The Cave Boy and the Dancer

 The Cave Boy and the Dancer - A Poem

By 

Bryan Paul

PART ONE

I

From atop a hill lived a boy in a cave,
with mangy black hair and no razor to shave.
He’d sit on a rock and long for a lover.
Just like the girl on the magazine cover.

It’s lonely, you see, in a dark cave at night,
unless you find a hobby to give you light.
The boy gathers treasures from many places-
like books and papers with pictures of faces.

When he is sad at times, he lets a tear fall.
He wipes it away when he looks at his wall.
He dances to music he hears in his head,
with girls in pictures he has pinned by his bed.
But when winter comes and the wind gets too cold,
the boy feels a chill and has no one to hold.
Tears fall more often and he feels lonely still-
(hard not to be sad in a cave on a hill).

II

When spring flowers bloom to bring us elation,
The cave boy steps out of his hibernation,

He runs all the way down to breathe the fresh air,

He runs to the river and washes his hair.

It is at the river that he hears stamping,

And hammering tent poles, setting up camping.

He sneaks through the trees trying not to be seen,

He pokes out to see a girl of about sixteen.

Three girls all share laughter as they talk of tales

Then set out with two boys to explore the trails.

The cave boy curled up at the foot of the tree

Wondering how fun being normal must be.

He drifted off into dreams of dance and song,

He napped just a bit, but he dozed not too long

awakened by music and cheers of delight,

He came out in the open and caused a fright.

III

In the firelight they saw, strange thing he was,

a cave boy with matted black hair and beard fuzz.

The girls all three shrieked while the boys picked up rocks,

Till one girl said “Stop!” as she brushed her curled locks.

Said the gentle young lady, “We’ve frightened him so.” 

She walked over to him and she knelt down low,

She took him by the hand and asked, “care to dance?”

He looked in her eyes and fell into her trance.

It was hard to believe what was happening then,

They danced not just once but once more and again.

They waltzed and they tangoed as the gang joined too,

Around the campfire flame, as the heat grew.

But soon it was late and time to say goodbye,

For the boy to go back to his cave up high,

And let a tear roll on his cheek as he went,

while leaving the dancer asleep in her tent.

PART TWO

IV

Seasons changed and the sun shined brighter,

If he’d known her address-well, then he’d write her!

She was kind to him so and worth thinking of,

He couldn’t help remember she’d shown him love.

For many long nights he’d lay awake in his bed 

With memories of the music still in his head.

Always in his mind, brown hair and so pretty.

He chose to pack up and leave for the city.

He had a knapsack and gathered what he could,

put on his sweatshirt with the zipper and hood,

He trekked down the hill, through the forest by feet,

To the end of the woods, to streets of concrete.

He stuck out his thumb and he hitched for a ride,

Not one person would stop, but still the boy tried.

With thoughts of the girl who would be his lover,

just like the one on the magazine cover.

V

On the road the boy walked and kept on going,

No truck seemed to notice, no car was slowing,

Till then came a bus quite occupied but large,

“ride free today, son,” said the driver, “no charge.”

And so the bus took him, to the big city,

through districts bustling with much activity.

It went down long streets till it came to a stop,

“I’ll let you off right here at the barber shop.”

The boy stood and thought, ‘what a place I’ve been led!’

With a pole by the entrance with stripes of red.

He’d never had a haircut, never before,

He walked up the front steps and opened the door.

The barber looked twice at the hair on his head,

He gave a pondering look and then he said,

“seems as if you must’ve been raised by a bear,”

(which he indeed was, just so that you’re aware).

VI

The boy looked by his feet, where clumps of hair lay

as the barber snipped and clipped and shaved away.

There’d be no more curtains trailing past his knee,

just a breeze up top where it all used to be.

And the worried boy had no money to pay

But the barber, he said, in a kindly way

“I can see by your state you must be quite poor,

I’ll call it even if you help sweep this floor.”

When all was done, said the barber to the boy,

“If looking for work, I’m looking to employ,”

The boy got a job, being useful with a broom,

A place to stay, too, in a small cellar room.

He bought sharp-looking clothes and dressed up real neat,

he went out at night to walk along the street,

but he’d never forget why he left his cave-

for a dancer’s love and the kindness she gave.

PART THREE

VII

For a cave boy who never set foot there before,

The city was full of great things to explore,

But wandering through crowds as the lampposts shone,

Still he felt so small and still so much alone.

He’d line up at the clubs, every one he spied,

But every time he did, he’d always be denied.

“Sorry, no entrance, you’re far too much a runt,”

Said every bouncer once he got to the front.

In sadness, the boy would sit outside and mope,

‘They’ll never let me in,’ he thought without hope-

‘til he spotted a way to sneak in the back,

Found a window that was open just a crack.

He opened it more and he climbed up the wall,

And fell with a crash into a bathroom stall.

But he made it-by gosh, how he took a chance!

Next thing to do was find a lady and dance.

VIII

Out in the open while music was blaring,

Several heads were turned, several more were staring.

He didn’t understand-he thought he looked neat.

He found a stool at the bar and took a seat.

A lady sat sipping wine, red, like a rose,

Her eyes looked him over and up at his clothes

-at his bowtie and jacket with colors clashin’,

And she said, “boy, who taught you about fashion?”

He turned and said, “you look lovely tonight, miss.”

He leaned in to her cheek and gave it a kiss.

Then with a slap his face was red as can be.

Then the bartender said, “Do you have I.D.?”

He was asked to leave and was escorted out-

To sulk and walk back to his cellar to pout.

To shed a tear for his lost dreams of romance

For love he can’t find and no lady to dance.

IX

For a cave boy, the city’s no place to roam,

He packed up and left for the woods he called home.

He said bye to his boss at the barber shop,

And stood outside waiting for the bus to stop.

He rode the bus, followed a trail through the trees,

and settled back in his cave to catch some zees.

Come morning he went to the river to swim,

And he found a brunette teen looking at him.

She stood as he swam to reach her at the shore,

And she took his hand so they could dance once more.

“but I’m ugly,“ he said, “and scrawny don’t you see?”

Said the dancer to the cave boy, “not to me.”

Ms. Eighth Grade English (AKA This Essay Needs a Title)

Ms. Eighth Grade English (AKA This Essay Needs a Title)

The public school system failed me in eighth grade. It wasn’t any one person’s fault, really. It wasn’t the fault of the teacher for shutting the door on a student. It wasn’t the fault of the student for listening to his ego. The fault was in the structure of the system itself.

    To put you in my place at age 14, I’d like to paint a little picture in your head. An adolescent (me) who’s older siblings no longer lived at home and whose parents were separated. At the time of this story, I believe my mom had the house and my dad lived with my Uncle. This would later change and my dad would have the house. I’m fuzzy on some details because this happened so long ago-but those details aren’t as important as is the fact that I was mostly alone, in my own world.

    I built a clubhouse of sorts in my bedroom closet. It had a TV, stacks of books on shelves and a portable CD player. Stephen King was my first entry into reading adult fiction with ‘Carrie’ and ‘The Shining’. As far as adult poetry though, all I had was a CD titled ‘An American Prayer’. The album featured spoken word poetry by Jim Morrison of the 1960’s band ‘The Doors’ and was accompanied by music from the band. It was done as a tribute, after the singer’s death.

    I didn’t understand a word of what Jim Morrison was saying, but the combination of words and music reverberated in my head. The words had a rhythm. They had a beat. It was just short statements without rhyme. This is how I chose to write, when I would sit in my closet with a red spiral bound notebook.

I wrote:

Time.

it passes slowly when you wait.

you wait

you wait

you wait

how long has it been with silence?

The style of writing I discovered was free writing and it didn’t rhyme.

In elementary and middle school you are taught the same type of poetry, over and over. Most of the time it rhymes, but you’re almost never taught about the poems that don’t rhyme.  

I don’t remember the examples my teacher gave us the week we studied poetry. Whatever they were, they didn’t stick in my memory the way Emily Dickensen would later in life (I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?). I remember the project. It was to create a poetry portfolio which would include a motion poem, a shape poem, a five senses poem and a haiku.

I approached the teacher after class on the day she assigned the project. I got out of my chair, just like the rest of the class, but instead of walking to the door, I walked over to Ms. Eighth Grade English, unzipped my backpack and took out my red spiral bound notebook (my personal notebook) to show her and I said, “would it be okay for me to use some of my own poems. I do very serious poetry. My poetry is very personal.” 

She looked at my ‘time’ poem and said, “Oh, I can see that you do…” in the type of voice you would use when you are an adult talking down to a child. She continued, “well, this could be a poem about something that moves, like time moves, metaphorically…” 

It sounded in that moment like the teacher was going to give my poetry consideration. Unfortunately a week later when I got the project back, I opened up the first page and in the red pencil of Ms. Eighth Grade English were the words: This isn’t a movement poem. My shape poem also wasn’t a shape poem. I tried to mold one of my poems into a shape and print and paste it over a drawing. Her comment: ‘this is an illustration not a shape poem’.

This was not very encouraging for someone who was using the written word as a voice to express their inner thoughts and emotions. I was angry because my voice wasn’t heard. My inner voice was yelling at Ms. Eighth Grade English to read the poems! Not to just look at the framework of the project and say: “You didn’t follow the directions”.

I was fortunate to have a better experience in high school at PVPA (Pioneer Valley Performing Arts), but because of this early interaction there was still a wall separating me, as a student, from my teachers, even the ones who were genuinely trying to educate me.

When I would get assignments in high school with specific instructions, my inner brat came out, screaming and stomping his feet. I would hear Ms. Eighth Grade English (who sounded a lot like a particular teacher in the Harry Potter series named Professor Umbridge): “you must have an introductory paragraph, three body paragraphs and a conclusion. Make sure your essay has a title and is in MLA format.”

I am in community college now as a 37 year old. Looking back at this memory, I’m ready to let go of the inner brat and do the homework-but there is a part of me that will always struggle with the rigid format of regular assignments, because I would rather be judged on the content of my words and not on whether I used an outline or prewrite sheet.

When I have these thoughts, I take a step back and remember that we are all adults and that my teacher is just doing her job. I’ve learned that and will continue to do the work I am assigned, as much as I would rather not do certain things.

One last thing I’d like to say in regards to why the system failed both me and my teacher is that the teacher was not equipped to deal with an exceptional, possibly gifted student. This was because she was taught to follow a curriculum and lesson plan-as her bible. There was nothing in the rulebooks to help her help me to be a better student.

Sandy’s Graduation Day

Sandy’s Graduation Day

A short story by Bryan Paul

Capped and gowned, I sat in that hard plastic seat watching as all my friends went up. After years of suffering anxieties because I had an essay due in or because I had an Algebra quiz. 

It was over now.

Well, I guess, not quite yet. I was kinda hoping it would be all over, but I knew it wasn’t.

How could I not know?

After I applied to almost every college you can imagine and had been accepted at a few good ones, I found the one that was right for me. 

So, I’m not quite done yet.

I’ll have to do it all over again. The book reports, the long lectures, the essays, the quizzes.

(Calm down, Sandy. You should relax. You’re finally graduating.)

Oh boy.

I was sweating. It was a hot June week and we were outside in our long gowns. You wouldn’t believe how hot it was that day. It feels even hotter when you’re nervous as all hell. My ass felt like it was glued down tight to the chair.

I heard some of the names being called out.

“Bennet, Christina!”

Handshake.

Applause.

“Berry, Jefferson!”

Handshake.

Applause.

“Bingford, Cassandra!”

Little miss Cassy Bingford. Damn Show-off. She did a somersault right on the stage.

What a reaction she got. The spectators went wild. 

(A perfect 10 for Cassy Bingford!)

Then came the C’s.

“Caine, Molly!”

Handshake.

Applause.

Soon I would go up there. They would hand me my diploma. I would shake their hand and that would be it. Four years later I would have to it do all over again. Then it would be all over, hopefully.

“Cline, Sandra!”

There it came. Time for my glory.

(Should I do a somersault?)

I got out of that chair. Boy was it great to finally be standing up. My legs felt kind of tingly and my pits were a little damp.

(At least my hair looks good, haha!)

I tried to look casual as I walked up, even though I felt like I was a wreck.

As I got my diploma, I heard someone shout-

“I Love you, Sandy!”

It was my little brother. It was at that moment that I thought about how much I would miss my family when I go away.

*****

**

Orien's Jetcar Lessons (An Orien Sage Story)

ORIEN’S JETCAR LESSONS

An Orien Sage Story by Bryan Paul


I

Planet Promythica is a marble of formations of land and water, behind silk-cream cloud patterns, illuminated by the fire of the sun it revolves around. To travelers long ago, who through a long journey searched for new land, this marble would be their new earth and through many calendar periods of exploration of the new territory, through labor, through rest, through war and through peace, the colonies would slowly be built, with quaint villages which soon grew to be active towns such as Tietopus, with its towers of meeting-houses and schools, and its wealthy, proper class of artists and associates of business.

Orien Sage was a long way from Tietopus, in the small village of Hilliar.

Orien’s sandal-shoes scraped along the dirt of Sand Hill Path, as he came to a crossing, where as a youth he used to wait for the transport to bring him to his schooling, six calendar periods ago when he was an early scholar. He was no longer a scholar. He had completed his studies, and his four periods of late learning at the Penhaven Village Arts School, with hopes of settling in Tietopus, only to remain in Hilliar where he had grown up.

Orien was on his second lap around the neighborhood, his second time passing the crossing and his second time passing by Lena’s cottage. He wondered why she stopped scripting letters, although he imagined it was because she had taken with a companion and was no longer interested in her former peer from long ago, Orien still wondered, not knowing whether or not it was the truth. He knew only that she had stopped scripting and he would hear from her no longer.

