Abu Abdullah Muhammad ibn Musa Al-Khwarizmi (750-850 CE) was a Persian scholar in the House of Wisdom, Baghdad. He was an extraordinary scientist, astronomer and mathematician, who introduced the concept of decimals and is considered the Father of Algebra. The European Latin translation of his name evolved into the term, "algorithm," which in modern day parlance is equivalent to a computer program—a set of instructions carried out by a machine for a definite purpose.

Prologue

Adam lifted the Louisville Slugger to his shoulder and awaited the next pitch, oblivious to the subtle chain of events about to unfold this warm summer afternoon in nineteen seventy-nine … events that were fated to tear apart the core foundations of civilization itself.

"I'm ready when you are."

The pronouncement stilled the mocking banter of his older teammates. His grip tightened about the partially unraveled friction tape wound about the handle. Tossing back a shock of dirty blond hair, he sucked in his breath and eased his body back in eager expectation.

After a pickup game several of Adam's buddies were hanging out, tossing the ball around and kicking up the usual bragging and ragging ritual. Despite being only thirteen, and perhaps because of it, Adam found himself declaring with no uncertainty to his teammates not only could he hit a ball out of the park, but it would soar over the trees edging left field, continue over the new twelve foot cyclone fence, and make it over the three-story row houses facing the park. This boast immediately caught everyone's attention, and that's how he ended up with the bat. 

"Here it comes ya lil' squirt," bellowed the pitcher as he wound up.

The ball flew straight, down the middle, and when Adam struck it, the crack echoed off the dense wall of trees surrounding the field. Heads turned to watch it fly toward the treetops. It was as if a film projector slowed down, moving ahead frame by frame, the camera zooming in as the ball scaled the huge chestnut trees and climbed still farther to clear the cyclone fence. For a moment the ball looked like it would continue on into legend. However, the laws of physics, in particular those describing the unyielding effects of gravity, began to take over. The flight path arced downward, descending to the street.

Elation shifted to terror. Adam stared in horror at the cars trundling through the landing zone. To his relief, a resounding 'thunk' announced the ball's contact with the street surface, however the respite was short-lived, for the next sound was that of glass breaking, and it came from a house near his own. Self-preservation kicked in.

All on the field scattered in every direction but toward the ball's unfortunate crash site.

The pitcher ran to Adam and yanked the bat out of his hands. He slowed long enough to ask, "Wattaya standin' there for?" and then took off toward the nearest park entrance.

Adam remained rooted to the ground as he watched his teammates get swallowed by the surrounding city streets. Fighting a growing sense of panic, he jogged and then slowed to a walk when he reached a side entrance. He headed out to the fateful meeting of ball with window.

I just bought that ball.

At the corner he glanced both ways—no eye witnesses ready to point the finger and slap the blame. Nothing stirred.

He approached the ball's last known whereabouts and began a systematic check of both his house and next door for the telltale signs of a victimized window—perhaps a large gaping hole framed by jagged shards of glass, perhaps a curtain swaying out of the hole, perhaps even screams of outrage from within. He gave his own house a quick inspection to verify its windows were still intact, and then there was the chief suspect—the house next door. His first pass failed to bring up anything out of place.

He stood for a moment in front of his neighbor's house and stared at the first floor, eyeing each window.

Maybe the ball never hit a window.

And then he saw it. To the left of the wooden stairs leading to the first floor entrance, it was the basement window, or where the basement window should have been. A few daggers of glass remained in the opening, framing the darkness within like the gaping mouth of a sharp-toothed ogre. Adam continued his stroll past the gruesome specter. If indeed the incident went unnoticed, he might be able to retrieve the ball. Like his own house, access to the basement took the form of an inside entry next to the backdoor. He reached it in seconds, pulled at the handle. It creaked open to reveal a wooden stairway descending into darkness. He inched his way down, careful to step to the side of each tread to avoid the squeal of loose boards.

