made them inhuman. But Victor was the opposite. He had no features. His defining characteristic was his height and build. A few people on the internet had taken to calling him Slenderman and created lore about him luring children into the woods. Victor wasn’t sure how he had become part of the internet mythology. But he was, and at this point, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

When he got to the front of the line, the teenager running the Haunted Mansion ride craned his neck to look up at him. He whimpered as he pointed Victor to the last seat on the doom buggy. Haunted Mansion was one of Victor’s favorite rides. He felt at home with the creepier things in life and there was less of a chance that someone would panic around him. The ride made its way through the mansion and people jumped as ghosts appeared. But not Victor. This was his happy place. He wished that people could see his smile. But they couldn’t, because he didn’t have one.

When the ride ended, he left the exit back into the sunny and muggy Florida day. He thought it best to head home before everyone headed for the exits. He still needed to grab one more souvenir before he left. He walked over to a shop selling every Disney character in plushy form. Even the new Marvel superheroes were stuffed and sold. There was a boy, maybe 11, looking into the store window at a realistic-looking Thor’s hammer. He was trying to get his parent’s attention with the hope that they would shell out a month’s pay for it. But his parents were busy arguing about whether it was best to leave now or stay for the fireworks. Victor had found the perfect thing for his collection. He went up and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. With a loud “crack”, they were now standing in the woods. The boy’s confusion had not yet turned into panic.

If he could speak, Victor would say to the boy “I can't wait to show you the real Magic Kingdom.” But he couldn’t. So he wrapped his tentacles around him and carried him into the dank, overgrown castle.

The Old Moss Farm

Lazy days on the Old Moss Farm consisted of sitting on the porch and drinking iced tea. Now the farm didn’t always grow moss. At one point, if you ate a peach or pecan in southeast Texas, it was likely that it came from Old Moss Farm. But these days, the farm was living up to its name. Long tails of Spanish Moss decorated the limbs of the old orchard. The trees seemingly weighed down with age just as much as with the moss. No one harvested the pecans or peaches these days. What did grow was left for the squirrels and birds.

Old Farmer Palmer sat in his chair on the porch, drinking iced tea, looking over his tired, mossy orchard. It wasn’t just the orchard that was tired. John Palmer had spent all 67 of his years on the farm. His father and his father’s father had carefully planted the trees over the years and grew the farm as the market grew. When John was a boy (Johnny at the time) he spent his days climbing the trees of the orchard and chasing chickens around the back of the house.

John had done his best to keep the farm alive. Even when grocery stores were able to import cheaper fruit from Mexico and California year-round, John innovated. He opened the orchard to the public and let people pick their own peaches as the apple orchards do in the Northeast. People around the area came for a few seasons. Then they didn’t. John tried to sell peaches online, but when people could get them cheap at the grocery store, they didn’t really think about where they came from. The biggest blow was when his best friend Ralph passed away. John and Ralph weren’t public about the totality of their relationship, so John wasn’t able to publicly grieve the way that others who lost their lover would. When people spoke of Ralph, he would sit stone-faced and nod along, willing the tears to come later when he was alone.

After Ralph died, John let the tractor rust a little more. He let the paint on the barn fade. And he let the moss grow. Each season, the moss grew longer and there were fewer peaches. The moss slowly took over spaces where new leaves would grow until John sat on the porch each morning, staring at an orchard of moss. If he were younger, he would be out on a ladder fighting back the moss with chemical spray. But John was content. The orchard would die with him.

Summer

For months, Caroline had pined for Summer. The sun’s rays on her cheeks. Birds singing. Crickets chirping. Trees rustling. Today was the day that the almanac said that summer would finally arrive. The Old Farmers Almanac had been predicting the weather for at least a decade and she would stake every ounce of her emotions on the fact that Summer would be here today.

Caroline planned her day around the fact that it would be bright and warm. She would catch a picnic by the train station with her best friend Ingrid. They would watch as travelers from far away got off the train to visit their little town. They may even get to jump in the pond out on Mr. Duke’s land.

