First Leonard, then Grace, and now Bruce...

While I was surfing through the web to check out the dealings of a Star Trek forum group that I'm no longer a part of, I found out about the tragic news of the death of Professor Bruce Hyde, the actor who played one of my favorite characters on Star Trek, Lt. Kevin Riley.  He was 74, and died of throat cancer.

This has, so far, been a very sad year for Star Trek fans of the Original Series.  

First, we lost Leonard early this year, then Grace, and now Bruce follows them.

Now, I don't know about you all, but I've always thought that Bruce Hyde as Kevin Riley should have become a regular on the show! I'll never understand just why the decision to keep him on was never made. To be an actor who can play a character- and a good one at that- so well in only two episodes that he leaves such a strong impression is a real testament to that actor.

I really hate to say this, but I would have preferred it if Gene Roddenberry had kept both Rand and Riley, with the original actors reprising their roles, of course-and canning Chekov.

Or, to put it more accurately, to never have added Chekov in the intergalactic roster in the first place.

Bruce Hyde, as Kevin Riley, brought a charm, charisma and humor to his role that was second to none.  He was funny, boyish, vulnerable, brave, capable, and loyal.  There was also a little bit of an edge to him, however. He did not have the typical bad boy overkill that is all too apparent in too many characters on TV and film these days; it was more subtle, as if a little nudge might get that element of his on its way.  He was both soft and cocky, and it was a great combination.

I understand that he was an actor for only six years before leaving the field to explore other options in his life, later to become a college professor teaching communications and the arts.  How lucky those students must have been! I frankly can't remember having a really cool college professor, can you?

Well, I am going to close this little tribute by saying that, in writing the Riley character in my story 'Tis Charity To Show, I tried to flesh out the character to the best of my ability and I hope that I truly

did him justice.

I also plan to use Kevin Riley in future stories, without question! 

Rest in peace, Professor Bruce Hyde.

Your presence on Star Trek certainly made my life much richer, and I am quite grateful for that.

Bruce Hyde

1941-2015

Godspeed to you, Sir.

Aren't You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare Chapter Three part one

Aren’t You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare     

Chapter Three  

Part One

Rand is jarred from her sleep by a consuming, deathly cold.  She bolts upright in her bed, pulling the flimsy covers up around her shoulders.  The plexiglass walls were blanketed in frost, obscuring her view of the rows of cells that held the other cadets.  It had only been one goddamn day in this fucking program and she’d already had enough! 

But, she wanted Starfleet, and wanted it badly.

She didn’t go through four years of classes, drills, and training to stop now.  She’d simply have to get through this.  Rand felt a panic rise in her when she thought about the sheer length of this ordeal-this program, as they call it. 

It was more like Starfleet sanctioned misery. 

“Shit.  What to do,” she thought.

She had to calm herself down, clear her head, get herself together.

Then, it came to her.

Rand promptly threw the sheet off of her body and situated herself upright, crossing her legs in a lotus position with her hands placed limply on her lap.  She closed her eyes and elongated her spine.  The cold proved to be a bit too punishing, however, so she leaned over, retrieved the sheet and shrouded it around her shoulders like a meditation shawl.  When Rand was fully covered, she again closed her eyes.

“This had better work, or those survival classes aren’t worth a damn,” she thought.

She counted to twenty until her mind and body were still.  Then, Rand conjured up an image of a red, effervescent ball in the middle of her belly and watched it expand and whip around various parts of her body, bringing rescuing heat with each diaphragmatic breath.  Her corporal interior radiated warmth outwards onto her skin, the cold no longer a discomfort.

“I’ve outsmarted you, assholes!” she thought smugly.

Rand sat with glee on her bed, basking in the glow of her ingenuity. 

But then, she began to feel strange.

She felt a heat from outside of herself clashing with the self-induced heat of her body, making her feel almost like she was being baked.  Rand looked at the walls in her cell and noticed beads of water swelling and rolling down, and she realized that the heat had been turned on.  Rand yanked the sheet from her body in disgust and looked up at the ceiling of her cell in utter desperation.

“Really?!”

A wall of cool air hit Rand like a sledgehammer and she turned in the direction where it was coming from.  An Amazonian sized female guard with short-cropped hair and severe features had entered her cell.  Rand started to say something, but before she could the guard reached over and grabbed her unceremoniously by the neckline of her prison garb and pulled her off the cot and out of her cell like a ragdoll. 

“The fuck…?!

