The Guardian's Intervention

Watched over them again tonight. As always their arching limbs and tired eyes take them to the solace of their connubial bed; she on her side facing away from him and he on his back, his jaw agape, a thin stream of saliva trailing from his lips to dampen his hairy chest. Mouth open, he emits a continuous series of deep adenoidal vibrations that only do to keep his wife awake until the later hours when exhaustion helps to soften her curses into slumber and choppy dreams. It is always the same. For her there is nothing to be done. He is the stubborn one, refusing to wear a chinstrap or any of the over-the-counter remedies and, other than this one inconvenience between them, serious though it may be, he is quite a considerate husband. Still, though, she loves him, would never consider the notion of divorce (though a lawyer might advise it on grounds of mental cruelty) for such a minor thing as her husband's world-class snoring.

Nothing to be done, not by them. Their apartment is far too small, their bedroom being the only one, for he or she to find suitable space elsewhere in the tiny flat. The couch in their living room is much too narrow to afford ample alternate sleeping space for either of them. Destiny for them, it seems, is set and tragic, born of too many sleepless nights for the wife, and inevitable if aid does not come from some other quarter.

Miracles a trademark--it is up to me.

So, I step through the wall, colored by my anger and love through which this view of them has been taken; up to his side of the bed as he growls and snorty-snores. Nice looking fellow in his early thirties, a bit of a pot belly raising the sheets and blankets, one arm hanging over the edge of the queen size bed, the other grasping a clump of covers between his weary spouse and himself; a crooked leg, knee pointing northward, tousled blond hair. The wife has her back to him, using her rearguard as a sound buffer. She is sighing, still awake and hoping that his staccato rumble might go into a lull long enough to allow her to fall asleep but, of course, it is a vain hope. She is ever aware of the twist of her flannel nightgown bunched at her groin, the crunch and bother of the mound of pink plastic curlers in her hair. No use, no sleep. A deep groan from her, perhaps meant to wake him, halt his loud, incessant snoring, forming a stop-gap into which she might find the beginnings of rest but he, in unconscious defense, roars all the louder with a buzz saw sound that will be unstoppable until the morning's piercing alarm.

Unseen, I step in and lay over him like an ethereal buffer to muffle the hoarse sounds and deep rumblings as they vibrate discomfortingly through me but his wife only starts momentarily at the lessening of the baritone roar that my hastily laid sound-mask has afforded and then she dips noticeably into the wide confines of sleep. I find that this attempt is worthwhile.

Soon she sleeps soundly and the muffler that I have imposed is no longer needed. I rise and let the man's wood sawing snores regain their vibrant, noisome level of volume. Deed done, that was all that it took. I will return on the morrow and, perhaps, for months of nights thereafter. Yes--imperative. Preservation of the feelings, close and affectionate as these two have for one another, must be maintained. Simple, silly things are often the downfall of relationships. That may seem to be an inordinately easy conclusion to make but it is one that is often true.

So, to return (and return and return again), Repetitive and boring? Yes, but, in the long run, it will be worth it.

Several weeks have gone by and the situation seems to have reverted to its previous state. It has all been said before (the snoring, the wakeful wife) so there is no need to go into all that again.

She is becoming understandably more and more irritable as the days progress. Even the muffling tactics I had employed don't seem to have any real effect. He just snores all the more powerfully as if in recompense for the loss in volume. She has railed into him more than once, insisting that he use some kind of available remedy or else to go see a doctor. He refuses every time, claiming again and again that any remedy he knows of would only do to cut off his breathing and that it would be the suffocating death of him. As for doctors, he simply contends that they can do nothing for him and refuses to patronize them--any of them--and that is the end of all sensible discussion on the matter. She then resorts to yelling, tantrums, and locking herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out until he promises to take immediate action. He does so, giving his word that he will see a specialist as soon as possible. This relieves her very little for he has given his word several times previously without once carrying out his promises. She has no hope that this time will be any different but she emerges from the cramped water closet anyway, asking if he really means what he says. He raises his right hand in oath and swears on his mother's grave. Then they embrace, proclaiming their undying love for one another and their apologies for their senseless, cutting words.

Still, nothing is done. It is still up to me. The muffling tactic, though nominally successful at first has, in the long run, proven itself to be an unmitigated failure. My bag of tricks is presently empty but there are other means, surely, and they lie in the possession of the stronger, wiser of the spirits. I am one who has but few powers to my nameless self. The others, those on the higher levels of the afterlife, will be more than willing to lend their assistance. All that needs to be done is to ask.

