Scifi sundays with the hipriestess 5 cent tales

SciFi Sunday’s With the High Priestess 1

5 CENT TALES

By D. E. BARTLEY

Table of Contents Pages 4.

Tale of Terror on the High Sea’s 8.

Ye Olde Blind Parrot 16.

Maiden Voyage, a cherry popping tale 21.

Final Separation on Scifi Sunday 27.

Diner Counter Encounter, or Something in the water 33.

The Heckling Magpie 37.

A Whim and a Prayer, or how an Angel really got her wings 42.

Short Short’s not short enough 53.

Happy Chicken Wing, all you can eat, on Scifi Sunday 56.

On the first Christmas, God created sibling rivalry 59.

American Dreams: Don’t let the Dream dies 63 American Dreams Revisited 68.

A Fakir’s Transference in the Dessert 74.

Subway Transfers 79.

Nightly Shadows in Neon Auras 87.

Lambchops, My favorite pet on Scifi Sunday 91.

Another Sheepwreck 2

94.

99.

102.

104.

107.

113.

118.

121.

129.

131.

133.

134.

140.

144.

146.

150.

151.

156.

160.

162.

164.

171.

173.

178.

184.

187.

192.

202.

205.

207.

211.

215.

225.

227.

229.

237.

241.

244.

248.

254.

257.

3

Best Job in the Whole World Jack the Hamster, a Grim Faery Tale Every Yot and Tittle Ecliptic Voodun in the Gloam Cross Roads of the Loa The Truth Shall Set You Free Screwed and Tattooed The Other Shorts for thought, maybe laughter Lesson at the Ball Park The Indigent I knew Snow, Divine Intervention Live for Art, Die for Art Patriotic note to Uncle Sam My Amazing Arm A Bard’s muse on SciFi Sunday Chitlins, Collards and Black eyed peas Choo Choo, the Loan Shark Converse Sneakers, filled with a forgotten Childhood Arachnophobia, Anyone? Spinning the Scifi web on Sunday The Psycho-pathologist on SciFi Sunday Musings Between the 11th and 12th Floors A Fair Trade in the Misty Woods A Bitter Pill to Swallow Premeditated Leadurgy Adolescent Outcast on SciFi Sunday God is in the Fox Hole Dragonwoccky Faery’s Bring Rain on wings of Emotion The Grasshopper and the Snail Musings from the Crystal Cave Freewill the Fall of Man The Interrogation Room “Thow Shalt Not Tempt the Lord Thy God” Just a Vagabond A Little Birdie Told Him Making a Choice on Scifi Sunday Shooting For all the Marbles Horus, Father of the Eon Sagacity, Accident of the Fates Laughter At The Funeral Home

Blimey, a tale from the high seas of a certain James Bartley

4

A languid gust of wind made its way across the vast ocean, gently rocking a way worn scooner. A sphere of the purest orange slid down the sky sundered upon the horizon and deliquesced into crepuscular bars on the endless stretches of sea. As a cartilaginous curtain was drawn across the waters a low radiance ignited from within the cabin of the skiff, sending white light to dance about it in centripetal patterns. The mother ship, Star of the East, rocked back and forth as the mates below readied themselves for the sail back to port in the Falkland islands The luminance cavorted in and about the gruff hairs on Captain Doyle's haggard face as he stared into his newly created glow, extinguishing the fire-bearing match. Once satisfied with his pipe, he had forged and filled, he returned to his labor, mending his nets for another day's work. Warped planks of the cabin formed chart-plastered walls that met with a low, arching ceiling that would cause the average height to stoop. The wood of the ship wailed with each wave that collided with the hull. Maybe tomorrow would be the day they'd snag a catch, on the way home..

The Captain's heavily callused fingers ran across the mesh with a simple, blunt grace that could only be achieved with many labored days. He sat back, running a hand through the unruly masses of once tame gray that hung stiffly from his scalp. Looking over his craftsmanship he smoothed out the tattered tunic he wore, he had achieved a prideless content with his work. With both hands on his brazen, sea-stained leggings he slowly stood, sauntering to the cabin stairs.

Ascending the stairs, he lifted his arched shoulders and straightened out his back, only to drop them once more. Once standing on the c deck he was accompanied by the kaleidoscope of various baits, tackle, and equipment that littered the topside of the vessel. Leaning against the triple mast of the ship he gazed off into the infinite moon-clad waves that lapped up against the under side of the craft. With a spent hand testing his unshaven face one could never tell if the old codger stood in profound cognizance or in an unconscious trance, taken by the silver leafed sea. In time the somniferous rhythms of the sea augmented his lassitude and lulled him into a soporific state. He slowly made a working man's promenade, returning to rest with one more day behind him.

Auroral light poured into the cabin, herding the darkness into an unseen pen; it crept upon the mariner's 5

fatigued face. It tread so lightly as to only stir his rest, like a parent gently wresting the child from the Elysian fields of dreams. With this he rose sluggishly to sit on his dilapidated cot. Sore joints lurched into motion as he ascended the cabin stairs. The sea lay before him, placid and serene, it was as if the waters had been graced by Woden himself. Taking a swig from his phial, the hot searing grog eased the burden of his joints, and gave his head a pleasant buzz....

