After The Fall
		By Jesse Smith
		http://slicer69.tripod.com


	By all rights, the fall should have broken his neck, should
have killed him on impact. All the eye witnesses would later agree on
that point. But it didn't. Some observant bystander noticed the body
was breathing. By the time the paramedics arrived to carry the body
to the morgue, it was considered to be in stable, yet critical, condition.

	Jesus was, or is, for those of you of a religious mind, magic.
He was, by all accounts, likely the greatest magician to walk the
face of the Earth. Water to wine, dead to life, curing blindness, 
strolling the waves and calming the weather were among his more popular
tricks. No smoke and no mirrors in sight. He even pulled fish out of a hat.
A trick that would later be modified, by members of his profession,
to use a bunny. Rabbits are generally rated with a higher
cute factor than fish. They tend to smell better too. The only
trick Jesus didn't master was that of the escape artist.

	The body was examined, patched up and placed in a hospital bed
under the watchful eye of several doctors and nurses. Fairly typical case,
from the look of him. A jumper, perhaps, who hadn't picked a ledge high enough.
He was pronounced stable and placed in a bed away from the window.
Nurse Nancy was charged with watching over him.

	Nurse Nancy, for Nancy was her name and nursing was her game,
was a kind hearted lady. Tall, thin, with wispy blonde hair. She had
a smile for everyone and always seemed ready to help, eager to please.
She did, however, have a brisk air of efficiency about her, some
of her patients were known to observe. A business-like quality which
kept her detached. It was Nancy, our nurse's nurse, who made the incredible
discovery.

	The patient did not have a pulse.

	What began as a routine check of his vital signs (blood pressure,
heart rate, "Is he still breathing?") revealed the mystery. While the
anonymous patient (no ID or wallet had been found on his person) was
breathing slowly and steadily Nurse Nancy could find no pulse on her charge.
She checked again and then checked once more. Perplexed, she called
for a doctor.

	Words are, perhaps, the most abstract invention of the human
race. The written word is a collection of symbols grouped together. These
symbols, letters, are also abstractions. Letters represent sounds and meanings,
which can change depending on the context. Further more, to frustrate the
logical mind, words have no firm definition. Words are defined, oddly enough,
with other words. Most people know one should not use the word being defined
in the definition. However, how many have considered that defining a word
with more words similarly leads one down a circular road?

	Doctor Denman took a look at the hospital's unusual arrival. He
checked for the non-existent pulse, he checked the patients's breathing and
then he checked for a pulse again. Dr. Denman shook his head and tested his
patient's reflexes. Normal.

	The mystery man, who would be labelled John Doe in place of any
firm identification, awoke at nine o'clock the next morning. Nurse Nancy,
who had just started her shift, poked her head into his room in time to
see him lift his head and look about the room. Surprised at his seemingly
rapid recovery, she stepped through the door.

	"Good morning," N.N. greeted.
	The stranger turned to face her. He looked curious and not at all
alarmed by his surroundings.
	"Hello," he replied.
	Nurse Nancy smiled at him and took another step into the room. She
waited for the regular enquiry, "Where am I?"
	"What's your name?" he asked instead.
	"Nancy," she offered, "How do you feel?"
	He coughed, "I'm a little dry. May I have something to drink, please?"
	Nancy nodded, "Yes," then she turned and walked from the room, shaking
her head. Mr. Doe seemed very relaxed about waking up in a hospital. Relaxed
and quite focused.

	Pyramid power has been debated for the past twenty-five years, sometimes
heatedly. The theory is the shape of the pyramid manages to, in some way, channel
energy, focus it in some fashion. The result is, according to some, the preservation
of things in the centre of the pyramid. Corpses, razor blades and perhaps even food
is said to be kept in better condition, longer, than normal. There is, of course,
debate by sceptics, over just what qualifies as "normal".