He listened to the Kah-rrow, Kah-rrow, of the glowflies, as he would spot them on his way, twinkling and shining in the night, like moving stars.

No light shined through from the windows of Lena’s parents’ cottage, and no jetcar was parked at the front lot. No one was home. Lena was probably spending the night with a lady-friend, or out to see a reel-show with her companion, maybe she would end up in his arms at the end of the night. Orien couldn’t help his imagination.

Orien’s sandal-shoes were brought to a stop, in a cloud of dirt, kicking a small gray stone, which skipped along the path toward the direction of the object of Orien’s startled response.
A shadow of dark fur had brushed across the path, in such a quick way, Orien was not sure as to what species of animal it had been and he had felt his heart cease for a click, but he took a breath, and thought to himself, ‘it was just a stray tigret,’ and as he continued to walk turning onto Sunblossom Path, he found himself wishing the tigret had not been scared away and had made itself visible to walk alongside him and be his company along his walk. He wished he had brought Felice along with him, but she was napping at home.

While walking down Sunblossom Path, he remembered his friend Wylee, and how they would ride their mini-speeders during respite season, once Orien had finally learned to ride his speeder at age twelve, and how they would buy sweets at Jaybe’s General Shop at the corner of the path.

Orien passed Jaybe’s, waited, while an elevated black jetcar, slowly backed from the lot, turned and zoomed down the Primary Path, and once it was safe, Orien strolled the sidepath passing trees and cottages, and stopping at a large wooden sign which read: EMERALDLEAF FARM AND HOUSING COMMUNITY and turned, making his way home.

It was past the fields and gardens of Emarldleaf farm, where a wooden box stood on poles, with many cubbies of locked doors where occupants of Emardleaf Housing Community received their letters that Orien stopped and turned. Next to the post boxes was the front trail to Orien’s father’s cottage. 

 Orien would look forward to walking down to the end of the front trail which he was now walking, to reach the spot where he would open up the door to the post box, and unleash a scroll of paper which had come from Sand Hill path, from Lena, but that was just a memory.

He stopped at the front porch and he could hear his father laughing at the radio program he was listening to, a popular farce-show, as he recognized the sound of audience laughter in the static of the amplification.

Orien opened up the door with a creak and slipped off his sandal-shoes. Felice awoke from her bed, and the black and orange, striped tigret purred as her cool fur brushed Orien’s ankles and she followed him to the living quarter and leaped onto Orien’s lap, who sat down in the chair by the large radio box.

The air inside the cottage was cool compared to the hot air of respite season in the outside night.

Through the large amplification of the best-quality model of radio, a knee-high, shiny black box with hi-wave antennae reception, Orien listened to the sound of a doorknob being jerked about.

“Have you locked this door, Reta, I can’t seem to…” said the voice of a nervous gentleman.

“Stuck again, is it? Well weren’t you going to have it fixed?” a lady said in a loud voice, turning into a stage whisper, “closet, closet!” followed by hurrying steps and the closing of the closet door, “No-out the window,” the lady decided. 

Orien’s father rose slightly from the couch where he sat in his bed-robe, laughed along with the recorded audience laughter, while the man in the locked room, who had been struggling to find a hiding spot, from the man outside the room, seemed to fall from out the window.

“There’s someone in there with you!” the man fiddling with the doorknob exclaimed to a roar of laughter and applause.

Orien’s father burst out, He-huh-hahaha-aah-haha, clapping his hands loudly. 

Orien sat in quiet, expressionless, patting back the fur on the tigret in his lap. He was not in the mood to exclaim any type of joviality, to laugh or smile, because it was the same routine, always, for Orien. His father had the occasional change of routine from his daily work at the factory-sometimes meal with his companion at a restaurant, sometimes at her cottage, sometimes to a reel-show, sometimes on long trips away.

Orien’s routine involved getting up around mid-day (his father would be at the factory already), eating breakfast, reading or listening to a news program on the radio, ball-tossing alone in the front lot, preparing himself a meal, cleansing in the washroom for nearly a toll, imagining himself in his own fantasy world, imagining himself to be a conductor of theatre shows in Tietopus. After his long cleansing, he would either find his father at home with a meal, or his father would be away for the night.

“Tired of it,” Orien mumbled to himself. His father stopped mid-clap and looked attentive. He 
reached for the control, sitting on the mini-table, and he turned a dial lowering the sound amplification from the radio to listen.

“Beg pardon? Whats’at?” Orien’s father asked, and in the long pause in which Orien took before speaking, the sound of talking and laughter from the farce-show could still be heard, but was faint and indecipherable.

“I don’t want to be here, anymore. I want to be in Tietopus Town. Move there, find work,” Orien said, breathing heavily with anxiety.

“Okay,” Orien’s father said, prompting Orien to continue.

“We can take a trip there. We can find a place,” Orien said, he felt like he could cry, as he asked, he already knew his father’s response. 

“Orien, you don’t just leave and move to a town like Tietopus.”

“Not you and me. Me alone.”

“It’s too risky. You don’t understand-there are a lot of threats out there in towns like Tietopus. I want you to be safe. You are not strong enough at this point in your life, to manage.”

Orien had expressed interest in the Tietopus Academy for Theatre Arts. His father was willing to help in any way he could, but then came the issue of expenses, and the only way his schooling could be funded was by loan. The loan could only be taken for tuition, but not for housing-and Orien’s father was afraid to have him be housed in town outside the Academy grounds.

“I can look after myself. If I find work, I’ll have pay, and I can find work for a theatre…I’ll do custodial work, I don’t care.”

“Finding work is difficult. Things aren’t as easy as they seem, you don’t know yet how it is out there. I blame myself. I should have helped you find work while you were in schooling,” his father said.

“You know there was no time! Schooling took up most of my day!”

It was soothing to have Felice, napping on his lap and as he stroked her fur and her lungs inflated and deflated like gentle waves, Orien calmed his own breathing and kept the pain in his throat, of frustration, from welling up in his body reaching to cause his throat to dry up and his eyes to burn and cause them to dampen with tears to nourish and hydrate. He breathed in, he breathed out, and he drank fresh air like cold water filling his body.

“I’m as tired as you are. From seeing you unhappy. You need to find work, put Tietopus aside for now, and find work in Hilliar,” his father spoke in a stern manner and Orien’s eyes met with his fathers. 

“but the only work, I’ll find is work I will need to get to by jet-”

“I will help you get to work,” his father offered.

“But when Alto still had work, before the shop let him go, you used to say-”

“It was asking a lot, for Alto, to be asking others to get him to work, as the shop was so far off. 

He could have found work that was closer, that was easier to get by, but he allowed himself to be reliant on others more than he should have as an early elder.”

“I’m elder! So, I shouldn’t be reliant. I’m of age eighteen.”

“I consider you still late youth, until I see that you are working, that you are certified to fly jet, and that you can make it on your own without relying on others, then I can consider you elder.”

“I’ll take jet lessons,” Orien decided, “I’ll pay for them myself. I’ll use the notes I saved up from mom and her family, the ones I was given after I received my arts school certificate. I will page the lessons instructor. I will arrange for lessons.”

“Okay. Those are very good decisions,” his father said, pleased, as he picked up the radio control and tuned the amplification.

Orien listened to radio programs in his room for the remainder of the night, alone. He awoke the following morning and stared at the clockpiece by his bedside and watched it click and chime and upon some thought, he motivated himself to rise from his bed on the grounds that he would make an appointment with a jetcar piloting instructor.

He made himself a steamee, prepared a cold oat porridge and ate it while browsing the Hilliar directory of codes.

He flipped the pages, chewed his porridge, found the listing for pilot schooling and found the code for Hilliar Beginner’s Piloting. A small caption suggested that they specialized in fully inexperienced pilots, although Orien was not fully inexperienced, his prior training, which had been with his father, in his second year of late learning was unsuccessful and it had been so long ago that he might as well have been fully inexperienced.

Orien hesitated. He paced the main living quarter, and the dining quarter, and drank a few large cups of steamee and felt fearful. He hesitated for several tolls, prepared a mid-day meal, and afterwards, he pulled his communicator out of his pocket.

He typed the code, steadily, so as to not let himself stop in further hesitation and the communicator in his hand shook as he held it to his ear and it beeped, and beeped, and Orien thought no one might answer, but then a lady-operator picked up, “Hilliar Beginner’s Piloting, Helda speaking,” and after a pause, “inquiry or appointment?”

“I-I don’t have an a-appointment,” Orien said, and he was having trouble controlling his breathing. He thought he might drop the communicator, in his unsteady hand. 

Felice brushed past Orien’s foot. He walked over to the chair in the living quarter, sat, and Felice leapt upon his lap.

“Would you like to schedule one?” 

“Could I/would I/I-I would like to set up a schedule for, for, an instructor to come by my housing…”

“Private lessons are fifty notes, per lesson,” the receptionist said. Orien had two hundred notes in his savings. He could only fund four lessons. He would have to have his father fund any further lessons-but he could fund it.

“That’s affordable/when can I see an instructor?”

“I have an instructor available for the seventh toll, tomorrow morning, can I get your name and address path?”

“Orien Sage. My housing is in Hilliar, at number 125, Emerald Leaf Way,”

“By Emarldleaf Farm?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct,” Orien added, officially. Communicating with people was difficult, as Orien had been spending most of his time away from people, but he did well enough interacting with the receptionist. As well enough as he could.

Orien was asked if he had taken a study course in safe piloting and the laws of flight path. Orien informed her that he had a copy of the official ‘Mansington Colony Flight Safety Laws and Pilot Manuel’ and he was certified for flight instruction. 

“Your instructor will be Bolin and he will arrive at your housing at the seventh toll tomorrow morning,”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Orien said and the receptionist bid him good luck and let him go.
Orien folded the mic-bit back on his communicator and turned it off, placing it at the arm of the chair, and continuing to pet Felice. He sat for a long while before getting up to cleanse and leaving for his nightly walk around the neighborhood.

Orien arrived home from his walk, and used his key to open the door. His father’s silver jetcar was not parked at the front lot, which meant he wasn’t home, maybe wouldn’t be home that night.

Felice was napping on her bedpillow. Orien slipped off his sandal-shoes, walked down the hall and opened up his bed-chamber door, to the scent of hard wood from the cottage walls, where hung next to the dark-blue curtained window, a hanging tapestry of a flash portrait of a golden-haired idol harpstress named Kiley Laval in rebellious attire. 

Kiley had streaks of purple and red draping along her hair, from which a red blossom had been placed, and she wore a patched and tattered long-coat and was standing with woodharp, on a shoulder strap. For Orien, Kiley was an enticing specimen of the female form, with her breasts held tight, budding out from her revealing velvety black day-dress, he could imagine the swell of them in reality as she sang and her heart beat within that full chest of hers. Orien had very little contact with ladies anymore, having completed schooling.

Orien tuned the radio on the end table at the foot of his bed, to a news program that was just ending off.

“…As always, we at the institute are working hard to develop new inventions, reconstructing the advanced technologies of our home planet, Earth. This newly discovered cyber-technology, as we have called it, is already being used in offices, restaurants and factories and could reach homes by way of a home cyber-box....”

Orien undressed and stared for just a while more, in his undershorts, at the Kiley poster, before putting on his bed-robe. It was a sad thing to be close to early elder, to still be infatuated with the prospect of enlovment as a late youth might be and to not have his prospects fulfilled.

Orien took his checkered bed-robe from his wardrobe, tied it, and stepped out of his room, down the hall into the kitchen.

He opened up the full-size, chilling cabinet, which was full of meats and vegetables, but he wasn’t looking for a meal or sandwich, he was hoping to find a cold drink. 

What Orien really longed for was beru. Orien’s friend Duglus had a father who drank beru, and had a small stock of bottles in the cooling cabinet by their cellar stairs. Beru contained blistonic, a chemical which dulled the senses. Orien’s father, didn’t take to blistonic much. Orien knew this, yet he checked just in case.

He shut the chilling cabinet door, turned around and reached to open the cupboard above his head. He selected one of the joice bottles, and a glass. He was of age eighteen, so he was sure his father wouldn’t mind if he indulged in a glass or two, and so he poured, and took the bottle and full glass with him to his room.

Orien placed the bottle down next to his radio, tuned it to a music program, and tuned the amplification low.

He sipped the harsh, sour, flavor, and let it settle in his mouth, along his tongue and down his throat, and reaching his head.

He took his typescripter out from under his bed, placed his joice glass, next to his clockpiece, and sat up. He typed, continuing from where he left off, the previous night…

SCENE FOUR-STAGE RIGHT

ROMEN is sitting in his chair, reading over the performance script and taking note, when JADA enters. She seats herself in a chair next to him. Roman looks up from his script.

ROMEN-
What was it you wanted to discuss?

JADA-
I’m having a difficult time with this character of Ashlyn.

ROMEN-
Well, you’re welcome to speak openly of any criticism you may have.

JADA-
It’s partly personal, you see, I have a feeling, you might be finding yourself attracted to me, Ashlyn seems to be who you want me to be, but… I’m not, and… well, the way Ashlyn comes on pretty strong to Adele, no lady would act in such a manner. This character you’ve created is, well, to put it bluntly, a nimf.

ROMEN-
She is not a nimf, she just feels strongly for Adele-

JADA-
It’s obvious what her intentions are-

ROMEN-
And it is humorous, that Adele doesn’t realize these intentions.

JADA-
She’s a caricature.

ROMEN-
It’s a humorous play! Of course she’s a caricature!

JADA-
But if you feel I am in any way like Ashlyn, you’d be wrong and I don’t have any desire for companionship or anything else you may desire in your imagination.

