"Nocturnal Animals" - short story

“They were here last night!”

“After all the work you’ve done. What did they do this time?”

“They dug up the grass! Again!”

I led my wife to the backyard where the damage was plain to see. Mounds of overturned soil, piles of kicked-up earth where a lawn of thick green grass used to be.

“It’s worse than last time,” she noted.

“Much worse.”

What more could I do? I had installed a chain-link fence around the perimeter, but this hadn’t served as a strong enough barrier. I had reinforced the fence, added additional metal stakes at regular intervals. This did not stop them. I weighted down the fencing and secured the stakes with solid bases. This effort had failed as well.

Boars. Wild boars determined to go on a rampage in my garden.

“Strange that they’re only trampling the grass. They never eat the flowers or the bushes.”

“They’re going for water,” I explained. The upturned earth ran in nearly parallel lines above the buried irrigation tubing. Grass destroyed in a surprisingly neat pattern.

“How many are there?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I have never actually seen them.”

We were newcomers to the quiet suburban community west of Jerusalem and had invested a lot of money in our garden. Professional gardeners had cleared the backyard, hooked up the watering system, and planted the greenery. The expense was worth it, we told ourselves. We envisioned sitting under a gazebo, watching the children we would raise run and play on an expansive lawn.

Everything had been going well since we made the move. I didn’t mind my daily commute and my wife worked three days a week as a cashier in a minimarket. She was three months pregnant the morning she found me staring out the window, my mouth open, and my eyes wide with terror.

“What is it?” she asked, and I pointed at the garden.

That was the first time. I wasn’t aware that wild boars could cause so much damage. The animals roamed the nearby hills and forests, I had heard, with no natural predators to keep their population in check. In Israel, boars are a protected species. It is illegal to hunt or kill them. Their middle-of-the-night raids on garbage bins and gardens were becoming much more than just a nuisance. It was driving me crazy!

Months later, with my wife at the beginning of her third trimester, I was at wits’ end. Another night of boars, another night of extensive damage. The beasts were circumventing the fence; they were forcing their way through the wire; and they were digging under it. All to get to my well-tended, regularly watered, perfectly green lawn.

“Maybe we should have artificial grass instead,” my wife suggested.

“No! I don’t want my children to grow up on fake grass!” I wasn’t going to let a pack of savage animals take my dream away from me.

That morning, as I worked up a sweat packing the grass into place, setting the ground flat and hoping a few extra hours of watering would be enough to get the lawn back in shape, I made my plan. The municipal council wouldn’t help me, the neighbors didn’t care less, and the fencing didn’t stop the beasts. I would have to do this on my own.

Shortly after midnight, I settled onto my lawn chair near the patio. A light breeze gently swayed the bushes and the night was pleasantly cool. The garden was dark, the wire fence at the end of my property hidden from view. In my hands I held a flashlight, duly tested, and my revered slingshot, the very same slingshot I had used as a young boy to ward off the bullies who ridiculed me in school. The same slingshot I had kept all these years and rediscovered when we unpacked boxes after our move. The slingshot I would use to protect my house, my family, and my green grass.

I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start, strange noises coming from the lawn. I bolted from the chair and dropped my flashlight as I would need both hands free to handle my weapon. My eyes were not yet accustomed to the dark but without thinking I approached the beasts and their frightful sounds. Grunting, squealing, clawing at the earth, brushing heavily through the bushes. I heard them to the left of me, and then to my right. I couldn’t see them, only their quickly moving shadows, barely sensed at the edge of my peripheral vision. And then, before I knew what was happening, they had completely surrounded me.

I stood paralyzed in the middle of my lawn amidst a team of snorting boars, adults and piglets, kicking at my legs, thrusting their way past me. Their body heat was intense; their warm, earthy odor was overpowering. Clouds of dust filled my nostrils and my eyes began to water. I raised my slingshot, but there was no visible target at which to aim. One by one, the animals plowed into me as they searched for an escape from the fenced-off garden. I tried to get out of their way but there was nowhere to go. As the boars circled me in their frenzied stampede, I spun round and round until I fell to the ground and passed out.

# # #

Originally published on Across the Margin.

Stuffed boar as seen at the Steinhardt Museum of Natural History.