	Doe, John Doe. International man of mystery. Double, oh, I don't know.
Once her patient had consumed two glasses of water, a muffin (carrot) and
requested chicken soup (please), Nurse Nancy was convinced there was nothing
wrong with her charge's appetite. By the time Dr. Denman arrived on the scene,
his pulse-less patient was sitting up and slurping back chicken bits. Body
temperature, normal; breathing, normal; heart beat, non-existent.

	"What is your name, sir?" Dr. Denman asked.
	The patient regarded the doctor for a few seconds, "I don't know."
	"You don't remember?"
	The man shook his head.
	"Do you remember where you live?"
	The sandy haired head shook a negative.
	"Perhaps you recall which year it is?"
	"No, sir."
	"Who is in the White House?"
	A shrug, "I don't recall."
	"The police are going to want to talk to you. It seems you
took quite a fall yesterday."
	"Okay."

	Let us envision, for a moment, a man standing on a twentieth floor balcony. He has
had a bad day. That is, he feels distressed by the events of the past twelve hours.
He sips back the last of his wine (red, French) and regards the goblet. Slightly
intoxicated, he takes in the clear glass, the smooth sides and the film of rouge
in the bottom. Then, frustrated, he throws the glass over the edge of his balcony
and watches it fall to the sidewalk below. At that very moment, a woman steps into
view. The tossed drinking utensil crashes into her head. The lady dies as a result
of the impact. Some moral questions might be raised by these events. Were the acts
of the man murder, man slaughter or simply littering? Had the drinking glass been
tossed into an alley, rather than to a sidewalk, would that alter the charge? Tragically,
reports of the incident would probably focus more on the presents of alcohol in the chain
of events than any other point. Most aphids would probably disagree with me. Aphids
are T-totallers. No spirits pass their lips, no tobacco smoke enters their little
lungs. They are prudes of the bug world. Perhaps this is why the aphid is so
tasty; their blood is pure. The aphid sweats sugar.

	The patient was munching on lunch when Detective Roberts entered the room. The
combined smell of bread, apple juice and a fruit cup soon found itself mated with more smells:
cigarettes, ink and suspicion. Nurse Nancy handled the introductions, such as they were.
	"Sir, this is Detective Roberts. Mr. Roberts, this is our mystery patient."
	"Thank you, nurse."
	The man labelled John Doe patted the bed next to his right leg, "Have a seat, Detective."
	Detective Roberts chose a chair instead. He took out a notepad and a pen from his
coat pocket.
	"I understand you had quite the fall, yesterday, Mr. ..." the detective began.
	A blank, stare was the only reaction.
	"He doesn't remember his name," Nurse Nancy supplied.
	"I am aware, Nurse. You'd be surprised at the things which will trigger a memory."
	Nancy nodded at the back of the detective's head. She stood in the doorway, watching
her quickly recovering fall victim.
	"Do you recall what happened to you yesterday, shortly after supper time?" Roberts
asked.
	The patient drank some apple juice, swallowed and shook his head slowly side-to-side.
	"Let's go back further. What city are you in?"
	"Halifax."
	"Good. How long have you lived here?"
	"I don't know. I overheard one of the nurses say she was going to the Halifax Shopping
Centre this afternoon."
	"Oh. What's your mother's name?"
	A pause, then a shrug of the shoulders.
	"Well, you speak fluent English. Hardly any trace of an accent. Parlez-vous français?"
	"Oui, je, parler français, détective."
	"Bilingual. Okay," Roberts turned to regard Nurse Nancy for the first time, "Does
he have any tattoos?"
	"None that I'm aware of, Detective. I didn't do a ... thorough check."
	"In that case, please do. I'll be back to take some finger prints."
	Detective Roberts stood, nodded to both the patient and his caretaker and
walked briskly from the room.
	"Do you have any tattoos?" Nancy asked her patient.
	John looked under his bed sheet, "I don't think so," he answered.
	A laugh escaped her lips, "Please check yourself over when you next go to
the bathroom."
	"Sure," he popped a piece of bread into his mouth.

