Recipe For Life - Stories

THE SIGHT

2008-01-07T12:23:00.001-08:00

SIGHT

“Time?”
“11:44.”
“Ok, call it.”
I opened my eyes. That disturbing dream again. Darkness muffled by cotton gauze and syringe sharp needles pressed against my forehead from within. Bright sparks ignited every time a needle pricked my brain and slowly the gauze and heavy darkness gave way to early morning gray. I rose. Dragging my feet across the room I found myself staring at a corpse in the mirror. Pale mottled skin and straggled strands of unkempt hair drawn across a sallow face did not hide the sunken eyes or pallid gaunt cheeks that formed the death’s skull illusion before me. I brushed the yellow teeth and ran a washcloth over my face, brushing back the hair. Not much improvement.
4:30 in the morning is not a conversational time. Very few bodies moved silently about the city and those unfortunate to be about at this hour tended to shy from company in general. I was grateful for the solitude as I passed through the door into my office. I stumbled against a leather ottoman and cursed the cleaning crew for rearranging the furniture again then awkwardly found my way to a huge worn mahogany desk and safely deposited my body in an old cushioned office chair. My partner, Leroy Shrugg never graced his presence this early when he was alive, but lounged across the couch opposite me while I checked my phone messages.
I removed my glasses and pinched my eyes closed tightly for a few moments and opened them again. Yes he was still there. Leo was a figment of my imagination of course, but since the accident, figments have been playing a large role in my life. It was still difficult to look back at what happened just a few weeks ago. I never could have imagined how such a routine job could take such a drastic turn that terrible January night.
Rain drummed non-stop against the van, seeping through the rusted hole in the corner of the roof, soaking into a rag I jammed roughly to stop the wind. It was cold - bitterly cold, much too cold for surveillance. Still I watched and I waited. This was the easy part of my job. A few hours stakeout; a few pictures. Keep the clients happy and they pay, fifty-five bucks an hour plus expenses, keeps me happy too. But not that night, that night was different. That night there would be no payment. Sitting there freezing in the middle of winter, this time was different all right.
I had picked the spot carefully. No one would notice another abandoned junk heap rusting amongst the rotting debris and stinking decay strewn everywhere. I remember blowing on my hands, my breath turning to vapor in the icy air. Rubbing them together, trying to encourage blood back into my numbed fingers. I tugged my collar up high around the neck to keep out the draught that was blasting through the taped up window as well as an unconscious act of playing the tough guy as I pulled the rim of my hat down further over my eyes. I shudder at the vivid memories that are all to easy to access.
Looking out through the cracked tinted glass, I could see lights glowing dimly behind closed curtains of the last two inhabited houses. The others were just shells, no windows, no doors, and some with no roofs. Like ghosts from a previous age, haunting only the memories of the few stragglers left behind. Nothing had moved, not since the old guy at the end of the street had taken his mangy dog out for a walk. That was two hours ago. Time was dragging. I remember I looked down at my watch.
Then came the yawn, large and silent and I began to stretch, fighting the cramp creeping into my muscles, pushing myself hard against the armchair bolted in the rear of my ancient Ford Econoline. I decided the night was a bust and began to disentangle myself from the rear of the van, when a feint light appeared as a door cracked open across the street. I reached for my Mark III Panoscan forensic camera and brought it to focus just in time to capture the image of a figure stepping out of the shadows into the street. I continued to snap photos as the shape took form and suddenly I swore to myself, flung the camera down and threw the back doors open.
“What do you think you are doing?” I whispered in incredulous exasperation at the oncoming image. “You will ruin…” at that moment headlights illuminated the dingy street and a loud engine roared around the corner. I looked up and frantically dove for my partner without thinking but before I could reach him, the oncoming car was past me and Leroy lay dead and disfigured fifteen feet away. I looked around and saw that the vehicle stopped down the street. I walked slowly towards the dark sedan. I saw no movement at all as I approached. Only its taillights glared angrily at me, and wisps of smoke escaped the exhaust pipe. I pulled my revolver as I drew near the passenger side door. There appeared to be no one inside as I cautiously peered through the window and then, nothing. Darkness.
“Time?”
“11:44.”
“Ok, call it.”
Dead for two minutes. That’s what they told me, I was officially deceased. Toe tag bound. The attending physician fully expected my autopsy to reveal cause of death as blunt force trauma to the head. He did not expect me to kick death in the crotch and return to the living. And for that matter neither did the attending nurse.
“Excuse me, Doctor? Are you sure he’s dead?”

Further Tales of Sherpa Kitty

2007-11-14T20:51:00.000-08:00

SHERPA KITTY AND THE FIVE MAGICAL BEANS
There was once upon a time a little kitten that lived near a frozen lake in a large valley nestled below the Himalayan Mountains named Sherpa Kitty who one day came upon a young boy named Jack, and a milky white yak named Milky-White. Jack told Sherpa Kitty that all he and his sickly mother had to live on was the milk the yak gave every morning, which he carried to the market in the village across the valley and sold. The trip took so long that by the time he came home, it was time to leave again. But this morning Milky-White gave no milk, and they didn't know what to do.
"What shall we do, what shall we do?" said Jack’s sickly mother, wringing her hands.
"Cheer up, mother, I'll go and get work somewhere," said Jack.
"We've tried that before, and nobody would take you," said Jack’s sickly mother. "We must sell Milky-White and with the money start a shop, or buy ice fishing gear and sell fish."
"All right, mother," said Jack. "I’ll be off to the village market today, and I'll soon sell Milky-White, and then we'll see what we can do."
So Jack took the yak’s halter in his hand, and off he started. He hadn't gone far when he met Sherpa Kitty, who said to him, "Good morning, Jack."
"Good morning to you," said Jack, and wondered how she knew his name. “How fare you this fine day?”
"Well, Jack, and where are you off to?" said Sherpa Kitty.
"I'm going to the village market to sell our milky white yak Milky-White there."
“But what of your sickly mother, Jack? Who is to care for her?”
“Well I am.” Said Jack defensively. “But I spend all my time traveling so I cannot care for my mother properly. I am so wrought with guilt.”
“I am Sherpa Kitty, Jack; may chance you have heard of me. I am here to help you.” Said Sherpa Kitty. “I will sell your cow for you.”
“Thank you Sherpa Kitty.” Said Jack, for well had he heard of Sherpa Kitty in his travels across the great valley beneath the Himalayan Mountains.
Jack handed Milky-White the Yak over to Sherpa Kitty and rushed off to tend to his sickly mother. Sherpa Kitty set off in the direction of the village market.
“Is that a yak at your back?” came an inquiring voice from high above. Sherpa Kitty looked up to see the smiling face of the great Yeti Yeshe looking down at her.
“This yak belongs to Jack and his sickly mother. Milky-White will bare no milk so I have offered to sell her at the village market.” Said Sherpa Kitty.
“I wonder if you are best suited for selling a yak Sherpa Kitty, the village is a long way off and you have never sold anything in your life. Perhaps I should buy her for a fair price and take Milky-White to my cavern by the frozen lake.” Suggested Yeshe.
“What do you offer, Yeti?” inquired Sherpa Kitty.
“Why a fine pole with strong line to catch fish with.” Said Yeshe. “I only found this today on the frozen lake bed when some strangers ran from me as I strolled by. I do not care for fish but I do fancy the company of your fine yak friend there. Perhaps with some care and comfort Milky-White might once again produce milk.”
After carefully considering Yeshe’s generous offer Sherpa Kitty addressed her long time friend.
“A fine offer my pal, but I suspect that more can be made from the village market than on the road bantering with an old friend, and if Milky-White were to be found unsociable company and finished with her yak milk yielding days, I would feel guilty and remorseful, so I think I will not sell you this yak Yeshe.”
“Have it your way Sherpa Kitty, but know my offer may not be available later.” And with that the great Yeti Yeshe turned and bound into the snow quickly fading from sight.
Sherpa Kitty pressed on, urging Milky-White along as she begrudgingly followed, thinking out loud that maybe Yeshe’s offer was a fair one after all.
“Oh, you do look the proper sort to sell a yak.” Came a voice from behind a flowery ginger bush, as Ounce poked his sinister snout out from its fragrant hiding place.
”What are you up to?” Asked Sherpa Kitty suspicious of the shady creature that greeted him.
“I am just an interested party, considering making an offer for that juicy, I mean healthy looking yak Sherpa Kitty.” Said the nefarious snow leopard Ounce.
“And just what do you have to offer for this fine creature?” asked Sherpa Kitty.
“I have a broken claw that is very sharp and strong. It could be used as a pick to gather gems from the mountains to make jewelry.” Said Ounce quietly. “I broke this claw as I scrambled out of the frozen lake some time back and I have kept it with me all this time. Perhaps a smart little kitty like you knows its value.”
A jewelry shop could be quite profitable for Jack, thought Sherpa Kitty. “That seems a proper offer from you Ounce, but I must confess I have no trust for you at all. I will not sell this fine Yak to you today.”
“Your loss.” Growled the snow leopard. “ I will not make such a generous offer again Sherpa Kitty, and it is a long march to the village market. Terrible things can happen.”
I shudder to think thought Sherpa Kitty as she and Milky-White made their way across the valley. Ounce is a powerful foe and I should not be on his bad side. Perhaps I should have taken his offer, considered Sherpa Kitty.
Just then a voice cried out “Beans for sale! Beans for sale! Buy your magical beans right here!”
“Excuse me sir,” said Sherpa Kitty to the tall gaunt fellow dressed in a shabby torn choba-robe. “Why are you selling beans by the side of the road?”
“I am a desperate man, in a desperate need.” Said the gaunt man. “My wife is sick and cannot feed our baby and I must sell our only treasure to buy milk for my child.”
“And how many beans do you have to sell?” Asked Sherpa Kitty.
"I wonder if you know how many beans make five." Said the man.
"One under each paw and one in my mouth," said Sherpa Kitty, as sharp as a needle.
"Right you are," replied the man, "that is how many I have and here they are, the very beans themselves," he went on, pulling out of his pocket a number of strange-looking beans. "As you are so sharp," says he, "I don't see any reason to haggle with you I will give you -- all these magical beans for your yak."
"And what of these magical beans," said Sherpa Kitty. "What will they do?"
"Ah! You don't know what these beans are," said the man. "If you plant them overnight, by morning they grow right up to the sky. Eberyone knows what magical beans do Sherpa Kitty!"
"Really?" said Sherpa Kitty. "You don't say."
"Yes, that is so. And if it doesn't turn out to be true you can have you’re your milky white yak back."
"All right, then." Said Sherpa Kitty, as she handed over Milky-White's halter and tucked the beans under her hoodie.
Back to Jack went Sherpa Kitty, and as she hadn't gone very far it wasn't dusk by the time she came to his door.
"Back already?” asked Jack, as his mother called out from her bedside.
“I am back already with a fair deal for you.” Said Sherpa Kitty. “I bring you five magical beans!”
“Beans?” asked Jack. “What will I do with only five beans?”
“It should be more, I agree,” said Sherpa Kitty, “but all I had was one yak.”
“Oh my goodness.” Said Jack as he walked back to his mother’s bedside.
“They are magical.” Called out Sherpa Kitty behind Jack’s back.
"I see you haven't got Milky-White, so you've sold her. How much did you get for her, then?" asked Jack’s sickly mother.
"You'll never guess, mother," said Jack.
"No, you don't say. Good boy! Five pounds? Ten? Fifteen? No, it can't be twenty." Guessed Jack’s mother.
“I told you, you couldn't guess. What do you say to these beans? They're magical and we have five of them. Plant them overnight and…”
“What!” exclaimed Jack's sickly mother. “Have you been such a fool, such a dolt, such an idiot, as to give away my Milky-White, the best milk yak in the valley, and prime meat to boot, for a set of paltry beans? Take that! Take that! Take that! And as for your precious beans here they go out of the window. Now off with you to bed with you, not a sup shall you sip, and not a bit shall you bite this very night."
So Jack went upstairs to his little room in the attic, and sad and sorry he was, to be sure, as much for his mother's sake as for the loss of his supper.
At last he dropped off to sleep.
Sherpa Kitty was upset as well for she knew that Jack’s sickly mother had not taken the good news so lightly in the throws of one of her sickly spells. Poor Jack went to bed hungry and Sherpa Kitty had to make things right. But for now, Sherpa Kitty chose to sleep on how to best deal with the problems at hand and curled up right on top of the tossed magical beans moments before falling into a deep sleep.
When Sherpa Kitty awoke, her head was in the clouds. As she looked around she was high above the mountain peaks around her, higher than she knew was possible. She rose and stretched on a thick green vine that was four times as wide as she and extended out as far as the eye could see.
After a good stretch and yawn, Sherpa Kitty walked along the length of the green branch that shot away from the main beanstalk. Sherpa Kitty walked for quite a while until she happened upon a big tall house. And In front of the house was a big tall woman.
"Good morning, madam," said Sherpa Kitty, quite polite-like. "Could you be so kind as to share some breakfast?" For she hadn't had anything to eat don’t you know, the night before, and was as hungry as a hunter.
"Its breakfast you want, is it?" spoke the great big tall woman. "It's breakfast you'll be if you don't move off from here. My man is an ogre and there's nothing he likes better than kittens broiled on toast. You'd better be moving on or he'll be coming, for you."
"Oh! Please madam, do give me something to eat. I've had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, really and truly, madam," said Sherpa Kitty. "I may as well be broiled as die of hunger."
Well, the ogre's wife was not half so bad after all. So she took Sherpa Kitty into the kitchen, and gave her a hunk of cheese and a bowl of milk. But Sherpa Kitty hadn't half finished these when thump! Thump! Thump! The whole house began to tremble with the noise of someone coming.
"Goodness gracious me! It's my old man," said the ogre's wife. "What on earth shall I do? Come along quick and jump in here." And she bundled Sherpa Kitty into the oven just as the ogre came in.
He was a big one, to be sure. At his belt he had three goats strung up by the heels, and he unhooked them and threw them down on the table and said, "Here, wife, broil me a couple of these for breakfast. Ah! What’s this I smell?”
“Listen to me little ditty, I smell the blood of a Sherpa Kitty,Be she alive, or be she dead, I'll have her bones to grind my bread."
"Nonsense, dear," said his wife. "You' re dreaming. Or perhaps you smell the scraps of that little kitty you liked so much for yesterday's dinner. Here, you go and have a wash and tidy up, and by the time you come back your breakfast'll be ready for you."
So off the ogre went, and Sherpa Kitty was just going to jump out of the oven and run away when the woman warned him no. "Wait till he's asleep," said she; "he always has a doze after breakfast."
Well, the ogre had his breakfast, and after that he went to a big chest and took out a couple of bags of gold, and down he sat and counted ‘till at last his head began to nod and he began to snore till the whole house shook again.
Then Sherpa Kitty crept out on cats feet from the great oven, and as she was passing the ogre, she took one of the bags of gold in her mouth, and off she scampered ‘till she came to the beanstalk, and then she threw down the bag of gold, which, of course, fell into Jack’s yard, and then Sherpa Kitty climbed down and climbed down till at last she got to Jack’s home and told her tale to Jack and his sickly mother and showed them the gold when Jack said, “Well, mother, wasn't I right about the beans? They are really magical, you see.”
So Jack and his sickly mother lived on the bag of gold for some time, but at last they came to the end of it, and Jack went to Sherpa Kitty for help asking that she to try her luck once more at the top of the beanstalk. So one fine morning Sherpa Kitty rose up early, and got onto the beanstalk, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed till at last she came out onto the branch again and over to the great tall house she had been to before. There, sure enough, was the great tall woman a-standing on the doorstep.
"Good morning, madam," said Sherpa Kitty, as bold as brass, "could you be so good as to give me something to eat?"
"Go away, little kitty," said the big tall woman, "or else my man will eat you up for breakfast. But aren't you Sherpa Kitty who came here once before? Do you know, that very day my man missed one of his bags of gold?”
"That is strange, madam," said Sherpa Kitty, “I dare say I could tell you something about that, but I'm so hungry I can't speak till I've had something to eat.”
Well, the big tall woman was so curious that she took her in and gave Sherpa Kitty something to eat. But she had scarcely begun munching it as slowly as she could when thump! Thump! They heard the giant's footstep, and his wife hid Sherpa Kitty away in the great oven once more.
All happened as it did before. In came the ogre as he did before, and said,
“Listen to me little ditty, I smell the blood of a Sherpa Kitty,Be she alive, or be she dead, I'll have her bones to grind my bread.”
And he sat down and had his breakfast of three broiled bullocks.
Then he said, “Wife, bring me the hen that lays the golden eggs.” So she brought it, and the ogre said, “Lay,” and it laid an egg all of gold pure through and through. And then the ogre began to nod his head, and to snore till the house shook.
So Sherpa Kitty crept out of the oven on cat paws and caught hold of the golden hen, and was off before you could say “Sherpa Kitty.” But this time the hen gave a cackle, which woke the ogre, and just as Sherpa Kitty got out of the house she heard him calling, "Wife, wife, what have you done with my golden hen?"
And the wife said, "Why, my dear?"
But that was all Sherpa Kitty heard, for she rushed off to the beanstalk and climbed down like a house on fire. And when she got all the way down to Jack’s home she showed Jack and his sickly mother the wonderful hen, and said “Lay” to it; and it laid a golden egg every time Sherpa Kitty said “Lay.”
Well, Jack and his sickly mother were not content, and it wasn't long before he begged Sherpa Kitty to have another try at her luck up there at the top of the beanstalk. So one fine morning Sherpa Kitty rose up early and got on to the beanstalk, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed and she climbed ‘till she got to the top.
But this time she knew better than to go straight to the ogre's house. And when she got near it, Sherpa Kitty waited behind a fragrant ginger bush till he saw the ogre's wife come out with a pail to get some water, and then she crept into the house and climbed into the copper. She hadn't been there long when Sherpa Kitty heard thump! Thump! Thump! As before, and in came the ogre and his wife.
“Listen to me little ditty, I smell the blood of a Sherpa Kitty,Be she alive, or be she dead, I'll have her bones to grind my bread.”
Cried out the ogre. “I smell her, wife, I smell her.”
“Do you, my dearie?” asked the ogre's wife. “Then, if it's that little Sherpa Kitty that stole your gold and the hen that laid the golden eggs she's sure to have got into the oven.” And they both rushed to the oven.
But Sherpa Kitty wasn't there, luckily, and the ogre' s wife said, “There you are again with your kitty ditty. Why, of course, it's the kitty you caught last night that I've just broiled for your breakfast. How forgetful I am, and how careless you are not to know the difference between live and dead after all these years.”
So the ogre sat down to the breakfast and ate every bit of it, but every now and then he would mutter, “Well, I could have sworn…” and he'd get up and search the larder and the cupboards and everything, only, luckily, he didn't think of the copper.
After breakfast was over, the ogre called out, "Wife, wife, bring me my golden harp."
So she brought it and put it on the table before him. Then he said, "Sing!" and the golden harp sang most beautifully. And it went on singing till the ogre fell asleep, and commenced to snore like thunder.
Then Sherpa Kitty lifted up the copper lid very quietly and crawled down like a cat stalking a mouse and crept and crouched till she came to the table; when up she crawled, caught hold of the golden harp and dashed with it towards the door.
But the harp called out quite loud, “Master! Master!” and the ogre woke up just in time to see Sherpa Kitty running off with his harp.
Sherpa Kitty ran as fast as she could, and the ogre came rushing after, and would soon have caught her, only Sherpa Kitty was fast as the wind and dodged the ogre a bit and knew where she was going. When she got to the beanstalk the ogre was no more than twenty yards away when suddenly he saw Sherpa Kitty disappear like, and when he came to the end of the road he saw Sherpa Kitty underneath climbing down for dear life. Well, the ogre didn't like trusting himself to such a ladder, and he stood and waited, so Sherpa Kitty got another fast start.
But just then the harp cried out, "Master! Master!" and the ogre swung himself down onto the beanstalk, which shook with his weight. Down climbed Sherpa Kitty, and after him climbed the ogre.
By this time Sherpa Kitty had climbed down and climbed down and climbed down till he was very nearly dizzy, but also nearing the bottom. So she called out, “Jack! Jack! bring forth an ax, bring forth an ax.” And Jack came rushing out with the ax in his hand, but when he came to the beanstalk he stood stock still with fright, for there he saw the ogre with his legs just through the clouds.
But Jack took a deep breath and got a good hold of the ax and gave a chop at the beanstalk, which cut it half in two. The ogre felt the beanstalk shake and quiver, so he stopped to see what was the matter. Then Jack gave another chop with the ax, and the beanstalk was cut in two and began to topple over. Then the ogre very suddenly fell down and broke his crown, and the beanstalk came toppling after.
Then Sherpa Kitty shared with Jack and his sickly mother the golden harp, and what with showing that and selling the golden eggs, Jack and his sickly mother became very rich, and Jack became known far and wide as Jack the Giant killer. Jack hired a physician to care for his sickly mother and married a great princess, and they all lived happily ever after.
“Is that what really happened?” asked Yeshe the wise Yeti.
“As real as I am ready to admit,” admitted Sherpa Kitty.
THE END

Sherpa Kitty

2007-11-14T11:14:00.000-08:00

HOW SHERPA KITTY GOT HER HOODIE

Once and not so long ago, upon an ageless time there lived a lonely kitty near a frozen lake in a large valley nestled below the Himalayan Mountains. The little kitty was far too poor for Birkenstocks or warm lederhosen, nor did she even have a traditional Chuba-Robe to wear in the cold. She was often seen however, wearing a blue lambskin hoodie made of fur and silk thread, which came to her possession thanks to the lazy little girl who lived in a nearby village. Often neighboring animals would call her little Hoodie Cat but she would always exclaim "but I am Sherpa Kitty!" And so Sherpa Kitty is how everyone in the valley knew her.

This is the story of how Sherpa Kitty came upon her blue thread hoodie.

One day a lazy little girl who lived in a nearby village gave Sherpa Kitty a basket with some cakes and warm goats milk packed away inside and asked Sherpa Kitty to walk to the other side of the valley across the frozen lake to where Grandma Porter lay sick in her bed.

"Remember not to talk to strangers!" the little girl said.

On the way to Grandma Porter's cottage of stone and bamboo, Sherpa Kitty met a fierce Yeti.

"Is that you, Sherpa Kitty?" Asked the big bad looking Yeti.

"It is I, Sherpa Kitty," she replied "and who might you be Yeti?"

"I am the mighty Yeti Yeshe." He boldly replied "And where might you be going this frightfully cold day?"

"I am off to Grandma Porter's cottage far across the valley to the other side of the frozen lake to deliver this basket of goodies for the lazy little girl who warned me not to talk to strangers." said Sherpa Kitty.

"It is good we met then, Sherpa Kitty for now we are not strangers and I would be no gentleman if I did not offer to escort you on your long journey to the far side of the valley beyond the frozen lake." said the great Yeti Yeshe.

"Oh no, Mr. Yeshe I have promised the lazy little girl that I would not trust in strangers and must make hast around the lake if I am to make it to Grandma Porter's cottage before dark."

"I respect your wishes Sherpa Kitty although I worry about the wisdom of your choice." said the Yeti Yeshe. "But I will leave you to your journey and wish you well."

At that very moment the great Yeti turned away and blended into the snowy background as he dashed out of Sherpa Kitty's sight and far from Sherpa Kitty's thoughts.

"I must quickly be away." thought Sherpa Kitty for I have many hours of travel before me.

It was not long until she encountered Ounce, a snow leopard known throughout the valley to be of low regard and who smelled Grandma Porter’s basket from more than a mile away then tracked and stalked Sherpa Kitty for the longest time before presenting himself.

"Hello Sherpa Kitty, where are you going this fine frozen day?"

"I am going to Grandma Porter's cottage to deliver this basket of cakes and goat's milk for Grandma Porter feels not well this day." replied Sherpa Kitty.

"And why must you perform this thankless deed Sherpa Kitty?" asked the hungry snow leopard who was no leopard at all but a mean panther dressed all in white leopard fur with gentle tawny spots to blend into the countryside when he stalked his prey. "Why don't you just sit down and take a break, you look weary and hungry. Perhaps we could share what is in the basket?

"Oh no! Ounce, this is for Grandma Porter who lives across the valley beyond the frozen lake and I must hurry to reach her before the dark night falls."

"It is too bad you will not share your basket Sherpa Kitty, I could take it from you had I a mind too" thought Ounce ready to pounce, but at that very moment he detected a movement of shadow just so, in the snow bank behind and beyond Sherpa Kitty that brought to mind a juicy snow hare. A much better treat than stale cakes and goats milk for a hungry panther dressed as a snow leopard, so he bound off without so much as a goodbye to Sherpa Kitty in pursuit of possible prey.

Sherpa Kitty continued her trek across the white wilderness of the vast valley below the Himalayan peaks and hours passed while the sun slowly fell to earth ready to slide behind the tall mountains when suddenly, before her eyes emerged the site of Grandma Porter's stone and bamboo cottage.

Very excited to be concluding her journey and anxious to share her basket with sickly Grandma Porter, Sherpa Kitty rushed to the cottage, and knocked loudly on the door; for she knew Grandma Porter was deaf beyond her years and a heavy sleeper as well. If she were asleep in her sickbed, Sherpa Kitty knew not how she would raise grandma Porter's attention, but her fears were set aside when a low growl came from inside the house.

"Come in!" said the low gravelly voice from behind the door. "uh hummm, come in deary" came a higher strained voice welcoming Sherpa Kitty into the cottage.

Dashing in from the cold, Sherpa Kitty was happy to find Grandma Porter in bed with a roaring fire warming the gray stone walls of the cottage. Sherpa Kitty took a moment to appreciate the cozy hearth and shake off the snow from her fur in the doorway.

"Come here little Sherpa Kitty, and bring me that basket." Said the strained high pitch voice from Grandma Porter's bed. "Come sit beside me if you will and tell me of the goodies you brought me."

"How do you know who I am?" asked Sherpa Kitty.

"Everyone in the valley has heard of Sherpa Kitty!" growled the voice from the bed. "Now bring me my basket!"

The creature in the bed looked odd to Sherpa Kitty and she declared "My what white fur you have grandma!"

"All the better to keep warm my pretties" came the answer.

"And my, what big eyes you have grandma!" said Sherpa Kitty.

"All the better to see one so itty bitties." was the reply.

"And oh, my! What big teeth you have!" exclaimed Sherpa Kitty.

"All the better to eats the little kitties!" roared Ounce as he pounced from the bed.

It was once and not so long ago, upon an ageless time that there lived a lonely kitty near a frozen lake in a large valley nestled below the Himalayan mountains.

The young cat, known far and wide as Sherpa Kitty was talking to the lazy little girl who lived in a near bye village.

"And what happened next?" begged the lazy little girl.

"There is much to tell and I am weary and cold." said Sherpa Kitty.

"Oh my, Sherpa Kitty, please take this blue hoodie to cover your cold ears." Offered the lazy little girl. "You may keep it, I have a red one at home that matches my cape any ways."

"Thank you," replied Sherpa Kitty, "I will wear it always."

"Now tell me please! What happened after Ounce pounced on you?"

Now old Ounce was quite angry when he discovered there was no snow hare to be found, and after carefully searching the area, Sherpa Kitty was long gone as well. That is when the sinister mind of Ounce created a plan to steal Grandma Porter's basket from Sherpa Kitty.

Ounce knew of a shortcut to Grandma Porter's cottage and dashed away across the frozen lake dodging and leaping over dangerous thin ice patches and reached Grandma Porter's cottage just moments before Sherpa Kitty. He snuck up on Grandma Porter as she slept and whisked her away into a broom closet, as there was no time to do anything else when Sherpa Kitty knocked loudly on the front door. Ounce quickly crawled under the covers of Grandma Porter's bed, pulling them up tightly to his chin.

"Come in!" Ounce called out in a low gravelly voice from beneath the covers. "uh hummm, come in deary" he said with a higher strained voice after clearing his throat.

Sherpa Kitty burst through the door so fast it startled Ounce making him believe that she already knew what was amiss, but then as Sherpa Kitty shook the snow off of her fur, he realized she was merely eager to get in out of the cold.

"Come here little Sherpa Kitty, and bring me that basket." Ounce spoke with a strained high pitch voice from Grandma Porter's bed. "Come sit beside me if you will and tell me of the goodies you brought me."

"How do you know who I am?" asked a wary Sherpa Kitty.

"Everyone in the valley has heard of Sherpa Kitty!" Ounce said after thinking hard and fast. "Now bring me my basket!"

Sherpa Kitty looked puzzled and a little frightened and declared "My what white fur you have grandma!"

"All the better to keep warm my pretties" Ounce replied.

"And my, what big eyes you have grandma!" said Sherpa Kitty.

"All the better to see one so itty bitties." Ounce growled.

"And oh, my! What big teeth you have!" exclaimed Sherpa Kitty.

"All the better to eats the little kitties!" roared Ounce as he pounced from the bed.

Just at that moment the door burst open and the great white Yeti named Yeshe grabbed Ounce by the gruff of his neck, dragging the fiercely indignant snow leopard outside and then flung Ounce far over the lake bed where the sound of ice cracking and water splashing could be heard upon his descent.

Grandma Porter then came stumbling out of the closet so Yeshe and Sherpa Kitty put her back to bed and they all had cakes and goats milk and laughed at poor Ounce soaked to the bone and learning how to swim at his age.

Upon reflecting on the question posed by the lazy little girl from the nearby village, Sherpa Kitty replied; "Let's just say a wise friend knew when to not be a stranger."

The End

A DAY AT THE BEACH

2007-10-16T01:36:00.000-07:00

There is a reason why Sam Gambol became an explorer scout, preferring the quiet solitude of uncharted space to the dread responsibility involved in his previous line of work. Let’s just say that for Sam, a day at the beach was no walk in the park.

Sam Gambol sat quietly in the dim lit compartment, carefully studying the subspace surveillance stream being relayed to him. "Isolate 350/150," he ordered the computer.

"Activate MDO search."

And there it was on the floatie-screen in front of him, in all its blood and gore. He took his time, letting each of the pictures etch itself into his mind. The satellite probe had just circled Prometheus II once, but already he knew he had the critical data that would legalize his actions.

"Save targeted files and upload to Earth Data Central. Confirm receipt." They'll need to have those photos to justify what I'm about to do.

"Files received," the computer whispered in his mind.

"Activate the troops. We're going in."

Calling those he commanded "troops" was using the term loosely. They were titan terminator drones designed for accumulative slaughter as they circled a planet. There were only five biologicals under his command in the whole of the fleet, and they were merely window dressing.

"You need a human on board so they'll have someone to blame if the machines screw up," was what his instructor had jokingly said at the academy. But the teacher hadn't smiled and the students hadn't laughed, too much truth in the statement.

There wouldn't be any screw-ups this time. With documented photos of the scattered dissected colonists haunting the depths of his mind, he knew anyone seeing what he'd sent back would be willing to justify any actions he took, even a drone extinction strike.
And that was just what he'd intended to give the nether-ghouls on the planet his fleet was headed for.

"Three minutes to alignment," the computer warned.

"Command order: We'll go in with blaze," he grimly told his computer which relayed his message to the fifty networked hyper ships around him. "DES. Terminal mode."

"Confirm order please: Command is DES, terminal mode."

"Drone Execution Strike, terminal mode confirmed."

There was a rattle through the deck below as the ship automatically maneuvered for the transfer to sub-light speed. Then the high-pitched hum of Drone bays coming online.

"Full monitor," Sam ordered. Instantly the dark room he sat in was surrounded by light, as if he floated in space encircled by the sleek ships around him. There was a rainbow of light and then they were through the hyperspace barrier. Below his feet was the blue and green globe, lush with life. "Engage program."

For six seconds the drones fired, wide beam masers flashing from the hulls glowed a dull red, the power beams slashing like crimson spotlights through the atmosphere of the planet. The nether-Ghouls most likely never had time to react since their communications and weapons systems were knocked out during the first milliseconds of the battle, the computerized systems on the ships circling them working from the satellite data stream that constantly relayed updated information throughout the networked fleet.

After that, drones methodically hunted down and killed each of the skeletal creatures on the surface below.

Sam knew what was happening but all that registered with his slow nervous system was one massive flash of light; the human mind was unable to following the numbing speed of the attack on the planet below. It seemed that they had only just come out of hyperspace. Yet the battle was over, the enemies below, slaughtered.

"Mission completed," his computer whispered.

Sam closed his eyes. "Total enemy kills?"

"One million, forty-three thousand, two hundred fifty-six."
Sam remained silent a moment. "Time for the most important part," he said. "Time to wake the actors."

Stanley waded ashore, wondering how it was that the complex system of microchips that were capable of the pinpoint accuracy needed to direct a fleet of drones to wipe out more than a million sentient creatures in just over six seconds could manage to miss the beach, putting the crew into nearly three feet of slimy warm ocean water.

"This is great," the cameraman beside him yelled over the noise of the surf. "We couldn't have planned it better. The actors can wade ashore just like in the old newsreels -- they'll love this back home. Let me set up the camera on the beach and I'll be ready for the 'troops'."

"No big hurry," Sam said, staring at the charred jelly coated skeleton that floated in the waves thirty meters from him. For a moment he felt pity, and then he remembered the hostages that had been mutilated, their arms and legs missing, their faces twisted into gruesome death masks.

"Believe in it," he told himself, closing his eyes. "It happened. They did it. You were justified in ordering the attack."

But perhaps the Nether-Ghouls hadn't known what they were doing. Or perhaps they'd done it to send a message to future trespassers. It didn't make any difference to Sam. Anything or anyone that treated people like that deserved to die.

Wait, had it really happened? Weren’t the settlers still in transit? He felt confused, old doubts resurfacing. He shook his head. It was about time for him to return to the EDC for update programming indoctrination --

"I'm ready," the cameraman called, breaking into Sam's thoughts.

"Computer," Sam ordered. "Send out the landing party."

The large cargo door at the side of the Lander hissed opened and three men in battle gear splashed ashore, surrounded by battle bots and tracked vehicles. As they advanced, the fake guns they held discharged smoke and empty cartridges while the machines around them belched fire. Within minutes the men and mechanicals were ashore, racing past the camera.

"That's it," the cameraman yelled.

The machines and men came to a halt. The mechanicals returned to the cargo bay and stowed themselves, the actors huddled around the camera to check the replay of the scene.

"Are we ready to go?" Sam asked.

The cameraman studied the display on his equipment a moment and then spoke. "It's a wrap. All the stuff we need to create a computerized mass invasion of the beach."

"Right," Sam said. He'd seen it all before. The computers took the images, created variations of the actors and machines that had been filmed, and then reassembled them into an entire army.
When the people back home saw the scene, they'd watch thousands of troops jump into the surf from a hundred ships. Enemy power beams would cut some of the troops down and some would make it to shore to engage the enemy. Images from the surveillance satellites would be added, creating in-orbit pictures of the enemy being destroyed by the landing party.

Eventually, after virtual days of heavy fighting in the shadow war created by the computer matrixes, the invading humans would defeat the skelly foes. Then, according to the script, the nether-Ghoul colonies In the face of defeat would commit mass suicide, leaving the planet open to another wave of Earth settlers.

When protesters back on Earth raised any objections, and they always did, the images of the slaughtered colonists would be released. Those who managed to keep their last meal down would be talking about how the nether-Ghouls deserved everything they got after that, and besides they turned on themselves.

