August 2017 – The Creative Chronicles of Dave Stancliff

The Android’s Creation

A Very Short Story

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“C’mon, “AT-6 pleaded.”

“Android to Android. Why are the authorities after you?”

MD-9 stopped tapping his stainless steel fingers on the desk and swiveled his head around 360 degrees, scanning the shop and buying time before answering AT-6.

He’d been working on the project for sixty years, painstakingly experimenting with living things he collected while hunting on earth. He had discovered many secrets in several universes.

Bringing back live specimens from other planets was strictly forbidden on Dorn. It was a well-engineered society of Robots and Androids.

They were truly a master race. The Perfect Beings, as they called themselves. They would not tolerate what he was trying to do. If they caught him he’d be exciled to the smallest, most dismal, planet in five galaxies. Forever.

“I don’t know what they want.” MD-9 lied. “Listen, we’ve been friends for nearly 900 years, and I don’t want to see something bad happen to you. You’re safer not knowing what I’ve been doing,” he assured him.

At-6 sighed, and opened the Telacar’s door with a push of a button. “Going to miss you buddy,” he said, while settling into the form-fitting seat. MD-9 watched his only friend streak into the night leaving behind a yellow glow.

He was an outlaw now. They destroyed his lab in the city, but not his greatest work. He looked up at the stars longingly. It was time to get off this exposed mountain ridge and back into the cave.

As he walked deeper into the cave lights started coming on, leading the way to an enormous cavern with stalactites and a full laboratory stocked with everything he needed for his research.

Two clear glass boxes were sitting on a stainless steel table. They were six-feet long and filled with fluids of his making. It was too murky to make out their contents. Cables and wires ran from the boxes to a giant generator.

MD-9 was a scholar besides being a scientist. He’d read the chronicles of two hundred planets. Their histories. Their inhabitants. Their cultures. Their customs. Their laws.

In his travels he found a species on Sirius 8, on the moons orbiting around Rathnor, and a few other planets, that looked similar to him: with a head; two arms; two hands; five fingers; a torso; two legs; two feet; and five toes.

But, unlike MD-9, the species was made of living flesh. Not all of them looked like him. Their were sub species that had interesting qualities he admired. One, was the desire to survive in spite of all odds.

His research into the building blocks of life, DNA, led him to combine the attributes of these living beings into something more marvelous than what they originally were.

He had created the first two humans, a man and a women… who he planned to put on earth. When they opened their eyes MD-9 talked with them for days. He set down simple rules for good living.

Then he sent them off in a programmed spacecraft that would land them on earth in a particularly lush part where food was readily available. They were left with a vague memory of what had transpired.

Just in time, as it turned out. The day after he parted ways with his creations the authorities tracked him down.

They tried him and found him guilty of breaking the law. And so the greatest mind on Dorn was cast away and vilified.

As It Stands, mixing myths, religion, and science fiction is a writer’s smogasborg for the hungry reader.

The First, and Last, Dinner

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The director was dressed in a flamboyant red cloak and cowl. He was smiling as he watched the guests arrive.

From his viewpoint he could see all the action, along with the two camera men who were filming the proceedings.

The restaurant was spacious and elegantly appointed.

Tantalizing odors wafted from the kitchen as waiters and waitresses scurried to serve the well-dressed diners. The tables were all set with Noritake China dinnerware.

The restaurant offered the finest wines in the world. Gourmet cooks staffed the huge kitchen where world-class meals were being created. The dining room was decorated with red velvet drapes framing full-sized gold-gilded mirrors.

Soft music soothed the diner’s ears. A low buzz of muffled conversations gently bounced off the walls and mingled with the subtle scent of roses.

Everyone was looking forward to the entertainment. No one knew it was going to be, but surely it was going to be classy. It was opening night, and they all knew something special was going to happen.

The diners paid a lot of money for the privilege of being the first customers in this restaurant. Only millionaires and billionaires could afford to attend this dinner show. Celebrities and CEO’s were claiming bragging rights because they got invitations.