Please.

So, wingless and light, I rise to the upper realms, ever hopeful and trusting.

Here, in the incorporeal realms, there are no secrets as far as Who is Who. All know the other's recognitive patterns, thoughts, trials, and projects. Those on the higher planes know all; see all of the needs and doings on the Lower and (mine) the Intermediary planes. The trials and projects of those on the bottom rung, the newly passed over, range low in need and scope as befits their meager powers. They are given such simple responsibilities as getting humans to smile at one another on the street and to perform acts of charity and kindness. Lowers, when they first arrive and after they have gotten over the shock of the loss of corporeality often take to the mischievous preoccupation of "haunting" houses and scaring children and gullible adults with unannounced pinches, eerie sounds and causing minor damage to an immediate vicinity (often a house or structure) which was important to them in life. Those of the Lowers who engage in this type of behavior for the sheer fun of it soon tire of the game and come forward to accept their destiny. Such childlike haunting is tolerated since the Lowers, at that stage of development, are really no more than children playing with a new toy. Once they have achieved the second stage of spiritual generation, however, they are expected to behave and perform their simple duties and tasks without question or hesitation.

In the Intermediary stage, such as that which I inhabit, the aid given is to salvage worthy relationships as the main concern. Having been chosen for a project one goes at it until it is successfully completed. Nothing less than perfection in a project's execution is acceptable; that is the criteria which I have set for myself and which, to my satisfaction, all on my level of endeavor are assuming in their respective tasks. Perfection on this level, it is surmised, will mean easier access to the next level but I still have a way to go yet.

This particular job is getting to be a rather sticky one the way this snorer won't listen to reason. The masking of his rippling sound-storm was only a stopgap before the real work to be done and it shall be really challenging to be able to see it through. It used to get my figurative gut in a tingle how some newcomers didn't have to do a lick of trying and drudging when they first came here--like that Om chanting Gotama fellow or that self-righteous Nazarene--and they just flew past the Lower and Intermediate stages and whizzed right on to High, There are even stories circulating that they are now guards at the Gates of Light and here am I, working my zebulons to the sparks just trying to move up but a single notch. Well, I shouldn't really complain since we all know who those guys are. They deserve what they got here with all that they had accomplished in their lives. As the saying goes, "High is as High does," and boy-o-boy did they ever do. I can't be envious of what they have now or where they have gotten to. It's just a guess but I think if I were to fly off through that Gate or even close to it, the Light would probably cinder me in a millisecond, zebulons, gamfreys and all with no ashes left to sweep up, just ether. That is why there is an Intermediate stage; for those of us too good for the Lowers and too stupid and lacking any real power for High. That's why the work keeps getting loaded on, one project after another until the bushungulas buckle and sag. Lessons, lessons, lessons--it almost gets one to screaming. Please, no more lessons, but now, the snorer's there, take 'im in, They say, he's all yours but it sure is a tricky one. I make the hard decision to ask for help. Learning the business from the ground up means spitting out what little pride you have left and being willing to say that you are stumped.

So now it's off to High I go, the last level before the Gate, to get some new dope on the situation. Always an exceptional experience there, new things to see and learn. Lovely! Only wish I could stay there, and I would, if only the fear of the deleterious effects of being so close to the Light weren't so great. That is because I am only an Intermediate. You have to have attained the rank of High before you can endure the full effect of the Light at such close quarters and for so long.

Ah, well... After a moment of meditation, sufficient courage is accumulated and affixed. Here I go.

High has the answer (I have inaccurately spoken of all Highs as if they were all a single entity. It seems so at times with them all together, white on white with but a single smudge of de-spirituality clinging to each of them. Save for that one shadowy residue all Highs are indistinguishable from one another; a single, homogeneously white aura of purity) and the answer is a simple one, of course. A running joke among the Highs is that Intermediates can't see beyond the end of their rizotses to the simple truth but that is of no matter. Their help is invaluable. Now it shall be an easy matter to proceed.