"Let's load up," Sam told the cameraman and his actors that huddled around the screen, watching the replay of their landing. He turned and wadded back toward the Lander.

"Don't you want to look around?" one of the new actors asked. "This is the most beautiful piece of real estate I've ever seen."

Sam said nothing.

"Don't be silly," the cameraman said. "We've got three more planets to hit before the end of the week."

Sam wondered how many they'd kill by the end of their tour. Again he felt the twinge of conscience and nearly stumbled in the surf. It was time to take action. "Computer," he said softly.

"Yes, commander?"

"Prepare the next set of images of slaughtered colonists. And alert EDC that my programming seems to be failing. I'm having trouble believing we're justified in what we're doing."

"I have already alerted them. I suspected you were having problems. Can you continue the mission."

"No problem," he answered grimly. To a good commander, what were a few million more deaths?

Especially when they already had the data ready to justify his actions.

GRUMPY BEAR- The rest of the story

2007-09-20T22:23:00.001-07:00

Here we go! - Day 26 of 28

Well I was all set! I fueled to the max, rented another slip for the day, planned to fix a nice meal, take a nap, and set course about midnight. I've been going over my books, studying different scenarios on the Chart plotter, looks like once I can get around the bend, life is going to be very good. I still don't know what to anticipate, I've been told to expect 40 miles of hard road. So I am ready to face it in whatever form it takes. I guess it depends on the time between breaks in the swells, and the wind speed and direction. Some have said the winds were at 50 knots last week, and the waves were at 15 ft. swells with 6-second breaks. Not real good for a little boat. I am hoping for no more than 6 to 8 ft swells with a 10 to 12 second break, and southwest winds at 15 miles an hour. I am sure I can handle that, plus it certainly doesn't look like I will be alone out there.

Who out there is surprised that things didn’t go as planned?

Fear and Loathing in Santa Barbara - Day 27 of 29

Well I am in Morro Bay getting fuel, and all is well again. If I could have found the plug to this boat, I think I would have pulled it.I didn't sleep much last night, the tension and fear factor just kept growing, I just knew that as I departed the safety of Santa Barbara's Cove, there would be a huge Jolly Rodger Flag and a sign that said:"Beyond This Point there be Dragons!" Yaargh!So I lunged out of my berth at about 10 pm. I fixed a quick meal, stowed my gear, secured the boat, disconnected the electricity, and decided to debark an hour early. The suspense was just killing me. So I charged the port ignition, set her to idle, turned on the blowers (was supposed to do that first, oops) charged the starboard engine and everything went dark.I looked about me in the eerie darkness. There were a few boats with cabin lights glowing, but nothing around the docks, the immediate shoreline or anything on my boat. I could hear my port engine, but I couldn't tell if my starboard engine kicked in or not, so I turned off my port engine, and silence.Darkness and silence... a creepy, tingle seemed to vibrate between my spine and my shirt, maybe I needed a shower, but I think it was tiny hair follicles straining to stand up trying to get my attention, screaming that something was terribly not right. I looked at my shadowy silent boat, and put my fingers to the starboard ignition. I gently pressed against the key and then abruptly and abrasively turned the switch on.Nothing. No sputtering engine, no sudden illuminata, no equilibrium within the forces of nature. Just silence, and dark obscurity, vague gloom and uncertainty followed by an unexpected flash of obscenities, uncoordinated motion, and evil activity the likes I am unable to describe. To this day I don't know where it came from or where it finally settled, it may still be traversing the universe as I write this, but I know it couldn't have come from me, not mellow mild mannered me.After playing with a 100-hour flashlight, which gets its reputation by flickering off intermittently 100 times an hour, I pulled the engine and battery boards up, then stared fruitlessly into an innocent looking compartment; clean, orderly, and compulsively neat. I reached the conclusion that I had no clue as to what I was looking for and that this so far unknown but likely electrical ailment was probably terminal and would require the costly services of a professional.So I went to the Harbor Master’s office, picking my way through the ropes and pylons, barking dogs, and scurrying wharf rats, for as you may recall the complete area was devoid of light, and all the while I couldn't shirk the feeling that somehow I was responsible for sucking the light out of the entire vicinity. As I reached the humble abode of the harbor master's office, I informed the grizzly bear of a duty officer that I would be remaining the rest of the evening and into the morning and that I was experiencing electrical difficulties as apparently so was he.

He then informed me that I would of course have to be moved from my present slip into another more appropriate slip, and so I reminded him of the power outage and my serious lack of said power on the boat, and he suggested that if I couldn't handle the move, he would gladly call for a tug to tow me for a nominal fee. I then realized the simplicity of moving a 30 foot boat around the pylons, docks, rocks, and embankments in the middle of the night, with only one engine drive, and absolutely no navigation lights, and for that matter, nothing but dark shadows contrasted against more dark shadows to steer by. I told the officer with the twenty seven acre body that I would gladly move my boat and get right to it, praying silently to myself the entire way back to my day slip for a small miracle.As I was gleefully securing the lines to my newly homesteaded slip, lost in the pride of a job well done and humbled by the fact that my boat was broke and I didn't know how to fix it, a figure loomed in from the shadows and said "strange night, ain’t it?"I nearly shed my skin like a molting snake; this old man caught me so unaware. After climbing down from the non-existent mizzenmast that I surely would have scaled had I owned one, I told him he didn't know the half of it as I explained my misfortune to him. He merely nodded and said that he came down to check on his shop after the power went out, and low and behold it was still there (the shop, that is what passes for harbor humor). He said that he owned the marine store, and that he was a qualified marine mechanic and would be pleased as a pickle (whatever that means) to take a look at my boat, for a nominal fee.Well I agreed, and he drifted back and forth between my boat and his shop, and finally isolated the problem as a loose ground wire. Five seconds and $390.00 later I was in complete operational mode!At 0730 hours I set my course for Point Conception. Alone.

Where have all the bay seals gone... - Day 28 of 30

Gone to no good everyone, when will they ever learn?Well the seals are gone. Most everyone I spoke with told me of the problems I would encounter with the Monterey seals, if and when I got that far. There’s no sleep to be had when thousands of barking pinapeds invade the coastal inlets. There will be seals on the rocks; seals on the docks, most captains that moored in Monterey adorned their boats with seal nets to keep the bloody nuisances away. Tourists come for miles around to see and pet and feed the troublesome noisy seals. And then grumble because they can't get their boat down the launch ramp, because it's filled with barking seals.They are not there now, I heard two separate barks throughout the night, and that was it. I asked the fishermen who seemed to have reclaimed their levy, "where did the seals go?" “Don't know” was the unanimous response. "Where are all the seals?" I asked the shop proprietors next to the marina, “Don't know” was the immediate response. I suspect collusion and conspiracy, but I don't know where to point the finger, apparently everyone has benefited from the disappearance of the barking seals.It's too late to get fuel tonight, so I'll pick some up in the morning, I am tied up to the fuel dock right behind the Normanda, a 62 foot monstrosity that I have been following since Morrow bay. I just finished speaking with the skipper of that boat; he is taking her up to the San Juan Islands for the owners. He was complaining about his big ole diesel getting only five miles to the gallon, I thought that that was pretty good compared to the 1.25 miles to the gallon I seem to be getting. He left Marina Del Rey this morning, and says he's been hitting 25 knots most of the way. He was impressed I was only two hours behind him, and I told him that was only because I got boarded by the coast guard coming out of Morro Bay. That set me back about a half hour.I made really good time myself (about 21 knots) actually once I got around Point Conception. The Point wasn't too bad, kind of like a roller coaster ride, only three and a half hours long. You get turned one way, then another, then up, then down, then repeat, then rinse...then all of a sudden, once you become accustomed to the motion, it levels out, the fog lifts, the sun is shining, the birds are sitting on the water, the dolphins are playing, seals are floating on their backs, otters are scampering about, and you come over a rising swell, and every living thing is gone. I looked about, but all I could see for miles around was these little floating plastic bubble pack bubbles. I later learned they were little jelly fishies, an entire flotilla of jellyfish. They made the gentle rolling swells look like vast green hills empty except for little tiny cacti growing up from them.After I cleared the jellyfish world, the sea opened back up to birds, fish, dolphins, seals, otters, gray whales, a veritable playground of creatures in abundance. I certainly didn't feel lonely with so many onlookers barking, snorting, chittering, and splashing, in fact I felt pretty good about finally being underway again and moving farther from the rougher seas.

I left my heart.... - Day 29 of 30

I now know how hearts are left in San Francisco, they are jogged and jolted and shaken loose going under the Golden Gate Bridge...I pulled out of Monterey this morning 0830 hours saw more freighters and tankers out on the horizon, but none as I passed through the shipping lanes, and all out bound. I had a southerly wind pushing me 21.5 knots all the way. I saw pilot whales outside of Frisco Bay, and a group and a bunch of slow moving grays heading north. Dolphins and seals were everywhere. I actually saw sailboats under their own power for the first time today, and more traffic than the past two weeks combined.Once I began my approach to the bay entrance, I discovered I had an inbound tide, and the wind still strong behind me. I was hitting 26 to 26 knots coming up to the entrance. I finally backed off on the throttle a bit, only to find that made things worse, so I throttled up and went with the flow.Once past the first rocks, the seas settled down considerably, and I was just cruisin' up to the Golden Gate Bridge! I noticed around me, I was receiving an official escort by three playful dolphins. It was magnificent. The skies had surprisingly cleared, as there had been some sea mist and hints of fog earlier in the trip, enough to remind me of the nightmare that could await me without radar and all.But there I was San Francisco unfurling with all her sun-drenched glory. Calm seas clear weather and a dolphin escort led me towards hundreds of colorful sails floating across the bay just beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. I made it! It was magical. It was premature, but a sense of accomplishment was surging through me. I stood and stretched, and took it all in, breathing deeply and sighing relief from worry of the unknown. The journey is almost complete, and I am still afloat.I should have been paying attention to the dolphins, who peeled away from the boat, I should have noticed the sail boats that kept their respective distance, if I had only focused on the waters ahead instead of 'taking it all in' I might have been prepared for the jolt, I might have at least sat down, but all of a sudden the water was boiling around me. I was directly under the Golden Gate Bridge, and it was like I was in a washing machine. My little boat was vibrating one way, then the other, I finally realized that over correcting was just making matters worse, so I set me rudders forward and just braced myself. By the time I figured out I was in trouble, I was out of it just as quickly as I got into it.Welcome to San Francisco!

Sacramento or bust - Day 30 of 30

Left for Benicia from the Emeryville docks at 1400 hrs yesterday, set a clear course northeast cruising at 21 knots. Made it to Benicia by 245 pm (oops 1445 hours). I had planned on lying over at the Benicia Marina, but I didn't expect to reach my destination so soon.After respectfully slowing near Benicia, I decided to continue on with my final leg of the journey, only to be rewarded with a complete loss of signal from my GPS Chart plotter two miles up the inlet. Now, for the first time, the navigation was getting tricky. I still had a GPS map of the area, including the Sacramento River all the way to Sacramento complete with Navigation Buoys, so I felt somewhat competent to continue on.As I mentally checked off each buoy marker as I proceeded, I gained more confidence in the map, despite the inability to match my surroundings with the terrain displayed on my chart plotter. Without my little boat icon, bearing, course and speed info, I felt slightly near sighted, and each time I passed a buoy marker, I inevitably had to scan ahead or behind where I tried to imagine my location on the GPS map. I passed towns, and communities, landmarks and bridges that I could not identify with my map, and it was because I was fidgeting with the GPS monitor and trying to second guess my location I think, that I missed the buoy marker that led to the entrance to the Sacramento River. The last point of reference I was even remotely sure of was a set of docks across from a Naval, or Coast Guard Moth Ball fleet, and that was several miles behind me I am fairly certain despite the fact that I could no longer monitor my speed or course direction. I did start paying closer attention to my compass, but the river kept winding this way and that way that even the compass direction was deceptive.I fell in behind two good sized river boats that I imagined with false logic were heading up the Sacramento River, but eventually I became more and more concerned that I had veered off course onto a secondary Sacramento tributary leading me towards Stockton. I finally dropped back, scanning the area, and decided to approach an anchored boat and ask directions. The gentlemen on the boat spoke broken english, and I had a little difficulty making them understand me, but finally one of the men said "si, Sacramento River behind you, but that slough over there will take you to it."I thanked the crew and set my course slowly at first, but as I began to realize from my depth finder, the channel was fourteen to twenty five feet through the center, I brought my speed up to 18 knots with confidence. I was headed north, my depth finder was consistently reading in the twenty foot area, and up ahead I could see boats and a wide opening at the mouth of the slough. I was back on track, and it was still early in the afternoon, things were looking up.I could see sailboats in the distance, across this wide opening, and other powerboats anchored and or traveling on the opposite side of the sailboats. Traffic was a good sign. I could smell fresh water, and I was beginning to look forward to dinner in old town Sacramento.That's when I looked down at all the kelp, or seaweed, or just plain weeds. I glanced at my depth finder, and it read 4 feet! A lot of things sunk in at that very moment. The powerboats were 8-foot bass masters and the sail boats, were actually sail boards with colorful kites attached and floating lazily in the sky. I was the not so gentle giant, a bull in a china closet, and quite obviously not in the Sacramento River.I have a 3' 10" draft on my boat, and I had in no uncertain terms dispatched myself across dicey waters. I knew that I needed to lower my Bow and raise my trim to minimize my draft, and so I instantly went into heroic action. I grabbed a firm grip on both throttles, and slammed them back into neutral as I squealed at the top of my lungs like a little girl. Problem solved. I screeched to a sudden stop, my bow came down, and I raised my trim, but not before my stern shoved itself into the water with teeth loosening force. I just sat there for a moment, taking in the results of my actions, mentally inventorying my bicuspids and I swear, every one else on that body of water came to a complete stop when I did. I could feel calculating eyes upon me. My secret was finally out, the judgment was in, I am an idiot with twin mercs strapped to my butt with no clue as to what I am doing and no common sense. How could I possibly have survived as long as I did? I am at the bottom of the food chain, a mental midget; a disgrace to Davy Jones (of locker fame, and probably the Monkey Jones as well).As the world began to revolve again and fishermen went back to drinking, the sailboards went back to sailing, auto traffic on the distant bridge began to move again, I eased my boat into motion, slightly shaken stll. I experiencing difficulty at matching both engines, my trim was to high, and props kept clearing the water, and I was frantically searching for an "exit". Traveling at about one knot I managed to cover nearly every segment of that marshy hell, avoiding the populated regions of water out of embarrassment, and busying myself with the difficult uncooperative motors, playing with the trim with the panicky realization that not only have I made a monumental fool of myself, but judging from the temperature gauges, my starboard engine was heating up, the trim response from both engines was negligible, the sun was dipping low in the sky, and I was lost.There seemed nothing left to do but approach one of the witnesses to my blunder and confirm my ineptness by declaring that I am lost and beg for guidance, maybe a tow. The fishing boats seemed to have retreated into the reeds, and appeared to be deliberately inaccessible and averted their eyes when I gazed in their direction, so I limped over to the sail board region cautiously anticipating a restriction sign of some sort to fend me away, watching my depth finder religiously as I slowly fought my way across the marsh.First I found five feet, then six feet for the longest time. Then eight feet, then twelve, fourteen, twenty, and finally twenty-four feet when I reached the sailboards. Still I could not get my trim down any further, and if I tried to raise the rpm's my starboard engine started to heat up. I was crippled, but not dead in the water, I just needed to reach the sailboards. What I eventually discovered as I peered across to the other side of the sailboards was the waterway known as the Sacramento River. A couple of mid sized power boats sped through the sailboards with what I determined to be a reckless amount of speed with my new found maritime respect and awareness, but I also concluded that it must be permissible to pass through the sailboard field and proceed along my way.As I slowly cut through the colorful sails, moving much more slowly than the surfers themselves, it became painfully obvious that they were barely aware of my presence, they just slid back and forth across the mouth of the river as if in some kind of a mellow daze, or completely self absorbed with little interest in my passing.I now had a clear course ahead of me, and I meticulously stood buoy watch as I slowly made my way upstream. I found and identified my 1st buoy, and established my location; I played with the trim, and the rpm's until I found a happy medium of about 10 knots. At 1200 rpm, I was dragging a wake like a speedboat, but I could not get my bow up, or my trim down completely. I broke my boat. I accepted that now, but at least she was still under her own power. I kicked back, and pretended I was on the Disney Safari Boat ride and started looking at the shore line for hippos, and other wild animals, I imagined I was an Indian scout making good time in a canoe, and turned up the radio and listened to the distress calls of my fellow lame sailors who had drifted onto the rocks, or lost their engine and needed a tow, or were in dire need of assistance from the coast guard, but not really certain what kind assistance they actually needed. But not me, definitely not me, I was still under my own albeit crippled power. Channel 16 can be kind of entertaining on a late weekend afternoon.I grew eventually tired of the paddlewheel pace I was making up river as the sun began to set, I was also weary and sincerely apologetic numerous times to the people who madly waved their hands at me and yelled "trim down!" at the top of their lungs repeatedly from one 'no wake' zone to the next, so I decided to weigh anchor for the night, and found myself a nice quiet section of river and settled in for the evening. Tomorrow is another day, and Sacramento can't be far. It just now occurs to me;

Sacramento or bust?

Well I didn't make Sacramento. I sure wish I hadn't busted my boat.

A short delay on the bay but it's time to go

2007-09-19T10:10:00.000-07:00

Laundry day again - Day 25 of 27

So this is the life of a sailor? I could get used to living on nautical time. Priorities change, nothing seems rushed. I bought a couple more books, and some DVD's, and a computer game for my laptop, I went ashore two days ago, and kind of toured the town. There are a lot of curio shops and artsy stores. The inhabitants are friendly, and they speak our language. From the looks of the native huts in this region, I don't think I could afford to live here. And although they accept shiny coins and cards in exchange for trinkets, they seem to insist on gold and platinum...

The boaters are getting restless; some of the bigger cruisers are leaving in the dead of the night. I spoke with a skipper who offered to pilot my boat around Point Conception to Sacramento for $900.00. I have a few extra bucks since I got the news that my radar could not be installed without a Radar Arch back in san Diego. Something I did not realize was that an Arch was required to support a Radar Antenna. I thought that there must be a radar mast, or some way to elevate a single antenna. Truly frustrated, and without any immediate solution I cancelled the radar unit, the TV, and the satellite dish. I'll take care of those issues when I get back. As far as a Pilot is concerned, I think I'll just wait out the weather a little longer and continue solo. Foolish? Adventurous? Only time will tell.

The Harbor Master says that Saturday may be a good day to leave, there is a high pressure front coming in with south and southwesterly winds, which he suspects will flatten down the seas for a few days.

Belay that last, now it looks like tonight’s the night! The Harbor Master says that the winds have changed, and the swells are lying down. There is a flurry of activity around the harbor; I need to get ready.

2007-09-18T05:43:00.001-07:00

Hurry up and wash - Day 20 of 25

I'm coming in! I brought two shirts and a pair of long pants and a pair of short pants. I need clean clothes!
I pulled up to a guest dock, took a cab to the Laundromat, I went sight seeing, bought a couple more books, ate dinner, and pick up some more groceries (apparently it's going to be cold cuts for me).

I still have perishables on the boat, but I don't seem to have a stove to cook on. It works just fine with the 110 electric, but the alcohol plunger doesn't build pressure, and I just don't want to mess with it right now.

But wait! I found a barbeque that clamps to the railing on deck, it's BBQ'd steak and corn on the cob tomorrow night! Santa Barbara is pleasant, they have a Club here that has concerts by the bay, and I can hear them quite clearly on my boat. I wish I could find their schedule so I could plan out my evenings better. I stocked my bar with brandy and champaigne, eat your heart out Robin Leach.

The forecast is still pretty grim, the bay is getting considerably full, lots of boats are trying to get to the San Juan Islands for the summer. The Harbor Master said that the beginning of June is when all the boaters head north, and October is when they head south, but the last two years, the weather has not cleared up for boaters until later in June, and early in November.

Well, I could think of worse places to be stuck in.

STILL ALIVE IN SANTA BARBARA

2007-09-17T16:57:00.000-07:00

Hurry up and wait... - Day 16 of 21

I pulled into Santa Barbara at 1815 hours last evening, got me a slip for the night at the marina, I think I am going to anchor out tonight and see how that works. The first day of my voyage went without a hitch (whew!) and was pretty exciting to boot. I saw more sea life yesterday than during my entire naval career.

I never realized that there were so many varieties of birds at sea. I saw fishing boats going out and coming in with their great net masts extended out scooping up what I can only imagine to be cans and cans of chunky tuna.

There were many smaller islands in view, dotting the Pacific Coast than just the popularly known Catalina, and San Clemente, and for the most part the coastal shore was clearly visible to the starboard side of my craft, a good sign I was traveling in the right direction.

I saw my first freighter off on the horizon, and negotiated my way around oil derricks off the coast of Santa Barbara, then cut my way through about two miles of oil spill (naughty, naughty somebody) and watched the water turn from calm deep greens, to choppy blue swells, to pearly pale elastic knots of water all around me.

I saw first hand sea mists laying over the water, and blindingly bright reflective mirror seas shining and sparkling and pure (kind of gives you a headache if you stare too long). Memo to self, buy sunglasses at first opportunity.

The word in the harbor is, a low pressure point has lain in and boats are pulling into the bay to wait it out. I may be here a few days. Guess I might as well get comfy and wait her out too.

I see water! Lots and lots of water!

2007-09-17T09:59:00.001-07:00

Seaward Ho! - Day 15 of 20

I'm at a Catalina Harbor fueling dock, getting too much gas... 71 gallons! I just topped off yesterday with 40 gallons, and I don't think the kid filled 'er up (at least I’m hoping that’s the case).

I finished outfitting my boat yesterday: food, tools, el Grande first aid kit, and played with the GPS Chart plotter for awhile. I was impressed with the fact that the boat icon showed me in my slip and had "Silver Gate Yacht Club" written next to it on the screen.It's in full color and bright enough to see in full daylight. I feel very confident in the software’s knowledge now.

I took the boat over to the fuel dock, pretty basic stuff, you pull up, a kid meets you and secures the boat and fills her up for you, you never even have to get out of the boat. Mcfuel drive thru’s! But don’t even ask about fuel prices! Just find the highest priced gas pump in town and double it…

From there I went over to the pump out station (to address something special the old owners left for me) and discovered the cap was frozen. So is that how it works? Do you just keep the boat until the sewage tank is full then sell it? So after returning to my slip and pounding on the darn thing for an hour or so with a hammer and a screwdriver, block of wood, pocket knife, coat hanger, and can of crisco to no avail, I ended up removing the entire pipe fixture and replacing it with a shiny new pvc pipe and pretty, rust resistant, stylish $200.00 chromed pump out cap by nightfall. I decide the pump out station would wait for morning.

After a brief breakfast and my morning cup of coffee I ceremoniously began my maiden voyage in grand elegant style by pumping out the boat’s sewage tank (note to self, purchase clothes pin for nose first opportunity), I then departed San Diego Harbor on the first leg of my journey at 0530 hours (that is nautical terminology for O dark thirty).

As the sun came up, I saw dolphins, whales, and a sunfish with an eight-foot fin span sunning itself on the surface. As I watched it approach my bow, I thought man that is a huge chunk of white plastic; I wonder what it came off of...

this is NOT a photo I took, I grabbed for my new Cannon Digital Rebel and snapped away, only to discover that while fidgiting with my new toy, I left the memory cards at my brothers house.

The water was a little choppy, minor two-foot swells, one right after the other. The twin engines seemed to be cruising at 3300 rpm smooth as can be, that engine synchronizer is cool, but once the two motors match harmonies, it seems pretty obvious they are in sync.I am heading for Santa Barbara next, if things go well I should get there between 6 and 7 pm (oops I mean 1800 and 1900 hours).

2007-09-16T21:44:00.000-07:00

Land Locked! - Day 13 of 15

Well this has gone smooth...Not!

Coming down from Red Bluff on the Amtrak Hound Express bus (I had visions of snoozing in a sleeper car the whole trip, naïve me!) We were informed in Sacramento, that we would still be transferring to a train, but its departure time was a special secret; not to be divulged to common folk like us who aren’t not quite smart enough to grasp the oh so difficult complexities of intricate choo- choo scheduling. Fortunately the news on the black and white T.V. screen mounted for the pleasure of the Ticket Counter Personnel shed a little light on the subject by announcing the exclusive live breaking commentary on the bursting of a San Francisco Levy, taking out a Railroad bridge, and (Amtrak?) communication lines necessary for Michael to complete his journey...serious danger...lives are at stake... stay tuned for news at eleven!

Well it only took me 23 hours to get to downtown San Diego. No worries getting into the Yacht Club now. In fact when I showed up, there were literally thousands of people milling around, this is the weekend of the locally renowned Wheelchair Regatta! (How apropos) I had to spend the rest of the day fending off the advances of young Marine Corps Cadets trying to escort me onto a boat, any boat for my 'special' ride, and little old women telling me if I want to ride on a boat I have to get in line like all the rest of the special people. I stopped at the front desk, asked for my boat key, and upon receiving it made a mad dash for my slip to hide out for the remainder of the day.
Well after negotiating my way through the herd (I suppose school or bait ball would be a more nautical term) of maritime do-gooders, I flung back the canvas cover from the helm of my precious new boat to take my first peek at... nothing. No holes drilled, no loose wires dangling, no mount brackets, no antennas, no radar, no GPS, no TV!

What a rewarding end to a very grueling day, at least I was grateful to have made it to Shelter Island at all. I set up housekeeping and spent a quiet night alone with my new beauty. I have to say the lull of the harbor with its soft lights and gentle tides makes for some cozy sleepy time.

Yesterday I had a few choice words with Butt-Crack Bruce who, true to form offered up a weak excuse; that when we spoke on the phone his worker was at the Marina to do all the work, but the desk clerk insisted that there was no key for the Grumpy Bear anywhere behind the counter or in the office.

at that point I knew I had Butt-Crack now (ha-ha) and I lashed out over the phone saying that I was in San Diego this very minute. ThatI had been at the Yacht Club a full day and when I walked up to the desk and asked for my key amidst chaos and hundreds of very busy people, that key was immediately dispatched to me without hesitation, thought or any unnecessary search of the surrounding area. Bruce (or BC as his fellow employess call him behind his well proportioned backside) was flummoxed, and stammered a sincere sounding apology and promised to have someone on the boat within the hour. I told him there was no need to pick up a key, that I would personally escort the gent to my boat.

As I was waiting for the service guy to approach me, I contemplated the type of service I would now likely receive. A clerk was opening up the small office behind the reception desk and setting up for business. She smiled at me and said "You're Michael aren't you? the guy that bought Grumpy Bear. I thought so, look I am really sorry about that serviceman the other day, you know we always keep our keys on the bulletin board, I never thought to look in the desk drawer. We tried to get the gentleman back, but it was too late..."

I thought to myself, I wonder how far out of the harbor will I get before my boat begins to sink...

The repair guy shows up.

A rhetorical question: Can Billy Gibbons be reincarnated if he isn’t even dead yet? I swear the installation guy was the spitting image of ZZ Top's Lead Singer just as he looked in say 1970. A real flashback for me, lol. He even had a southern Texas drawl. (do you think maybe ol' Gib's left a few illegitimates scattered around the countryside?)

As it turned out the serviceman was quite congenial, happy and easy going, perhaps too happy; he just might be a bit of a man’s man, batting for the other team if you know what i mean (I don't know why I say that, maybe it was the pink and yellow deck shoes). And I am certain he did not sabotage anything 'cause I watched him from a safe distance like a hawk during the entire installation procedure. All went well and we held a amenable cordiality. He even invited me out to a BBQ dinner as he was finishing up to which I politely declined as it totally creeped me out. Also I had a lot of preparation ahead of me to outfit my boat for the big cruise.

Another day or two and I’m out of here.

The Grumpy Bear Saga Continues

2007-09-16T18:18:00.000-07:00

Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! - Day 10 of 15

Well wasn't that a bit of news! I received a call from my Yacht Broker this morning and it seems the previous owner of my boat has had a falling out with the Yacht Club and by association; I have apparently lost my guest privileges. John suggests I remove my boat from their slip before they pull her out of the water and charge me storage yard fees.

I was planning on heading back to San Diego on the 15th, but the situation calls for a quick change of plans. I contacted Amtrak, they don't have a train going all the way to San Diego until Monday, but they have a bus going through Red Bluff at 1 pm. I made a reservation, called Dad and he agreed to shuttle me to the Taco Bell / Bus Stop. got to love rural communities! Now all I have to do is figure out what to take along.

No big deal, I will get into the San Diego train depot at 5:30 in the morning, with any luck, Ernesto the maintenance guy from Tijuana usually arrives to work about 5 am/ He knows me so I can get him to let me in if I promise to make some coffee. Fortunate for me, after not getting my equipment installed last week; Bruce told me just yesterday that he had a technician working on my boat as we spoke! I was beginning to wonder if they would be done by the fifteenth, but of course Bruce did seem to be running out of plausible excuses, he even had to use the dental appointment pretext twice. But with the boat ready, I will pick up some groceries, take her out on a quick shake down trip to check out the new equipment, get fueled up and be on my way (gulp) into the big Pacific Blue. I should be back to Red Bluff in time for Hurry Back's Wednesday Night Karaoke Contest, if the weather holds out...

mine own Grumpy Bear

2007-09-16T06:53:00.000-07:00

Red Bluff Bound! - Day 5 of 10

Well the paper push is complete, the Grumpy Bear is all mine. I bought a 17" GPS Monitor and antenna as well as the software to chart the entire Pacific Coast, the radar kit that goes with it and a $900.00 antenna array, a plasma TV, and a satellite dish so I can travel in style. It was all supposed to be installed yesterday, but the service manager said his wife threatened to leave him if he worked over the holiday weekend. Flinching from feeling somewhat empathetic I agreed to the installation on Tuesday, and left a key to the boat for Butt Crack Bruce (certainly NOT my nickname for him) at the front desk in the Clubhouse. I am house sitting for my brother while he vacations in Florida, so for now it looks like I am Red Bluff Bound! It is difficult leaving my new home so soon. The people here at the Silver Gate Yacht Club are very friendly, and the is so much to do in San Diego, the weather is beautiful and the ocean is wonderful I feel right at home all ready.

the Infamouse Maiden Voyage of the S.S.Grumpy Bear

2007-09-15T19:55:00.000-07:00

first entry - Day 1 of 3

This is dedicated to the S.S. Grumpy Bear a 30' Sea Ray cabin cruiser and my new home. I'm driving down to finalize the paper work today. I hope I am ready for this, I have always dreamed of living on the open seas. Traveling about living the sailor’s life. I successfully passed my physical and dutifully received my international shots, my passport is current and Mission Bay will soon be the gateway to my future. I have been reading up on seamanship, navigation, repair and first aid. These are the reading materials I have been ingesting:

WEATHER FOR THE MARINER
THE COMPLETE BOOK OF ANCHORING AND MOORING
SEAWORTHINESS: THE FORGOTTEN FACTOR
ADVANCED FIRST AID AFLOAT
STORM TACTICS HANDBOOK
ESSENTIALS OF SEA SURVIVAL
BOATOWNER'S MECHANICAL AND ELECTRICAL MANUAL
CHAPMAN PLOTING SEAMANSHIP
US COASTGUARD BOATING SKILLS & SEAMANSHIP
KNIGHT'S MODERN SEAMANSHIP
THE MARLINSPIKE SAILOR
THE ELEMENTS OF SEAMANSHIP
ROUGH WEATHER SEAMANSHIP for sail and power
HOW TO READ A NAUTICAL CHART
TIDE TABLES: WEST COAST OF NO AND SO AMERICA
CHARLIE'S CHARTS OF THE WEST COAST OF MEXICO
THE CRUISING GUIDE: Golden Gate to Ensenada
SPANISH FOR CRUISERS: boat repair phrase book
MEXICO BOATING GUIDE

If all that didn’t overwhelm me or kick my better senses in the butt, I guess nothing will. Avast ye lubbers I’m shovin’ off to discover the new world. Or am I just shelling out a lot of clams for a Vikings funeral?

Horsing Around

2007-08-23T16:13:00.000-07:00

A friend and blogger posted her reaction to horses when she was young and it dredged up a few memories of my own. I thought I would go ahead and post my comment here.

I started out on horses very young, I think my 4th birthday present was a trip to Knotts Berry Farm where my only memory was the thrill of sitting atop a cream colored shetland pony tied to a center stake and rode in circles forever. Well I also remember getting my picture taken with the saloon girl statue because my Mom would bring the picture out any time she thought there might be an opportunity to embarrassme until my cheeks would reach the same rosy color as in the photo.
Every Summer until I was 12 or 13 I went back to Arkansas to stay on Grandpa’s farm. I got to feed chickens, slop hogs, milk a cow or two, and take the old retired chestnut plow horse out of the barn for casual stroll around the grounds.The workhorse was old, flea bitten and mangy, sway backed and slower than Grandma in the morning, but to me he was a wild stallion, a knights steed, a thoroughbred racehorse,and Roy Rogers Trigger, Cisco Kid’s Diablo and the Lone Ranger’s White Feller, or Silver as he later became known all rolled into one. I curried and groomed that old nag, treated summer sores, swamped the stall and brought treats every day. It was a tragic day when I discovered that justbecause a horse was named buttercup, that one should never feed fresh buttercups to any livestock.Poor Buttercup nearly died from colic that summer.
By the time I was in my teens I was no longer making annual treks to the homeland. I felt horse saavy enough to hire on as a tour guide in Trabuco Canyon at Beardsley’s horse rental. I fed and cared for a half dozen trail horses, all misfits just like me, it was a perfect summer job. After I got to know the equines I chose my lead horse, Apache. A natural choice becausehe refused to follow the others. I always got a personal laugh when timid riders would gaze at all the horseflesh and thenfocus on Swayback Taffy. She appeared old and docile, but what they didn’t realize is that she spooked real easy and whenclimbing trails she would flinch and buck if a branch swung back on her. It is always important to listen to your trail guide.I had an especial fondness for Shagnasty. He was a right proud Fox Trotter, about 15 hands tall. Grey with black mane and tail, bright eyed amd sure footed. In the corral he was a popular choice for riders, but I reserved Shagnasty and Midnght Lady for the pretty girls with a date. Midnight Lady was very much a gentle lady, but her one flaw was a deep and sincere love for Apache. She would follow him anywhere and not leave his side. Shagnasty was strong, bold and very fast, but if I left a hand full of carrots or apples in a bucket in his stall he could think of nothing else and would invariabley turn tail and run back to the corral about ten minutes into the ride. Sometimes you shouldn’t trust your trail guide. As I said for me it was a great summer job.

meme

2007-08-13T12:10:00.001-07:00

Sue sez I'm supposed to post my response comment to her meme on my own blog,so here goes;

x) Smoked a cigarette

( ) Crashed a friend’s car

( ) Stolen a car

(X) Been in love

(X) Been dumped

( ) Been laid off/fired

(X) Quit your job

(x) Been in a fist fight

(X) Snuck out of your parent’s house

(X) Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back

(x) Been arrested

(x) Gone on a blind date

(x) Skipped school

(x) Been to Canada

(X) Been to Mexico

(X) Been on a plane

(X) Been lost

(X) Been on the opposite side of the country

( ) Gone to Washington , DC

(X) Swam in the ocean

( ) Felt like dying (felt like I was gonna die a few times)

(X) Cried yourself to sleep

(x) Played cops and robbers/Cowboys &Indians

(x) Sang karaoke

(x) Paid for a meal with only coins

(X) Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t

(x) Made prank phone calls

(X) Laughed until some kind of beverage came out of your nose

(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue

(X) Danced in the rain

(X) Written a letter to Santa

(X) Been kissed under the mistletoe

(X) Watched the sun rise with someone you care about or love

(X) Blown bubbles

(x) Made a bonfire on the beach

(x) Crashed a Party

(X) Gone roller-skating

(X) Gone ice-skating

1. Any nicknames? Cook, Preacher, Michaelpipes, Modo, Hey You!
2. Mother’s name? Dusty

3. What is your favorite drink? Diet coke

4. Tattoos? one

5. Body piercing? Ears? yes

6. How much do you love your job? Scale of 1 to 10? ummm retired, but I have enjoyed all my “jobs” even the Navy
7. Birthplace? Arkansas

8. Favorite vacation spot? Australia

9. Ever been to Africa? No

10. Ever steal any traffic signs? Yes

11. Ever been in a car accident? yes
12. Drink Cup size? “Umm shouldn’t this come with a handle?”
13. 2 Door or 4 Doors? 2

14. Salad dressing? Homemade Bluecheese
15. Favorite pie? cherry

16 Favorite number? 9

17. Favorite movie? McClintock

18. Favorite holiday? Halloween
19. Favorite food? Lobster (favorite ethnicity - mexican)

20. Favorite day of the week? Friday

21. Favorite brand of body soap? I’m a guy, you know the one with a volcano on the label.”
22. Favorite TV show? Ozzie and Harriet
23. Toothpaste? it comes in a purple tube…

24. Favorite smell? hands down, Baked bread (well maybe Janet)
25. What do you do to relax? read, write, “World of Warcraft”, play with the critters

26. Message to your friends? You have been the most important ingredients to our recipe for life.
27. How do you see yourself in 10 years? Maybe by looking into a three dimensional holographic mirror?

