Fells with You

It was quite dawns 

      When it storms the skies,

I have seen the world

              In your hopeful eyes.

I have found my peace

             Within a steady view,

Because the journey 

                 May have with you.

In two wandering souls

           With one steady pace,

We are finding our rhythm

                  In time and space.

Even the map of life

                  Are vast and wide,

But with your fingers 

                  It’s locked in mine.

Biography

Dr. Debabrata Maji’s journey is one woven with the artistry of words, the precision of engineering, and the resounding echoes of literary passion. His life’s path meandered through the structured world of engineering before blossoming into an awe-inspiring legacy in the poetic realm. Despite pursuing a career in engineering, the written word never loosened its grip on his soul. It was as if poetry was inscribed into his very being, waiting patiently for the right moment to erupt into brilliance. And erupt, it did. What followed was an unstoppable rise through the ranks of the World Poetic Fraternity, marking Dr. Maji as a luminary in contemporary literature.  His literary prowess, distinguished by a profound sensitivity and refined craftsmanship, has been recognized far and wide. The world acknowledged his contributions by bestowing upon him twenty two Honorary Doctorates, a testament to the depth and impact of his work. Recognition followed in waves, with twelve prestigious Annual Literary Awards adorning his illustrious career – one of the most remarkable being the Silver Saraswati Statue, a symbol of divine wisdom and artistic excellence.

The weight of his influence is evident in the vast array of publications that carry his name. His unique poetic creations have graced numerous magazines, newspapers, and contemporary anthologies, reaching readers across India and beyond. His artistry, rooted in heartfelt emotions and intricate expressions, carved a distinct space within global literary landscapes. Dr. Maji’s written legacy is solidified through thirteen remarkable poetry collections, each bearing the coveted ISBN. His Bengali version books – Kavita Bichitra, Kavita Darpan, Probad Angina, Premer Boikunth, Sonnet Bhaskar, Harano Bamsari, Smarane Manane, Barnera Rahasya, Vande Mataram and English versions Dreamscape, The Peace, The Divine Glow, Maxims 500 are more than literary works; they are extensions of his soul.

They have found their way into the hands of eager readers, offering solace, beauty, and wisdom through poetic verses that transcend time. These titles bear witness to his unwavering commitment to poetry and the sheer brilliance of his literary craft. His story is not merely about accolades or achievements. Very recently he was conferred with ‘Swarno Padok’ by Kolkata based Bango Sanskriti Sangsad for his book ‘The Peace’. It is about a man who dared to transform life’s melodies into poetry, leaving behind an enduring legacy that will inspire generations to come.

The Fate of Uncle Mammadhasan’s Donkey

Back then, in those beautiful days,

Uncle Mammadhasan was happy, his family was happy, and his donkey was happy too.

In summer, Uncle Mammadhasan worked at a Pioneer camp.

All the Pioneer children knew his donkey.

The donkey knew them too.

It could even tell the city Pioneer children from the village children.

He took very good care of the donkey.

He bathed it in the river,

burned garma to drive away its flies.

The Pioneer children even fought with each other

for the chance to bathe the donkey.

He had convinced us that

when the donkey was bathed, it rained.

But this time it did not rain.

Bullets rained.

The fire of war flared up.

The war began.

The fire of war drove away fairness, mercy, and conscience

like flies.

Uncle Mammadhasan’s two sons became martyrs.

He settled in a remote village as a refugee.

And his donkey was stolen.

This loss burned Uncle Mammadhasan

as much as the grief for his sons.

In those years there was no natural gas in the district.

Everyone carried firewood with donkeys.

The price of a donkey had gone up;

the value of a human being had gone down.

Uncle Mammadhasan’s donkey

had been sold to firewood traders.

Every day it was under a heavy load.

There was no one who knew its suffering.

And one day it died under its load.

They did not even leave its dead body alone.

They gave it to a sausage factory.

…

These were Uncle Mammadhasan’s last days.

He was eating cheap sausage.

The railway wagon where he lived

was a source of a bad smell.

He ate sausage

at the table where he killed flies with a fly swatter.

The heat gave him no peace either.

He no longer killed flies.

He fanned himself with the fly swatter

to cool himself.

It was real torment of hell.

That donkey’s cleanliness

no longer exists in this world.

I wish I could bathe that donkey

in the river once again.

And with the water

with which I bathed that donkey,

I wish I could put out

all the fires of war.

Wet Stars

I lean against the wall.

The sky is half torn open —

stars threading through broken cloud,

rain falling like it can’t decide

whether to drown the night

or just wash it.

The streetlamps along the sidewalk flicker,

surrendering one bulb at a time.

Below them, the puddles hold

whatever’s left of the sky —

a smear of starlight and headlight,

no longer telling which is which.

Then she arrives.

The rain doesn’t care that she’s coming.

It falls exactly as it would

on an empty street.

Her hand reaches me

before her face does —

a cigarette held loose between two fingers,

nails long, lacquered a green so bright

it cuts through the rain

from half a block away.

She lifts the cigarette,

and for a second

its ember is the one star

on this street

that isn’t drowning —

small, orange, only hers.

I hear her

before I see her shoes —

ankle boots, leather, six centimeters of heel,

striking the wet ground

like small, deliberate clocks.

Her coat is long,

black leather, soaked through,

and it doesn’t shine

so much as exhale —

the smell of rain

caught in old hide,

each step releasing a little more

of the storm she’s already walked through.

She doesn’t slow down.

She walks straight toward me

never breaking stride.

She sits down beside me.

The smell of it pulls

something loose in me —

two months ago, my uncle paid me

not in money

but in a leather coat,

worn soft by someone else’s years,

and I carried it home

like a small fortune.