	It is nearly impossible for an ant to die as the result of a fall. The body
of the industrious insect is built in such a way as to catch the air as it falls. This
allows a falling ant to float, relatively gently, to the ground. Humans are not so
blessed. Neither, for that matter, are dolphins.

	"Excuse me, miss."
	Nurse Augustine looked up from her paperwork. It was two o'clock in the morning.
The patient, the one who had addressed her, stood in his gown, sans slippers. His sandy
hair was tossed about his head like the lines of an abstract art painting.
	"Can I help you, mister...?"
	"Doe. They call me Doe," he answered.
	"What can I do for you, Mr. Doe?"
	"I was wondering where I might find some blueberry pancakes," he stated,
"I just woke up and I have a terrible craving for the things."
	"For pancakes?"
	"With blueberries, yes."
	"I'm sorry, Mr. Doe, but the kitchen is closed. Could you make due
with some blue Jell-o and some water?"
	He nodded.
	"Off to bed with you, then. I'll bring them in to you."
	"My thanks," the patient replied and walked back down the hall.
	Miss Augustine watched him go, pondering what ailment he might have.
She made a mental note to check his chart when she took him the Jell-o.

	Revolutions are akin to forest fires. They are brutal, deadly and
highly destructive. They are also a necessity. The natural forest fire cleans
away old growth, making way for a new generation. In a similar manner, a
civil revolt wipes away old governments, tyranny and social injustices and
replaces them with new, unstable and fresh ideals. Often times, the new governing
body becomes overly powerful, overly controlling and overly rich, choking out
opposition and new direction. The old must, eventually, burn, to make way
for a diverse system.

	It was summer. The smell of wet, fresh-cut grass floated into the room
of one John Doe. There, high above the lawn, the patient sat, listening to
the mower. Before him sat a newspaper, opened to the Comics & Puzzles
section. One of the doctors had suggested Mr. Doe try the crossword puzzle,
hoping to discover clues about the mystery man by the trivia he knew. Whether
Mr. J. Doe was a novice when it came to trivia or simply had no aptitude for
word play was uncertain. What was becoming painfully apparent to both the patient
and his nurse was he was completely hopeless at solving Tuesday's crossword.
When Nurse Nancy poked her head into his room to check on J.D., she found
him staring blankly at the page, the pencil limp in his hand.

	Chopsticks are associated, in the western world, with Asian culture and
Asian foods. These wooden fingers grace many an oriental table. It may be interesting
to note, however, the Koreans are alone in using metal chopsticks to manipulate their
food. The inhabitants of that nervous, little peninsula click their teeth with
tools resembling those found in a dentist's office while those in surrounding cultures
use tree bits. The reason for this cultural difference is debatable. One might note, 
however, metal chopsticks are, generally, easier to clean than their wooden cousins, 
yet food slides from their surfaces with greater ease. Perhaps, one might guess, Koreans are
likely to be cleaner and more thin than their neighbours.

	"Nothing. I've got nothing," Detective Roberts reported to Dr. Denman, "Nothing.
He's not in our finger print database, no matching missing persons report and no scars or
tattoos. I'd say he's a clean slate if it wasn't for the fact he talks like he's educated."
	"Asking him trivia questions didn't help, he doesn't seem to recognize anything. He
even reads the comics like he's getting weather updates," Dr. D mused.
	"What now, then, doc?"
	"I'm going to suggest hypnoses."
	The detective snorted.
	"Have you got any better ideas?"
	"Gentlemen," Nurse Nancy interrupted.
	The two men turned their gazed on her.
	"He can probably hear you," she offered, quietly and nodded
toward the patient's room. Their Mr. Doe might not remember anything from his past,
but he appeared to soak up new information like a sponge.
	Detective Roberts sighed, "Wave a watch in front of him then. Let
me know if you turn up anything useful."