28. What would I rather be doing? Traveling

29. Furthest place you will send this message? the blogosphere

30. Who will respond the fastest? Sizzle (I cheated and looked)

31. Least likely to respond? The dead… greatful or otherwise.

Uncomfy Foods

2007-07-16T21:09:00.001-07:00

This post is in response to Sues Blog at the following address:

The Torm Pages Blog Ewww

In the Philippines there are supernatural creatures infamous in the country’s folklore that can put a crippling chill in the spine of grown men by the mere mention of their name. On nights when the moon is high and the weather balmy and the air thick and wet, and when the residents of small villages leave their windows and doors wide open to escape the oppressive heat that smothers the Malay Archipelago, this is when the feared Aswang are said to appear. The Aswang live among the general human population and are not easily identified. They can take the form of women by day and werewolves by night. These are the merciless and murderous shapeshifters that hunt small children and the frail elderly. They may also take the form of a bloodsucking female vampire who seduce and kill. Or they can resemble something Westerners would describe as zombies or the undead on an eternal search for human flesh with a special fondness for liver. An Aswang is also able to cast spells in order to subdue the victim then use her wickedly long, serpentine tongue to penetrate the skin and to feed off of the blood. As with many of the Aswang’s Western counterparts, they were once human but became possessed by evil spirits and turned into creatures of the night. There are several ways to turn into an Aswang and it is rumored that one certain method is to eat balut.

There is a delicacy infamous in Filipino culture that can put a crippling chill in the spine of grown men almost as quickly as talk of Aswang. That delicacy is the notorious balut. Balut is a popular Filipino street snack and is essentially a duck egg with a fetus inside, typically between seventeen to twenty days in gestation. In the Philippines balut is so popular that it is equivalent to what the hot dog is in the U.S. There are balut vendors who push around carts full of fetal treats and bark their wares in a sing-song chant of “baluuuut, baluuuut!” Balut is also a popular aphrodisiac for men. But even with the good vibes and positive spin surrounding balut, the stigma attached to eating it overshadows all the warm and fuzzy aspects of this very disgusting dish.

Balut is the culinary heart of darkness. If you eat it, you have reservations about doing so. If you know about it, you have strong opinions regarding it. Ask for it in a restaurant and the clerk will visibly react. Devour it at a table with others who aren’t eating it and you’re guaranteed to dine solo. Explain balut to the uninitiated and be prepared for your audience to run away from you as quickly as possible while seeking sanctuary in something soft and comforting like a Ding Dong or Ho Ho. I know all this because I’ve had these things happen to me whenever balut is present, physically or conversationally. I have struggled and continue to struggle with eating balut. Superman has his kryptonite and I have balut. It is probably one of the (if not THE) exotic foods I fear most. Why am I so freaked out by balut? Well, how much time do you have? For starters, balut will haunt you after you ingest it. It stays with you forever. I’m not suggesting that I believe in the ghost stories about being possessed after eating balut. I’m speaking more to the traumatic imprinting that might occur when you consume this culturally complex cuisine. Even when I try hard not to think about what I’m eating, somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind I’m aware that I’m eating a fetus, life that is yet to be, something unborn, taboo food. Also, this awareness has nothing to do with political-religious beliefs. It is simply the unappealing idea of eating a fetus.

I did not grow up eating balut. My first exposure to balut was my first tour of duty in South East Asia when a Filipina aquaintance let me sample one of these eccentric eggs. She invited me to her home in Bagio where she was to prepare it. Back in those days I was slightly more daring about trying new and strange foods than compared to today. Also, I prided myself on being the “been there, ate that” guy. No exotic food could shock me. I’ve seen it all…or so I thought. My friend returned from the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear rather nefariously. She explained to me in plain language that balut is a boiled duck’s egg with a fetus inside. She continued on to illustrate that when I chew on the egg I may come across feathers, a beak, bones and other bonus treats that aren’t included in your standard hard-boiled egg. Intellectually I understood what she was telling me. Realistically I could not have been more unprepared. There on the table was the first balut I’d ever seen and it had my name on it. But before I was to breach the balut’s shell, my friend instructed me on the basics of eating balut. First, I had to tap the pointy tip of the egg’s shell and make an opening large enough only for the broth to trickle into my mouth. Next, I needed to remove the shell and season the egg with salt. Lastly, I had to decide whether to wolf down the balut in just two bites or less, so as not to visually encounter the fetus, or to nibble on the egg and eat it section by section, being extra cozy with the partially formed duck. Lesson over.

So I went ahead and tapped the tip of the egg, created a tiny hole and took a quick swig of the soup. It was nice. Light and subtly sweet. The next thing that happened is a lot like what happens when you crank the handle of a jack in the box. You know something is going to pop out and you know it is going to startle you, but just because something is predictable doesn’t make it less shocking. It came time to open the balut. I peeled off a sizeable swath of shell. Suddenly and without any warning the fetus was exposed. In my hand, clear as crystal, was part of a duck fetus imbedded in the whites with a random feather jutting out. The blood drained from my face, my knees buckled and my breath quickened. I dropped the balut and told my friend there was no way I could eat any part of that gruesome egg. My friend’s eyes widened and brightened. I think I even spied a string of saliva dangling from an incisor. She grabbed the balut and said, “That just means more for me.” She then ferociously devoured it as if it was the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten in her entire life. She seemed a little intense when she ate the balut and it was worrisome to me, however there was no Hannibal Lecter styled flourish at the end, just a dainty belch.That happened over thirty years ago.

I’m older now. Less idealistic. More cynical. Maybe more callous. I don’t know. All I know is I have a score to settle. Balut beat me once and I wasn’t going to let it happen again. I could do this. Who cares if it’s a little baby duck that will never see a glistening pond or swim with a paddling of other baby ducks. I mean, really, what’s there to be afraid of? It’s not alive like Korean “live tentacles”. It’s not potentially poisonous like Japanese fugu. And I don’t really believe in those silly ghost stories about being possessed by female vampires after eating balut. The worst thing about it is that it looks kinda gross (ok, extremely gross). But so does a chunk of blue cheese to some people. The fear is all in my mind. I say; bring. It. On.

This was easier said than done, however. Balut is readily available in Filipino grocery stores but much harder to get at Filipino restaurants, and I wanted to eat it at a restaurant. Pinoy-Pinay in Panorama City, north of North Hollywood, California is one of the few restaurants that occasionally serves balut depending on whether or not the balut guy delivers a basket that day. When I showed up, it was there. I suppose it was destiny. The servers behind the counter at this turo-turo or “point-point restaurant” were suspicious of me as I went through the buffet line and only asked for the balut and nothing else. As soon as the balut hit my tray, I grabbed a far corner booth, tried to blend in and started to unwrap the foil that encased the balut. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, then chipped a chunk of the shell’s top off and took a drink of the broth just like the first time. Although, this time around I couldn’t help but ponder the idea of whether this liquid was really a broth or closer to amniotic fluid. A provocative yet unappetizing thought, perhaps. Regardless, the broth slash amniotic fluid was faintly nectarous and pleasant. After sipping the very life force out of the balut and delaying as long as possible the inevitable ingesting of the fetus, I began removing the shell patch by patch until the balut was completely exposed. In front of me in its entire ghastly splendor was something that resembled a Star Trek teleportation gone horribly wrong. As Scotty will eagerly tell you with his guttural accent there is a small chance that when a person is teleported something could go awry and when the person is finally reassembled on the other side he could end up with his insides on the outside. Vile, I know, but this is what my balut reminded me of. The albumen or whites was covered by a sprawl of blood vessels, deeply etched all over the egg like red tribal markings. In another spot was a knot of unidentifiable nerves that looked vital. Over here was something resembling fibrous tissue of some sort. The whole shebang was coated in a slimy membrane that shimmered in the light. This was worse than I remembered and definitely a very bad beginning. I decided that I would do this in a big way and really face-off with my food. Which meant I would eat the balut bit by bit and expose the fetus and then eat the fetus without any barrier between it and me. My palms began to sweat as I deliberately took the egg apart piece by piece. Every time a chunk of egg was removed it was like the whole jack in the box syndrome again. I wanted to stop but I was morbidly curious and could not. The next chunk of albumen came off. And the next. Then the next…

Like a jolt there it was. The fetus: head, eyes, beak, little wings. No feathers this time, thank God. The sight of it threw me back into my seat. No matter how much I thought I was prepared for the balut, I still couldn’t handle looking at it. It turned my stomach. My throat constricted. My body was doing everything it could to dissuade me from putting that thing into my mouth. This fetus was a mad scientist’s experiment. It was an H.R. Giger creation. It was a bad acid trip. This fetus was many things but the one thing it certainly wasn’t was something I wanted to eat. But I had no choice really. Here I am. There it is. Here goes nothing. I took another deep breath, shut my eyes and did it quickly. (Sound advice for lots of things in life you don’t want to do.) I went right for the head and upper torso just like Ozzy Osborne used to do. Then I braced myself and waited for what I thought would be the unavoidable and unnerving crunch of tiny bones and the stab of a sharp beak. Miraculously and inexplicably, there was none of that, only the gentle sinking of teeth into egg. I dodged the balut bullet. Suddenly despite the daunting monstrous excuse of a meal presentation, it was inside of my mouth. Inside of me. Now if I could actually focus on the taste and not the terror. And, you know, it kind of tastes good. Sort of. It tastes, appropriately enough, something like duck. It also tastes like duck liver, and a few things I prefer not to dwell on. I was very relieved that it was over. But I was also disappointed. How could a food inspire so much fear, controversy and ghost stories and ultimately taste common, banal, even boring? How was this possible? And how very anticlimactic.

Regardless of this relatively benign experience, I am still skittish of balut. I simply can’t look at it. The sight of the fetus disgusts me like nothing else. I snicker at people who can’t eat fish with the head still attached or a whole roast pig or a Chinese roast duck. Balut really is not all that different from those dishes. But at the same time it is worlds different. Maybe what bothers me is the baby thing. I’m uncertain because I do enjoy baby octopus. Maybe it’s the vulnerable nature of the fetus. This could be part of the reason. Or maybe it’s the sickening sight of a partially formed creature? To much like a bad horror movie production than comfort food for me. I prefer my food fully constructed and a little older. Would I ever try balut again? Well, there is another traditional approach to eating balut that I forgot to mention. It involves drinking a shot of liquor after every bite of egg. So if there’s a bottle of Jack next to that sack of balut, you can count me in as a definite maybe. Or maybe not.

I've got answers?

2007-07-16T19:33:00.000-07:00

I responded to a friends request for volunteers to play along with her in a game she called
Becky Has Questions, I Have Answers... So I guess I will call this Sue Has Questions, I Can Beat Around The Bush With Something Resembling Answers With What May Just Be Idle Ramblings Of A Seriously Long Winded Warped Mind. (is the title long enough?)

The premise:

If you had the option to go back in time and re-do one event in your life, would you take the chance on a different outcome?
Being a chef, what is the one thing you enjoy cooking the most – and the least?
What is your favorite meal to EAT?
If you were given the choice of being a famous writer or a famous singer/musician, which would you choose? (Since I happen to know you are extremely talented in both areas!)
An easy one: What is your favorite color?

The answers

I don’t know if just one event would have made much of a difference in my life, I do believe that if there were one event that might have changed the coarse of my path it would have been to stay in the Navy when I was younger. I had worked my butt off as a pollywog finally gaining my sea legs and was just coming into my own when I left the service for the “girl next door”. We were engaged and planned on being married as soon as I was discharged, as Debbie being an army brat wasn’t fond of the military. Debbie met a jarhead and was introduced to the world of drugs and parties while I was undergoing separation duty. By the time I returned, she had moved in with her new friend and was intoxicated daily bye 7a.m. I don’t try to second guess if I could have done anything to help her avoid some of the mistakes I made earlier in my life, she made a choice and ultimately lived with it. It didn’t take me long to realize that I wasn’t all that heartbroken as I should have been over the ordeal. If I had remained in the service, I would have traveled more, the military was about to pay real wages and I was moving up the ranks after several years of “growing” up. I loved being at sea and always had wanderlust. I was good at what I did and took pride in my performance and was a good mentor onboard ship. I think it would have been a good life and I really enjoyed the fantail band Cinnamon Reign that I played with and miss that life at times.
It is a toss up between Saucier, Garde Manger, or Boulanger/Patissier. I worked at Sam’s Seafood as a Saucier making all the soups and sauces for the evening meal, then worked the fast paced shift as expediter or relief bartender as the need arose. The restaurant was owned by the “Skipper” from Gilligan’s Island; Alan Hale Jr. and was a lot of fun to work for. The atmosphere was laid back yet romantic with Polynesian music and a Koy pond complete with an eight-foot rock waterfall gurgling in the background decorated with elctric fireflies like at Disneyland’s bayou area at the end of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. After hours the employees and often Mr. Hale would set up a table in the lounge and play poker or Mil Borne until dawn. I was performing with a group called TNT in the Orange County area at the time as well and with Mr. Hales generous help we were able to get gigs at places like Jaspers, Moonrakers, Reuben E. Lee’s, The Rusty Pelican and more. Garde Manger was the position I shined in at the Aircoa Sheraton Hotel in Newport Beach. I was an apprentice there and working full time, carrying a full load at Orange Coast College, working a few graveyard shifts at U-Totem Mini Mart in Costa Mesa and teaching the (don’t laugh) New York Hustle and West Coast Swing at the Arthur Murray School of Dance in Newport Beach just down the street form the Sheraton. I also tried singing waiter at a restaurant across the street, but I just couldn’t fit in with the staff. And my stint in the Navy gave me my bakery roots, a job I didn’t much care for in the service but volunteered for because it got me first liberty whenever we pulled into shore. So I learned well and spent my landlubber days in exotic lands as a tourist instead of pulling inane guard duties while docked. It is a skill that served me well over the years, and when I opened my first restaurant I included a bakery as well as a catering service, which greatly expanded my income potential. Then later when I faced hard times and was in need of work, I accepted a job as poolside Hotdog vender at the newly built Ramada Express during their grand opening. As it happened, a drunk driver struck the Pastry Chef while he was walking home from work one night and was hospitalized and eventually retired from work. Chef Albert Hall III asked if anyone had experience as a pastry Chef and much to everyone’s surprise I came forward and stepped into the position, a decision chef Al never regretted. Later after the County of San Bernardino finally picked me up as a deputy, it was a close call between long challenging hours of Casino kitchen work and the better paying adventurous position of sheriff’s deputy and I chose the call of the badge. Who knew that in a few years I would be the head of Bakery operations and the R.O.P. training coarse and get the opportunity to design my own multi million-dollar bakery for the county? So it is very difficult to nail down what my favorite food prep is, but I do know I don’t care for working with anything with fresh tripe in it, I had a really bad shipboard experience involving a hangover and cleaning tripe in the hot humid south East Asian tropics one time.
LOBSTER!!!! Hands down my personal favorite, preferably Brazilian or Zealand Rock lobster, spiny lobster is ok and so is Australian, Main or New England lobsters. Don’t bother offering me Langoustinos or fresh water lobsters (crayfish) I will hold out for the real thing. I love mostly broiled lobster tail, or BBQ’d lobster kabobs, lobster thermadore, lobster Newburg, lobster bisque, crisp lobster salad with mango and lime dressing, I love the rich sweet flavor with a hint of smoky slightly charred delight of a brazier or barbeque grill permeating the tender pieces of lobster. Ok, now I’m hungry.
Hands down I would choose famous writer. As much as I love to sing and perform, I am not a crowd person, and if I were a famous in-your-face musician on CD labels and concert tours, I would loose much of my privacy. If I were a famous writer I could remain a recluse and not show my head to the public any more than necessary to promote my books. Then I would take time out to form a little local garage band as a hobby. I do love being a big fish in a small pond.
Easy she says… I once liked the color green as a child, but my fondness for blue emerged in my teens. As a young adult Black became the understatement that defined my inner angst and by mid twenties avocado and persimmon pleased my palate. Disco broke the barriers and introduced me to bright psychedelic flamboyant color and chrome combos (I never adapted to pastel leisure suits) and wild paisley prints, I wanted many colors that would make me dizzy by bursting out in conflict of one another. This was followed by a brief brush with the combined red and black colors of some mystic significance I cannot recall at this time (probably involving a troubled woman). Then as my business like side settled down to take the helm of my journey; I preferred the influence of earth tone browns. Later as my independence gave me more personal definition I found comfort in power combinations of banker gray suits and bold red ties. Now days I am more fond of Silver, Pewter and Black and White.

Anniversaries mean many things to different people

2007-07-12T12:50:00.000-07:00

Thirty-seven years ago I met the love of my life. I walked into a Sizzler Steak house on Tustin Avenue in a city in Orange County of the same name and approached the cashier with a sense of apprehension. It wasn’t because the young girl behind the cash register was strikingly attractive with only a Farrah Fawcett hairstyle and a v-neck honey-caramel butterfly blouse with little pastel flowers visible above the counter top, or the smile that took my breath away impeding my heart from beating for a very long personal moment. I was filled with anxiety because I was new in town, nearly penniless and desperately in need of work, any kind of work.

After she asked if she could help me and stared directly into my eyes, I knew straight away that this extraordinary person was and always would reamin special to me. I didn’t seem to know very much else at the time though, as I stuttered and mumbled my miserable request.

“May I have an application?” I managed to convey in an awkward technique typically engaged by mimes and interpretive dancers but in my application I merely appeared lame and Special Olympic bound, much to my magnificently sad credit.

“Sure thing, we happen to be in desperate need of a broiler cook right now, Grant’s son quit again. He’s the boss. Well Grant is, not his son. Greg, that's Grant's son. Same name as my older brother but you probably don't know any of them, do you? How soon can you start?”

“Uh, I was thinking of something like dishwasher or busboy. I don’t have a lot of experience on the grill.” I explained in a painfully embarrassed confession of my absolute lack of ability.

“Ever barbeque at home?” She asked.

“Well, sure, and I used to help Duke Sherod, the owner of the Trabuco Oaks Steak House on the grill when it got busy some nights. He was teaching me prep work and…”

“Sounds like your qualified to me. Here I’m going on break let me help you with the application. I know what Grant likes. Oh by the way my name is Janet, do you want a soda or something?”

It is oddly strange that I cannot remember my own phone number some days, but I can recall every detail of that meeting. The conversation that took place and even the clean but worn padded red vinyl booth we sat in to talk. I remember the washed out gilded frames around pastoral scenes of banal bovine bliss hanging on the wood paneled walls, and the bright sunlit parking lot coolly visible through the large tinted polarized plate glass windows surrounding the dining room. I can still see her sweet smile and large nutmeg brown eyes, and I can once again hear her infectious laugh and feel the self confidence that gave me the strength and belief in myself to follow her lead and pad my resume even as I write this.

From the very first day I met Janet I have measured all women to her caliber and found none that compare. We became fast friends and over several years we endured the rigors and challengs that comes with growth and responsibility. I protected her when she was vulnerable, and encouraged her when she was adventurous. It crushed me to learn upon my return from Viet Nam that Janet married my best friend, and hurt even more years later when they divorced. I never wished pain on either of them.

I lost track of Janet after she left my friend Michael with her two year old son Chad and did not see or hear from her for twenty years. Then one day I received an email from Chad. It seems he tracked down his Dad and then me through the Internet. After a few pleasant rounds of messages he asked if I remembered his Mom and said she spoke of me often and then said that she wanted to know if I would mind hearing from her. I was elated (understament). I could not believe after some correspondence that we lived so close to one another, since neither of us lived in Orange County any more. We shopped at the same grocery store, visited the same Walmart and Target stores. We went to the same soccer park, the same movie theatres and the lead singer (coincidentally named Randa Lee) of the Randa Lee Express band which I was playing in at the time had her hair done by Janet’s best friend from grammar school. We dined at the same restaurants and yet we never bumped into each other over the twenty years we co existed in each other’s backyard.

For me our reunion was magical, an answer to all my prayers. It was a second chance to do what I should have done twenty-five years earlier. I asked her to marry me, and Janet accepted. The wedding was beautiful as weddings go, full of hope and magic and promise of a perfect future. Unfortunately for me, Janet found our married life less than fulfilling. Romance and passion aside, once the novelty wore off I guess she found life with me competitive and tedious. She left me two years later (and by leaving I mean she tossed me out keeping all my stuff). To give her credit, she was the perfect housekeeper; she ultimately kicked me to the curb and kept the house, both of them. I would like to say that I have learned my lesson, but I am a fool of fools who still loves only one person. Some say I am broken but that I can be mended. But I know better. I am missing a part of my heart that cannot be repaired or replaced and must learn to live with my real enough handicap; the knowledge that I found true love and couldn’t hold on to it.

Twenty-two dollars and some change plus a two-dollar tip

2007-06-30T11:13:00.000-07:00

I bought a delivery pizza and paid $3.00+ for this slice (the apple cost $.60) from a popular national pizza franchise. I won't embarrass the company by naming it, so we will just give it a fictional name like A Table Not So Square; a name just randomly picked from my imaginary hat. I found myself caught up in the moment last night as I stared at that miserable dry hunk of crust with pre cooked pre formed artificial "topping product" piled loosely above unmeltable cheese-like food stuff. The pizza sauce was so thin it soaked into the crust leaving a feint pink paint brushed effect on the pizza. So as I analyzed and determined that a slice broke down to roughly a dollar a bite I became uncomfortably aware that I had just been culinarily raped by the delivery girl and even as she left I still tipped her two dollars (it would have been more, but she forgot the soda that I was billed for and she had no idea how to remove the charge and would not relinquish my pizza without payment in full. The tip would have been less, but I don’t like spit in my pizzas either) after she promised to return with my beverage as if she believed I would wait eagerly by the door waiting with school girl applomb for the revisit that would never come.(And never did, in case there are any of you optimists still out there.)

When did frozen grocery store pizzas become better than pizzaria pizzas? I knew we were in trouble the day I pulled into a truck stop, and as I browsed through the aisles I spied a Pizza Kiosk also sporting a popular national name we will refer to as pizza shack. There was a young girl selling pre made pizzas run through a microwave oven to customers from behind a small counter. The selection was limited and the quality of the junk food was compromised but yet there was a long line of customers waiting to order.

I need to spend more time in the kitchen

sweet mysteries of life

2007-06-26T22:31:00.001-07:00

OK. Here’s one of those, oh so fun mathematical problems. There are seven books in a series, I bought them all, but of course they arrived at different times, but they all arrived. Maybe. Definitely according to my records. I read book one and kind of enjoyed it, so I ordered book two, three and four. While I was reading book two I ordered book five, six, and seven. They came in less than numerical order after book two, and I ended up reading another book outside the series between books three and four. By the time I started book five all the books were in except books six and seven. After I finished book five I was ready to start and actually began the first few pages of another book outside the series when book six came in the mail on the very day I picked up a Peter Straub paperback. I set Straub aside to read book six and book seven came in hardback version the very next day. I was settling into book six when it occurred to me that a vague reference to a previous death of a cousin in the books first chapter has now been referred to in the past tense several times by the middle of the story and actually the tale seems to be evolving around here to unknown facts from the loosely mentioned previous event.

Have you ever been reading a book and fallen asleep? Most anyone who reads does this at some time or other. I do it frequently, often dreaming about the subject matter I’ve been absorbing. But sometimes, not very often, but on some rare occasions I realize midway through a chapter that my eyes have been closed for several pages. Invariably, I am able to convince myself, though barely; that I nodded off and lost my place in the book somehow navigating backward in my unconscious efforts and upon awakening found my book open several pages from where I left off. So that it only appeared that I continued along the books pathway with my eyelids closed. This explanation train arrives in a timely fashion from common sense yet embarks on its journey to points unknown with me feeling edgy and enveloped in a sense that I am strangely gifted in the rare art of pulp fictional paperback scrying. The logical clarification hardly leaves me feeling any more sated than the arcane theory of magic and otherworldly perception.

Somehow this knowledge does not help my equation very much; it merely muddles the factoring assumptions and misdirects my course of calculations. I went back to my previously read books and inventoried the titles. Book one, check. Book two, check. Book three, check. Book four, check. Book five. Wait a minute where is book five? Book six is in my hands and book seven is the yet un-cracked hardback sitting on my nightstand with the Straub thriller patiently parked below it. So I stretch and limbered my arthritic fingers and begin counting again, one two three four five six. Six of seven books accounted for. One alleged story unread, one book unaccounted for. Basic math says one and one make two, one missing book and one missing story line seemed to equal out in my mind. My assumption would be that the missing book IS the missing story and I would of course be correct in a sane universe.

I went to the Internet and addressed my online Bookshop ‘til You Drop web page of choice and reviewed my transactions thinking to myself that clarity has finally struck the chord of truth and shown me that obviously I stepped out of sequence with my series and have yet another book to account for. I am quick to blame myself for such over sightedness as I have numerous priors in fanning this kind of flame of confusion. I returned to basics. I investigated the correct number of books in the series. Seven. Good. I Compared titles with books already in my possession. I went to the page describing the missing book and as I read the product description, my fingers trembled and a little bit of drool leaked down onto my beard as I realized the subject of this book was already known to me and in fact I was certain I had already read the story (maybe in a past life?) and I remembered with the recall of one who recently absorbed the information in considerable detail of what that adventure entailed. Now I was back to my unstable reality where uncertainty ruled the realm and I began once again from the beginning, reading the back covers of each book and reviewing the stories in my mind. When I came to book four the plot was familiar, in fact so familiar it matched the online description of book five to a tee. There you have it, book five was improperly represented with the wrong product description. That is why it seemed all too familiar! Relief and reality joined hand in hand once more to set me in a determined effort to find a sensible solution to this mystery. I turned to the back of book four and reviewed the preview of book five in the excerpt that was provided to encourage readers to buy the next installment.

The story line was certainly different, but no less familiar. I have read book five, I know it, I remember it, and my records show I received it, but I cannot find it. It is missing. I searched the house once again. I went outside and searched my pick up truck. I dug through the trashcan. This book five is now a mystery in more ways than one. So in conclusion, I have read books one through five, book six still refers to events unknown to me (maybe I mentally blocked out a few chapters of book five?) from an inferred previous tome of unknown description. Book five has fallen through the cracks of space and time and is unavailable for discernable review, my mathematical skills are in irreparable despair, and I am sitting here writing instead of reading. What would life be without a little mystery?

2007-06-16T12:04:00.000-07:00

Billy Bob And Billy Jean

I lived in a small duplex in the Surrounding San Diego area for a time with a girlfriend name Jazelle, she wore her blond straight hair in a long ponytail that reached down to the small of her back and wore fringy leather vests and hip hugger bell bottom jeans with a peace sign sewn just above the bottom left cuff. She was a serious thrill seeker, loved surfing, sex in sleeping bags, and jamming on the back of my bike. We were by all standards the perfect match made in Hell, destined to be together for weeks. I knew that she might not be the right one for me when one day we encountered a minor mishap; the front forks on my chopper snapped on the freakway (here name for it not mine) while traveling about eighty five miles an hour in the fast lane. After dropping the bikes frame to the asphalt and skidding into the center divider spewing sparks like it was the 4th of July I scraped myself from the bike seat and with trembling hands, legs and torso stepped back and assessed the situation. I noticed right away as I fumbled and failed to light a cigarette that the road had ground away the bike frame and eaten into the engine block, fluids were leaking onto the blacktop like the choppers own blood, and life had seeped from the engine until it was obvious there would be no resuscitation for this sad puppy. As I shook from the realization that death had just narrowly missed grabbing us by the nape of the neck and hurling our limp bodies into the oncoming traffic, I looked over to Jazelle to see her jumping up and down yelling “Far freaking out man! That was so righteously bitchin’!” It was that very moment that I realized something needed to change in my life.

Soon after the near death experience, I presented Jazelle the bad news, explaining that I realized I wasn’t good enough for her and that she should move on to someone more worthy; like, I don’t know, a secret agent or a shark hunter, someone who might have a minimal chance of survival while being around her. She was, much to my surprise tearfully shattered. I secretly suspected that Jazelle would leap at the opportunity to be free of me and be gone in a split second. But she told me she really wanted to make our relationship work and she did this with a completely serious face. She told me she would prove she could be just as fun at home as she was on our road trips and somehow after gazing into those solemn sincere eyes I held my resolve in check and agreed we should rent a place giving cohabitation a chance. I know I wasn’t thinking with common sense, after all, if I couldn’t deal with her part time, what chance would we have together ALL the time?

Well this ill thought plan was put in motion, we found the small duplex in my price range, and could have had the whole house for a little more money per month, but we had plenty of space, and frankly I couldn’t afford the extra cash after replacing my recently departed chopper. Jazelle set up housekeeping, decorating our home in Post 60’s hippy fashion with macramé plant hangers, Indian rugs hung on the walls accented with posters and neon paints, avocado furniture in the front room, tangerine dining set in the kitchen. Waterbed, lava lamps, strobe lights flashing in rhythm to Janis Joplin on the stereo, black lights shining on love beads hanging across the doorways, we were one cozy little family.

In fact it was kind of sexy. For a while… then Jazelle started with the incense, which wasn’t bad really, then she began hanging talismans and dream catchers all about the house. Finally, out came the ouija board. That was a little creepy, and Jazelle was showing signs of captivity syndrome, all twitchy and nervous and yes getting just a little too bitchy for comfort. I am an easygoing kind of guy, I let a lot flow off my back, but I was at the point where something had to be said.
When I confronted her, Jazelle broke down in tears quite atypical of her usual hard-core personality and said that she was afraid of the house. “How can you be afraid of a house?” I asked, and she said that things were happening while I was away playing Navy and that she didn’t want to be alone in the house any more. Well that was weird even for Jazelle. I was at a loss for words. She said she could prove it and brought me to the kitchen table where she had the Ouija board set up. I examined the board; it was crafted with Egyptian styling, a trademark stamp depicting the board as manufactured by the Kennard Novelty Company and a copyright by Elijah Bond dated 1891. To each corner were faded stencils of icons, to the upper left, a sun, to the upper right a crescent moon, and in the bottom left and right corners a single star in each. With arched stenciling there were two rows containing the entire alphabet, below that in a straight progression were the numbers one through zero. Just above the line of numbers was the crystal pointer which rested directly over a skeletal “joker” looking pattern that although faded or maybe because of the fading, oddly appeared to be laughing in a most disturbing manner.

“You see?” she cried out.

“I see an ouija board thing, so what of it?” I asked fairly exasperated and just a little shaken over Jazelle’s sudden change of personality.
“The pointer thingy! It’s…it’s pointing to the symbol for death! My death! Your death, our death...I don’t know, death!”

Well I spent most of that evening calming her and after a couple of wrong turns managed to get her to see the foolishness of her fears and settle down. I took her out to dinner then brought her home, tucked her in bed and promised everything would be just fine then slipped into the front room to get some needed privacy and rest. I was not accustomed to playing caregiver, at least not on this level, and although what she said made no sense to me, I could tell she was deeply disturbed by something. I put some music on and let the earlier events of the evening slide off of me like so much baggage. The entire day onboard ship had been stressful enough, this was way beyond the call of duty. By the end of the cassette, a weight lifted from me and I was floating in the twilight of calm and stress liberating bliss. I was too mellow to even change the tape, I just sat back enjoying the quiet hassle free moment.

I heard a cupboard slam shut in the kitchen. I must have dozed off for a moment there and Jazelle had gotten up. I groaned and raised myself from the couch and headed for the kitchen. “Whatcha doing honey?” I asked as I came around the corner. No one was there. Now that was weird. I must have really been out and dreaming some funky shit, I thought to myself. I turned to go back into the front room when behind my back I heard the cabinet door under the sink slowly creak open. I turned with a shock and watched as the door gently rocked on it’s hinges and laughed at myself for being so jumpy. I reached into a drawer on the other side of the kitchen and grabbed a screwdriver and some WD-40 to fix the lazy cabinet door once and for all. When I turned back to the sink, the door was closed. Now I understand about unbalanced doors with loose hinges forced by gravity to swinging open, but how do you explain it swinging shut again? Obviously there is one, I was just at a loss to figure it out that night. I went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, thinking I really needed a case of this stuff at that moment. I returned to the couch, put another tape in the stereo and kicked back, mulling over the peculiar events that had just transpired. I settled down and drank my beer and feeling much better as I finished the last drop from the can, I was thinking another beer might be in order.

Just then the cassette stopped in mid song. Cursing my bad luck just knowing the stereo deliberately devoured my favorite tape again I grumbled and started to get up from the couch one more time. As I stared at the silent stereo I heard an awful clamor in the kitchen, and the front room plunged into darkness. I stood there trying to recall where I kept the flashlight for such emergencies when a pair of headlights shining through the window lit up the room. It was an eerie bluish haze that spanned the area, but there was enough light to make out some details. I walked to the kitchen, still wanting a flashlight and was pretty sure the breaker box was located there as well. As I came into the room, my foot brushed against something shadowed in the dark, startling me into keen awareness of my surroundings. I searched with my foot and tapped against what felt like a small box, probably Screaming Yellow Zonkers size. So that was the commotion I heard in the kitchen? Some rodent attacked the munchies supply on the counter? I laughed at myself, Jazelle sure picked a night to freak out, she had me on edge and susceptible to my rather enormous imagination. I found the flashlight and went over behind the table and locating the breaker box I reached for the switch. To this day I don’t recall if I actually flipped the breaker or not for at that very moment all the lights came back on and I was staring at the kitchen floor. Every single box, can and bagged item from the cabinets were scattered all over the ground. Once again horror chilled me to the core, freezing my actions for several moments. My mind just could not wrap itself around the sinister event that had just taken place in my home. Grabbing a broom for defense and a beer for courage I stood in the middle of the room taking in all the damage. A cabinet door swung closed, and others just sway lazily on their hinges, innocent enough looking to make me reconsider my diabolical assumptions, and sit down at the table and finish my beer.

