“How Tall The Ladder, How Far The Moon?” by David Henson


According to my mother, I quit squalling soon as the doctor recorded my birth weight and length. Mom always has been prone to exaggeration … prone to a lot of things. But it’s certain I had a fascination bordering on obsession with measuring. OK, I’ll admit it: I teetered over the boundary into compulsion at a young age.

One of my first memories is from 20 or so years ago. I determined Miss Gilbert’s desk was 22 first-grade hands wide and 11 deep. Billy Johnson’s blue eye was less than a hand from his brown one.

My itch to measure intensified the older I got till — shortly after my tenth birthday, when I threatened to run away from home because I didn’t get another ruler for my collection — my parents took me to a child psychologist.

He asked me to tell him the first measurement that popped into my mind. I gave him the distance to the moon in miles. And kilometers, feet, meters and inches. I wanted him to know he wasn’t dealing with a stupid little kid — at least not when it came to measurements. He scribbled something in his pad and spent the rest of the session teaching me relaxation exercises. Then he asked my parents for $125.

That evening I overheard my folks discussing things they’d have to give up to afford my sessions. Mom especially was upset about Saturday date night. Guilt pushed down on me, and I vowed to control my compulsion. Or at least hide it. When I felt an urge biting, I went to my room, flicked baseball cards and measured how far they flew. I admired my collection of rulers only under the covers with a flashlight in the middle of the night. I eventually convinced my folks I was cured, and they stopped my sessions.

I bumped along the next few years pretty well thanks to my relaxation exercises and exercising discretion. I flicked a lot of baseball cards. I did have a few slip-ups though.

One was because of this crack in the floor outside the boys’ room in middle school. I ignored the fracture till I couldn’t resist any longer. I whipped out my tape, fell to my knees … and Principal Johnson, who I’m sure was rushing to the lounge for a smoke, tripped over me. I wouldn’t have thought a little forehead cut could bleed so much. Or that a grown man would faint at the sight of blood.  Anyway, the school counselor informed my parents I was “at it again” and recommended they take me to an OCD specialist, but Mom wouldn’t have it.

My biggest mistake was sophomore year. I told Debbie Dunker she had pretty hands and asked how long her fingers were. After that, every time she or her clique saw me, they started laughing. I was glad when it came time to escape to college, but my relief wasn’t to last long.

At the university, I found that between having a roommate and struggling to keep up in classes, I barely had opportunity or time to measure anything. The pressure built until one day I exploded out of a lecture hall, my emergency tape in hand, and started measuring everything in sight — the water fountain, the width of the hallway, height of the exit door … the tire of a bike parked outside, the height of the curb.

I measured my way back to the dorm, found a janitor’s ladder and climbed to the top to measure the distance down. I went onto the roof and dangled my pride and joy, a 100-foot Lufkin. I measured till exhaustion stumbled me to my room. I didn’t leave it for two weeks except to eat and go to the toilet. I decided college wasn’t for me and went home.  

Mom had thrown out my baseball cards, so I rolled poker chips around the house and logged their distance. My fingers wore off the markings from my favorite tape measure. I found myself studying my hands as if they held the missing numbers. I stood outside, my open arms measuring empty spaces.

Dad finally couldn’t take it anymore and got me a job on a construction crew. Mom said if I messed up, she’d kick me out of the house.

Turned out I loved my work, and my boss was impressed with my commitment to “measure twice, cut once.” I didn’t tell him how hard it was for me to stop at twice.

After about a year, I could afford my own studio apartment. Between my job and living alone, I could measure to my heart’s content. I was probably overdoing it. Then I met Diana.

I was framing a house when I noticed a surveyor pinning the lot. My eyes leapt to her bright red hair. I had to know how long it was. During a break, I introduced myself, planning to distract her and quickly hold my tape measure to her hair. I asked her to point out the back property line to me. Before doing so, she explained, elegantly, the measurements she’d made. By the time she turned to point out the boundary, I was so smitten, I felt it would be wrong to secretly hold my tape to her head. Instead I asked her to dinner.

After our 12th date in 41 days, I was over the moon for Diana and decided to disclose my obsession. I feared she might dump me, but felt I owed her the truth. Diana listened carefully, took my hand and said if I ever needed to measure her hair or fingers or anything else, I could — as long as I asked first. It was as if something had pick me up, shook me gently and set me back down. From then on, my obsession became easier to manage. I found almost all I needed was to sneak a few extra measurements on the job. My boss was ever impressed that I never made a wrong cut.

Diana and I eventually moved into a small bungalow together. That was several years ago, and we’re still there. Tall hedges seclude the back yard. Sometimes on warm, crickety nights we take a blanket and fool around under the stars. One evening, we were lying on our backs when Diana asked me the distance to the moon. I told her it was closer than I ever imagined.