At the bottom of the stairs he peered down the length of the basement toward the front of the house. A grim darkness surrounded him. The light from the stairs faded as Adam crept forward, groping for a switch or a dangling chain. Bumping into musty carton boxes and storage crates, he crept farther on into the gloom. He heard footsteps above, muffled conversation, and the sound of water gurgling through pipes. His stretched out hands touched a metal post. He craned his head to the side and focused on a dim light ahead … the broken window. Below it and to the side, hazy light streamed in from above and outlined a darkly smeared coal bin. Most buildings along his street had been converted to oil heat before he was born. Some sported the vestiges of a former era. He scanned the foot of the window but could not find he ball. When he neared the coal bin, he needed to look no further. The ball sat atop a mound of the dusty anthracite.

He scaled the blackened wooden planks and landed softly at the base of the coal pile. The mound gave way with each step. He clambered up, slipping and kicking up sulfurous dust, blackening hands and knees as he scrambled to the top. He lunged for the ball, grasped it with one hand, and glided down the rocky heap in deep satisfaction. Dust settled around and on him, fading in and out of the light. Adam found his other hand clutching a few nuggets. He was about to toss them back into the heap when a sparkle of reflected light caught his eye. He opened his fingers, releasing one black lump at a time, until all that remained was a fist-sized chunk. Even in the muted light he saw the oddly-shaped golden glimmer. He rotated his upturned palm, bringing it closer. There was something metallic embedded in the coal.

The sound of footfalls on the staircase broke his reverie. There he was, reclining in a dusty coal bin at the far end of an unlit, unfamiliar and cavernous cellar—ball in one hand and a mystery lump of coal in the other. The vaguely silhouetted figure reaching the foot of the stairs was about to discover an intruder. Tucking away the coal in his dungarees pocket, he rolled off the brimstone mound, careful to avoid dislodging a 'here-I-am' mini-avalanche. He slipped over the side of the bin and then felt around for some potential cover. The lights came on just as he squeezed between a stack of cartons and the damp wall. Shuffling feet with loose slippers dragged themselves along the cement floor, slapping their way toward him. As they approached, Adam fought down a strong urge to jump up and run. He was sure that he was not entirely hidden from view.

I bet my ass is hanging out for all to see.

The shuffling and slapping drew to a stop.

That's it, he's got me.

"What's this?"

I'm dead.

Adam recognized the voice of his neighbor, Mr. Kurtinaitis—a gravelly, ancient and grinding timbre, which even with such a short phrase, retained its distinct Lithuanian origins. Every neighborhood had its curmudgeon, some old geezer that never got along with anyone younger than thirty, the community warlock whispered about by the children unfortunate enough to have encountered him. Definitely to be avoided at all costs. Mr. Kurtinaitis fit the description, having the required indeterminate advanced age, the bent-over posture, gnarly limbs, the grizzled, unkempt look, an obscure foreign accent and gruff demeanor required for a fully-fledged wizard of the dark world. He was staring at the broken window of his beloved, dreary cellar domain. Adam imagined a deeply furrowed brow framed the evil eye searching him out, maybe already locked in on his exposed posterior. He was about to stand and beg for mercy, when after a few more shuffling sounds, Mr. Kurtinaitis muttered, "Damned kids."

More silence.

He's seen me for sure. He's probably sneaking up on me now.

Instead of getting hoisted by the scruff of his neck, Adam heard a deep and profound sigh of disgust, a kind of snort a dragon might issue, and the shuffling sounds slowly headed away to the back stairs.

Fighting an overwhelming urge to sigh out loud, Adam concluded he would not be turned into a toad today. The Dark Lord proceeded to shut off the lights and uttered several nasty sounding phrases in the Lord's native tongue. Adam heard him ascend the stairs, grumbling at each step, and slam a door. A full five minutes of complete silence went by before he extracted his prostrate form from behind the boxes and quietly made his way out through the same door, all the while certain that Mr. Kurtinaitis was actually hiding just out of sight at the entrance.

He slinked outside, tip-toeing along the back wall of the building, holding his breath lest it give away his position. After reaching the security of his own backyard next door, he parked himself on the wooden stairs and waited for his adrenaline levels to subside along with the thumping in his chest. When he resumed normal breathing, he placed the ball in the recess of his backdoor entry, and with a satisfied exhale, reached into his pocket.

As he held the lump of coal to the waning afternoon sunlight, he beheld an odd metallic gleam, appearing as a golden slash in the side of the black rock.