	Sliced bread is often used as a benchmark for greatness. "The greatest thing
since sliced bread" is a title given to the highest of the high, the
most wonderful or amazing inventions of our time. The little miracle, the
doughy wonder of the world, hit main stream in the late 1920's. Since then, many
inventions have graced our lives; television, liquid paper, computers, compact discs,
space shuttles and Post-it notes. So it is little wonder evenly sliced bread is
still considered the act to beat.

	When John awoke he quickly became aware of a change in his room. Two changes,
actually. The bed next to him was no longer empty. In it lay a large lad with bandages
around his head, right shoulder and right foot. He appeared to be sleeping, unbothered
by the machines which kept watch on his heart. The second change, also a young man, stood
next to the window, in turn glancing at his larger, sleeping companion, and staring
out at the clouds.
	"Hello," John said quietly.
	The thinner figured turned from the window pane, the tension on his face
readily showing he was not often approached by friendly strangers. He visibly relaxed when
his eyes took in Mr. Doe.
	"Hey," he replied. The right side of his face was criss-crossed with nasty, fresh
scratches, "What up?"
	John glanced at the ceiling, "Nothing."
	"What'cha doing in here?"
	"I fell."
	"And?"
	"I don't remember."
	"Hmm."
	"Why are you here?"
	The skinny fellow stole a glance at the sleeping figure, "I'm just checkin' up
on Slug here."
	"Slug?"
	"That's his name."
	"Why do you call him Slug?"
	The thin youth considered the question. "There are two reasons, 'pending on
who you ask," he answered at last, "Some call him Slug 'cause he moves slow. Others
say he was shot once by the police and didn' wanna go to the hospital, so the slug's still in 'im."
	John nodded.
	"What's your name?"
	"John. You?"
	"Roach."
	Roach didn't offer to shake hands and John decided not to question why the
man called himself that.
	"What happened to Slug?" John asked instead.
	"We was driving up Robie street last night," Roach said, "couple of fools were
drag racing. They ran right into us. Slug got the worst of it," Roach shook his head.
	"What happened to the racers?" John asked.
	"The ones in the car that hit us died. Went right through the windshield."
	"The other car?"
	"Got away clean."

	Christopher Columbus, an enterprising man, had the bright idea of finding the Far East by
travelling West. His crazy-sounding plan might have worked, but for two things. One,
the world is much larger than he had thought. Two, there was quite a bit of land
in his way. The great western ocean did not stretch, empty, to the far side of globe.
It may be because of Columbus' example, teachers now give grades based more upon effort
than results.

	Dr. Brookfield: medical man. The good doctor had spent most of his career poking
inside people's minds. Not physically, the good doctor was no champion of surgery, but
mentally. Over the years Dr. Brookfield had developed a number of tools to aid in healing
his patients' troubled minds. Hypnosis was one of those tools.

	Just what hypnosis is has been a debate for many years. A cheap parlour trick, a
state of mind, a medical miracle, the path to enlightenment, an aid to quit smoking,
a path to previous lives or simply a sleepy state in which people tend to accept suggestions
have all been theories put forth. At this point few, if any, of those theories are doing
better in the polls than any other. One thing most researches do agree on is that, when
used properly, there are few to no negative side effects from being hypnotized.

	Dr. Brookfield, who was of the belief hypnosis is a state of mind similar to
REM sleep, happily offered his services in the hospital's John Doe case. After introducing
himself to the memory-less patient, he began the hypnosis procedure. Later, Brookfield
would observe the patient was a textbook case during the induction. However, the doctor
had some unusual results during his questioning period.