(Note to reader: This story is 1,069 words long. I’m much better, but not completely cured.)

David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for a Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous print and online journals including Soft Cartel, Gravel, Moonpark Review, Bull and Cross, Lost Balloon, The Fiction Pool, Fiction on the Web and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.

“To Hell in a Wheelbarrow” by David Henson


One morning before work, I was watching the news and lamenting the condition of the world — shootings, political squabbling, international tensions, climate change — when an alien materialized in my living room. The being looked to be mainly human except it had a horizontal slit instead of a nose. When I asked why it was in my house, it didn’t speak, but I seemed to feel the answer: The alien was an advance scout.

I called 911, sensing that the alien didn’t care, that it knew no one would believe me. I felt an I-told-you-so from the alien when the dispatcher said it was a crime to make a fraudulent emergency call and hung upon me.

I aimed my phone at the alien, but my camera malfunctioned. I sensed the alien chuckling. I checked my watch and saw it was about time for my girlfriend to stop by on her way to work as she normally does. She would be my witness.

As I waited for Lulu, the creature unspooled a wire from its chest and plugged it into an electrical socket. The alien began shimmering, elongated an arm and pressed its hand to the living room window. I felt that the alien was signaling an armada of ships hiding behind the moon.

I won’t let you get away with this, I said, and felt a sadness coming from the alien. Maybe it was sorry for what they were going to do. When Lulu arrived, I saw the alien had disguised itself as dust on the coffee table. I told her what was happening. She looked worried and put her palm to my forehead. Then as she left for work, she suggested I stay home and read a good book instead of watching the news all day. “You know how sensitive you are, James.” Sure, shed a few tears when your guinea pig dies and never live it down. As soon as Lulu left, the alien reappeared in its true form.

Lulu had said not to mention a word about the alien to anyone else. Sometimes I’m not sure whose side she’s on. I went to the office and told my boss everything.

Ms. Topchienne sent me home and was even nice enough to have someone from Security take me. Insisting Brinks come into my house, I tiptoed up the sidewalk with him behind me, eased open the lock, turned the handle ever so slowly — then flung open the door and burst inside. “There! The alien!” I pointed to the dust crouching on the coffee table.

Brinks headed for the car, and I shouted after him “Tell Ms. Topchienne what you saw here.”  

As soon as Brinks drove off, the being reappeared. My boss called a short time later and told me to take a week off.

Over the next few days, the alien kept a hand pressed to the window in communication with its fleet and watched a 24-hour news station non-stop. Your world is going to hell in a wheelbarrow, I felt the creature tell me. “Hand basket,” I said. I thought I sensed sympathy.

Each time Lulu stopped by to check on me, the creature disguised itself as dust on the coffee table. Once, I grabbed the vacuum, but the window fogged up. When I reached for a rag to wipe the glass, I saw dust on the fireplace mantle. Lulu said she appreciated me wanting to keep my place clean, but was going to leave if I didn’t “shut up about the stupid Martian.” I told her I didn’t think it was stupid nor a Martian. Lulu left.

The next day, I emailed a “letter to the editor” at the local paper, but they refused to publish it. I called talk radio, but they only joked about the alien’s political affiliation. I felt the creature telling me to give up trying to divulge its presence.

I also could sense that the armada was almost ready. They were just waiting for my alien to give the final go-ahead. I knew it was up to me to stop it. I called Lulu and told her she had to come to my place. I promised not to talk about the alien. Desperate times were calling.

As soon as Lulu walked in, the alien became dust on the coffee table as expected. I explained to my girlfriend why she had to stay, that as long as she was there to be my witness, the alien wouldn’t re-form and launch the attack. She looked scared, and I thought she understood. Then she turned to go. I grabbed a lamp. As I said, desperate times.


♦ ♦ ♦


I love Lulu with all my heart and took great care to not bind her wrists and ankles too tightly. I’d have removed her gag more often to give her water and something to eat if she hadn’t screamed. We’d been guarding the dust on the coffee table for nearly two days, staying awake with help from the news channel blasting into the room. Events around the world were as horrible as ever. Suddenly a feeling spread over me as if someone had cracked a raw egg on my head. It was the sense of sympathy again. Could it be I had this all wrong? Maybe the aliens were coming to help, not conquer. I decided to take a chance and untied Lulu.

As soon as she scrambled out the door, my alien reappeared. I sensed it sending the “go” signal to its comrades.


♦ ♦ ♦


I hear the alien ships approaching. They sound a lot like sirens. I’m hoping for the best. Otherwise this world’s going to hell in a wheelbarrow.



David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for a Best of the Net and has appeared in various journals including Soft Cartel, Gravel, Literally Stories, and Fictive Dream. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8