From the starboard side of the ship, young yeoman, James Bartley fetched a pail containing the day's meal. He dug into the pail and extracted a salted piece of haddock. He took a seat on a poorly coopered barrel with his repast spread out in front of him. He consumed this with the least of relish and with it quaffed a small flagon of mead in the most perfunctory manner. Without hesitation the crew raised the ship's sails with a heaving sigh, making the necessary preparations to set out for home.

The lookout from the Whalewatch post, spotted a huge sperm whale about a mile off the port bow

and gave the cry 'Thar she blows!'

'Where away?'

'Three points on the weather bow!'

'How far off?'

'A mile or so!'

'Keep your eye on her!'

'Sing out when we head right!'

The ship's sails were slackened and soon her scooners were lowered. A deadly race began between the Star of the East and the immense whale.

Young Jimmy BartIey was in the first longboat to reach the side of the prey. They crept up from the rear, so near that the harpooner leaned over and rammed his weapon deep into the whale's vitals. As the stricken beast sought to free itself of the harpoon, James, and the other oarsmen rowed frantically to get out of reach of the massive flukes, the two-pronged tail which threshed the water to foam in the whale's agony.

6

The whale sounded and eight hundred feet of heavy line streaked out of the line tub before he ended his dive. Then an ominous slacking in the line signaled the great fish was going to surface.

But where?

The oarsmen readied themselves to pull for their lives. Without warning there was a splintering crash which sent the longboat spinning into the air. The whale thrashed about wildly, snapping at the men and the wreckage with its huge jaws as the water turned to a bloody froth before he sounded again.

Another longboat picked up the survivors of this encounter, but no one had seen young James, he was missing....

The wind now deserted the Star of the East and for hours she lay becalmed, wallowing in a light swell.

Shortly before sunset, the now dead whale floated to the surface a few hundred yards from the ship. In a longboat, the crew hastily fastened a line to the whale and the winch brought it to the ship's side. The hot weather climate made it imperative that the whale be cut up at once. Having no means of raising it to the deck, the men took their flensing spades and peeled off the blubber as they slipped and slid along the immense back of this giant mammal and fired up the brick furnace called the tryworks to render it into oil.

Working late into the night, the tired crewmen removed the stomach of the whale and slowly winched it to the deck for flensing. Other members of the crew readied the try-pots. They were startled to notice movement inside the large sack, movement that looked like something living and breathing. The captain called the ship's doctor who made an incision in the tough flesh, and out slid the doubled up missing sailor, James Bartley, as if he were suffering from severe stomach cramps. He was alive, but unconscious.

The doctor ordered Bartley drenched with sea water, a treatment which restored his consciousness but not his reason, for he babbled incoherently.

Bartley said that as he was cast into the water from the long boat he saw a tremendous mouth open over him and he screamed as he was engulfed by it. He then felt sharp stabbing pains as he was swept across the teeth and then slid feet first down a slimy tube that carried him to the whale's stomach. He could breath, but the hot, fetid odor soon rendered him unconscious and the last thing he remembers was kicking as hard as he could at the soft, yielding stomach. Quite a row to hoe for this young apprentice, the Captain decided there and then, he needed immediate medical attention, and set the boat on a course for the nearest port.

As a result of his fifteen hours inside the whale's stomach, Bartley lost all the hair on his body and was blind for the rest of his life. His skin was bleached to an unnatural whiteness that gave the appearance of being bloodless, he was as pale as Quietus himself.

With the urging aid of a southern tailwind the vessel made its way with good haste. A jagged 7

rock jetty broke the undulating currents as the Captain came about it into the safety of his secluded harbor, landing his ship upon the surf laced beaches The captain made his way unto shore. From the beach Doyle followed a well-trodden dirt path, ignoring the emerald clad mountain scenery which surrounded him by every side. Leading a good distance away from the waterfront, the trampled way fell upon a ramshackle cottage. A loose collaboration of weather-beaten board formed walls under a light thatch roof. He had seen alot of things in his life at sea, but a man being swallowed by a whale was never one of them....he prayed that God would spare the young man's life, as he instructed his men to deliver young Jim, into his overstuffed feather down bed.This ageless sea dog couldn't help but be reminded of the biblical tale of the same ilk, and the plight of a young Jonah.

Jonah and The Whale

"Blind as a ......b.....Parrot"

8

Ye Olde Blind Parrot

Near the waters edge in a small, Cape Cod fishing village there is an old ale house that served lobster, that had stood there since the mid sixteenth century.

Some say there was an even earlier Inn on the site, but that it burned down during a raid by the local pirates. The name of the ale house was "The blind parrot", an unusual name for a coastal tavern, but they were seafaring folk, and fact is stranger than fiction.

Apparently the original name for the Ale house was "The pirate's cove" and it is in that time that my story begins and it begins with a ancestor of mine, one Abram Robert's who was but a 12 year old lad at the time.

Everyone, young and old, male and female came to the ale house to pick up a pint of porter, and to gossip. Young Abram would stop by the alehouse to pick up some porter for his poor widowed mother on the way home from a small leanto with a teacher, it was the town's learning academy.

It is not so commonly known, but in those early days, water was rarely considered fit for drinking unless the source could be guaranteed. The most common alternative for most common folk would be a weak ale known as Porter, which would be drunk mostly by Women and Children, the men often preferring a stronger ale or where possible, a locally produced grog, Mede, or imported rum.

Abram had stopped in at "the pirate's cove" to purchase a gallon of Porter for home. The bartender, whose name was Captain Adams, knew Abram well and, offered him a glass of the refreshment to wet his whistle for the walk home.