My brother saw it

before I’d even hung it up.

“Will you give it to me?”

And I did —

the way you hand over

the one warm thing you own

without quite deciding to.

I watched him wear it.

I watched it become his —

like an old door

I keep forgetting is there,

until tonight, when it opened again,

beside her, in the rain.

II

Her fingers find my hand,

slow, like she’s not entirely sure

she’s allowed to.

We don’t talk.

We just look.

Then, without deciding to, she leans in.

Smoke and the chemical

sweetness of her lipstick

reach me before she does,

mixing into something

that isn’t quite a smell anymore.

When the gap between us

runs out of room,

her mouth finds mine,

and I swear the stars hung lower,

trapped between the buildings, blurred by rain,

close enough to mistake for witnesses.

Then it’s over.

We pull apart too fast,

the way you let go

of something hot

before you’ve decided if it burned you.

She goes one way.

I go the other —

walking home under the same wet sky.

III

By morning,

the puddles that held the sky

are dry again —

no trace of the stars

mistaken for witnesses,

no trace of us.

The city had room enough

for the rain.

It never had room

for us against the wall.

——————————————-

When Little Boys Fall in Love

Age 5 — The Sand Kiss

You hated it when someone

kissed your nose.

I buried you deep

in warm sand,

then stole a kiss

beneath the sky.

The waves kept our secret.

Age 6 — First Light

Your nails chewed down

to rosy tips,

sorting bottle caps

with quiet concentration.

You gave me your father’s crown.

I slipped it silently

into my pocket.

Age 7 — The Promise

Beneath sheets stretched

between two chairs,

your breath smelled sweet.

You whispered in the cotton dark:

“Promise our hands will never part.”

Age 8 — First Mercy

Gravel dug deep into my palm.

You kissed the stones away,

the sting turning calm.

Salt and copper on my skin—

your tender lips

made healing begin.

Age 9 — The Communion

You bit the apple,

passed it to me.

I held those tooth marks

like sacred things.

We rode our bikes

at nine each morning,

the air cool,

the streets empty.

When cousins came,

I told them I was busy.

“You might come tomorrow,” you said.

I turned away,

stubborn with pride.

Age 10 — The Fracture

“He throws things

when the bottle’s empty.”

You traced the rusted gate

with careful fingers.

Your voice cracked

like old hinges.

I counted my heartbeats—

sharp, cold—

not knowing yet

what to do

with someone else’s pain.

Age 11 — The Shift

Two knocks: your father.

Three knocks: safe.

But when they cornered me

at school,

you looked away.

I stood there long

after they had gone,

waiting for you to turn back.

You didn’t.

That was the day I learned

that love and courage

are not always

the same thing.

Age 12 — The Breaking

Your mother combed your hair

on Sunday mornings,

pressed you close.

“They say boys like us shouldn’t—”

You stopped.

Looked at the window.

As if the word itself

had weight

you couldn’t carry.

Age 13 — The Aftermath

I passed your house at dawn.

Counted steps since you were gone—

forty-seven to the old front tree

where you used to yawn

beneath the sky.

The moving truck came Thursday morning.

Your mother waved.

My heart broke quietly.

Inside the tree, I found your note—

three words in your handwriting,

the letters uneven,

pressed hard into the paper

like you meant them to last:

I’m sorry. Goodbye.

Coda — Forty Years Later

Sometimes I wake to phantom knocks—

two, then three, then silence.

If I could ride

those streets again,

I’d knock—two, then three—

and wait.

Not to explain.

Not to forgive.

Just to let the boy

behind the door

know that I remember—

every tooth mark,

every promise,

every morning

we chose each other

before the world

taught us not to.

The crown.

The apple.

The rusted cap.

Inside the house,

a boy

holding the door

a second longer

than necessary.

got my chakra

got my chair

eyes are going

can’t tell one from the other

keep trying to sit and

falling out of

enlightenment

It is Always Sunrise Somewhere

[Published in Fleury’s book “Chain Letter To America: The One Thing You Can Do To End Racism” and in the Indian international “Cooch Behar Anthology,”, Sourav Sarkar, Editor, available on amazon]

Photo c/o Jacques Fleury

Ahhh, the sweet smell of morning, coffee brewing, eggs frying, birds chirping, eagles flying…

Dawn has awakened to adopt the forsaken, those born without tongues;

They are the colorful birds without nests, outside of this daylight darkness looms with a smirk,

Patiently waiting for somebody’s light to capitulate

To its black tunnel of nothingness and to laugh

When they get lost and                   stranded

On their way to salvation, but the morning’s breath offers direction,

A sound that rings ripples in the sea of lost souls,

Anxiously waiting to escape the destitution that stands

Between the richest and the poorest; the destitution that stands on wobbly legs

As naked as a tree in the deep dark frost of winter;

The parts of the earth surrounded by rows of semi-invisible iron bars

Anchored from the ground to the infinity of the sky;

While affluent oppressors gorge on caviar…

And isn’t it about time that someone asks “why?”

But the breath of dawn has come and it’s blowing just enough cold

To seal the pores of the poor so that the venom of racism and classism

Won’t infiltrate their gaunt paper thin skins.

They listen for the breath of morning to announce a new beginning;

Hoping to rid the world of famine…giving them a reason, particularly those sleeping on treason,

To get up in the morning, and to bask in the knowledge that

It is always sunrise somewhere…

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured and internationally published Haitian American poet, theater reviewer, educator, author of numerous books of essays, reviews, fiction, poetry and literary arts student through Harvard University. He was chosen among over 4, 000 competitors from 83 countries as the Recipient of the International Naji Naaman Literary Prize for Creativity (2026) and a Certificate of Participation for his “…esteemed contribution of poetry to the anthology Water: The Source of Life (Volume IV) presented by La Fenetre De Paris.