“Pretty funny joke” I proclaimed out loud to the joker skeleton laughing absurdly at me from his Ouija resting place. Of course I realize if a sly mouse can attempt to hijack my Zonkers, then it doesn’t seem so far fetched that a pack of wily rats might have tried knocking over the entire kitchen surplus taking advantage of the brief plunge into darkness and scurrying away the moment the lights came back on. I got to hand it to them for ingenuity but tomorrow the traps come out. It just then occurred to me that there were headlights at the window earlier, and I wondered who could be there. It wasn’t that late yet, at least not in my world, midnight was not an unlikely time to find visitors at my doorstep. I am nocturnal by nature, although there weren’t a lot of acquaintances that kept the same hours as I did it left me to ponder over who the mysterious night caller might be as I reached for the front door. Damn, I didn’t hear anyone pull away, but the car was definitely gone.

“Oh well,” I thought to myself, “I ain’t much in the mood for company anyways, but it sure would have been nice to have some help putting all that stuff back in the cabinets. Good thing for the rats nothing was gnawed on or I would have bypassed the humane traps and went for the back snappers.”

After stowing all the gear and squaring away the kitchen, I gulped down one last beer, I decided to quit while I was ahead and turn in for the night. I quietly snuck into bed not wanting to wake Jazelle, and most certainly not feeling up to answering any questions about recent events. I felt her warm breath as she snuggled up to my shoulder and I settled into a shallow sleep filled with wicked dreams. The remainder of the night passed all to quickly and I was up and rushing to get ready for work and worrying that I was going to miss revelry again. I kissed Jazelle gently on the forehead, normally I would have kicked her ass out of bed when I rolled out, just because I could, but this morning I thought that she needed her rest after yesterdays anxiety attack. Besides, I wasn’t sure what I would find when I slipped into the kitchen to make coffee. Much to my relief, everything was in its proper place.

At lunch I was ordered by the Lt to go downtown to the Public Library and collect some information in the microfiche department from Miss Darling. I could imagine a spinsterly gray haired old woman tending to books slightly older than she herself and figured if I played my cards right, I could probably finish off the afternoon with this one job. The Lt had been informed his inventory was ready for pick up, but mistakes happened, and one mistake was sending me on a task so close to the pool hall downtown. I jumped in the ships assigned jeep from the carpool and cruised on over to the old town district then parked in front of the pool hall walking the half block to the library. As it turned out mistakes did indeed happen and the Lt’s order was in but had not been brought up from the archives yet. I was sent down to one of the lowest sublevel basements by the quite matronly librarian, and as I thanked Miss Darling with a smile and a wink, she sharply corrected me in a hushed librarian manner.

“Mizzzz Darling is in the lower basement and you will quietly report to her this instant!” Ouch, the only thing missing was for her to wield a ruler and she would be the spitting image of the cover girl on this months Mad Magazine.

I marched heavily down the stairs several flights, descending into dustier, darker, mustier surroundings with each level. Finally I reached my destination. It was poorly lit and hazy in the grimy storage room, and as I looked about, all that was visible to the naked eye was not the orderly rows of shelving that neatly bore the support of the Dewey Decimal System, but half filled boxes and stacks of magazines that had fallen over from aspiring to reach far too high. A lone desk, bare of any familiarity save for a computer terminal and a single microfiche machine sat in the center of the room paired with an empty chair that had seen better days. I called out in a bare whisper, “Miss Darling, ma’am?” and received no reply. I wandered among the stacks of yellowed newspaper bundles scattered across the floor and softly called her name again. After the previous night, anything could spook me, and of course I had to find myself alone beneath tons of aged concrete in a dark and dismal room cut off from the entire world.

“May I help you?” A firm but tender voice rang out from the unnatural silence.
I jumped at once, and croaked in a nervous murmur “ I, I am here to see Miss Darling, uh pardon me, but do you know where I might find her?”

“You already have” came the melodic voice “and there is no need to whisper down here, no one but the dead can hear you.”

At that moment a youthful vision of splendor appeared from behind several large stacks of belligerent magazines, wearing a knee length light blue dress that put curves in all the right places, her tawny gold hair was tied with two baby blue ribbons making cute pig tails that captured the preciously scarce light in the room and accented her sapphire blue eyes that were slightly hidden behind oversized glasses set in a thin frame and resting low on her button nose. I cleared my throat and explained that I was sent to retrieve certain microfiche information requested previously by my Lt and was here to offer my services in any way that I might be of assistance. Suddenly I had forgotten about the pool hall, the previous night or what day it was for that matter, all I could see or think about was that lovely girl standing before me.

“Are you ok?” I heard. “You spoke to me but all I got was something about reprieve civilian fishes pitied by the rest and you need my systems’?”

Damn my nervous mumble. “ I said I was here to collect some microfiche information for my Lt.” I stammered, “And offered my assistance if you need It.” There I got it out.

“Oh,” she smiled “you must be the Navy guy. Are all you sailors so shy?” The day was just getting better and better.

“No ma’am,” I replied, “ Shyness is my specialty, I have worked strenuously for years to perfect my own personal form of shyness and quite frankly anyone you meet out there trying to be shy was probably trained by me.”

“ Shy but not modest, a peculiar combination of traits.”

“ Those are two shining attributes to my personality, but not the strongest traits to my character Miss Darling.” I said leaning against her desk. I swore I could sense it slip just a fraction under my grasp.

“Then I hope patience is one of your ‘stronger’ attributes as I am still searching for some of the information your lieutenant asked for, and please call me Sam.”

“Sam?” I asked. “That is such a coincidence, you can call me Darren.” I smiled back at her, I felt a little foolish afterward for the slight play on words, since she obviously never watched an episode of Bewitched, and now she didn’t know my real name. After my fumbling first impression, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

She dropped a stack of papers on her desk and started back to the rear of the room telling me to have a seat and make myself comfortable. I swung around the desk and started sifting through the assorted paper work and realized the Lt was searching for historical references to our ship. I wondered if it was official business or some trite hobby he was absorbed in that brought me here. I finished an article about a family picnic held at Balboa Park in honor of the returning Destroyer Escort, my returning Destroyer Escort and was wondering why I hadn’t heard about a picnic for ship’s personnel when I noticed the next article down, An Ode to Billy Bob and Billy Jean. The title was pretty corny, but the subtitle grabbed my attention; Duplex murder/suicide Friday night. I looked at the ancient date of the article and read further. The Crestmore duplex apartments located in the lower east section of San Diego was the scene of the subsequent arrest of Jackson Pole, a known dealer of drugs and prostitution for the apparent slaying of person or persons not yet divulged to the press. Pole, a 34-year-old felon is being held without bail pending further investigation. The suspect has been under investigation for fraud, extortion, drug peddling and prostitution for several months. This follow- up story reveals the shocking truth of what happened within the walls of the fateful Crestmore home. The Crestmore home is the very house that has a diabolical history of death and tragedy for more than 120 years.

The introduction though disturbing and written years ago had a ring of familiarity, so I read further;

Billy Bob and Billy Jean were married right out of High School. Both were raised on small Indiana farms and Billy Bob joined the Navy just like his two older brothers. After Boot Camp Billy Jean came out to San Diego and shared a small efficiency home with her husband for a short time until he was shipped out for a six-month tour of duty. After Six months Billy Bob’s tour was extended and Billy Jean was left at home very bored and quite lonely. She met a man who took her out dancing, to exotic parties and introduced her to drugs. Before she knew what happened, Billy Jean was getting high, sleeping around and running ‘errands’ for her pusher boyfriend. After 18 months overseas Billy Bob finally returned home and one hot August evening showed up at their doorstep with flowers and chocolates and a reservation to the most romantic resort he could afford. As he got to the front of the house he left his car running and dashed straight to the door, fumbling with his keys he could not get the right one to work, so wanting to surprise his lovely bride, he ran around to the back of the house, slipped open the bedroom window and crawled in.
Misfortunes often step into people’s lives whenever dire circumstance allows and this was certainly one of those tragic occasions. Billy Jean was passed out on the bed with her pusher boyfriend Jackson Pole who was awakened when he heard some commotion and in a fit of fear and desperation, or perhaps in cold calculating deliberation shot Billy Bob to death as he came through the bedroom window.
The police came and arrested Jackson Pole for involuntary manslaughter and knowing this man for his reputation wished to God they could do more. They searched the crime scene well into the night and most of the next morning for evidence of drugs or paraphernalia but found nothing. The boyfriend wasn’t a stupid man, just ruthless and coldhearted. The car that Billy Bob left idling in the drive glared its accusing headlights into the front room of the house, its engine idling in vain until finally after overheating it too died, leaving the headlights to run off the battery well into the early morning when the car was towed away. With what little evidence there was bagged and tagged and sent down to forensics, the investigating officers returned to their station to file reports and Billy Jean was left alone in an empty house.

Billy Jean was crushed by the tragic events that had unfolded the previous night. Riddled with guilt and mentally distraught she tore through the house looking for something to calm her down, knowing Pole had cleverly hidden his stash somewhere where the cops wouldn’t find it, she searched well through the rest of that day searching for relief from the pain that tore into her heart and soul relentlessly. Reflecting and retracing Jackson’s steps in a moment of clarity, she recalled the pusher boyfriend spending a lot of time in the kitchen after shooting Billy Bob. She went through each and every kitchen cabinet meticulously until she came across a box of rat poison that she found in a cabinet under the sink. She emptied the contents into the basin and discovered a baggy containing a syringe and a plentiful supply of uncut heroine. Not knowing or perhaps not caring of the potency of this drug, she sat down in the front room after injecting a massive overdose and waited. Waited for emotions to fade far away, waited as she sat without sensation for her life to fade even further away. Perhaps it was the drugs, maybe it was the guilt, but the last thing she saw before she slipped into deaths comma was a pair of headlights shining into the front room.
Her body was discovered days later when a detective came by to follow up on some questions about the tragic murder of Billy Bob. He found Billy Jean collapsed in the drive in front of the house, her body covered with chocolates and roses.
I sat in that deep clammy cellar and waited for the feeling to return to my legs, I sat still, silently oblivious the world outside. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding faster than a drum solo; I felt the blood slowly leaching from my face back to other needy extremities that had been without for far too long. I could not focus my gauzelike gaze from eyes that were blurred and distracted, I could feel how close to unconsciousness I had come and slowly shook my head from side to side in denial.

“No,” I thought to myself,” “this isn’t possible!”

“Here you go, that’s everything, and I must say you have that shyness thing down to a tee. Most boys who come down here won’t leave me alone unless I agree to a date. I rather like your approach. You may have my number.”

She passed me a slip of paper and I folded it up in my hands with the article that was already there. I absently pushed them into my pocket and offered a feeble thank you and walked out. I couldn’t get out of that cave fast enough. I ran up the stairs, I ran away from my fear, I ran out into the sunlight and drove straight back to the Naval yard without so much as a thought of the pool hall, or anything else for that matter. My mind was locked in neutral. I was afraid to think anything, afraid to relive the information that slammed into my mind with the force of a fleet invasion. I was afraid of the truth, afraid of the past, afraid to go home.

I sat in my shipboard office compartment and stared at nothing, I sat there in silence, I sat in stillness, I sat alone too terrified to assess the information I had obtained. I sat and thought of nothing. I have no idea how much time slipped away, how long I sat there, but at some point my Lt turned up and said, “There you are! Did you get what I asked for?” I faced him and placed the papers in his hands. “Is this everything? Did she find all I requested?”

“Yes sir,” I responded finally. “There was also an article.” I hesitated. “An article about a picnic…” I searched my pockets and pulled out the half folded half crumpled paper and held it out to the Lt. “ It says there was a family picnic for the ship sir.” I offered.

He took the paper giving me a suspicious look and I told him “There was another article about the apartment I live in written by Steve Carroll I believe his name is and it had some pretty gruesome things to say about that house.”

“I know that name,” Responded my Lt “He’s a ghost chaser, thinks of himself as some kind of Kolchak or something, I wouldn’t listen to anything he has to say.”

I thought about what Lt said and realized I was just being irrational. It is funny really, when you think about all the coincidences that led up to my hysteria, but in the sensible light of day it all really did seem like a fools dream. Come on dead people reliving their worse nightmare at my expense? It is laughable now that I look back on it, all right? I’m just glad no one was around to catch me playing the neurotic simpleton. I figured this was a story I would keep to myself for many years. After all the family already had too much ammunition for holiday get-togethers as it was.

By the end of the day I was back to my old self and was seriously considering using a phone and calling Sam. Tonight Jazelle and I needed to have a very long serious talk. It was her freaky superstitions that got me all worked up in the first place. I kick started my new bike and hugged the wind as I road home, and then bracing myself for an emotionally draining evening I walked through the front door.
I was received by the blur of a vision charging straight towards me, I flinched and pulled back expecting a blow, but it was the old hyper Jazelle leaping into my arms and smothering me with kisses.

“I am so sorry about last night, lover. I don’t know why I got so worked up. We have a lovely home and I want to spend the rest of my life with you!” she assaulted me with another barrage of kisses and hugged the very breath from my lungs.

“I’m glad you are feeling better…” I started to say.

“You are the most wonderful man in the world you sexy thing and I am going to show you how much I approve of you tonight!” she wiggled and giggled in her flirtatious way and said “The flowers and chocolates are the sweetest thing anyone has ever given me. How did you know that roses are my favorites?”

She held me close and I couldn’t breath. She planted kisses on me and I couldn’t feel them. She leaned into my ear and whispered “Honey, there’s a car coming up the drive, are you expecting anyone?”

Borrow

2007-06-15T13:58:00.000-07:00

Borrow. It is such a diminutive, innocuous word. Commonly used on any day in just about any situation. One might for instance request from a stranger in the bank or at a department store register; “May I borrow a pen?” or to a friend or relative one might ask; “Can I borrow some money?” How often it seems we use the word “borrow” in our daily lives. By definition it implies you are going to return said item. Sometimes though, it is used without the objective of returning the item, such as asking a neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar. There is certainly no direct intention to return that same cup of sugar to your neighbor; it more implicitly conveys a possible acknowledgement of an implied debt of courtesy. It was this last case just a solitary year ago, that quite nearly cost me not only my life but my very sanity as well.

My name is Michael Wining and until a year ago, I was a carefree bohemian ne’er do well. At the tender age of twenty-five I lived my irreverent life to the fullest, or at least so I thought at the time made possible in its entirety due to the vast fortune my grandfather left me. I went to only the select snob parties, dined at the finest restaurants, and reveled with the beautiful people. I thought I was in heaven when I gave it any consideration at all, but one late night in July I fell from my towering heavenly bliss and descending deep into the very bowels of Hell’s torment itself.I had been on that particular night barhopping with some friends in the gaslight district of San Diego when I decided I was at my celebratory peak and the appropriate time to go retreat to my lodgings was eminent. I think it was around three or four in the morning. All the clubs were closed down to regular folk and only the caustically wealthy remained after hours. I was feeling reasonably excellent and so in the mood I decided against driving in favor of a brisk stroll back to my Hotel room. The decision was a logical choice reached by illogical means, the last bastion and defender of the drunken and inept; the very least outcome of the evening I desired was a DWI to un-mellow my high. Besides, I reasoned, the hotel was only a few blocks away and an early morning stroll would suit me well. I offered my goodbyes, paid my tab and a departing round of drinks and left the bar. I was well on my way to the hotel when I reached into my jacket pocket to get a cigarette. I pulled out an old cigarette pack but crumpled and tossed it aside as the packet was empty. It always amazes me how much I smoke when I imbibe and at that moment found it difficult to believe I finished off the entire pack in such a short time. I was traumatized, I only smoked Helmars Turkish Blend Cigarettes and looking around, it was obvious a small local convenience store would not be likely to carry them much less even be open at this early hour. A quick glance at all the dark storefronts on the street confirmed my suspicion. I cursed the world, feeling serious nicotine deprived spasms coming on merely from the knowledge that no nicotine was immediately available. A moment of clarity set me walking a faster pace with the realization I had another pack in my hotel suite. All sane thought was pushed from my head with the single exception; I needed a smoke, a thought which may not have held a dollop of sanity in and of itself if I were to believe the surgeon general.

About a block from the hotel, I was wheezing and beginning to acquire a sweaty and unhealthy flush to my complexion. I found myself once again cursing the world for not having another pack of cigs on me and cursing the local shops for being closed between deep gulps for breath. I was about to break into a vigorous amble towards the hotel when the whistle of a soft melody drew my attention. I saw a man, the melody stopped as I exchanged a subtle glance with the stranger standing beneath a streetlight. He was leaning against the pole, dragging slowly on a recently lit cigarette, by no means reminding me of a macho smoke commercial. I stopped for a moment, sizing him up as I thoughtfully observed him deeply inhale a lungful of nicotine.

He was of diminutive stature, a small man, maybe 130 lbs. He wore tan khaki pants, a smart sports shirt with hibiscus blooms patterned in Hawaiian fashion covered by a cerulean blue nylon windbreaker with a logo I couldn’t quite distinguish. His footwear were stylish deck shoes wrapped around clean white ankle socks made visible by the short wader cut of his khaki cuffs. I guessed his age to be maybe late forties or early fifties. My brain, inhibited by the absorbed alcohol judged him as not likely to be a threat. Cautiously I approached, hoping he proved to be a Good Samaritan who would facilitate a fellow smoker with the gracious act of sharing. As I drew near he turned his face towards me. He had green eyes the color of dirty dollar bills; the most penetrating I had ever seen and they watched me approach with a modest sparkle of amusement in the recessed corners of those dusky verdant portals.I cleared my throat and asked him, “Hey Buddy, would you happen to have a cigarette I could borrow?” It was such a simple question.

He looked me up and down, obviously trying to assess the situation. His eyes met mine again, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine but I shuddered once and ignored it considering the cool hour of early morning. Then he smiled at me, “Sure Buddy, always happy to help a fellow smoker.” With that said he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack. Tapping it on the side of his hand to get one out, he said to me “You know my Mother, may she rest in peace, always taught me to be careful with my grammar. She was a stickler for grammar my Mother was. ‘Sammy’ she would say, it was her pet name for me, Samael is my given name but she often called me Sammy. ‘You must always use proper grammar. If you don’t, people will think you are uneducated. Say what you mean and mean what you say.’ That is what my Mother rest her dear soul, would say.”He handed me the cigarette he pulled from his pack and I took it, thanking him as he lit it for me. That is when the impression of Heaven actually materialized wrapping my mind in a cocoon of pure ecstasy as that first puff was like sheer manna to me. The nicotine beast within was finally placated. I stood there for a moment, my eyes closed; taking pleasure in the exquisite taste when I remembered Samael was still standing there beside me. I opened my eyes and found him staring intently with a big wicked grin on his face. “You really must have been dying for a smoke Buddy. I never saw anyone enjoy a drag like you just did.” I returned his smile, “My name is Michael, nice to meet you. Yes, I thought I had another pack on me but I was wrong, I was just now trying to get back to my hotel to get one. Thanks again for the cigarette.”Samael just waved his hand, “Oh please, no need to thank me, I am glad I could be of some small assistance. So you are heading back to your suite, what hotel are you staying at?” he asked as he took another cigarette from the pack and lit it for himself.I continued to smile, I was in a self indulgent state of nirvana and felt no menace from Samael as I looked down at him and I thought to myself the least I could do for my grinning savior was to lend a sympathetic ear to bend for a few moments while I finished my cigarette. He struck me as a lonely man just wanting some one to talk to; why else would he be out on the streets at such an early hour in the morning?“I’m staying at the Sheridan Grande Hotel.” Samael let out a small but sustained whistle, “Wow, that is some pricey accommodations you have Michael, I once knew a lady who worked the night shift there, Maggie was her name. Nice enough girl but she had such extremely poor grammar.” He spoke wistfully.With my nicotine addiction temporarily satisfied, my bladder then spoke up to warn me that it was a good deal too full to continue holding the imported beer I had consumed before leaving the bar. “Sorry Samael, but I have to get going, but maybe I’ll see you around and thanks for the smoke.” I turned and started to jog towards the hotel. Just before I got out of earshot, Samael yelled something to me that sounded like “I’ll see you soon Michael.”The next morning I awoke with a pounding headache. I had forgotten all about Sammy and the cigarette and his peculiar grammar lessons by then and I called up room service ordering some breakfast and a few aspirin for my miserable spinning head. As I was eating the few bites I dared ingest without risk of losing everything I received a call from my friend Paulie who proceeded by informing me that he had finally and succesfully accomplished the conquest of a certain socialite he had been after for months. I listened with a half heart while grabbing my fresh pack of Helmar’s and lit one up. I cut Paulie short telling him I had something urgent to do and made plans to meet him later that night at said socialite’s elite gathering on her daddy’s little boat dockside at the Blue Moon Harbor Yacht club at slip L337.

I went back to bed, waking up at five pm in a mood much more to my liking. The pain in my head was finally gone and as I lit another cigarette, I sat at the convenience table, pulled out my laptop and checked my e-mails. I found mostly junk mail except for a few messages from Paulie with jpegs of him and his latest conquest in compromising positions. But one email in particular caught my eye. The subject line just read “Grammar”. I didn’t recognize the address it came from but my virus protector gave it no cautionary disapproval, so I opened it. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read the content.“Dear Michael,

I hope you enjoyed the cigarette you borrowed from me last night. However, since you borrowed it, I assume you mean to give it back to me. I will be around sometime tonight to collect. Remember, always say what you mean and mean what you say. Sincerely,Samael.” I was absolutely astonished. I couldn’t believe this guy not only found my e-mail address but he also was demanding I pay back the cigarette I “borrowed” from him. I glared at my screen for a moment. I had no intention of him coming to collect a cigarette from me. I mean I would give him one if I saw him again should he ask for one, that would only be courteous but this kook claimed he actually intended to collect on a cigarette debt. It then occurred to me that the message was sent in jest and the lonely old guy must have one sick sense of humor. I placed his e-mail address on my ignore list and went back to checking the remainder of my mail and as I did, new mail came in with just the one lone word “Grammar” in the subject line, they started popping up faster than I could delete them and I found myself thinking this nut must have one Hell of a Spam-ware program and I shut down my computer. I tried to put Samael and the borrowed cigarette out of my mind, concluding that if he did show up and things became violent, I could easily defend myself against his age and slight build and then I would just call the police and be done with him. Considering my financial independence, I was used to having scam artists and such trying to fleece money from me. I decided Samael was one of these people. I also decided I had learned my lesson and from that moment on, I would never again ask to “borrow” another cigarette from a stranger. I would make sure I had enough on me.

I hired a cab to drive out to the harbor, where I met up with Paulie and a few other partygoers. It was a great bash, lots of idle conversation, music and dancing; making out and the best liquor that money could buy. It was obvious early on that Paulie and our hostess were going to hook up again and so when the party started to wind down, I thought it best for me to return to my hotel. I looked around for Paulie and our hostess to let them know I was leaving, but not finding them I reasoned they were likely preoccupied. I went topside and debarked the yacht.

As I strolled down the pier I heard someone whistling behind me, it was an unfamiliar tune but a recognizable tone. I quickened my pace, wanting to make it to the parking lot where I knew a line of cabs and limos would be waiting to transport any party goers off to perspective abodes to sleep off the night’s events or on to the next adventure as their recreational motivated constitution allowed. The faster I walked, the faster and louder the whistling became, now I could hear footsteps behind me as well. I started to run as my muddled brain brought forth the memory of the e-mail I had received from Samael earlier that day. I knew I was too drunk to defend myself now and all I could do was get to the safety of the illuminated parking lot, where there would be safety in bright lights and tangible people. I could see a distinct glow up ahead. I was so fixed on watching the lights I didn’t see the anchor that lay across the deck of the pier. I let out a small yelp as my toe caught it and I went sailing across the wooden planks, skidding for a few feet and ended up sprawled face first on the splintery ground. There was a sharp pain in my ankle and I knew I had twisted it or worse. I rolled onto my back and sat up, rubbing my ankle. The whistling had stopped, so had the footsteps. The only light was the faint blush from the full moon hiding behind thin veils of clouds above and I could only see dark shadows. I held my breath, straining to hear any noise but the only perceived sound was the slight clatter of distant carefree laughter coming from another yacht anchored in the harbor. I waited a few more minutes and when I realized no one was coming after me, I struggled to my feet. My left ankle let me know immediately it would not support any weight, so I started to hop on my right foot towards the parking lot. I had hopped maybe 4 or 5 steps when I heard a voice from behind me say, “That was a nasty spill you took Michael, are you okay?”

I froze. I recognized the owner of the disembodied voice immediately. It was Samael. I turned slowly, careful not to put my left foot down. He was standing behind me, the moonlight reflecting off his misty sea green eyes, giving them an ethereal quality. He was dressed almost exactly as he was the night before but tonight he wore a navy pea coat and a sailors wool cap. He was holding something in his had but I couldn’t make out what it was. I started sobering up quickly as he strolled towards me, his face covered in an evil grin that made my blood run cold.“Are you okay there Michael, buddy?” he hissed as he came closer. I opened my mouth to yell for help but he was instantly on me. In a brief imperceptible moment I was tackled to the ground and the wind was knocked completely from me. I marveled at his almost super human speed and strength as he punched me in the head, producing dancing stars before my blurry eyes. I tried to put constructive thoughts toward fighting back but my reeling mind could not settle on anything useful and my stunned empty efforts at struggling accomplished absolutely nothing. My ‘buddy’ Sam produced a pair of handcuffs and locked my hands behind me. He then pulled out a roll of duct tape from his pocket, ripped off a sizable selection and slapped it over my mouth just as my senses were crawling back from the deep nether they had retreated to. As my senses revisited to assess the situation, my mottled and blurred vision cleared as well.

He sat cross-legged on the pier, glaring down at me as I looked at him through questioning eyes. “I imagine right now you are wondering what is going on. Well allow me to explain. You see I am a product of my dear Mother’s insistence that grammar be used properly. She used to beat the dog snot out of me if I used improper grammar or etiquette. I tried, my best to keep her happy but day after endless day I failed and suffered for my inadequacies. In the end I had an epiphany as I cringed in my bed late one night, covered as I was with bruises and abrasions from Mother’s disappointments. It was there and then that it became solemnly obvious that only one action on my part could grant my dear Mother peace, and it was up to no one else in the entire world but me to gain my Mother’s approval by giving her what she truly wanted. So one night as she lay sleeping in her bed, I snuck into her room and placed the pillow over her head. She struggled and screamed as I most certainly anticipated, but amazingly for all her proper grammar, in the end she resorted to cussing and swearing like a New York whore. After completing my distasteful task there was for one brief moment a feeling that I was finally free or so I thought, but alas I soon discovered that was not the case at all. Much to my dismay I found people in this world use improper grammar all the time and it drove me crazy! Like when dear sweet Maggie said to me “You ain’t worth spit.” I corrected her grammar quickly; one quick slash across the carotid and it was over. It was the first time I had used a knife. I uh, I wasn’t used to the blood you see? I did find myself sick on that first occasion but over time I diligently built up a tolerance, yes even a taste, a hunger for the bloody morbid service I perform. I often wondered as a young child what my purpose in life would be one day and about ten years ago I realized my destiny was to stop the mistreatment of the English language and “teach” proper grammar to those poor unfortunate souls in need of education and to ruthlessly butchering any wretched abusive soul who proved guilty of butchering our precious grammar. Take for instance you my young friend. Last night you approached me and asked if you could borrow a cigarette from me. Borrow, do you know what the definition of borrow is? To borrow is defined as to have permission to temporarily use another’s’ possession, with intent to return that item. You borrowed a cigarette from me last night and I have come to get it back. Now where is the item I allowed you to borrow last night Michael my boy?”I stared wild-eyed at him. My heart felt as if it were going to pound a path out of my chest. I didn’t know how I was going to make my escape from this maniac. I tried frantically to think when I suddenly remembered I had a pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket. Quickly I started to gesture to Samael, trying to get him to look in my pocket.“What’s that Michael? You have cigarettes in your pocket? Well let’s take a look shall we?” He leaned over, I could smell the sour sweat on his face and a sickly aroma of stale tobacco on his breath as he rummaged through my pocket, “Ah, here we go, what have we here?” he said as he pulled the nearly full pack out from its storage. I mumbled a prayer as he flipped the pack over and read it. “Oh Michael…tsk. .tsk. .tsk. You really weren’t paying attention last night were you? These are Helmar’s, I don’t smoke Turkish Cigarettes because they make me ill. I smoke only American brands. Well I am afraid now my dear friend you will most certainly obtain a valuable lesson in the use of proper phraseology when putting forth direct questions. You see if you had queried if I had a cigarette I would let you have, you would of presented an appropriate question, using proper grammar. But you asked to borrow a cigarette and since you cannot return the cigarette to me, you must learn a terrible lesson and as we all well know education does not come cheap I fear I must extract a most grievous price from you. Now hold still, it’s not as messy that way.”

Samael stood towering over me, I could feel tears running down my cheeks as I watched him pull out a long sharp dagger from his coat. The metal glistened in the musty moonlight as he started to swing the blade towards me. What happened next happened incredibly fast; I’m still plagued by gaping holes in my memory and don’t recall all the details of what exactly happened. One moment I was praying hard, hoping beyond all hope he would slip and fall over or somehow miss me. Then the next moment, I heard a distant “pop” and saw Samael stop, his knife still midway between his maniacal grimace and my rapidly soon to not be beating heart. He stumbled back, holding the knife out in front of him. He regained his footing and took one more step towards me. I heard an additional pop then I saw a large stain growing on his chest. I thought he was staring at me but he had turned his head towards the harbor. Finally, Samael fell to the ground with a loud “thud” sounding to me like a large burlap sack filled with rotted fleshy fish. I sat there, shaking, afraid to even breathe; afraid any movement might reawaken the psychopath laying just three feet from my face. I sat there a few more minutes until I heard several footsteps running toward me. I turned my head and saw two police officers and a rather large fellow with an empty gun holster peeking through his open blazer. One officer ran over to look upon Samael. He put his finger to Samael’s throat, checking for a pulse. Finding none, he proceeded place a call to dispatch. The second officer came over to me and after checking my vitals located a key and removed my cuffs. I pulled the tape from my mouth.“Sir, are you okay? Don’t worry we have an ambulance on the way, just lay still until they get here.” The second officer spoke.The ambulance came and rushed me to the Alvarado Medical Center. It was there as the doctor took x-rays of my ankle that I found out what actually happened. Apparently Mr. “Gun Holster” was an armed bodyguard for a certain celebrity whose yacht had been anchored in the harbor right across from where Samael ambushed me. This bodyguard said he had gone topside on a routine security check. He was used to fans and paparazzi trying everything to get a glimpse of his employer so he used a pair of night vision goggles to make sure there were none lurking about with the intention of annoying his boss. He said he saw Samael at first but did not see me right away, but when he saw Samael was talking to someone on the ground, he made out my silhouette as Sammy bound and gagged me. He ran back to the captain and told him to call the police. The two officers who had saved me were already at the harbor investigating a report of a fight on the nearby boardwalk when they received the call. As they approached the pier they saw Samael with the knife and myself all trussed up. They ordered him to drop the knife and when he didn’t they fired. The doctor said I might not have heard them because of hysterical shock. They hit him once in the shoulder but he still had the knife and refused to drop it, they fired again, this time the bullet entered his side and went through his right ventricle.
It was discovered after the next few weeks of investigation that Samael Waters, was responsible for at least thirty-five deaths over a ten-year period. He was suspected in several others including the mysterious death of his mother twenty-five years earlier. He was a troubled loner who was raised by a cruel and hateful mother. His was a sad story of abuse and degradation actually, and if he hadn’t tried to kill me that night I might have even felt sorry for him.

That was a year ago, eventually the name Samael Waters faded into obscurity, as do most all flash in the pan serial killers. Soon enough the public moves onto another sad and grotesque story that likely has an unhappy ending. People can be fickle that way. As for me, the experience changed my life. I decided to drop out of the party scene and settle for a small quiet little home in a small town where no one remembers the name Sammy Waters or “The Grammar Killer” as one newspaper dubbed him. Here I am safe within these meager walls; here I am free to express myself and to be myself as I was always destined to be. Free to fulfill my destiny and continue what was begun late one night during those sweltering dreadful July hours of darkness a year ago.Someday I will write more about my experience but for now I have work to do. And my work is so very important, I must reach out to my fellow man, I have a lesson to teach. I am the salvation of the uneducated, those who are so blatantly unaware. Now if you will excuse me, the woman next door borrowed a cup of sugar and I must go get it back…

A Tale Of Dexter Irwin

2007-06-14T15:53:00.000-07:00

There was an occurrence only three nights past that put my soul on ice. Not an incident of mine but of someone previously unknown to me. He had revealed in due coarse a personal portrait of unfathomable and objectionably gloomy form so incomprehensibly mysterious that it terrified me to the base of my now jaundiced spine. It is also the reason as for why today I find myself hiding in the dark damp recesses of my mind, apprehensive in respect to the contemplation of returning into the populated sunlight.

I sat upon a stone bench surrounded by the vibrant park-like grounds of the university campus, a student of contemporary religion, as well as carrying a minor quite adeptly in courses of philosophy and modern social hierarchy commonly referred to as social studies. There was a blistering Indian summer heat blazing into the back of my tender Caucasian neck, yet my insatiable thirst for educational stimulation kept my workbooks open within my hands. Stooping from where I sat, I reached into my bag and retrieved a pen, preparing to begin my regimental litany of impromptu spontaneous studying which I performed judiciously every day like clockwork for the past three and a half years when I sensed rather than felt a supplemental weight affixed to the searing air beside me.

Turning, I saw a short round-faced young man of no more than twenty-five years sitting there; expressionless. His vibrant green hunter eyes wild and inconstant never seemed to focus on one particular thing, yet contained an inexplicable concentration. He had short, thick oily black hair and wore wire-rimmed spectacles of the coke bottle variety; dense lenses oozing out of thin frames. He was sweating a lot even for this unnatural arid temperature and his breath was quick and sharp. After an exchange of the usual conversational formalities, I had learned his name to be Dexter Irwin, a science student here at the university. He had a history of constantly being an oddity even among his fellow scholars and in his own words he described himself as a man who dares to dream and defy reality. A sentiment the bulk of the masses would like to believe they shared, but the conviction and manner in his elocution made it painfully obvious that the masses fell far short of their claims to true defiance, which in truth was possessed by and was indeed a somewhat unnerving reality belonging only to Dexter Irwin.