They seem to be such strange words now, but the lanes were dusty, the weather sultry, and the drink would quench his thirst. Abram was very thankful and sat 9

to chat with The Captain for a spell. He didn't know if the Captain had another name as this was all folks would call him. He was a very big man but as kind a man as Abram had ever known. Abram's father, Ruby had died when he was just four years old and Captain Adams, had always been kind to Abram's Mother, and would send occasional food and drink to them when times were hard.

As Abram sat drinking his Porter, the Captain came over with a wedge of fresh baked soda bread. "Your looking hungry, Abe, eat this to keep your strength up. You need your energy to look after your poor mother." He said.

Abram thanked him. The soda bread was truly welcome and he broke off half to take back to his mother. Adams saw this, and bought another wedge of bread.

Here young-un, eat what I gave you and take this for your mother." the Captain gave a hefty grin, chomping down hard on his pipe.

The ole captain had a soft spot for Abram, probably because he had no child of his own and being single thought it unlikely now that he ever would. He also had eyes for Abram's mother but could not bring himself to approach her. For such a giant of a man, he was extremely shy with women.

As Abram was finishing his bread and Porter, there was a very noisy commotion and a large group of seafaring sailors came into the 'Cove', and demanded ale and food. Abram knew that if they had just come back from a voyage, they would drink until they could not stand and perhaps it would not be the safest place for him to be.

He drank quickly, stuffed the small remaining piece of bread in his pocket and started for the door.

One of the seafarers barred his way.

"So quick to leave us then little-un?"

Abram told him that he had to get back home, and the Captain shouted across for him to let the boy past, which he did.

Once outside, William started to run along the lane towards his home. But suddenly there was a a loud crack, and a sharp pain and then...... ‌.Abram woke with a severe pain and a ringing in his ears....and in a 10

room totally unfamiliar to him. He tried to get up but his hands and feet were bound securely with rope. He managed to sit himself up and looked around. It was fairly dark, but there was just enough light to make out barrels and ropes and timber beams and walls. The room creaked and he could feel some motion.

At once he knew, he was on some kind of vessel. He was kidnapped....and in broad daylight, this kind of thing went on all the time, but Abram was too young.

In truth, the seafaring pirate didn't take kindly having his sport interrupted in the Cove, and had followed Abram . As Abram slowed he crept up behind and kyboshed him over the head and trussed him up with some cord. After he and the others had drunk their fill at the Cove and in a drunken state they dragged the unconscious boy back to their ship and tied him up in one of the holds. This was the way that all young men were pressed into her magesty's royal service, but usually they were alot older, sixteen to eighteen, Abram was just a child.

The following day at high tide the ship set sail, but the crew members who had been at the Cove had forgotten their captive and it wasn't until many hours had passed that Abram was discovered.

Although frightened, Abram spoke up to the Ship's Commander. . The Privateer Captain was named Gideon, and everyone called him "Lord Gideon" he was shouting at the crew to find out which idiots had bought him aboard.

Abram shouted out "Never mind them, turn the ship around, you must put me ashore!" He shouted in the most angry voice he could muster, but Lord Gideon was having none of it.

"Silence boy, how you got here is not my concern, but neither is the responsibility of getting you back home. You do have a choice though you can walk the plank , or earn your keep. What's it to be?"

On deck Abram could see the sea and nothing but sea. Had he been able to see land he might have risked it, but jumping overboard would be a death sentence.

Abram busied himself doing all the menial chores, scrubbing decks, repairing sailcloth being two of the more pleasant duties. He also had to wash the decks after a day's catch and clean the latrines, which made him gag and vomit. Days, weeks and months passed and the only thing that was constant in Abram's life was his anger and his suffering.

At last land was sighted and like most of the crew, Abram raced to the ship's 11

side to see. One of the crew told him that they had reached the ship shoal , a small chain of islands popular with Privateers and Pirates alike. There was a good supply of fruit and fresh water here and a chance to take some landside rest.

Abram was not guarded on the Island as there was simply nowhere to go.

Either he got back to the ship at the appointed time or he would be left there.

The plan was to stay there one week before heading south to the virgin islands, so Abram decided to explore as much of the Island as possible.

On the third day, a strange thing happened. He was walking through a heavily wooded area, when he caught glimpse of a strange bird, in a clearing ahead of him. He approached slowly and what he saw puzzled him. There in the clearing there was a a beautiful tropical Parrot, and yet the Island was not tropical, it was only a few miles south of the Cape. A parrot like this you would expect to see in the tropics. . But this parrot was in the clearing sitting on a very low branch, seemingly waiting for Abram.

Abram slowly approached the bird and as he got near it, it spoke to him, "Follow me" Abram, stopped and stared, thinking he heard wrong, but the parrot repeated, "Follow me."

At that moment, the bird flew through the trees, pausing when Abram didn't follow, so he decided that it must want him to.

The path that the parrot chose was not one previously used and at times it was difficult to keep up, but every time that William stopped, the bird paused until he was free of whatever obstruction was there. After about three quarters of an hour had passed the bird came to a rocky cliff with a cave opening, on the sea's edge. Abram entered the cave, but it was very dark. Eventually the parrot stopped in a large cavern. Here was a pool of water and sitting on a rock a very old man.

"So you have come at last, Abram" "Who are you, and how do you know my name?" Abram asked.