Orien stopped and sipped his joice. Jada’s criticisms were based on Duglus’ and other friend’s early reactions to Orien’s performance scripts, stating the female roles he created were only based on his personal fantasies of how he believed ladies to be, or how he wanted them to be. In the scene in which he was depicting in his current script, Orien imagined how a performance actress might respond to being offered one of his roles, and how he would find himself attracted to that actress, and long for companionship, believing her to represent the character in his imagination.

Orien placed his glass back down by his clockpiece and seeing that it was five chimes to the twentieth toll, he folded his typescripter back up and placed it under his bed.

He crawled to the foot of his bed and tuned the dial of his radio on the end-table. A radio-show actress was being interviewed, as Orien waited for the start of his program.

The interview soon ended, acknowledgements were made and at the sound of the toll on Orien’s clockpiece, an announcer declared, “and now it is time to have a visit with the three ladies of the Fulish family, featuring the talented young Mandia Bohla as Mandia Fulish…”

The announcer gave a brief introduction to the program followed by the sound of applause and the ringing of a schoolhouse bell. 

Ta-lliiingg, and then a Thonk, as scholars closed their books, clop-clop, as they filed down the hallway. Ladies giggled and chattered in the hall…

‘Alek…? Wait up, now…’ said a lady late-youth. There was a round of applause and the sound of hurrying footsteps.

‘Mandia?’ a gentleman late-youth asked. Mandia was panting to catch her breath, while the recorded audience laughed.

Orien listened, laying with his head at the foot of his bed, looking up at the ceiling and imagining the hallway of a standard schoolhouse for late-learning, like the schoolhouse in Hilliar, which he attended in his first two late-learning periods. He remembered the rows of cabinet doors, which held the student’s books and personal belongings. He could see the groups of late youths gathering and talking amongst these tight and crowded hallways, much unlike the hallways at the arts school, where scholars did not have their own personal cabinets, and often in the vast hallways you might see a scholar at a chair, tuning harp. 

In the hallway at Proude Valley School, a gentleman named Alek was walking alone, with his shoulder bag, when a lady rushed up to him and said, ‘haven’t…seen…since.’ 

‘I enjoyed going to theatre with you last Fivdi,’ Alek said.

‘Mom…sister…away. Two whole days.’

Orien had seen flash images of Mandia Bohla, the performance actress, and saw her in his mind standing in the hallway, breathing heavily, and wiping sweat from her brow. Another female voice indicated the entrance of Mandia’s friend Leza to the scene, ‘I was wondering where you had rushed off, Mandia,’ which was followed by audience applause.

‘Oh, Hello, Leza, I believe Mandia is organizing a gathering, she says her sister and her mother will be away-’ Alek said, and footsteps indicated they were all walking.

‘That’s right, she told me they’d be away all Thursday evening,’ Leza said and a door opened to bloom season birdsongs.

‘No…no…Fridayi’ Mandia panted.

‘Friday?’ Alek replied, ‘I’ll let Petro and the rest of the group know. Pleasure seeing you two.’
A set of feet Clop-clopped on stone as Alek descended the stepway.

‘Are you all right, Mandia, you look faint. Let’s sit on the steps a while,’ Leza said.
Mandia took a deep breath and her friend Leza asked, ‘I thought you were going to invite Alek over? I thought you wanted it to be just the pair of you?’

‘Oh, Leza! That’s exactly what I wanted, but I was so out of breath…’

It was a classic farce-show scenario. Orien fantasized that he was the charming Alek, and that Mandia had wanted to invite him over for a proper meal and company and he would stroll down to her neighborhood. In Orien’s late learning at the arts school there was so little time, with the arts classes which took up a great deal of the schooling day, and the long ride home on the transport. Even on Saturdays, when they had no classes, any lady of whom Orien admired was much too far off for him to get to, in another town, in another Village. Orien had only his former peer Lena to consider as a suitor, but he only knew her through letters-he had been frightened at the prospect of reuniting with her in person.

Orien enjoyed listening to ‘Mandia’s Mishaps’ as it gave him a view of how things may have been had he went to standard schooling and he imagined he may have found enlovment, maybe with Lena. He would see the ladies in the hallways and help them with their books and bags; they would see he was a proper gentleman. It hadn’t been like that for him in reality.
Jetcar lessons would be his way out, his way to better places, to villages and towns with pubs and ladies, and maybe to Tietopus. It was all he needed to build a happy life for himself and escape the entrapment of Hilliar and his father’s cottage.

The more Orien thought about it that night in bed, the more difficult it became for him to sleep, especially in the heat of respite season. The open window let out a cool breeze, but Orien tossed about his bed with anxiety and perspiration. He was bare in his robe, with no blanket covering. When he eventually drifted off, he dreamt he had taken his father’s silver jet and flew around the neighborhood without difficulty. 

He had been unable to fly when he attempted at age sixteen, but now elder, he would have no trouble at all, he thought, he would simply soar.

II

It was the fifth toll of morning, and the dawn sun was just rising to shine through Orien’s bed-chamber window, when he opened his eyes from brief sleep and could not shut them for further slumber. He still lay and he tried as best he could to fall back into dreaming, but he was restless for the start of his first jet lesson, just two tolls away.

It was twenty chimes before Orien finally sat up in his bed and stretched his muscles. He yawned and stood, to head out to the kitchen to boil a pot of steamee and prepare porridge.
After Orien had his morning meal, he shed his bed-robe in his bedchamber and put on a pair of black-pocketed pants and a tan day-shirt, settled into the chair in the main living quarter with Felice on his lap, and tuned the radio to a news program. About thirty chimes later, a jet whirred to a stop at the front lot of the cottage, and the startled tigret leapt from Orien’s lap.

Orien hurried out the door, locking it behind and walked down the stepway to an old maroon jetcar, with a small scratch mark along the side. The engine was whirring and the exhaust was making small putt-putts.

The pilot side door slid open, and a bald man, wearing a formal white dayshirt, stepped out. He was much taller than Orien, but with thin scrawny limbs for a mid-elder and what little hair he had was graying. 

“I’m Bolin Housle, your pilot instructor,” he said holding out his hand, which Orien shook nervously, “Firstly, I require a deposit of fifty notes, and I must see your instruction certification.”
Orien untied his pocket, and pulled out a black square identity-book. Bolin took the book and flipped it open to read the certification. As Bolin read, Orien took out his pocket purse, and pulled out two pay-notes of twenty, and one of ten.

“You’ve had this certificate a while. Three calendar years, just one left before this trial certificate expires-but of course, you’ll be trained before then, rest assured and be able to obtain a proper pilot’s certificate.”

He handed Orien his book back, Orien handed him his fee and returned his purse and identity book to his pocket.

“Step into the vehicle, Orien,” Bolin said, pocketing his fee and as Orien walked over to the pilot side and Bolin slid the co-pilot side open, Bolin added, “Very quiet, I see. Nervous? Yes, I understand.”

Orien hadn’t sat in a co-pilot chair since he was of age sixteen when he took lessons with his father. As he sat, he felt a certain dread with being at the controls, he would be responsible for the vehicle’s speed and steering, and he would need to keep his focus on other vehicles on the paths. Bits of memory raced in his mind, of his father with his greasy chubby hands held over Orien’s own which shook as his bony fingers clung around the speed lever, and attempting to maintain level speed. Orien recalled being unaware of a road sign signaling him to halt, and his father shouting ‘Slow! Slow! Halt, now!’

“Let us familiarize you with the vehicles interiors, as you see, above your head is a reflector, for use in checking the back end of your vehicle for vehicles behind you, and along the side of the jet are reflectors for other jets along the path beside you. We don’t use these when backing out, as you will be doing shortly. When backing the jet, it is more effective to turn and utilize the back window shield.”

How frustrating it had been as a late youth, adjusting focus from the destination ahead from out of the front window shield, to the many signals and signs along the paths, to the other moving jets in the reflectors above and along the sides.

“In front of you, you have the main steering rod, on the main steering rod you will find two blue buttons along the front edge, the top button being the right signal, the bottom button being the left. On the left edge of the rod are several red buttons, the first one for shield wipers, the second turns on your front and rear lights for night driving. To the left of your steering controls is the speed lever, and your speed is monitored on the gauge above your steering controls, now, I would like you to put one hand on each control, as they should remain there at all times,”

Orien, first gripped his right hand along the parallel stick, which had an old worn hidecloth grip that smelled of old shoes, and he clutched the speed lever in his left hand. Piloting required two simultaneous actions, both steering and maintaining speed-at the prompting of road signs or to avoid collision with another jet, one had to roll the lever up to slow and stop at a click at the top to halt the vehicle.

“Position your right hand so that you have easy access to the turn signals with your middle and index finger.”

Orien obeyed.

“You are now in proper position to steer and maintain speed,” Bolin said, and he pulled a key-tab from his pocket, handed the rigid card to Orien. 

“Remove your left hand from the speed lever,” the instructor said, “and insert the card into the tab-slot.”

Orien obeyed, taking the card, inserting it into the slot above the speed lever and turning it to the left. The exhaust began, from the back engine. The instructor then asked Orien to turn the dial to elevate the vehicle, and Orien clicked the round, red dial with the small black tick marks around it, next to the tab slot, as he clicked from the smallest mark to the largest, the jet began to rise.

Inside the jet, hovering above the ground, Orien would soon be backing out and away; it was just the same as it was when his father had instructed him. He felt unsafe, he did not believe himself strong enough or fast enough to maintain control of that vehicle, which if collided with an object or another vehicle along the path, would be a horrible danger and a wreck, and he couldn’t put these dangers out of his mind. It was difficult to believe that anyone could.

Bolin instructed Orien to turn his head and focus on the entrance trail of the cottage, and very carefully, adjust the speed lever in his left hand, with only the slightest bit of pressure, while keeping the steering rod forward. The jet was crawling back, little by little.

“A bit more speed. Little more speed,” Bolin instructed, and Orien slid his hand down further more. Suddenly the vehicle sped, in a quick, speed-of-light motion back to the end of the trail, where the postal boxes were and stopping before Orien even realized what had happened at Bolin’s sudden jerk of the emergency halt lever on the co-pilot side. ‘halt it, speed too high! Up the lever,’ the instructor had said, just before taking action, quickly as if he were an actor reciting well-rehearsed lines.

Orien felt a strange burst of consciousness, as if he had awoken from a surreal dream.
He really was sitting in a jet. He really would be in control, and in reality, piloting was more complicated than simply gliding along sidepathes in a slow-moving mini-speeder.

Orien was breathing heavily. He wanted to scream. He wanted to stop lessons. He wanted to say that he was having second thoughts, had changed his mind, did not want to fly a jet, did not want to fly ever, would rather stay on the ground and walk. But he breathed and tried to calm himself, as there were no jet-carts zooming along Emardleaf Way. He could see no potential accidents. 

Nothing through the window shields, nothing in the reflectors.

At Bolin’s instruction, Orien turned the rod in his left hand clock wise, to shift the jet along Emeraldleaf Way. It was a jerky movement, as Orien was still having difficulties with the speed lever.

“Onward, now we’re straight.” Bolin instructed.

Orien was parallel on the path, he had the speed lever in his left hand turned up at halt, and he pulled the steering rod to the side to a vertical position. Quickly again Bolin commanded, 
“Onward, now. Down lever,” and Orien felt the floor of the jet vibrate beneath him as he guided the lever and as it crawled to 20mph, he felt the stick in his hand vibrate as well. The gauge above the steering rod, was indicating around 23, but with the slightest downward movement of the lever, spun to 25 and as Bolin urged for more speed, it spun to thirty.

“steady enough, steady enough, eyes ahead, upward, check reflector. Slow, signal first, up lever, steer left on Sand Hill Path.”

Following Bolin’s orders Orien took his focus off the speed gauge, looked ahead, then looked up at his rear reflector to see a blue jetcar behind him (which upon finding himself no longer alone on the path caused him to be nervous). Bolin had told him to up the lever, which he did, and for a brief moment his eyes moved over to the speed gauge and the needle which slid to 15mph, and turning his eyes up to the reflector he saw the blue jetcar behind him halt, emitting black smoke behind. 

Orien had been given so many instructions, he was too worried at the speed of the vehicle, and he wasn’t processing all the information Bolin was giving, forgot to signal, slowed, panicked, but finally clicked the bottom blue button with his thumb to signal he was turning. The blue vehicle in the reflector was gliding backward, and as it shifted to pass Orien on the left, it made a high-pitched squeal.

Orien steered the rod forward, then counter-clockwise to the left, while pushing the speed lever up to zero until he was parallel on Sand Hill Path, and Bolin had told him to pull the lever downward to 20. Orien was checking his speed again, but Bolin gestured forward.

“Eyes forward, steady enough,” he said.

Another jetcar passed, and another, and there was a jet in Orien’s rear reflector and one ahead. He listened to every detail, which Bolin gave, not even thinking of what he was doing. He responded mechanically, as Bolin said “Look up, left reflector, slow, speed, up lever, down lever, signal, slow, steer right…”

Upon circling the neighborhood, trying back-paths of which Orien had never explored, Bolin eventually guided him back along Emardleaf Way. They passed the farm, Orien slowed, signaled, steered right to the front trail of his father’s cottage, pulled the lever up, halted, clicked the exhaust off, and lowered the jet to the ground at the front lot.

Orien caught his breath and it was over. It had been a surreal dream, maybe it was a nightmare, whatever it had been he tried to forget as he sat in the pilot’s chair and the vehicle was no longer in motion and he was secure on the ground.

“I’ve instructed many fully inexperienced pilots,” Bolin was saying as he undid his restraining belt, “And first lesson is always the roughest. It’s always overwhelming in the beginning, but don’t be discouraged. I expect much improvement in the coming lessons.”

Orien undid his restraining belt.

Bolin cleared his throat, took out a small card-note pad from his pant pocket, and a marker. 