"Jupiter Aligned With Mars" - short story

Last month, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn aligned in a rare planetary order, the first time this had occurred since 2004. While I didn't manage to see these 5 planets in the sky together, the phenomenon did provide inspiration for my latest story. A very, very short story - exactly 50 words long.

According to the 50-Word Stories website, "A 50-word story is a piece of fiction written in exactly 50 words. That doesn’t mean 'roughly' 50 words; it doesn’t mean 'as close to 50 words as possible'; it doesn’t mean 50 words or fewer. It means exactly 50 words." Title not included.

So, after an introduction that is longer than the story itself, here is my micro fiction:

Jupiter Aligned With Mars

A multitude of stars and their constellations. A fleeting meteorite or two. A moon larger than life. Time stretching to the edge of the visible universe and beyond. Wonders unknown. I fondly recall growing up in the country, and how my walks in the fields after dark enlightened me.

Originally published on 50-Word Stories.

Photo by Alexis Antonio on Unsplash

Review of 'The Deadly Scrolls' by Ellen Frankel

The Deadly Scrolls by Ellen Frankel (Wicked Son, May 2022) starts out like a police procedural but has many of the elements of an Indiana Jones-like thriller. A murdered Biblical professor with cryptic files on his laptop. Scholars and villains searching for hidden Temple treasures. A corrupt Old City antiquities dealer. A purple-haired American held captive to decipher an ancient scroll. And a solitary Israeli intelligent agent racing to stop a fanatical millennialist bent on destroying the mosques on the Temple Mount.

Maya Rimon must balance her career in Israeli intelligence with being a single mother trapped in a custody battle over her daughter. With a botched operation in her past, Maya sets out single-handedly to solve the professor's murder and its connection with the Copper Scroll, a genuine Dead Sea Scrolls artifact. The scroll could possibly reveal the location of the Temple treasures, or alternatively set in motion the fanatic's plan to bring about the End of Days.

Ignoring protocol and the warnings of the Israel Police and her boss at the agency, Maya travels to unexplored caves at Qumran where additional scrolls may be buried. A race across the desert and through the Western Wall Tunnels leads her to a fateful confrontation deep under the Dome of the Rock.

Like other thrillers set in the Holy City, The Deadly Scrolls occasionally fails a basic course of Jerusalem geography. It doesn't take ten hours to drive from Efrat near Jerusalem to Almog just north of the Dead Sea, for example. Implausible plot twists aside, the novel ties together real and imagined Biblical treasures with modern-day fanatics determined to use those treasures to achieve their nefarious plans.

The Deadly Scrolls is well-written and its pace moves ahead quickly, making it overall a fun read, with promises of a Maya Rimon sequel ahead.

Ellen Frankel served for eighteen years as Editor in Chief and CEO of The Jewish Publication Society. She is the author of ten books, among them The Classic Tales; The Encyclopedia of Jewish Symbols with Betsy Teutsch; The Five Books of Miriam; The Jewish Spirit: A Celebration in Stories and Art, and The Illustrated Hebrew Bible, winner of the National Jewish Book Award. She has also written lyrics for a number of musical works. Frankel and her husband, Herb Levine, divide their time between Sarasota and Maine.

Originally published on The Times of Israel.

'The Burgas Affair' Added to the National Library of Israel

An unexpected message came to me recently on Messenger.

"I discovered 'The Burgas Affair' on the Internet. I work for the National Library of Israel. We are obligated to collect every book published in Israel on behalf of future generations, and to safeguard Israeli culture."

The sender promised to send me additional details by mail and two weeks later an email arrived.

Congratulations on the publication of your book! We are honored to invite you to add it to the National Library's book collection. For the past 125 years, we have been collecting every book, newspaper, and other printed matter published in Israel. This is done so that these materials will document written work and save it for future generations. We invite you to add your book to the millions of items already in our collection.

A nice invitation? Actually, I am required by Israeli law to send my book to the National Library.

As mentioned this week in The Times of Israel, "In accordance with the 2000 'book law,' any book published with more than 50 copies in the State of Israel must send two copies to the National Library. This applies to books written in any language, including translations."

One copy of the book is made available to the general public, while the other is stored in special conditions, preserving its availability to future generations.

According to that law, published books must be sent to the National Library within 30 days of their publication date. I just learned of the law's existence now and will be sending two copies of The Burgas Affair to the library. Readers in the future will thank me. 