Maybe it's gold!

Eager to crack it open, he struck the coal against the slate walk at the base of the stairs a few times, which only resulted in leaving a few black scars along the slate's surface. He was about to try and crush the lump beneath his feet when he heard his parents returning from shopping, parking their car in front of the house. He grabbed up the chunk, put it back into his pocket and entered through the backdoor to greet his mom who was carrying groceries.

"Hey, mom. Need some help?"

"Dad'll need a hand. There's more in the car. How on Earth did you get so filthy?"

"Aw, nothin'… I just fell."

Her eyebrows rose and her head bent downward, giving her the glaring look with which he was all too familiar.

"Help your dad with the bags from the car, get those clothes off, and take a bath. You do remember we have an appointment to see Dr. Wujciak this afternoon? Hurry up, you have fifteen minutes."

"OK, mom," Adam replied.

He had forgotten about the physical.

Damn.

Summer was nearly over and St. Harold's Preparatory School required a physical for all new students. Adam was thrilled about the prospect of starting a whole new phase of his life. As he thought about the doctor's office and his mystery rock, an idea emerged which got him even more excited.

Adam sat in Dr. Wujciak's crowded waiting room with his mother at his side. Although they had arrived on time for the appointment, he was certain there were at least a hundred people ahead of them. After he read and re-read the same worn out, three month old issue of Life magazine, Adam's name was called. He leaped up to follow the nurse, giving his mom a quick wave. He was finally old enough to undergo a physical on his own.

After the usual weight, height and blood pressure routine, the nurse left him in a small inner office to await the good doctor's arrival. Adam unconsciously checked for the lump in his pocket. He wandered over to the corner of the office and stared at a dusty old instrument that he knew from previous discussions with Dr. Wujciak was a fluoroscope.

An x-ray machine.

It looked like a vertical washboard with some dials and switches at its base and would allow the user to see through objects using x-rays. He was staring at it when the doctor came in.

Dr. Wujciak went through his standard prodding and jabbing routine, interrupting with an occasional request to say, "aah" or to breathe deeply as he moved an icy cold stethoscope along his bare back. In the end, everything was in order, and Adam received the usual congratulations for being so healthy and growing so quickly. Dr. Wujciak was about to escort him out to the reception area, when Adam stopped, pointed and asked, "Is that thing back there still working?"

Dr. Wujciak hesitated a moment and then answered, "You mean Old Flora? We don't use it anymore, Adam, because it generates too high a level of x-ray radiation to be safe."

"Oh, it's not for me. I was wondering if it, Old Flora, still works, 'cause I have something that I was hoping you could check out."

Adam took out a little ball of tissue paper, unrolled it, and held out the chunk of coal. Dr. Wujciak brought it up in his hand and flipped it over several times. He stopped when his eyes caught the metallic gleam, a sparkling golden band embedded in the black rock.

"Aha … So you want to see what's in this coal? Why don't you just break it open?"

"I plan to do that, but maybe it's something that might break. It's gotta be really old, being in coal. Do you think that Old Flora can see inside it?" he asked with a broad grin.

Dr. Wujciak looked as intrigued as Adam. "I haven’t fired up Old Flora for years, but there should be no problem spending an extra minute or two in trying her out. Besides, it is a very curious piece of coal."

He rolled the stately antique out of the corner, plugged in the frayed wiring and dimmed the lights in the office. "I've been thinking about donating it to a museum."

He riffled through one of his desk drawers, and handed a pair of red-lensed spectacles to Adam, while donning a pair himself.

"We'll need the glasses to see the image. Newer models have more sensitive fluors. They produce brighter images."

A faint buzzing sound followed the flicking of a few switches and the washboard began to emit an eerie glow. Dr. Wujciak made a few more adjustments to the machine and asked, "So where did you find it?"

"In the park," Adam lied without hesitation.

Dr. Wujciak pulled his red spectacles down to the tip of his nose, propped up the lump of coal on a stand behind the washboard and said, "Come over to this side, Adam, so that we both might see what's inside."

"By the way, where'd you get the name Old Flora?" asked Adam.

"Just a nickname. I've had this baby around for most of my professional career. They used to be very popular back in the forties and fifties." His head lolled to one side as he added, "She's kind of like an old friend."