The means are at hand but there shall be only one application, they have informed me. The Omblio, they call it--the sound--will send the snorer on a wave of silent realization when he hears it and make him heedful of reason. No idea how it works or if it shall work on the woman as well as the man. As it has been explained already, there is no way in which to segregate them from one another in their bitsy apartment. To me the dangers are unknown, but when you only have a single means at hand (or, in my case, at zebulon) in an untenable situation, you use it and hope for the best. So, here goes...

The bear growls from his gaping maw, as usual. She tosses, sighing and turning and gently moaning as she tries to find a shed of drowsiness to latch onto. Sorry for her but her troubles, I tell myself, will soon be over. I'll show him a thing or two or three, as soon as the box containing the Omblio is opened. Trying... Trying... It'll come soon, I'm sure... Just a little more leverage with a firm grasp on the lid, prying ever so gently so as not to break it and...and... There!

The sound drifts like an audible fog on little cat feet (thank you, Mr. Sandburg) across the floor to the husband, up the side of the bed, droning its deep throated call--mmmm-dow-mmmm. He is unaware, his snore vying with the crawling Omblio for supremacy over the undulating rumble as it reaches him, snuggles close, nestles near his upper lip, leaning on the underside of his nose. He is unaware, dead to the world. I am frightened and this is a bad thing, something that must not be. No good for an Intermediate to show alarm at such a delicate moment. The subject might sense it, sense my presence and then my effort will be for naught and, as might possibly happen, he might soon join us prematurely in this, the incorporeal realm. By dint of will I tone down my anxiety and simply listen. He is still breathing, buzz sawing noisily, and the Omblio is now inside of him, knows what to do, mixing and blending itself with his rippling, grumbling snores in an even, slow tempered mmmm-(snork!)-dow-mmmm. He should be rising soon, then he'll have the show of his life. Rising, I chant like a cantor. Rise to it, I command. It shall take you there. All you need to do is rise. Rise.

But no, nothing, just the continued garble of his sterterous Bronx cheer, the whistling return of air to his lungs undertoning the gentle mmmm-dow-...

"Excuse me."

"Hm? What?!"

"Are you a burglar? We don't have very much. You'll just be wasting your time here, really."

Cripes! The wife! All bleary eyed and wanting of sleep. The Omblio has backfired. Oh, what to tell the Highboys... and she can see me, an Intermediate. Not even a chain rattling Lower. What a mess.

"Please. I won't call the police if you'll just..."

Wait. A prickling near the gamfreys. A High message coming through. They know about it, but of course, they do. Oh failure, failure, why come now? This will mean a reprimand for sure, if not a straight demotion.

"Do you copy?" I hear. "Repeat:" this is the High Command on 'D' wave calling Intermediate. Do you copy?"

"Copy, break," I say. "Intermediate of wave 'D.' It's all loused up. Wrong transference achieved, Will attempt to alleviate situation and come home."

"Negative, Intermediate. Do not attempt any changes, just leave things there as they are, but do come home, and please bring the woman with you."

"Woman? But it was supposed to be..."

"No questions. You did just fine. Just bring her on in. High--out."

My gamfreys stop tingling; the message is complete. I turn to the snorer's wife. She is looking down at her body lying in her bed as it restfully sleeps. Yet, she has heard everything and seems to be in a state of shock.

"Take me in?" she says, on the verge of crying. "Is this a kidnapping?"

"Of course not. We can't force you to do anything that you don't want to do, but will you accompany me, please? High-level stuff. It won't take long. I'll have you back here by morning." I raise my Zebulon in oath. "Promise."

"High level?" she asks. "Like government stuff? FBI?"

"Something like that," I say. "But a much more important agency then the FBI."

"Well..." She considers for a moment. "If it's that important, I suppose... but can I at least be allowed to get dressed?"

"No need to, really. Just make like Wendy in the Peter Pan story."

"You mean jump out the window and fly?" She is understandably incredulous and yet fascinated by the idea. She gives another wondering glance at her peacefully sleeping, corporeal form.

"Not exactly, but that's the gist of it, basically. Just take my Zebulon, please."

"Your...? Hm?"

"My hand," I explain, using the colloquial term.

"Oh, well then..." She glances over at her husband who is still wheezing and snrkzerbflgoorfing away and blows him a kiss. He snorts as if in response and then flips over onto his side. Smiling, she turns to me, shrugs, and takes my extended zeb.

We are off.