The Alien Jazz Band

Four little heads popped up behind the hedge of big purple flowers.  They looked like heads, but actually the Bobbers, as they were known, had just one long body form, which changed shape when they moved. Sometimes they could make themselves invisible or float about like clouds. They were watching Grace and friends make music. The Bobbers were crazy about the sounds that were coming from the living area in her house.  

Grace was pounding away on a black box with white keys. Another female was plucking at an upright brown box with strings. Another was beating on round circle boxes with sticks. They were swaying back and forth, up and down in time with the sounds they created. Another was blowing on a metal pipe, her cheeks puffing out with each breath.

 The Bobbers knew Grace was a female and so were her friends since they had been studying the creatures on planet Earth for some time.  Making music was something the Earthlings called fun and entertainment.  

You see, the Bobbers were looking for another planet for their civilization.  Earth was the closest inhabitable planet to their galaxy which was many light years away. The Bobbers knew the Earthlings would think them aliens, if they were aware of their existence. But they weren’t anymore alien than the races that peopled this planet. So, it was a perfect planet to take over since their planet was at the end of its existence, its sun was dying, and they needed a new home.  

The Bobbers meeped at each other in excitement. The musicians had started another song. It was one of their favorites – Watermelon Man.  They started bobbing up and down in their version of keeping time to the beat. 

“We have to let her in on the secret,” said First Bobber, swaying to and fro.

“We know,” said Second, “but then she might be scared and won’t make music anymore.”

  “Well,” said Third, “today is the day we introduce ourselves to Grace. We need to explain that we sent her here.”

“Yes,” said Fourth, “she is one of us. She has prospered here. Now it is time for her to help us out since we need a new home. Now we know this planet is a good fit for our failing civilization. Time is running out to make the transition.”

* * * * *

“Grace, you read too many frigging science fiction novels.  There aren’t any aliens on planet Earth. You need to stop reading all that crap on the internet about aliens being spotted on Earth.”

 “I know you think I’m daft, but I hear them sometimes.” She leaned in closer across the kitchen table where she and Kate were having their morning coffee. “This one says it wants to meet up with me.”

Kate almost spilled her coffee. “No way. You are not going to meet any alien, Grace. You are out of your mind.”

“What’s the harm in meeting with it?”

“First off, I’m real uncomfortable with an It.”

“There’s lots of its these days.”

“Besides that, It may be a psycho killer.”

“Now who’s talking about watching too many internet weirdo movies. I think It was being nice and earthy, trying to fit in.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “This is too much. Where do you meet this alien?”

“It sits on the concrete patio outside my sliding glass doors in the living room. I saw it sitting there one evening, couldn’t figure out what it was doing, opened the door and engaged it in conversation. It told me right off it was from another galaxy.”

Kate did another eye roll.  “You talked to an alien. This is too, too much. I got work to do, people to see, places to go. See you later.”  She got up. “And another thing – don’t invite them to our jazz sessions or I quit.”

With that Kate made her exit, shaking her head all the way out the kitchen door.  Grace remained seated at the table.  She looked down at her beloved cocker spaniel, Rosie, who looked up at her with a smile. She was waiting for a treat.

“I didn’t mention to Kate that I’m one of them.”

* * * * *

Grace had always felt like an oddball. So, she wasn’t real surprised that she was an entity from another galaxy, if what her new friend said was right. Her friends and family thought she was an oddball. Like her idea to quit her job and travel the United States in her old Tundra truck with Rosie, her beloved tan and white cocker spaniel. They told her she had a really good job, wait till she was an old lady and retired. That was too far off, if ever.

Now she had the prospect of “helping her people” like the Bobber said. It had managed to convey her its name. It had a garbled way of talking so Grace didn’t catch everything it said, but one thing she did understand. She was one of them.  

In her bones she felt that was right, which would explain her feeling always like an oddball, wouldn’t it? A woman cosmologist like her was not run of the mill in the world of cosmology dominated by men. And a jazz piano musician like her in a jazz world still dominated by men was not run of the mill.  

Maybe she was an “it”, too. Maybe not.  She always enjoyed male company, even had a boyfriend or two. The all-female jazz trio she played with was by choice. A statement about women being able to compete with men.  

The Bobber, if she had understood it correctly, said it was time to help her people, that their planet was dying due to natural causes. She could understand that being a cosmologist. Planets came into and out of being just like everything else in the universe.   

She knew that things were getting steadily worse here on planet Earth. She had tried to explain that to the Bobbers. That moving to Earth was a bad idea.  How would another civilization move to Earth? She had done short moves in her life. Moving was exhausting. She couldn’t imagine a planetary move.

Maybe she should take them on a trip across country so they could see the Earth wasn’t as great as they thought it was. They could mascarade as a jazz band.

* * * * *

Grace was waiting for the Bobbers. She was in her living room with Rosie by her side, looking out through the sliding glass doors. Grace thought they had said they would be back and appear on her porch today. They did. One by one they appeared. They were small forms that floated like clouds near the ground.  She counted four separate forms.

“What do you think, Rosie?” 

Rosie was intent on what was out there. She saw them, too. Grace was not hallucinating. Rosie growled, a low warning sound.

“Be still, girl,” said Grace.  “Everything is okay. I hope.”

She opened the door.  The small clouds hovered. Then they did something astounding. With a loud pop each one of them converted to human form. Sort of. Now standing before her were four what looked like children.  Grace waited. On closer inspection they looked like miniature adults. They all looked alike except for the color of their hair which they wore in Buster Brown hair cuts. One had green hair, another had pink, another had yellow, and the fourth purple. They fit right in with today’s scene.