Bolin removed a card-note from the pad and handed it to Orien. It showed a chart with several blocks as in a calendar. Bolin pressed the marker at the first block, stamping out a red dot in ink.

“I will stamp each block at the end of each lesson. At this time I will also collect my fee, no need to pay me at this time, of course, since you’ve already paid as deposit. Now should we say, same time tomorrow morning…”

Orien thought long. He had to space out his lessons, as he had a very limited supply of funds available for his instructor’s fees.

“Day after next. We’ll do a schedule of every other day,” Orien said.

“Yes, sir, hold on to that card, won’t you,” he said stepping out of the vehicle. 

Orien followed, sliding the pilot door and stepping out on his side.

“Seventh toll, Wednesday morning, don’t forget to bring your progress card,” Bolin said as 
Orien shook his hand, and put the card in his pocket.

Orien walked up the wooden stepway as Bolin sped away behind him in the jetcar.
Felice purred and greeted Orien as the front door creaked and he was home. He sat in the chair in the main living quarter with Felice on his lap.

Orien was eager to relax, read, script, listen to his radio, and put his first lesson behind him, until he would have to pilot again. He was glad to be home. He found himself wishing he resided somewhere where he’d never have to learn piloting, somewhere where everything was within reach and walking distance. He found himself thinking of Tietopus again, but he wouldn’t get there ever, it was far off in another colony.

Orien’s lids closed down and he napped. Finally he was at rest.

III

Orien heard the low roar of the exhaust and the hiss of the fan slowing down to stop, while he laid in his bed-chamber and listened to ‘the buglye brothers’, an old farce-show on the radio. He reached his arm out to click off the tuner on the box, rolled his body down and leapt off his bed. He walked down the hallway to the main living quarter, which was filled with yellow sunlight, causing the wood floors to shine and glow. His father was standing at the door with a business case, in one hand and a luggage bag in the other.

“Did you go away on a trip?” Orien asked, eyes on the luggage.

“I told you just before I left, I was going away,” his father said with a sigh.

“You didn’t tell me!” Orien said in unexpected frustration-he wasn’t exactly sure what had caused him to be angry about the situation.

His father laid down his bags with a thump that awoke Felice, who got up from her bedpillow to examine them. Her paws skipped along the shining floors, her claws tapped along like clicks on an old clockpiece.

“It’s on the calendar scroll,” his father said, pointing in the air ahead of him, in the direction of the dining quarter, where hung the scroll, “Are you upset with me?” he asked, “Did you need me home for any reason?”

“No. No. I was fine here by myself. I called for pilot lessons, had an instructor here the other day.”

Orien’s father let go and kicked aside his luggage and case, walking toward the bed-chamber doors, “Oh, well that’s very productive. I’m glad to hear it,” he said.

Orien continued to talk, starved for attention, “I finished scripting for a performance. I want to get some performers together. I told Duglus I can meet with him/well told him I would/if I had a ride/to Penhaven/can I have… a ride… oh, but you’ve been on a trip.”

Orien’s father was stopped at the front of his bed-chamber door, had his hand on the knob.

 “Orien, I just got back,” he said, Orien could see that he was tired from the trip.

“Forget it. I can meet with him another day.”

“I’ll be in my bedchamber. I’ll give it a thought. I want you to get out and have a good time with your friends.”

The door creaked and Orien’s father disappeared behind it.

Orien walked into the dining quarter, to look at the calendar scroll, and scripted in black ink on the second box of the current day-set, were the words, Training seminar in Pelenham Town.

Orien sat reading a pamphlet book on the couch in the main living quarter and being quite certain that his father had no intention of providing him with a ride to Penhaven, he felt as a caged animal may feel, longing to run in the wild, but only able to roam provided his keeper allowed it.

There was guilt on top of it. Orien’s father was tired and needed rest and it was wrong of Orien to ask for such a favor. Orien would have suggested he pilot, but he was not skilled enough after one lesson and the ride to Penhaven was long and difficult for a beginner.

Orien finished reading his story, retreated to his bedchamber and lay, feeling hopeless, when he sensed a presence at his open doorway and turned to look and see his father.

“Let’s go,” he said with impatience, “did you page your friend Duglus?”

“I thought you weren’t-“

Orien sat up in his bed.

“I hadn’t said I wouldn’t. I had said I’d give it thought.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Orien, I don’t mind it,” his father said, although he didn’t sound as if he truly meant it, “I don’t 
want you closed in doors like this.”

Orien got up from his bed and somewhere deep within he felt confused, because his father always helped when help was needed, but he seemed to also discourage against Orien being too reliant on his help. With Orien’s brother away at the academy and his mother living with her companion in her own separate life, his father was the only one he could rely on for help, and it seemed as if this made him grow tired. Orien didn’t want it to be so, but what else was there for him to do, having friends far off out of town and not being able to pilot a jetcar?

Orien prepared his shoulder bag, with his finished performance script. He tried to imagine a life outside his father’s quarters, when he would be able to use a jetcar to zip around to the places he needed-it was still a fantasy, even upon completing his pilot lessons, he would need work to afford to purchase his own jetcar, and to pay for fueling. He imagined how it might be to earn wages upon being hired as conductor for stage performances and perhaps if he were to put on a performance and get recognition, he could make that fantasy possible.

In the ride to Penhaven, as Orien sat in quiet in the co-pilot’s chair, he was avoiding his father and the reality within the silver jetcar, imagining himself at the pilot’s chair, imagining himself to be on his way to an audition for his latest performance.

“Duglus has a jet, doesn’t he?” Orien’s father said, breaking the silence.

“He doesn’t know how to get to Hilliar,” Orien said in a soft, as always, guilty, voice, and he 
thought he may have had this conversation before, or at least one similar.

“He can learn. I can give him directions. If he can invite you to meet him, can’t he offer a ride?” 

Orien’s father said with a gesture of his hands. 

Piloting was so casual and worry-free for his father, who traveled frequently.

“He lives too far off from us, that’s why it’s easier for us to simply meet up in Penhaven Town,” Orien responded.

There was tension in the vehicle, Orien felt nervous; he had felt it before with his mother. Both his parents caused him to be tense, and this tension was collecting inside him like a fog, like the fog that used to come with the chill season, when eval was threat. He was guarded against the fog, by way of potion remedies, but he no longer took them.

Orien’s father halted the silver jet at the back-lot of the Penhaven Show-house. Orien’s friend Duglus was halted in his deep blue jet, directly across. Before Orien would leave the vehicle he had to ask his father something of which he feared and thought he might simply leave the vehicle without asking.

Orien felt as if he was sitting in the pilot chair in his restraint, deciding, for a very long time, before he turned to his father and asked, unable to look at him direct in the eyes out of fear, “I don’t suppose you have any… it’s all right if you don’t have… notes-to-spare… but in case I need notes-”

His father, reluctantly entered his pocket, and pulled a twenty-note out of his pocket-purse, which Orien placed in his own black pants pocket.

“Thank you,” Orien said to his father, unfastening his restraining belt, taking his shoulder bag, and sliding the door open then closed, as he walked off to meet Duglus, who was standing by his own jet.

The silver jet, along with Orien’s father, sped out of the lot and away.

Duglus stood, lanky limbed and nearly a foot and a half taller than Orien in a long green day-shirt, short sleeved, tied at the chest and down to the belt, where it opened and formed a tail in the back. He gestured for Orien to come along with him out of the lot and into the market.

As they walked along, Orien said, “So/I-I/have that script/performance script I finished,” Orien said, in a soft mumble.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll give it a read, like I said,” Duglus said and walked ahead, with confidence, as Orien was overwhelmed by light and sound.

They were walking the sidepathes of Penhaven Town, it was growing dark outside, nearing dusk and the tall lightpoles were dimmed. This walk in the town was far different from Orien’s usual nightly walks, through the same vacant dirt paths of his neighborhood. They passed groups of scholars on respite, enjoying the nightlife, smiling and having fun, but Orien felt timid and overwhelmed and stuck by his friend Dug as if reliant on him to lead the way through an unknown territory-it was as if Orien had never roamed the market before, although he had been there on numerous occasions during schooling.

“Have you read the latest critiques of ‘Dualities’? It’s a three-reel show from Merv Borgman,  saw it with Reann, about a man unfaithful with his companion who contemplates her murder and it explores their companionship through flashes of memory and at the point where the main character becomes unfaithful the narrative changes to explore his companionship with the other woman…” Duglus explained in a rushing breath, his speech like rocks tumbling off a cliff side, the words plunking forth in perfect pitch as if in song and with each toss and plunk Orien attempted to catch each word.

Orien tried to keep up; in his mind he had other things he wanted to discuss, such as his own script and the possibility of performance.

“It sounds similar to Borgman’s early stage work. Like ‘Broken Faith’,” Orien said as he and Duglus where standing at the front entrance to the Penhaven Show-house. Orien thought he might stall to avoid going inside the theatre, as he saw many enter and imagined the crowded auditorium and how lost and afraid he would feel seated within.

“I don’t know too much Borgman, aside from the reel-shows I’ve seen-”

“Well, ‘Broken Faith’ was a very well recognized stage performance from before Borgman’s reel-show work. It was also about the faults of a marriage companionship,” Orien explained, “I read ‘Borgman in interview’, a book that details Borgman’s career, gives critique on his artistry and methods… and reading it/it’s inspiring/makes me want to get started on my own career/I want to get this performance ready/I want your help…”

Duglus was smiling, leaning against the brick wall, by a glass window, fogged up by brown dirt. He paused before responding, “What do you have in mind?”

“We can get actors together/find a venue/use actors from the arts school/we can use the stage at the arts school as a venue…”

A group of late youth girls passed by, and Orien could not help his eyes glaring at a full-chested lady, with a streak of orange like fire in her long black hair, draped over the right plate of her eyeglasses, while a seductive brown eye hid behind the left plate.

Orien’s mind was a flash of fantasy images revolving around this lady youth auditioning for a role in his performance and he would get to know her and find that she was fond of the show conductor Merv Borgman and that she was knowledgeable in many other things that interested Orien. He could see her paging him, and arriving at his quarters to take him away to an art exhibition, he could see his enlovment to her and her to him. He could see them embracing intimately. He could almost feel the touch of her lips and he could imagine holding her.

“What sort of help would you need?”

Duglus began walking along the stone path past Niko’s flash-image developing and accessory shop. Orien tagged along behind, explaining, “Well, once you read my script-you’ll help my/with the conducting/with the paging of the actors/and you have a jet/and you know people at the arts school…”

“Is that Maxen?” Duglus said as they reached a crossing, and he pointed to a gentleman of early elder in a scarlet day-shirt, with hair freeze-styled to form a tousled appearance, standing across the path.

The gentleman waved and looked about for jetcars crossing before rushing across the path to meet Dug and Orien.

Dug and Maxen shook hands and they were of equal height, Orien noticed as he shook with Maxen. Orien felt odd standing amongst the two full-grown, fully matured, elders. Orien was the runt in the group and he felt himself to be a youth, unable to speak up as Dug chatted with Maxen.

“I was interested in seeing ‘Dualities’,” Maxen said as he stood with the group in front of the show-house.

“I’ve seen it-” Dug said.

“We were just discussing/I was saying/the story sounds similar to ‘Broken faith,” Orien said attempting to add to the conversation.

“I never saw that one,” Maxen said, peering at Orien who added, “Well, it was a stage performance,” but it was as if he hadn’t spoken at all, as Dug then continued, “I went to see 
‘Dualities’ with Reann, how are things with Mia?”

“Oh, I’m no longer with Mia,” Maxen said.

“Oh, when did that come up? How have you been, then…?”

“We had to separate as she will be going away for schooling, it was difficult, but, I’m enjoying being a free man, I find myself with interesting ladies. There’s plenty out there.”

It was decided, by Dug, that the three of them would go to a pub and have a meal and a drink. Orien followed Maxen and Dug to ‘the Brewhouse’.

Once inside the Brew-house, waiting to be seated, Orien once again became distracted at the overwhelming number of late youth and early elder ladies, seated at the bar and at the tables. He noticed a couple in the far left corner holding hands, with a candle lit in between them, and imagined what it might be like to feel as they were feeling and to be enlovd.

The hostess was a very attractive, dark-haired early elder, tall, of equal height with Dug and Maxen. Orien couldn’t help feeling small, and upon being seated and given a menu, he would 
start to feel even smaller at the coming conversation.

“I’ve been invited to a meet from a Montclair lady,” Maxen said. Montclair was a ladies’ university in Penhaven.

“When?” Dug asked.

“Later tonight. Last time I went to a meet like that, it worked in my favor, you should come along.”

“I have a companion,” Dug responded.

 Maxen then turned his attention to Orien, “Orien, you should come, when ladies get blist, they become very agreeable… if you’re interested, even if not, you can meet people…”
For Orien to imagine being in such a situation was downright scary and overwhelming. He had not the courage to speak up to a lady unless they were already familiar. He didn’t want to let on with Maxen, though.

“We were thinking of just having a pipe at my parent’s cottage,” Dug said.

“I’d rather just do that,” Orien said.

A lady servant, blond, of a small stature, approached the table and the group ordered. Orien watched her walk away.

Maxen continued to describe his most recent experience at a social meet, in which he came to become intimate with a lady. Orien felt awkward as Dug and Maxen discussed intimate relations and enlovment. Orien was becoming smaller and farther away, wanting to escape into his own comfortable planet.

It was a simple thing, for someone as actively social as Maxen to discuss intimate relations with someone such as Dug, who was physically active in a long-term companionship. It was as if Orien was not there.

“What were you two planning in Penhaven?” Maxen asked after a pause that finally put a stop to his and Dug’s conversation, as the lady-servant had brought them their drinks, three cold berus.

“We had no set plans, we were just roaming the town-“ Dug said.

