Mewster
Strange Wind 1 - The Puzzle Box
Chapter One: Collections And Connections
A strange wind swept through the trees on a summer night, and brought with it the promise of change. Not everyone heard the sound of the wind as it blew through the treetops, but all would feel its power. The hushed rustling in the trees made the night feel odd. Odder still, for all the change that this wind would bring, only a handful noticed that there was any wind at all. This is their story.
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~
Dried twigs and leaves had shaken loose from the trees and littered the brick sidewalk. A block of row houses stood in mute tribute to their own age and watched midnight come and go. The windows of the regal old homes were dark, as the affluent residents had gone to sleep for the evening.
A white mini-van rounded the corner and drove up the street. Halfway down the block, it slowed and two figures stole across the brick sidewalk. Past the black metal fence in front of one of the houses, they quickly unlatched and ran through the wrought-iron gate.
They failed to notice that they had left something behind. A key to this very house had snagged on the top of the fence and had stayed behind even as the figure whose pocket it was in had pulled away. It was a seemingly random occurrence that could have happened to anyone.
The figures cowered in the shadows of the brownstone's quaint front porch. The white van had slowly moved away and was now pulling into the alley that serviced the row houses.
One of the dark figures whispered, "Ok, I think we're clear. Aye, Get the door."
The other figure, a very stocky man, was already searching his black coveralls. He had taken the night vision goggles from on top of his head and put them over his eyes. Now those goggles made his shaking head even more pronounced. "I don't have the keys," he whispered, extending his empty hands in frustration.
"What?" The taller man lifted up his night vision equipment, revealing a dark tan complexion and wide, angry eyes.
Mr. Aye still had his hands out. "I know," he whispered. "****. Just shut up. Think, Bee." After a brief pause, the man who had lost the keys simply tried the door. To his astonishment, it was unlocked. He smiled at the first figure.
"Lucky," Mr. Bee said. His black skin made the whites of his eyes more pronounced as he rolled his eyes. They silently opened the door and looked around at the inside of the house for the first time.
From their earpieces a snide voice chastised them. "You morons should know there is no such thing as luck. I make my own luck. And since you are working for me, I make yours too. What do you see?"
Silently closing the door behind them, they looked around. It was unlike anything they had ever seen before.
"You know that luck you make?" Mr. Bee whispered into his throat mike. "We're going to need all of it to find crap in this mess. This shit is unbelievable."
Every table top, floor space and shelf was full of piled paper stacked as far as a person could reach. A rough maze of slender pathways, only wide enough for a person to walk through with difficulty, pushed through the stacks of paper. It was all neatly piled, but the amount of stuff in just this first room was overwhelming. The men knew that this was just the beginning. Who knows what is in the other two stories of this house.
Astonished, Mr. Bee added, "And I think we're going to need a bigger van."
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~
The din of a college bar struggled to drown out the straining of a musician in the process of dying. Ryan Goldberg and Joy Winter drank wheat beer to celebrate each other's company and wash away the stress of another week in grad school.
"God, I think some of my Stats students are actually retarded. I mean, don't they teach these kids to THINK in high school or are they too busy trying to keep them from getting each other pregnant?" Ryan took a deep slug of beer and winced at one of the singer's truly misplaced notes.
Joy snickered. "You think that's bad, you should see some of the creative writing pieces I get. Every kid in there thinks they are ether Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Dickinson, or Dave Barry. Problem is, they haven't done crap with their lives and lack the imagination to make anything up. It all just sucks. When asked to write about something they knew, one guy wrote about playing Madden Football against his roommate." She drank a bit from the pint glass as her eyebrow shot up. "Come to think of it, that was probably one of the better pieces I've had since the semester began."
Ryan had been taking another sip when his date's last comment hit him funny. He snorted and choked on his beer. He swallowed, and then flat out coughed, doubling over. Bright pinpricks shot across his vision, leaving dark streaks in their wake. He finally caught his breath and noticed Joy Winter's slender hand massaging his back.
"You know, Goldberg, it just wasn't that funny." She continued to rub his back tenderly and he realized that he was almost lying in this girl's lap. It had taken all of his nerve to ask her out tonight and here he was almost in her arms. So close and yet so far, but she wasn't pushing him away.