Caroline frantically put on a summer dress and packed a picnic. Her mother was clueless as to what was transpiring. As Caroline swung open the front door, a small snowflake melted to her cheek. The cold was like sharpened daggers. The betrayal felt the same.

Finny

    Finny had been working in the desert for 35 years. As he got older, the days were getting longer and hotter. Finny was committed to his work. He had gone in every day looking for new ways to make it better for everyone on the job site. He worked his way up from helper, all the way to digger. He operated and oversaw the complex machinery within his section of the mine. There were a few ways to get to underground ore: You could blast the earth away and sift out the good stuff. You could dig tunnels underground and be among the rocks, digging out the good ones. Or, you could dig big trenches, and send the rocks and soil up a conveyer to a breaker that ground the rocks into smaller rocks. Special magnets and chemicals would then take out what could be sold and discard the rest. Finny preferred this type of mining. He grew up in the desert and always needed to know where the sun was, so going underground was out of the question. As for explosives, his prior criminal history precluded him from working them. So he manned his digger for 10 hours a day.

    For the last 35 years, Finny has been digging up Zinc. A wonderfully useful metal used in vitamins, car parts, computers, toys, gas pumps, scientific tools, and weapons to name a few. The key that Finny uses to start his machine every day is made of a Zinc-Brass alloy. As Finny worked his machine, he imagined all of the places the Zinc from this load of dirt would travel. All of the lives and places that his work would touch. This was his version of daydreaming.

    It was starting to get dark when his radio crackled: “Finny, shut her down. We’ll do some busy work and head home.”

    Finny filled out his paperwork for the day (number of loads, the weight of each load, equipment maintenance logs, etc.) and hopped in his truck to head home. His blue 1979 Ford F150 rattled like an empty paint can and he bounced out of the mine’s parking lot. As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed that the kitchen light was off. He’d normally leave it on for his dog, Jake. Jake greeted Finny at the door like someone greets their brother whom they haven’t seen for a decade. Finny fixed Jake’s dinner, then his own, and the two of them retired to the living room to catch up on their shows.

    From the outside looking in, Finny didn’t have what society deemed as "success". But he saw it very differently. He had what society didn’t: happiness.

podcast listener

My ex-girlfriend has a podcast. She talks to the world about things that were old that are now new. Like flared jeans or IPAs. Yesterday's episode talked about how pre-electricity, everyone had a candle snuffer. It saved your breath and you didn't spray wax all over your house by blowing candles out. Now, every millennial has a candle snuffer that they bought (or was bought for them) at a gift store. It's very likely faux gold with a wooden handle. See, it was old. Now it's new.

To be clear, no one who has seen me naked should have a platform. Telling the world about how pale skin was once and now is attractive might bring up memories of my ghostly body, which could snowball into someone else finding out about my ghostly body. Then the whole world will know that I am naked and pale underneath these clothes. So I listen to the podcast each week to make sure that she doesn't cross any lines.

In her very relatable way of using her life to explain things, she's never mentioned me. Not that I want her to. But, maybe a memory of something we did will help her to explain one of the topics. Like travel by train. Not that we ever did…but we talked about it. I just wonder if she'll ever mention me. I wonder if she even remembers me.

Maybe I'm only something old.

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Note: Just like all of these random musings, this story isn't true. I'm playing with a character's inner thoughts. I'm not pale. I'm more yellowish. Like a pastel Bart Simpson.

Shame Without a Pinch of Salt

Dear Beloved Readers,

I’m taking a break from my regular column to write something different: an apology.

For years, as your food critic and guide, I’ve sent you across the city in search of the best cuisine. I’ve pulled no punches when assessing polenta. I’ve damned delis. I’ve praised pierogis. I’ve sworn at steak. I’ve scuttled scampi. I’ve celebrated Caesar salad.

But I haven’t been honest with you.