Their facial features were almost identical. Brown eyes with tan skin. Wide noses and lips. Broad faces. They were giggling.  

Grace didn’t know what to say she was so taken aback at what she had just witnessed. She waited. They settled down, seeming to sense her confusion and astonishment. 

“We are Bobbers,” said the one with pink hair enunciating each word carefully.  “We come to explain.”

Grace waited. Rosie growled. The Bobbers looked at the dog, aware of her for the first time.

“She’s a dog,” said Grace. “She won’t hurt you.”

“We know,” said Pink Bobber. It reached out a hand to Rosie, who began barking like her life depended on it.

The four Bobbers jumped backed. Grace spent some time reassuring Rosie the Bobbers were friends, stroking and talking to her. The dog quieted after a few more serious barks and a warning growl.

Grace looked at her new friends.  “Where is home?” she said.

They all pointed up.  

“Far away,” said Blue Bobber.

“You said something about moving your people to Earth since they needed a new planet. How would that work?”

“We have moving vehicle ready. Really big spaceship. We bring what’s left of our people.”

“How many?”

“Not many.”

“What kind of numbers are we talking about?” said Grace.

They all shrugged.

Purple said, “They are orbiting now in this solar system on really big spaceship disguised as asteroid.”

“I see,” said Grace, having trouble assimilating what they were telling her.  Another civilization ready to settle on Earth? 

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” said Grace.  

The Bobbers made a collective frown. 

“Problem is we need new place to live,” said Pink.

“Problem is,” Grace said, “that Earth might not be a good long-term solution. We got our problems here, too. The planet is being destroyed from overuse by humans.”

They kept frowning.

“Our research,” said Green, “indicate good conditions here for life of human forms.”

Grace thought that over. They were humans. This was getting more interesting by the minute. 

“I have an idea,” she said.  “I could take you on a little drive and show you what the problems are. How about we take a trip in my truck? We’ll pose as a jazz band. You’ll see the problems up close.”

“You teach us to play instruments?”

 “Why not?” 

But first she would talk this over with one of her cosmologist colleagues more amenable to the idea of aliens than her jazz friend, Kate.

* * * * *

Pam looked at Grace for a while then said, “We’ve talked about the possibility of life on other planets. We look for them through the telescopes we have and the research we do. But this is a new twist. They are already here and want to settle on Earth.”  She shook her head. “Unbelievable. You have to forgive me. I need time to let this settle in my brain.”

Pam and Grace shared an office at the university where they taught courses in cosmology and astrophysics. Grace had thought over who she would talk to about her new alien friends and their plans. She had decided on Pam, who was a scientist, though not opposed to far out thinking. They had come up with some bizarre scenarios from some of the data they discovered but this was the most bizarre.  

They sat in silence for a while, both trying to adjust. Grace hoped Pam would help her think this through.

“Okay,” Pam said at last, “I’m trying to focus on the implications of what you said. You think you can dissuade them from settling here by taking them on a trip disguised as a jazz band and actually showing them sites where Earth civilization isn’t working. I’m not that far along in thinking of solutions. I’m still thinking about a spaceship orbiting Earth with a whole civilization of aliens on board. We don’t know what they look like, how they survive, what they do for a living, how they would feel about Earthlings and what their impact would be on our civilizations. We’re a little crowded here now.”

Grace said, “I thought if I could show them that we’re crowded, that we don’t do a good job of planet stewardship, that this is not the ideal place they think it is, that maybe they would go somewhere else.”

“Can you imagine the panic and confusion if a spaceship lands and disembarks aliens. Where would they go? We don’t even know what they look like. You described them as clouds. How do we communicate with them?”

“They speak English.”

“They speak English,” Pam repeated. 

“Yes. I first saw them as clouds. Then one day they popped into human form right before my eyes.” 

She described the Bobbers. 

“My, oh, my,” was all Pam said.

They sat looking at the wall for a while then Pam said, “I have a great deal of respect for you and your work, Grace, but you’ve left the bounds of science as I know it with this story.”

“I could arrange a meeting with them, if you’d like.”

“Let me think that one over,” said Pam.

* * * * *

Her conversation with Pam left Grace in limbo. She wasn’t sure how long it was going to take Pam to think it over. Meanwhile, Grace had a trip to plan and get underway. And she had to teach the Bobbers jazz.

As it turned out it was very easy to teach them. They assembled in Grace’s living room. Grace had a set of drums. She had a saxophone and a standup bass in her collection and, of course, her electric keyboard piano.

Grace showed them the instruments. Immediately, before she could offer explanation, purple took the drums, pink the bass, green the saxophone and yellow the piano. They started banging away, creating an incredible cacophony of sounds, not all displeasing.

“This is interesting,” Grace said aloud. “You seem to have a natural talent for music.” 

She clapped her hands in time to the sounds they were producing. She morphed the clapping into the beat of Watermelon Man, smooth with an offbeat. They followed her. 

She started singing or scatting, as singing is called in jazz. They followed along, improvising as they went.

After about five minutes Grace held up her hands and the group ended their riff.  

“We play again,” said Purple.  

“Yes,” echoed the other three. 

“That was impressive,” said Grace.

“We listen to you play very much,” said Green. 

They must have listened for hours, Grace thought. But they did seem to have a natural ability to pick up notes, rhythm, and sequence.

“We listen on jazz airwaves for long time,” said Yellow who seemed to be the leader of the group. “We design our faces to go with Jazz artists. They mostly brown.”

“Yes, they mostly are,” said Grace. “Women you don’t see much of in jazz.”

“We not male. We not female,” said Green. “We take names like you have.  My name is Herbie, drummer is Jeff, bass is Jamal, sax is Cannonball.”