	"John, I'm going to ask you a few questions. Are you ready?"
	"I am."
	"What is your name?"
	"John Doe."
	"And how old are you, John?"
	"I do not know."
	"How long have you been in this hospital, John?"
	"Seven days."
	"We are now going to go back in time. Back to the night you were brought to
the hospital. It is the evening of May 28th. Just before your fall. I want you to
look around and tell me what you see."
	"I see a triangle."
	"A triangle?"
	"Yes, it's yellow, bright yellow. And it's floating."
	"Floating where?"
	"In front of me. It's turning a little. I can see through it."
	"What is behind the triangle?"
	"Nothing."
	"Let's go back a little further. We're going to go back in time to the day
before your fall. It's noon, May 27th. Where are you?"
	"I am on a beach -- the edge of a beach -- overlooking the ocean. There
are waves rolling down the beach. Waves of sand, rolling, falling and breaking
against the water."
	"Waves? Of sand?"
	"Yes, I'm sitting on the grass, watching the sand churn, rolling and breaking against
the water."
	"Is there a storm?"
	"... No, the water is calm."
	"Let's move on. What is your earliest memory?"
	"Nurse Nancy."
	"What was she doing?"
	"Looking at me. From the doorway."
	"Your doctor says you don't have a pulse. Is that true?"
	"Yes."
	"If you don't have a pulse, what does this mean?"
	"I must be dead."
	"You speak French and English. Do you speak any other languages?"
	"Yes."
	"What other language do you speak?"
	"Parlo italiano."
	"Italian?"
	"Yes."
	"Where did you learn to speak Italian?"
	"I do not know."
	"You don't have much of an accent. Are you from Halifax?"
	"All I remember is in Halifax."

	When the session was complete and John was brought out of his sleep-like
state, he opened his eyes, blinked and looked up at Dr. Brookfield.
	"I am sorry about your wife," he said.
	The patient's final statement did not make it into Brookfield's report.

	People are fearful of things they do not understand. This was well demonstrated
in the late 1970s and early 1980s, as personal computers first found their way
into people's homes. The early personal computer, able to sit on a desk, run simple
programs and print text gave birth to a range of movies about how the evil machines
would eventually gain power. Perhaps enough power to over-throw the human race as
masters of planet Earth. War Games, Short Circuit and Terminator being among the
most popular; which preyed on the emotions of a culture visited by new technology.
However, computers took over the world without firing a shot. It is nearly impossible
to call a business without talking to a computerized voice. When calling a friend's
phone, it's common to have a computer inform you they are not available to answer.
Computers dominate our workplace, run our watches, control our war machines and
edit our movies. Computers and their programs are used around the world for money 
transactions, creating maps and, commonly, for entertainment. What was once a laughable 
movie plot has become, to a degree, our reality.

	Nurse Nancy walked softly into John's room. Both the memory-challenged man and
the one called Slug appeared to be sleeping. Nancy checked Slug's vitals; there
was no need to check John's. How had he hit he ground so hard, she wondered, hard
enough to erase his memory, yet there remained not a single scratch on him? Nancy had
seen many an amazing event in her time at the hospital. She'd seen clinically dead
people suddenly sit up and talk. She'd seen burned babies heal with hardly a scar. She'd
seen doctors pull shot pellets out from around a man's heart, saving his life. Nancy
had once witnessed a hopeless cancer patient beat the disease from her death bed. But for
all of that, she'd never met someone like John. So calm and seemingly healthly, if one could
ignore his complete lack of a heart beat. No active memory, yet he spoke at least three
languages. She gazed down at her patient and wondered what sort of life he had lived
before hitting the pavement in downtown Halifax.

	John opened his eyes, "Good day, Nurse," he greeted.
	Nancy gave him a smile, "Mr. Doe. How are you feeling?"
	"Well, thank you."
	"May I ask you something, John?"
	"Of course."
	"Do you dream?" To the best of her knowledge, no one had asked him this yet.
	He nodded.
	"What do you dream about?"
	John sat up in his bed and considered the question, "It's usually the same
dream," he said.
	Nancy sat on the edge of his bed.
	"I'm standing in a tower, in a castle or fortress," he began, "it's raining. Down
below, just outside the castle gate, there's a man on a horse. He's dressed in dark robes,
I think; it's night time. I can't see his face from where I am."
	John paused, "Go on," Nancy resisted the urge to hold his hand.
	"The man, I think it's a man, on the horse reaches into his pocket and
takes out an object and waves it at me. I'm not sure what it is, but it's small. It
looks like a goblet. He shouts for me to come down to him. Then I wake up."
	"That's it?"
	"That's all."