We talked nonsensically for a determined short while of his studies and his pointed interests, and I do not lie when I say that I was intrigued at what he relayed to me regarding his and his family’s exploits:

His grandfather, Dr. Fredrick Irwin had been a leading explorer in his day. He had ventured out into the deep Congo, seeking out the traditions and demigods of hidden tribes. Dexter’s father, Hershel Irwin some time in October of 1971 had received a letter of Dr Irwin’s’ sketchy demise and so his Grandfather was consequently never known personally by young Dexter Irwin. In the communication presented to the Irwin family were vague details concerning the “unidentifiable and suspect disappearance of Dr. F. D. Irwin,” telling of how the great silence within his company of six men (excluding the doctor himself) pointed to a mutinous plot of murder, and that the disloyal comrades were feeling the guilty repercussions of such a duplicitous act and now refused to impart any information as to the body’s whereabouts to the authorities. The truth of it was never known, and so there shall be no slander or conjecture speculated here, but the chances of an insurrection within the small group was highly improbable compared to the apparent barbarity of the secret tribes, which the aged voyager had written about in many of his journals. The clans he went to scrutinize (also noted copiously in his diaries) were idol worshiping and united spiritual social clusters of overpoweringly religious zeal.

The events surrounding the death of Dexter’s father, the aforementioned Hershel Irwin, were abundantly less suspicious. He had been killed when a storm had loosed itself upon the house where Dexter had spent his childhood. A striking bolt of electricity had shot down from the dark threatening clouds overhead and turned the house almost instantly into a fiery inferno. His father had died somewhere within millimeters of the source of that blaze.

From the age of eleven, Dexter had spent the majority of his youth in the custody of his uncle, his father’s first choice of guardian. A stern faced, god-fearing man who fastidiously chastised Dexter for every wrong footstep. He forbade the readings of certain texts, including the surviving remnants of his grandfather’s writings, most of which had burned in the fire at Dexter’s previous home, the place of his father’s untimely and untidy demise. Uncle Irwin was a good man at heart, and he kept a good living as a farmer, but the harsh restrictions he imposed upon Dexter had most certainly resulted in a specific and ominous consequence upon his bright nephew.

I discovered I had begun to form an uneasy connection to this unusual man and his history, and after scrutinizing a surmountable sum of profound interest marked in my increasingly curious eyes, he invited me to witness the results of some of his more recent studies, to which I keenly agreed.

Dexter’s house was situated unobtrusively upon a quiet prominence some miles away from the busy noise infected city, within a small familial suburb where everyone knew everyone else. Except that nobody seemed to know or recognize Dexter Irwin. He passed through the community without receiving a single sociable glance or so much as an offering or ambiguous murmuring of greeting as even strangers passing by are often known to do in such casual easy going neighborhoods.

It was from first glance that the somewhat dilapidated building of archaic design offered its ominous profile, which was leant a peculiar aura from the evening’s autumn orange sky, and yet this modest home was strangely welcoming and amiable in it’s simplicity. Within the confines of Dexter’s suburban cookie cutter structure were the usual happenings of any accommodation: a neglected kitchen where hung all manner of grimy pots and pans along two of the three door-less walls. A forgotten refrigerator was humming furiously in one corner with the door slightly ajar. I watched the light bulb which had previously illuminated the inside of the chilly appliance to reveal various aged cold cuts and other less identifiable food matter, stutter a moment and then extinguished itself completely as if much too embarrassingly mortified to reveal it’s meager content to a stranger. In the other corner stood a breach into the pantry, whose floorboards creaked and complained as it was attacked by the slightest of our dual approaching steps coming from the still-open front door, which led to this dim culinary juncture.

Continuing on into a small living room, I saw that there was not much need for furnishings when one lived as alone and excluded as Dexter Irwin did. It contained only a worn-out scruffy old colonial style couch that had broken through its fabric and now displayed discolored yellow padding here and there, and a tiny television set sat alone on a fragile three legged table standing slightly apart from the wall, unplugged and gloomily covered in dust, disgust and self loathing.

Dexter led me hastily through that cheerless room and to the stairwell, which we passed moving instead through a heavy ancient and groaning door opening out to a passage that descended by means of some wormed and squeaking wooden steps into a mottled, strangely scented cellar spotted with what could only be described as threateningly active culture specimens of unknown origin. Dexter’s lumbering pace grew to be more eager then, if I remember accurately, for I vaguely but certainly recall the haunting rhythmical sound of his soft shoes upon the steps as he moved downwards in front of me.

He explained as we descended deeper into the basement, that he was most proud of his off-site research and efforts. Ambling almost casually through the darkened shadows of the house’s underbelly, Dexter found a frayed cord, which he gently pulled and we suddenly became flooded by a powerful sallow radiance, which came from a single hi intensity bulb hung from the ceiling. Upon my first glance, it was evident that Dexter spent most of his time in his prized basement; for the neglect and decaying final phase of dilapidation the rest of the home seemed plagued by were not apparent here.The sterile conduct of his work beneath the house was emphasized by the hygienic purity of everything I encountered. His (what he had called previously) “laboratory” was a hospitable clean room, and I might have taken some pleasure in naming it a sanctuary for respite from the chaotic world, had it not been for the blasphemous impiety of the wickedly sterile confines.

The walls were layered in a multitude of shiny instruments, some delicate and some verging on bludgeoning armaments, many mounted on frames like cherished prized quarry of a lengthy hunt. A large desk spanned one side of the room and was covered in loose-yellowed mature papers and documents, all bearing the insignia of one Dr. F. D. Irwin. Searching through them, I came across one, which caught my eye with dreadfully ardent attention. It was dated October 30th 1971, and read:

The indigenous and innate prejudices of these tribal people are amazing even to me. I have tried and succeeded in communicating with the man who I have assumed to be the chief, and am beginning to understand their ways of life more straightforwardly. Their abundance of idolatry for their Nature-Deities has led me to believe that even a classification as Pagan would be too much of an underestimation for me to consider.

And one from the following day:

My guides and workers have left me. During the night they ran, I heard the breaking of sticks and massive rustlings of leaves too late as they disappeared. I had noticed a strange behavioral pattern as of late; they seemed to gravitate more towards escape than faith and loyalty in me, ever since I had achieved a thriving contact with the people hidden in the trees.

There was not an entry for the first day of November, but there was an item dated November 2nd, 1971. It read:

By what merciless Gods do these people worship? Their rich and callous treatment leads me only to reinforce an already long-standing stereotype. Yesterday, I saw a rite of ancient alacrity, and it had disturbed me greatly, for they held me as I watched, seeking some sort of wicked approval. They had strapped a young pregnant woman, arms and legs, to a pole on either side with ropy vines, and driven these into the mud beside a nearby riverbank. Squirming and writhing in fearful terror, she had her baby by the way of a sharpened stone slicing into her belly. The infant, slick with blood was drowned instantly within the mired sludge at its mother’s feet, she was then beheaded and dissected, her body parts subsequently impaled upon ceremonial spears held by her brothers and sisters.

I will lavish no more detail than this, for that shocking scene which made me gag then vomit, would surely do so once more should I recollect it more intensely.

Leafing through the nearby papers, I discovered the missing entry from November the 1st:

They marked me today, a simple slash upon my palm. I presume it to be some kind of clannish symbol, though I have seen no other living soul bear it as well. They seem to see me as an ally now, after I had exposed to them some various marvels from our western worlds, to which they reacted at first frightened, then curious, then they gasped with wonder as if those marvels were great enchantments. My acceptance is made apparent by my being the first to taste from each meat that has just come from the bounty of a recent hunting trek, and the numerous trinkets and charms given to me by the village’s women.Perhaps they see me as some sort of hero or champion, or even, in my narcissistic way, as another God.“Look, here,” whispered Dexter’s stark accent, which disturbed me from my reading. I am almost glad that it did, for the other two entries which followed the account of the ritual on November 2nd would surely be far less pleasant than I deeply feared. He stood at an extra desk, which was on the opposite side of the room to me. It was covered with a long white cloth, beneath which were the disinfected metallic curves and protrusions familiar to any medical student or coroner.

Dexter Irwin pulled the fabric back and revealed a face I had seen just recently. It was in the local newspaper a few days past, one George Thurman, a retired blue-collar professional who had died in a hospital some days ago. I had read his inconsequential name with usual remote neutrality, as I did with most of the obituary records, but I remembered his picture well. It was a photograph displaying the man in the latter stages of his life, bearing a gentle smile and vibrant eyes. Now laid out the victim of a stroke upon a scientist’s table. Dexter explained that his “subject” (as he so sickeningly described it) had been covertly retrieved from a nearby cemetery the night before, and had been unceremoniously hauled back here to his laboratory with neither consent nor hindrance.

My stillness was powerfully mysterious and inexplicable, yet grim silence it was all that came from me. Perhaps I was shocked by his grandfather’s accounts, or maybe I was appalled at the way in which Dexter Irwin so fervently illustrated his ideas and tactics for his latest subject, or even as it has faintly crossed my mind recently as I have been hiding so fixedly within my thoughts, my silence was due to a morbid interest and stupefaction in this student’s supplementary learning. Of what it was that kept me quiet, I cannot or dare not say. But silent I was, even so.

Dexter commenced in applying liquids and viscous gels to the body of George Thurman, energetically smearing them with a heinous exuberance. He placed on the body, some strange utensils of which their sinister function was just as foreign to me as their shape and design. He bade me watch closely while he “defended his Father's honor” by completing the studies of which Hershel Irwin so ardently loved and pursued until that fateful night when God's own thunderbolt brought his diabolical research to an immediate and terminal disruption.” Having been previously banefully fixated upon the letters and memoirs of the late Dr. Irwin, I had just then noticed the antiseptic luminance of the room retract and fade and that there were a selection of levers, pedals and switches nearby. Dexter had quietly stridden purposefully over to these protrusions and was now initiating a service, which had become so systematic and encoded upon his brain that no dim or no light could ever befall him as an obstacle. He was ceremonious in methodically pulling, pushing and twisting at the machine as if he conducted an invisible archaic orchestra the likes of which were just as unfamiliar yet anomalous as his practice.

Then the voltage deprived muted light from the single bulb dimmed even further. It flickered violently as strange electricity surged powerful throughout the dank cellar. The ozone blue of the voltage that flowed through odd equipment illuminated Dexter maniacally beneath his fingers and toward the contraptions he had placed upon the specimen which he so treasured. It lasted only a short moment and then the pandemonium turned to quiet. The hushed echo of my accelerated heartbeat hammered a deafening rage at my ribcage, and threatened to burst out pitilessly from witnessing this following scene.

The deceased body of George Thurman twitched and thrashed fanatically, grasping at something unseen in the air. His vivid blue eyes snapped suddenly open, as if he had never died. They bore a knowledge of which I fervently wished to have no part, and I fled the house of the mad scientist Dexter Irwin, replaying the sight of the demented scholar clutching his reanimated cadaver by the dirty and sullied collar, shaking it fiercely and yelling, “Tell me what you saw! Tell me what lies beyond death!”

Coming Out of the Closet

2007-05-31T21:36:00.000-07:00

Lying beside Jimmy in bed, Betty couldn’t help but feel there was still something amiss in the small house where they resided. She had checked the locks twice on the doors, made sure the stove was off, and that the small space heaters they used were away from anything that might catch fire. Glancing up she could see the gentle line of light the soft muted bathroom bulbs cast out into the room, even though Jimmy told her she was silly and wasteful for leaving them on.

He always said things like that to her, that she was being silly, or wasting power, or that she was just being irrational. Jimmy always callously scolded her, telling her that there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark, no boogey man was going to jump out and get her. The truth is he just did not understand her fear, that was what it really boiled down to.

Then something caught her attention, a small part of a jacket cuff stuck out from the closet’s double doors. Black and curved slightly, it looked too much like the silhouette of sinister gloved fingers to Betty. With a slight shiver of fear, Betty lifted to her knees on the bed, stretched across the dark gap between her and the jacket, opened the closet doors slightly and shoved the coat’s cuff back into the darkness. As she shut the closet doors securely, and settled down again, Betty realized that Jimmy had been watching her with interest the entire time, building a feeling of dread that sank with lead like weight in the pit of her stomach.

“What was that all about Betty? Afraid the boogey man was trying to slip out with the lights on now?” Jimmy asked, in the ever mocking tone he always used when getting ready to let loose a string of insults at Betty. His brow lifted slightly in sick curiosity.

“No Jimmy, don’t be so mean about it. It’s just that…” Betty hesitated for a moment, her cheeks flushed with color, feeling the heat rise sharply in her face,” It’s just that I was worried about seeing that in the middle of the night, if I wake up from one of my nightmares, and mistake it for a gloved hand because of my narcolepsy…” Pausing a moment, Betty chewed her lip, thinking desperately of something to say that might cut him off right there so that they wouldn’t end up in a debate about her condition as well as her fears. Finally she whispered softly,” I’m not being irrational Jimmy. I think I was using very lucid prudence on my part because of my...”

“Whatever baby, why don’t you just admit you were afraid it was the boogey man, hmm?” Jimmy stated more than asked this as he leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek, but not giving her the time to make a rebuttal, “You need to chill girl. Anyways, are you ready for me to turn the light off yet?” All of this was said with a cruel kind of amusement hanging in his voice, bringing the familiar sting of tears to Betty’s eyes, but somehow she kept them from falling.

“Yeah, good night Jimmy, see you in the morning.” She murmured lightly, turning to her side to face away from him, while he clicked off the light filling the room with deep shadows of darkness, the only light left within the small house approached from the bathroom, with it’s door mostly closed like a calm beacon of sanity in the otherwise chilling insane asylum of fear that plagued the uncomfortable nighttime for Betty.

“Good night babe, sweet dreams, and don’t let the boogey man get you.” Jimmy said against Betty’s shoulder as he rolled to his side, her back to him, knowing good and well that she was mad, but that didn’t stop him from throwing his arm over her and squeezing for a moment before he simply let it rest there. It wasn’t long before Jimmy was harshly snoring disagreeably against the back curve of Betty’s ear.

With the sound of Jimmy’s snoring, and the unease Betty felt being in the dark, even if she did have a bit of light, it was still unnerving to her none-the-less. She couldn’t really explain her fears to anyone, even though she had tried numerous times, but it always ended the same with people telling her she was being silly or irrational and that there was nothing to be afraid of.After a while though, despite fears pungent charge of adrenaline, Betty drifted off into a deep sleep, which came upon her suddenly just as it did most nights. This was simply the way things were for her since the narcolepsy that haunted her had become considerably worse. Of course the medicine helped keep her alert throughout the daylight hours, but the doctors felt she needed no medicine at night because that would make her unable to sleep at all.

Some time later, well into that dark hour that is legally set aside for driving broomsticks across the portentous sky and for experiencing frightfully realistic nightmares, Betty awoke from her comatose sleep with a scream caught in her throat. The dreams always seemed so real, and they were never good, ever. Looking around the darkened room wildly, Betty’s feral gaze darted towards the barely visible set of folding closet doors. That was when she saw the shadowy hand coming out trying to pry the doors open from the inside. The awful sight Betty beheld forcefully dislodged the scream in her throat and expelled it up to her lips and beyond in a high blood curdling pitch.

Even as Jimmy woke with a start, wondering what in hell was happening, Betty was scrambling over him, still screaming wildly, before she flopped to the floor on his side of the bed, trembling and pointing at the closet with one frantically swaying hand. It was in that moment that Jimmy’s sleep hazed mind registered what was going on, and he couldn’t repress the sardonic smile that crossed his lips as his gaze landed upon the small bit of winter coat sticking out between the double-doors of the closet. Jimmy saw his chance right then and there to teach Betty a lesson about being afraid of anything and everything.

Throwing back the covers, Jimmy climbed out of bed, gripping Betty’s shoulders firmly, then giving her a good shake as he said, “Be quiet now, Betty. It’s just that damn coat you were talking about earlier, and I am going to prove it to you.” Shoving her lightly back against the wall, Jimmy made his way over to the baleful cause of all that creepy chaos even as she protested through hysterical tears against him moving towards the closet doors.

Jimmy looked at the coat’s cuff for a moment, thinking over how he was going to teach her a lesson, before he glanced back at Betty and spoke. “Look, it’s just one of our winter coats like I said. Looks like one of mine as a matter of fact. Quit being so silly, you just had a bad dream and thought you saw something that you didn’t see at all.” Just for good measure, Jimmy gave a sharp tug at the cuff making the doors rattle slightly on their tracks.

Betty watched him horror-struck and with a kind of shame at the same time that she had thought there was more to the cuff of that coat than there was, considering she was the one that brought it to Jimmy’s attention earlier that night. Standing to her feet, with tears slipping down over her cheeks, Betty said, “Fine, just fix it so we can go back to bed. I’m not being silly, I know what I saw, but there is no use in arguing that point with you.” She folded her arms against her chest, her heart still hammering hard, her body still trembling from adrenaline, but feeling a kind of hot indignation that the man she loved did not believe her, or even respect her enough not to make fun of her.

Jimmy rolled his eyes, and opened one of the folding doors that led into the closet making as if to push the coat back into the darkness there. But instead of just doing that, he pretended to be pulled inside, making his body lurch halfway into the closet as he began to scream, “Oh, my God! It’s got me Betty! Help me, please help me!” He would have made a pretty good actor, he thought to himself as he continued to pretend to struggle against the mischievously imagined boogey man.

Betty shrieked in the same moment that Jimmy lurched forward, paralyzed by her fear, and then there was nothing for her but deep blackness. It took a moment for Betty to fall, but when she did, there was a resounding thump against the hard oak panel that ran along the side of the old antique bed, that thump held within it an almost inaudible cracking sound, a sickening sound if one were paying close attention. Caught by such a high emotion of fear, Betty was pulled into a narcoleptic episode of cataplexy, and in doing so she missed most of Jimmy’s little act by sliding limp fully onto the floor.Jimmy heard the thump, and just missed the whisper of something mildly approximating the sound of bone cracking, an so thought to himself Betty was just backing into the wall in her own ersonal terror. But when he looked around for her, ending his charade in a spew of guttural laughter, Jimmy knew that the lesson he had been trying to teach her, had went unlearned. He could just barely see her prone figure down on the floor, and from the twisted sprawl she seemed to be in, he didn’t figure she was simply hiding from the boogeyman.

For some reason unknown to him, the sight of her lying there, missing his self proclaimed clever lesson, was infuriating to Jimmy. He stormed around the bed, and yanked Betty’s limp form up off the floor, shaking her lightly, “What the hell is wrong with you woman? There aint nothing to be afraid of.” But even as Jimmy said this, and Betty started to slowly come around, he noticed the small trickle of blood near her hairline. For a moment it seemed his temper might mellow, but the sight of the tiny crimson rivulet trailing down over her eyebrow only made his rage turn into a sharper anger, his voice become deep and dangerous, “You stupid girl, you are such a baby. I was playing with you, teaching you a lesson and you decided to go to sleep on me. What kind of respect is that?” Jimmy said, glaring at Betty.

Betty had not only suffered a terrible fright, but also the torments of her cataplexy left her spent and trembling, fat tears welled up in her now blood shot eyes. Her voice was soft, quivering with the taste of panicked tears, but she spoke nonetheless, “Jimmy, let me go, you’re hurting me, what you did was just cruel and mean spirited, you don’t deserve no respect for that.” She could see the muscles working in Jimmy’s jaw, and with fore knowledge of what was coming; she grimaced, pinched her eyes shut and flinched.

About the time she flinched, the impact of Jimmy’s fist caught the left side of her jaw, causing her to bite her tongue causing it to bleed. Betty felt her lip split wide as her teeth dug in deep from the second blow that fell just under her chin. Her face was already swelling. She could feel it, growing larger and malformed by the tick of every new second, and then he shoved her backward onto the bed. Jimmy stormed off toward the living room then, just as he always did when he lost his temper. Betty knew the morning would bring apologies and showers of affection she didn’t want. But that didn’t matter now, because silence had blanketed the room once more, and she was so tired, so very tired of everything. Betty meekly pulled the covers up over her small frame, curled herself into a fetal position and after a while, she fell back into a dreamless sleep.

As always the next morning brought exactly what she knew it would. Jimmy served her burnt toast and instant coffee in bed, along with a blood red rose blackend with decomposing wilt around the edges meant to be an apology, he also brought coffee and the local paper for himself. She did love the man, but she was getting terribly tired of all the crap he dished out to her. Saying nothing to him, barely offering up a false smile, Betty ate her breakfast, and then went about the day trying futiley to hide herself and hide her cuts and bruises while Jimmy pretended with practiced ignorance that nothing had happened the night before.

And so this went on as it had in the past, nearly every night for another two weeks though he only hit her on one other occasion. Betty thought he was afraid of striker her now, because she had never really accepted his apologies the first day after he had begun to torment her with the closet, but she couldn’t be sure. It didn’t change his sick sense of humor though, for nearly every night when she woke up distressed by the gloved hand coming out of the closet, Jimmy would in turn terrify her beyond all reason with his wicked humorless antics.

She still suffered from dour fits of narcolepsy setoff every time Jimmy played his vicious tricks on her emotionally stressed mind. Although in truth, Betty was actually growing accustomed to this nightly ritual as if maybe, just maybe Jimmy’s cruel intentions were not as malicious as she first thought. She noticed that she was able to stay conscious and in control of her body longer each time he pretended to be grabbed by the gloved hand, and she would simply back up against the wall for support as she watched her husband be grotesque. There were even nights when she wished the hand within the glove were real, that it would cease Jimmy’s constant laughter and mocking. It was a terrible thing to wish upon the man she loved, but then again, she couldn’t actually remember why she loved him anymore.

After enduring over two weeks of his sickly torment, Betty settled down into bed glad that it was once more Sunday night and she would have the house to herself the following day while Jimmy went to work. The weekend had been long and hard, she had been forced to dwell within the house with his sour scent and ambivolent attitude each day after another night of his disgusting little tricks, and she was sick to death of even looking at him.

After they both put their books down for the night, and Jimmy switched off the lamp on his dresser, they lay there in the silentdarkness for a few moments. But of course Jimmy wouldn’t let the peace last, and he curled up behind her, throwing his arm over an unwelcoming shoulder and whispered softly against the shell of her ear, “Night Baby, don’t let the boogey man get you.”

Betty shoved Jimmy’s arm off of her, and with venom in her voice that had never been there before, she turned on him and said, “You sick bastard, just shut up for once.” Then she simply rolled over and waited for the blows to begin. And waited. But they never came; Jimmy was far too shocked by Betty’s outburst to do anything about it, which suited her just fine.

In the stillness Betty watched the tranquil light filter from the bathroom into the bedroom to mingle among the shadows as she wished for someone elses life, and in exchange for the absense of granted wishes she eventually drifted off into sleep. Before she had lost all conscious thought, Betty heard a small voice, her own voice in the back of her mind whisper, “Things are going to be good tonight. I think I’ll actually get a good night’s rest.” It was a novel thought, but it of course didn’t happen.

Not long after midnight, that darkest moment found in virtualy every sinister tale, Betty woke once more from a fit of nightmarish images, her gasping lungs pushing out the screams that fell from her lips. She tried not to panic when she looked up at the closet doors, with its gloved hand creeping out, but she lost the battle, and clamored over Jimmy once more, falling into the floor on his side of the bed.

If Betty’s screams did not wake Jimmy, then her bouncing over him most certainly did as she slammed onto the floor like a terrified child when she lost her fight for balance at the edge of the bed. Her actions only pissed him off and throwing the covers back, Jimmy climbed out of bed with small jerky movements and stormed over to the closet. With his hand on one of the closet doorknobs, he turned, glowering at Betty and said, “There is nothing in here you big baby, and this time I am going to show you once and for all. Even if it takes all night to convince you there’s nothing there, and that you are crazy as hell.”

All Betty could do was shake her head back and forth, as she scooted on her bottom in reverse to press her backside hard against the bedroom wall. There was something in there, and no amount of useless attempts to convince her otherwise was going to change her mind. No matter how hard Jimmy tried, or how hard he beat her, she just knew there was something waiting in the closet, lurking in the dark, and hungry. She could sense it, even though it was apparent that Jimmy could not. Betty wasn’t quite sure why the thing in the closet hadn’t made a midnight snack out of her husband in all these days, but she knew Jimmy couldn’t cry wolf forever. One day he would see it, but then it would be too late, wouldn’t it?

Jimmy turned from her then, and yanking the closet doors open, he stepped inside. “See there is nothing in here.” He said as he turned around in the gloom of the closet with the clothes straining away from him on either side trying to avoid him as he glared out at Betty across the room. “It was just a stupid coat sleeve again, like it has been every….” Jimmy didn’t finish his sentence, and at first Betty wasn’t sure exactly why. But then she heard a strange unfamiliar strangling sound, and squinting her eyes to penetrate the deep blackness of the closet she suddenly understood. Her wish had actually become reality as horrifying as any curse come true, and as disgusting as it was for her to even think those kinds of things happening to another soul, even one that was as mean as the man’s that she loved. All she could do was sit as she trembled and gasped for breath, struggling to keep herself conscious while trying to melt into the wall behind her and watch.

Betty watched the black-gloved hand as it wound its way further around Jimmy’s neck. It seemed to be trying to pop his head off like a unwelcome pimple while her man struggled and kicked trying to free himself. But all of the thrashing and kicking in the world wasn’t going to save him now, and Betty felt this deep within her bones even if she didn’t want to know it. Plumes of cold breath and fetid low gasps caressed Jimmy’s cheek, the stench making his stomach roil and protest, threatening to give up all that he had eaten for his gluttonous last supper. There was a rasping sound in those breaths, and Jimmy wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly what they came from, but he struggled all the same trying to free himself, and escape his ethereal opponent.

But once his gaze landed upon the thing that was succeeding at making each breath a challenge, Jimmy wished he would never have known what actually held him. Jimmy tried to form a scream equal to his terror, but only a pitiful choking whimper crossed his lips, as he was unable to look away from the appalling sight before him. Dead yellow eyes stared back at him, rolling and undulating in their deep sockets. He was afraid they might fall out at any moment, fall out into his gaping mouth. Those eyes were terrible enough, but what housed them was by far much worse. What should have been the skin of a homicidal maniac or psychopath serial killer looked unbelievably like scaly, wrinkled elephant’s hide to the horrified Jimmy. Adding to that the things face seemed to be melting without falling away. It would melt down, sickening strings of waxy-leathered scales stretching and dangling precariously before making an upward trek back towards its origin, still seeming to be melting only in an upward motion this time. Again and again the face did this while those yellow eyes rolled on. And then the thing opened its maw, making the scene all the more terrible for it. Razor sharp teeth, more fangs than teeth really, glittered in the dim, futile light the bathroom provided reflecting tight spiky rows of glossy white enamaled bone. Jimmy tried to scream but was ineffectual in his effort. Betty’s voice, on the other hand, high pitched in the throws of her own terror succeeded where his failed. He could hear her screaming something incoherent for a moment, and then there was only blackness as the thing holding him captive in the closet lowered its horrible, stinking mouth over his face, making Jimmy a midnight snack with inhuman finality.

Betty continued to scream, but even over her own voice she could hear the sounds of dinner for one being served in her closet among her dresses, skirts, capris , Goucho pants and practical shoes. A sickening resonance of popping wet and grinding noises accented the putrid smell of graveyard breath and death’s release, or more correctly Jimmy’s release to death that filled the gloom saturated room. It was over within minutes or maybe moments but it felt like hours to the woman cowering against the wall, looking on at the horrors she had vainly attempted to warn her lover about.

When the creature in the closet was finished eating it stepped out into the dim light spreading from the bathroom. It stood on her side of the bed and watched Betty closely with those rolling yellow eyes. Betty’s breath caught, and she found she could no longer scream even if she wanted to. The creature or apparition stood unnaturally on two hind legs with backward jointed knee sockets and straggly tufts of hair growth scattered sparsely about the lower half of the ophidian body. It seemed to say something, but all that came out was a rasping belch of sounds and then it hobbled casually down the hallway as if it had always lived there with them, and easily knew the way to the front door.

Betty sat there listening to the drag, scrape, thump of the things departure, the sound of locks being thrown back, and a door opening. Holding her breath, she waited for the thing to come back for her, but it did not. The boogey man even closed the door behind itself as if to say, “I do have manners ma’am, and I know how to use them. Thank you most kindly for the snack.” And then there was nothing. Just a complete and heavy silence that filled up the entire house, filled up Betty’s heart.

After a long while, Betty worked up the nerve to stand and peek over the side of the bed into the closet, but there was nothing left to see. Betty was sure that she had heard the squelching sounds of blood gushing from Jimmy earlier, but there was no evidence to be found. She even turned on the light to make sure, but the closet was just as it had been that morning when she had retrieved her dress for church.Looking down into the monster-free, currently undisturbed closet, Betty said to herself, “Serves you right Jimmy, and you thought I was crazy. Goes to show what you know don’t it?” The smile that had been playing at the corner of Betty’s lips was full now, her eyes dancing with the jubilant autonomy that freedoms new realization always brings with it and she flicked off the light. Going to the back door, Betty bolted it once more without even looking out into the night to see if the boogey man was there, lurking in the darkness, waiting for her. She was pretty sure it had gotten what it wanted, and would leave her to peace now.

Going back to the bedroom, Betty slowly looked around one more time, with that crazy sweet smile on her face, before she climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around her neck, murmuring softly at nothing, and no one anymore, “Good night Jimmy, where ever you are.” It was no time at all before Betty drifted off into sleep. A peaceful, calm sleep of innocence, somehow knowing never more would dark nightmares torment her.

A Letter To A Friend

2007-05-29T04:26:00.000-07:00

O.M.G. What is the penalty for hit and run? You can imagine how I felt after this dream I had about Harry Dresden racing down an old dusty dirt road, which for some reason seemed to be in Iowa. Harry was being chased by the Lord of Thorns, an enormous centaur like creature from a Simon R. Green book that seemed to be something like Cenarius of WoW druid lore. Well in the book Hex and the City, the Lord of Thorns lived in a box and looked like an angst ridden teenage Bromley Contingent from south London with a full rack of antlers sprouting from his head, but in my dream is it any surprise that it would take on a WoW hue and flavor?. A massive Cerynian Hind was charging and bashing his little V.W. relentlessly when I woke in a cold sweat. Unsettled, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the local Slurpy-mart for a fountain soda pop and a (shh…) discretionary Klondike bar.

As I drove back home looking at the tunnel of black that ate away at my night vision, I thought of you driving alone when a deer leaped out at your car, when a deer leaped out and struck the hindquarter of my truck. You know the drill, my heart leapt to my throat closing off any breath, and panic filled my mind as guilt flooded my conscience and I slowly turned my vehicle around in the street to go back to the scene. There lay a hapless little doe and I felt like crying for the poor critter, but against my instinct to rush out to see if it was ok, I stayed in my truck and drove home. Call me a coward, call me cautious, but I’ve seen the “When Deer Attack” video commercials, so I remained inside my truck until I got home. I ran my hand over the slight indentation that marked yet another scar of experience on my GMC, and pulled the little tufts of hair from the back wheel well where they clung to the rim like a cutaway from a CSI trailer and I wondered if I shouldn’t be wearing plastic gloves and using evidence bags.

I came into the house and went directly to the phone book to look up animal control. At three A.M. I didn’t really want to misdial some poor hard working slob trying to sleep who may just remember *69 in the light of day and turn all Stephen King on my butt by, I don’t know, passing on a family curse or psychically stalking me in my nightmares or something really bad. So I looked up the number and dialed it. Big surprise the office was closed and a pleasant recording gave me another number to call. Now as I was going through this diligent process I became aware that my two kitties had joined forces to circle me slowly in a stalking formation and I really wished I hadn’t brought Stephen King to mind at this wee hour of the morning when everything is so eerily quiet and nasty things seem to happen in his books. But I realized that I had inadvertently marked my self with the scent of an injured animal (I guess I really should have considered plastic gloves) and my cats were reverting to their base natures, Chaos always hungry and Nutmeg half wild as she is, seemed to like me now but maybe not in such a kind way. I dialed rapidly hoping to complete my task at hand and reach the showers before something distasteful occurred within the confines of my house. The new number was the local police department and after wading thru a series of recordings that kept insisting I call 911, but only if I have an emergency, I was connected to dispatch. I confessed my tragic tale and prayed I didn’t violate any public ordinances only to realize from the direction the interrogation was taking it was becoming more and more unlikely. She asked me if I was certain it was a deer and not a large dog, and I explained that although old and addled, I still could delineate between Fido and Bambi and that yea, although it was small, a doe a deer a female deer, it was in the middle of the road and very much a hazard.

She acknowledged and accepted my expertise and informed me that if that was the case I had the wrong number, she only had the capacity to take reports on domestic animals and serious crimes like burglary or rape, and that I would need to contact the Sheriff’s Department. I considered asking her what if the deer raped me and stole a hubcap, but quietly and submissively thanked the kind lady for her time and left her to her crossword puzzles.

The Sheriff’s office was not the right people to contact either, but more helpful when the late night dispatcher began a thoughtful and thorough investigation into the proper channels for such a report and promised she would take care of the details for me and that I could rest assured that the county was in good hands and that I could relax with her on the job. I felt surrounded by a sense of security as I fended off my kitties with my cane and I heard the dispatcher shout into the background, “Hey Hank, what’s the number to animal control?” as I hung up the phone.

The weird thing was the impending sense of the incident I had starting the moment I woke from my dream about deer people attacking a Volkswagon, which brought to mind your several encounters with stray deer just as a deer leaped out at me. The fact that the deer struck me didn’t strike me with shock, I almost expected it, the fright came from my anticipation. I always get the willies when I know what is going to happen before it does. I feel bad for the deer, but I feel worse in that I wonder could I have saved the deer’s life if I only could give credence to prescience? For all that I love to read about it I guess when it comes right down to it I really don’t believe in signs or portents. Someone once told me denial isn’t just a river of regret any more... Don't ask, it's 4 A.M. I didn't understand when I heard it before, and I'm not sure what I mean by it now.