“You have been doing your homework.  Those are some jazz greats you are naming yourself after.”

They beamed. Their faces seemed to be morphing into more recognizable features. Before her eyes, they morphed into wearing hoodies in various shades and long jean skirts.

“My friends,” Grace said. “Females wear skirts. Are you male or female?”

“We not either,” said Herbie. “We wear what we like. You not like this? We not look good?”

“You’re beautiful,” said Grace. She couldn’t help an ear-to-ear smile.  

Herbie stopped smiling and said, “Grace, we need tell you something. Maybe we lied little bit, I think you say.”

Grace waited, not sure what to expect.

“See, our people not looking for other planet to live. They disappear long ago. They leave us stranded. We have no place to go now. We need place to call home. We call home with you now.”

Grace kept nodding, slowly, wondering if she was living in a dream.

All she could say was, “I suggest curling your hair. It will go better with your outfits.”

* * * * * 

Grace went to visit Pam at her palatial home off campus. She had to talk this one over and find out what Pam thought.

“I don’t think much of this bunch that has befriended you,” said Pam. “I’ve thought over what you first told me. I was about ready to accept you alien story. Now you say there’ll be no alien landing, but we have four stranded aliens in our midst. I must say, that’s a much smaller problem.”  She frowned at Grace. “What are you going to do with an alien jazz band?”

Grace shrugged. “Go on the road, I guess. They play pretty good jazz.”

“What about your other jazz friends? Have you discussed this with them?”

“Outside of Kate, no. I have to think over the implications of going on tour by myself.”

“I suggest taking someone along who you know and trust that could defend you against aliens gone wild.”

“I know who you are thinking. Carlo. He wouldn’t be able to get time off from the U.”

“Ask him. You never know.” Pam paused, looking at Grace with squinty eyes. “Might I add, I recommend not going at all and getting rid of your alien friends. Ask them to go to another planet.”

* * * * *

Grace presented the proposed trip with an alien jazz band to Carlo the next day when she saw him for coffee at the faculty coffee shop.

Carlo was all in.

“Grace, this is extraordinary. You know, I’ve always been an admirer of your musical talent. I’ve attended every one of your concerts. I am honored that you would ask me to go along. I’m even more astounded that you’re taking an alien jazz band.”

“You’re a groupie of mine? I didn’t know that I had a following. You never told me.”

“There’s lots you don’t know about me,” said Carlo. “All we ever talk about are cosmology and astrophysics. Of course, you know I have a penchant for the bizarre. Tell me more about the aliens and how this all came about. I’m intrigued.”

“I’ve told you all I know,” said Grace with a shrug. “They are these sweet little entities that dress weird and talk funny and say they are stranded aliens. They love jazz and apparently have been watching my jazz group practice at my house and now they want to learn jazz. What’s really crazy is that they have a natural affinity for music and can play along with me pretty well. And they love the Earth.”

“I’m in,” said Carlo.  “Do you mind if I bring my accordion and my pet magpie, Bubbie, along for the ride?  He could keep your dog, Rosie, company. They could talk to each other.”

Grace shrugged. “Sure, why not? This trip is off the rails anyway. Why not a magpie. Maybe Rosie will get to like him.”

“He talks, did I mention that?”

“What does he talk about?”

“Nature. His love for everyone and everything. He’ll love Rosie. He’ll love the Bobbers. I believe that’s what you called them, right?”

“Yes, the Bobbers.  All right then. Come over to my house this evening and help plan the trip.”

* * * * *

Grace didn’t bother to tell Pam the latest developments. She was too busy coordinating events. She realized that the Tundra was not going to accommodate the enlarged caravan. She decided to purchase a large cargo van and outfit it. Or maybe she could find one already outfitted with sleeping racks and a kitchenette. They’d need lots of storage for the music instruments.

She wasn’t sure if the Bobbers ate. Did they take baths? Did they toilet? This was getting complicated. And where were they going to go now that she didn’t have to prove that the Earth wasn’t a good place for them to live? Obviously the Bobbers were staying. Maybe they didn’t have to go on a road trip. Maybe they could headline right here in town.

She was still mulling over the conundrums of such a trip when the Bobbers showed up at the back door at the same time the front doorbell rang. That would be Carlo and the magpie.  

Grace looked at Rosie. “You’re going to like Carlo and his friend.”

Rosie grinned. It was all in a dog day.

Grace let Carlo and the magpie in while the Bobbers made themselves at home in the living room.

The Bobbers had taken Grace’s advice and turned their straight hair into big afros. They took over to the musical instruments and started playing discordant chords, warming up like Grace had showed them.  

Grace clapped her hands, calling for their attention. 

“Listen, Bobbers, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.  This is Carlo and his magpie friend, Bubbie. They want to accompany us on our jazz tour.”

The Bobbers stopped suddenly and looked toward Carlo, realizing for the first time he was in the room.

“Nice bird,” said Herbie. “He play music?”

Carlo said, “No, but he talks and squawks.”

On cue Bubbie let out a raucous squawk which sent the Bobbers clapping and dancing. Bubbie kept squawking seemingly fascinated by their antics. Carlo took out his accordion and played a few bars to limber up.  

Then he said, “Let’s play ‘When the Saint Go Marching in’.”  He tapped out the beat.

Grace went to the piano and showed Herbie the melody line. The drummer and bass took up the rhythm. Cannonball blew the saxophone. Grace sang and clapped. The magpie squawked and cawed. Rosie howled. Carlo danced around the room playing the accordion.

They went on and on, each player adjusting to the sounds of the others. This went on for a good long while from song to song until the doorbell rang.

Grace stopped singing and went to answer. The others kept banging away. It was the sweet little old lady from next door.