“But we were discussing a performance I was going to conduct-that Dug might help me conduct-” Orien spontaneously interrupted.

“Were we discussing that?” Dug said, joking, but Orien failed to recognize his kidding and after a pause, said, in his soft voice (as he was small and far away) “You said you would help.”

Dug teased, “I just asked what sort of help you wanted, I never said I was sure I knew I could help.”

Orien heard the words, but did not register the playful tone in his voice or the light-hearted expression of his face, and Orien felt rejected, but Maxen perked up and said, “I’ll help.”

“Really/well/uh… Dug has my only copy/of the script/but…”

“When he’s finished with it…” Maxen said.

“I’ll hand it off to you, yeah,” Dug said. 

They each three took a gulp of beru.

“What’s the plotline?” Maxen asked.

“Well, it’s/I’m the main performer/I’m a conducter named Romen/trying to put on my own 
performance,” Orien explained.

“A Performance of a performance?” Maxen said.

“Yep, one of those…” Dug said with a grin.

“Yeah/but this/this/is really unique/this is different/it’ll be very good,” Orien said.

“Well, sure, I can help with whatever you need. I can play a role.” Maxen said.

Before the end of the night when Maxen would leave on the transport, to meet up with his friends at the ladies’ dormitory house near Montclair, and after the group would finish their meal and berus, the group would roam the Penhaven market.

“How are jet lessons going?”  Dug asked Orien, as they sat at a bench by the fountain. Maxen was standing smoking a stik.

“I’ve only had one lesson and so far, it’s difficult.”

“It’s difficult at first, awkward with trying to focus on the paths, other jets, coordinating with the different levers and dials,” Maxen said, puffing smoke as he grasped the stik in his two fingers, by his knee.

“Exactly/it’s so much to have to process…” Orien said.

“but then it becomes simple routine, like riding a mini-speeder.”

Orien thought about the last statement. He hoped learning to fly jet would go better than learning to fly mini-speeder. He had rode speeder with wheels as an early youth and when it came time at age seven, to learn to hover, he trained for a long period and could never master the necessary balance and coordination. It was frustrating and embarrassing as he was the only youth of his age who had not yet learned to ride speeder. Finally, he struggled to teach himself at age twelve and finally, he accomplished his goal.

“Well, I had trouble learning that too, but then, I have had experience with trying to fly jet before/with my father/so I suppose, at this point I can master it.”

“It isn’t hard,” Dug said, “I fly so often now that everything is just routine.”

Orien was becoming still more anxious with the prospect of learning to fly jet and was becoming confident. It seemed as if things were going in the right direction. He could see himself flying jet, organizing his upcoming stage performance, he imagined he might meet a lady, maybe an actress, maybe the lady who would portray Jada in ‘In Production’. He would be able to pick her up and take her away to theatre or somewhere where they would have a romantic time together and maybe share a kiss, or hold hands in a pub with a candle lit between them, like the couple he saw at the Brewhouse. 

The transport arrived and Maxen departed, Orien then went along with Dug back to Dug’s parents’ cottage. Dug asked if Orien wanted to have a pipe, and a couple of his father’s berus. Orien was up for it and while Dug steered the jet through the woods leading to the cottage, Orien paged his father.

“I suppose, you’re ready to be picked up?” Orien’s father said.

“I’m staying the night at Dug’s parents’ cottage,” Orien said, speaking into his communicator.

“Don’t you have a lesson tomorrow?”

“No, I’m on a schedule of every other day…”

Dug was steering the jet up the front lot, to his parent’s luxurious, two-floor cottage.

“I can’t pick you up in the morning, I have to be at the factory,” said the voice on the other end of 
Orien’s communicator.

“My father says he can’t pick me up tomorrow morning,” Orien said, turning to Dug, who was pointing a small device at a black box, with wires, that was above the door of a keep-house.

“We’ll go over your script tonight and make letter postings tomorrow, to put up at the arts school and try to find performers…” Dug said, and as the black box was lit red, the rickety door began 
to ascend, allowing entrance.

“But, all the scholars are on respite…” Orien said.

“They still put on shows during respite, right now their performing ‘the lady elegant’. Maybe your father can pick you up after work… or I can try and find Hilliar… it’s a long ride, but… why don’t 
we try that.”

Orien turned the mic bit from his communicator back to explain the plan to his father, “Dug says he might be able to bring me home tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then.”

“Bye dad,” Orien said

“Bye.”

Orien folded up his communicator and put it back into his pant pocket. Dug unfastened his restraint, slid open the door and was out. Orien followed, doing the same.

The keep-house smelled of fresh wood, like trees in a forest, there were many wires and cords, safely taped against the walls, from the red light identifier and from the lights that hung from the rafters above their heads. It was large enough to accommodate two vehicles, and there was more room for firewood and tools, than there was in the shed at Orien’s father’s cottage (and their shed had barely enough room to fit more than a single jetcar to keep during chill season).

They entered a small door in the keep-house, went up a flight of old stairs and entered the cottage. Orien had his shoulder bag with him and his script, and once settled, they unpopped a few bottles of beru in the main living quarter and read through the lines of script.

IV

While going over the lines of script, Orien found that, although Dug was intrigued by the first act, and thought it clever of Orien to utilize an old script of his as the basis for the performance being in production, he felt the second act needed reworking. Nevertheless, they had planned to pin up a bulletin at the arts school on the following day.

They set to work right away on the bulletin, bringing their beru bottles with them into Dug’s father’s workroom. Orien sat at the desk with ink and stencils, designing a bulletin posting, which read- Performers Needed for amateur production conducted by former Penhaven Arts scholar – with the date, time and location to be filled in once they talked to the chief Administrator.

Dug swigged down the last of his beru as Orien showed him the design.

“Know how to use the flash-press?” Dug asked, setting his emptied bottle on the desk. Orien got out of his chair and watched Dug as he showed Orien how to use the flash-press, a black machine next to the desk.

Dug lifted the top press plate by the handle and placed the bulletin faced down on the glass surface, and he closed the bulletin within the press. With the push of a button, a red light lit up, the machine whirred and after several clicks a paper slid out of a horizontal slit in the middle of the black box.

“Let’s make a few copies, then we’ll have a pipe,” Dug said, removing the paper from the slit and pressing the button to copy once more.

Once their task was completed the duo put aside the bulletin postings, and had a pipe of herbs outside on the porch.

They had a few more berus and when Orien awoke the following morning from the floor of the cottage living quarters, he felt dizzy. His stomach was ablaze, his head pounded, with after-drink sickness. The first thing on his mind was a hot mug of steamee to perk up his senses, and after sitting in the dining quarter, in a dazed state, Orien watched Dug finally stumble from his room, enter the washroom, and stumble out.

“I need steamee,” Orien said.

“Well, we don’t have it,” Dug said in a voice that sounded irritated, appropriately, having the 
same after-drink symptoms as Orien.

“What do you mean? Everyone has steamee to brew at home.”

“My parents don’t drink it, nor do I. My sisters drank it, but they don’t live here anymore.”

Dug prepared a fruit juice for Orien and himself, and they each ate biscuits.

“There’s a formula in the juice for headaches, it should suffice as a remedy,” Dug explained, but open finishing their breakfasts, Orien still felt sick and empty headed, although a few of his symptoms had dropped.

Soon they got into Dug’s jet and he steered them out of the woods and into the village, on the way to their former school of late learning. Dug tuned the radio in the jet to a symphonic program, the type of orchestration of which Dug was familiar with being a piano player.

It had been a calendar block since Orien completed his learning at Penhaven Arts, but it seemed like longer and when Dug halted his jet at the front gate of the arts school, it was sad to think that he wasn’t going back come harvest season. He would never see his former scholars again, as he tried to figure the steps toward elder hood, in his father’s cottage in Hilliar, far from his real home in Penhaven amongst the artists and stage performers.

They entered the gates and walked up the hill, Dug carrying the bulletin posts in his right hand. 
They entered the main building.

 The halls were vacant as it was respite and yet through at least one of the study room doors, performers were rehearsing and planning for an upcoming performance.

Orien and Dug heard steps from the stairway and a bald man with a mustache was hurrying down, papers also in hand.

“Well, hello,” he said stopping to shake their hands, “What brings you duo, here? You’re not on a respite session production team are you?”

It was the Administration Chief of the school, which was convenient for the two of them, mostly for Orien, but it was Dug who would speak up and ask, “Is it alright to post these bulletins?”

The Administrator smiled and replied, “Absolutely, are you two putting on a performance?”
“Orien is,” Dug said.

A choir of scholars could be heard from behind one of the study room doors.

“We both are. Dug is co-conductor,” Orien said. He wondered why Dug seemed reluctant to help and immediately he would understand as Dug explained to the Aministrator, “Well, actually, I’m helping, but I also have musical assistance duties at the Penhaven Youth Theatre, it’ll mainly be Orien’s show.”

Dug had other things lined up in his schedule to worry about, still yet, in Orien’s mind, he thought ‘In Production’ would be a main priority, as it was Orien’s performance, and it promised to be quite good (provided Orien can work out the problems with the second act).

The Administrator inquired as to where and when they would want to hold their audition and it was agreed that they would hold them on Saturday in Misha Weller’s room.

Orien was becoming eager at the prospect of auditioning performers, especially in meeting actresses for the part of Jada and as far as the present moment, he was not concerned, until, after talking with the Administrator, and pinning up a bulletin in the hall, Dug decided to tell Orien, “Uh, remember I said I was going to bring you back to Hilliar, well… I wasn’t thinking at that point, I completely wasn’t thinking-I have to be at the children’s theatre this afternoon to go over the music for a rehearsal.”

Orien once again felt small and realized he was still reliant on Dug and on his father to get him to the places he needed to be, which meant that out in the world without them he was alone-he told himself, it was only the blis in his system from the previous night, causing his emotions to be heightened, and yet he could not help them, and he felt small.

“But I need to get home!”

“Your father can still come by after work, right?”

It would be difficult to have to voice his father and tell him he would need a way home after he had told that he had a plan and that Dug would bring him back to Hilliar. He didn’t want to inconvenience his father.

They moved on down the hall to pin up another bulletin, passing by Misha Weller’s room, where they noticed several scholars laughing in a group, taking part in a respite session study.

“But… I don’t know… I told him you were bringing me back, and I don’t want to ask him/I don’t like asking him/if you brought me now…”

Dug pinned up another bulletin and replied, “I wouldn’t make it back to Penhaven in time for the rehearsal and I have to be there.”

It was frustrating, to think that if Dug had only been thinking, he could have informed Orien of this earlier.

They walked down the stairs of the main house and moved on to the art house, which was down the hill a little ways, past the field. They posted a bulletin on the board next to the door, and entering the house, were very careful not to disturb the performers rehearsing in the auditorium, as they posted a bulletin on the door. Orien went up the stairs and posted a bulletin on the second floor notice board, and on the board in one of the music rooms.

Dug was nowhere to be found when Orien walked back down and looked around the hallway. He peaked through some of the doorways and could not find him. He felt lost as if Dug had abandoned him, which was a ridiculous notion, is it was clear that Dug was simply outside the house.

Orien walked out of the art house to find Dug and heard his voice, in conversation.

“I’m with Orien, I told you I would be, I’ll pick you up after my theatre duties…”

Dug was standing by a familiar tree in the field, with his communicator to his ear. Orien stood on the stepway to the art house, unsure of what to do, not wanting to interrupt.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t come along, I’m saying you don’t need to… I didn’t say I didn’t want you to… look it isn’t necessary for you to come to the theatre, we’re just going over… I do want to see you…we’ll rehearse that tonight, we don’t need to be at the theatre for that and I have the children’s group today…”

Orien walked toward Dug, but Dug walked away as if to avoid him, and began up the hill to the main house. Orien followed, slowly behind so as not to bother Dug.

“Just practice your vocals, you’ll see me tonight, I’ll pick you up… love you too,” Dug said, finally folding his communicator back up and putting it back in his pocket.

“Did you page your father, yet?” Dug asked.

“Well, no…” Orien said as they walked past the main house to the gate.

“Do that now, I’m taking you back to Penhaven, I’ve gotta leave soon, I may stop and see Reann before I leave for the theatre.”

They had made it through the gates and Dug was just entering the pilot side of his jet.
“You make it seem like it’s a chore/seeing Reann/if I had a companion I’d always be happy to see…”

Orien slid open the co-pilot side and got in.

“You don’t understand, Orien,” Dug said, very loud, and very flustered, he then took a breath and calmed, “having a lady-companion… it’s not what you think it is. It’s just another stress.”

Orien didn’t believe it. He had hoped for the best in terms of enlovment. He had hopes that when he made it to that stage in his life it would be just the sort of happiness he dreamed of, but then he wondered if it were a dream to never be attained-yet, regardless of stress, it had to be better than being alone. There wasn’t any way it could be worse.

Orien paged his father on his communicator, while he sat in the co-pilot chair and Dug steered the jet towards the market.

“Dug is dropping me off at the market,” he told his father.

“I won’t be able to pick you up until about, I don’t know, maybe the nineteenth toll,” he said, typically impatient.

“I can spend some time in the market-”

“All day?”

“I have the twenty note you gave me, what are you afraid is going to happen?”

The jet was already arriving in the market square and Dug was steering it into the lot behind the Penhaven Show-house.

“I don’t like you wandering the market alone-”

“I’ll be fine, I’ll just browse the bookshop and read until I’m ready to meet you.”

“Okay. I’ll page you and let you know when I’m coming.”

Orien completed his conversation with his father and the jet was halted, so he said goodbye to his friend Dug, and they made a plan to keep in contact. Dug would page him at the end of the day-set, on Saturday morning, when they would have the audition for ‘in-production’.