Rand was escorted through the black-tinted halls into an interrogation room with walls and floors painted so white they were almost blinding, making the waiting room where she was at yesterday seem muted and pacifying by comparison.

The only furniture in the room were two iron chairs on either side of an iron table, all three of these items being Spartan in style and painted in the darkest of black. 

For Rand, the whole setting had the effect of seeing stars after a head injury, or an unfortunate examination by a gynecologist in a big hurry.  The woman guard pulled Rand into the room and guided her not too gently to the desk and chairs, pulling out the front chair from under the table. 

“Sit,” the guard said.

Rand simply looked at the chair, then turned to the guard.

“What am I, a cockerspaniel?”

With that, the guard tightened her grip on Rand’s forearm and forced her down on the chair.  Rand struggled, her teeth gritting from the pain of the guard’s fingers digging into her.

“Jesus Christ, what’s your problem?!”

The guard propped her arm on the table and leaned into Rand menacingly.

“Listen, you want things hard, I can make them as hard as you force my hand.  Want things easy, I can do that too.”

Rand looked up at the guard and smirked.

“In what category would you place this treatment thus far?” asked Rand with sarcasm dripping from her voice.

God, she was tired.  

She needed sleep.

And food…

When the hell did they feed you around here?  And what did they feed you…

Rand could hear the familiar sound of a sliding door, but it didn’t come from the same direction where she and the guard had entered.  It came from behind the wall a few feet away from the desk from where she sat, echoes of footsteps getting louder with each step.  Then, a small part of the wall opened up from the bottom and revealed a very formidable figure; a Vulcan male dressed in the same style of black fatigues as the female guard.  He was tall, which was a common trait among Vulcan men.  What really struck Rand about this man was his dark red hair, a trait that was not only uncommon among Vulcans, it was unheard of.  The modern Vulcan was not known to artificially ornament their physical appearance in any way, unlike their ancient ancestors who donned themselves with war paint, jewelry, and body mutations like piercings and tattoos in order to appear warlike to their foes.  The Vulcan’s hair was cut in prickly formation at the crown of his head while the sides were shaved nearly clean off.  Rand noted how the green undertone of his skin, along with the whitewash interior and the harsh fluorescent lighting, clashed in a most uncomplimentary way to the pigment of his hair.  The image that popped into her mind was that of a Frankenstein monster, replete with narrow slits for eyes, hollow plains under high cheekbones, a reed-thin mouth and nose shaped like a hawk’s beak.  He is followed by a male guard who positions himself at the Vulcan’s side, close enough to be of needed assistance but far enough to avoid being intrusive to the superior’s personal space.

When the Vulcan reaches the desk, he pulls the chair back from under the table and sits down right across from Rand.  He looks squarely at her, in that unwavering gaze that Vulcans look at people, before addressing her in a deep, startling voice.

“My name is Commander Glok,” he said.

Rand barely stifled a snicker, but it escaped her.

“Glok?!  Talk about appropriate!” she thought.  Feeling like a target was like a running theme in this fucking program for her.

The Commander’s gaze sharpened, but only slightly.  “Is there anything that you find particularly amusing, prisoner?” he asked as a document was handed to him by his male guard.

Rand discreetly positioned her fingers over her mouth and audibly cleared her throat.  She shook her head for the benefit of the Vulcan. 

“That is good.  It is encouraging to know that you are interested in assisting us so that business can run as smoothly as possible.  He paused as a slight smile formed on his lips. 

“Easy does it, as they say,” he said seemingly proud of himself for coming up with such a witty line.

Rand sighed.  There goes that word again.

Easy.

Fuck easy.

“Let’s just get this crap over and done with,” she thought.

Commander Glok positions the document in front of him and flips it open.  He eyes Rand before lowering his head to read the information before him.

CHAPTER THREE TO BE CONTINUED….

  

Aren't You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare Chapter Two

Aren’t You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare  

Chapter Two

Back in the 21^st Century, there was a young man who had tried to take his own life by placing a shotgun under his chin and pulling the trigger. 

Everything went as planned.  The gun went off, the bullet propelled out of the barrel, and the young man’s head was indeed blown off of its foundation and left dangling from the back of his neck.  It was like clockwork, as they would say.

However, there was just one tiny little ‘chink in the armor.’

The poor fucker was still alive.

What made Rand suddenly recall that old news story was beyond her.  Perhaps she felt like that guy’s head, dangling by the slimmest of threads, ready to fray and tear off its base.  She was kneeling on the floor, her lungs heaving for air, her body so weak that even being on all fours proved too much for her scant reserves, so she crumpled to the floor, resting her hip there. 