It has been my job and duty to inform you of the city’s best and worst. My professional obligation is to report the facts of various feasts. I feel that responsibility deep in my marrow. I owe it to each person in this city to highlight the best of the best and to call out the mediocre. Every person in this city deserves good food, but not everybody can make it.

I draw your attention to an article I wrote on March 18, 2006, titled “Cookin’ in Brooklyn: Ms. Sally’s Unsinkable Seafood”. I wrote this article following up on a tip from a reader who frequented an establishment in Flatbush named “Ms. Sally’s”. Without rehashing the entire article, I enjoyed the best variety of Caribbean-style seafood anyone has ever put on a plate. It was immediately clear that Ms. Sally’s was long overdue for a modicum of recognition. Upon the article’s publication, lines began forming in front of the door to Ms. Sally’s. While they didn’t take reservations, enterprising youngsters would provide a warm body to stand in line for you for $35 an hour. I did not do the cooking, but I do believe that I lit a fire for Ms. Sally’s.

This brings me back to the previous paragraph. I have a duty to inform the readers of this distinguished publication when I have found a gem. A place that deserves its due. I have found such a place. To be more truthful, I found such a place two years ago. Whilst out with friends, I stumbled across a shop selling empanadas. It is no exaggeration to say that I was near death from starvation. I could not imagine spending the next three hours at a book dedication without something to eat. So, I ordered two empanadas: Beef Picadillo and Black Bean with Plantain.

Dearest reader, even a seasoned food critic such as myself must look to a new set of adjectives to describe this culinary experience. I will do my best here to be descriptive and brief:

The empanada pastry was fried firm, but the inside had a tenderness that flaked into the filling. The unctuousness of the beef picadillo hit me with waves of umami, spice, and what I can only describe as what beef should taste like. Finely diced peppers and onions added a vegetal and sweet perfume to the meat. The black beans were creamy but still had a filling bite. Plantains added starch that coated the mouth with flavors of the divine.

Put simply, this was the best food I have ever experienced.

I found myself returning time and time again to this hole in the wall to sample every variety of empanada. At times, I ate empanadas for lunch every day of the week. At one point, I became concerned that my sophisticated tastes were waning. That I was a victim of what we call “Palette Fatigue” in the industry. This condition has put several of my fellow writers out of business. Some will continue to write, filling the page with lies and assumptions. All the worst for them when they are eventually found out.

To test this, I took my partner to a classic Italian dinner. A known spot. I would order a known meal. Somewhere that was a good control for my taste buds. We went to il Pomodoro on Tenth Avenue. I ordered a Pasta al Limon with a side of stuffed artichoke. I can report that the meal was good as expected. I was not suffering from Palette Fatigue.

However, I did begin to suffer from an even worse condition: selfishness. I began to think of what happened to Ms. Sally’s. If I reported on my new haunt, I would likely lose easy access. People would line up in droves for the food, locking me out from the existential experience of these empanadas. So I made the craven decision to keep it a secret.

Every time I entered the shop, it pained me to look Marta and her kitchen in the eyes. Every time they welcomed me by name, it became an indictment against my soul. I could bring more business to this establishment than they have ever seen. But I wanted the empanadas to myself.

Valued reader, I broke the most important ethical standard of being a food reporter: I hid good food from you. For this, I shall hang my head in shame throughout the rest of my career. I hope you stay with me as I dig my way from this hole, one risotto at a time.

Tortas de Ponce: East 12th and Greene

Humbly,

Gareth Pelcher

thin ice pt. 2

     Andrea woke up in a warm bed. Her fingers and toes stung with pins and needles; she definitely had frostbite. She was relieved to hear Chris snoring across the room. They had survived! The Navy had come to get them! Just then, Andrea remembered her last, fading memory: the name of the ship. Looking around, everything in the room was written in Mandarin. This was not the US Navy. They had been picked up by the PLA Navy, who very likely knew what they were doing out there on the ice. 

    She didn't have much time to think things through before there was a knock on the door. A man in a blue working uniform stepped into the room. The patch on his chest indicated that his name was Jian. As he ducked in the door, he spoke softly to Andrea, "Hello and welcome aboard Hai-bing 722. The doctor will be back shortly, and I've sent for some warm corn porridge."