There are no names on the highest level. There are five steps within the ranks of High before the Gate is reached. At such an apex as this, even the I and me pronouns are rarely used as the various aspects of individuality are slowly stripped away. The woman, the snorer's wife and my current charge, is flustered by this as well as by the fact of the powers of flight and incorporeality which have been given her so that she can get around. It is a wide spectrum in which she has been allowed to try her wings, so to speak, but her freedoms of movement are dependent on me, a mere Intermediate in this realm of the High. In comparison to the total infinity of the High realm (yes, there is a totality to infinity, a growing circle of time/space, but that is just the patina of physics thrown over the whole thing, an aspect of the truth that even I do not fully comprehend) her understanding, if I may use an earthly corollary, is akin to the knowledge of a single room in comparison to the totality of the world. In this respect her understanding of the realm of High and mine are at a similar state of development. Anyway, what matter is that? It will come along with all the other aspects of perfection when I reach High on its own terms and will be permitted, by virtue of earned promotions, to stay here.

The machinations which are invisibly applied to the woman, darkness in her emaciated spirit as is all humanity's with its innumerable bits and speckles of dinge, are subtly ion their rate of input. For her, the main implantations of knowledge are those of the realization of her husband's good, lovable qualities, her reasons for staying with him, erasing any notions of divorce, running from the snore and, too, the realization that he is able to be coerced by threat of her leaving.

"Will I ever be able to get through his shield of stubbornness?" she asks the denizens of this realm. "Can I get him to really listen?"

"Using the right words, yes you can."

"But I have used all the words I can think of. It is just useless, I know."

"Useless, you say? Then what about...? [An input that my senses cannot perceive has been transmitted and accentuated.]

"Ah!" she cries. "Oh, that! But I couldn't. He would hate me for it."

"No," says High. "Respect you for it. You must."

"No, I..."

[Input accentuated another degree.]

"You see? It is simple," says High.

"Yes it is," she says, certain now in her enhanced awareness. "I see that now."

"And it is necessary."

"But it is devious and an obvious bluff. He will see right through it."

"His love for you will not allow him to take it as anything but the unalloyed truth of the matter."

"You mean if I make it emphatic enough...?"

"Yes, and it will succeed as you would never expect."

"Sure?"

[Another accentuation of input.]

Whatever was imparted to her, it was sufficient. She sees and is willing now to accept all on faith.

This shall be the last time that I shall be allowed to view the machineries of High in use--surely. Failure rings in my zebulons, gamfreys, right to the tips of my borlars. Having requested and thus accepted aid from on High, it has been shown that I cannot complete this task on my own. Failure has a particularly sour taste to it.

But wait!

Yes? Yes? Yes, understood. Right, fine. Of course, it is accepted. What else? Sure. Better than nothing. Good, yes. Thank you. Intermediate--out.

That was the Highest of the High. They have taken my acceptance of aid into consideration. Not so bad after all. Another project is to be imposed when this one about the snorer is successfully completed. I shall rise in rank to the nth level of the Intermediates. All to be done now is to monitor the rate of success of this current project before I move on to the next one.

Very good news, indeed!

Here I am now, off to tomorrow to watch the woman's sharp tongue set the spark and bring peace back to her little family of two. I can't help wondering at the odd straits that these corporeal humans get themselves into and the extraordinary measures that must be taken to get them back on track. I shouldn't be the one to wonder, of course. It wasn't so long ago that this spirit found himself in just such a ticklish situation when still in the corporeal world, and High's input tactic (they have the wherewithal; they know best) was truly, in this particular case, the only way.

Well, enough of this and that; no use dwelling on it. The book is written and the thoughts and colors flow. No use tarrying here. I'm off again.

See you downstairs.

She found the strength to say what she had to say and even those on High are known to have been proud of her for her efforts, even if things didn't work out all that well. The chances for an overall success for myself might be put in jeopardy if something more is not done to aid the distraught woman but, despite my numerous requests, High says no. No help from them and they have even put a moratorium on any more intervening on my part. The seed has been sown, they say; everything necessary has been set in motion. All that is left to be done is to stand idly by and observe. Zebulons clenching and unclenching and being nervously nibbled, I do as I am told, finding a deep well of unrequited hope bursting its seams within my center for all of this to turn out well.

Promotion will be held up, even terminated for sure if this project falls over the edge and, as the watching and journalizing of this part of my Intermediate stage of development proceeds along, it seems most certain that the edge is very perilously close.