“Get up, prisoner!”

Rand responded with silence, her breathing displaying the extreme exhaustion that coursed through her.  Her prison garb, a flimsy grey wraparound, is barely shielding her from the cold, black floor that feels like ice underneath her.  The air around her is no better, its frigidness making her skin rise in clusters of bumps.  Rand could see a pair of black boots planted in front of her. 

“Get up, I said!”

In spite of herself, Rand chuckled. 

“Why the hell don’t you make like a moth and flutter away before I swat you.  You’re blocking my glorious light.”

She laughed weakly as she watched the boots step over her body and out of her view. 

Rand felt large hands slicing under her arms and lifting her up roughly.  “Whoopsie Daisy,” she said in a voice that tried to come out in an acerbic singsong manner, but instead came out hoarse and threadbare.

She’s thrown back into her cell, a clear-plexiglass room, which is one in a long row of such cells in this black, lacquered void of a landscape.  She barely misses her cot and lands on the floor in a loud, hollow thud. 

Rand hears the sliding door close behind her as she lies on her side, staring underneath her cot.  She feels the lids of her eyes grow heavy and is simply too goddamn tired to try to climb onto her cot.

“Fuck it,” she mutters as she turns on her back and falls dead asleep within the merciful, enveloping warmth of her cell.

Aren't You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare Chapter One

Aren’t You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare  

Chapter One

Janice Rand was being seized by restlessness.  The crossing and uncrossing of legs, the tapping of fingers on the chrome table that sat next to her chair and the constant rotations of her ankles did absolutely nothing to make her wait time move any faster.  She glanced at the time board situated over the receptionist’s desk; a full hour had past since she and the other cadets had entered this room, and she couldn’t understand, for the life of her, what was taking so long.  The paperwork, the oath required by all cadets taking the program, had already been collected.  It had been early in the morning, upon rising, when Rand was presented with a sealed plain white envelope by a messenger.  She was instructed to open the envelope promptly, read over its contents, sign her name on the bottom, place the contents back in the envelope, reseal it, and then hand them over to the messenger who stood in her quarters by the doors, waiting quietly and with watchful eyes.  This had been last month, so what was the hold up?

Rand looked around the waiting room and noted the behavior of the other cadets; some were rolling their eyes, some were constantly folding and unfolding their arms and legs, while others tapped their feet and clicked their tongues.  There were a few smart cadets, however, who had either brought a padd to read or a music deck to listen to.  Unfortunately, Rand wasn’t one of the smart ones as she cursed herself for not bringing one of her old hardcovers to read. 

The waiting room was clinically white and circular, and the furnishings were simple and sparse.  The chairs were padded, somehow resembling a benign purgatory where cadets were sent to await a sentence of some kind. 

And wait, they did.

Each cadet at one point glanced over at the digital board, letting out a deep breath of frustration, shaking their heads in utter annoyance.  Rand chuckled to herself; she could certainly feel their pain, that was for damn sure.

“This is absurd,” she thought.

Rand got up from her seat and walked over to the Receptionist, who was sitting behind her desk doing work on the desktop computer.

“Excuse me.”

The Receptionist, a young brunette wearing a bun pulled back so tightly it made Rand grimace at the sheer sight of it, looked up from her work.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but can you tell me what’s taking so long?  It’s been about an hour and no one’s some to orient us yet.  We’ve all signed the Oath of Secrecy.  What gives?”

The Receptionist was polite, but in an almost robotic manner.  She answered Rand in a voice that was both clipped and bird-like, reminiscent of the telephone operators from Mid-Twentienth Century Earth.

“We do apologize for the wait, but the program coordinators are setting up as we speak, so it shouldn’t be that much longer.”

“Yeah, but they had a whole month for set up.  I’ve never heard of this last minute stuff at the Academy.”

The Receptionist regarded her rather coolly, and Rand wondered if she’d put her foot in her mouth.  Not that she gave a shit.  This waiting was irritating and unprofessional and they needed to hear it!  Her eyes strayed over to the emblem on the Receptionist’s uniform on the left side just over her breast.  It wasn’t the usual symbol of an ancient compass inclined over the points of navigation.  It was of an upwardly pointed weapon that tapered down into an oval plate.

A switchblade?

Rand felt her head jerk back ever so slightly, trying very hard not to look to stunned.

“Again, we do realize that the wait’s been long, but if you’ll sit down the coordinators will be here shortly to orient you and the other cadets.”