	The prophecies of Fatima, three visions shown to three young sisters, had a
great impact on the Catholic Church during the twentieth century. The shock waves
which rippled through the Church at the revelations provided by the three Portuguese
girls caused a great deal of paranoia among the faithful. Their tales were of Hell,
looming war and ruin; fairly standard prophecy material. What makes them stand out,
besides being modern and, it seems, partially accurate, is that this was a group
experience. Prophecy is traditionally handed down from one seer, one man of God,
one guru, to the masses. The sisters of Fatima claim to have seen their visions
together. This, combined with the fact all the participants were women, make
the Fatima prophecies a rather unique event in Church history.

	Nurse Augustine had a son in his early twenties, who happened to have about the
same body build as John. She went through old boxes of clothes, which her son
had left behind when he departed for college, and offered the bulk of them to John. 
Pleased with his new wardrobe, he began to wear the items on a daily basis. John was, 
physically at least, completely recovered from his fall. He took to wandering the halls,
doing his own laundry and requested exercise books. It took the doctors a while
to get used to seeing a man in civilian clothes doing push-ups in a sick room.
Some, including Dr. Denman, began to question why they continued to keep him
in the hospital.
	"He's just enjoying the free room," some declared.
	Nurse Nancy disagreed. His injuries when he was brought in were
real. Mr. Doe's lack of pulse was real.
	"He needs care," she insisted, "if for no other reason, he'd be
completely lost outside of these walls."

	Penguins are strange birds indeed. They are animals of opposites. A penguin
is black and white in colour and can live near the south pole or at the equator. The
penguin, a flightless bird (making it a potential fall victim) spends half of
its time in water, the other half on land. The largest penguin is no bigger
than a child, yet they rarely show fear of humans. Perhaps the penguin, unaccustomed
to interaction with people, regard men and women as large penguins. Elegant,
beautiful and awkward on land, the penguin brings both comedy and dignity to the
world.

	Nurse Nancy was taking her break in John's room. He was seated next to the
window, a yo-yo in his lap. She sat on the edge of his bed, sipping lemonade and
eating a bagel.
	"Is it scary, John," she asked him, "not having any memories?"
	John had been practising with the yellow yo-yo and, upon hearing her question,
sent it spinning toward the floor. When it came shooting back up its string, he
caught the toy awkwardly.
	"No," he said, turning the yo-yo in his hand, "it's not scary. I mean, I
get nervous when I think about out there," he gestured over his shoulder toward
the window, "but my lack of memories don't bother me."
	Nancy offered John her glass and, when he refused, took a sip.
	"It doesn't bother you, not having a past. Not knowing who you are?"
	John shrugged, "I like to think I am more than the sum of my experiences,"
he answered.
	She nodded, "Oh, you are! I didn't mean that. But I think we need all the help
we can get in finding our path."
	"Do our paths lie before us or behind?"
	"Ahead, but sometimes it helps to know where you're from."
	John smiled and sent the yo-yo falling to the floor again.
	"In some ways I'm happy not to remember," he said quietly.
	"Why, John?"
	"I've seen many people in the last week. Patients coming through the hospital.
Some of them get lonely and they like to talk." He caught the round toy again in his hand,
"They tell me terrible things about their lives."
	Nancy swallowed a bite of bagel and raised her eyebrows. She had been unaware
John had been listening to patient's stories.
	"They tell me about abuse and suffering and death in their families. There
are good things too, but so much sadness. Sometimes... Sometimes I wonder if I suffered
the same injustices."
	The yo-yo fell again and was caught again.
	"There is a lot of joy in this world too, John," Nancy offered. He nodded.
"While the bad stuff is part of our lives, it's important to focus on the good
times."
	"I don't have either," John said softly.
	Nancy stood up and walked over to his window seat, "You're working on it,"
she said and put her arm around his shoulders.