Adam wriggled closer and Dr. Wujciak covered them both with a heavy lead-lined blanket and turned off the room lights. When he turned off the office lights, the spectacles gave the washboard glow an eerie look, as if they had just opened a crimson window to another world. The two were drawn in as they became mesmerized by the bright, translucent outline of the stone. The doctor twiddled with several dials and a second image appeared within the glimmering shell, denser and even darker than the rock which encased it. Unlike the irregular outline of the coal, the image of the encased object appeared rounded and smooth. Dr. Wujciak reached behind the board, rotated the coal and the two investigators both uttered a whispered 'wow!' almost in unison as they made out what looked like a coin or medallion having a hole in its center. Their noses were nearly touching the screen when a blinding flash of light filled the office, followed by the unmistakable stench of burned rubber. For a moment they continued to stare into the darkness. Dr. Wujciak reached up and switched on the office lights.

"I'm afraid that may be it for Old Flora. I think the flash came from her power supply."

Just when things were getting really interesting.

"It probably wasn't a good idea to keep the power up for very long. That's quite an interesting find, Adam."

Dr. Wujciak returned the enigmatic object to Adam. "What are you planning to do with it?"

"I don't know."

I'm going to crack that sucker open. That's what I'm planning to do with it.

"The object inside might be valuable. It could have historic importance. Perhaps you may consider having a scientist look at it. It really is unusual to find something like that stuck in a piece of coal. I know someone in the geology department at Rutgers that I could contact if you like."

Adam realized the doctor was trying to be helpful. "Thanks for the offer. But I think I want to wait on that. So … could we keep it a secret, sort of between you and me?"

"That's okay, Adam, just let me know when you're ready and I'll arrange for you to visit the university."

Adam smiled and nodded.

Dr. Wujciak patted Adam's back. "Now, put your shirt back on. You're in tip-top shape. Good luck this coming year at St. Harold's. And, just remember to let me know if you need any help with your discovery."

Ben Wujciak and Adam shared a love of science fiction and both were avowed Trekkies. As the doctor was leaving the examination room, Adam threw him the splayed finger Vulcan hand greeting. The tricky salutation was ably returned with a wink. Dr. Wujciak stepped out to let Adam's mom know that all was well.

The next morning Adam woke alone. Both parents were at work and the opportunity for discovery had finally arrived. Still in his pajamas, he grabbed the lump of coal and flew downstairs to his father's workshop in the cellar. There were tools everywhere, laid out on the workbench and hovering above it on the pegboard. Adam grabbed a screwdriver from the pegboard, holding both it and the coal in one hand, and wedged it against the bench top. The other hand reached for a hammer.

He tapped the coal. His micro-archeological dig seemed to go on for what seemed to him way too long, cleaving off chip after chip until at last, the coal split. The two halves shot off in opposite directions, launching a gleaming, golden coin-like object flying in an arc across the workshop. It landed on the concrete floor with a high-pitched ping and rolled under some wall shelving. Adam scrambled to the wall, reached under the bottom shelf, and closed his fingers around a half-dollar sized mystery. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger to the light bulb dangling in the center of the workshop, Adam's eyes gleamed as he saw that the object was indeed the size and shape of a half-dollar. It had a peculiar golden sheen, changing in intensity with every movement, however slight. There were several odd symbol-like indentations running along the edge. It had a perfectly round quarter-inch hole in its center. Adam knew he had come across a unique find, something that a university or museum would love to have. There would be no way he could keep the object if he made it public.

This treasure is mine and I'm going to keep it.

He never did keep his promise to get back to Dr. Wujciak, nor did he ever tell anyone else about it for the next twenty years.

* * *

Traveling at nearly the speed of light, a slate gray cylinder traced a path along the inside of the Milky Way's Orion Arm a dozen light-years from Earth's solar system. Its exterior, covered by numerous gashes and impact craters, spoke of a journey of an extensive length of time. The rounded ends provided no distinction between forward or aft sections. Buried within its body a complex array of machines sat in silence with the exception of one. A muffled hum from its bowels was followed by the appearance of an amber light embedded in an instrument panel. Several exterior engine mounts rotated into position, becoming visible as they emerged from the body of the cylinder. A series of colorful short bursts from conical elements of the engines resulted in a slight alteration of the cylinder's trajectory. The engines returned to their original, cloaked poses within the otherwise unremarkable exterior. The amber light faded into darkness.