The woman has cajoled her husband, the ambivalent snorer, drawn him farther into argument over his stubbornness, and brought him to the realization of what he was doing to her. He apologized, mouthed his impotent oaths that he would see a doctor to help allay the symptoms of his condition as soon as possible.

"When?" she pressed.

"Soon," he said.

"Tomorrow?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Don't give me maybe. Tell me when. The day after tomorrow?? Next week? Next month?"

"Quit nagging, Honey. It will be soon, I promise."

"Then set a date for it. Call the doctor now, tomorrow at the latest, and make an appointment so I can at least put my mind at ease that something will be done."

"All right. Tomorrow, then. "I'll make the appointment tomorrow."

"You promise?"

"Yes," he said, sighing. "I promise."

His promise meant nothing since he again did not make good on his word. Several; days later, incensed and in a rage at all of his broken promises and pledges and the nightly anguish that his snoring was causing her, she hit him with an ultimatum. "Another one broken," she said acidly. "And I swear, if you don't see a doctor this week... This week, mind you..." She paused for dramatic effect, letting the threat that resided in her voice penetrate his thick skull.

He was nonplussed, however, and waited patiently for her to finish what she had to say. "What?" he said finally. "If I don't see a doctor this week... Then what?"

The calmness of his tone and composed manner fairly startled her. She sniffled, on the verge of tears and said, "Then I'll be at the end of my rope and I'll have no other alternative but to... but to leave you."

Oblivious to her petulant tears, he called her bluff. "I have to be myself" was his lame excuse. "And if my being what I am so bothers you, then by all means go. I don't want a wife that will always be wanting to change me and who refuses to take me, for better or for worse, for what I am."

Of course, she is downtrodden and, for a time, seriously considers walking out right then in light of her husband's unexpected selfishness but such considerations, she quickly realizes, would have been made in a fit of pique. When her anger later abates all of us on the Intermediate level are surprised to witness the woman unabashedly apologizing for her harsh words. Absurdly, her husband accepts her humility and forgives her.

All on this level are surprised, awed and thunderstruck by this turn of events but those on High with their closeness to the Light and the All-Knowing, take it all in stride. To them, it is an inevitable development. The next step, the use, again, of the Omblio, comes about without my request, not even with conferring with me on the matter. This was all theirs now. A visitor from High brings the box close to the woman's face as she strains this night to sleep. As the brightly colored box opens the Omblio's sonorous mmmm-dow-mmmm is used for a far different purpose than the last time: not to bring her to the first plateau of High for input but, simply, to cover her hearing during the night against the sleep depriving, staccato snores of her spouse. It is, in essence, the same method as I had employed myself on the first several nights of the project but the devices of High are far more sophisticated and effective than the incorporeal mass of a spirit from the Intermediate plane.

As the Master from High skims over our plane on his way back to his own realm, I flag him down and ask if his intervention into my project in any way jeopardizes my chances for promotion.

"As with all projects," he says in a mild and friendly voice. "It was a test. As such, you passed and will go on, after but one more project, as you had been informed. Perhaps, for you, this test was too difficult and your wisdom in seeking aid from High has been noted and deemed to be in your favor."

"But, nonetheless, even with aid, the project seems to be a failure," I say, worriedly. "For without this final intervention of yours, the marriage would surely have been irreparably shaken apart by this guy's nocturnal rumbly-roars."

"Perhaps--but without full knowledge you could not have been aware of all the permutations and possibilities that might have risen in this case. All that was required of you was for you to do your best with the resources at your disposal. That you did and, for all that has been said and all that you have worried over, you did just fine."

"Still, though, it is not pleasant, the idea of failure, but I suppose that some comfort must be had in the knowledge that, although through your effort and not mine, that at least this one marriage will be saved."

"That still remains to be seen," says the spirit from High. "And do not forget that the project is not yet completed. You are still to observe it to the very end."

"Of course, and--if you could tell me--about the next project...?"

"You shall learn of that soon enough."

There is a golden twinkle of light with a penumbra about is flashing perimeter and, with that, the visitor from High is back where he belongs, carrying the empty box that had once contained the Omblio with him beyond the highest reaches of the stratus.