	Jack the Ripper, one of history's most famous serial killers. While not the first, 
nor owning the highest body count, the Ripper has one thing going
for him: No one knows who he was. It's been over a hundred years since the brutal 
murders shook England, the fresh corpses of the Ripper's victims mystifying
and disturbing the police. Newspapers made the monster into a legend. 
So little is known about the Ripper case that there is considerable debate as to 
how many victims he claimed, what may have been a motive or even which confession
letters -- sent to local papers at the time -- might be authentic. With all the 
puzzlement as to what is evidence, what is chance and what is connected, there are two things
which are usually taken for granted. Two great assumptions which, perhaps, should not be assumed.
The first is the Ripper worked alone. Many violent murders against women were
committed during the reign of the Ripper. Assigning them all to one person may be in error.
The second is the Ripper was a man; Jill the Ripper?

	"Where are you planning to take him?" Nancy asked.
	Detective Roberts paused at the door to Mr. Doe's room, "Back to where he
fell," he answered simply.
	"Why?"
	"I'm hoping to get a reaction; a memory, a clue. We detectives do that,
you know."
	Roberts pushed open the door. Inside, John was on his back, performing
sit-ups.
	"Get your shoes on, old boy," Roberts declared, "We're going for a ride."
	John looked up at the detective. Mild surprise showed on his face, but
he stood and walked to where his shoes were next to the bed.
	"Isn't this a little unusual?" Nancy asked from the doorway.
	"Everything about this case is unusual, ma'am," Roberts observed.
	"I'm going outside?" John asked.
	The detective nodded, "That's right. Ready?"
	"You don't have to go, John," Nancy told him.
	The detective whirled to face her. Glaring down at her he demanded, 
"What are you doing, lady, trying to stall my case? I'm trying to figure out who this
guy is and what happened to him."
	Then, softer, "You don't think letting him stay here forever is going to
help him, do you?"
	Nancy looked from the detective to her patient. John's face was neutral
again. Her gaze returned to Roberts' face.
	"I'll go," John said quietly, "Lead on, Detective."
	Nurse Nancy watched as the two men walked down the hall to the elevator. She
sighed and returned to the nurses' station. Some people, for whatever reason,
make a large impact on our lives, she thought. Whether they be patient, doctor, chef
or lover, some people have the ability to reach out and change our lives.

	Brand loyalty, the blind preference of one brand over another, can have
a large impact on our lives too. Companies will go to great lengths to ingrain
into their customers a bias toward their products, whether it be for cars, soft drinks,
milk or, even, elevators. The desire for one brand of truck or soap or TV over another
rarely has is roots in any major event or experience or quality. Rather, minor occurrences,
perceived slights or family tradition tend to play a much larger role in the
way we view companies and their products. It was a brief, though certainly significant
event, which determined Mr. John Doe would never again use an Otis elevator. Soon
after he and the detective boarded the hospital elevator, the cable suspending it
in the air snapped. This time it was a fall Mr. Doe would would not survive.


	Author's note: When I started writing this story, I have to admit I
thought it would go in a much difference direction than it did. I expected a
pulse-less, memoryless fall victim to be a fallen angel or a demi-god. However, as
I wrote, I discovered the nameless character was neither. What then, was the point
of this story, I wondered. Why did it haunt me and pester me to write it? The
story was nearly finished before I finally realized where it was taking me. The
point, if this short piece can be said to have one, is that the Great Mystery is
far from solved. With all of our science, technology and medical ability, the
Great Mystery will not be solved. It refuses. Why do some people die while others
live? Why do some people "just connect" while others rub us the wrong way? How
are the things that happen possible when we can find no reasonable explanation?
I think I had to write After The Fall to remind myself that I don't know. Who
was Jesus? What motivated Jack the Ripper? Why do we find fishy smelling penguins
so darn cute? Do (or can) dreams have a purpose? What inspired the pyramids? What
it boils down to is I don't know and I like that. Long live the Great Mystery!