    Andrea was shocked that Jian seemed to genuinely welcome them aboard. "Thank you. Were you able to contact our ship to come get us?"

    Jian did not respond before turning around and closing the door behind him. Andrea heard a lock click from the other side of the door. She realized that they were not exactly guests aboard the Hai-bing 722. 

    Andrea moved over to Chris and gave him a shake. He came to slowly and started to say "Oh hey Andy, I was having the strangest dream..." but was cut off by the awareness of his surroundings. This wasn't his bunkroom aboard the Peary. He noticed the Mandarin writing. But most of all, he noticed Andrea's panicked face. She had about 4 minutes to fill him in until the doctor entered the room with another individual. The doctor's name patch read "Lee". The other man did not have a name patch. He actually didn't have any patches on his work uniform. They immediately understood that he was PLA Intelligence. The doctor carried the promised bowls of warm corn porridge. To Andrea and Chris, it appeared to be milky grits. But their growling stomachs and freezing hands would tolerate anything warm right now.

    As they ate their porridge, the doctor examined their feet by pinching their toes. He took their blood pressure and checked their pulse. After they finished eating, he explained that they both suffered some frostbite. His concern was that necrotic tissue could cause sepsis. If they experienced fever or a rapid heart rate, he would order a blood test to check for infection. However, they both seemed okay for the moment. Both Chris and Andrea were surprised by his bedside manner. Even more so because he obviously knew what they had been caught doing.

    The other man, however, had been silently watching this whole scene. It wasn't until Dr. Lee left the room that the other man spoke: "We know why you're here. We know that you know why we're here. The only thing left to find out is how much you're worth."

    Chris was the first to speak. "We're just researchers. Not military. They just asked us to help out with what they're doing. So we're not combatants. Just researchers."

    The man shrugged. "You came here with your military to steal our equipment. Our researchers put years into building what you stole. So if you're not military, you must be thieves."

    Andrea grew defensive. "But you were just deploying the comms nodes so that you could claim the Arctic and exploit its resources. We're not the bad guys here." 

    This caused the man to laugh. "Bad guys versus good guys. America is full of hero stories. John Wayne versus the Indians. Mel Gibson versus the British. Will Smith versus the aliens. Every story in America is a good guy versus bad guy story. What if, sometimes, it isn't that simple?" The man turned to leave them alone in the room. "You're being taken back to Qingdao until we figure out what to do with you thieves." They could see his smile through the back of his head as he left the room.

thin ice pt. 1

    The USS Peary slowly made its way through the Arctic ice. At the moment, all hands were on deck. Intel indicated that an icebreaker from the Chinese Navy was in the area. Both nations, plus Russia, were increasing their strategic presence in the Arctic. There was a vast fortune of oil hidden under the ocean. And over the years, the ice kept getting thinner. Less persistent. How ironic that climate change was making it all the more possible to extract the largest untapped pocket of oil.

    Chris and Andrea were standing next to each other, staring at the ice. It was freezing. It felt like the wind cut down to the bone. But this was the job. The researchers were the top American experts on distributed radio networks. In this instance, the US Government had hired them to estimate where China would be installing its communications network. China was ahead of the US in building the support equipment needed for a long-term presence in the Arctic. The icebreaker they were pursuing was out installing buried 5G arrays with omnidirectional antennas above the ice and a clever phased array below the ice to connect each station. Once installed, China would own communication in the Arctic and its industry (and military) would profit.

    Every so often, Chris and Andrea would see a deformity in the ice and hold up a red flag. This was the signal to stop the ship. A crew would go down to investigate whether the disturbance in the ice was man-made. In this instance, it was a sure thing. They could see the screw pattern of a 2-foot borehole. Chris held up his flag and felt the diesel generators wind down. The ship ground to a halt against the ice. The ringing in Chris's ears reminded him how loud ice operations were. The ship constantly pushing against and breaking ice. It was really only when you stopped that you realized how noisy it had been. For this one, he and Andrea would go down with the team to inspect the hole. If it had an array in it, they'd hoist it up and take it. Finders, keepers - or something like that.