Simple Recipe

2007-05-25T03:36:00.000-07:00

“It’s a simple recipe my sweet dear,” she smiled as she said it. “You only need two lambs' hearts; they’re the easiest to work with, and then something to stuff them with.” A naughty gleam cast across her eyes.
I sat at the end of the kitchen’s island counter watching as her deft fingers opened up the largest aperture of one small heart and began stuffing it with chopped andouille sausage, portofino mushrooms, shallots and peppers, and her own special mix of sour dough bread crumbs with seasoned herbs from the garden. She pushed the stuffing mix well down into the heart, filling it to the brim. Once done, she turned her attention to the other one.
“Here, you have a try.” She pushed the other lamb’s heart towards me.
I looked at the organ with hesitation and a little distaste then said. “I’ve never stuffed hearts before, perhaps you better do it.”
“You’ll never learn if you don’t practice,” she said gently, “hands on experience is always better than merely watching, as you well know.” there was that naughty smile again.
We met some time ago at a prestigious culinary training academy. Me a struggling freshman and her at the very top of the school’s graduating class. She since moved on to greater things; the Executive Chef for an international pharmaceutical firm so vast it sported it’s own gourmet kitchen, catering vast epicurean banquets and supplying it’s modest fleet of first class business jets that provide corporate dignitaries as well as privileged customers with quality meal service. I continued my education as a novice chef’s apprentice in a popular Hotel in Orange County. It has been a struggle; my superiors have informed me on more than one occasion that I have not displayed the proper fervent temperament for controlling a busy five star kitchen, judging my actions to be less than dynamic in the heat of rush hour business. I prefer to present myself cool and calm rather than loud and aggressive under those conditions. Apparently they feel there is yet time for me to learn to adapt my behavioral presence in the workplace, as my tutelage continues.
She came back very suddenly into my life just last week as a consultant on a large collective function at our Hotel for the International Gastronomic Society. I don’t know why I accepted her advances once again, she was a passionate woman but far too self-absorbed to be bothered with a real relationship. Nonetheless she was attractive, knowledgeable and I fell once more for the “Come up to my place and I’ll show you thing or two about cooking…” line. Again. Sigh.
I slid off the wooden four-legged counter stool and walked around to where the heart lay on the reddish brown and blond checkered pattern of a hard maple end-grain cutting board, like some miniature upside-down mountain. Tentatively I took hold of it, the smoothness intrigued me. I’d never reached out and touched a heart before; don’t read too much into that. It felt firm to the touch and for an instant I had a vision of a living muscle pumping essential lifeblood within the small creature it came from. No more will this little lamb skip and cavort in the field with others of its kind. Grasping the widest part I began shoving the stuffing mix into the organ, remembering how she’d pushed it right down into the inner depths.
She smiled that slow smile of hers and spoke “That’s right, pack it in, deeper.” And again innuendo flew across the room as she approached from behind to wrap her arms around me and guide my hands.
Once we were finished and our hearts lay naked on the table as it were, stuffed and ready to be placed in the oven, she suggested we share a bottle of wine. “Great idea,” I thought, “she knows cooking always makes me want to whet my palate with a drop of wine.” She also knows from experience that wine loosens my inhibitions as well I reflected.
She had her back angled toward me at the kitchen sink scrubbing the blood from the cutting board. “Zip down to the cellar and fetch us a bottle of that Cabernet Sauvignon, it goes so well with red meats.” She directed.
I did her bidding and opened the creaking door to the cellar. Switching the light on at the top of the narrow staircase, I made my way down into the cool, damp interior. The light barely touched the austere room below and gave the faintest hint of illumination, just enough to see the array of bottles stacked neatly on their sides in the large wine rack located in the furthest corner of the room. I made my way over and began searching for the Cabernet.
Just then I noticed the tarpaulin in the opposite corner. The dismal glow of light shadowed its true color and from where I stood it merely looked to be a dark lumpish mound. “Strange, that seems kind of out of place even for a basement.” I thought. There was something odd about the shrouded mound, something compelling and I just had to take a peek. I reached over to lift the heavy sailcloth tarp.
Her soft voice sounded from the kitchen “Told you lambs’ hearts are easiest. Of course you can use mature hearts but they’re far tougher.” I jumped as if something had run across my soul. I don’t know if it was something in her voice or the thought of being caught snooping around that startled me so, but I turned and grabbed the nearest bottle and ran up the stairs like a guilty kid almost caught sneaking a peek at Dads secret magazine collection in the basement.
She was placing the hearts in the oven as I came back into the kitchen. My face was flush and my blood was racing. Either I was out of shape, or the fright I took in that cellar was far more serious than I realized. How silly of me to jump at voices merely because I was deeper below the earth’s surface than most buried bodies, I have always had a fear of confined spaces and being below ground in a small cellar was not very comfortable for me at all.
“That isn’t the red Cabernet, I think Merlot is a bit too sweet for this dish, be a dear and run back down and get the right wine will you?” she chided me.
I obediently turned and dragged my feet back down the stairs step by step into that tight cubicle that was the cellar. Not even a window near the ceiling offered any break to the contour of concrete surrounding the cement bunker. As I studied the bottles earnestly seeking the elusive Cabernet, my eyes kept wandering over to the tarp-covered mass in the corner. I stopped and turned to the protuberance and stepped closer to it, the details still blurred by the dim lighting of a single dingy bulb suspended from the crypt ceiling above the stairs. The dark pile still had an awful familiarity to the vague shapes and shadows that just didn’t quite register. It was an idea on the tip of my tongue but stuck there refusing to go any further like a bad taste. I stood perfectly silent for god knows how long unmoving, unformed questions lurking in my sluggish mind. Just as I regained my composure and once again moved towards the covered mass, a hand from behind descended onto my shoulder.
“Did you decide to camp down here or what?” she whispered. “Oh there’s the Cabernet. Come on up silly, dinner is ready.”
I tucked my body back into my skin, fell in line and marched up the begrudging stairs as quickly as my trembling feet would take me. She showed me to my seat at the dining room table set elegantly to perfection, and opened the bottle of Cabernet.
“It’s a shame this bottle won’t have time to breathe, but it is important to eat this dish while hot. You know very well that enjoying a fine meal is just as important as preparing the dish itself. Creating a meal is just the foreplay.” Again with the gleaming eyes that made me wonder if I was part of the menu.
I looked down at my plate, and there was our gourmet repast, roasted stuffed heart snuggled in a deathbed of wild rice, garnished with a braised blood tomato-crown topped with seared Red Leicester and Parmesan cheese and accompanied by fresh asparagus spears prepared amid sliced water chestnuts and strips of sweet red onion and tortured with fresh squeezed lemon juice.
I smiled my approval and took a sip of the freshly poured glass of wine then sputtered and choked at the foul vinegary musk offered by the soured wine. She raised her glass and lightly sniffed at the wines imperfect bouquet.
“Oh my,” she spoke sadly “and it was such a good year…please be a dear and fetch us another bottle, but make haste my sweet lest you lose the subtle reward of this meal.”
I excused myself and ran back to the basement, down the dim lit stairs and straight to the wine rack, remembering where she located the last Cabernet. I snatched up another bottle and quickly made my way to the stairs, then stopped. Was something leaking from under the worn tarp? Did something break? Was it my fault? I was certain I never got close enough to the lump on the floor to do any damage, but to be sure, I walked over and lifted the corner of the canvas.
I never heard the bottle of wine fall crashing to the cement floor. Underneath the stained tarp were two small children with gaping holes in their chests where their hearts had once been pumping essential lifeblood within their small bodies. No more will they play and cavort in fields with others of their kind….
“Ah, the dear lambs. Tomorrow night I’ll teach you how to make Simmered Kid with almonds and saffron…” came the dark sultry voice from behind me.

From The Journal Of

2007-05-25T00:22:00.001-07:00

On some nights I dream about the War. The men who died under my command come one by one to accuse me then, as I lay huddled alone in the dark. They remind me of the terrible debt I owe them. Afterwards I wake in tears, the four windowless walls of my sleeping room cruelly reminding me how misspent their empty sacrifice has been. These dreams are terrible, but they are not what I fear most about the night. There is another dream that visits me from time to time, a memory from childhood. In the dream I can see my brother, lost and alone in the deep shadows of the pine forest that stands at the edge of the town of Wellsboro. He calls out my name, but I am paralyzed. I cannot help him...October 28th 1929I woke with the same feeling that day. My left hand was still numb, but my left foot was useful again. Though it still caused me a great deal of pain if I stood on it for more than a half hour or so. In spite of the doctor's advice, I had done away with my cane two weeks before. After all, the surgeons had also told me that my hand should have healed by now.Nine o'clock in the AM: I entered Wall Drug to receive my weekly allotment of laudanum. If I had not taken the scrip from my pocket to give to the pharmacist I might have forgotten. As I felt with the fingers and thumb of my right hand in the pocket of my coat, I produced not only the scrip, but also a letter from Theodore Worthington. Yes, the Theodore Worthington: industrialist, humanitarian, patron of the arts, Manhattan millionaire. I found myself wondering why such a man would send me a letter. What interest could such a man have in me?"That will be one dollar and seventeen cents, Mr. Peters."It was the young Chinaman under the employ of the elderly Irish owner who spoke to me. I admit to some embarrassment when I threw the letter on the counter while simultaneously taking a long drink from the bottle. He looked at me with a measure of uncertainty; sweat beading on his light brown forehead. It was the eye that did it, I knew. I had left home without covering the eye. I had forgotten myself. "Apologies, my boy," I said.I fumbled two paper dollars onto the counter then scooped up the letter. I examined it as the young man made change. There was to be a meeting today between Worthington and myself. I made a point of keeping my eyes on the letter as the boy counted back my change nervously. I felt an obligation to speak again as I scooped the money up and slid it into my pocket, but no words came to mind. There was something I should have said then, something that people say to one another. I looked up at the boy, my eyes searching his face for the expected phrase to find only his pale cheeks and trembling lower lip. I left the pharmacy in silence.Nine thirty in the AM: Before I sat out for the Piet Mondrian Building and my meeting with Mr. Worthington, I stopped at the small flat my military pension had grudgingly provided. I retrieved my rose tinted spectacles from their place on the wardrobe and slid them onto my face. I checked my appearance in the mirror. My hair was long and unkempt, and its familiar deep russet had recently become streaked with white. I smoothed it back against my scalp, and realized that it was thinning. That's when I took a longer look. My face seemed hollow; my eyes sunken beneath the dark lenses that covered them. I don't remember ever looking so thin, almost skeletal, or so pale... this was no way to look at such an important meeting. I reached into my small wardrobe and pulled out my service jacket to wear beneath my long coat, which had the desired effect of making me appear somewhat stout. My medals followed, and I drew blood from my index finger more than once as I pinned them on my jacket. I examined myself in the mirror again and felt a touch more satisfied. My meeting with Worthington was not until two in the afternoon. I sat down on my bed to wait and took another long drink from the bottle. I replaced the cap and slid it into my inner pocket.Two o'clock in the PM: My visit to Worthington's office was not quite what I imagined it would be. The twenty-first floor of the Piet Mondrian Building was a busy place, I learned. There was a receptionist behind a large oak desk to whom I spoke. The wall behind her was affixed with mirrors at two-foot intervals that ran from the floor to the ceiling. I watched my own reflection as I spoke with her. Rude, I know, but my tinted spectacles covered this impropriety. I gave her my name, then handed her the letter I had received. I felt nervous, out of place, there in that cold sterile light. Ozone filled the room, crammed into my nostrils and reeked, as there was so much electricity here. The girl checked her ledger, and then things began to move more quickly. I was ushered into a small cluttered office. There was a desk in the center of the room piled high with documents. Behind it sat a sweaty, rat-faced little man. This was not Worthington. Perhaps he was too important to meet with someone like myself. That would be perfectly understandable, if it were indeed the case. I nodded to the man behind the desk, who held up his index finger in response as he wrote quickly in a small business ledger. After a moment he seemed to finish, closing the book and setting it on top of the pile of documents where it teetered precariously. Then the rat-faced man spoke."Hello sir, you must be Captain Peters," he said."I am. You are?""Wellford Cummings, I'm one of Robert Blakely's assistants. I'm sorry sir, but Mr. Worthington and most of our executives are in a meeting right now. There've been some major swings in the market today, I'm sure you've heard.""Robert Blakely? Lt. Robert Blakely, from Virginia?" I hadn't heard that name in over three years. My interest was piqued. "Yes sir. He's the one who recommended you. He said he had served under you in the war.""That is correct. I, look, recommended... what is this about? Why have I been asked to come here?""Well sir, as you may or may not know, Mr. Worthington's nephew Vincent was the senior investigator for the Knights of Labor Trade Assembly based here in New York. They represent many of the union miners throughout the southeast.""I've heard of them," I lied."I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Captain, but there have been quite a few union strikes in the state of West Virginia recently. The wires are down all throughout the southern border. Last week, Mr. Worthington received this."The little man handed me a letter. My head still swam from the opium I had taken earlier, and the words came together slowly. After a moment, I realized that the letter was a correspondence from a Margaret Worthington. Her husband Vincent had been killed, the letter said. The pieces began to find order in my fuzzy mind. This woman was apparently the widow of Theodore Worthington's nephew. The murderer was named in the letter as a Mr. Jackson Poole, an agent of the Denton-Paisley detective agency. I looked up from the letter to the small man who sat behind the desk. "What does this have to do with me?" I asked."Well, sir, Mr. Blakely has spoken very highly of you, and he has informed Mr. Worthington that you once worked in the Pennsylvania coalfields. You know these kinds of men. Mr. Worthington thought you might sort this matter out for him: make sure that justice is seen to and that no harm should come to his poor niece." I had only one question: "What does it pay?"Five o'clock in the PM:After making a few hasty preparations, I left my home to catch the train for Blair, West Virginia. I wondered briefly as I stepped out into the street if the city had gone mad. As I made my way across Times Square several of the buildings around me opened their windows and cast their tenants out to the hard gray concrete below. Bodies littered the sidewalks and passersby panicked, throngs of idiots in suits rushing to and fro. I was glad that I carried my service revolver. I kept my hands in my pockets, the one that worked on my service pistol, the dead one on the bottle. I didn't stop to speak to anyone. I remember thinking that the whole scene may have been induced by the medicine. Whatever the case, I had little time to waste, and so I hurried through the crowds to catch my train.October 29th, 1929Four o'clock in the AM:I had apparently fallen asleep on the train before it left the Eastern Seaboard. I awoke to find myself sharing the small passenger compartment I traveled in with a thin, professional looking young man. I was still for a time, watching him as he stared out into the racing dark with his forehead resting against the glass pane. Perhaps there was some actual visible clue, or perhaps it was simply my time in the war that made something about the image of him strike me. He was afraid. I could feel it, actually smell it on him. After a moment, I leaned forward and straightened the spectacles that had slid down to the bridge of my nose. This startled him from his reverie and he nodded to me. "I must have fallen asleep," I said, extending my hand, "Jason Peters.""George Macey," he replied, grasping my hand firmly. "Military man?"As we shook hands he had noticed the cufflink the army had given me on my shirtsleeve. "Good eye, there. Are you a policeman, then, George?""Not a bit of it, sir. A reporter. I work for the Arkham Star." "Arkham? Are we already... what time is it? Where are we now?""Four in the morning, I'd reckon we're in southern Ohio by now. You've been out since I boarded."It was the medicine that made me sleep so long. That was one of its side affects. Still, eleven hours at least, and on a moving train. I sat upright and gave a stretch and a yawn. It wouldn't do to be so lazy. Soon I was going to be working. I checked my pocket watch, which showed half past two. I began to wind it as I spoke again. "So, where are you coming from?" He asked."New York. Manhattan, to be precise."His face seemed to register that this was significant, and his tone changed immediately from one guarded by the inherent apprehension of polite conversation to one of intense interest."Really? I heard some crazy things over the wire just before I left the office.""Such as?" I asked."Well, you know that the market crashed. They're saying it's the worst one ever. Reports were coming in that investment bankers and stockbrokers were tossing themselves out of building windows. Over a billion dollars lost in a day. Crazy, man, crazy.""Oh, I... I didn't know.""Yeah, it's bad, they say. I mean, when the swells start doing themselves in, well, you know us little people are in for a rough time of it."I tried to let this sink in. The stock market had crashed while I slept. No, it must have happened before I left. That's why people had been panicking when I was on my way to the station. I thought about Theodore Worthington. Would he still be in such a lucrative position when I returned to New York? Had he, too, thrown himself from the window of his twenty first floor office; was he now lying dead on the cold pavement of Ann Street's broad sidewalk?"So, you were in the war?""Yes," I answered absently, "I was a captain in the army.""So, what's your business in West Virginia?""I was hired to… investigate a crime in the town of Weston. Striking coal miners, company thugs, I'm sure you've read about it.""Weston?" He asked, surprised. "I'm heading to Lewis County, myself. Not Weston, exactly, but nearby.""Really? On what sort of business?""Well... something similar, I suppose."It was plain that neither of us wished to speak further on our motives for going to Weston; and so, aside from civil pleasantries, we sat in silence for the rest of the trip. With occasional glances each of us took the measure of the other. He looked like an educated man: slick hair, fine suit. He was accustomed to city life. You could see it in his posture and hear it in his voice. But there was something else about him that gave me a wholly different impression. There were dark circles under his eyes. He obviously hadn't slept for some time, but there was more too. To put a word to it, he looked... haunted. I found myself wondering what shadow followed this young man, driving him from the bustling city of Arkham to the dreary backwoods of the West Virginia coalfields. Apparently, I would never know. When the whistle blew and the train arrived in the Lewis County station I offered him a word in way of parting. "I certainly hope you find what you’re looking for, George." "You as well, Captain. You as well."October 29th, 1929Evening:I arrived by coach to the town of Weston late in the evening. My pocket watch seemed to have busted a spring at some point during the journey, and I had no proper way of telling the time. The coach dropped me in front of Ole’s hardware just as the sun was sinking over the mountains, and the entire town seemed suspended in that dim orange mist that comes just before twilight in the hilly lands of the mid-east. It was so much like the small Pennsylvania town I grew up in that I felt for a moment as if I had journeyed back to my father's home in Wellsboro. I fished the bottle of laudanum from my pocket and took a long drink. Calming warmth washed over me as I walked down the town's main street. Light spilled from the open doorway of a nearby eatery onto a large whitewashed front porch. Men gathered there, mostly miners from the look of them. Next door was a small pharmacy, in front of which sat a plain looking fellow in a wicker chair while an older man trimmed his hair neatly. I felt the stir of ritual in me as I stopped to watch the old man's bony fingers work. On the third Sunday evening of each month my mother would take each of us children to just such a pharmacy where we would be rewarded with our choice of one piece of candy. Out front the old town doctor would pass the time talking current events with the town's sheriff while giving him a trim. As I grew older and my mother passed on I would come to sit on the old doctor's porch and have my own hair cut while talking about the town. It was in just such a place that I first heard of the Army, the Kaiser, and the War. It was so much like home. Then I felt the other memories begin to stir in me, the memories of a small boy running through a dark wood. I swept them away. I was here to end someone else's nightmare, not to relive my own.I wasted little time booking a room at the town's only hotel. It was a simple affair: a squat two-story building made up mostly of colored brick with a dozen or so rooms for rent. There was a young black porter who offered to carry my bags to my room. I declined, as I had only one small leather satchel containing a change of clothes. I spoke to the young man about the town and the mining operation, though. His name was Samuel. He knew the Worthington's, "good folks" he called them. I gave him a dollar to wake me in the morning and to take me to where the widow was staying.October 30th, 1929Morning:Miners live on company land. They shop at company stores, eat at company cafeterias, and work in company mines. Each and everyone of them knows that at any moment the company could come and take it all away. The miner's cabins sat a few hundred yards above the mining camp. The camp was constructed poorly, and quickly by the look of it; but then, most of the homes located on the hillside above town were. They were meant to be temporary.
Samuel pointed out the widow's cabin from the foot of the hill as we walked, but the young man left me to my own devices at the entrance of the camp. He said things had "gone bad" around the area. Denton-Paisley detectives had been removing families from their homes, by force if necessary. It is important to note that calling such men detectives is preposterous. The Denton-Paisley Detective Agency operates out of Virginia. For the right price they offer the services of men who act as strike busters. They were hired muscle for the company, and for what they did they were the best. As I climbed the hillside I saw the evidence of their work on every third home. Those cabins were now piles of charred wood and ash, serving as a reminder to others what would happen to them if they were to continue the strike. I reached the Widow Worthington's home after some bit of climbing up the hillside. I was beginning to feel an intense pain in my left leg. The doctors had said that exertion was not good for me in my condition. I rested my back against the dry timber wall of the cabin. I needed a moment before entering, a respite... a drink. I pulled the laudanum from my coat pocket and took a tiny sip. Best to conserve, I was unsure as to what the town doctor might be carrying in stock. I felt a little better by and by, the pain receding to the usual feeling of pins and needles. I repositioned my tinted spectacles, which had slid down the bridge of my nose as it became slick with sweat. I didn't wish to frighten her. The poor woman had been through enough already. Then I slid the bottle back into my pocket and knocked softly on the door."Who is it?" Called a small voice from behind the door."Captain Jason Peters," I answered. "I was sent by your husband's uncle after he received your letter, Mrs. Worthington."The door opened slowly then, but just a hair's breadth. A single blue eye peered out at me, red-rimmed and bloodshot. I stood at attention for several long moments, allowing her time to weigh me as she would. Then I produced Theodore Worthington's return correspondence from the interior pocket of my vest. "This is for you, Mrs. Worthington."She took the letter from me with a small trembling hand, fumbling with it for a moment before tearing it open. The widow began to read the letter, stepping back away from the door, which gave a long, low creak, as it slowly swung open behind her. I watched her from behind red lenses as she studied the letter, her back to me. She was a wisp of a girl, young and thin with disheveled blond hair. She would have been considered an attractive woman a mere week ago, but I could see it had been a long week for Margaret Worthington. As her sunken eyes roamed over the letter held in her trembling fingers, I couldn't help but think to myself that it would not be long before she followed her husband to the grave. I had seen the symptoms before, in the war. She had already begun to waste away. "Come in, sir," she said to me.I nodded in reply. At first, I couldn't find the words to express my sympathy for her state. I entered the cabin, closing the door softly behind me. The front room of the cabin was a bit of a surprise to me. It was small, but well furnished, with a large throw rug covering much of the floor. There was a sturdy oak table, where the widow and her late husband must have taken their meals, a sofa sat against the wall beside the door, and across from it was an antique hand crafted rocking chair. Between the sofa and the chair was a large coal-burning furnace. Its stovepipe ran up and through the roof of the wooden cabin next to a small curtained window. In the back of the room was a doorway, most likely leading to the bedroom. A thin blue sheet hung over the opening, serving as best it could to divide the two rooms. After a moment, the widow slowly took a seat in the rocking chair. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Worthington," I finally managed. "I have heard that your husband was a good man.""He... he was," she replied. "He spent his whole life helping others. But in the end, how did they repay him? They killed him in cold blood. They did it right in front of me. They wanted him to know... they wanted him to know that I was watching."The poor girl began to weep. The sound was unnerving to me, though it is hard to explain why. I had heard many men cry, even wail, during the war. But there was something far worse in this, to see this woman, to hear her sorrow. "Who was it that shot your husband, Mrs. Worthington? Tell me their names, and I promise each man will pay in kind." "He wasn't shot," she replied shakily, "he was stabbed, a-again and again. It happened in front of the Number Thirteen. They were all Denton-Paisley men. Their leader was a man named Jackson Poole.""Do you know where these men are now, Mrs. Worthington?""They have a lodge that the company built for them on the eastern side of the mining camp, past where they make the colored miners live."I nodded, and placed my hand on the widow's shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, though I was not hired to bring comfort. He was stabbed, then? Why would they not simply shoot him? I pondered this for a moment, and then spoke the only words I knew that might offer that poor woman some measure of peace."You will have your revenge. I swear it."Nightfall:I picked my way through the thick tree line that bordered the black miners' camp. Fat pines and the autumn twilight served to provide me the cover I needed. I spotted the lodge after a few moments. It was a large two-story timber building. I circled it quietly, keeping out of sight. There were three doors, only one of which was under guard, and four small windows. There was another building as well, a large cabin that stood behind the lodge. It was smaller, but more sturdily constructed. As a soldier, I had learned to recognize an officer's barrack when I saw one, and that was what the building was. I was sure of it. At the single door to that cabin was a Denton-Paisley thug. He was a tall, thick man, and he had a mean look to him: flat nose, rough face. But he didn't seem to be armed. I watched him for a time as he paced back and forth in front of the building. After a moment he lit a cigarette. Then something happened that gave me pause. At first, I didn't understand what I was hearing. The sound was eerie, creeping through the trees toward me. Then I placed it, it was the sound of a dobro, followed shortly by the thrum of a banjo. The music rose up softly from the mining camp below to fill the forest around me. I looked up to see that the guard at the door had noticed it as well. He slowly walked to the edge of the small clearing around the lodge, trying to see where the music originated. A single haunting voice sang out above the music:The man who stole the waterMay swim forevermore,But he’ll never reach the landOn that golden shore.A faint, white lightWill haunt his heart,‘Til he’s only a memoryLost in the darkThen a chorus of voices joined the first, adding weight to the words:Dig a hole in the groundStraight down to Hell‘Til there ain’t no more waterIn the well, well, well.I shut the music out. It was time to go to work. I crept slowly from the woods behind the large man, nearly reaching the door of the cabin before he turned to face me. I could see the surprise on his face, his eyes widening as they fell on me. The thug quickly covered the distance from the edge of the clearing to me, drawing himself up to his full height, which put him at eye level with me."Hello," I said. "You wouldn’t happen to have a spare cigarette?""Nuh uh," he replied. "Look, you need to be on your way old timer. This here is private property."I drew my service pistol fast from my coat pocket, whipping it upward hard to strike the butt flat against his temple. A gash appeared in the side of his head, blood streaming down his face as his eyes lost focus. I lowered the pistol and watched him stumble drunkenly, first backward a few steps, then forward, before falling to a heap in the dirt."I'm not that old, boy."I grabbed the collar of the big man's jacket and drug him into the woods. Briefly, I entertained the notion of killing him, as I didn't want him waking and raising an alarm. But there were rules of conduct here. This wasn't the war. So I stowed him beneath a pine, hoping that he would be out long enough for me to take care of my business. Before making my way back toward the cabin, I briefly searched through the man's pockets. I took his cigarettes and matches, lit one, and then crept back through the woods. The window of the cabin was shielded from the inside by a heavy set of red drapes. I could see shadows against them, moving about, and from inside the small building came voices. I slowed my breathing and closed my good eye, trying to concentrate, to make out what it was they were saying. What I heard raised the hair on the back of my neck. The men inside were all speaking in unison, their voices rising and falling together... almost as if they were chanting. I could not place the language. It was low, guttural, sounding almost like German. But I learned a fair bit of German in the war against the Kaiser, and the language they spoke... it was not German.I crept to the door, exposing myself somewhat as I knelt to risk a brief look through the keyhole. I was disoriented for a moment as I scanned the room. A haze of smoke filled the air inside, reflecting a red light in its thick clouds. Past the smoke was a group of men. There was no opportunity to count their number with my limited field of vision, but there were no more than five, I was sure. The men I could see were well dressed in dark gray suits and black bowler hats. They held hands in a circle as they chanted. What had I stumbled onto? Was this some sort of black mass? Was that why they stabbed rather than shot poor Vincent Worthington, as some sort of ritualistic slaying? I stood from the door and pulled the tinted spectacles from my face. I slipped them into my pocket then drew my service pistol, pulling back the hammer slowly. Then I took two long strides back away from the door and, with a lunge, kicked it hard enough to splinter the wood, firing the bolt across the room.The chanting stopped. The men were paralyzed, staring at me in shock. They sat in a circle about a lit brazier covered with red glass. It cast its wicked crimson light across the room, almost tangible as it hung in the thick patches of smoke that filled the air. "You!" I shouted, pointing my pistol at one of the men. "Which one of you is Jackson Poole?""Your... your eye...""Answer me!""Mr. Poole isn't here. He- he went down to the mine! The... the Number Thirteen!"The other men stared with wide eyes, standing slowly from their chairs and raising their hands. Good, I thought, allowing myself a grin. They were terrified. That would make this much easier. Then I saw something that made the blood freeze in my veins and it was my turn to be shocked into silence. The brazier around which they sat stood upright on a coiled metal frame. My eyes followed those slender brass lines through loops and half-moons to its base, already aware of what they would find there, but unable to comprehend it initially. The frame ended in sharpened metal prongs that had been driven into the eyes and mouth of a human head that lay face up on the table. Time seemed to stop, and for an instant I could hear only the rush of blood in my ears, my eyes locked on that horrific artifact.It is to his credit that one of the men noticed my distraction. He stood on my left hand side, and was easily the largest of them, but his speed belied his bulk. He drew an oddly curved dagger from the folds of his coat. I was lucky to catch the reflected flash of candlelight on the metal blade, throwing up my left hand just in time. The point struck hard, its wavy length piercing skin. The force of the villain's overhand lunge buried the dagger to its hilt but my arm held steady, preventing the blade from sinking into my chest, his intended target. Pain shot up my arm and through my shoulder as I felt the bones of my forearm crack beneath the impact. The other suits tensed to act, but I was faster, the thunderous report of my revolver sounding as my assailant was blasted across the room.Then the others rushed me.Perhaps they thought their superior number would win the day, but these men were unfamiliar with the art of murder, an art that I had practiced for nearly a decade. It was as simple as pointing a finger. Quickly but calmly, I leveled the barrel of the pistol at one man, then another, squeezing off round after round. Their charge broke almost instantly, the men turning to scramble for cover, too slowly though as I dropped each in turn. Each shot I fired in that nightmarish place was lethal. The men fell as quickly as the hammer. Then there was only one left, huddled in a corner, his hands over his ears. I stood over him, placing the smoking end of the barrel against the side of his skull. He let out a terrible moan then began to weep as I pulled back the hammer. I had never killed men so defenseless. But then, I had never seen men so deserving of death. I pulled the trigger, painting the walls around the man as well as myself a deep shade of red.I winced as I tore the dagger from my dead forearm. The argument could be made that I should have thought things through, not acted so rashly. It was the opium, I think; it clouded my judgment. The thing was done, though, and I knew that I would have to hurry if I were to make my escape. I kicked over the table on which the brazier sat then smashed one of the hanging oil lamps onto the floor. The room erupted into a blazing pyre by the time I swung the door open again and stepped out of the cabin. The men in the lodge across the way were finally rousing. A rifle fired from one of the building's open windows. Bullets splintered the wood of the open doorframe behind me, ricocheting into the cabin to shatter the window. I turned and dashed away from the cabin toward the trees, fanning the hammer of my pistol and sending a return volley at the lodge. They were pinned for a moment by the barrage and I reached the trees, tearing through the dark toward the mining camp. Above all the rest, one thought stood out in my mind: I had to get the widow to safety, and soon, before word of my deeds reached the ears of those who might do her harm.All Hallows Eve, 1929Past Midnight:I lost my pursuers in the woods, though it took some time, doubling about to make my way back to the hotel. Slipping into my room through the window, I changed clothes and bandaged my arm as best I could. The wound was deep, but the lack of feeling in my left arm kept the pain at bay. Then I sent for Samuel and gave him enough money to hire a coach to take Mrs. Worthington from the town that very night. The young black man left me with his assurance that a coach would be waiting at the far edge of the northern forest. I left to retrieve the widow then. My charge had been not only to slay Jackson Poole but to protect Margaret Worthington as well, and I felt that she would be safer out of Weston until matters were properly sorted.Staying close to the trees, I made my way up the steep hill to the widow's tiny cabin. From a distance, I noticed light spilling from the small wooden structure's single window. All of the other cabins on the hillside were dark and silent. The single beacon of light seemed ominous. I crept to the door quietly and listened. I could hear the widow's voice inside. She was speaking to someone, but her voice had no edge of fear or anger. I knocked softly on the door. The widow fell silent inside. Then, after a moment, I heard the sound of the deadbolt, and the door slowly creaked open.Margaret stood in the open doorway, her face drawn tight and her eyes wide and staring. I scanned the main room of the cabin behind her. It was empty. Whomever she was speaking to had been ushered into the back room, perhaps for protection. Undoubtedly, the Denton-Paisley thugs had already paid a visit to many of the miners in this valley. The widow could not be sure who would come knocking on her door at such a late hour. "Captain Peters, why, hello," there was something in her voice that seemed odd to me as she invited me into her home. "Do come in, please.""I'm afraid we have little time for pleasantries, Mrs. Worthington. I have become aware of some strange goings on in Weston. I've been hired to protect you, and I think it would be best if you went to stay with your late husband's uncle until I've sorted matters..."She turned her back to me as I spoke, walking away from the open door to take a teapot from the furnace. She moved stiffly, in a way that seemed somehow unnatural. I stepped into the cabin behind her, placing a hand on the service pistol in my pocket. I made another quick scan of the cabin as I entered, spotting the brief movement of shadow on the thin blue sheet that separated the front room from the back."Mrs. Worthington, I've hired a coach," I began again. "It will be waiting for you in front of Ole’s hardware. From there you'll travel to Charleston, where a train can take you-""Don't be silly," she interrupted, her voice high but emotionless, "why would I wish to leave?""The men who killed your husband, ma'am. I don't think they're done with their business yet. It isn't safe for you to be here.""Oh!" She said, a wide smile appearing suddenly on her face. "That's right. You don't know yet. Something wonderful has happened. My Vincent, he's come back to me."As she spoke her smile broadened so as to show her teeth. I stared into her eyes in silence for a long moment. They seemed cold and distant, almost... lifeless. Then I heard a shuffling sound that came from behind the thin sheet that hung over the open doorway to the bedroom. A silhouette appeared against its surface, a dark shadow of a sickeningly thin man. I pulled the pistol from my pocket and aimed it at the figure behind the sheet. "Margaret, go outside," I said sternly, "that is not your husband.""Oh, but it is," she countered, giggling in near hysteria.I couldn't have her injured, but she seemed too far-gone at the moment to listen to reason. So, I slipped the pistol back into my coat pocket and grabbed her slender arm, dragging her across the room to the door. She began to protest as I pushed her outside, but her words were lost to me as I slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. Then I turned to face the shadow behind the thin sheet. "Who are you? Poole?" I asked. "Whatever you're planning ends now-""No," a voice answered, nearly paralyzing me. The only way I can describe it is to say that it was not a single voice. It sounded more as if it were dozens of voices, some so high as to cause searing pain in my ears and some so low they sounded like a wire recording played very slowly. I pulled my pistol with a trembling hand. "Not Poole.""Who are you?" I sputtered, raising my useless left hand to cover an ear as the alternating pitches of the voice left behind a painful whining noise that sliced through my skull like a knife. "Wh-what is it you want with the widow?" "She is ours now, Jason Peters. We have shown her things that she will carry with her always, even after we call her to come to us, deep beneath the black earth. You know us as well, Jason.""What... what are you talking about?" I wondered at the shadow's words, as the whine grew more intense. It rose to a singular, deafening pitch, buckling my knees. The pistol fell from my fingers and I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulling out the bottle of opium. My best hope was that it might dull the pain. But my fingers were going numb, and the bottle slipped through them as I tried to grasp it. Then, the noise suddenly stopped, and I raised my head to see the shadow against the curtain bend and shift until its shape became wholly different. It looked like the silhouette of a soldier now, in full combat dress. I could make out the pack on its back, the rifle in its hands, and the helmet atop its head. Then it spoke again."We're lost, sir. We could be miles from Passchendaele Ridge by now," the voice was different now, a man's voice. I knew the words it spoke. I could remember them."James? Is that you? What kind of trick is this?" "I'm going to check inside. Maybe they have an address book or something. I could see where we're at-”The memory enveloped me, clawing up from the depths of my mind and rendering the details of that day behind my clenched eyelids. I watched again as Sergeant James crossed the threshold of a ruined British hovel. I reached out to grab his arm. "James, wait!" I screamed. But it was too late. His foot kicked the tripwire and the mine exploded directly beneath him. I could feel the searing pain that erupted along my left side, leaving my eye and my hand useless. I cried out in agony then opened my eye, finding myself huddled on the floor of the small wood cabin in Weston again. The shape of the shadow swirled behind the sheet and the voice returned, bringing back the slicing pain in my head. "We took your hand then and your eye as well. You remember, don't you Jason. We gave you a new eye, one of ours, to call you back to us again. We were so upset the first time we lost you. Do you remember the first time Jason? It was so long ago, and you were so young."The whine fell again, and I quickly grabbed the bottle of laudanum, taking several long drinks. As I pulled the bottle from my lips I saw the shadow shift again, taking the shape of a small child."I found a cave, back behind Grandpa's house," my brother spoke excitedly. "Come on, don't be scared.""No." The word escaped my lips as a prayer, and I found myself a young boy again, stumbling through the dark woods around Wellsboro. I collapsed against a tall oak, hiding from the thing that followed me. Weeping, I pulled my hand away from my forehead and looked at the blood on my fingertips. My younger brother called out, somewhere in the dark wood. He screamed again and again. I wanted to go to him, but I was terrified of what was out there... out there in the dark. He was seven years old. I never saw him again."Why didn't you help me Jason?" The child behind the curtain sobbed in horror. "Now they have me and they won't let me go.""You are not my brother," I said, my voice trembling. I picked up the pistol again and the pain returned."This place is ours now, Jason Peters. We have shown things to the people here, and they have given this place to us. Some have come to us willingly, opening the black earth to allow us to roam free again. This land is ours and now you have come back to us. Soon we will have you as well. Oh yes, we have your brother," the voice whined higher, forcing me to clutch my ears. "We have your mother too, and your first love as well, let us show them to you Jason. You will see them as they truly are, beneath their useless skin."I grimaced with pain as the thing continued to speak, watching the form of my brother as it stepped toward the curtain. The silhouette of its arm reached out and tiny fingers closed on the outside edge of the sheet. The skin of the fingers had been stripped away, leaving only the glistening tissue beneath. The sheet turned dark where the fingers touched it, deep red blood staining its edge and dripping down to the floorboards below it. I aimed the pistol, fighting back the intense pain in my skull. I knew, for the sake of my sanity, that I could not allow myself to see the thing. I fired, five shots straight into the shadow behind the curtain. It screeched as the bullets found their mark. I screamed as well, the pitch of its shriek causing blood to stream from my ears and down the sides of my face. My heart seized suddenly, leaving me unable to breath.I could feel something inside my mind being strained to its limit, and if the cry had not stopped, I know it would have killed me. But finally the thing fell silent as it clutched at the curtain, stumbling backwards and ripping it from the open doorway. Thankfully, the sheet fell on top of its body, becoming soaked in crimson after a brief moment. I had no wish to see it. I left the widow's home, finding her lying against the outside wall of the cabin. She still breathed, but her pupils had grown strange, nearly eclipsing the whites of her eyes. I picked her up and managed to carry her to the far edge of the forest behind the cabin. In the dead of night, no soul saw me place her on the waiting carriage. I gave the driver instructions to place the widow on a train at Charleston bound for New York. Then I made my way back into the forest, intent on killing Poole. But that was not to be. I sit, now, my back to a large maple. My bandages must have come undone some time ago. I am losing blood quickly, replacing it with opium. My chest contracts when I breathe too deeply. I only wanted to be useful again. At least I got Margaret safe and away. I have to rest now.It is still night when I wake again. They are coming for me. Dogs bay somewhere deep in the woods. I try to rise, but my legs are too weak now. It’s so cold.The sky is beginning to lighten and I hear voices in the distance filtering through the pines. My brother Jason, James, and others fallen under my command. They’ll have me soon. If you find this journal, make sure it gets to Theodore Worthington. I want him to know that I tried.I will use my final bullet now.