“Do you think you could keep the noise down?” she said. “It’s pass midnight.” The sweet little old lady gave a weak smile. “Or I call the cops.”

* * * * *

The Bobbers left soon after the neighbor paid a visit.

Carlo sat at the dining table by the patio door. He looked at Grace who stood looking out at the night.

“That was quite a session,” said Carlo. “They are amazing. What pleasant entities.”

“Yes, entities,” said Grace, quietly, feeling tired but exhilarated.  “What do you think?”

“I think a road trip would be chaos with this group,” he said. “Are you sure you want to attempt it?”

Grace sat down across from him.  

“I think I have more than I can handle. From a scientific perspective this group bears study. Taking them on the road into the hinterland of America will cause all sorts of problems I don’t think we’ll be able to deal with. I’ve thought a lot about this. Someone might try to kill them and do away with us if the alien word got out. Then again some people would welcome the group.”

“I agree,” said Carlo. 

They sat quietly each with their thoughts.

“You play great accordion,” said Grace after a while, like this was a normal conversation.

“You’re not a bad jazz singer. Right up there with Ella.” Carlo paused then said, “Where do the Bobbers go when they leave here?” 

Grace shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked or followed them.”

“Maybe we should,” said Carlo. “Something about this isn’t making any sense to me.”

“Follow them now?”

“Let’s just go out into the yard and see if we can find any trace of them.”

“What do you suspect?” Grace asked. “I can tell by your look you’ve got some kind of hunch.”

Carlo laughed.  “We’ve been in too many meetings together.”

Grace smiled and nodded. “That we have. We’ve done a lot of brainstorming together on exotic theories of the cosmos.  What’s your theory about this bunch?”

“I think they’re artificial intelligence creations.”

Grace nodded slowly. “That makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard. That would explain how they can morph so quickly into different entities.”

“And play jazz instruments so well,” said Carlo. “I think AI has jumped out of the machines into embodiment right before our eyes.”

“I wonder who’s behind them,” said Grace.

* * * * *

They walked the perimeter of the house and then around the open field in the back of the house. No Bobbers.  Gone.

The night was black with a blazing band of stars.  

“I’m dumbfounded,” said Grace.

“There’s no trace of them,” said Carlo. “Not even an exhaust burn on the grass from a spaceship.”

“They said they weren’t travelling in a spaceship.”

Carlo shrugged. “You never know. We need to find how they get here. Haven’t you been curious about that?”

Grace blew out a breath. “I have been so bombarded with strange occurrences in these last few days, that simple fact wasn’t on my radar.”

“When are they coming back?” asked Carlo.

Grace threw up her hands. “I don’t know. They just show up. So far that has worked because I’m the only one communicating with them. Now that you are in the equation, maybe common sense will prevail.”

“I don’t know many cosmologists with common sense,” Carlo said.

“That makes two of us,” said Grace. “My question is, who is behind this? That’s what I’d like to know.”

They stood, looking into the darkness. 

Then Carlo said, “You know that top secret project you’re working on that no one is supposed to know about, but everyone does?”

Grace played dumb. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Yes, you do. It has to do with using AI in cosmology.”

“I guess everyone does know about it if you do.”

Carlo grinned. “I got a friend in AI in Silicon Valley. Miles Thorne. He’s the expert. He’ll know.”

“Miles Thorne?  That weirdo in theoretical physics?  He’s way out.”

“Yup. That’s why we need his help. He knows about weird things.”

* * * * *

When Carlo got back to his home, he placed a call.

“Hey, Miles,” Carlo said to his iPhone.  

Miles looked back at him from the phone, well-trimmed head in the center of the screen. 

“Carlo, my friend. It’s been a long time. What’s up?”

“You know something has to be up, right, if I’m calling you.”

Miles leaned in. “We’re on a secure line, right?”

“Of course,” said Carlo. “That’s the only way you’ll talk to me.”

“We can’t be too careful,” said Miles in a hushed whisper. “There’s a lot going on these days, you know.  Like secret stuff and everybody wants in on the action.”

“Still trying to make money?” asked Carlo.

“That’s what it’s all about. So, what’s up? You wouldn’t be calling unless you wanted something.”

 Carlo decided to give him it to him straight, or as straight as possible.

“I ran into some odd entities the other day. At first they said they were from another galaxy looking to settle on Earth. They appeared in the backyard of a friend of mine. They were clouds at first. They said the friend was from their planet. Then they morphed into human form and said they were lying about being from another planet. Even stranger, they like to play jazz and are pretty good.  I get the feeling they are AI in human form.  They don’t look like robots.  They look and talk like humans.  You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?”

Miles’s face remained impassive. “Nope,” he said and the screen went blank.

I thought so, thought Carlo. Those fools out on the west coast are creating AI humans now. Or bots are building themselves.

* * * * *

Later Carlo related his conversation with Miles to Grace when they met the next evening in her house.  Rosie and Bubbie listened in, sitting by Grace and Carlo on the couch.

After relating his conversation Carlo said, “I’ve been following some of what has been going on in AI Land through my contacts in Silicon Valley.” He paused, then said, “It’s not good. I checked in with some of my contacts after I talked to Miles. Are you ready for this?”

Grace sat quietly, nodding her head. “I’m ready. Is it going to be as bad as I think?”

“Yes,” said Carlo. “Here’s what I know. There are actors in the AI power circles who have already made sentient bots. They look and act like real humans. Their test models were the US Congress and the present administration.  The majority of players in our political world are AI.  That’s the reason their behavior is so erratic and doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. From time to time some of the AI creations get out and go off on their own. Your jazz band is probably some of the escapees. They are basically sentient AI, but their programs are a little whacky.  That’s why yours went from extraterrestrials to jazz musicians. The AI powers perform experiments and some of the experiments go AWOL.”

