The Compendium of Imaginary Stars

by Steve Benton

  Kantros was of the stealth caste. As luck would have it (or not), she was required to share property with one of the lumbering caste (who referred to themselves as the warrior caste) – a brown-eyed, unkempt male named Vortag.

  As they shared their property, they also had the same group of slaves, per the rules of their society. There was a mature male, a female, and two juveniles, with one of each gender. Kantros rather liked having slaves, but easily became upset when they forgot her daily massage, or when her meals were prepared late. After all, slaves were there for her pleasure.

  Vortag didn’t seem to mind their slaves' lack of punctuality, and this particular fact caused some strife between the two. Still, Kantros had to consider that she was a relative newcomer to her property.

  At first, she believed she could put up with Vortag's antics and partying, but things came to a head rather quickly. The ensuing fights almost forced both to abandon their properties and slaves, which would have been devastating to both. But they managed to make amends and live in peace – for the time being.

  "Vortag, they are late with our meals again. How much longer shall you tolerate your slaves' ineptitudes?"

  "Really, Kantros. You can be such a relaxed individual, but you stress out over the smallest of things. We have blessed lives. Our world doesn't require us to work, we have servants who attend to our every need, and yet you fret over schedules and massages. There are worse things that could happen."

  "Perhaps you are correct. Still, I would prefer to have my own property and slave."

  Vortag flopped down onto a large, plush pillow with a light grunt, stretching out and relaxing in the shade provided by a massive tree.

  "I am rather fond of my servants, Kantros. I wish you could see the value they bring."

  "Value, yes. But they are so… primitive! Their species cannot even communicate properly. They attempt to address us in grunts, whistles and hisses. It would be insulting, were it not so pathetic."

  "Kantros, not all species are capable of telepathic communication. We are indeed fortunate, and highly advanced in comparison. Plus, we have been on this world much longer than the slave species. And although you and I are of differing castes, we have much more in common with each other than with those poor, unfortunate beasts. Even more so now that the war has ended. I am glad we have resolved our differences and can enjoy our blessed lives in peace."

  "The war was costly, I must agree. Yet we still see fights break out between our castes. If only yours would groom a bit more, and stop making such a racket. You have to be the noisiest types I've ever seen – even noisier than the slaves and their annoying offspring."

  Kantros sat up and looked out over the patio expectantly. She knew her lunch would soon be served, on a silver platter, as was to be expected. Kantros preferred the male slave when it came to prepared meals, but the female for her massages.

  Vortag merely sighed and relaxed, lulling off into a light sleep. He knew he would be awakened when his meal arrived.

  The male slave, a bumbling creature called Grar, stumbled across the lawn, carrying a silver platter, while screeching out the most horrid sounds in an attempt to let his mistress know he was dutifully bringing her lunch.

  Vortag awoke from the sounds emitted from the slave's ugly mouth portal, looking up slowly, and then flopping back down, uninterested, as the food was not for him. He found tastes of the stealth caste to be a bit strong, with his caste preferring heartier fare.

  "Kantros, perhaps you can teach Grar to prepare something that stinks less? How can you eat those things? It smells like a dead slave."

  "Oh, shut it, Vortag. You have no taste buds, and you know it," said Kantros, while her trusty slave set the platter before her and backed away, bowing while making a vain attempt at communicating with its owner.

  "We of the warrior caste simply prefer food with body, Kantros. I believe you know that to be true."

  "Lord, here comes the neighbor's slave. Now they won't shut up, and we'll have to tolerate their squawking for an hour at least."

  "Can't you just relax? Kantros, our slaves work day and night, waiting on us and providing our every need. Leave them be, and let them mingle with their own kind. It's not like they could very well have an intelligent conversation with us, is it?"

  Kantros groaned and dug into her lunch, while Vortag watched Grar and the neighbor slave engage in a screeching conversation that sounded like machine parts grinding together.

  "Look Kantros - it appears our slaves are engaging in some rudimentary game. Notice how they move their tentacles in a complex, almost ritualistic manner."

  "Perhaps it has something to do with their pagan religion. Our scientists have determined that they do believe in some sort of deity."

  "Well? Is that not an indicator of sapience? I truly believe there is more to this odd species than most would believe," said Vortag.

  "Perhaps you are correct. Still, I would prefer to eat in peace and not have to hear their racket."

  Vortag shook his head in disdain, and then got up and walked over to near where his slave and that of his neighbor were engaged in some form of base communication. He watched with interest as they waved their extremities in various directions, appearing to be a danger not only to others but also to themselves.

  "Friend, do not approach while they are in their trance state, as you may be struck by them. It would be a shame to have to destroy a perfectly good slave," Kantros said, with just a touch of sarcasm.

  "Perhaps you are correct," Vortag mentally sighed, as he returned to his comfortable pillow in the shade, "Though I would like to attempt advanced training again."

  "Vortag, when will you realize? There is no training these beings to do anything more than menial tasks. They have no great intelligence, and are only good for massages and meals. They cannot even properly protect us from outside threats."