Canned Meat

2007-05-25T00:20:00.000-07:00

When I was still a young man I inherited a meat-canning factory resultant from an unfortunate personal tragedy at our annual family reunion involving an unfavorable reaction by most of my relatives to aunt Sarah’s infamous botulism pie. Nearly everyone ate some out of courtesy and nearly everyone, including poor senile aunt Sarah died as a result. I left college early to take reigns of our ‘family’ business, Little Vienna, and never looked back.
You know the stuff, Vienna style sausages, spicy potted meats made from byproducts, a small prideful company that was regrettably so far gone it wasn’t even threatened by a hostile take-over from some greedy conglomerate corporation. Fresh from college and full of new ideas, I watched the dying company fall deeper and deeper in spiraling debt. Idealistically I refused layoffs and took the loss from my own shares of stock to continue to meet payroll only to be rewarded in turn by my faithful employees fleeing the company of their own accord. Production began dropping faster than sales were plummeting. Raw meat storage was becoming a real issue, I was under contract to purchase so much meat from slaughterhouses, you may know the process; you bid once a year for bulk price lines and you guarantee to purchase a minimum amount of product at that low-end agreed upon price. If sales are good and you exceed your quota, you are rewarded with a considerable markup on bulk meat prices for excess purchases above the minimum guaranteed order size, there are also certain minute agreements included in the contract such as who I may buy from and what cap prices the slaughterhouse must set, but in my case it was hardly an issue since I could not process the meats I was obligated to purchase. Storage was a problem, maxing out local freezer storage facilities and now being overwhelmed with additional Meat Locker rental rates, I was forced to renegotiate my contract with the company I purchased my bulk meats from.
The offices located at the stock pens where the company I dealt with worked out of was run down and a veritable slum by slaughterhouse standards. The owner was not pleased with my offer to increase my per pound price and reduce the minimum amount of my order agreement, and it looked as if I was going to lose everything as I walked away from my meeting with the owner. The conference had been short, but had gone long into the evening as I had been kept waiting to learn my fate for hours in a dingy green reception room. On my way out, lost in my own train of thought, or more likely deep in self-pity, a thin pale man approached me. Tall and gaunt, his face made him appear to be middle aged except for the tired ancient look in his eyes; he spoke to me of a business proposal; bold, daring and absolutely financial suicide. But he intrigued me with his confidence and we talked well into the night about his idea. You see I was not the only business in danger of dying in the community. The man I spoke with represented a group of workers, not a union as such, but a colony of individuals’ mostly comprised of a migrant Slavic family that worked at the slaughterhouse and feared the loss of their jobs should it belly up. He invited me to his village just outside of town, a self sufficient community of sickly anemia ridden people that to me most closely resembled a leper colony, with the exception that the employees of the slaughterhouse were a certified and competent team that depended and relied on each other in a far more intimate way than merely a professional capacity. As we discussed options and opportunity into the night, a pact was formed. A unified coalition was created wherein I purchased the slaughterhouse with the financial backing of the little village, they took control of operations of the plant and provided me with much needed labor for my own operation, and hopefully we would pull one another out of the mutual rising well of corporate drowning.
The arrangement proved to be a good one in that it was profitable, sales took an unexpected leap for the stars and rocketed off the charts almost overnight. My product became the number one household treat in America and overseas, demands were escalating. We tore down the old plant years ago and built a new mega facility in its place. The slaughterhouse now only provided meat for me and worked diligently to meet our demand. This had proved to be a perfect union of two struggling companies. With just a couple minor glitches;

· The nightshift provided by the slaughterhouse colony proved to be so efficient that the day shift and swing shift were made obsolete. Efforts were implemented to improve the production on other shifts but the graveyard shift was where production was most efficient so graveyard is when the work was performed.

· As it turns out, the colony was indeed similar to a leper-like community of its own right, not inflicted with something so obvious as leprosy, but something far worse, more diabolic and frightening at the same time. A village whose members suffered from a rare disease called porphyria or more specifically porphyric hemophilia, a disease that ravaged the body, causing severe pain and discomfort to the chest and extremities, sensitivity to sunlight, serious anemia, and an insatiable craving for the heme found in human and animal blood. A secret so far successfully kept from the public in general for were it known by anyone, suspicion and prejudice would cripple our perspective businesses.

· And now for the ironic kicker. Yes, the above diagnosis could be remotely perceived as vampirism, and while technically true, the “vampires” of the village do not feed off of humans, living or dead, but find their sustenance from the animals they butcher at the slaughterhouse. Thus proving for generations that porphyria victims and society as a whole can coexist side by side without TV movie theatrics and wholesale panic.

· Finally, my confession; I only recently discovered a link with the recent outbreak of Renfields disease and clinical vampirism that has plagued our nation. It appears that while the slaughterhouse community has been feeding off the blood of animals in a sanitary and organized fashion, a subculture of vampiric followers formed within the colony has been feeding directly from the animal carcasses. These carcasses are then broken down and rendered into canned meat products. Apparently the vampire saliva has an addictive component that acts as a contagion and has been slowly infecting the consumer of these canned meats I provide to the marketplace. Did I mention our plans to go global later this year?

EYES

2007-05-24T17:27:00.000-07:00

I wasn't always
afraid.
I thought I
could be happy.
I had a cat
namED Chaos
and aNother cat.
CaT's name was...
I don't
remember.
Chaos was a boy,
I think.
my CaT was named
Chaos.
we were a
HaPpy FamILy.

not NoW.

One day,
I woke up.
I saw people staring
at me.
everybody TalKed
about me.
everywhere I went,
they whispered.
tHat waSN't as bad
as tHe EYES.
their EYES are
in the dark.
their EYES are
in my soul.
I STILL SEE
EYES.
I See your
EYES.
you just pretend
I'm crazy.
BUT I know the
TruTH.that day,
I wore a tie.
I wore a
tIE 2 work.
that's what I diD
NorMally.
this time,
it was choking me.
an ICy grip
on my neck!!
ReD!
rEd
fabric
deSigNEd to
kill me.
bUT I thought
it was my
imagiNation.
I felt
the ChoKE of it
aLL day.
My boSs said I
was silly.
hE was hoping
I'D DIE!
but i'm tougher
tHan thaT.

Michael,
I know you've been
stressed.
stop all this
nonsense!
tHAT is what
hE TOld me.
but he LIED.
hE watched me.

HIM!!!!
EYES!!!!!
HiS
EYES!!!

They had no
loVe
for mE.
they neVer did.
I shouLd have
knoWn.
I looked out
mY office.
my enemies wERE
many.
I just realized
that...

BefOre,
they seemed
frIENDLY ENough.
No!
I see theIR EYES
now.
cold and evil.
everyone's EyeS
are on
me.
are you alright,
MichAeL?

your job
must be
stressful
Michael.

maybe you nEed
a breAk
MiChaEl.

iF yOu arE
siCk,
yoU caN
go
MicHAel.
I thought I WaS
SiCK.
thEn I kneW I
wAsn't.
I SaW thEir
EYES.

I drOVe

home.
they wOUld Not
kiLL me.
I KNew Their
Plan.
I wOULD not
let them.

Chaos was
"sleepiNg".
I knew hE was
fAking.
I ReaLIZED
he wAs
FAking.

The other caT
waTCheD
the stRAnge Man
From the
Window.
he Jogged
past
my hoUse.
I HATE hiM and
I remEMbEr
Her namE...
NutmEg

dIE nUtmEg DIE!

that wasn't my
cAt.
I know.because
nUtmEg had
EYES.
EYES stared
at me.
ChaOS came to
me.
hE stared at
me.
and StarEd even
mOre. WiTH hiS
EyEs
NOW I knOW!
you cAN't hide
from ME!
I SEE YOUR
EyEs!

I see
EyEs!
that is why I'm
here.
this is a nice
room.
the walls are
white.
tHe walls are
fLufFy
bUT peOPLe still
cOme.
TheIR eyEs...

EveN tHe plAnt
hAs
EYES.

aT least I
know the truth.
AT least I
sEe thE eyes...
Your
Eyes!!!

The Crypt Rose

2007-05-24T17:26:00.000-07:00

The Crypt Rose

Stephen stood at the entrance of the great mansion. His parents had lived here their entire married lives, his father since his birth. The hall situated before him was decorated with photographs and paintings from various stages of time within the mansion. Stephen moved slowly along the corridor looking at the images he had seen a million times as he grew up. He paused before one in particular. This one had always held a certain fascination for him. The image was that of a young child, approximately seven years old. The boy bore an impish smile and seemed to watch you as you watched him. A small gold plaque beneath the photograph bore the inscription Stephen Harold. Stephen smiled. He had always felt a secret pleasure knowing he shared a name with one who came before him. He had asked his mother about this photo before, she had replied she was uncertain of its origin. His father had told him it was a cousin who had died very young. Stephen touched the image. The face was to an uncanny extent akin to his own. Anyone from outside the family would have sworn they were one in the same. He pulled himself harshly from his thoughts and moved to the dining room. His mother and father would be waiting. They were expecting him and both were firm believers in punctuality. He stood at the doorway, leaning on the frame momentarily before continuing into the room. His mother graced him with a cold stare; he felt his very breath sucked away in that moment. He composed himself for a short few seconds compelling his lungs to draw a breath of air once more, and then he moved toward the center of the table. Mother was seated at one end and father sat opposite her at the far distant other side of the extensive table. "Stephen, so nice of you to join us." his mother said. Her words were pleasant enough but her tone was mocking and sarcastic. She glanced away and impatiently nodded to the general direction of the kitchen. As if on cue a servant began to bring plates of steaming food to the table. Stephen felt an intense sense of pride; his mother had always been able to get exactly what she wanted with just a look. "You were late, Stephen. I heard you arrive. You got caught up in that old photograph again. Did you not?" Stephen nodded but did not speak. The one thing he hated about his mother was her ability to berate him. Only she could reduce him to the child he had been. He was now 25 and yet in her presence he was that six year old once again. "I do not want you looking at that thing. Do you hear me? If I must I will take it down and burn it." Stephen opened his mouth to defend himself but shut it again as his father emitted a distressed groan. Stephen looked at him, a question on his lips. His father shook his head slightly and waved his hand dismissively. Stephen picked up his fork and began to prod his food. "When is the funeral?" he asked suddenly, hoping to change the subject. "Tomorrow at noon." his mother said, her voice even more harsh. "Are you in some hurry to be rid of your grandfather?" "No mother, but having a corpse in the house isn't exactly my idea of fun either." he shot back, his defenses high once again. He had only come for the funeral. Grandfather had always been kind to him. Though he did not have material goods like his paternal grandfather he had something else: unconditional love for his grandson. Still the thought of his cooling corpse in the house gave Stephen the creeps. Stephen shivered involuntarily. He ate slowly, not daring to make another comment on any subject. Obviously his mother was going to be testy at every turn. While he did not expect her to be jovial in light of her father's death: he did expect at least an attempt at graciousness. He laid the fork beside the plate and drained his wine. "I am going to bed,” he announced as he stood. "Have the servant wake me in time to get dressed." His mother snarled but said nothing. His father shook his head dismissively. Stephen climbed the stairs, despite the miserable dinner and his mother’s stern warning his thoughts again wandered to the photograph. His father had explained that this cousin had been born and died in the early forties, yet...there was something there. A thought not quite formed in Stephen's mind plagued him through a long and ultimately restless night. Stephen lay in bed watching the shadows move across the room as dawn filtered a pale light through the window. He rose, walked up to the glass and stared out. The family cemetery stood in back of the house. He had been there many times but could not recall ever seeing the grave of this other Stephen Harold. He made a mental note to check it out again after the funeral. He would have every right to be there this time and mother could not refuse him. As he moved to return to the bed he noticed something behind the cemetery. What he observed was a newly bloomed wall of roses. "Oh! Intrigue." he said sarcastically. Funny he had never noticed the roses there before. Perhaps because as a child every time he would get into the graveyard his mother would order him out. And it wasn't as if he had spent so much time at home. From the moment he had been of adequate age he had been sent to some school or another, only spending brief periods at Harold Manor. He returned to the four-post bed, his mind still on the wall of roses. White roses, but in the back of his mind something spoke to him of red roses. Stephen awoke with a jolt and sat up quickly surveying the room. Everything seemed in place and daylight streamed through the window. "Damned dream." he spat as he glanced at the clock. "11:30!" He hurried to take a shower and get dressed. As he stood brushing his teeth he heard a servant enter the room. He shoved the door open violently, still dressed in only a towel. "Were you not given instructions to awaken me early?" he seethed. The servant shook her head. Stephen forced himself to calm down, berating the servants, as mother did would not help the situation. "You are dismissed. Obviously I can handle dressing myself." The young woman nodded and almost fled the room. He dressed quickly then moved to the window. The house was strangely silent and now he knew why. People stood about in the small cemetery as the priest...it looked like he was conducting the funeral. "Ah Mother, you will pay for this." He whispered as he started downstairs wondering exactly why she would lie to him about the service time. He stood off from the rest, scarcely able to hear the ceremony. He did not wish to interrupt the ceremony though he was becoming more curious as to why his mother would so openly try to mislead him. After the service he approached his mother, not oblivious to the stares given him by those attending the funeral. "Mother." he said, as he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the side. "Why did you lie to me?" She pulled her arm away roughly. "I did not lie to you. I have no idea what you are going on about. It is most certainly not my fault you decided to stay in bed rather than attend your grandfather's funeral." "Excuse me? I was given a choice? I specifically asked you to have someone come up this morning and awaken me. You could not even do that." Stephen said, his anger threatening to overspill. "I sent Celeste up this morning. The funeral began at noon. I waited until 10 then sent her up. You father said he knew you had a rough night last night. He heard you moving around in there at dawn. It was his idea to let you sleep through breakfast. Celeste had to leave for a bit this morning but she said you refused to attend." "How convenient, she is gone. Either you are lying or she is. No one came into my bedroom this morning. Mother, I came home specifically for the funeral. Why would I miss it?" "I'm sure I don't know, Stephen. If you will excuse me, I have a houseful of guests to attend to." Stephen stepped aside and watched as his mother walked quickly back toward the house. She stopped several times to chat with people milling about. Though she put on the facade of grieving for her father the night before, today she seemed rather cold and uncaring. Stephen's family left him in the cemetery as the casket was lowered into the ground. "Goodbye, grandfather, you were the only one who mattered to me in this godless family." he muttered, then turned to walk back towards the house. That was when the wall of roses at the back of the cemetery caught his attention. They were all fully bloomed dark and crimson red like oxygen rich blood. They were red! He was certain at dawn this morning they had been white. He touched one of the delicate petals. It was smooth and silken, still there was something...repulsive about them. He stepped away from them and almost tripped over a grave marker. "Damn you..." he looked at the marker so he could name the one he was now cursing. He drew closer as the name captivated him. It was the elusive Stephen Harold. “So there you are. About time we met, don't you think?” Stephen's ecstasy at finding the elusive grave was short lived. "The date." he said softly as the icy finger of dread ran along his spine. He ran his fingers over the dates as if to reassure himself it was true. The marker read 'Stephen Harold January 24, 1975 to July 3, 1981 Beloved son of Samuel and Julia Harold.' Stephen's breath came in short hitches. Samuel and Julia were his parents; July 3rd was exactly ten months to the day before he was born. Something was wickedly amiss. His parents had lied to him. This Stephen Harold was also their child, his deceased brother. Why would they give both their sons the same name? He walked slowly in the general direction of the house trying to give some reason to his quandary. His mother was downstairs. She had surrounded herself with family members and acquaintances, keeping a continuous distance from Stephen. While Stephen's father remained by himself upstairs clear of any contact with family. Julia's entire family was just the same as her, snobbish and domineering. Samuel was the extreme opposite. Stephen mounted the stairs, sick of the uncomfortable glares from Julia's family. He heard parts of whispered conversations that only increased his curiosity about the other Stephen Harold. He found his father in his bedroom reading a novel. "Father, I think it is time we had a talk. It is time you give me a few truths about that photograph in the foyer." His father laid his novel aside. "What exactly would you like to know? The truth. I suppose? I know you went to the grave after everyone left. Finally found it, did you?" His father asked. ''How do you know I found it? Why is their so much secrecy around it? He is actually my brother instead of my cousin. So why would you name us the same? I would think it in honor of him. Yet, you lied to me. This makes me very suspicious of you both." "I knew because you were left alone in the cemetery. Naturally you would be curious. You have been looking at that photograph since you first noticed the resemblance. I knew this day would come. I am not entirely sure I can explain though." "Try, I do not like the idea of knowing you have been lying to me all these years." Stephen sneered. His father looked at the novel he had laid aside; as if hoping for some easy answers. "Stephen, your namesake was born in January of 1975. Julia and I were so proud of our boy. He was bright and precocious with a flare for art and an affinity with nature. In June of 1981 he became gravely ill. In July he died late one evening as your mother and I begged and prayed for his life. The day of his funeral a man came to us and said he could help. He worked for the coroner's office and had done an autopsy on your brother. He said he could give him back to us. He had kept a drought of your brother's blood and from it..." Stephen backed away in horror. His intestines twisted in a knot as realization sank in. "How could you? He is not my brother? We are one and the same?" "No, his body still lies out there." Samuel said as he moved toward the window and pointed at the graveyard. "You are..." Samuel paused searching carefully for the right words. "You are his, clone, I suppose you would say. The man from the coroner's office had some very strange ideas and I will readily admit I did not understand all he said. Your mother seemed to grasp only the important part that she could have her son back and agreed readily. Within a month she had planted that wall of white crypt roses provided by the man from the morgue and days later she was pregnant with you. I can only speculate that the two things were related. You were born nine months later. Without any consultation with me she named you Stephen and swore you were not a second child: but our Stephen restored to us. I found this incredulous but nevertheless allow her to wallow in her madness." Samuel turned away. "Later I had to admit she was right. As you grew you became the child you once were." he said softly. Stephen fled the room. His father was lying. He had to be. The roses were red. He had looked upon their crimson petals just minutes before entering the house. He stood in the foyer looking at the photograph. "Give up your secret to me. If we are one in the same I should remember." The voice came to him. It was soft and vague, yet the tone sounded very much the same as his very own voice. "For every indiscretion there is a price. For your mother the price may have been too steep this time." Stephen stepped away from the photo and looked wildly about the foyer. There was no one. Imagination, he thought to himself. He heard his mother laugh in the next room. Entering the room cautiously he saw her with his Uncle Randall. Randall was an incredibly fat balding man. Stephen thought he always smelled of alcohol and cheap cigars. His mother stopped laughing when she caught sight of him. Stephen was relieved; her laughter was not as he remembered it. Her laugh had always been jovial and cheerful, despite her sullen demeanor. When she found something genuinely humorous she really let loose. Now though, her laughter sounded strange, haunted. Mad. The words he had heard in the foyer drifted back to him. He had to see the grave and the roses again. He hurried from the house. He ran until he reached the small grave marker. The horrid words burned in his mind. He knelt beside it and noticed at the very bottom was an engraved rose. Crudely done, it had not been part of the original marker. Stephen looked at the roses and they were a gentle pink. They were no longer the deep red, as they had manifested earlier nor the soft white he thought he saw in the early hours of this very morning. He stood studying them carefully. "Stephen, stay away!" he turned as he heard his mother call his name. She sounded afraid, desperate. "Stephen, please, come here!" she cried. Stephen hesitated then slowly began to walk toward her. She smiled and held her arms out to him. Without warning she sprinted toward him and almost tackled him as she embraced him. "You must stay away from the roses. They were planted to restore you to me. Ever so often they must be fed." "Fed? What are you implying? Be straight with me, just this once please tell me the truth Mother." Stephen begged. His mother looked over to the wall of roses, then at the grave. She allowed a despairing sigh to escape her darkly rouged lips. "Alright, I will tell you." She paused, searching for a place to begin. "When Stephen died I thought I would die too. My baby died of pneumonia and that was my fault. His room was always so dreary and damp. He caught a cold, a cold that turned lethal. Everyone tried to convince me it was not my fault but I knew differently. I knew I killed him. The day of the funeral the coroner came to me. He knew arcane secrets of life and death. He had retained blood so that he could restore this child. My child! A child lost to the world far too soon. He had kept the blood and knew how to use it to restore my son. I cannot say for certain what this process was, I do not know. I know he brought to me an elixir and bade me drink. I did so gladly. Then...I would rather not say...I was impregnated in a way not natural. You were born healthy and strong nine months later. You looked exactly as you had the first time. You behaved exactly in the same manner. This time though you developed much more quickly: before I knew it you were again the Stephen I remembered and loved so well." She paused and took a few steps toward the wall of roses. "You know there was a price? For everything has a price, even the most trivial of things. The price I had to give was blood. Blood for blood the coroner said. Your blood for the blood of all others I hold dear. Only days ago it was my father. He came to our home to visit while I was out and got to close to those vile roses. When I came home I found his belongings and knew he was on the grounds. I searched for him half an hour before I thought to come out here. He was there." She pointed to the wall. "His warm body was still wedged amongst them. The accursed thorns held him upright as they drank away his blood, and his life." She turned to Stephen; her eyes filled with unshed tears. "You were ill recently weren't you?" Stephen nodded. Only a few days before he had been taken to the infirmary at the college, he lingered there gravely ill for hours. A doctor, concerned for his life, had called an ambulance. Before it arrived Stephen had, his doctor deemed it a miracle, recovered completely. There was no trace of illness within the body that had just moments before been wracked with a grievous illness. He had been released and sent back to his dorm room. The only side effect of his illness had been a relentless exhaustion. The next morning the college dean and several other men had burst into his room fearing the worst. His mother had called them, unable to reach him, concerned that he did not answer his phone. They had been informed of his illness and naturally thought he had a relapse. They told Stephen of his grandfather's death and helped him pack a few belongings. The dean had personally driven him to the airport and put him on a plane. He had not mentioned his illness to his mother. He thought it unnecessary to worry her in light of her father's death. "That was the roses of the crypt Stephen. When their hunger becomes too great they will start to take the life from you unless someone I care for dies. Your Uncle Randall will be next, then your father and myself. That is all the family left I still care for." "No!" Stephen shouted. A new mixture of madness compelled him, one formed from disbelief, fear, and outrage. "We will destroy the wall. If we destroy them they have no control over you." "No, Stephen, please don't." his mother begged. "If you destroy them, you will die with them. Your very soul is intertwined with them. There is no escape for you. I believe once your father and I have gone you will have to sacrifice all whom you love. This I pray is not true. I pray you do not have to live with the guilt I live with." "Then why do you mother?" Stephen asked abruptly. His patience was growing very thin. "Why would you make such a bargain? Did you not think of the consequences? You loved grandfather dearly, any fool could see that, yet you placed him in such a perilous position without his knowledge! Grandmother? Was she a victim of the roses as well? Did they drain her blood and savor her horror. The terror she must have felt being consumed by a seemingly innocent, yet deadly, beautiful plant." Julia shook her head, as if denying Stephen accusations. "Yes, she succumbed to them as well. As did my sister Claire, and cousins Marjory and Tina. Everyone I cared for. All of them, but I did it for you...for my son. I could not bear to think of you lying in the cold ground forever." "Mother listen to yourself! That child is still within the ground is he not? You changed nothing. It has to be a coincidence I look and act as him. We are brothers, it is natural we could look and act very much the same." "No, Stephen, you are him." she disagreed. She looked longingly at the roses. "Vile, hateful things!" she spat. She turned back to the house and hurried to meet Randall, who was lumbering toward them. Stephen stared at the roses. "So you hold the secrets of life and death? We shall see how deep your secrets really are." Stephen removed his shirt and took a lighter from his pants pocket. He picked up a dead branch and wound the shirt around it. He retrieved a can of gasoline from his father's work shed and soaked his shirt in it. He returned to the wall and doused the roses with the remaining gas. Immediately they turned a bleached white. His vision faltered as an incredible weakness swept through him. He lit his shirt and held his makeshift torch to the wall. The roses caught immediately. Stephen laughed insanely he heard the screams coming from them. His own world slipped as pain enveloped his body. Stephen collapsed to his knees. This was not so funny anymore. He began to shriek in fierce agony. Julia ran toward the cemetery alarmed by Stephen's screams. She arrived just in time to see him, submerged in flames, collapse to the ground and fall silent. Frightened, she forced herself to look at the roses. The entire wall was engorged in flames. A scream of soul wrenching pain ripped from her throat, echoing throughout Harold Manor. Samuel, still upstairs, looked out the window. He saw his wife collapse beside the burnt body of their only son and knew she would become the last victim of the crypt roses. A faint smile crossed his lips. He picked up the phone. "Yes I require an ambulance at Harold Manor. My wife just killed our son then collapsed. Hurry please." he tried to sound upset but it was hard. He had gotten rid of that brat once and she brought it back. It was high damned time he got what he wanted. A little peace and quiet!

Pranks

2007-05-24T17:22:00.000-07:00

Winter wind swept briskly across the motley group of four, swirling the flurries from a nearby snowdrift and making them shine like sparkly diamonds in the moonlight. Michael shielded his eyes and braced himself against the frigid air, wondering for the third time how Debbie managed to rope him into this. “Come on,” she said, motioning towards a glass door. A large orange Keep Out sign stood nearby, tattered and torn, its message faded and long since ignored. “Be careful on the stairs,” she spoke. “They’re stable, but it’s hard to see and you might trip.” “Are you sure we can be here?” asked Jane, her voice shaky, nervous. “What if we get caught?” “We’re not going to get caught,” Replied Wendy, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t even know about this place until Debbie told you, right?” “Well, yeah,” mumbled Jane, twirling a strand of black hair. “Then what’s the big deal? There aren’t any people in sight, and even if there were, I doubt anyone would care.” “But what if we do get caught?” she repeated, hands on her hips. “My parents think I’m at a movie right now. If they found out I would do something like this…” “Jane,” Michael reasoned, cutting into what would soon to escalate into a familiar argument. “It’s too late to go back now. Just come on up. What’s the worst that could happen” “I’m not going, alright?” Jane’s eyes flared. “I’ll sit here and hold down the fort, make sure no one tries to go up.” She sighed, and sat down with a loud clank upon the hard metal stairs. Michael and the others pushed on past her, he opened the door after a moments hesitation, the others following suit. “Don’t be long.” Jane called up to them. Michael found himself wishing for a flashlight as soon as they turned towards the hall, the darkness enveloped them like a black shroud. But Debbie had said that a flashlight would ruin the mood, that it would make things less exciting, that it would scare the spirits away. Michael didn’t really believe in spirits or that the simple vacant office building sitting just a few miles from their neighborhood could be haunted. But it was the kind of opportunity a free thinking adventurous teenager couldn’t just pass up, and as he sat with Jane and Wendy and listened to Debbie go on and on and on about this place, he knew there was no getting out of it, now. “Are they evil ghosts?” Jane had asked. Debbie had simply shrugged with an indifferent manner. The hallway opened up to a large main room, the moon drawing thin slits of light upon the floor. A damp moldy smell hung in the air, like years of dust motes had settled, become wet and hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Cobwebs draped about like decorations throughout the room, and Michael started to swipe blindly into the dusky air, making sure that none of them caught his face. A chill breeze blew through a nearby broken window, its jagged edges grinning like the monstrous teeth of an enormous jack-o-lantern in the feint moonlight. Debbie grabbed both Wendy and Michael’s arms and led them to a dark corner of the room. It was so dark that Michael couldn’t even see her face; only her ghostly hand hung out in front of him, guiding him. “Sit here,” she commanded, steering them towards a pair of padded seats. They silently obeyed, and soon the three were sitting around some vague central object, a fourth seat sat empty. “Now listen,” whispered Debbie. “You have to be absolutely quiet for this to work. You may want to close your eyes too…” “Wait,” thought Michael, aloud. “For what to work, exactly?” “To hear the ghosts, or something. Call it whatever the hell you want. You need to really concentrate though. If it works, you’ll start to hear or feel something. Just stay calm and let it pass.” “Whatever,” said Wendy, her voice strained, trying to stay calm “Let’s just try it and get out of here.” “You’re not scared, are you Wends?” taunted Debbie, her tone anything but reassuring. Wendy didn’t respond, and a deafening silence fell upon them. After a few minutes of hesitation Michael closed his eyes, focusing his attention entirely to sound and touch, determined to give Debbie the benefit of the doubt and concentrate as she requested. Nothing but the slow, rhythmic breathing of his two companions punctuated by a few creaks of the building registered for several minutes. Disbelief began to crawl into Michael’s mind. Then he felt it; something light and thin and cold brushing up against his cheek, tickling his neck like a feather and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it before any words come out. It’s what he came for, right? “Mike,” whispered some voice, so faint Michael wasn’t even sure it came from outside his head. He heard Wendy shudder, then fall silent. Even her breath was restrained, coming out only in silent yawns. “Mike…get out…Mike…get…out…” it whispered again, louder this time. He grabbed the sides of his chair and squeezed tightly, trying to ignore the fear building up in his chest. Something
hard and cold touched his shoulder, sat heavily upon his senses, stealing the warmth away from his body. He shivered. Suddenly the thing on his shoulder gained weight and pushed hard, sending Michael flying across the room. Ghostly, ethereal screams pierced the air, accentuated by the more earthly cries of Wendy. A blinding white light flashed into Michael’s eyes, blinding him. “BOO!” Yelled a more masculine voice, followed by raucous laughter. It took a few moments for Michael to figure out what was happening, but when he finally did he simply shook his head, embarrassed. “You got me, Jim,” he laughed as he picked himself off the floor. Jim shined the light onto his own face, still smiling. “I guess you were in on this too, right Debbie?” Jim shined the light onto Debbie’s face, who was also smiling. “Yep. We got Cindy and Kevin the same way, though they screamed a bit louder than you two.” “It’s all good,” said Michael. He was still breathing hard, but laughing all the same. “You doing alright Wends? Those were some pretty intense screams coming outta you.” “Wends?” His words were met with silence. Jim shined his light where Wendy’s chair sat. Where Wendy was supposed to be. But Wendy wasn’t there. “Wends?” Michael called out again, loud enough this time to hear his own echo bounce across the room. Nothing. “Come on Wendy,” cried Debbie nervously. “It was just a joke. Come on out.” Jim cast his light across the room, letting it bounce onto the tables and chairs and cubicles that were too long abandoned. “Ugh,” he muttered. “You guys took forever in getting here. My hands were getting numb.” “From what?” asked Michael. “From the snow. I figured that cold hands would be a nice touch. It’s the little things that count, right?” “I guess,” said Michael. “It’s probably a good thing Jane didn’t come up.” “Why didn’t she?” “She was afraid we’d get caught breaking and entering, or something. She seemed really scared.” “Lame.” “Will you two shut up and find Wendy?” demanded Debbie, her voice cracking. “Maybe she’s hiding, or hit her head or something. Maybe she’s in trouble.” “Listen Debbie,” said Jim. “I’m sure Wends is fine. Just relax. We can split up and search all the cubicles. She has to be in one of them.” “Slight problem there,” said Michael. “When you shined that light in our faces, you ruined our night vision. I can’t see a damn thing.” “Me neither,” said Debbie. “Whatever. It should only take a few minutes to find her no matter what. This place isn’t that big.” But as they went from cubicle to cubicle, searching every nook and cranny they could, checking under every desk, every table, the abandoned office felt very large indeed. It was like the girl had vanished into thin air. “Is everything alright up here?” Jane asked from behind, causing Michael to jump. “Kind of,” replied Michael, reaching out to touch the girl, to see where she was standing. His hands found skin, but quickly draw away like he got an electric shock. “Jesus,” he yelped, rubbing his hands together. “You’re freezing.” “It’s really cold outside. It even started snowing a little. I was going to come inside earlier, but I heard screaming and I got scared. But then I heard some really weird noises outside and got even more scared, so I decided to come up and try to get one of you to figure out what it was.” She paused. “What happened up here, anyway?” “It was all a joke,” said Michael. “But Wendy disappeared and we don’t know where she went. We think she ran into one of the cubicles around here and hit her head or fainted or something.” “Oh.” Her voice was flat and steady, never wavering. “Well, could somebody go downstairs and see if there’s anything wrong? I’m really scared.” Michael was quiet for a moment, considering. “I’ll go,” he spoke finally. “Oh come on Michael,” said Debbie in a nearly hysterical shrill tone. “I don’t think you realize what the hell is happening here. Wendy is gone. People don’t just vanish like that. She’s in trouble, wherever she is. We have to help her.” Michael moved a hand to Debbie’s shoulder, hoping to console her. Her body felt like fire compared to Jane’s. “Listen Debbie,” he said. “Everything is going to be alright. We’re going to find Wends, we’re going to help her with whatever she needs, and then we’re going to go home, because you know like everything will just be fine. But I really am concerned about whatever it is Jane heard. If there are some other people here, or worse, a cop, then that should be our main focus. The last thing I want is to get into real trouble.” “Always a voice of reason, huh Michael,” said Jim. “Let me go with you though. Never know who or what you might run into. Besides, if Wends really did hurt herself, I doubt that I’m the first person she’d like to see.” “Oh, great,” said Debbie. “The big strong boys are leaving the poor girls all alone in the creepy dark room. At least leave us the flashlight,” she demanded, holding out a hand. He sighed, and placed the light into her fingers, muttering something bitter under his breath. The two boys headed towards the stairs. “Be careful!” Jane called out after them. “Those stairs can be tricky.” “So,” said Michael as they passed out of the doorway and into the open night air. “You see anything?” “Nothin’ at all.” Muttered Jim. “It’s weird, huh?” observed Michael, looking up at the sky. “I didn’t even hear Wends get up out of her chair.” “It’s not that weird. You were just more focused on getting the shit scared out of you by me.” “True,” said Michael, laughing a little. “I mean you were really good. Especially with the thing on my neck, and the little whispers to get me softened up and everything.” An unexpected silence followed, and Michael turned his gaze down to see Jim staring straight at him, deadly serious. “What are you talking about?” he asked. A sudden yelp and the sound of a crack floated down from the loft, and in a moment the two boys were running, their feet harshly pounding staccato rings with every step on the hard metal stairs. They reached the room, only to find a flashlight rolling across the floor and no girls to be found anywhere. Michael ran over and grabbed the light, shining it all around, trying to find somebody, anybody. The light flooded over a table near the broken window, and Michael held it steady, his mouth gaping open. Debbie lay slumped against the wall, a neat trickle of blood flowing from the back of her head like red drops of rain from a leaky gutter. She looked out with unseeing eyes, blinded by the light of the flashlight. The two rushed over. “Debbie,” cried Michael, carefully cradling her head. “Can you hear me, Debbie?” “What the hell…” she moaned softly. “What the hell…the puddle…I swear it…it moved…what the hell…” The light began to fade from her eyes, and Michael shook her gently. “Come on,” he said. “Stay with me Debbie. Where’s Jane?” Her eyes open wide. “Jane…she’s…she’s…” Her throat lets out a faint croaking noise, then nothing. “Aw, what the hell man, what the hell,” said Jim, pacing back and forth. “First Wends, then Jane and Debbie…what the hell is this?” “Calm down Jim,” said Michael. “She’s still breathing. But we need to get her to a hospital, and fast.” “Oh, and leave everyone else behind?” said Jim, pacing back and forth even faster and more erratic than before. “Great freaking idea. Real freaking compassionate.” “Jim, there’s something going on here. I think we should do what we can and just get the hell out of here.” “But what about everyone else, huh? What the hell are we supposed to tell everybody? ‘Uh, they disappeared or something. We just couldn’t find them.’ No one’s going to believe us Michael. No one. Shit, this was all supposed to be some stupid little joke. How the hell did this happen?” “Jim,” said Michael, eyeing a stream of blood on the floor moving in a curious fashion. “Stop moving around like that.” “Or what?” asked Jim, pacing faster still. “Jim, look out!” Michael yelled, but it was too late. A thin stream of Debbie’s blood had flowed right into Jim’s path, just enough lubricant to make his feet slip, to compelling him to fall forward. Forcing him right onto the broken windows jagged teeth, piercing his neck. He struggled for just a moment, but dark crimson quickly blossomed on both sides of his neck, the blood spurting out and gushing in time with the rhythm of his heart. His mouth, his jaw, his limbs, all going limp, made his body hang like a marionette cut from its strings. Then all was still. Michael shook his head, breaking his gaze from the horrible scene, and focused on Debbie. He moved to pick her up to take her out of this place when she suddenly awoke. “Wait,” she whispered. “We…I think we found Wendy…the cubicle over there.” “Okay, okay, I got it,” he said, speaking quickly. “Just stay here and try to stay conscious.” “Thanks, Michael.” He moved as fast as he could towards the distant cubicle, taking care not to step in or trip over anything out of place, but stopped just short of entering. A weird thought had entered his mind that he should just leave everyone and go, that he would be all right if he simply dropped everything and headed out the door. “No,” he muttered to himself, and peered inside.It took a few moments to find Wendy, curled up in a fetal position under a desk, her face frozen in a macabre stare of dazed fear, her jaw locked up leaving her mouth frozen in a terrified O. He checked her pulse, but deep down he knew that he didn’t have to; she clearly died a while ago. “Come on, Debbie,” said Michael, turning around. “I’m going to carry you out, okay?” “Whatever you say Michael,” she said, smiling warmly, blindly. He scooped her up, careful to keep her head up and supported, and carried her to the stairs like a baby. He stayed so focused on keeping her alive and leaving that he didn’t even notice Jane right in front of him, and nearly tripped over her. “Oh…oh thank god,” he said. “Listen Jane, we have to get out of here. Debbie’s hurt, and the other two, they’re…they’re dead. There’s something in this place that’s just wrong.” “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, her voice as flat as the last time he heard it. “I’m right behind you.” Michael walked past her, a little confused by her lack of emotion, but still just glad to be leaving. Jane’s hand stayed on his back, so cold that shivers ran up and down his spine. The hand stayed there as he approached the stairs, and Michael stopped. Be careful, she had said. Those stairs can be tricky, she had said. The cold hand gave a quick little push, and for a moment Michael stood on the edge of falling, teetering back and forth. Another quick jab and he was flying down the stairs, his vision exploding into blinding stars as his head bounced onto a metal step, pain ran like an electric current through the rest of his body as his spine landed on another, breaking apart like a soggy branch with a sickening wet snap. Pain mixed with nausea, and Michael’s vision clouded over. He heard the clang, clang-clang of Jane slowly, patiently walking down the stairs. She stood over Michael’s body, her eyes glowing like rubies in the moonlight. “I told you to leave,” she whispered, though no longer Jane’s voice; now the voice of something otherworldly, something evil. “I told you, but you didn’t listen. But don’t worry, my dear boy,” she said, leaning closer. “It will all be over soon.” His screams pierced far into the twilight, but soon all was quiet. All was still, but for the winter wind that swept briskly across the orange Keep Out sign, tattered and torn, its message faded and long since ignored.