"My name is also Abram, and I am your uncle, your mother's brother.", he 12

replied. "and you were named after me."

Abram looked shocked. He knew that his mother had a brother, but he had been lost at sea, before he was born, so even if he was who he said he was, how could he know him. This was both puzzling and troubling.

"I was told you died at sea." Abram finally spoke.

"I see you are confused Abram, let me explain. First let me introduce you to Ariel" The bird darted forward as if to acknowledge him.

"Ariel is a parrot native to this island, and it was he that told me you were here. Parrots can read minds and also plant thoughts in your head, which is how we communicate. It took a while for me to realise it but now she keeps me company in my loneliness. Right now she is concerned that I will leave her now that you are here. But I am happy here and that will not happen. You however must get away from these privateers and get home to my dear sister, who will be frantic about your disappearance."

Abram and his uncle talked for hours and his uncle shared food with him. His uncle told him that the parrot had other powers that would help him to get home and that he would set these powers in motion the very next day. He should make his way back to the ship, but before he went, he would give him a gold medallion.

When he got back to the Cape, he should take the medal to Barrister George Fitzsimmons, He should give the medallion to him.

Abram had no idea how all would turn out but did as his uncle suggested and returned to the vessel. That night, the parrot appeared to Abram and his mind was filled with a message that by morning they would be sailing back to Cape Cod. What Abram did not see, was what happened in Lord Gideon's cabin.

After a good few tots of rum, the inebriated Lord had determined to get some sleep, but at the midnight hour, he was wakened by an eerie sensation. A strange light lit his cabin and a ghostly figure sat at the Captains table.

"Gideon", it called "I am the ghost of Captain Roberts, You served under me so 13

many years ago. I have come to give you a warning. Listen carefully. If you continue on your journey, you will fall into a trap set by your enemies. If you are to survive you must return to Cape town. I shall say no more, but ignore my message and your ship shall burn!"

Lord Gideon was shaken it was indeed the apparition of Captain Roberts, but was it a real ghost or the rum speaking?

In the morning, Gideon had decided that it must have been the rum and ordered his crew to make sail south as originally planned.

As soon as he gave the order, the port bow sail burst into flames and a shout went up.

Lord Gideon stood in horror and then shouted to his crew to put out the flames and head home to Cape Cod. The flames immediately subsided and a new sail was rigged.

Upon landing, Abram immediately headed towards home. The house was empty....what could have happened to his poor widowed mother?

Abram ran off to the Pirate's Cove, and sought out Captain Adams. When he entered the cove, his mother was tending bar, the Captain cleaning jars behind her. They were both thrilled to see him as almost a year had passed and they had given him up for dead. Abram found that Captain Adams had consoled his mother and found the courage to ask her to be his wife, so that he could look after her properly.

Abram was so pleased, as he knew Captain Adam's was kind. The captain told him that life was tough as business was very slow but he would be welcome there to live with them. Abram told them, that he found work in town, and he could help them out now.

Abram told his mother all about his trip, and his meeting with her brother.

Then he announced that he had to go to Boston to find a certain Barrister and would be gone for a few days.

It was quite a journey but on arrival at Fitzsimons office , Abram went inside and inquired for Mr. Fitzsimmons in person. As the good Barrister greeted him, Abram told him the story and handed the Barrister a gold medallion.

14

"Ah" said Fitzsimmons, "How very curious, but you may be surprised at what I have to give you."

With that, he went into a back room and bought out a small guilded cage, within sat a very old Parrot, and he was blind at that.

The Barrister explained that he had been charged and paid to look after the bird, who had lost it's sight on the high seas. . He was also told that whoever turned up with a medallion identical to that given to the Barrister should take charge of the bird.

As Abram left the Barrister's office , he was a little upset. He had hoped that his uncle might have left some money to at least make the trip worthwhile, and all he had was a parrot who was blind as a bat, who had to be fed. Of course these thoughts went through his head but Abram was too kind to not look after the bird so they headed back home.

The road passed close to his motherâ€&#x;s old home which was now falling into some disrepair. As they neared, the bird spoke up, " go home, go home, go home.".

Curious at this behavior he took the caged bird to the house. The bird instructed him, " go to the shit house." "Go to the shithouse".....on and on he droned.

The outhouse which had been used as a store was worn with age, and dangerous to enter. But Abram did what he was told, and entered the out house.

The seat to the outhouse throne had been nailed down, long ago, and the shelves were falling down, and rotting. "open the lid." the parrot said, open the lid, open the lid, open the lid.....""The parrot was excited and he was flapping his wing hitting himself along the sides of the cage.

Abram went to the wood shed and found an axe and gave the ol' toilet seat a few good whacks.

Opening the toilet lid, he stood aghast. An old wooden chest was lodged into the hole. With one good swing of the axe, the chest ripped open. It was full of 15

coins and jewelery worth a king's ransom. So this was what his Uncle wanted him to find.

Soon he recounted his story to his Mother and to Captain Adams, and his Mother told him that just prior to her brother going to sea for the last time, he said he had great news of a treasure that he would share with her upon his return. He had told her that he had discovered a treasure chest, but had hidden it for safety until he came back. She didn't really believe her brother as he had been known for telling tall tales. She said that the treasure rightly belonged to Abram as it had been passed to him.