Photo by Hanan Cohen for the National Library of Israel.

"Heterochromia" - short story

'Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.'

But name-calling could.

The names they called my grade school classmates hurt them terribly. They called Brandon 'Fatso' because of his weight; Pete was nicknamed 'Dumbo' because of his big ears. 'Geek' was the name they gave to Max, while 'Psycho' was reserved for Jason. Insults painful to bear when you are young. As for me, I had a physical feature that had so far escaped attention. I was safe from verbal abuse, at least for now. But I was worried, especially when I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

"It's in your genes," my father explained, but I didn't understand at all. What were genes, and how did my eyes get in there?

My right eye is brown and my left eye is light blue. Different colored irises. As a kid, I believed I had a birth defect, a medical syndrome that would one day require surgery.

"Your eyes didn't decide what color they wanted to be," my father reassured me. Still, I feared being ridiculed in school and avoided making eye contact as much as possible.

Some kids are born with superpowers; others get them while growing up and use them to ward off the name-calling. Max claimed he could see through girls' clothing; Pete said he could fly if he wanted to, but only when no one was looking. Jason was capable of lifting heavy objects, even a piano. He was still waiting for the police to call on him to fight crime. And Brandon had many superpowers. He could become invisible, walk through buildings, run faster than a horse, and shape-shift. I wasn't exactly sure what shape-shifting was, but Brandon boasted he could do it.

"What about you?" Max taunted me. "You can't lift anything," teased Jason. "You'll never outrun me," sneered Brandon.

I didn't have a superpower, but I had my eyes. My secret feature. But what good were they?

Many years later, I was on a date with Jenny who lived down the street; we occasionally did our physics homework together. It wasn't actually a date, per se, but rather a spur-of-the-moment outing to the mall to see 'Star Wars'.

"May the Force be with us," Jenny giggled when we sat down for burgers and fries after the film. She slurped her cola and at that moment, I thought I was the luckiest guy in our class. Then, before I could avert my gaze, she stared at me.

"Your eyes!"

I looked down at the table, at my half-eaten fast food, embarrassed. She had laughed at me and we'd never see a movie together again.

"They're special!" she said next, and I took a deep breath of relief.

Actors Robert Downey, Jr. and Kate Bosworth; dancer Michael Flatley, Canadian hockey star Shawn Horcoff; and Washington Nationals pitcher Max Scherzer all had different colored eyes, I learned. And I heard that when Julia Roberts accepted her Golden Globe Award for Best Supporting Actress award in 1990 for her role in the film 'Steel Magnolias', she thanked her “beautiful blue-eyed, green-eyed friend,” reportedly referring to Kiefer Sutherland. Most impressive to me in those years of my science fiction fascination was the fact that Henry Cavill, the Superman of the 2013 film 'Man of Steel', had eyes of different colors.

Heterochromia, the variation in coloration in my eyes, was something I could be proud of. They're special, as Jenny told me on that date long ago. Take that, Max, Pete, Jason, and Brandon! I had my superpower at last, and I wasn't afraid to flaunt it!

 # # #

Originally published in the anthology Otherwise Engaged A Literature and Arts Journal Volume 9. Summer 2022 (May 2022).

Image by asdf, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

Review of ‘Raiders of the Hidden Ark’ by Graham Addison

The Ark of the Covenant, the sacred relic of the Israelites containing the tablets carved with the Ten Commandments, has been missing for 2,500 years. We don’t know if it was destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon; carried off by Titus to Rome; or brought to Ethiopia by the son of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.

Perhaps the Ark was hidden before the Babylonian invasion and is buried somewhere below the Temple Mount? This possibility has fascinated countless biblical scholars and archaeologists, but, spoiler alert, the Ark is still missing.

Raiders of the Hidden Ark by Graham Addison (Edgcumbe Press, August 2021) tells the largely unknown story of the Parker Expedition, a group of British aristocrats and army officers that carried out excavations in Jerusalem searching for Temple treasures between 1909 and 1911.

In this exhaustively researched work, we meet Montagu Brownlow Parker, 5th Earl of Morley, who, encouraged by the writings and explorations of other Christians, wanted to prove doubters of the Bible wrong and more importantly to bring about the End of Days. To organize his expedition, Parker enlisted “men similar to himself; young upper-class Englishmen connected by social background, school, military service and combat in the Boer War.”