  "But that is the purpose of my caste, my small friend. Protection is our nature. Oh, did I tell you how I saw what appeared to be a conflict between our male and female slaves?"

  "No, you did not. What was the apparent issue at hand?"

  "I heard some unusual noises, so I became curious and entered into the slaves' sleeping area. I found Grar squelching at the female, Glap, who had removed her slave coverings and was in her sleeping flat with a female slave from a different property."

  "How odd," said Kantros. "What do you think happened? Was it a territorial matter?"

  "I had seen that particular slave on our land earlier, and the two females seem to enjoy giving each other massages. I believe the male wanted a massage but perhaps was denied by the females and became upset. If they could only talk…"

  "Oh, I see. Well, who doesn't like a massage?" responded Kantros, as she finished her meal. The two then watched Grar bring a large serving for Vortag, setting it down before his owner, while garbling something odd from his hideous mouth hole.

  "Ah, they have improved the recipe for my meal. See? They do have some intelligence," exclaimed Vortag, as he ignored his slave's noises and hungrily dug into his food. "Kantros, you have had more than one slave. Tell me how these compare to your previous servants."

  "I was rather fond of my previous slave, but it was overtaxed, as there were many others of my caste present, and the land was too small. Still, it was a female, who worked alone, and had the most magnificent scent. It pained me to leave, but I needed to have more privacy, so I surrendered myself to the Box of Transition for property and slave reassignment."

  "Was that the only other one you had?"

  "No," said Kantros. "My first slave died of unknown causes. There was no battle, to speak of. It, a male, merely did not awake one day. I remember it used to sit in front of a mysterious panel of light, without its slave coverings, and would massage itself frequently. It was also very large and round, unlike the female, who was frail."

  "How odd. To not die in battle is most dishonorable."

  "Vortag, your ways are so strange. To escape is a b
adge of honor for my caste."

  "Ah, but you do fight well, small one. I still bear the scar of your strike during the war."

  Kantros reveled in the compliment, so she smiled, relaxed, and enjoyed the warm sunshine on her delicate, striped face.

  The slave called Grar walked into his large sleeping quarters, shutting the entrance portal behind him as Kantros and Vortag heard him screech and cough at his mate, Glap.

  "Becky, did the kids feed the pets earlier? They ate like they hadn't been fed in a week."

  "They did, right before they went upstairs to do their homework. Or so they said… John, you know how kids can be."

  "Hmm, I think we're going to have to have a talk with them. Anyway, did you notice how Blitz and Precious have been getting along so well lately? Who would have ever thought a German shepherd and an old pound cat could become friends, especially when they used to get into so many fights."

  "Yeah, it's kinda weird. Almost like they're planning something," said Becky.

  "As if!" laughed John.

  END

  PRESENT REWRITTEN

  He knew it was an explosion, but only because of the compression. The quick, crystalline blowout happened so fast that everything was over before the sound even reached his ears. He watched his kindergarten year flash through his mind. There wasn't even time for first grade.

  Then it was suddenly over. He was sitting on the couch again.

  What the hell was that?

  "Would you like another cappuccino, sir?" asked Piper, the cute, blonde-haired, blue-eyed barista Glenn wanted to plow.

  "Um, I'm good. Thanks anyway," said Glenn, not bothering to look up.

  He gave his laptop a blank stare, trying to piece together the vision he just had. The most striking part was that he remembered Miss Millikan, his kindergarten teacher. He had forgotten about her for the past thirty years, so how was he able to suddenly recall the pretty woman's last name? One moment he was sitting there, in his favorite coffee house, The Java Hut, typing away on his computer, putting another chapter in his blog. The next moment he was dead. And now he was alive. It was all very confusing.

  Glenn Davies was nothing less than a failed writer. Although his family and friends had encouraged him for many years, he basically stunk at his chosen craft. He was excellent, however, at certain musical instruments, which probably led those same people to have an intense faith in anything he would do on an artistic level.

  Rummaging through his left pocket, he jingled the change he had left and instinctively knew he hadn’t enough to purchase another coffee. He had been laid off his job the week prior. They told him they didn't have enough work to keep him busy, but he knew the truth – he was a terrible employee and never completed his tasks on time, preferring to write in his blog – a blog that nobody read anyway.

  As the hard drive in his older MacBook whirred and spun, he brought up a popular job search site and looked for anything remotely similar to the work he had before.

  Crap. I gotta find something before I starve to death.

  ###

  Harbor Blvd was busy with traffic, making it difficult for Glenn to merge, his beat up 1983 BMW 320i sounding more like a lawnmower than a decent, functioning automobile. It sputtered out into the far-right lane with his foot slammed down onto the accelerator pedal, barely keeping up with the flow as he tooled along toward his small apartment two miles away. He was at least smart enough to have a separate bank account for managing his bills so he would have a place to live until he found another job. He had created the account when he ripped off a client for some web development, not finishing the project but pocketing the money anyway. Still, he always found new work, even though he had a terrible employment history.

  Glenn burned his bridges, but for some reason managed to survive.

  His car stopped with a chug and the sickening sound of metal-on-metal as he pulled into his parking space.