Pooky

2007-05-24T17:20:00.000-07:00

Fred Hobson returned home after an early October afternoon at the local VFW, where he had been drinking cheap draft beer with the other old cronies. He was in a foul mood, as he had lost yet once again in the weekly fantasy pool. Pooky, his wife’s new beloved miniature Doberman, was curled up in Fred’s recliner in the living room. Fred picked up the little dog and tossed him to the floor. “Stay out of my chair, you little bastid,” he snarled. If Harriet hadn’t been so attached to Pooky, Fred would have cheerfully tied him to the car bumper and gone on a cross-country road trip. Pooky sniffed disdainfully, uttered a low growl and ambled into the kitchen where Harriet was preparing dinner. “Hello, dear,” she called out to her husband. “The meatloaf will be done in a few minutes.” Fred merely grunted, and turned the television to ESPN. Harriet bent down and patted Pooky on the head. “Is daddy being mean to you again?” she crooned. Pooky fixed his dark, gleaming eyes on her, and she stared back, her hand pausing in mid-stroke. They remained fixated on one another with their eyes locked in a sinister moment of mutual understanding. Harriet Hobson rose and walked to the knife block, and selected the largest butcher knife. She turned and slowly approached the living room door, as if in a trance. Fred obliviously sat in his recliner with his back to her, watching television. The noise of Sports Center covered the sound of her approach, and Fred sat and cursed at the scores of the previous weekend’s games, not knowing that his wife of forty years stood just behind him with a knife raised. Harriet silently plunged the knife into the base of Fred’s neck, just behind the left clavicle. The long blade sliced cleanly down into his heart, which immediately began pumping blood through his entire chest cavity instead of pulsing through intended arteries. Fred died instantly, without even knowing anything had happened. Harriet then pulled the knife deftly from out of the near bloodless incision with glazed unfocused eyes, and neatly sank the blade into her own chest. The self-inflicted wound was perfectly aimed, and she crumpled to the floor. Pooky sat in the doorway and watched silently, his beady Doberman eyes gleamed briefly red. Harriet and Fred’s grandson, Steve, found them the next afternoon. He had come over to pick up Fred for a golf outing at the country club. Soon, police were swarming the house, and quickly determined that it had been an obviously successful yet malicious murder–suicide attempt. Pooky patiently sat quiet in the corner of th living room during the fanfare, and licked Steve’s hand when he finally noticed the little dog and reached down to scratch behind an ear. “Hey there, little buddy,” Steve said with a deep sadness weighting his heart. “I forgot all about you! I bet you’re starving to death, huh?” He picked up Pooky and took him into the kitchen in search of some dog food. “What are we going to do with you? Somebody’s got to take care of Grandma’s little Pooky,” he said, pouring a large bowl of Chunky Chuck Wagon Kibble. He scratched the dog’s ears some more and sat him down to eat. Pooky ate ravenously, and Steve smiled as he watched. Steve decided to take custody of the dog until legal arrangements could be made. None of the family members argued, since he was the only one who came to visit regularly over the last several years, and the only one who offered. He loaded the bags of dog food, and assorted dishes and toys into his trunk when the police were done with their investigation, and put Pooky into the passenger seat of his Explorer. Pooky rode around with Steve almost everywhere he went for the next several weeks. Steve had become attached to him, and hated to leave him home, cooped up in the house all day. On a Wednesday, three weeks after he took Pooky home, they were headed downtown together. Steve stopped at a red light, and reached over to scratch Pooky behind the ear. Steve’s hand stopped in mid motion as he and the dog locked eyes in a moment of clarity. Pooky’s eyes appeared coal black, but flashes of thriving flame seemed to be visible deep within them. The light turned green but Steve sat, transfixed. At last, he heard the sound of car horns behind him, and pulled out across the intersection. Steve drove on in a daze, and seemed to possess tunnel vision as they sped down the street. The Ford Explorer rapidly approached a tee intersection and directly before them was a restaurant, with large white-linen clothed tables out front under a green awning. It was lunchtime and the restaurant was packed with people. Steve drove straight into the middle of the crowd, and the SUV smashed through tables and people, and then through the plate glass window and over several more tables, finally coming to a stop when it hit a main support beam halfway across the floor. When it was all over, seventeen people were dead, including Steve. The airbag had deployed when he hit the window, which forced his head back against the seat. Simultaneously, a large jagged piece of glass sailed through the open car window and lodged in his throat, nearly severing his head from his spine. Steve’s eyes remained open, but there was no expression of surprise or shock. To look at him, you’d think he was listening to a boring lecture, or waiting in line at the bank, except for his being dead with a nearly severed neck. Pooky came through the crash without a scratch, and was eventually found curled up in the passenger floorboard of the bloody Explorer. A young policeman pulled him out, and took him outside to the sergeant in charge. “Look at this, sir. He was in the vehicle. What do you think, should I call animal control to come get him?” the young corporal asked. Sergeant Collins petted Pooky, and scratched under his chin. “Nah, let’s just bring him down to the station,” he said. “The family will probably want to take him this afternoon anyway, so there’s no point in bringing those money-suckers into it. You know what they charge to get your gol’durn dog back? Seventy-five freaking bucks!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t send anybody’s dog down there, if I could help it.” He picked up a piece of half-eaten steak from the mess on the ground and gave it to the corporal. “Here, put him in the backseat of my squad car, and give him this to eat. I’ll take care of him ‘till this guy’s family shows up at the station.” No family came to claim the dog, and Pooky ended up staying at the station overnight. He was sitting on Sergeant Collins’s desk the next morning, eating a doughnut, when the day shift arrived. “Look at this little guy,” chuckled Sergeant Collins. “Isn’t he something else? I may take him home if nobody comes to claim him today.” Pooky stood up on the desk, stretched, and looked straight into the man’s eyes. The smoldering blackness of Pooky’ stare seemed to suck the liveliness right out of Sergeant Collins, and at last he sat back and sighed. Pooky returned to his doughnut, just as the corporal who had found him walked over. “Morning, Sarge,” he said cheerfully. “I see you’ve still got your new sidekick.” He pulled a doughnut from the box. “Sit down, Turner,” Sergeant Collins said coldly. “Okay, okay, sorry,” Corporal Turner, muttered. “What’d I do now?” Sergeant Collins gave him an icy stare. “Are you sleeping with my wife, boy?” he finally asked. Turner choked on his doughnut, and managed to spit it out on the floor. “Wh-what?” he sputtered. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve never even met your wife, except for that one time at the Police Ball... where is this coming from?” He sounded genuinely confused, and was blushing furiously. “Well, I think you are,” said Collins. He pulled out his service revolver and cocked it. “I think you have been for a long time.” He emptied the gun into Corporal Turner’ chest from four feet away. Three other policemen in the room leaped up, and one of them quickly shot Sergeant Collins three times, twice in the chest and once in the head, killing him on the spot. Pooky simply sat on the Sergeants desk eating his doughnut, and never even flinched at the noise. After finishing the cakey morsel and licking the desk clean of stray flecks of blood stained doughnut glaze, Pooky jumped down off the desk, and in the confusion following the brief gun battle, no one noticed a little miniature Doberman slip quietly out the door. He trotted lazily down the street and turned into a deserted alley just a few blocks away, stopping alongside a putrid dumpster filled with rotting fish bones and discarded cat skins tossed from the nearby neighborhood Chinese restaurant’s flimsy kitchen door. There he began to transform; all his doggy hair fell out, and his small body grew and contorted. Twisting until at last, he completed the shape shifting process and stood proud and massive in his truly sinister form. The miniature Doberman known as Pooky ceased to exist and Lucifer stood, then threw back his horned and leathery head and laughed a maniacal dark snicker. “Oh, how I love my little holiday’s up here,” he chuckled to himself. Satan suddenly evaporated and returned to the depths of Hell, already making plans for his next years visit to earth. A small piece of paper much like one of those found in fortune cookies fluttered to the ground where he had stood, and it bore this message: “Don’t be so quick to laugh when someone says ‘my dog told me to do it’...lucky numbers 6,6,and 6…”

Let's Be Frank

2007-05-24T16:55:00.000-07:00

I suppose you’ll want to know exactly how it all happened, every gory detail, and every random step I took that led me to this point. Hell, for that matter, I’d like to know myself. I’ve been trying to piece it all together, trying to figure out what it was that happened that got me here, trying to see where I could have changed the course of events. I might have been able to avoid the whole thing if I had known what was about to come.
I think back on all of this, and it looks like a maze. Each path I have walked on split, and each new path I chose split, and so on and so forth. It reminds me of those books I read as a kid, those ‘choose your own adventure’ types where you had a choice at the end of each chapter: If Ricky decides to talk to the old man, go to page 124. If he keeps on walking through the forest, go to page 61. When you start at the end of the story and try to go back to where you made the wrong choice, it can get very confusing. I’m still not sure how far back I’d have to go to completely undo this mess, perhaps all the way to the beginning, maybe not quite that far. If you don’t believe in aliens, and you were presented with one, would you then believe in their existence, or would you manufacture a reasonable explanation for what you were seeing, or would you simply not see it at all? Aliens don’t have anything to do with what is going on with me, but I’m trying to create an analogy to help me explain my situation, which is completely and utterly bizarre. You see, I didn’t believe in bad guys. I mean real bad guys, the kind who are crazy and cold and heartless, whose soul has become corroded with malice and evil. I saw them on the news, I heard stories about them, but they were always distant, doing things to other people. In my experiences, they didn’t really exist because I had never come into contact with one. To me, they were a fictional character. So, when I was faced with irrefutable evidence of their existence, and to elaborate, their existence within me, my mind/body/soul, you can imagine that it was an earth-shattering experience. I still don’t know if I was crazier before I was aware of their (my other personalities) existence, or after. It’s a tough call. Because my doctor is not so forthcoming with information, and I am not currently allowed to read books or access a computer or anything like that, I haven’t really been able to learn much about my “condition”. The doctor says that once he has “figured me out” we can start thinking about what I will and won’t be allowed to do. I hope he is making faster progress than I am on that subject. I do think, despite my lack of expertise on the question of insanity, that there was a defining moment in my life where my brain split into two parts: one part erased a specific memory and continued on like nothing happened, and the other part turned to page 124, and then on to page 7, etc etc. If that part of my brain continued to split like a fast-growing stock on Wall Street, which my good doctor alluded to (quite nonspecifically), then I really don’t know how many ‘people’ I have become. As I said, this is all new to me. I only found out a few months ago that there was anything wrong at all. Well, I had my suspicions that everything might not be 100% in the old noggin, but I had no idea how far from that empirical number I actually was. I still don’t know for sure, but based on my current situation, and the length of time it seems to be taking that asshole doctor to decide what my “condition” is, I’m guessing it’s a lot closer to 0% than 100%. Does that make me a bad person? I guess that all depends on which me we’re talking about, huh? Right now I’m so confused I don’t even know if I am the dominant personality, the original (I remember my childhood, but what if the other[s] do to?), one of a hundred manifestations, or simply a momentary flash. That uncertainty is a bitch to live with, trust me. It’s like being trapped in a game of Clue with a maniac rolling the dice. Right now you’re probably dying to know what I did. Whad’ya do Freddy, hack your family up with a garden trowel? Shoot your boss? Snipe some people on the Interstate? Did you KILL somebody, George? How ‘bout it, huh? Rape a little girl, Bob, maybe a boy? Did ya like it? What was it, you psycho freak, what did you do? The truth is, I don’t know what all I did. I can tell you what they told me, what I am in here for, living with a bunch of psychos in an “institution” (and I find that name to be a little funny, institution being a place of learning and all, but this one is rather specific in its selection of courses; namely learning about one’s self in my case) but as far as the completed story is concerned, I’m afraid I may leave you a bit disappointed. On the morning of February 22, I woke up in jail. I was totally disoriented, as you can imagine, because the last thing I remember before that was leaving work and getting in my car the day before. I was going to go to Wal-Mart, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in a cell. Some lawyer finally came to talk to me, and instead of clearing up the matter for me, he made me more confused than ever. He said that I had been arrested for breaking and entering (he called it B & E, a term I was not familiar with, and had to ask him to explain) as well as Assault and Battery. “Breaking and Entering, Fred. You broke into a house that was not yours, beat up the occupants, and refused to leave.” He sounded a little exasperated, which made me feel stupid. “What do you mean, broke into someone’s house, why would I do that?” I asked. I was honestly bewildered. “I don’t know, Fred,” he responded. “That’s what I’m here to find out.” “You keep calling me Fred,” I said, suddenly excited. “This is just a case of mistaken identity!” I felt a sudden sense of relief, as the rational explanation of the whole situation finally presented itself to me. “My name is Frank. Frank Thomas. Frank Anthony Thomas. You guys picked up the wrong person,” I announced in triumph. He looked at me with surprised eyes before he caught himself and regained his guarded composure. “Mr. … Thomas, then. Why did you give the police a false name last night? Or are you giving me a false name now? Since you have no identification, it seems that you are grasping at straws to get yourself out of trouble here. I’m your court-appointed lawyer, your defense, so we might as well be honest with each other, huh?” He looked me in the eye with a steadfast gaze. I immediately reached into my left hip pocket to produce my wallet, and found it empty. “I… uh… The police probably took my wallet, right? They have my Drivers License. That will clear all of this up.” He looked at me with a tired expression. “Mr. … Fred, what are you trying to pull here? You know you didn’t have anything in your pockets when they arrested you. Can we just be honest with each other?” he sighed. “You are making my job very difficult right now.” “Look… I’ve forgotten your name, forgive me,” I began. “Mr. Jackson,” he responded. “Look, Mr. Jackson, I’m trying to be honest with you. My name is Frank Thomas. I don’t remember anything that happened last night after I left work. I’m not a criminal, and I can’t imagine breaking into someone’s house. The only thing I can think of for an explanation to all this is that someone drugged me, or something and left me at the scene of their crime. I don’t know what the hell is happening, but I’m not guilty of anything.” I paused to think for a moment. “Where is my car?” I asked in a sudden burst of inspiration. “The real criminal is probably driving it around right now with all the stolen goods he took from that house!” “What sort of car do you drive?” He pulled out a small notebook and a pen from an interior pocket of his suit. “’98 Escort, white.” I immediately recited. “License plate 162 YXC.” I watched as he scribbled furiously in his notebook for a moment before putting it away and turning back to me. “So, you are claiming that you don’t remember anything, huh? So you don’t remember going to…” he pulled a piece a paper from his briefcase and quickly consulted it, “…903 Choctaw Street, beating on the door, demanding that someone named Carol open up the freakin’ door before you kick it in?” I sat stunned for a moment, unable to open my throat to speak. “I… I used to live at 903… before Carol died…” I stuttered. “But that was several years ago, before she was killed. In a wreck,” I hastily added. He had the notebook back out and was writing again. “What sort of car did you drive then, Fre… Frank?” “I had an ’86 Bronco II, why?” I asked. “What does that have to do with anything?” He consulted the sheet again. “Bronco II, that’s what was in the driveway last night, presumed stolen…” he paused. “When did your wife get killed?” He looked up at me, and had a spark of interest in his eye for the first time since entering my cell. I finally got most of the story out of my lawyer, and pieced it together over and over again after he left. I guess I stole a Bronco II out of the Wal-Mart parking lot, one just like I used to drive, and went to the house where I used to live. Carol was my wife for three years, and we lived together in that house the whole time. I moved out after she was killed in a car wreck, which was about two years ago. Anyway, the people that live there now told the police (who told my lawyer, who told me) that I parked in the driveway, walked right up to the door, and tried to open it. It was locked, and they said I tried to unlock it with a key on my key ring. When that didn’t work, I rang the bell and beat on the door, yelling at Carol about changing the lock, and screaming for her to unlock the freakin’ door before I kicked it in. The man inside finally opened the door to confront me, and he says I charged inside and demanded to know what he was doing in my house. My lawyer said I beat him up pretty bad, and repeatedly accused him of sleeping with my wife. I really find that hard to believe, because I am not the violent type at all. Anyway, I guess I threw him out on the lawn, and then discovered the woman in there, who was not Carol. I guess that probably messed me up too, because I started yelling at her, asking her what in the hell was going on, where was Carol, where was all of our stuff, whose shit was in my house, that kind of stuff. I guess I was pretty wigged out when the police got there. So, that is where I have come up with my theory about my mind splitting. I think part of my brain must have blocked out Carols death, and tried to go on like nothing happened. If I still lived in the same place, it might have even worked, for a while at least, then again, maybe not. When Carol never came home, I’d have been forced to deal with the situation anyway. It’s hard to figure out how crazy stuff like that would work. Trust me, my asshole doctor is still working on it, and he’s a professional. The second day in jail, my lawyer came back to see me. He had some other people with him, and they all seemed pretty interested in me. My lawyer started off the conversation. He didn’t bother with introductions. “Good morning, Mr. Taylor. The police found your car. Your wallet, which included your Drivers License, on the seat. Also, I found out quite a bit of information about you that I didn’t know yesterday.” He looked at me with a smug, satisfied expression, as if to say gotcha. “It’s Mr. Thomas,” I replied. “You should know that by now, if you’ve seen my license. Frank Anthony Thomas.” “No, it’s Frederick Albert Taylor. Your insurance card confirms that, as well as your registration, some mail that was in the car, and your police record. That includes fingerprints.” The smug look was more defined now. “Police record?” I was genuinely shocked. “I don’t have one! I’ve never had anything…” I trailed off as one of the other men with him stepped forward. “Mr. Jackson,” he said to my lawyer, “If this gentleman is in fact schizophrenic, which we don’t actually know yet, he will most likely have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Presenting him with facts of his identity will do nothing but confuse him.” He turned to me. “Hello there, I’m Dr. Martin.” He offered his hand. “And you are?” I automatically shook his hand, but my mind was churning this up at a furious rate. “Frank Thomas,” I mumbled. “What in the hell is going on here? And did you say schizophrenic?” My lawyer was determined to be in charge of the discussion. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, Fred. Why don’t you quit playing games with us?” “I have never been here before in my life,” I shot back. “I really don’t think this is something that I’d forget.” Dr. Martin appeared to believe me, because he pulled my lawyer and the other fellow out into the hall for a quick whispered discussion. When they came back in, the doctor did the talking. “Frank, this other gentleman here is the District Attorney. We are going to make arrangements with the judge to take you to a treatment facility to run some tests on you. You may end up being there for some time while we make our evaluation. You are in some trouble here, but we are trying to help you out. Do you understand?” “No,” I cried, “I don’t understand at all! Is what he said true? Have I really been here before? I wish someone would tell me what the hell is happening!” To my horror, I realized that I had tears streaming down my face. “Frank, we believe you are sick,” the doctor said kindly. He offered me a tissue, which I gratefully accepted. “Mr. Jackson told you that you broke into your old house night before last, right?” I nodded. “Well, it seems that you have done that several times before, although the couple that lives there now didn’t live there then. The first few times it was empty, and you’ve given several sets of tenants there quite a scare since then. This is the first time you’ve ever gotten violent, though.” He paused to look at the paperwork in his hand. “There is also the matter of the Ford Bronco II. You sold it to Jeff Hickey, who works at Wal-Mart, and have stolen it from him four times now. He’s never pressed charges against you, and he says that you always bring it back and apologize for it, which I find to be rather surprising. If you honestly don’t remember any of this, and I don’t think you do, then you may have a condition called schizophrenia. That’s what we are going to find out at the treatment center. We’re going to try to make you better.” He winked and gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I know this is all terribly confusing for you, and I don’t want you to think about it too much.” He pulled a pill bottle from his jacket pocket and gave me a small white tablet. “Take this, it will calm you down. We’ll be back to transport you as soon as we get the paperwork finished.” He gathered up the other two, and they left me with my head spinning. They took me to this so-called treatment center, which I soon found out was just like every nuthouse you see in the movies. I keep expecting to see Jack Nicholson in here, from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Anyway, Dr. Martin started seeing me every other day or so, but instead of telling me anything, he kept hypnotizing me. He said he was exploring my psyche, trying to determine how many personalities I was maintaining. Of course I don’t remember any of these sessions. Between that, the medication, and the boredom, I finally decided to confront him about it at our next meeting. I jumped right into my speech before he got rolling with the penlight. “Look, Dr. Martin, I’m here because you guys said I did a bunch of crazy stuff that I don’t remember doing, right?” He nodded. “Well, you said you were going to try to help me. However, all you’ve been doing is hypnotizing me, so now I’m to the point where I can’t even remember the treatment you’re giving me for doing things I can’t remember.” I took a deep breath. It was hard to concentrate on my speech with the medication they kept me on. “I’m really starting to question this whole thing, doctor. I really don’t know if anything actually even happened to begin with. Do you get what I’m saying?” “Fred, we have this discussion every time you come in my office. Are you aware of that?” I looked at him in shock. He continued. “Oh yes, almost word for word, three days a week for close to ten years now.” He leaned back in his chair, and I came out of mine. “Ten years? Who the hell are you trying to kid?” I half-laughed as I sat back down. “Nice try, Dr. Martin, but I’m not crazy, and I haven’t lost track of time. My name is Frank, and I’ve only been in here for a few weeks. Now, seriously: when are we going to start being honest with each other, and when are you going to have a conversation with me that I’ll remember?” “Yes, Frank, I apologize. Fred doesn’t give this speech, he gives the ‘I’m gonna kick your ass and bust out of here’ speech. And here’s yesterdays newspaper, which I always show you, to confirm the date.” He tossed the paper over the desk with the air of a man who is trying to convince a child that the sky is blue, not green. I took the paper and glanced at the date, then looked at it again, slowly. According to the paper, ten years had gone by. How in the hell was that possible? “I think you had this paper made just to screw with me, didn’t you?” I challenged. I noticed with some fear that he had mouthed the words as I was saying them. “Go ahead, look in the mirror over there in the corner,” he said with a flippant wave of his hand. “Take a look at your face; that will convince you. It always does,” he added rather slyly. Almost as an afterthought, he called me back. “Do you want to talk about anything else before you go over there? I only ask because once you realize the truth, you generally revert to another personality. Sometimes it’s Fred, sometimes Bob; sometimes you bring out a new one. But Frank never walks away from that mirror. So, anything else you want to discuss while you’re here?” “You’re crazy,” I told him, and turned back towards the far wall. “Yes, that’s what you usually say.” He sounded disappointed. I hesitated, and thought about it for a moment. What if he was telling the truth? If he was, what did it mean? It would mean that I was crazy, and was living the same day over and over. That wasn’t the case, because I didn’t feel crazy at all. I felt like I was being screwed by a bunch of mad scientists who were trying to see just how far they could push me before I lost it. I walked over to the mirror and looked at myself. I woke up back in my room to the sound of the crazy bitch down the hall shrieking at the top of her lungs as she did every day. Once again, I didn’t remember any of my session with Dr. Martin. I was really going to have to give him a speech about his therapy techniques. I rolled over, thinking back once more. I was trying to define the moment when all of this had started. Not waking up in jail and ending up here, I remembered that just fine. Hell, it was only a few weeks ago. I was trying to go back further, to my first blank spot. If I really was schizophrenic, as everyone seemed to think, then those occasional blank spots might be when I flip, or whatever it’s called. I don’t know if I ever had one before Carol died, but I don’t think so. They started right after I got the news; at least that’s when I seem to remember the first one. They didn’t happen very often usually just a few hours of lost time at work, or sitting on the couch in front of the tube. Carol. God, I miss her. I took her to dinner one night, and she… Pop! I suddenly felt a whole section of my brain shift, as if a balloon had burst inside my skull. I sat up, desperately grabbing at the memories before I lost them again. We were at dinner… …and a man had walked up to our table. He sat down beside Carol as if he belonged there, and she said… she said… I struggled to force it to the top. What did she say? She said she was leaving me. She said this was her new boyfriend, and she wanted a divorce. How could I have forgotten something like that? The memory seemed to blur at that point. I couldn’t remember what happened after that. I tried, but the next event to come to mind was getting a knock on the front door, and a policeman telling me she had been killed in a hit and run automobile incident. Memories of racing to the hospital, doctors shaking their heads, patting me on the back, referring me to the staff minister; before that was a blank spot. The very first blank spot. I lay back on the bed, panting from the mental exertion. I have a session with Dr. Martin tomorrow. I’m going to tell him to quit hypnotizing me and listen to what I have to say. I’m going to tell him about the blank spots in my memory, and that the new ones he is creating aren’t helping any. Hopefully he will listen to me, and we can fix this little glitch so I can go home and get my life back together. My boss isn’t going to like it that I’ve missed several weeks of work, but once I explain the situation to him, I think he’ll understand.
After all, it isn’t as if I killed anyone, right?

Curses And Sin

2007-05-24T16:50:00.000-07:00

It was near the stroke of midnight and a darkness fit for the tomb gripped the soundless village. The brisk coolness of an autumn evening joined the assault of an early evening’s rain to chill a body down to the very marrow. In the darkness and the cold and damp, a sound of footsteps on cobblestones pierced the silence. “Click-clack,” they announced to the world that a visitor was approaching this woeful town’s lone church. The tall late night visitor wore a cloak as black as sack cloth. When he had reached the top of the church’s granite stairs, he pounded on the broad age worn oak doors. Thunderous booms that echoed through the still night burst from his massive fist. “Grundler! Murdering priest! Come out of there!” Shouted Dark-Shroud above the thunderous pounding. After many blows and many more curses were thrown at the door it finally creaked open and in the dim light inside the face of a tired monk appeared. “Can I help you?” “Tell Father Grundler that Cenarius has come to collect his due.” The monk stepped back from the door, frightened by the tone of the man before him. A timid voice squeaked, “I know what you are, demon. You have a lot of nerve in showing up here.”“But…” Cenarius’ voice took on a gentler pitch. “But it is cold out here. Will you not invite me in?” “The Father said I was not to offer you entrance in any manner. He said you could not enter if I did not invite you in.” “Damn his eyes! Tell him…” The voice grew quieter. “Tell him I accuse him of murder. Tell him he must come forward to defend his name.” “You cannot issue a challenge to a man of the cloth. We are not warriors, here.” “The church is judge, jury and executioner. I wish for the priest to be judged in the eyes of the church.” “This is most unusual. We do not…” “Bring him. He has murdered an innocent, and I want him to be judged.” The door closed, and for several minutes the stranger could hear the murmur of animated conversation. Then finally the door opened. A priest stepped out, accompanied by five robe-clad monks. Dark-Shroud gave the priest a terrible stare and said, “I accuse you Father Grundler of the murder of my beloved Draenda.” So saying, he grabbed a fistful of the priest’s robe and tossed him down the stairs.

The monks hurriedly gathered at the bottom of the stairs with their priest. The stranger raised his voice to address them all. “He murdered her! That man!” Grundler yelled back in defiance, “I destroyed evil. That is not murder! Your woman was a servant of Satan… just like you.” “A servant of Satan? So this is how you justify murder, Grundler? You place your own titles upon people and then drive stakes through their hearts? My beloved was no more a servant to Satan than you, less by your actions. Her only sin was to be cursed – cursed by another who was cursed.” “You lie! You attempt to deceive us all.” “Do I?” The stranger leaped down the stairs to land beside Grundler. The other monks stepped back. In an instant the man grabbed the cleric and sunk his teeth into the priest’s neck. He drank the priest’s blood with one hand out in warning to the monks. Fearful, the monks did not move to save their priest, but huddled closely together like frightened children. At last as the stranger finished he laid the priest on the ground gently. He stood and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Listen to me. For three days he will lie in a deathlike trance, but at the end of the third day he will rise. He will have a thirst for blood, so have some warm animal blood ready, or your blessed Father will attempt to drink from one of you. In the beginning he will not understand what he is so you will need to protect him from himself. He will only be able to come out at night. The daylight will kill him. He will no longer be able to gaze upon your God’s cross, and any object blessed in the name of God will cause him agony if placed upon his skin. He will have great strength and no mortal man will be able to best him in combat. The only way to truly assure his death is to drive a wooden stake through his heart.” The man in the dark cloak began to back away from the courtyard. The dark of night was faintly lighter with the warning of a sun about to rise. From across the courtyard he yelled, “When he wakes up in three days - cursed as I am cursed – you will need to make a decision. Is this cursed man a servant of Satan? That is the title he placed upon my love and with that title he committed murder in his God’s name. So, if he is a servant of Satan it is your sworn duty as men of the cloth to purge him from the face of the Earth. However, if you decide this is but an illness, then you must assume he committed murder when he drove a stake through my beloved’s heart. What sort of man gives succor to the ill by slaying them? I care not what you decide, but know you this: if any of you decides that this curse makes me an enemy, then an enemy I will be, and you will rue the day you made Drak Anthony your enemy. Adieu!” In the quiet courtyard all that could be heard were the sounds of a man’s footsteps on cobblestones, growing fainter. The sun of a new day was struggling to peek above the distant horizon, and the five monks found themselves pondering the meaning of curses and sin.

Test post

2007-05-24T14:25:00.000-07:00

This is a test post 05242007