He slowly sat back up, as the shooting stars passed. The hand on his back casually slid and now rested on his side near his ticklish spot, over his kidney. The touch was intimate and friendly at the same time. He looked at her and through his bleary haze he made the connection with his eyes he had been hoping for all this time. The fair skinned, dark haired willow of a woman smiled at him and he smiled back. "Not so much funny," he choked out, "as clever. You make me laugh."
She gave him a sly grin. "The Russian judge gives you points for a good recovery." While his sharp features, wire glasses and long, unkempt blonde hair suggested the typical Math geek, she was attracted to his more genuine and philosophical side. She caught herself staring and dared to let her gaze linger a little longer.
"Speaking of Russians," she said, breaking the long look, "Did you hear about Professor Reilly's wife?"
Ryan took a careful sip and instinctively scanned the crowd. "No what about her?"
"It was awful. I was in my office when he got the call. Apparently she fell down the stairs and got pretty badly roughed up. He ran straight home and Bill had to take over his last class."
"Wow, I hope she's going to be ok."
She sighed. "Well, you know, she is in her eighties."
He couldn't think of anything to say and the silence weighed heavy on the two.
"Thank you!" the guitar player said loudly when no one clapped. He had given up on his song and was trying to save some face. Ryan was relieved that they had something to distract them from the problems of a dying old woman.
From the back of the room, a drunk shouted, "Hey, Ass Clown! Play Free Bird!"
"Ok, that's it!" The young musician slammed his guitar down with a loud dissonant clang. "I'm tired of taking this ****ing sh..." The mike was cut out. The bartended scrambled to put on a CD for sonic cover, as the musician stomped off to find his heckler.
Joy looked at Ryan. "Wow, you sure do know how to pick out all the nice places." She grinned wide. "What's next? Wrestling?"
Ryan knew that this was it, the opening he'd been hoping for. He swallowed his doubts and went for it. "Well, that depends. It's just about last call anyway, but I know this nice place with coffee and ice cream. Open all night if you know the secret knock."
Again she lifted her eyebrow at him and gave him a knowing grin. "A speak-easy? Why Mr. Goldberg, what will our students think?"
"They will just have to be left wondering." Her smile was sweet and infectious. He returned it easily.
"Wondering what?"
"Is Miss Winter a Vanilla or a Chocolate?"
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~
Chapter One: Collections And Connections
A strange wind swept through the trees on a summer night, and brought with it the promise of change. Not everyone heard the sound of the wind as it blew through the treetops, but all would feel its power. The hushed rustling in the trees made the night feel odd. Odder still, for all the change that this wind would bring, only a handful noticed that there was any wind at all. This is their story.
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~
Dried twigs and leaves had shaken loose from the trees and littered the brick sidewalk. A block of row houses stood in mute tribute to their own age and watched midnight come and go. The windows of the regal old homes were dark, as the affluent residents had gone to sleep for the evening.
A white mini-van rounded the corner and drove up the street. Halfway down the block, it slowed and two figures stole across the brick sidewalk. Past the black metal fence in front of one of the houses, they quickly unlatched and ran through the wrought-iron gate.
They failed to notice that they had left something behind. A key to this very house had snagged on the top of the fence and had stayed behind even as the figure whose pocket it was in had pulled away. It was a seemingly random occurrence that could have happened to anyone.
The figures cowered in the shadows of the brownstone's quaint front porch. The white van had slowly moved away and was now pulling into the alley that serviced the row houses.
One of the dark figures whispered, "Ok, I think we're clear. Aye, Get the door."
The other figure, a very stocky man, was already searching his black coveralls. He had taken the night vision goggles from on top of his head and put them over his eyes. Now those goggles made his shaking head even more pronounced. "I don't have the keys," he whispered, extending his empty hands in frustration.
"What?" The taller man lifted up his night vision equipment, revealing a dark tan complexion and wide, angry eyes.
Mr. Aye still had his hands out. "I know," he whispered. "****. Just shut up. Think, Bee." After a brief pause, the man who had lost the keys simply tried the door. To his astonishment, it was unlocked. He smiled at the first figure.
"Lucky," Mr. Bee said. His black skin made the whites of his eyes more pronounced as he rolled his eyes. They silently opened the door and looked around at the inside of the house for the first time.
From their earpieces a snide voice chastised them. "You morons should know there is no such thing as luck. I make my own luck. And since you are working for me, I make yours too. What do you see?"