Abram did however share his new found wealth with his mother and her new husband, Captain Adams. They renovated the Pirate's cove, and then changed the name to "the blind parrot.� The parrot had his place of honor behind the bar, and greeted everyone who entered into the establishment. The Captain and Abram started a Brewery and as you know, the rest, as they say, is His story.

16

Maiden Voyage

A cherry popping tale

Nicco was nervous coming to New York for the first time. The club was packed, Kings, queens, fags and hags, wall to wall gayness. Nicco was excited, this was His maiden voyage to a Gay club in the heart of the big Apple. Dressed up, for The very first time, Nicco headed for the „ladie‟s room to make sure his makeup Hadn‟t run, and that he still looked the femme fatale. He strolled into the bathroom And spotted Adrian. He was much older than Nicco, but he was breathtakingly Beautiful.

Not pretty. Not lovely. Gorgeous. Glamourous, mysterious, the whole nine yards. Stately, stunning---all the sexy things a woman wants to be...and Adrian was a guy, which almost made Nicco hate "her" more. Nicco was taken by her stunning beauty, and knew that‟s what he wanted to be too. Thrash was a gay bar---and there was something great about the place---tribal primal, Ecstatic. It was a converted church in the middle of the city---he felt reverence--- he worshipped the fact that he was smack dab in the middle of wonderland---MEN 17

everywhere---beautiful men---and it didn't matter that they were there for each other. He was in on a pass---his friends were happy to dance with him, talk, whatever.

Thrash was safe. No rapists, no weirdos. Just Nicco and 500 he-shes. The shehes had their own enclave there---but he didn't dress right, didn't give off the vibe---to them he was invisible---or maybe a fag hag---but in any event---they kept away. He didn't see Adrian again till the third rum and coke hit. So He left to drain the dragon. Off to the ladies room, which wasn‟t for women only---at the Gay clubs that was never a given.

And there she sat-----before the vanity mirror. PERFECT. Raven hair, pouty red mouth just waiting to be kissed, dark eyes that whispered secrets of sin---and doing things in a red satin dress that would have gotten "her" arrested in Utah.

Oh man...blow to his fragile 18 year old ego. How could a man be more beautiful than a woman? But he-she was.

There was the barest flicker of eye contact...a polite nod, and he was back out again. The party was just beginning...Cher‟s...‟gypsies tramps and thieves‟... sounded through the dance hall,it was safe sex for him---dancing with those writhing men, reveling in their macho postures, presented with grace and pure rut. He loved men---and it did not matter that he was not looking for a lover.

Here he could just enjoy the raw male power of the place. But there was Adrian...making him feel perfectly shoddy. Like an imposter. It had taken three looks to know her for what she was. No hiding the wrist structure---or the ankles...but all the rest...a perfect ten, drag queen extraordinaire.

And he knew she hadn't gone for the surgery either. It takes a lot of balls to have your Johnson removed….This one was fully equipped---and still managed to pull off the female thing better than Nicco could with his flimsy first attempt.

But what was she doing in the ladies room? There was a club full of guys who would have squired her as readily as they did him---a fact that remained a mystery, but a happy one. In the straight world, Nicco was always second choice--or even third. Here he was the belle of the ball...his choice of dance partners.

Here his every word was a witty gem, and the circle of laughter followed him like a halo. he loved these men---for making him feel more gloriously like a woman then any "normal" man ever had.

But there was Adrian...on his second visit to the ladies room, he found she still sat, gazing in the vanity mirror, searching for some flaw---one small line marring 18

the forehead---Nicco touched up his make up---which was running to ruin because he was dancing like he always had wanted to---and never had. Sweat was making it run off, and while he wasn't hunting, looking good was a simple matter of pride , he didn‟t just want to play the part, he wanted to feel the part.

Gary and Allan had warned him about bitch queens---and he had met a few...but Adrian seemed a perfectly harmless drag queen. The guys told him, Adrian was a house boy . Was he supposed to speak to her or not? If he did, was he crashing a fantasy? Hard to tell. He went back out to the boys---more dancing---more laughter as they spun the kid like a disco princess, and fought over who would partner him next...and strangely---He found his eyes going back again to that ladies room door. Surely she did not mean to stay there all night?

Miguel spun Nicco wild----a mistake on such a crowded dance floor---and sent him careening into a man---he was dressed in a suit---unusual for that place.

He smiled into Nicco's eyes, nodded, and asked him to dance. Miguel and Allan danced together for a slow number---so there seemed no good reason not to...and all around him men danced slowly in each others arms...teasing each other---even kissing...a sight Nicco found profoundly erotic. he darted his eyes away, feeling like he intruded with his glance---but could not help but stare. It was sweet, sexy sensual, but with raw male power.

He did not know the gentleman‟s name, and when he bent close, Nicco thought he meant to tell him---but instead his mouth came down hard on his mouth, and he could taste scotch on his tongue. He proceeded to bite Nicco's lip, not quite unwelcome, it was still unexpected. He was still quite naive, and might have drawn back---but his hands shot down Nicco's pants holding him, there….. as he kissed deeper---finally sucking in the lip and holding it between his teeth.

Nicco was completely unnerved. This was something that he never experienced, He did not want the boys to think he was poaching...and it was three minutes before the guy released his penis...grabbing his well manicured nail polished hand instead.

"You are mine tonight." he whispered, the accent faint---perhaps Russian...and Nicco's throat went dry---not with excitement, but fear. His lip throbbed, and whatever this guy's thing was, he was pretty certain he was not near experienced, nor exotic enough for his taste.