Dug’s jet sped out of the lot and Orien walked up the sidepath leading to the front entrance of the show-house and walked along to the crossing where Maxen had met up with them the previous day and Orien turned, walked alone, passed Carmelena’s sweet shop and the Penhaven Tidy Peasant and felt awkward as he saw two fine looking lady peasants, smiling and happy, walk out the door, and he was alone. He had no one to laugh and be happy with.
As he walked along he finally stopped at the one place he would find comfort and not feel alone, and he stepped into Simmons Bookshop.

The shop was modest, small and lit dimly by hanging chandeliers. Orien took a quick scope of the new arrivals in the middle shelf. There was a new Harlee Sainte hardbound, a collection of stories titled, ‘In Dark Corners’. Orien picked it up, opened up the first few pages and stopped at the page, which listed all of Harlee’s available works. Orien thought it impressive to be able to script so many novels and stories over the many years and Orien was never very proficient with story writing as much as he tried. It was still something to consider though, in case his career of stage-work fell through, because a book can simply be written and published, without the stress of auditions and rehearsals.

Orien put the book back and walked to the back of the shop, turned a corner following a sign posting and found himself in the youth novels aisle. He decided to see if he could find some copies of paper-bounds by his favorite author of his youth, Charley Dobbin.

He found Dobbin’s section and they had paperbounds and hardbounds of all of Orien’s 
favorites from his youth, ‘Meria Meets the Wretches’, ‘Lady Loleya the Clever’ and ‘Arte and the Festival of Magic’, which Orien picked up out of the bunch.

The frontpiece had an etching of the festival-master, a colorfully dressed gentleman and the children in his tour group.

Orien thumbed through illustrated pages and read passages through many chimes, before checking the clockpiece in his pocket and deciding it was time to leave the bookshop. He purchased the paperbound book, for five notes, placed it in his shoulder bag and left the shop to find a place to eat and spend his remaining fifteen notes.

Orien’s father would eventually arrive to pick him up at the back-lot of the show-house, and later in the night, while at home, Orien read ‘Arte and the Festival of Magic’ in it’s entirety and was transported back to his youth, feeling happy as a youth again, he slept very well that night.

V

Orien’s skills in his second jet lesson were much the same as in his first, although he expected himself to be more confident and comfortable with his surroundings, he found that was not the case. Despite that, Orien thought, that even if it took many more lessons for him to progress, it was worth trying, and he would try his best with each lesson.

The auditions for ‘in-production’ were held on the following day and when Orien asked his father for a ride to Penhaven to meet Dug, it was suggested that Orien pilot.

“I… I’m not ready. I’m not ready yet for so much piloting,” Orien said, breathing heavily, hoping not to be forced into anything, but knowing if he pleaded his case he would prevail.

“I can show you an easy way, just back paths, not heavily trafficked areas and it will give you practice,” his father said.

“No. No. I’m not ready, my instructor would agree.  I’ve only had two lessons/haven’t progressed enough yet,” Orien begged, shaking, imagining himself in the pilot seat with all the complicated buttons and dials, and the other jets he had to watch out for in the reflectors, his maintaining speed-it had been too much for him and he believed it would all be the same in his ride to Penhaven.

“Just thought you would want the practice,” his father said, “but if you don’t feel ready, I won’t push you.”

Orien’s father piloted the silver jet, down unfamiliar back paths, as he explained that this was the route in which he would have Orien take, and it was an easy ride. He thought it good to show him so that when he became confident enough he could give it a try himself.

Orien met Dug at the usual spot in the back lot of the theatre, and Orien switched from one vehicle to another-Dug’s jet then took him to the Penhaven arts school.

Dug halted the jet at the gates, and they entered, descended the hill and made their way to the art house, where inside it was quiet, but through the window of Misha Weller’s door, several performers were seated. Orien and Dug recognized, Anton and Hale, two of Maxen’s friends, both heavy-set, one tall, the other short.

The tall one, Hale, shook hands with Orien.

“How’s your respite been? Good to see you, sorry Maxen couldn’t make it. He has an audition for a farce-show,” Hale said and Orien remembered the comedy troupe at the arts school, which Hale, Anton and Maxen were all a part of-Orien auditioned two calendar years in a row and was never let in.

Besides Hale and Anton, three other ladies were seated. It wasn’t much of a turnout and gave Orien very little choice in performers, Anton and Hale would have to portray the two male performers in the play-within-the-play, Orien would play Romen the conductor, and Maxen could portray the co-conductor-It would be a fine cast with the three comedy-performers and Orien already knew of their prior experience.

Orien pulled out a chair from Misha Weller’s desk, as Dug pulled up a chair beside him.
Orien looked out at the performers. Anton and Hale were sitting close by, Hale with his arms folded, and in the far back corner were two ladies, one wearing a lovely blue sky day-dress, the other in violet, both with dark hair, chatting amongst themselves, while the third lady performer, a short, golden-haired late youth of about sixteen in age was walking towards Orien, who immediately recognized her.

“It’s been too long,” she said throwing her arms in a hug.

“Steflana… oh, it hasn’t been that long, we’ve only been out of schooling for maybe over a calendar block,” he said.

“Yes, and you’re not coming back next year!” she said.

“No, I’m a completed scholar, now,” Orien said and it felt good to be embraced by Steflana, a lady whom in Orien’s last year of schooling would chat with him often on the transport home.

Orien immediately recalled the times on the transport and the faces, many ladies’ faces. He remembered how he’d step onto the transport and a dark-haired lady, sitting beside a harp in its case would wave to him. It took him a chime before he could recall her name… Holli, it had been, and he remembered talking with her at least once, but she seldom was talkative, not as Steflana was. Holli came to mind, immediately, though, among the many faces from the transport and Orien wondered about her skills with music, which he had never inquired about-it was a shame as Orien’s brother had many friends who performed music and they might have had much to talk about.

“Do you have a monologue prepared?” Orien asked, quiet and nervous, as Steflana broke away from him.

“Yes, whenever you are ready.”

Orien felt his heart pump and was anxious, anticipating Steflana’s performance. He had already seemed to make up his mind, as to whom he would want to portray Jada and it would be Steflana. He could then become friends with her again, and become closer and not let her slip away. He had been stupid perhaps to have not asked her accompaniment to a show or to a steamee parlor, he must have thought her too young, although they were only three calendar years apart, or he had simply been fearful, but he couldn’t let her slip away.

“I’m gonna ask… that we have all performers approach the front,” Dug said, and the two ladies in the corner stepped forward.

“My name is Duglus Rowe, seated next to me is your scripter and conductor Orien Sage. The production is titled, ‘in-production’. It is about a play-within-a-play and we are looking for the main lady-performer. While we have Anton and Hale here, we’ll also have them read for their roles as well. What can you tell us about your experiences? We’ll start with the new faces,” Dug asked and the lady with the sky blue day dress, smiled, showing shiny metallic bracework. She was not a heavy lady, but had a round portly figure.

“Hello sirs, my name is Cindra Batesley, I’m just starting with the arts school next calendar semester, I spent the last two respites at the Youth Theatre Camp of Penhaven, this past term I portrayed Ms. Munley in the Penhaven School for Late Learning’s production of ‘Obelia the Orphan’. I was gonna perform a monologue from that show…. Should I go ahead and start?”
Orien felt he should speak up, being that Dug seemed to have primarily been leading the audition thus far.

“Yes, go ahead,” Orien said in his usual soft, timid, voice. He sat very stiff in his chair, while Dug sat beside him, very relaxed and slightly bored as they listened. Orien had not been familiar with the show ‘Obelia the Orphan’, although he knew of the radio program, of which it was based off.

Ms. Munley, the role of which Cindra was acting out in her monologue was the nasty Mistress at the Grumwell Lady’s Orphanage. Cindra’s performance was very impressive and comical.

“…And if any of your tiny little toes, step out of line, you answer to the Mistress, and I shall see that those little toes of yours won’t wriggle away again! I shall be sure of it…!”

It was not what Orien was looking for, for the part of Jada. It was a mistake not to include something of the nature of the role, in the posting, and yet, it didn’t matter all that much as Orien was anticipating Steflana.

Orien and Dug applauded as Cindra took a bow and the lady next to her stepped forward. She had hazel eyes, and long black lashes, with silky black hair about an inch past her shoulder, alluring with a violet ribbon tie.

“My name is Ariele, I’m also from the Penhaven Theatre Camp, and am enrolled in the arts school, as well, starting next semester, same as Cindra. ”

She had a very petite, youthful appearance, but an intelligent, mature face, although she must have been of age fifteen, Orien would have guessed at least seventeen by her eyes which showed such wisdom. She was beautiful, but with Orien playing the role of conductor Romen, he wasn’t sure he’d feel comfortable with the on-stage flirtations. He was also afraid of his inevitable and uncontrollable desires of an off-stage romance, which he saw happening.

“I have for today, a dialogue verse, from Lionelle Thebuek. Are either of you familiar with 

‘Clemont and Victorien’?”

Orien and Dug both answered, “Yes.” 

Lionelle Thebuek was a popular old style performance scripter, from early Promythica and ‘Clemont and Victorien’ was a popular romantic tragedy and a favorite of Orien’s, as Thebuek scripted his dialogue in poetic verse.

“ACT I, SCENE xviii. After having met Victorien at a formal dance, Clemont sees her taking a nightly stroll, many days later. I will be speaking Victorien’s part in a dialogue between the two interests:

“You speak sir, and give evidence to theory,
That I might have arisen from waters blue,
Whilst you wept on dark shore lost and bleary,
To request certain reward you see due,
Yet I came to you not unclothed, not pure,
From whence I rose through storm tossed waters wild,
I came for you to make me free, my rescuer,
It was I who wept as might abandoned child,
Reward to me, you are due, to relieve,
Suffering which is mine own not I to yours,
hold me, I feel safe and both lost we breathe,
brave with me,  shall we find the brighter shores?”

There arose much applause from the room, at Ariele’s performance, as she showed a remarkable sense of emotion and drama, which captured Orien’s attention. He wondered if he had been witness to any true emotions-he believed her, and he had never seen ‘Clemont and Victorien’ performed on stage, therefore was thrilled to hear her recite Thebuek’s verses.

Finally came the moment of which Orien had been waiting and it was time for Steflana to perform.

“I’m Steflana, I don’t have much performing experience, though I’ve auditioned for roles while at the arts school. Last semester I auditioned for the role of Dalia, in ‘Prince Horatio’-another Thebuek production, but didn’t get the part… besides that there was also the one act, ‘Children of the Village’, which is what I’ll be reading from today, from the lady youth peasant Mera, when she has a run-in with a group of town peasant boys, after she has fled from living with her wicked aunt:

“I wish I knew where I belonged, maybe I belong here, all I know is I didn’t belong there…”
Steflana faked tears, as she recited the depressingly awful scripting from ‘Children of the Village’ a one act, which Orien recalled had been performed in the first term of his final school year.

“If you have shelter, take me in, if you have food, please help me be fed, I will trust even ruffians such as you, so long as I won’t ever have to go back…”

Katlena wiped a non-existent tear and sobbed, in an artificial manner. Orien, however felt a genuine emotional response from her reading-she was terrible, and he was let down. His fantasy of having her be a part of his production, her being someone who may have admired him, was shattered.

Dug and Orien applauded politely, as did everyone else-soft, polite, clapping.

“Well read,” Dug said.

Orien wasn’t sure of what to do next, he whispered to Dug, “Are we going to have them read from my script?”

Each performer read for the part of Jada and Anton and Hale read for their parts. Ariele, it was clear, would be the only reasonable choice for the role of Jada. 

During Steflana’s reading, a lady with curly red hair peaked through the window, another acquaintance of Orien’s from the transport, and a friend of Steflana. No doubt, Steflana would tell her friend later in the day, that she blamed her lousy performance on this distraction.

At the close of the audition, when all the performers got up to leave, Steflana met up with her curly-haired friend, Helena.

Orien was greeted in a hug from Helena, while Steflana excused herself to use the washroom.

“You don’t suppose Steflana still admires me?” Orien asked her in conversation, to which she replied, “Well, maybe a little, but she’s been spending quite a bit of time with a harpsmen these days,”

“Not Timone-”

“No, she’s over him, but I think she met this other boy through him, I think they play shows together.”

At least this meant she wouldn’t be disappointed if she didn’t get the part, Orien thought, and he seemed to be thinking along the lines as if he had been auditioning roles for a potential lady-companion, and secretly and stupidly, he had been in some ways.

Orien left with Dug and while in the jet they discussed the auditions.

“That lady, Ariele, was quite impressive,” Dug said.

“No doubt she was the best,” Orien agreed, “yet… she’s very young. Just entering the arts school, she must be of fourteen or fifteen in age.”

“Well, it isn’t too out of the ordinary for youth performers to play older roles,”

“But, me being eighteen and an early elder, for her to be a love interest of sorts to me, in the show, would it seem right?”

Dug was concentrating on his piloting. They were entering Penhaven.

“I think you’d have good chemistry, she must be interested in poetry if she’s so familiar with Thebuek’s work, right, so you’ll probably get along well with her both on-stage and off-stage. It’s all just an act, in the end, it isn’t as if she’d be your companion in real life.”

Orien had to think hard. He knew Ariele was the best choice for the role, but he did feel an attraction of sorts, which he was not comfortable with. She recited the Thebuek verse so well. 

Dug must be right and she must be interested in poetry, but Orien had to put all romantic thoughts out of his mind. She would be his actress and that was all.

It wouldn’t be easy, to put such thoughts aside. Orien was awake for many tolls that night, listening to radio programs, unable to sleep, being increasingly excited over the prospect of Ariele playing Jada and he could not stop thinking and dreaming. 