  This thing's about toast. Maybe I should get a bus pass?

  Bounding up the stairs to the second floor, he walked down the hallway to his small apartment, and saw Mrs. Wilson, the resident crazy cat lady, in the hallway, calling out to her beloved feline companions.

  "Morning, Mrs. Wilson."

  "Oh, hello Mr. Mavies," she responded, mangling his name as usual. The slender, unkempt woman was a bit off, and always smelled of cat piss, which disgusted Glenn to no end.

  I'm going to make it. I just know it. Then I'll get a decent place to live where pets aren't allowed.

  As he put his key into the doorknob to his room he heard a slight whine and a light thud. Glenn spun around, only to see a very dead Mrs. Wilson lying in the middle of the hallway, with three of her cats sniffing her head.

  Aw man, I don't need this. Damned cats probably want to eat her.

  "Hello, 911? Um, a woman just died in the hallway of my apartment complex," said Glenn, wanting to get the woman's body off the ground in the hallway before it started to smell worse than it already did.

  "Are you sure she's dead?" asked the operator on the other end of the line.

  "Yeah, pretty sure. Can you get someone down here? It's pretty gross."

  "We are dispatching police and paramedics momentarily. Please provide your address."

  Inside the small living room, Glenn sat on his old, musty couch, opened his trusty MacBook and logged onto his blog. He had to change his latest entry. His most recent writings were a collection of multi-chapter short stories, with the latest one being a fictitious account loosely based on his life. In the coffee house he had written how Mrs. Bertram offered the story's protagonist some chocolate chip cookies. Now he had a better twist to his storyline – she would be found in her apartment, dead and half-eaten by her disgusting cats.

  A knocking sound brought him out of his creative slumber. Getting up, he walked over and looked through the peephole, seeing an Orange County sheriff. Having no other choice, he opened the door.

  "Glenn Davies?"

  "Um, yeah?"

  "Are you the person who called 911 about a dead woman in the hallway?"

  "Yeah, that was me. She just fell and then…"

  "You should know that making prank calls to 911 can result in criminal charges."

  "Huh? Prank call? Mrs. Wilson was… just…"

  Glenn looked over and saw Mrs. Wilson speaking to a couple of paramedics, holding two cats in her arms. She looked over and gave Glenn a curious glare, causing him to avert his eyes.

  "Um, officer, I swear, she was dead on the ground right there," he said, pointing to her doorway.

  "Well, she's alive and well now. Please make sure you don't make any more mistakes from now on, got it?"

  "Um, yes sir. Sorry."

  Glenn shut his door and turned around.

  Wreck my brain!

  His old couch had been replaced by a leather sectional, and his trusty MacBook was on a sleek glass table, next to a brand-new desktop computer system. In fact, his entire apartment was remodeled.

  What the hell?

  He walked over and ran his fingers over the desk's surface, trying to comprehend what he was looking at. A yellow Post It note was stuck to one of the dual twenty-four inch monitors.

  Client meeting, 10/3 at 2pm

  Oh crap. Who am I meeting with?

  Glenn sat down and opened his calendar to October 3rd, double-clicking the date to get detailed notes on his meeting.

  I have clients, and I write technical documentation? This is cool. What else has changed?

  ###

  The sun gleamed brilliantly on the hood of his completely restored 1983 BMW 320i. Glenn grinned as he opened the door and sat down. The car started with a purr and even smelled like vanilla, his favorite scent. He opened the console between the two front seats and counted about fifteen dollars in small bills and change.

  Maybe I'll have another cappuccino.

  "Hi sweetie," Piper called out, as Glenn walked back into The Java Hut. He smiled and waved, and was about to take a se
at in his usual spot when the cute girl walked up and kissed him on the lips.

  She's my girlfriend? Or am I insane?

  "Hi Piper. Um… cappuccino?"

  "You know you don't need to ask, silly," she said while handing him a steaming mug of his favorite beverage. "So, are you coming over tonight? Or we could stay at your place…"

  "Uh, why don't you… come over to my place?"

  "Well, it’s about time, dork! I've been dying to see your new furniture. Anyway, gotta get back to work. But don't forget to give me a kiss before you leave."

  "Okay, hun. I won't forget."

  Glenn was getting more confused with every passing moment. He sat down and quickly noticed a new customer in line. The Java Hut wasn't a popular spot, and Glenn knew everyone who went there. The tall gentleman was definitely a newcomer. He was older, appearing about sixty or so, and sported a long, gray beard, with an impressive mustache braided into it. Then, to Glenn's surprise, the gentleman waved to him and smiled.

  That's odd. I wonder who he is?

  Opening his laptop, he logged onto his blog. To his astonishment he had seventy-eight comments on his most recent posting. He had never recalled ever getting a single comment, as no one ever read it.

  9/13 1305: G, love the story. Looking forward to the next entry.

  9/13 1421: Mr. Davies, you are truly a literary treasure.

  9/13 1436: I'm so glad I found this blog. I go to it everyday, hoping to see a new chapter.

  "Interesting, is it not?" asked the older gentleman Glenn had first seen only moments ago, now seated next to him.