But the group was motivated as much by business considerations. They bought shares in a syndicate that would benefit from the sale of any treasures discovered.

The author provides detailed backgrounds of the expedition members, but this slows down the narrative. Mentions of how novelist Joseph Conrad described steamships in the Congo; Second Boer War battles in South Africa; and an attempted assassination of Queen Victoria; may give readers a better understanding of the personalities involved, but they do not contribute to one’s understanding of the actual excavations in Jerusalem

The story of the archaeological dig, of the team’s exploration of the tunnels, shafts, and suspected hiding places of the treasures, only begins some 100 pages into the book. Cyphers in Biblical texts suggested that “the Ark of the Covenant could be found by working through underground passages from Gihon, which would lead … to the mosque.”

Parker and his band retrace the steps and digs of previous explorers and set off in new directions underground. Their work, approved by the Ottoman authorities but a thorn in the side for Palestinians whose homes were above the tunnels, failed to bring them the riches they sought. Instead, their story is just a historical footnote to the many archaeological digs conducted over the years in Jerusalem.

Overall, this book is more the story of the members of the expedition, than of the expedition itself. While details of the only dig ever sanctioned inside the Dome of the Rock itself are fascinating, less so are descriptions of the “misfortunes which befell former members of the expedition” in the following years.

The expedition’s story, which sounds stranger than fiction, was ultimately unsuccessful but may have served as inspiration for later archaeologists and for the creators of action-adventure film “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” The mystery of the Ark of the Covenant’s location, as highlighted in this thoroughly researched book, will no doubt captivate future explorers as well.

GrahamAddison worked for many years in the Human Resources department of firms developing mobile communications, Lotus 1-2-3 spreadsheets, and search engines, and at Apple's European headquarters. He also ran his own software company, but his first love has always been history. After reading Simon Sebag Montefiore’s Jerusalem: The Biography, he was captivated by a brief expedition to Jerusalem of young Eton-educated men searching for the Ark of the Covenant, an expedition he describes as a “crazy combination of Downton Abbey meets Indiana Jones meets Dan Brown.” Raiders of the Hidden Ark is his first book.

 

Previously published on The Times of Israel.

"Have a Nice Day" - short story

Hastings wakes up, shaves, showers, combs his hair. Puts on his suit, adjusts his tie. Picks up his briefcase on his way out and checks that he has locked his apartment behind him. Rides the elevator down to the lobby where he is greeted by Al, the building’s doorman.

“Good morning, Mr. Hastings!”

“Morning,” he replies with a wave.

“Busy day ahead?”

“Same as always.”

“Important court case, is it?”

“No, nothing important.”

“What is it then? Divorce settlement? Defending a tax evader?”

He shakes his head.

“You probably have clients lining up outside your door, you’re such a well-known attorney.”

Read the rest of the story on Written Tales.

Fifty Years in Israel

Shortly before 10 in the morning of May 2, 1972, a Greek cruise ship docked in Haifa port. Along with members of my family, I stepped foot in Israel for the first time. 

Fifty years in Israel and look how far I've come. I finished high school in Jerusalem; served in the Israeli army; was a founder of a new kibbutz in the Arava; married and raised a family; and I now live in a small community outside Jerusalem, along with my wife, daughters, and four granddaughters (my son lives in Tel Aviv). Fifty years after making aliya, I am still here.

During my fifty years in Israel I lived through a war, and many undeclared wars. I lived with the fear of terrorist attacks and Iraqi Scud missiles. I rejoiced when Maccabi Tel Aviv won its first European Championship, and with each of Israel's Eurovision wins. I cried when Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated, and renewed my hope in the Israeli political system after elections when Netanyahu was defeated.

Fifty years in Israel. I welcomed visitors to the country during years of employment in the hotel industry. I became part of the Startup Nation with my ongoing work in firms based on the Internet. I barbecued on Israeli Independence Day, and ate falafel and shwarma in the eateries of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. I bathed in the Dead Sea, climbed Masada at sunrise. 