The radio shows would feed into his imagination. While listening to an interview with Merv Borgman, he imagined his future as a conductor for a stage, and how Ariele would be there alongside him, as he’d follow these dreams.

Ariele would be enlovd to him. Orien would become more and more popular with his productions, which would all feature her, naturally, and eventually she would complete her schooling and they would become marriage companions, and move to Tietopus Town where Orien would further his career and she would go to higher learning school, or become a professional performer.

It was all he could focus on during his lesson the following morning. Bolin took him down a busy path, through the center of town in Hilliar.

Orien, rather than concentrating on his steering and maintaining his speed, found his eyes wandering along the shops. When he passed ‘The Steamee Pot Parlor’ he imagined it was a steamee parlor in Tietopus, imagined sitting at the table outside with Ariele and sharing a mug with her. Orien’s bubble was burst as Bolin signaled him to slow to a halt and turn. They were passing the Hilliar Town Hall of Books and approaching a crossing. Orien was slow in responding, so Bolin was forced to use the co-pilot controls. 

The sudden halt of the maroon jetcar angered the lady in the blue jet behind them, which Orien saw in the rear reflector. The mid-elder lady was blasting her horn in fury and Orien felt guilty and stressed and his heart pounded. He steered the vehicle to the right and Bolin led him to a secluded area where he went over the certification exam with Orien.

Bolin did not feel confident about Orien’s skills, Orien knew he needed more lessons, but was out of funding. His father would pay for further lessons, he had already agreed, he just wasn’t sure how many more lessons they could afford.

Orien hated jet lessons. He hated jetcars in general. He hated having to deal with other pilots, he hated having to focus on more than he could handle. Piloting was nothing like he imagined, it wasn’t at all like riding a speeder along a sidepath with no one but himself and the wind and being able to daydream all he wanted without any fear of lurking danger.

It had only been four lessons but Orien was already ready to give up piloting, for good. He hadn’t wanted to proclaim failure just yet, though, and so he had worked up the courage to ask his father to fund more lessons. His father had agreed, but only had a small amount to give Orien. Hopefully it would be enough. Orien hoped he would improve in his lessons in the coming day-sets.

VI

Orien lay, calm, in his bedchamber reading a pamphlet book and although he would rather avoid it, he had to approach his father to ask for the necessary funds for his next lessons. He had already helped him fund two day-sets worth of lessons, but Orien hadn’t made any progress and still was not ready for certification. Asking again would be a difficult task, one apt to cause Orien much anxiety, as his father was likely to lecture on the importance of work and managing his own funds, but it was an unavoidable task.

Orien turned his focus away from his book as he heard the front door close and footsteps. He waited, rather than approach his father right at the door. He tuned his radio, turning the dial, and stopping on an old adventure serial. He waited until he decided his father was relaxed and comfortable and possibly in a good mood and finally Orien stepped out of his bedchamber.

The radio in the main living quarter was on and Orien’s father was listening to a singer’s off key rendition of Rudi Deane’s ‘Take a Ride With Me’ on ‘Talent Showcase.’

“Take a rrriiiidddeee with me/down love’s paaattthhh/and we’ll bbeeee/two halllves/of a whooolleee/one soul…”

Orien joined his father and sat on the couch. Felice immediately leapt and sat on Orien’s lap.

“It reminded me of a comic performer’s lampoon impersonation of Deane,” the snooty judge in the program said.

“Your grandfather liked Rudi Deane’s music a lot. I don’t know if you knew that…” Orien’s father said in conversation.

They listened to the program together, laughing, imagining the faces on some of the judges, as they had to endure the horrible singers and the judge’s inevitable responses. Orien waited for an advertisement break and eventually asked his father, “I had been meaning to ask about my jet lessons, I have another lesson in two days and I need more funding…”

“Orien,” he said in a stern voice. Orien hated that stern, lecturing voice. It always made him feel inferior.

“I don’t have much to give you,” he continued, “I want to help and I will give you what is necessary to fund another day-set’s worth of lessons, but after that you’re on your own. You should practice flying outside your lessons.”

“I don’t have a jet! You’re always using it!” Orien said, in a worried state.

“Orien,” his father said again, with an impatient sigh, “you need to be less reliant on me.”

“I can’t purchase my own jet!”

“If you can find work, you can save up, I’ll let you use my jet to practice in the meantime. You can find work. Come harvest season, we’ll be moving in with my companion Marj. There’s a dessert shop just down the path from her cottage that may hire you as a servant.”

“I’m not a servant. I’m an artist,” Orien said.

“Even artists have to work to make a living,” he said.

Although Orien knew he was right, deep down he wasn’t sure if he could handle servantry work, such personal interaction would cause him much anxiety. He could imagine how confusing it would be having to remember customers orders, and having things go wrong, having orders taking too long, and he couldn’t imagine how he would communicate with the customer, as he always had trouble with communication. His therapy counselor had tried to help him in his late youth. He overcame some of his anxieties in his last year of learning at the arts school, but in the calendar block of respite leading into a harvest season of an unknown path, when most early elders would be starting their higher learning studies, Orien had started developing social anxieties again.

‘Talent Showcase’, ended at the thirtieth toll of night and Orien got up from the couch to sit in his bedchamber alone some more. Felice followed to keep him company, and she curled up on his bed.

Orien got out his typescripter to try and work on the second act of ‘in Production.’ It had already been two day-sets since he had met with Dug and discussed the project. Two long, dull day-sets of cleaning the cottage and preparing for the move to Marj’s cottage on Northwind Path. He was afraid that ‘in production,’ might not happen, he was becoming nervous trying to organize it. Harvest season was approaching as well as the next school session for Ariele, and Dug would be too busy with performances to lend a hand. They needed to find a stage to put on the production, but Dug hadn’t come up with any suggestions when Orien last paged him, a day-set ago. Orien had also paged Ariele, on the same day, but wasn’t able to arrange a rehearsal.

“I can’t possibly meet this day-set,” she had told him, “It’s rush week for rehearsals at camp and the production is in four days.”

“That’s fine, Dug and I still need to find a stage venue, we’ll probably end up doing it at the arts school,” Orien answered and there had been a pause as he waited for her to respond.

 “So should we meet in another day-set? Is that where you’re having rehearsals? The arts school?”

“I have to talk to Dug,” Orien had said. 

Orien would rather Dug handled all the planning, would rather Dug to be the one to arrange rehearsals. Orien would rather just be responsible with the script and the revisions. 

Orien was very nervous and uncomfortable talking with Ariele. He was nervous and uncomfortable talking to ladies, yet he longed for a lady’s presence in his life.

After he finished typing, Orien lay in bed with his pet tigret beside him, he imagined what it would be like to be sleeping beside a lady-companion and the notion helped him to sleep and to dream.

After Orien had awakened and eaten his porridge he received an unexpected page. He was sitting in the main living chamber with Felice on his lap, listening to the radio when he felt his communicator vibrate in his pocket, and he plucked it out and put it to his ear. A male voice spoke up and said, “Orien?”

“Yes, who is this?” he asked and he could feel his heart thump in his head. His ears pulsed as if he could hear it thumping.

“It’s Maxen.”

“Maxen… Maxen?”

Orien blinked rapidly overcome with a nervous tick.

“Yeah, Maxen, your friend Maxen. You asked me to help with your production. I really like the script, Dug gave me a copy.”

“I’m working on revisions though,” Orien explained, speaking rapidly and feeling trickles of nervous perspiration beaded on his forehead, and moistening in his pits, “and…” he continued, 

“I need to talk to Dug. We need a venue/a stage for the show.”

Orien couldn’t wait to end the conversation and go back to his imaginary world, with his pet 
tigret Felice, a world in which he was elder and brave, not a scared youth as he felt on most days of late.

“Has Dug any suggestions?”

“Well, we’re thinking of the stage at Penhaven Arts,” Orien said and he spoke as if eager to end the conversation, but Maxen kept on, and asked “Have you talked to the Administrator?”

“I was going to talk to Dug, so we can both ask the Administrator.”

“Why don’t you just page the Administrator, yourself?” Maxen suggested as if it had only been a simple thing.

“Well, Dug has experience with performances and he’ll know what to say better than me. It’s better he do the talking.”

Orien breathed.

“Okay, well, I also wanted to ask if you had any plans for tonight. I’m going to a gathering with some friends.”

Orien knew that Maxen was very socially active, and knew the type of gathering to which he would be likely to attend and although attending a gathering meant the prospect of meeting ladies, it would only be for a brief encounter, and he would be too timid to attract anyone’s attention.

“I can’t possibly, I would need a ride-”

“My friend Draik is picking me up,”

“I’m too far off for you to come get me, it would just be-”

The interaction went on for quite a bit, with Orien continuing to come up with excuses until Maxen gave up and said, “You’ll be missing out,” and Orien finally ended the conversation by telling Maxen he had a jet lesson and the instructor was due to arrive at his cottage soon. As he said this, a maroon jetcar soared in, jerkily, up the front trail.

“My instructor is here, now, I have to let you go,” he told Maxen.

Within a few chimes time, Orien found himself back in the pilot’s side of the ‘Hilliar Beginners Piloting’ jet, looking at the controls as if he were being forced to disarm a bomb and had to follow a complicated system of maneuvers that if not done precisely would cause explosion.

He gripped the handle, turned the key-tab, turned the elevation up, and clutched the speed lever. He backed out of the trail, sweating, his body turned round to look out the rear shield as he moved. He made the jet move. It was his responsibility. He would make it stop and go and turn. He was pushing a rock up a hill, that would fall and crush him if he stopped-

A flash of green zoomed along Emarldleaf Way and Bolin yelled, “Halt!” and stopped the jet using the co-pilot controls. His instructor had saved him.

“You have to pay more close attention,” Bolin said, “You can’t always rely on myself and my co-pilot controls.”

Bolin led Orien first through the center of Town in Hilliar and then down Slatelee Way, past the gates at Slatelee Private School for the Proper class, to the end of the path, where Hilliar Town Hall stood.

Orien was asked to halt the jet at the gates.

“You remember what we went over?” Bolin asked.

“Yes,” Orien answered. 

He remembered his previous lesson when Bolin had gone over the certification exam. Upon booking the exam, he would be asked to show up in his own jet-he would use his father’s-promptly at Town Hall, at the end of Slatelee Way to await his examiner, a representative of The Town Hall Transportation Department. Upon inspection of the jet, the examiner would then approve it for instruction and Orien would pilot the controls, with the examiner in the co-pilot’s chair and a chaperone (Orien’s father) in the back deck.

Bolin once again went over the exam. He asked Orien to explain and identify the speed lever and the steering rod. Orien was asked to assume the proper piloting position and Orien gripped the handle in his left hand, and clutched the lever with his right. Orien was asked to elevate the vehicle, start the exhaust and perform a three-point turn.

Bolin was having Orien practice three-point turns at every empty street corner he could find, 
with each lesson and Orien never got any better.

Orien was watching out the rear shield with his head turned. The jet was halted parallel, alongside the gate, and Orien pulled the handle forward to go back a slight step, picking up speed with the lever, turned the handle a slight angle so that the jet could move out of parking.

“Turn signal! Turn Signal!” Bolin reminded.

Orien hit the button on the handle, made sure the road was clear, allowed the vehicle to turn to face the other side of the path, picked up too much speed and stopped abruptly, switched signals, turned back again, forward again, turned the handle at an angle to become parallel with the edge of the path. Orien adjusted the handle to try and straighten the vehicle, used his reflectors, but had no idea whether or not the vehicle was halted straight.  

“Now three lessons ago, we practiced, I recall at least once you made a descent turn for me, very smooth. The turn you just made was a little jerky, more like your first try.”

Orien couldn’t help feeling that the results would always be different every time he tried the maneuver as they had been. It was impossible to be perfect every time, but for the examination his halting had to be perfect. This made him nervous.

Orien was asked by Bolin to pull forward out of his space, and go straight ahead out of Slatelee Way.

Orien failed to halt properly at the crossing, not being able to judge how much less pressure to apply to the speed lever to slow down before halting, although he did halt without relying on Bolin to rescue him-it was abrupt as usual. Maintaining speed was his biggest problem as 
Bolin pointed out.

Bolin had Orien halt the vehicle at the backlot of The Hilliar Hall of Books.

“Now at this point in the examination procedure, your examiner would go over how well you did and if you were successful he would stamp your instruction certificate with a mark indicating that you are approved for piloting. You would need only present this card to the Transportation Department at Town Hall and they will make a record of your Pilot Certification and an official certificate card will be mailed to you,” Bolin sighed. He looked disappointed, “Had this been your examination, you would not have had your card stamped.”

Orien didn’t know what to say. He already was aware of how poorly he had been doing with his piloting, but somewhere inside he believed he would get better, so that he would have a way out, so that he could find his way to Tietopus, so that he might make his fantasies come true, but it had been far easier in his imagination than in reality, just as it was far easier to imagine himself in charge of a major performance than actually carrying the weight, with such responsibility came much too much anxiety.

Orien made his way back home to his father’s cottage after his lesson. He lay in his bed with his eyes closed staring at the ceiling, feeling trapped within the walls of his bedchamber.

His communicator awoke his senses for the second time that day. He plucked it from his pocket and put it to his ear. It was Dug.

“Do you wanna go see a show at Penhaven Theatre?”

“What show?” Orien asked, and sat up in his bed.

“A reel-show. Mat Ruforte’s adaptation of the children’s novel ‘Arte and the Festival of Magic’.”

Orien felt a shining light inside him, recalling several day-sets ago sitting in bed, reading Charley Dobbin’s ‘Arte and the Festival of Magic’ and being transported back to his youth. In his early school days, the youth scholars would beg to hear a Charley Dobbin novel read aloud by the teacher, and Orien was amongst them. The festival of magic as Orien imagined it was just like out of a fantasy reel-show, like the many wonderful one-reel shows of Mat Ruforte. What an amazing thing I would be to see a full three-reel show of ‘Arte’ as conducted by the brilliant fantasist Mat Ruforte.