It is done. A failure, as far as I am concerned. The last death throes of married life for those two have been completed and after only two and a half years of connubial union. Divorce: imminent. Serious, levelheaded discussions are already in progress. Grounds: mental cruelty, so claims the husband. He asserts that, now that he no longer had the sounds of his wife's somnambulism, the evidence of her discontented tossing and turning, the low moans, sighs and groans from the other side of the bed to contain him in his sleep, he finds that he cannot easily maintain his accustomed slumber. Also, he says, he is quite certain that she has noted his rising rate of irritability which has, of late, been generated by her non-compliance and it is her increasingly irascible reaction to his growing fatigue and ire that has become an additional contributing factor to his thusly changing character.

"It's all her fault," he snaps peevishly to those seated at the conference table. She has nothing to say and even seems to find the situation amusing. Absurd, she realizes, even if it does mark a rather tragic turn of events in her ordinarily dull life. She tries to talk him out of his temper and single-minded concern, tries to get him to see the gross foolishness of what has happened between them but he, stubborn ass that he is, will not be swayed from his position, and he, unlike his long-suffering spouse, cannot (or will not) be drawn into forgiving his wife a second time for so laboring the ties that, for so long, have bound them together.

It is done and over too soon. Two weeks go by, agony for him, or so he loudly proclaims before he moves out of their tiny apartment. Another month and they are legally separated. A three day stint at a trial reconciliation goes to the dogs; just more of the same. He still snores like a mud-happy pig when he does manage to sleep but the contented sighs and luxuriant turns that his wife takes in her sound slumber never fails to wake him. He is quite impossible. Three days only and he moves back to the Y where noisy men all about him in the wide dorm allow his fevered mind to wind down, relax, and dream.

Three more months later and the divorce is final. Amicable, no malice between them. The judge is lenient toward him, reading into the uncontested complaint of "mental cruelty" the unfair notion of suspected adultery on the wife's part and sets the alimony unprecedentedly low. It is then a battle of the lawyers; claimant and plaintiff have no say in the matters set for discussion. The wife, lacking funds, has to be content with an assigned counsel; a young man barely past his bar exams ho is grossly inexperienced and most ineffectual against the slick maneuverings of the husband's attorney. When it is over the young fellow is humbly apologetic about the case and its outcome and, as he speaks, the woman turns heel and walks away, leaving the young man speaking to the air. The story of my life, she thinks as she heads for her car in the parking lot. Of all the untrustworthy things that little boy of a shyster could give me. Apologies, pah!

Despite it all, though the alimony is but a mere pittance, the husband sends her triple the agreed upon amount each month without complaint or explanation for it is true that, though the two of them find it impossible to live together, it must be said that it was not for lack of love between them. If they met on the street, they would embrace and kiss one another without shame and they have even taken days off from their respective jobs to spend long afternoons, either in his newly acquired flat or hers, making love.

A last note before leaving: several years after the finalization of their divorce she, with all his best wishes and blessings, remarries and is now quite contented and happy, enjoying eight undisturbed hours of sleep each night beside her new spouse. He, though, never remarries. When his admiring ex asks him why over a drink in a quiet pub near her new home, he explains abashedly that it is because "No one can stand my damned snoring."

"I see," she says, smiling at him as if he should understand the humor she finds in his admission.

"Perhaps I should see a doctor about it," he says seriously in a thoughtful tone of voice.

As for this spirit, finishing the last of the ongoing story as I observe it, I wonder what more can be said. It seems that failure is not so bad if it leads to a previously unseen good. That, of course, is what all of High has been saying for as long as memory lingers.

There are tinglings in the zebulons and gamfreys now, to their very roots. Ending, beginning: all the same. My next and last project is about to begin; that is what that last tingle-signal is for. Get bushungalas in gear and move on, they say. Start again.

Maybe it will be better, more successful this time around. Don't know, though; will never really know for sure. Just keep trying, keep plugging away until it comes out as planned--or not. Even if it (whatever it shall be) will probably go all wrong in the end anyway, and how can I say with any degree of certainty that that wrong won't, in the end, add up to a right, a success which will be hidden from my ken until it is nearly upon me?

THE END

Bio: Mr. Faulkner is a former college administrator who is now honing his writing craft. He looks forward to sharing his stories with those who appreciate his singular style and point of view. Amongst his latest credits, he was published in the May, 2016 issue of The Satirist and also in Liquid Imagination. His most recent Aphelion appearance was Initiation in our February, 2016 issue.

E-mail: Stephen Faulkner

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