As the evening progressed, the cooks and kitchen staff departed. Then the servers were gone. Puzzled patrons were having a hard time thinking. The odor in the room had changed from roses to something else.

At midnight the main lights dimmed and a small glass gallery came into view above the diners. In it stood a man dressed in red cloak. On either side of him, were men behind large cameras recording the event.

“Welcome! My name is Rex Brinner. What do you think about my costume? I’m the closest you’ll ever get to the devil in this world. You know why?”

It was getting harder for the diners to hear Rex. There was a roaring in their ears and they were getting increasingly angry. Seeing red. A mindless mass of growing adrenaline.

“I’m going to watch you all die! This will be the ultimate snuff film! The pinnacle of my film career! I’m even going to be sporting about it. The last person alive will get to go free!”

The diners jumped up from their chairs and fell upon each other like starving hyenas. Their unreasoning rage was all-consuming as they fought to survive in the strange fog. Men and women slashing each other with knives. Chairs flying across tables.

Screams. The entire room was soon splashed with blood. The desperate duels were being recorded by the two camera men. It lasted for hours. Beyond Rex’s expectations. Finally only one figure was left standing.

Rex went downstairs and opened a side door to the main dinning room. The gas had dissipated because he turned the fans on an hour ago.

The lone survivor was a small bald man covered in blood, and still clutching a bloody steak knife. Rex smiled at him and said, “congratulations! You’re free!” and pulled out his gun and shot him.

No witnesses. It was an absolute rule in this movie industry.

As It Stands, this is my updated version of Edgar Allen Poe’s macabre tale, Masque of the Red Death.

Future Shock: The Test

Blind Justice

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“Take your time, because your life literally depends upon it,” the test-giver warned them in his clear announcer’s voice.

In contrast, he also cautioned, “Make sure to answer all of the questions in the allotted time, or you’ll be automatically disqualified.“

Three men, and three women, sat in front of a row of desks with computers on them. They all pecked away on their keyboards intently.

Overhead cameras recorded the test, and streamed it live throughout the country.

Viewers at home, or on their mobile devices, listened to a host describe the test’s contents, and give a brief bio on each test-taker. They were rule-breakers. Every Friday, the prison system sent six convicted rule-breakers to the “school room” where the test was conducted.

It didn’t matter if you were a murderer or someone who was caught shop-lifting. If you broke a rule this is where you went in 2053 America. You had to take the test, and if you failed, viewers voted on how you would be killed.

The choices were narrowed down to three categories: The Easy Death – subject shot in the head. A Rough Death – subject beaten to death (several scenarios), and The Really Horrible Death – subject tortured for a day before getting executed by beheading.

The good news for those being tested was that if they passed the test, they were set free. The bad news. No ones ever passed it.

Entertainment executives were delighted with the arrangement. The prison system was never crowded. Each state had one central prison.

Corporations ruled America and reaped profit from anything and everything – including from the struggling mass of citizens who no longer were allowed to vote, but who provided some excellent entertainment on Friday night TV.

Corporate heads ran the government. Billionaires filled all the positions available, including the High CEO’s Cabinet. Old terms, like president, were replaced with a High CEO who demanded everyone kiss his ring. It was a rule.

The test also taught viewers to never break a rule. Among the many rules – posted daily at noon on websites and TVs – was the rule of never saying anything bad about the government or the High CEO.

The government provided the material for the tests from America’s long history. It should be noted that teaching history in classrooms ceased during the reign of Donald Trump (2016 – 2020).

A new generation of Americans grew up with no idea about their history, or the country’s history. Older Americans, the ones who got history classes in public schools, were dying off and had shaky memories of the old days.

One day a man was going through the rubble where a library use to stand. He was looking for anything that might be salvageable. The great fire of 2024 had destroyed this once house of learning.

The man, whose name was Adam, stumbled across a charred trap door in the ruins. He took his homemade hatchet from his rope belt and hacked away at it. It took an hour of steady hacking before he was finally able to make an opening.

With the aide of his flashlight, Adam went down a flight of stairs and came into a vast room lined with shelves of books. The shelves extended as far as he could see. He was stunned with his find. An answer to his dreams.