Rand had been tempted to say something, but the chilly expression on the Receptionist’s face, along with that switchblade planted on her chest, prompted Rand to give her a curt little nod and a barely contained smirk before returning glumly to her seat for yet another possible long wait. 

“This is utter bullshit,” she said under her breath.

Rand had hoped she had been loud enough for Little Miss Efficient to hear her, but looking over at the Receptionist, her eyes transfixed onto the computer screen, was proof that she had failed in that objective.

Sitting back down, Rand turned her attention to the small table where issues of the terminally dull Academy Magazine lay haphazardly piled onto each other.  Corn fed cadets smiling goofily in stiff, awkward poses in sad attempts at looking formidable plastered every glossy cover.  Rand rolled her eyes as she picked up a periodical, desperately wishing that she had brought something of her own to read.  She turned to the interactive bulletin board on the other side of the Receptionist’s desk where she saw two other cadets on either side tapping their fingers onto its screen, hoping to keep themselves engaged through this interminable wait. 

Rand glumly hoisted herself up from her chair and walked over to the bulletin board.  Maybe there’d be something interesting, but she highly doubted it. 

“Exactly what is this Crossing the Rubicon anyway?  What are we being tested on?  How long we can stand boredom before we go completely bonkers? Are we being timed for sleep inducement or something?” she thought.

At the corner of her eye, Rand could see a young man with his head inclined back, his mouth open and body slack on the chair.  She chuckled, shaking her head.

“Yeah, it’s sleep inducement,” she said to herself.

She raised her hand to the icon on the bulletin board winking in front of her.

THRUMP…THRUMP…THRUMP.

Rand stopped in mid-gesture and turned to the sound, which was coming from behind the wall on the far side of the room.  But, only after three times it stopped. 

She shrugged and returned her attention to the interactive bulletin board, placing the tip of her finger on the grey screen and tapping it, activating it to life.  Icons and various fonts flickered and glowed, aligning themselves in orderly geometric configurations. 

“Anything interesting?”

Rand turned to a short, freckled faced, chubby auburn haired young man.  He spoke in a voice that feigned both distress and boredom as he looked at the screen.

“We’ll see.  Hopefully.”

THRUMP…THRUMP…THRUMP…THRUMP.

The sound returned, coming from the back wall, like before.  And, again, Rand turned towards the direction of the sound, forgetting about the bulletin board.

“What, are they doing repairs or something?”

“I hope not.  Between the wait and that noise I’d chew my nails down to the cuticle, for Christ’s Sake!”

“You’ve got a point there, kiddo.”

The sound was dense and unwavering.  This knocking went on in a drone-like manner, slow and plodding, continuous, thick and blunt.  As the sound went on, the thick of it began to hollow out and echo, ringing like a hammer against a steel beam.  Other cadets started turning to the noise as well; some got up from their seats while others stayed seated, leaning their bodies and craning their necks towards the direction from where the sound emanated. 

The hammering abruptly stopped. 

There was a minute of silence…

And then…

TTTTTHHHHHHRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBB!!!!

It was like a headlong fall down a great flight of stairs.

The tumbling began at the far end of the wall, but then it spread out like a grid, its branches rolling behind the surrounding walls of the waiting room, and then up in the ceiling. 

There was an uneven rhythm to the commotion.  It would go fast, stop, then slow.  It would bounce, then skid like a pebble on a body of water. 

Rand noticed that the other cadets were out of their seats now, their faces expressing alarm as they were clearly glued to the racket that engulfed them.

She turned to where the Receptionist sat, but the desk was empty. 

There was a resonant slam in the overhead, followed by vehement scrapings crawling their way upward from the walls to the ceiling.

“What the hell…”

Compact oval slots opened up, letting loose grey pipes that revolved and undulated around each cadet, like tentacles.  To Rand, standing face to face to one of these things, looked like the long slender barrel of an Italian pistol.

“SSSSHHHHHPPPPPUUUUU!!!!!”

A spiral of thin, silvery webbing glued itself onto Rand, its slick, feathery substance tightening and hardening as she struggled violently against its grip.  She screamed, stumbling to the floor as she clawed and kicked at the netting.  Her ears were assaulted by the screams, exclamations, and cursing of the other cadets. 

Rand felt the brutal pull of the netting as it dragged her across the floor of the waiting room.  Through this web, she could see officers garbed in black pulling and yanking at the nets containing squirming cadets while others wielded long , black staffs that jabbed into their captives, causing their bodies to flop heavily like fish being dumped onto a deck. 