However, he couldn’t go. He definitely couldn’t fly a jet to Penhaven, even if he had one…

“My father is away with his companion…” he said. It seemed he would be let down, as it goes so often in his life, especially in recent times.

“Well… I was in Hilliar the other day,” Dug began, “I had an audition. Now that I know how to get to your town I may be able to find your father’s cottage. So, I will get ready, and… it may take forty chimes to a toll for me to get there… I’ll page you when I enter the town and you can direct me.”

Orien would have only to wait, to spend just one more, long toll in solitude, and after he finished talking to Dug, he got up from his bed, put his communicator back in his pocket, and proceeded to pace around the main living quarter. He made himself a mug of steamee, which he finished within twenty chimes and he looked out the window. Felice was sitting upon the sill looking out along with him. Several chimes passed and he paced, more.

The buzzing of his communicator startled him. He had begun to think Dug wasn’t coming, as if he had decided to do something else for the day, maybe spend some time with his lady-companion, rather than go to the trouble of trying to find Hilliar town, but Dug was on his way.

“I’m on the Primary Path leading to Hilliar, which path should I take?” Dug asked, as Orien listened, sitting on the couch with Felice in his lap.

“Where are you near?”

“I just passed the sign reading, Welcome to Hilliar Town.”

“Continue on straight ahead for maybe a mile, until you reach Hilliar School for Late Learning, North building-a quarter mile later is the South building-just past that school, on the right is the path leading to Emarldleaf farm and housing community. Turn onto that path, follow until you reach a set of postboxes on the right, turn onto the trailway next to the post-boxes and you’ll be right at my cottage.”

Felice was comfortable in Orien’s lap, unfortunately for her, Orien got up in excitement, after finishing his conversation, to stand looking out the window. 

Felice lept back onto the sill, to watch with him again. A few chimes later, a jet arrived and Orien left his father’s cottage to go with Dug.

“I used to watch Ruforte’s serials at the theatre in Hilliar. My dad, my brother and I. Mom would always stay home,” Orien said on the ride to Penhaven.

“Yes, I used to watch those,” Dug said, “They were great. The ones with that clumsy gentlemen… he was always imagining funny things.”

“Shermy!” Orien cried and was immediately brought back to his youth, “Yes, I always liked the one where he convinced everyone in his neighborhood that there were giant serpentier creatures in the quarry.”

“Yes, when he was telling them how he saw them, and it showed the giant monsters-they looked real. Scary to a youth, but sort of funny.”

“The first time I saw the show, I was scared,” Orien confessed,  “so I didn’t want to see that particular one again, although my brother kept wanting to go back to the theatre…”

“Did you eventually go back and see it?”

“Yes, several more times. That’s why I remember it so well.”

They continued to talk more about Ruforte. They both recalled seeing his first three-reel show, ‘The Dancer and the Boy in the Cave,’ about a lonely boy who lived in a cave, who travels to town to seek out a dancer whom he had met, while she was on a camping trip with her friends.

“The ending was sad, how he had to go back to his cave… I’d liked to see that one again.”

“I have a reel projector at my house,” Dug said, “and a reel-tape copy of ‘Cave Boy.’ We can view it sometime.”

Having passed by the farm and the open scenery leading into Penhaven Town, they were reaching the market. Orien could see the crossing ahead, and the lights on the poles, dimmed in the evening dusk, anticipating the night darkness.

Parking at the back lot of Penhaven Show-House, and stepping out of the jet, Dug said, “Long ride, but, now I can find Hilliar pretty well, and get to your cottage… although I suppose, you’ll be moving out very soon.”

“We’re still cleaning house, getting rid of things, I don’t think we’ll be fully moved out for another several calendar blocks,” Orien said as they walked up the stone stepway leading up the hill to the paths of Penhaven Center.

 “So how did your audition in Hilliar go/what was it for?” Orien asked, at the front entrance to the show-house.

“I’m playing piano for a show in Hilliar…” Dug said, stopping at the doors,  “that reminds me, I won’t be able to help out with that performance of yours, I just won’t have the time or energy and I’m still a little burnt out from the children’s theatre production.”

Orien had been excited on the ride to Penhaven Center and in the walk up was eager with anticipation of the reel show. He had been eager to see Arte and his lady-friend Lillian, exploring the festival with the other youths. It helped him forget about his performance, for which he had also been anticipating, but was thus far a failure in trying to organize it.

“Have you talked to Maxen at all, do you know if he’s still interested in helping?” Orien asked, although, he was not much interested in Maxen co-conducting. Maxen was more interested in trying to get Orien out to gatherings, where he would outshine Orien, being a braggart and in his charming ways Maxen was always likely to get a lady, leaving Orien out in the chill. At least that was how Orien saw things in his imagination.

“You can try and get in touch with him,” Dug said and walked into the show hall. Orien followed and they stood in line at the ticket booth.

 “I talked with him the other day” Dug informed, “and he’s busy with his new comedy troupe, him and the others, but you can give him a try.”

“I just don’t want to be the one to tell Ariele we’re calling it off, but I guess I have to.”

In his mind Orien felt like he was letting her down as if he knew more of her than he did-as if she had had the same dreams he had, and perhaps she did dream of being a popular show actress in Tietopus. She wasn’t likely to have thought of Orien as leading her in that direction with his silly play, but as far as Orien’s imagination was concerned, he thought she might. 

“Oh, don’t worry about her,” Dug assured him, “once she gets to the art school there will be many show opportunities for her.”

“I know… I guess, though, I was sort of looking forward to having her in my production.”

“Oh, have you spoken with her? Are you fond of her?”

The ticket booth line was moving.

“I’ve only paged her to talk about the production.”

“She was quite fine, wasn’t she? Very mature for her age. Well, you can still keep in touch.”

“No. I don’t know. She’s only, maybe fifteen in age. That’s too young to consider.”

“I suppose.”

They waited in silence as they were getting closer to the ticket booth and Orien thought about his last statement. Was it really wrong to consider a friendship with a young lady, at fear of developing a romantic interest? He may have been of age eighteen, but he was much like a youth when it came to romance, so perhaps it wasn’t as crazy as it seemed.

They had reached the ticket booth and Orien had been thinking of his friend Willo from his late learning at the arts school. He had fallen for her very easily and she had just been a friend. He knew he would fall for Ariele as well. He was going to put her out of his fantasies and call off production of his performance.

VII

Orien was once again lying in his bed, eyes focused on the empty air, with Felice curled up beside him. Orien fantasized that he was a youth again. He went back in his mind to the woods several paths down, by where Lena lived, and he thought about chasing Lena through the woods. He imagined that he was playing a game of pretend-play with her, and that they were someplace magical like the festival that Arte and his friends attended, where he met a sweet lady youth named Lillian.

To be Arte and Lilli, and to be lost while on a tour of a festival of magic, and to discover wondrous things, even scary things. To be the brave boy-youth, and assure his lady friend that as long as they stuck together, they would find their way. These were the things Orien longed for.

‘Arte and the Festival of Magic’ had been a picture-show of Orien’s youth fantasies. For the next day-set, when he would go to sleep at night, he would try and imagine, another world, a world fully his own. Orien could easily just lay and close his eyes and imagine and put himself in a world of endless forests of color and light, where the trees swayed in a wind that carried you and you could dance in it, taking your companion along the ride, feeling as if you could fly.

Flying without the aid of a machine, flying without distraction, without any thought in your head, just flying in the sky, holding hands with your companion and leading, without direction, without signs, without order.

Orien continued his lessons for another day-set, with Bolin as his instructor, as his conductor. He would find with every lesson that the actions of having to pull levers and roll the steering handle were like being caught in a mechanical contraption, like being in a web, and instead of improving, he found his skills getting worse.

His final lesson, was the same as the others and he was asked for the last time to go through the hurdles of the piloting exam and as he pulled the speed lever, while he sat at the co-pilot chair in the maroon jet, at the gates of Hilliar Proper School and as he felt the vehicle vibrate under his feet, he was aware that he was still and he was not in fact, flying, at all. Real flying was being free as if the vehicle were not there. As if he were in the open skies, as if he were alone and as if he were happy to be alone and simply hoping that as he soared he would happen upon a lady to fly with him.

With these dreams and fantasies, Orien was not focused on the paths ahead. He was not where he was supposed to be, not in the jet with Bolin, but someplace else, someplace fully his own.

Bolin had noticed. He was an instructor, after all, and it was his job to observe and to try and understand the functions of his pupils, through observation and find ways to help the pupil improve. He had a curious look upon his face and was in silent thought, while the jet was halted behind Hilliar Hall of Books and he had finished going over the examination with Orien.

 “Now we’ve come to the point in the examination procedure where your examiner considers your skills as he’s witnessed them and hopefully you will be accepted and certified… I think you know as well as I do, how you have been doing, skill-wise.”

“I’ve gotten more used to being in a jet and being in the pilot’s chair,” Orien said, and he was being honest, he had felt with each lesson more and more used to the jet, yet he would rather he didn’t have to be aware of every move he made, and all the obstacles around him, but to just be alone, racing off and away. That was real flying, never mind being inside the contraption.

“But your mind seems to be elsewhere,” Bolin observed and to define the problem he posed a personal question, “have you ever had any focus-problems, problems in your schooling… I suppose I shouldn’t ask… I know it isn’t my business, but understand, I’m merely curious.”

“Yes, I’ve had focus-problems,” Orien said and he had been blunt. He couldn’t get into the details and it wasn’t for Bolin to know in detail of how Orien had gone through much counseling and medic examination, entering his late youth, to try and define these symptoms of focus-difficulties and social anxieties.

“I see that and yet, I’ve also seen students with focus problems improve and overcome these difficulties. I was just curious, wondering if there was something else at hand, besides just that, but forgive me, it isn’t really my business to know. I don’t want to seem rude; I suppose it was rude of me, though… I’m just at a loss on where to help you get to where you need to be skill-wise. I’m not sure how many more lessons it’s going to take…”

“Well. I’m not sure either. Not sure of how much time exactly until I get it right, but unfortunately, I won’t have your instruction anymore, as I have run out of the necessary funding and I will have to cease lessons.”

“Is this to be your last lesson?”

“Yes.”

Bolin smiled, stuck out his hand and said with optimism, “Well, good luck to you, in your practices outside of lessons,” and they shook, “Don’t hesitate to look me back up, if you ever have the funding again. I’m sorry things didn’t turn out.”

Something hit Orien in that moment, a feeling of failure and uncertainty for the future. Bolin guided him out of the back lot of Hilliar Hall of Books, out of Hilliar Town Center, and back to the cottage on Emraldleaf Way. Orien couldn’t help the feeling, that after Bolin’s lessons he might never practice piloting again. He was not comfortable with his dad instructing him, he had done so at age sixteen, but it had been just as much a failure.

Orien paid Bolin at the end of the lesson, and had his progress card stamped one last time. When Bolin handed the card back, Orien couldn’t help be fixated with all the little stamped dots in the calendar boxes, imagining that if he been an average boy-peasant, each red dot would have represented a little improvement and he would have gotten better. He had remembered other times in his schooling when he struggled, while other youths learned and grew at an average pace.

Orien pocketed the card, and the maroon jet was rolling out the front trail. It turned left and was gone and Orien was stranded without transportation, save for his mini-speeder.

Orien opened up the heavy shed doors, and they made a wailing sound. He pulled the chain and the hanging light within was lit, so Orien could get a look at his speeder and he was at least glad he had it, although it needed a little maintenance. 

There was a round, red ball beside the rusty blue hover vehicle. Orien picked it up in his hands and bounced it. He carried it off with him as he left the shed, and the doors wailed again as he pushed them back with his body.

Orien stepped back several paces to where the front trail began, bounced the ball on the rocky ground, held it in front of him and attempted to focus on the ball-chute above the shed doors. 

Focusing was not a problem when it was just Orien, when there were no outside interferences, when he had time to think and concentrate.

His first toss was a miss. The ball bounced off the shed door and Orien chased after it as it rolled away. He then stood back in his spot.

When he was a youth he had rode a wheeled speeder, and at the age in which most youths were said to have the proper balance and coordination, at seven, Orien’s parents bought him a hover-speeder, his shiny blue mini-speeder.

They would let him go and the young Orien would imagine himself free and soaring, but steering was a problem, as well as keeping steady. He would fall and they would tell him to do it again, do it again, but he didn’t want to, he just wanted to go, go, to fly away from the spectators, to be on his own.

Orien continued to toss the ball and with each try he found himself improving. He supposed he was simply better at learning things on his own.

At age twelve, Orien took his speeder out of the shed, and every night he would attempt to ride and he would fall and crash, but he wouldn’t cry, there was no need to cry. No one was watching him. After a calendar block or so, he couldn’t remember how much time it had been, but he was able to ride to his friend Wylee’s house, although he had some trouble steering still, although his balance was off, he had managed.

Orien remembered a tossing maneuver his brother had taught him and he tried it, and the ball went up, high and right into the chute, a perfect chute-toss.

Flying a jetcar was far more complicated, than riding mini-speeder and there were far more obstacles. Just as it was easier for him to dream life than to live it, he thought, thinking about the letter he wrote to Ariele informing her that there would be no performance.

Alone, tossing ball, he thought up his options for the future and eventually got distracted and decided maybe after he had finished ball tossing he would get out his typescripter. He had come up with an idea for another performance and he felt very positive at the prospect, because although it might take him ages to learn the skills necessary to conduct performances it was a simple thing to script them, because all it took was dreaming, all it took was time and solitude and letting his imagination free.

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