Adam always suspected the government’s version of American history was false.

People called Adam a skeptic when he tried to share his views. Others warned him to watch what he was saying outloud. He learned not to talk about them at all.

Now, surrounding him was a real library. He made the library his home for five years, before the police arrested him for not bowing before the state governor when he came to town one day.

It didn’t take long for Adam to have to take the test. It was a bigger than usual audience that Friday night because word got out that Adam dared to defy a government official! That didn’t happen every day.

The minutes passed by as the six convicts concentrated on the questions. When the time was up all eyes went to the top of the computers in front of each person. A red light came on the first computer, and the woman behind it hung her head in dread.

Another red light. And another. When it came to the last computer the light turned…GREEN! Adam shouted with joy. The announcer turned pale and looked around for someone to help him. He didn’t know what to do.

It was a first. The announcer was told it was impossible for anyone to get it all of the questions right. Only the government knew the answers, and had programmed them into the six computers that were guarded 24-hours a day.

Adam was set free. The first think he did was start an underground school teaching real history. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Fake news had dominated for decades. He quickly recorded historical chapters and made the recordings available to anyone who wanted to listen.

Then he gathered together a dozen men and women, and made them his students. Their mission was clear, bring truth back to America.

As It Stands, I’ve often heard the phrase “the dumbing down of America.” I find that to be a very scary thought, and the inspiration for this futuristic cautionary tale.

Monster Island: The Rest of the Story

285e41cf4ac832c4363bcc7ee7ba86f1 A very, very short tale about a mysterious island…

A towering wave slammed down on the small fishing boat, like a giant fist smashing a toy in a tub.

Ben’s last memory was the sounds of screaming and the roar of killer waves punishing the ship and everything on it. Then blackness.

The storm raged on through the night.

A sand crab scurried over Ben’s face and he realized he was alive. He was half buried in the soft sand and surf that gently licked the pristine beach. Seagulls cried out greetings. Something sticky glued his left eye shut.

His muscles were so sore that he was barely able to pull himself up from the sucking surf and into a kneeling position. He quickly surveyed his surroundings. Left. Right. The beach looked deserted.

He strained his eyes searching for several minutes. Then he saw some movement. Coming over a sand dune that separated them was Art, his brother-in-law! He slogged along painfully. One arm in a sling. Stopped. Saw Ben and weakly waved.

Standing up was a bit of a challenge, as Ben felt curiously dizzy and his one good eye had a hard time staying focused.

“See anyone else? Ben asked hopefully.

“No,” Art said. “No sign of Bill, Carl, Eric, or the Captain. We won’t know for sure what happened to them until we check out the rest of the beaches surrounding this island.”

“How do you know we’re on an island? This could be the coast of some country.”

Art looked at Ben more closely. “You suffered a pretty nasty gash there Ben. Let me take a look at it.”

A livid open wound ran from the crown of his head to just above his left eye. Crusted blood covered his eye, cheek, and beard. He’d be surprised if Ben didn’t have a concussion.

“The reason I know we’re on an island is that I went inland, through the jungle, and found a little mountain top with a view of the entire island.” Art explained, as he studied Ben’s wound.

“C’mon…if you’re up to walking I know where a steam of fresh water is and you can clean up and quench your thirst.” Art said.

In the days ahead they explored the island, discovering a variety of eatable fruits and roots, and small animals like monkeys. It was a beautiful island. The kind of island you could easily call a tropical paradise.

In their travels they found Carl and Eric’s bodies laying facedown in the surf. A few pieces of driftwood from the boat were scattered around. They found a fishing pole, with reel and string intact.

The weeks turned to months. The months to years.

The men had forgotten what their homes looked like. People’s names. Events. They went about each day staying busy foraging for food, making crude tools, and bowls from coconut shells.

And waiting for nightfall, and the dreams.

From their first full night on the island they both had fantastic dreams. Beautiful women with exotic names like Peisinoe and Thelxiepeia came to them and they made love all night. Come morning they were weak and pale, but strangely satisfied.