Rand drew in her breath sharply, as she watched the chaos with a mixture of fear and rage.  Then, a pair of feet planted themselves firmly in front of her.  Rand looked up to see the Receptionist standing overt her, gripping a staff strategically with both hands, the lit end of it glowing like a poker as it hovered over Rand’s face. 

Rand screamed, fighting through the net as it continued to tighten around her.  The Receptionist thrust the staff downward until Rand felt the heat press against her neck, bringing searing currents that coursed through her body until her limbs tingled, the heat morphing into a numbing iciness that slackened her body, face and eyes until she lost consciousness.   

Hey Guys, It's Me…

Hey, people!

It's me again.

I writing this post to let you know that Chapter One of my latest story will be on this blog in July-you can take that to the bank.

Writing can be a real struggle, and it's been quite a struggle lately for me.

My life, without going into great detail, has been a bit tumultuous in the past year.

I had lost a loved one almost a year ago, a loved one for whom I was the main caregiver, and another loved one made the big transition to college-to Yale, no less!

I also have another loved one who is in fast decline, and that's a lot to deal with right now.

There have been times when I've been on a roll and was able to write quite a bit, and then there have been times when I would sit with that pad of paper in front of me and nothing would come out-and I mean nothing.

However, I am almost finished with this chapter and it will definitely be here next month.

So, here's to July!

ProvidenceMine.

Grace is Gone Too...

I heard it about a half-hour ago.

Grace Lee Whitney is gone too.

I'm sitting here typing away, wondering how in the hell am I going to write about this extraordinary woman.

This woman, who suffered so many setbacks in her life and career, who was abruptly shown the door during her short stint on Star Trek after a horrific sexual assault by a producer, whose self-destructive path of alcoholism, drugs and sex almost killed her, had not only managed to pull herself out of her own personal abyss and rescue herself from almost certain doom, she managed to thrive--and thrive she did--living to the age of 85 years.

Grace was not a woman who held anything back, as was proof of her heartbreaking autobiography The Longest Trek.  Her account of being adopted as a newborn infant, and of being seen as a bastard by the members of the community in which she grew up, of feeling adrift and rootless not knowing her real parents, and the rejection of biological family members when she was finally able to find them and make contact, are just some of the heartbreaking snapshots of a life of many small tragedies.  She really goes into detail about her failed marriages, career opportunities missed, and difficult relationships.

This was not a woman who glamorized her addictions.  This was not a woman who thought that her addictions made her edgy and iconoclastic.  While people like Amy Winehouse and Jim Morrison wrapped themselves in a cloak of self-delusional worship of their bombastic rocker nihilism, Grace never romanticized her addictions and saw them for what they were--means to cover up and make her forget her own sense of anger, inadequacies, and frustrations for the injustices that had been done to her.

Grace Lee Whitney came from a place of truth.  The book is not an easy read, and at times I had to put it down and take a breather.  But, the more I read and the more breathers I had to take, the more I found myself in awe of this woman.  The fact that she was able to rescue herself and then ultimately turn around and form her own outreach circles, helping other women lost in addiction and despair, in prison and even in her own living room, made her one amazing spirit.

Grace Lee Whitney pulled herself out of the dirt and shined like a diamond! If that sounds corny to you,
you're entitled to your opinion.

Grace Lee Whitney was an opportunity lost as far as possible stars was concerned.  I say this because the heads of the studios could have made her a star, and didn't because she wouldn't play the Hollywood game of sleeping around.  I always thought that she would have made a fantastic Hitchcock Blonde! Don't you think so?

There is a quote that was said by a certain young actress back in the late Seventies(or was it the early Eighties?) that I think is fitting for a woman who fought her demons and never looked back.  It is here:



"I have always considered myself to be the pillar in my life."
-Meryl Streep

Grace Lee Whitney could very well have said that about herself, I think.


To Grace, I wish you Godspeed on your next extraordinary journey.  You are seated now with your fellow angels.

Bless you, love.


Grace Lee Whitney
1930-2015

Aren't You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare Prologue

Title: Aren’t You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare  

Author: ProvidenceMine

Fandom: Star Trek

Series: TOS Prime

Parts: Prologue, 1-8

Rating: R for violence

Codes: R, original characters

Summary:  Forget the Kobayashi Maru!  Can Rand get through Crossing the Rubicon?

Disclaimer: Paramount Pictures owns all of Star Trek and its characters.  This is simply fan fiction, and I don’t expect to profit from this or any story that I write hereafter.