    Fourty-five minutes into the hoist operation, Andrea stood amazed at the array that the Navy team was pulling from the ice. She knew that China had made huge advances in 5G, but what she was seeing was at least a decade in the future. It looked like Chinese researchers solved technology issues that her colleagues at the National Lab had spent every waking day attempting to understand. Capturing this array would leap-frog that research for them and they'd owe her a good bottle of something.

    After the Navy crew with the array was back onboard, Chris and Andrea stood over the borehole looking down into the Arctic Ocean. It was sinking in for both of them what they had just been a part of. Not only were they involved in what would surely be called an act of war by the Chinese government, but they were going to catapult wireless communications research in the US. Of course, the military would be pleased. But the ramifications would be felt across every industry! Every consumer! Once it was declassified, their names would be on the Wikipedia page that explained how America caught up in the technology race.

    These thoughts were a lot for Chris to process. His brain became quite loud with what this moment meant for his future. But also, it was just loud. Very loud. Like ice breaking...Chris and Andrea turned around with horror on their face as their ship left them. They were being left alone in the Arctic on an ice sheet. The Navy had forgotten about them. Their (future) Wikipedia pages were quickly being re-written in a more tragic tone. At this point, it was 10PM and Chris could barely make out the shape of the ship in the evening twilight. They would have to spend the night on the ice and would figure out what to do in the morning. More than likely, they would shrug at each other, lay down, and freeze to death.

    A few hours later, they started that process by discussing the lack of options they had. It was hard to talk through the shivering, but the sentiment was "We have no supplies and no way to communicate." So they sat on the ice and the blood started to leave their extremities and pool in their core. Their bodies were doing their best to keep their vital functions going. But it was cold and it wouldn't be long now. Thoughts of panic, grief, acceptance, sadness, anger, and numbness clouded Andrea's mind. She was yelling at herself internally. Even though she'd done everything right, this was somehow her fault. Her busy (and cold) brain started to get really loud. Even though she couldn't feel anything in her legs or arms, she felt the ice shake under her. She looked up and saw it: a huge red ship. The Navy had come back for them. But why did they change the name of the boat? And why was its new name written in Mandarin?

**notes:

I wrote this in very short choppy sentences to highlight the manic, anxious, panicked feeling of the situation. Reading it back, that gets old. But ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Atlas

The whiskey was hitting a little harder today than it normally would. Detective James Pederson sat at the sticky bar that had decades of names carved into its top. However, at this particular bar, people knew Detective Pederson as "Atlas". Atlas was a gun-for-hire from Dumas, Texas. It had taken 8 months of hanging around "The Dusty Bottle" for Atlas to be invited into the Viktus Evropen crime group. Viktus Evropen (pronounced vick-tuss your-open) or VE for short was a group of skinheads from the Kansas City suburbs. Normally, the Lafayette County Sheriff's Office wouldn't concern themselves with such a group. But, VE had proved itself capable of moving large quantities of 3D-printed guns. They were also suspected of using those guns to clear their way into new cities.

Atlas was meeting with a lieutenant of the gang to discuss his appointed role: "enforcer". Atlas would be responsible for making sure that group members did not stray far outside the lines. Leadership had the final say, and Atlas was to ensure that their orders were followed. Detective Pederson was hoping for an assignment that would allow him to collect a bit more intel. But, he'd take what he could get. He was already 8 months in and so far had only reported his bar tabs.

Paul finally showed up and sat next to Atlas. His appearance was surprising. Yes, he was a bald skinhead. But he was also wearing thick Buddy Holly glasses, skinny jeans, and a graphic tee. If you passed him in the mall and didn't know any better, you would assume that he was a normal, if not attractive, 34-year-old. Detective Pederson knew that Paul was getting tired of this life. He wanted out. The only folks that had gotten out of VE were promptly loaded into a pine box and placed underground. Atlas knew that he could flip him. But he'd have to be careful. Blowing his cover in VE could destroy the case that he had built. It could also get him killed.