Ben and Art soon referred to the island as Paradise.

All their worries had left them and they were living tranquil lives. Not that it would have mattered to them, but the real name of the island they were on was Sirenum scopuli.

The Greeks also called it Monster Island – in mythology – because it was said to be populated by the Sirens whose irresistible songs lured mariners to their destruction for centuries on the rocks surrounding the island.

No one really knew the full story of the island. It was both a myth and a mystery.

What the Greeks weren’t aware of was that many of the sailors survived those shipwrecks. Those lucky (?) souls were given a second chance by the so-called sirens, who were actually vampires with great voices and strong sexual appetites!

As It Stands, sometimes an old myth needs a little updating.

The Hermit Who Offered Mankind the Stars

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He’d been on the earth since its early tumultuous creation.

He didn’t have a name.

There was no need anymore. He escaped to earth after the fall of Siiileni, a million miles and a thousands years away.

He’d seen the rise and fall of a his great civilization destroyed by its hunger for power. Greed. And foremost, a massive division among its residents that resulted in terrible civil wars, and ultimately the destruction of his entire race.

The hermit. That’s what he decided to call himself after a few hundred years on the earth. He watched apes morph into men. He walked with the dinosaurs, and once rode a giant saber-toothed tiger for kicks.

He watched the humans gather into larger groups around the planet. Their mud huts gave way to stone edifices dedicated to their gods. He went among the Babylonians, the Greeks, and the Egyptians, teaching their wise men astronomy.

He gave them the stars by explaining each glittering cluster and galaxy. Their history. Constellations. Things they could see with their eyes. How to interpret them. He always talked of how important peace was.

Then he went to a place of many trees, away from the humans, and he led the life of a hermit. Alone in his thoughts.

His hopes were high that mankind could live peacefully.

Bored, after a couple of decades of silence, other than the sound of animals, the wind, and the rain, he went back out among men into a place called Jerusalem. It was a bad time to be there. The locals had been invaded by another nation. Rome.

The people lived under the yoke of conquerors. As he stood in a narrow street he heard a group of men arguing loudly. A crowd was gathering just ahead of him, in a large plaza area. Anger was in the air. He drew nearer.

Two men were facing off shouting and waving their arms at each other. Suddenly one of them stopped and pointed at the Hermit. He was in his earthly guise. A middle-aged man with long scraggly hair, beard, and olive-hued complexion.

They were making accusations against him. A cacophony of voices called for his death while others pleaded for mercy. He was carried away by a mass of humanity hungry for his blood.

Soldiers drug him along in chains up a steep hill. Beaten along the way with whips. Stones striking his body with painful thuds.

The Hermit realized his time had finally come. The release. He was going into a new unknown. Maybe the loneliness would stop now, he thought as they nailed him to a cross.

As It Stands, no blasphemy intended. This tale is merely a quick glance and an alternative to the greatest story ever told.

Why The Talking Turtle Snapped

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Everyone that knew Sheldon was amazed that he had a talking turtle.

They would ask him where he found this talented turtle, but he only gave a sly smile in return.

Every since he shared Terry (the turtle) with the world last week, both had become instant celebrities.

Terry’s high voice sounded a lot like Don Knotts. One night they were guests on a Late Night TV program and Terry told the host to go screw himself! The audience roared in laughter. The host’s face turned crimson.

Sheldon was stunned. What happened? Where did that comment come from? On the way home that night he kept thinking about Terry’s words. They were off script. That shouldn’t have happened.

Something had to be wrong with the artificial intelligence chip he inserted behind Terry’s scaly skull. It took him two years to develop that tiny little brain. He even lost his job at the laboratory six months ago when they discovered he was conducting unauthorized experiments in artificial intelligence.

He didn’t let that setback bother him however. He lived alone and had a fair amount of money in his checking and savings accounts. He set up a new work area in his basement and spent all of his waking hours tinkering with the chip.