“All this means,” said Grace, very calmly, “that our world is now run by artificial intelligence that don’t know what they are doing.”

Carlo nodded, adding, “But the AI power group behind them know what they want the world to look like and don’t care who gets screwed. They will go to any lengths to get what they want which is power and money. My dear, we are being screwed, and there is not much we can do about it.”

Grace said, “Do you think the jazz band was an intentional plant? We both work on top secret projects. Someone might want the information we’re generating and collecting, let alone our findings.”

Carlo shrugged. “Maybe. At this point I’m at a loss.”  

They sat on the couch with bird and dog for a while, all listening to the night.   

Then Grace said, “The immediate question is what do we do about the jazz band.”

Carlo looked around. “Did they show up this evening?”

“No,” said Grace. “They haven’t showed up. Maybe someone got tipped off after your conversation with Miles and recalled them.”

“The plot thickens,” said Carlo.  

There was a knock on the front door.  

Grace looked at her watch. “It’s kind of late for visitors. We aren’t making any noise so it shouldn’t be the old lady.”

“Maybe it’s the jazz band,” said Carlo.

“They never come to the front door,” said Grace. “But maybe this is a new twist.”

They both went to the door. Rosie and Bubbie watched from the couch. Grace opened the door. There stood a solitary man, with well-trimmed face and beard.

“Miles,” said Carlo. “What are you doing here?”

Miles pushed his way in. “I’ve come to collect you and your friend.  You’re Grace Koch, aren’t you?”

“What if she is and what’s this all about?” said Carlo. 

 “You two are coming with me. I have a project I need help with.”

“Are you kidnapping us?” said Grace like this was normal.

“We only nab scientists we need for our projects. You two know too much now. We’re borrowing you for a time. Let’s take a little visit out west. I have an SUV waiting and there’s a flight out in an hour.”

“Wait a minute,” said Carlo. “Not so fast. We don’t want to come with you.”

Miles hard face softened. “I’m sorry I hung up on you, Carlo. That’s my jazz band we’re talking about. My own creation. I love jazz, and I created an AI jazz band. I love them. Where did you put them? They will come with us.”

“Wait a minute,” Carlo said again. “How do we know you aren’t AI?”

Miles grimaced. “You’ll take my word for it. You got to help me. I’m in way over my head.”

Grace went over and laid a hand on Miles’s shoulder. “Look, we can help. I liked the jazz band, too. We were going to go on the road. What do you want us to do?  Do you have any idea where the jazz band is? We thought you took them.”

Miles wagged his head. “Not me. Not me.”

“To get back to my question,” said Carlo, “are you AI?”

Miles shook his head.

“How do we know? AI humans look like the real thing.”

 “You know I’m not AI. I just design them. I jumped ship on the rest of the AI human project crew. Now some of the dudes have it in for me. They want my jazz band.”

 “This makes no sense to me,” said Carlo.

“Nor to me,” said Grace. “You said you wanted help. I don’t want to now. Take your jazz band and get out of here.”  She pointed to the door. “There’s the door. Leave now.”

“I don’t know where the jazz band is,” said Miles. “Truly I don’t.” He looked back and forth between the two scientists. “One of the other guys on the project must have gotten jealous of the jazz band because they were pretty popular. He sent them some commands to make them act like they were aliens. I thought he was joking. The jazz band disappeared. They next thing I know Carlo is calling me about these strange entities that appeared at your place, Grace.”

Carlo blew out a huge breath. “Don’t you guys in AI have any ethics? You screw around with this stuff like it’s a video game. This is real life and real people we are dealing with here.”

Miles shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it.  And you probably don’t want to know. The AI power people have no morals. I’m not sure all of them are human. You had no idea all this was going on before the jazz band showed up.  Now you know.” He looked back and forth to them both. “I’m afraid you are a liability now.”

“Liability?” asked Grace.

Miles nodded. “You know too much.  That means I’ll have to make you quietly disappear.”

At that point Rosie, who had been growling on the couch, started to bark. Bubbie the magpie started squawking to add to the noise. They went on the attack and beat Miles to the floor.

“Call off the damn animals,” cried Miles. “Call them off. I was just kidding. Really. Just kidding.”

“Rosie, stop,” said Grace, grabbing the dog by the collar. “Settle down, girl. He won’t hurt us.”

Carlo held out his arm and called the magpie. “Come here, Bubbie. We’re okay.”

The magpie squawked again, made one more peck on Miles’ arm then flapped up to Carlo’s shoulder.

Miles hunched over on the floor, quietly groaning. “I don’t know what to do,” he moaned. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” said Carlo. “I’m going to put you in your SUV, and you will leave right now. You’ll be on that flight west without us. We’ll take care of ourselves.”

He hauled Miles up by his shirt from the floor, Miles moaning the whole time.

“I can’t leave without you,” he said.

“Yes, you can,” said Carlo. He pushed Miles toward the door. 

Miles stumbled ahead. Carlo threw open the front door and pushed Miles through.

“Wait here, Grace,” said Carlo. “I’m going to put him in the SUV and on the road.”

Grace and Rosie watched from the front door as Carlo with Bubbie on his shoulder pushed and pulled Miles to the driver side of the SUV, opened the door, and shoved Miles into the seat, Miles complaining the whole time.

“Start this thing up and get out of here,” Carlo shouted.

Miles started the SUV, threw it in reverse and floored it. The SUV bounced out the driveway, careened into forward, and screeched away, Miles screaming, “I’ll get even with you.”

“Holy crap,” said Carlo, backing toward the front door. “I hope he doesn’t kill anybody.”