"Paul, do you know why my name is Atlas?"

"I imagine because you travel and have a thing for maps?"

"Atlas is a Titan. In Greek mythology. After the Gods took over, they punished him by making him hold up the sky. He stands there and with all of his might, he holds up the sky so that it doesn't come crashing down onto all of the people on Earth."

"Alright. So, you're holding something heavy?" asked Paul with a raised eyebrow

"Yeah. My chosen punishment in life is to keep people like VE away from those on Earth. Away from society. Paul, I'm a cop. And I can get you out."

Paul stood up to leave.

"Paul, don't walk out that door without hearing me out."

"I hear you, but I ain't listening. "

Atlas threw a 20 at the bar and followed him out the door. "Paul, I'll only offer you once."

"Yep, and I only get to die once. I don't see no reason for it to be soon." Paul turned towards his truck.

A shot rang out. Paul held onto his truck mirror before collapsing onto the gravel.

Detective Pederson looked at his hand. It was holding a 3D-printed gun. A wisp of smoke came from its barrel. This was what it meant to be Atlas. Keeping the sky up. Keeping it away from the ground. This was his eternal punishment.

Atlas tossed the gun on the ground next to Paul. Another dead Nazi. There's something to drink to. Atlas got in his truck to head home. He'd have to answer some questions in the morning. But for now, he could go home and be himself. Whoever that was.

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Note: I had the idea to try this whole "two characters into one character". I don't think I like how it turned out in this story. I don't really like this story. But I wrote it, so I posted it.

Spies

"Juniper" was waiting for her contact "Max" to show up. He was running about 15 minutes late, which was worrying. And it gave Juniper too much time to think. Think about her mission, think about her life, think about food (she hadn't eaten breakfast yet). Where the hell was Max? Like her, most of her fellow agents were incredibly prompt. Max was supposed to be in place 22 minutes after sunrise. Maybe something happened. Maybe the authorities got him.

Finally, Max showed. She knew it was him because of his orange hair which was pretty disheveled. Max let out a huge yawn.

"Seriously, he just woke up?" thought Juniper as she started to collect herself.

For this contact, the protocol would be the following sequence: Max would stand in the window and shake his head twice. Across the street, Juniper would be sitting in her window and would raise her hand, like she was reaching for something. Max would acknowledge by sitting in his window. Then they would begin the upload.

Max technically checked all of the boxes for the protocol today, although Juniper thought that his side was sloppy. Hopefully, the agency would trade Max out for a new agent soon.

Juniper started the upload. It was everything that she had learned over the last 72 hours. It was mostly stolen research on new fracking techniques, as well as some insider information on a new pre-market plastic formulation. When you're trying to build a new society, economic espionage was the quickest way to success.

The upload was taking some time today. The fracking intel was full of quite-large data sets. Juniper slowly rocked herself in the window, waiting for the all-clear. This was taking so long. She couldn't stop thinking about breakfast.

Max finally gave the all-clear. She responded by standing up and having a big yawn and stretching. "Where do they even come up with these signals?" she muttered. The authorities would be out soon and she needed to blend back in. As she turned away from the window, she saw Michelle drinking coffee and staring at her. Michelle was an enemy agent that Juniper had befriended. More than that, Michelle and her husband were actually Juniper's roommates. That's how Juniper always got the good intel. That's how she was going to climb the ranks.

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Michelle looked at Juniper in the window. What in the world was she doing?

"Toby, Juniper is doing that thing again where she sits in the window and sways. Will you get her some breakfast?"

Toby walked into the kitchen in his boxer briefs, opened a can of salmon with gravy, and put it on a plate on the floor. Juniper brushed his leg and gave him a whack with her tail before lapping up the cat food.

"Michelle, this cat is a spy from the moon. I just know it."