When the day came that he thought it was time to test the chip in a host, he went out into his backyard and retrieved his pet turtle Terry. He thought about using his pug as a host, but realized he’d have to cut his vocal cords and he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

The host had to be silent so it wouldn’t compete with the chip’s voice. That’s why Terry was the perfect host. He continued to program the chip after implanting it in Terry’s neck.

Word recognition. The ability to intelligently talk with someone. Long memory. Constant evolving learning process. Weeks of conversations with the chip inside Terry brought amazing results.

The chip learned how to believe it was a turtle. The Don Knott’s voice was on a whim. Sheldon thought Terry kinda looked like him. A sense of humor never hurt anyone. Right?

Back in the basement. A day had passed since the disastrous late night TV debacle and Sheldon and Terry were deep in conversation.

“Let’s see if I have got this right,” Sheldon said, “You didn’t like him joking with you?”

“That’s right,” Terry replied between bites of lettuce.

“Where’s your sense of humor Terry?”

“It’s highly over-rated. Who needs it?” he replied, before digging back into his meal.

The whole incident raised some alarms for Sheldon. It was obvious he couldn’t control what Terry said. No more interviews. Who knew what could happen? He needed more time to study Terry.

He stayed at home working most of the time in the basement while Terry liked to sit on his pillow in the corner and watch the small screen TV Sheldon had set up for him. Whenever he saw a comedy, or people laughing, Terry got upset and made hissing sounds.

“What the hell?” Terry shouted one night when he turned on an old re-run of The Ghost and Mr. Chicken starring Don Knotts.

“Sheldon!” Terry screamed. “What’s this?”

Sheldon hurried over to the corner and asked “What’s the matter Terry?”

“That skinny bug-eyed idiot has my voice!”

“It’s a good voice” Sheldon weakly defended.

“Everyone laughs every time he opens his mouth! The guy’s a laughingstock! Is that what you think of me?”

Sheldon felt trapped. “Listen, I didn’t know you weren’t going to have a sense of humor. I like Don Knotts. I’ve seen all of his movies and use to watch him on Andy of Mayberry.”

Terry was no longer listening. His anger reverberated throughout his shell. He wasn’t a clown. He had pride. Turtle power! From that moment on, he planned on how he was going to get his revenge.

As It Stands, this very short story reflects my concern for the growing science of artificial intelligence…with a twist.

Deron Discovers a Dimensional Door Just In Time

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One moment Deron was opening the closet door in his bedroom in Columbus, Ohio, and the next, he was standing in the middle of a Klu Klux Klan gathering in Savannah, Georgia, circa 1875.

He instantly knew he was in danger. Being an African-American in this group was like being a lamb in a lion’s den. He quickly looked around for a door. A farm-house stood nearby.

Gritting his teeth he burst through the crowd of surprised Kluxers, and dashed to the door. As he stepped through it he heard the sound of gunfire.

Another trip via his closet door. This was his second attempt in two days. Deron and his parents, and two sisters, had just moved into the ranch style home.

His parents loved the place. It sat on a full acre of land. The girls got a room, he got a room, and his parents got the master bedroom.

The first night, as he unpacked his clothing, he discovered that the closet door was not like other closet doors.

He stepped in with a handful of shirts on hangers and the next moment he was standing in a hobo camp near Hoboken, New Jersey, circa 1934. Men in shabby suits and hats were dipping bowls into a big open pot that stood above a makeshift fire.

At first no one noticed him. He stood there, holding the shirts, and staring at the scene unfolding in front of him. Then someone saw him, and his strange clothing. Something in his head told Deron to look for a door.

He ran across some railroad tracks and up to a shabby-looking train station. Without wondering why, he opened the door. Back in his bedroom again, Deron still clutching the shirts, gasped with a combination of fear and excitement.

Day three. Deron’s parents took his sisters to a soccer game. He didn’t have to go. He thought about the closet door as they filed out the front door. Then he was alone. Back in his room and considered his two experiences.

One, had almost gotten him killed. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if he stayed longer at the hobo camp. They were all white.

He was six weeks away from graduating high school, and had no idea what he was going to do with his life. His parents wanted him to go to college. His dad was a dentist, and his mother was a doctor.