"Ladies room." Nicco whispered ...and he held his hand right to the door. He got inside, then leaned against it, feeling faintly sick. Trapped? In a gay bar?

19

How the hell had that happened?

He looked up, and saw Adrian studying him in the glass. She spoke low--"Hey kid---you're being chased huh? He‟s a beast that one, you won‟t walk for a week."

Nicco nodded, shaken.

"Well girl---there's no back door here. You're gonna have to leave sometime--we can't talk panty hose and cherry popping until 4:30 a.m...."she said calmly.

"No. Guess we can't." Nicco said, crestfallen. His posture was sagging, he felt he was a pretty poor excuse for a woman---no wiles, no gumption, just an 18 year old kid trying on a skirt, blouse makeup and some pantyhose.

"Tell you what little girl..." she said, not unkindly. "I'll help you out. You'll only have a minute...find your friends and run. The one who's waiting for you--he's a mean bastard. He likes it hard. He‟s a top, and he knows you‟re a bottom, he‟ll take more than your cherry, look! your lip is turning purple, so I know you already had a taste. And it doesn't much look like you enjoyed it."

She stood---breathtaking---tossed her hair over her shoulder, shook the mane of curls---and started moving for the door in a haze of Opium fumes. Nicco needed to say something---anything less lame than thank you---"You are beautiful." Nicco stammered, and looked down. Adrian froze---one elegant hand reaching for the door handle. Those dark eyes sized him up--looking for something nasty---sarcasm? But he wasn't lying. She was...but somehow just didn't know it. It took him years to realize how he almost ruined that beautiful makeup---but then he did not understand the tears that suddenly flooded her eyes. She fought them back, reached out, and hugged him...

"Be careful Little sister," she whispered. "Look out for the sado masochists, they bite hard.”

A moment later, she walked out...and sure enough, the sensation she caused gave Nicco a chance to run. He found Gary, dragged Allan away, and they headed back toward Jersey.. They told Nicco that Adrian had done something very special---she spent the whole night in that ladies room every time--emerging just before the closing to pick a lover for the night. Her early arrival 20

had given Nicco a chance to bolt---now she would be pestered by every man in the place until closing.

Miguel looked at him a moment, when Nicco told him what he said.

"Well, she hates you---but she loves you too. NO matter how good she looks, she knows she's only a queen---small "Q". She can fool the boys---but you're a wannabe. You gave her validation. Tonight she was a Queen---large Q. Good job girl---or man---look at your lip!"

And so ended Nicco's maiden voyage in to the belly of the beast. His fat lip, proof that he had the courage to go through with his fantasy. They drove over the Pulaski bridge and stopped at the Skyway diner, they were starving, Nicco no longer cared about his make-up and had cleaned most of the makeup off and put on a dingy pair of blue jeans, and a t-shirt. They walked into the Diner and took a booth in the back, ordering who knows what, they were all pretty inebriated.

Nicco got up to use the little boy's room, back in the real world, he entered the stall, and was immediately grabbed and thrown to the floor.....Nicco couldn't see, whoever it was, had pulled the t shirt over his head, he felt his pants being torn open......

"No one leaves me in the lurch, queenie....."

n

21

Final Seperation on Scifi Sunday

Rochelle checked her watch again, then began to drum her immaculate fingernails on the Formica tabletop. God, what was with him? 'Christ, I live at this diner.' Her mind was a storming whirlwind of sickening anxiety and rage, and she had finally become fed up. sighing loud at the table with warm, coffee tainted breathes.

The Diner's waitress held out a pot stained from years of use and queried, "You want me to top that off for you Rocky?"

"Nah, Lauren," shaking her head, the auburn curls of her hair jostled loosely around the oval frame of her ash-white face. "I'm going to take off I think, could you bring me my bill, please?" "I have to pee so bad I can taste it."

"Sure thing." Winking sympathetically, Lauren headed back over to the counter, pulled the pen out from behind her ear and began to scribble on her order ticket occasionally stopping to tap the tip on the counter top pensively.

While rummaging around hurriedly inside her purse for her wallet, she heard the bell on the door jostle and chime, and didn't even raise her head. It was Bobby; she could sense his presence before he even stepped inside. "I'm sorry," he hurried toward the table. "I was working and I lost track ." . ."

"Of time? Yes, I know Bob." Rising slowly from the booth, she glanced toward Lauren who nodded to assure her she was still adding up her bill. "And now I am out of time. I'm going home."

"Oh come on, Rocky," reaching out for her forearm, she raised her eyes to his, but 22

refused to allow their molten innocence to woo her. "I'm sorry, let me make it up to you."

"No, Bob, I'm finished. I will be meeting with my lawyer in the morning to sign the papers and that is the end of it." Shoving past him, she met Lauren at the counter and perused the bill she handed her. Handing over a twenty, she told her to keep the change and thanked her for tolerating her all night.

"No problem, Rocky. You know I enjoy your company." Bob was already there at her side, interrupting and demanding to be heard. That was so typical of him, she realized.

The man could never be around when you needed him, but when he was, you better pay attention because everything he had to say was important.

"Rochelle, I am not going to just let you walk away from us like this." Following her out the door into the crisp, autumn evening, she walked with quick, certain steps, trying desperately to guard herself against the brisk chill that cut into her long overcoat. "I have put too much time into this relationship and it's not over until I say it's over."

