Dana Kujan

Quantum Leap Drabbles

But Now I See

His sight was fading, but he still made out the square of white.

"Forget it, Padre," he rasped. "I got nothing to say to Him."

The priest spoke softly, "What makes you say that?"

"Bastard took everyone I ever loved."

"Maybe he needed them… to come home."

"Home," he snorted. "Sam never came home."

"But he was never far from you."

"How would you know?"

The priest whispered, "I am Sam."

Then he saw: the muddy green eyes, the white forelock.

"Sam?"

He felt himself gathered into strong arms, heard the words, "Let’s go home."

The blue light embraced them.

Channel Surfing

It’s been a weird morning. I woke up to find Beth perched on the edge of the bed, tying her shoelaces. She patted my knee, told me to hurry or I’d be late. By the time I got to the kitchen, Lisa was cooking oatmeal. I hate that stuff; so, we ended up arguing about my cholesterol. I stormed out, and Tina followed me to the door for a kiss.

I don’t know what you’re doing, Sam-- except maybe bouncing around like a Ping-Pong ball-- but I sure hope you’re the one waiting for me when I get home tonight.

Coming Home

Sam Beckett woke with a start, which was often the case when he leaped into a sleeping person. The room smelled of stale sex, and even staler smoke. He rubbed his face and sat up, hoping to orient himself. The room had modern, even pseudo-futuristic, furnishings. It wasn’t his style.

He lifted the black satin sheet and looked down. He was male, and naked.

"Hey, you’re up!" Al Calavicci exclaimed from the doorway. But there was no white square around him.

In a rush, he remembered: the mingled tastes of beer and cigar, Al moving over him.

He was home.

Do-Overs

The first time we met was in front of a soda machine. I was half-drunk, enraged because it ate my dime.

You befriended me anyway.

After you’d been leaping a while, I recalled that we first met in front of a coffee machine. I wasn’t drunk; I was short a quarter.

We clicked instantly.

Now, you’ve leaped into yourself on the exact date we always meet for the first time. You’re in the restroom of the Alamogordo Gym, drying your hands. You just happen to be standing near a condom dispenser.

I can’t wait to see how this plays out.
 

A Friend of Dorothy

Al’s jaw dropped, sending his cigar tumbling toward the floor. By mere chance, it stubbed itself out on the toe of his lime-green, faux-alligator shoe before hitting the carpet and rolling under the sofa.

Al’s eyes widened at a slightly slower pace, but before long, there was more white than color showing. He forced them up and down the spectacle that had suddenly materialized in his living room: the dark braids, the blue-and-white checkered dress… the ruby slippers.

“I leaped-- on Broadway-- opening night,” Sam was stammering. “And when I clicked my heels…”

“There’s no place like home!” Al crowed.

in Hell

Blood was everywhere.

Al wiped a tear from his cheek, covered his mouth with his hand.

Sam sat in the darkest corner of the room, staring at but not seeing the carnage, divorced from the grotesque tableau he had created. He was catatonic, just like the last time. When he awoke, he would flee the scene: in horror, denial.

Al thought of the monster in the Waiting Room. Ziggy had compared the transference to Oswald. But this was worse, much worse.

Every day, the monster grew stronger, and Sam slipped further away: rotting in the body of Jack the Ripper.

Miles to Go

Al got in the jeep and drove, the project building shrinking in the rearview until it disappeared. The jeep had to be taken out, maintained, until Sam came home to reclaim it. It probably wasn’t a good idea to floor it the way Al did, but what the hell.

Many miles and hours later, Al stopped. Way out there in the dessert, it would’ve been pitch black if not for the moon. Al looked up at the silver disk. He had been there once, a long time ago.

The distance was nothing compared to how far he felt from Sam.
Al got in the jeep and drove, the project building shrinking in the rearview until it disappeared. The jeep had to be taken out, maintained, until Sam came home to reclaim it. It probably wasn’t a good idea to floor it the way Al did, but what the hell.

Many miles and hours later, Al stopped. Way out there in the dessert, it would’ve been pitch black if not for the moon. Al looked up at the silver disk. He had been there once, a long time ago.

The distance was nothing compared to how far he felt from Sam.

Nightmare in Blue

A breeze whispered through the apartment, filling it with the scent of salt water and romance. Sam didn't know who he was, but recognized the man that pulled him onto his lap: Stephen Baldwin. Like all the brothers, he was handsome with an infectious grin. He rubbed Sam's stomach, licked his face.

"I could just eat you up…"

Suddenly, his fingernails dug into Sam's belly, breaking the skin, as his teeth shredded the flesh of Sam's cheek.

*

Sam bolted upright with a gasp.

