What gives an individual life its meaning, anyway? And what's capable of taking that sense of worth away? It struck me that there are quite a lot of daily trivialities, mindless and petty little events all occurring in the course of twenty-four hours, that serve to do just that without ever directly affecting a person's consciousness... Or maybe it's only me who is falling apart at the seams. Should this following bit of fluff spark anyone else's thoughts, feel free to tell me, I'm always interested and rarely have anything important to do. ------- Start Fiction ------- The phone rings, once, twice, and your hand scrambles for the reciever, snaking between the legs of the chair to where it had landed, dumped carelessly after your last call. A loud beep as one thumb presses the 'Talk' button, a reflex so ingrained in your generation that, before Darwin revolutionized the theory of... evolution... it would have been considered an inherited trait, like shorter tails or... ...Well, perhaps the analogy needs work. A static click as electricity connects one location with another, snaking through miles of metal cable and folding the distance in between to an illusion of closeness. Your voice, mature and proper, aping your memories of Mom when she answered the phone years ago. "Hello-o." You stretch the word, pulling at its fabric, chewing it like a gob of pinkish, saltwater taffy. The trio of notes rise and fall quickly, cresting at 'lo', which, you may hear, is a half-step above the other two syllables. A cursory si! le! nce, awaiting reply from the unknown, hazy conception of a person you imagine to be at the other end of the line. A second offer of greeting, you believe, may be necessary to draw the attention of the caller. Again, your lips - parched and ing from the cold you have recently beaten into submission - contort, a manipulation of these things, your tongue and oral cavity that produce sound when combined with lungs and vocal chords. "Hello?" Briefer, this time, a snapping query delivered, in part, out of budding irritation at the possibility of a wrong number, a disconnection or prank call. Your voice has become terse, biting off words before they are given opportunity to emerge from your throat. Cold nothingness echoes across the telephone-wire void, and you are forced to listen to yourself breathe, warm carbon dioxide sticky against the mouthpiece. Reluctant, flooded with sudden antipathy toward your unnamed, mysterious caller, your thumb again pushes ! th! e 'Talk' button. The brief, intangible bond that led, for a heartbeat, between two souls is now gone. You are left empty, a vessel devoid of content or worth, and return to your prior activities with a slight, inexplicable feeling of loss. ------- Isn't it awful to answer the phone, and find no one waiting to talk to you? Life is a series of moments, connections between human beings, and I've just missed an opportunity to connect; how many more chances will I get? Not to mention the thought that maybe I'm not worthy of the simplest exchange of pleasantries between individuals. ...Wish they'd stop calling my house... ------- End Fiction ------- And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming. The Copper Cricket