Fifty years in Israel and I wouldn't live anywhere else. I am still falling in love with my country - hiking through the deserts and mountains; running on the boardwalk in Tel Aviv; getting lost in the alleyways of the Old City; visiting Metula; and seeing Mt. Hermon in the distance.

On this occasion, marking fifty years in Israel, I repost an article I wrote ten years ago marking forty years in Israel. My memories of making aliya in 1972 are still strong. I wonder what wonders and challenges the next years in Israel will bring.

Aliya Circa 1972

Originally published August 10, 2012

Moving to Israel is not easy, and never was. Take it from an oleh vatik who is this year celebrating forty years in Israel. Looking back, one sometimes wonders how such a life-changing move like aliyah is even possible.

The Greek cruise ship Queen Anna Maria served as the Mayflower for many Americans making aliyah to Israel in the early 1970s. After a week-long crossing of the Atlantic and making port calls in Lisbon and Athens, the ship delivered its ambitious, idealistic passengers at the docks of their new homeland.

My first home in Israel was a third floor apartment on Bar Yochai Street in Jerusalem's Katamon Tet neighborhood. From inside the tiny, spartanly furnished rooms I could hear the calls of the watermelon merchant, “Avatiach!” as his horse-drawn wagon made its way down the street with huge, tantalizing melons. Children from the tenement buildings ran alongside to the parking lot, where a few shoppers approached, eager to taste the merchant's fresh produce.

Life at a Merkaz Klita

Little did my family realize, before moving to Israel in the spring of 1972, that the Katamon Tet Merkaz Klita, or Absorption Center, was located in one of Jerusalem's poorest neighborhoods. For us, the time spent in the slum area was a strange introduction into Israeli society. For the residents living on that street, immigrant families who were veterans of the waves of immigration from Arab countries in the 1950s, life was a never-ending struggle to remain above the poverty line. Katamon Tet was a place they were eager to escape.

Most of the families at the Merkaz Klita were from Russia or Georgia, with a small number from Argentina. There were few fellow American or English families to ease this transitional period. The staff of the center was willing to help, to offer advice and assistance. Teaching the adults the basics of the Hebrew language was top priority, while the children were assigned to ulpan classes in the city center. Like any normal teenager, skipping classes to go see movies in the downtown cinemas seemed a more important way to spend the summer.

A few times a week, fresh milk was delivered to our apartment door. The cream separated from the milk and we needed to shake the glass bottles before it could be poured. There was a shared television on the first floor and the American show “Hawaii Five-O” was very popular, if not that colorful when broadcast in black and white. On the streets, long-haired teenagers sported Beatles t-shirts, even though the well-known group had disbanded two years before. There was an asimon-swallowing payphone at the center; waiting to receive a private phone line could take months. The preferred method of communicating with loved ones back in the old country was by mailing paper-thin aerogrammes.

A loss of innocence

That year, Jerusalem was in the midst of a massive building boom, the result of the heady euphoria in the wake of Israel’s stunning victory in the Six Day War. New, high-class residential areas were being built in Ramat Eshkol and French Hill. The standard of living for Israelis was rising. Jews around the world were encouraged to make aliyah, to return to their roots in the Jewish State.

We were naïve about many things in our new homeland, an innocence that quickly faded when we faced the horrific news of a terrorist attack at Lod Airport at the end of May 1972. Even more powerful in establishing our connection to Israel was the massacre of our athletes at the Munich Olympics that September. The father of one of my high school classmates was one of the victims; I didn’t yet have a strong enough command of Hebrew to fully comprehend what sitting shiva meant.

In the early days of my life in Israel I took frequent walks in the open fields behind the Katamon Tet Absorption Center, watching the train pass by twice daily on its way to and from Tel Aviv. The hills in the distance were bare, while in the other direction it was possible to hike up to the Holyland Hotel to view the model of Second Temple Jerusalem.

Forty years later, those hills are covered with the suburban sprawl of Gilo, and the old train tracks are no longer visible due to the presence of the Malha Mall and Teddy Stadium. The red-bricked tenements of Katamon Tet circa 1972 are still in place, but their use as an absorption center for new olim struggling to establish a foothold in Israel has faded into rose-colored memories.

This image of an apartment building in the Katamon Tet neighborhood was taken by user Gilabrand and is used under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license.

"Aliya Circa 1972" was originally published on The Times of Israel.