Jamming her hands into her pockets with stiff certainty, she continued on, eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of her. "Then I'll say it for you. It's over so go away."

Heels clicked against concrete, echoing in her ears. They were her heels and she suddenly realized how tired her feet were, how tired she was altogether. It was an exhaustion that had grown to consume her almost completely over the last two years, but at that moment, it was unbearable, just like his presence.

"Now please, I'm going home and I want to be alone." Rocky blurted.

Grabbing her arm, he spun her around quickly to face him. "I'm not going to leave you alone, Rocky, I want to save our marriage. Why do you keep running away from me?"

With a sudden jerk, she freed herself free from his hold, and through it, she never once lost that semblance of composure, which had become her trademark. "I'm not running, Bobby, I'm walking and you're so far behind me, you'll never catch up."

When he stopped following her, there was a tug of disappointment inside her already unsettled stomach. In her mind, she imagined him standing there, arms at his side, an absolute look of defeat painted across his face, and it brought her a grave sense of satisfaction to see him this way, even if only in her mind. After all he had done to her in their short lived lifetime together, seeing him suffer a little was like a reward for all she had been through.

23

"Oh Come on Rock!" , whining, his insecurity and fear pulled at her conscience, causing her to stop. "Please, will you just hear me out?"

"You have from here until I get to the end of this block, Bob, and then I'm finished listening."

Sprinting to catch up with her, he arrived quickly at her side, his breath catching in uncomfortably in his chest as she began to walk.

"That is hardly enough time to say everything I need to say." He complained.

Breathing a thick sigh of frustration, she stopped again and looked over at him. “First you keep me waiting for over three and a half hours. Then you show up as I'm leaving and tell me it's not over until you say its over. Now youre telling me the little bit of time I have allotted you, which I feel is quite generous, might I add, is not enough time for you to say whatever it is you have to say. If you ask me, Bob, you're treading on ice that only gets thinner and thinner with every step you take."

He pursed his lips together, twisting them a little to show how perplexing this whole situation was to him, and then his shoulders sagged. This outright display of defeat proved what she had known all along, he wasnt strong enough to survive a relationship with her.

"All I wanted was another chance."

Crossing her arms over her chest, a direct representation of her closed mindedness to the very idea, she smirked. "How many God damned chances do you need?"

"As many as it takes to show you how I really feel."

Unbelievably, he was oblivious to her feelings, staying wrapped up inside his comfortable cocoon of narcissism and egocentric psychosis; it was a shame he couldn't really express a simple gesture of affection.

Just a little, she leaned on her heels, watching him make an absolute fool of himself in an attempt to save their marriage. Marriage, huh. It was nothing more than a piece of paper saying two people had permission from the state to copulate and coexist in the same dwelling. Where all this sappy romantic bullshit came from, she had no idea, but it was everywhere. As if to prove her point, the city bus rolled past them, an advertisement for breath mints on the side depicting a couple blissfully close. You see, 24

breath mints help you fall in love. So few people really know that after about ten minutes of sucking, you find yourself looking at this person you're supposed to be in love with wondering why he had to slurp while he sucked that mint.

Bob was rambling on and on about some plan he had for them to work things out and the more he spoke, the less she listened. She'd heard it all a million times, the promises, high hopes, big plans, just like love, it was bullshit. Her husband, she realized, was the epitome of the word bull shit. And she realized, you can't bull shit a bullshitter.

"So what do you think?" Was what he asked her when he finally finished his presentation.

Tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, like a puppy dog who wasn't sure what his master was going to do next, she vaguely wondered if she could get him to do tricks.

There was a hopeful smile pulling at the right corner of his mouth, exposing the perfect, white semblance of his teeth.

Wetting her lips with a quick movement of her moist tongue, a snide grin tugged them upright. What did she think? Was he stupid? Did he really want her to answer that?

Was that a rhetorical question?

"What do I think?" She pondered aloud. "About the anus as a hole?" She thought a lot of things, but rarely ever said them. If she kept them to herself, she kept from breaking his fragile spirit, but this time, she decided to say them. Just for the hell of it, of course.

After all, what if his spirit wasn't so fragile? What if all these years, she had been tiptoeing around him for fear of breaking him without just cause?

"Let me tell you what I think. I think you're an idiot if you think I'm going to stand around and listen to another minute of this bullshit!"

She left him standing there, absolutely dumbfounded. It was as though he had been swallowed by the void of his own ramblings and master plans. Even as she rounded the corner of Grove street, she noticed he was still standing there, with his jaw hanging open against his chest.

Served him right, she decided, ignoring the inner tug of guilt on her conscience. After all he had done to her, it was payback and she wasn't about to feel badly about it. He had it coming, and besides, she hadn't gotten this far in life by listening to guilt. Onward, she trudged now, her steps slowing in hope that he would come after her, but by the time she reached the front stoop at 322 West Garden Drive, the only other human in 25

sight was a pizza delivery guy on his bike.

Dejected, she sighed and huffed her way up the stairs, all four flights of them, then unlocked the door to her stuffy attic apartment. She had been right to speak her mind this once, hadn't she? He'd had it coming, right? Tossing her purse onto the sofa, she kicked off her shoes and listened to them clunk into place across the cluttered living room.

With steady fingers, she reached for the lamp switch, clicking it five times before she realized the bulb had probably blown. "J@# C%$," she muttered to herself. Darkness, like a thick, wool blanket wrapped around the room, the last bit of light from the hallway huddling like a frightened child in the far corner by the door.