This piece, Algorithm, is an excerpt of a forthcoming novel penned by Arthur M. Doweyko. As a scientist, Mr. Doweyko devoted much of his life to the discovery of novel drugs. He was a co-inventor of Sprycel, a new anti-cancer drug. He has turned his scientific background to writing science fiction and has published a number of award-winning short stories and several novels.  Mr. Doweyko is represented by Fran Black of Literary Counsel.

Story and pictures by Mr. Doweyko.

Connect with him:
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Rod stood holding the vial in his hand, the stopper firmly in place. New York City had never looked better. He was at the top of the Empire State Building, and could see the city laid out beneath him.

He had four vials. He would open the first one here. It was a good night to change the world. The wind was blowing briskly, and would be a willing helper to what Rod had planned.

A child prodigy, Rod entered the university system when he was twelve years old. Once, he was in the fast track towards earning dual degrees in Business and Economics, before his life took an unfortunate turn. It set him on a course that led up to this very moment.

Rod opened the vial and poured its contents out over the side of the building. The building was screened in, to prevent people from jumping to their deaths, but the steel mesh curtain was no barrier to the formula in his vials. Rod systematically walked to the three remaining corners of the building, opening his vials, emptying them out over the city. When he finished, he put the empty containers into his suit pocket and walked back into the building, back to the elevators, and out into the night. He stopped to hail a cab and couldn’t help but note with a rueful shake of his head that taxis without passengers drove by him for almost fifteen minutes. It was no wonder, he mused -- he was a Black man on the streets of New York City.

Finally, a cab drove up to him and stopped.

“Thank you for stopping, it’s been a long night,” Rod said, smiling.

The driver, an Arab man, smiled back at him and asked, “Where to, Brother? In this world, anything not white is a brother to me!”

The taxi driver laughed, pulling out into the traffic once Rod closed his door.

“That’s a good way to look at it," said Rod. "I’m headed to JFK, on my way to Philadelphia.”

“Ahh…the city of brotherly love! As if there is such a thing in America!” the taxi driver said, both of them laughing.

Rod eased back into his seat. He had worked tirelessly for almost ten years, and the formula was absolutely perfect. He had the only antidote. It was perfect, made up not just of a viral component, but it was laced with human DNA that would imprint upon its victims, not simply superficial, but molecular level changes.

He had a long way to go, but he’d bring the United States to its knees before he was done. New York, though, he had wanted to take care of himself. The rest of America would follow, as soon as he got to the airport. Planes left JFK headed for all parts of the nation, even the world. Rod had one more vial he would open when he got there. He had made sure that this virus could survive just about anything, heat, cold, wind, water, even chemicals. He had used the same packaging that was found in hoof and mouth disease, a mostly wind borne virus that affected cattle.

His little concoction was going to make everything even, once and for all. He was going to hit people with something soap and water couldn’t wash off.

The cab pulled up to the airport. Rod paid the driver and headed for the busy airport. He had a good forty-five minutes before his flight left, but he had some plans first. He walked through security, putting his briefcase on the x-ray ramp.

“Sir, can you open your briefcase, please?” the woman on the x-ray machine told him.

Rod sighed. Racial profiling. They really seemed to like stopping Black men in suits coming to the city on business.

Rod opened his briefcase, and watched one of the security men rustle through it. The man then closed the top, motioning for Rod to proceed on his way.

“You can’t be too careful nowadays," drawled the Hispanic security man, rolling his eyes at Rod. They both knew there was no problem.

The x-ray tech was a White woman, and this was her sector of power, her own way at needling every Black man that came through here.

Rod continued on his way, knowing that he had the virus all over his body, having poured it out over the city earlier. She’d be in for quite a shock when she woke up tomorrow. That was the beauty of the virus he made, it did its work while the body was at rest. Everybody had to sleep sometime.