Aren’t You All Aglow In Your Thousand Yard Stare    

Prologue

It was a most agreeable and elegant soiree, and Janice Rand was reveling in the thick of it.  Urbane, cosmopolitan couples attired in long gowns and pressed black tuxedoes coasted under the high, arched ceiling.  Graceful strains of violins mingled with the clinking of glasses, the gentle shoe tappings of dance floor rhythm, and the cadences of conversation.   Oriental paper lanterns hung from various areas of the mansion, giving off a soft, illuminating frame of light as it shimmered off of the glittery gowns and glowed off the whites of the tuxedo shirts.  Even the champagne flutes reflected this lantern light, darting on rims and stems in a delicate light show display.  Rand raises a glass to her lips, enjoying the dry bubbly fill the corners of her mouth, submerging her tongue in a jaunt of iciness.

“My, Janice!  You’re simply a vision tonight!  Is that dress haute couture?  I’m simply just mad for it!”    

The voice belongs to a petite brunette and her tall, lanky husband.

“Lucy!  George!  Look at you two!” 

The trio exchanged polite kisses and gave one another the once-over approvingly.

“Food for a starving man, Janice!”

“Oh, aren’t you the devil,” teased Rand.  “And with such a lovely creature on your arm!”

“Oh, you’re a dear, Janice!  I’d like to think that we shopped at the same place, but your gown is simply exquisite!  Love that peak of leg!  Simply wicked, dear!” 

“Man trap!  Man trap!”  yells George with his hands up.

The trio laughs.  They talk like this for a while, complementing one another on their jewelry, their aftershave, and the like.  Finally, Rand took a final swig of her champagne, downing the last of her drink.

“You must excuse me, I think all of this scrumptious champagne and excitement has done me in.  The little girls’ room awaits.”

The trio broke out in effervescent laughter as Rand headed towards the hallway.  While on her way to the bathroom, Rand caught a glimpse of herself in an old Art Nouvelle mirror, and had to admit, even to herself, how fabulous she looked.  Her flaxen hair swept up in an elegant twist that emphasized her long neck.  Slender diamond crystal earrings hung over bare white shoulders.  The sleek bustier shell of her black gown flared out into a sweeping layered taffeta skirt, which fanned out from a discreet slit, revealing a stunning portion of leg. 

“Janice, my dear, you are simply smashing,” she whispered to herself with a wink.  She turned to the hallway that lead to the bathroom, and sighed with relief when she saw the oval shaped, intricately carved mahogany door up in front of her.  The door opened, and a tall, slender, refined young man stepped out.  Handsome, elegant and self-possessed, he beamed when he spotted Rand and held the door open for her.

“Why Thank you,” she said upping her pace as she reached for the door, grinning at the young man.  Rand closed the door behind her.

“Must try to get his name later,” she thought. 

Rand smiled at the memory of that young man’s face, his manners, and his cologne as she raised the toilet seat and reached underneath her gown.

“What the hell?”   

Rand peered into the toilet with a mixture of disbelief and revoltion.  

There, floating atop the water in the porcelain throne, lay a big fat turd the shape of an overstuffed marijuana joint. 

It was definitely at this moment when that young man lost his appeal.

“How can that ding bat forget to flush when he squeezes something like that out of his skinny ass?!  Eassh!” 

She reached over to flush the toilet, her eyes still glued to the waste left by the young man.  But something made her stop, made her stand back and stare.

The turd, without any explanation, began to vibrate.

Rand looked around the toilet, the bathroom, and then back inside the bowl.  There were no outside vibrations.

“Nope.  It’s the fucking shit.”

The ripples surrounding the excrement became stronger and move violent.  Unable to help herself, Rand leaned in closer until her head was directly over the toilet seat.

“How is that thing…”

SPLAT!

The turd catapulted out of the bowl, landing squarely in Rand’s face.  It latched onto her, dense and grainy like cement.  The dung made its way into her eyes, pressed between her teeth, and clogging her nostrils, which were being assailed by the putrid stink. 

Rand bolted upright in her bed, frantically slapping her face before realizing that she was back in her quarters, alone in the dark.  There was no party.  There was no fancy art nouvelle bathroom.  There was no ball of shit on her face.

Rand sighed, heavily and with profound relief.  She cradled her face with her hands and began to laugh.

“Good God!  Janice, what went on during the day to manifest that dream?!”

Shaking her head and still laughing, she tossed the covers to her bed aside and climbed out so she could go to the bathroom for a glass of water.