Silently closing the door behind them, they looked around. It was unlike anything they had ever seen before.
"You know that luck you make?" Mr. Bee whispered into his throat mike. "We're going to need all of it to find crap in this mess. This shit is unbelievable."
Every table top, floor space and shelf was full of piled paper stacked as far as a person could reach. A rough maze of slender pathways, only wide enough for a person to walk through with difficulty, pushed through the stacks of paper. It was all neatly piled, but the amount of stuff in just this first room was overwhelming. The men knew that this was just the beginning. Who knows what is in the other two stories of this house.
Astonished, Mr. Bee added, "And I think we're going to need a bigger van."
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~
The din of a college bar struggled to drown out the straining of a musician in the process of dying. Ryan Goldberg and Joy Winter drank wheat beer to celebrate each other's company and wash away the stress of another week in grad school.
"God, I think some of my Stats students are actually retarded. I mean, don't they teach these kids to THINK in high school or are they too busy trying to keep them from getting each other pregnant?" Ryan took a deep slug of beer and winced at one of the singer's truly misplaced notes.
Joy snickered. "You think that's bad, you should see some of the creative writing pieces I get. Every kid in there thinks they are ether Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Dickinson, or Dave Barry. Problem is, they haven't done crap with their lives and lack the imagination to make anything up. It all just sucks. When asked to write about something they knew, one guy wrote about playing Madden Football against his roommate." She drank a bit from the pint glass as her eyebrow shot up. "Come to think of it, that was probably one of the better pieces I've had since the semester began."
Ryan had been taking another sip when his date's last comment hit him funny. He snorted and choked on his beer. He swallowed, and then flat out coughed, doubling over. Bright pinpricks shot across his vision, leaving dark streaks in their wake. He finally caught his breath and noticed Joy Winter's slender hand massaging his back.
"You know, Goldberg, it just wasn't that funny." She continued to rub his back tenderly and he realized that he was almost lying in this girl's lap. It had taken all of his nerve to ask her out tonight and here he was almost in her arms. So close and yet so far, but she wasn't pushing him away.
He slowly sat back up, as the shooting stars passed. The hand on his back casually slid and now rested on his side near his ticklish spot, over his kidney. The touch was intimate and friendly at the same time. He looked at her and through his bleary haze he made the connection with his eyes he had been hoping for all this time. The fair skinned, dark haired willow of a woman smiled at him and he smiled back. "Not so much funny," he choked out, "as clever. You make me laugh."
She gave him a sly grin. "The Russian judge gives you points for a good recovery." While his sharp features, wire glasses and long, unkempt blonde hair suggested the typical Math geek, she was attracted to his more genuine and philosophical side. She caught herself staring and dared to let her gaze linger a little longer.
"Speaking of Russians," she said, breaking the long look, "Did you hear about Professor Reilly's wife?"
Ryan took a careful sip and instinctively scanned the crowd. "No what about her?"
"It was awful. I was in my office when he got the call. Apparently she fell down the stairs and got pretty badly roughed up. He ran straight home and Bill had to take over his last class."
"Wow, I hope she's going to be ok."
She sighed. "Well, you know, she is in her eighties."
He couldn't think of anything to say and the silence weighed heavy on the two.
"Thank you!" the guitar player said loudly when no one clapped. He had given up on his song and was trying to save some face. Ryan was relieved that they had something to distract them from the problems of a dying old woman.
From the back of the room, a drunk shouted, "Hey, Ass Clown! Play Free Bird!"
"Ok, that's it!" The young musician slammed his guitar down with a loud dissonant clang. "I'm tired of taking this ****ing sh..." The mike was cut out. The bartended scrambled to put on a CD for sonic cover, as the musician stomped off to find his heckler.
Joy looked at Ryan. "Wow, you sure do know how to pick out all the nice places." She grinned wide. "What's next? Wrestling?"
Ryan knew that this was it, the opening he'd been hoping for. He swallowed his doubts and went for it. "Well, that depends. It's just about last call anyway, but I know this nice place with coffee and ice cream. Open all night if you know the secret knock."
Again she lifted her eyebrow at him and gave him a knowing grin. "A speak-easy? Why Mr. Goldberg, what will our students think?"
"They will just have to be left wondering." Her smile was sweet and infectious. He returned it easily.
"Wondering what?"
"Is Miss Winter a Vanilla or a Chocolate?"
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~