Rod walked through the terminal and soon was on the observation deck upstairs. He could look out over the entire airport, looking at the planes on the tarmac below him. Lufthansa, USAir, Continental, Delta, British Airways -- the list went on and on. Rod hesitated a moment, taking a deep breath. He reached into his coat pocket and felt for the last vials. These were the large ones, the size of a small prescription bottle. He’d release one in Philadelphia and another in Washington, D.C. late that evening. All he had to do was get up someplace high and open the vial. The virus would do the rest.

He walked to the edge of the observation deck and took out a vial, tossing its contents over the side in a wide arc. It was a cool night, and mostly business people were traveling, with it being the middle of the week. They didn’t have time to stop and watch him.

Recapping the vial, he replaced it into his suit pocket with a smile of satisfaction. What did people always say about New York? If you could make it there, you’d make it anywhere...

Rod went back into the terminal to wait for boarding. He was flying in first class. When they called Business First, Rod stood up and went to hand his ticket to the person at the gate.

“Thank you, sir, have a nice flight," the young woman said, already moving on to the next passenger. Just after Rod came a White businessman, whom she spoke with briefly. Rod just shook his head and walked away.

“May I take your coat, sir?” a young flight attendant asked, waiting for an answer.

“No, that’s alright. Thank you anyway,” Rod told him, walking to his seat. He took off his coat after setting his briefcase at his feet. He sat down and put on his seatbelt, watching the flight attendants fawn over the White Business First passengers.

Rod closed his eyes and nodded off, not waking until they were beginning their descent.

He repeated his actions in Philadelphia, this time taking a moment to open his vial right outside the plane as he walked down the stairs. Everyone was so into their conversations that no one noticed his actions. The virus dropped onto the tarmac. Rod looked back just in time to see a luggage truck drive through the puddle he had dumped most of the virus into, making a huge splash before it continued on its way. Rod could almost see his creation leaping up into the air, borne on the wind.

He crossed the tarmac to the terminal, then walked down to the gate to catch his connecting flight. He was soon seated once more, on his way to Washington. Home.

* * *

Rod had used his equipment at Genetico Pharmaceuticals, to create his virus. He was fortunate, that due to his age, most of his work was unsupervised. He had worked tirelessly, coming in early and staying late, working on two separate projects, doing double the work, so he would have some results, besides his work on this virus. They never suspected.

Just before landing, he took his last vial, and went to the restroom, closing and locking the door. He then opened the toilet, and emptied the vial into it, flushing it as they began their descent. That would spread it out over the area, overnight. There was a strong headwind, which would make his job that much easier. “Fly babies, fly.” Rod whispered, putting the vial back into his suit jacket, and then washing his hands. He went back to his seat, fastening his seatbelt, as the plane inched ever lower, swaying in the wind.

Rod was one of the first people off the plane, and went through the terminal quickly, going to the parking garage, and climbing into his car. He drove an old Porsche boxer, and it had gotten him pulled over several times, for no reason. He restored the car himself, it was one of his baby’s! He drove to the exit gate, handing his ticket, and a credit card to the attendant, who took both of them, with a slight shrug.

“Sorry sir, it’s declined.” She sniffed, tossing her blonde hair for emphasis.

“Run it again, it’s an American Express card, platinum doesn’t get declined.” Rod told her, waiting for her to rerun the card. It went through the second time, and he took it and the receipt, commenting,

“Hope you enjoyed touchin’ it, baby, it’s about as close as you’ll get to having one.” The girl was trash, and STILL thought she was better than him, cause her skin was White! Man! He hated that shit! She glared at him, about to reply, but he rolled the window up, driving out as the bar raised in front of his car. He was home in half an hour. He pulled into his garage, after opening it with his garage door opener, and quickly turned the car off, getting out. It took just a few moments to put down the garage, and then he went inside, putting his briefcase down by the door.

Rod lived in the Maryland suburbs, in a town named Mitchellville. It was the up and coming address for the Black Bourgeoisie, with several people building huge estate type homes in the area. Several different enclaves existed, and many of the communities were gated.

Rod hadn’t moved into a gated community, he simply lived in his parents home. His parents. All they had wanted was a better life for him. All they had wanted, was for him to be judged just like all the little White kids. But even with all they wanted, he was never good enough, and neither were they.