He looked at the closet door. This time, when he stepped inside he couldn’t tell where he was. It was dark outside. No moon. As his eyes adjusted he realized he was standing on a well-trimmed lawn.

Then he made out a house. His house. Was he in the past, or perhaps the future? He slowly approached when he saw a flicker of light in one of the windows. Flames! What was going on?

He ran around to the front of the house – yes it was his house – and tried to open the front door. It was locked and he didn’t have his key. Looking through the front picture window Deron saw flames crawling along the walls.

The kitchen was engulfed. Deron threw his body against the front door. Once. Twice. He heard screams. He stepped back and lunged at the door once more. This time it gave way and he lunged into the smoky interior.

His father came out of the girl’s room desperatly clinching onto their limp bodies and shouting his name. His pajames were on fire and pieces of flaming debre filled the hallway. Deron screamed his name.

Forced outside by the intensity of the heat and smoke, Deron stumbled out to the family car. He opened the door, got inside, and watched the roof collapse. In the distance he could hear sirens.

He glanced at the passenger’s seat and saw a stack of newspapers and dental journals. The date on the top newspaper was April 1, 2017. When he walked through the door it was March 31st, 2017!

There was hope. He got out of the car as the first fire engine pulled up. As the firefighters did their job he jumped into the passnger side of the truck and closed the door. It had to work!

When the family returned from the girl’s soccer practice they found a sober Deron who seemed awful glad to see them. Deron didn’t go to bed that night. Instead, when he was sure everyone else was sleeping he snuck out into the livingroom and sat on the wicker rocking chair.

Then he snacked on gummi bears as he patiently waited for the fire to start.

As it Stands, this story is a nod towards H.G.Wells’ masterpiece, The Time Machine.

Trump’s Mercenaries Lead Assault Against Environment/American People

sue_for_victory_poster-rb4f66633af804d6880458805341773a2_6z7_8byvr_512 Even now that he’s president, Trump thinks he can get away with bullying people and groups.

Using his stable of mercenary lawyers and his new-found bully pulpit, Chump thinks he’s going to last for four-years.

It’s worked thus far, but he’s straining his legal resources with over 75 unresolved personal lawsuits, and defending himself against allegations of obstruction and colluding with the Russians during the 2016 election.

In his latest assault on our environment, Don the Con, unleashed his pack of soulless legal minions on Greenpeace over its part in protecting the Standing Rock Reservation from a corporate pipeline that threatens to pollute the native-Americans only water supply.

Marc Kasowitz, his personal lawyer in the House and Senate investigations, has his own legal company and it’s representing Energy Transfer Partners (the pipeline owners).

Just so you know, Trump has $1 million dollars invested in the company’s stocks. Sound like a conflict of interest?

Of course, it is. Chump’s whole presidency has been a primer course in flaunting ethics, rules, and laws put into place to protect americans and our legal system. With his flock of legal vultures, Donny has been getting away with everything from not showing his taxes, to obstructing justice by interfering in the Russian/ Trump Campaign investigation.

The people who voted for Rump are going to suffer the most from his reluctance to lawfully continue funding the current healthcare plan when Congress failed to repeal or replace it.

You know how much Hump cares about his core followers? He’s announced that he wants to let the whole healthcare system – Obamacare – fail. He hopes it’ll crash and spite everyone – including millions of Americans who didn’t vote for him.

But it all falls back to the way Bump parades through life – seeking adulation – and lashing out at anyone that doesn’t believe in his sick agenda. So he’s always kept a stable of hired mercenaries, leting them out like a pack of rabid dogs when things don’t go his way.

But the Orange Mango-In-Chief is going to reap his karma. As he defends Nazis and KKKer’s a seismic backlash is running through the country. When the investigations come to their conclusions, I don’t expect it to be good news for Donnie Little-Hands (his native-American name).

As It Stands, Chump’s motto has always been Sue For Victory, not Make America Great Again.

Story Time In Hell

A very, very short story… devileyes

Lucifer licked his lips after consuming a crusader.