Grace watched from the open door, mouth wide open. They both stared as the SUV disappeared into the black night.

They looked at each other.

“Do you think he’s gone for good?” asked Grace.

“I hope so,” said Carlo.

“Now what?”

“We pack up Rosie and Bubbie and take that road trip you planned. No jazz bands allowed. We need to disappear under our own terms and never come back.” 

“Where will we go?” asked Grace. “We can’t just leave our jobs, homes, friends.” 

She turned toward the open door. 

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Do you hear that?”

“Jazz,” said Carlo.

They rushed back inside.

In the living room the jazz band was tuning up.

Herbie waved and said, “We play a little jazz. We go on the road. We take care of you. Don’t worry.” 

“Don’t worry,” said Grace. “Of course, we’re worried. We were just threatened by your maker. Where have you been?”

“We didn’t want Miles to see us,” said Herbie. “He no good. We tired of him. We like you and Carlo.” He looked at Rosie and Bubbie. “And dog and bird. We have solution.”

“What?” asked Grace, standing with hands on her hips. 

“Come outside,” said Herbie leading the way out the sliding glass doors to the back of the house.

In the yard beyond stood a monstruous Winnebago motor home, light beaming from all the windows and surrounded with a glow like a halo.

“Here you new home,” said Herbie. “We get for you and Carlo. We all go on the road together and have good time.”

The rest of the jazz band – Jeff, Jamal and Cannonball – jumped up and down in front of the motorhome. “Come with us. Come with us,” they shouted.

Grace and Carlo stood with Rosie and Bubbie, assessing the glowing vehicle before them. It didn’t look quite real.

“Sounds like a great plan to me,” said Grace. She looked at Carlo, Rosie and Bubbie. “What say?”

“I’m in,” said Carlo. Rosie gave a resounding bark. Bubbie squawked and flapped his wings.

“It looks like a spaceship,” said Grace.

“It is,” said Herbie. “Load up.”

 Carlo said, “Let’s go. This is the solution to our problem.”

Grace picked up Rosie. Bubbie perched on Carlo’s shoulder. The whole troop loaded into the glowing motor home. It closed up and started to vibrate. Soundlessly, it started to rise into the night, slowly at first. Then in a whoosh it disappeared up into the night sky.

They were never seen again. Except every once in a while there are reports of a group that show up from time to time at recreational events and campgrounds around the world and put on a great jazz show.

The End

Ray

Pulling into the parking lot of Walgreens, I sat in the driver’s seat of the paratransit bus I piloted for the county’s elderly and disabled citizens, waiting as my latest fare, Appearing as if by magic, Ray struggled up the four steps, handed me his token and walked to his seat. He leaned heavily on an ancient, non-descript wooden cane.

“Mornin’,” he greeted me.

“Hi Ray,” I responded in kind. “Straight home, right?” I asked.

“Yes, please.”

I waited as he eased down the aisle of the small bus, empty now but for the two of us. Eventually he found a seat and plopped down into it.

Waiting until he secured his seatbelt, I put the vehicle in gear and we rumbled away. My passenger lived but a mile distant. Elderly and disabled, he couldn’t travel more than 50 yards under his own power.

As I sped down HY 111 en route to ninth st., where Ray’s modest clapboard home reposed, we enjoyed a companionable silence.

Suddenly he spoke up. “A guy yelled at me today,” he told me.

“What?” I asked, incensed. Why would anyone yell at such a pleasant and harmless fellow? I wondered.

“Yeah,” said Ray. “I was sittin’ outside the pharmacy, my back against the wall, waitin’ for you, when I saw this couple walk past, aroun’ 30 feet away. The woman this guy was with was a real looker,” he continued. “The guy wasn’t much to look out, but she was fine.”

“Why did he yell at you?” I asked. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw Ray shrug.

“I dunno. Because I looked at his girlfriend, I reckon,” replied Ray. “I mean, my tongue wasn’t hangin’ out or nothin’, and I didn’t say nothin’ to her and I certainly never touched her. I just sat on the sidewalk and looked. Liked what I saw, too” he said, remembering.

“What did he say to you?” I asked.

“Asked me how I’d like to get my ass kicked,” replied Ray. “An’ I said, ‘thank you, no.’ ” Ray chuckled.

“Then what did he do?” I asked.

“He yelled some more. I couldn’t unnerstan’ what he said,” said Ray, “but he started walkin’ in my direction, until his girlfriend grabbed his arm and pulled him back. As she took hold of him, I could see her smirkin’.”

I looked in the mirror again and saw Ray shake his head.

“She got what she wanted, I’m thinkin’. But lemme ask you, what kinda girl wants to fire her man up with jealousy like that? I mean, I’m forty years older’n that guy. They both insecure,” he said.

“I don’t know, Ray,” I said, shaking my head.

“Apparently, I still got it,” he said brightly.

“You do,” I agreed.

“Lucky he didn’t tangle with me,” said Ray. “I wouldn’ta been gentle,” he promised.

I looked in the mirror once more, to observe Ray. At five feet, six inches tall and perhaps 115 pounds, he had a formidable demeanor. I smiled.

“Uh…” Ray said, “…what’s your name again?” He asked me this every Thursday when he rode on my bus. His faulty memory was a product of his nascent dementia.

“Rolanda,” I told him again.

We pulled up in front of Ray’s modest cottage on ninth street.

“Home again, home again,” sing-songed Ray, struggling to his feet.

“Have a good one, Ray,” I said.

“Be cool, Yolanda,” he replied, then sidled to the sliding door.

 Suddenly he turned back. “I know it’s Rolanda,” Ray said, then added. “Sometimes it’s best not to give ever’thin’ away.”

He limped to his front door, waving and smiling at me.