A traffic stop by a Prince Georges County cop, had ruined everything. The young black men they had pulled over had put up a struggle, and one of them ran into the traffic on Route 50, when his Mother and Father had been returning from a shopping trip to Annapolis. There were no exclusive stores in the County they lived in, which led the nation in the number of young Black people in the upper portion of per capita income as minorities. But you still had to drive to another County to find a Saks or Lord and Taylor.

His Father had been driving, and a car in front of them had swerved to avoid hitting the boy. His Father didn’t react in time, and the boy came through their windshield, instantly killing his parents, and the driver. The boys had panicked, because of the reputation of the County officers. Four Black youths driving in a Mercedes were an easy target. They later found out, the car belonged to one of the boys’ parents. The boy that had panicked had been a friend he had met in an all-met basketball tournament, who was wanted in DC for an assault warrant. He had panicked, and tried to get away, resulting in the accident. Others were hurt, but only the young man, and Rod’s parents, were killed.

His Aunt came up from South Carolina to take care of him. She had died two years ago, of breast cancer. Now Rod was alone. Alone, except for his babies. His viruses. He loved the human genome. It had only been completely broken down near the end of 1999, and it had yielded him a great deal of material to do research with.

Rod yawned, tossing his keys on the kitchen counter, before he walked upstairs to go to bed. He turned on his television, and checked to make sure the videotape was ready once more, before he quickly undressed, and got into bed. He went to sleep with a smile on his face. It was the first time that had happened, since his parents’ death.

* * *

Rosemary DeLuca did the x-ray work at JFK Airport. Last night had been a good night. She knew for a fact that she had made two Black women and three Black men get shaken down and then strip-searched by Customs. It had made her night.

She woke up this morning feeling congested, as though she had the flu. The phone rang on her nightstand and she reached for it, putting it to her ear absently.

“Hello, Ma?” Janey’s voice came over the line.

Rosemary sighed. To think that her daughter had married a Black man. While Rosemary had never called him the ‘N’ word to his face, she stopped referring to him that way out of fear that it would slip out and she wouldn’t be able to see her grandchildren anymore. Poor things, they couldn’t help it if their parents were fools.

“Yes, Janey, what is it?” Rosemary said.

“Ma! Have you seen the news?”

“No, I just now woke up, what’s wrong with you?” Rosemary replied, taking the portable phone with her to the bathroom.

“Ma! Have you looked at yourself this morning? It’s happening all over the city! Have you looked in the mirror?”

“No, I haven’t! Stop being so cryptic!” Rosemary snapped at her, as she turned on the bathroom light. She lifted her head to look in the mirror, and screamed in shock.

The person in the mirror wasn’t her. She dropped the phone, screaming over and over.

"It won't come off!" Rosemary wailed.

Rosemary snatched up a towel and started wiping her face, her screams echoing off of the tile in the bathroom.

* * *

“Did it happen to her?” Janey’s husband, Big Al, asked, blowing on his coffee. His tone was cool, not at all upset with the breaking news flashing across his television right then.

“Ah... yeah..." said Janey. "I’m pretty sure it did.” She hung up the telephone and stroked her arms gently, marveling at how smooth and brown they looked now. They were just a little lighter than Al’s jet black skin.

“Honey, I’m black now, ain’t I?” Janey asked, a slow smile coming over her face.

Big Al smirked, nodding his head. He took a long drink of his coffee.

“Yeah, you plenty black now!" Al said.

“Well... I don’t know who did this, but I like it," Janey said, smiling. "Now my Ma, that’s another matter!”

He set his cup down and stood up, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. He was calling in sick today. With a grin he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

Janey couldn’t believe what had happened, and in her man's arms, she couldn't believe how happy she was -- she was Black. And the way it looked right now, so was most of New York City.

This piece, The Blacker the Berry, was penned by Trisha A. Lindsey. Ms. Lindsey, who also writes under the pseudonym Ronin Schtihl Daire, is the author of over a dozen ebooks and two paperbacks. She has also written the Josef and Blair Series, a five-book Series about love and race. Her works are available through Amazon.com.

Story © Trisha A. Lindsey, 1998

Story and pictures by Ms. Lindsey. 


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