"You had that dream where you leap into the blue M&M again, didn't you," Al asked sleepily.

SpAM

I could smell Gooshie’s breath over my shoulder.

“What?”

“You don’t have to read all that spam, you know. You can set filters to delete it.”

“I know.”

“Then, why don’t you?”

“I like spam.”

“Why?“

“Gooshie!” I spun around. Then, I sighed. “Okay. The truth is: When Sam is in the right decade, sometimes he emails me—“

“Emails you what?”

I cleared my throat. “Personal things… we don’t want recorded in the Imaging Chamber.”

“Oh.”

“So, every once in a while, I have to pour over my inbox to see if something has popped in.”

Gooshie smiled. “Genius!”

Starbucks, Starbright

"Ugh! This whiskey's awful."

"It's coffee."

"Oh. Good coffee."

Dr. Beckett was glad Captain Calavicci was too drunk to resist his efforts to sober him up. He needed him lucid and on his team. He just knew it.

"I know you won't remember this," Dr. Beckett said, "but, to kill time, I'll explain my String Theory..."

Captain Calavicci groaned. "Good coffee. Somebody should open a bar that just serves coffee."

"Uh-huh."

"A coffee bar. Wouldn't that be a kick in the butt?"

"Yeah."

A man sitting near them got up to leave.

The bartender called out, "'Night, Howard*."

"Good coffee."

(*Author's Note: Howard Schultz is the founder of Starbucks. I have no idea if he was ever in a bar in New Mexico, or, if so, what year he might have visited, but in the QL universe, anything is possible.)

Tears in Heaven

They say if it rains the day someone dies, the soul has entered Heaven; the angels are weeping with joy.

I stare not out the window but at it, watching the raindrops slide down the pane; they certainly look like tears.

I feel a warm presence behind me. I shift my gaze and see my mother’s reflection in the glass.

"Your father’s in a better place."

Instead of here, in Hell, with us.

I shrug off her touch. "I’m going for a walk."

"Sam, it’s raining."

They say if you walk in the rain, no one can tell you’re crying.

Thoughts & Prayers

So many candles: five rows of ten.

Al paused, the burning match in his hand momentarily forgotten.

There would be a flame for each year of Sam’s life. Maybe that was a sign.

Al lit the remaining candle, blew out and disposed of the match.

There would never be enough candles to represent all the lives Sam had touched, was touching.

Al wondered if Sam had touched any of the souls burning brightly before him.

One of the flames suddenly vanished, its wax solidified and filled up the cup as if by some miracle.

Al relit it.

“Happy Birthday, Sam.”

Two-Way

"Capisce?"

"Don’t you 'capisce' me!"

"Sam, be reasonable. The world is divided into two types of people: tops and bottoms."

"Give me a break!"

"I have always been a top."

"And I’m a bottom?"

"Well... you wouldn’t think it to look at you."

"Gee, thanks."

"I didn’t mean it like that."

"How did you mean it?"

"I just meant, it’s not my thing. I wouldn’t enjoy it."

"Then, why do I enjoy it?"

"Well..."

"And clutch the sheets?"

"Yes, but..."

"And scream your name?"

"Whew! You really do seem to enjoy it."

"You’d enjoy it, too."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. Capisce?"

Vintage Year

It had been a long week and a bad leap— or vice versa. Either way, Sam almost lost his life (again) and the retrieval program failed (again).

That’s why Al’s spirits lifted only slightly when he, upon turning into the driveway, noticed the package propped up against the front door. With great care, he picked up the box, carried it into the house, set it on the kitchen table, and unwrapped it. This was no liquor store champagne.

Al ran his thumb over the label: Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Grande Dame ’95.

Someday, he and Sam would pop the cork together.

What He Doesn't Remember

Dear Sam,

Someday you’ll not only forgive but thank me for this. I know right now you’re confused, hurt, and embarrassed. You may even hate me. But better you hate me for this than grow to resent me.

I can only hope that you’ll come to realize who you really are and admit to yourself that marrying me-- any woman-- is not what you want or need.

I also pray that you find the strength to live your life without apology and the courage to see that the world, and not you, needs to change.

I do love you,
Donna

Yin & Yang

Sam took a last appraising look in the mirror, then slid into bed. He kissed each of Al’s fingertips, traced the full mouth, the strong jaw. Placing palms against Al’s chest, Sam reveled in the perspiration breaking out there. Following the trail of sweat, Sam moved lower. He lifted the waistband of Al’s boxers, slipped a hand inside.

At the sound of the door opening, Sam bolted upright, yanking the covers up to his chin.

“How do you like that?” Al said in greeting. “Sam! You’ve leaped into me again. Isn’t that something?”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned. “It’s gonna be great.”