With a full belly, the Lord of the Flies felt satisfied. Now was the time to entertain his miserable little minions with stories.

Stories that would make them writhe all over again in agony.

Satan took his time in selecting his victims. A man. A woman. And a child. With a flick of his talon they were suddenly above ground again – alive – and in a Nazi concentration camp.

The Devil likes to play tricks on tortured souls. He grants them life again – only to suffer horribly by the hands of other men – before being summoned back to eternal hellfire.

Some special souls suffer through numerous hells. Stories. Over, and over, again.

He liked it that some societies referred to him as “The Trickster.” It was a snappy sobriquet for the Son of Wickedness.

Every day brought new damned souls. Most wandered around aimlessly. Bumping into each other and shuffling along. Some souls however, argued vigorously that they were in the wrong place.

These were the ones the Tempter especially liked to toy with.

The hypocrites. The so-called Christian leaders with Mega Churches built by a cultish followings that worshipped money over God. The Catholic priests that molest young boys, taking away their innocence forever.

Philosophers from all over the world argued for centuries about the possibility of hell on earth. About possible levels of hell like some legends suggested.

In the Zoroastrian religion there is a House of Lies. In Roman and Greek mythology Tartaros is even deeper than Hades and contains the souls of sinners. Torture beyond human description awaits its new arrivals.

Yes, there is a special place in hell. The Devil calls it Story Time.

As It Stands, this story stands alone, naked in its accusations, and provocative on purpose.

The ‘Tagger’ Who Brought Peace to the Barrios

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East Los Angeles. A cop putting handcuffs on a 14-year-old “tagger” named Paz.

There’s no resistance and few words are spoken. In spite of himself, the cop keeps glancing at Paz’s work in progress. An angel surrounded by names of gang members.

Not just any angel. The loving look it had automatically made him smile. A sense of peace descended – for just a moment – and the cop thought of his deceased mother. The moment passed as he walked Paz to the squad car.

Paz was homeless. By choice. She never knew her parents. She bounced from one foster home to another throughout her life. When she turned ten she started running away from the foster homes.

Each time she was caught, she was passed on to another home. At first, she was only able to hid from the cops for days. With practice it turned into months. She was 13-years old the last time she ran away to East Los Angeles. One year, and counting, until she was caught again.

Paz was able to do what many people in East Los Angeles couldn’t get away with. She intermingled with all the gangs without injury. The fact was, people liked being around Paz. She made them feel better about themselves.

While Paz was in custody a fight broke out between the Bloods and the Crips on North Gage street near the I-10. Two Crips were killed. No arrests made. Other outbursts soon followed.

The Clarence Street Locos ambushed two Gage Maraville boys, and beat them to death. Meanwhile the King Cobras had declared war on the City Terrace homies and members of both gangs were patrolling the neighborhoods looking for trouble.

It took a year, but Paz was finally able to escape from her temporary guardians, returning to the barrios of East Los Angeles. She knew now that she was on a mission. Her life came into more clarity the last year as she pursued her art.

A member of the East Los Angeles Dukes took Paz in and provided her a place to sleep in his house. A day later, Paz was painting a mural. It was on the side of a small liquor store in Boyle Heights.

Nearby residents were amazed that no one bothered Paz. Gang members would stop by and look at her work, often without saying anything. The angel she was creating was her most ambitious work to date.

It glowed with some inner lighting she’d never used before, something reminiscent of Renaissance masters like Raphael, or Botticelli. As the days turned to weeks Paz knew it was her greatest, and last work.

Groups of people began gathering at the tiny liquor store, day and night, silently studying the angel. The King Cobras and The Terrence Street gang called off their war. Peace was declared between the Bloods and the Crips.

Shortly after the painting was completed Paz was hit by an out-of-control garbage truck and died on the scene. As an ambulance took her lifeless body away crowds began to gather in front of the angel as word got out.

People filed by and gasped with wonder. Somehow, it had to be a miracle, the angel’s face had changed, and now Paz was smiling down on all of them!

As It Stands, I’d love to see a miracle happen in all the barrios of the world.

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