"J@# C%$! Again," She cursed herself for shutting the door too quickly and for not buying the more expensive name brand light bulbs.

Bob was to blame for this, she decided. He was to blame for everything that had ever gone wrong in the last two years of her life. It was almost twisted when she analyzed it to make it his fault in her mind, but all kidding aside, he had been the one that insisted upon keeping their old apartment when she announced that she wanted a divorce.

Stumbling blindly through this unfamiliar place she had been sleeping in for the last six weeks in attempt to turn on the dim bulb in the hallway, she stubbed her toe on the corner of some waylaid end table. A well formed curse escaped her lungs before she began haphazardly jumping and hopping in a ritualistic pain dance that would in the end, be her ultimate demise.

It was during this dance that a column of stacked boxes erupted behind her, tumbling around her and knocking her off balance. A heavy thud met with that sensitive point between her toes causing her to fall, slowly at first, as though the hands of time had ceased in order for her to think about what was happening to her. This was unbelievable, she realized in the process of the fall.

When her forehead met with the corner of the glass top coffee table she had taken despite her husbands' begging her not to, it split wide open, spilling out fragments of bone and sticky blood onto the carpet beneath her head.

Through this whole ordeal, she remained conscious, her mind skittering around the edge of a thousand unmet expectations in life. Her marriage had been an absolute disappointment, her career a failure, there was nothing in her miserable existence to be 26

happy about, and now she was going to die in a pool of her own blood, alone on the floor in an apartment she absolutely hated. Somehow, this was all Bob's fault too.

Inside her ears, there was a pulsating numbness that rang in a maddening, high pitched tone, almost identical to that tone at the end of the public service announcement that signaled an emergency. How ironic that in this state of personal emergency, her brain would send out that signal and she would die with that as the last sound she would ever hear.

A sound she imagined was a groan from her own throat filled the air, but she could hardly hear it over that incredibly annoying tone ringing in her ears. Perhaps someone else in the apartment building would hear her and come upstairs to see if she was all right. Again, she attempted that sound, only this time, there was a thick, sticky, fluid in her throat and she choked.

Oh my god, she thought. I am really going to die. It was absolutely insane, and she had never seen it coming. She had thought she had at least into her early seventies like her mother, before the grim reaper stood over her shoulder, beckoning her into the Bardo with a skeletal gesture of his cold hand.

One hour passed, but Rocky didn't know that, to her it felt like days, while she drifted in and out of consciousness, the moment of her death growing ever closer. For a moment, she felt as though she wasn't alone, someone else was there, watching over her. There was no comfort in this presence, she realized, not the way an angel's nearness would feel, soothing away the ever increasing fear of the end. But she realized, she could not feel fear, she was numb all over.

Through that hour, she realized how this was Bob's fault. If only he had come to the diner on time, she wouldn't be lying here now, her very brain matter seeping into the carpet of her dark, attic apartment. If there was an afterlife, she decided, cynical even in her last dying breath, she was going to find a way to come back and haunt that bastard for all eternity.

Hovering over her, closer now than before, was that silent presence, as though waiting for her to take her final breath. She thought she felt the warm certainty of breath on her skin, and though she longed to move away, to hide from whatever apparition lingered close, she couldn't move because her brain couldn't remember the signal to send to her body that would make it respond.

Shallow, empty, her breath was becoming more and more difficult, her lungs no longer capable of carrying the task the body knew as respiration. As she drew in one 27

final, labored breath, a spark of light illuminated a dark, masculine face above her, and then she died.

Exhaling cigarette smoke over the corpse of his employer's wife, the hired assassin rose from his hunkered position beside her, stepped carefully over her lifeless body toward the door.

"Wow, that was just too easy!" he guffawed, "What an idiot."

Without looking back, he left the apartment where Rocky Banta's body would begin to decay, eventually seeping through the ceiling of the apartment below hers’ and dripping into Mr. Lee's breakfast of champions nearly seven days after her death.

28

Diner Counter Encounter

something in the water "Mmm! Coconut custard pie! Heart attack on a plate," he murmured, as the waitress laid it in front of him. " Pie first thing in the morning," he added, "with some black Coffee." grinned Eli,"It just doesn't get any better than this." “Best water in the Midwest, right here in Kearney county, Nebraska. My plan is to bottle it and sell it.� She remarked..

It was still very early and the bright light of the interior of the diner had the effect of making the darkness of the outside pitch black. If you swiveled around on your stool, you could try to peer out into that perfect blackness through the large windows of the diner. Stare into a starless space. But you would not see any stars. You would only see yourself and the reflections of the diner. If anything existed out there it had not yet entered the world of the diner.

The Galaxy diner at 4:00 a.m., surrounded by the inky black sky before dawn, then took on a bizarre aspect. The bright neon Clock outlined in Red made the interior appear like the nucleus of a spaceship.

The windows like some vast viewing portal. All the metal implements for eating and drinking, meaningfully laid out, seemed the settings and apparatus for some kind of intergalactic space travel.

Even the jukebox looked like a control panel awaiting instructions from Spock.

29

Eli, who liked the occasional outer space movie, found the whole atmosphere of this diner at this particular time of the morning most satisfying. The fact that it was a solitary, vibrant core of light in the total emptiness of the Nebraska expanse only served to enhance the eeriness of it to him, the other worldliness of it all.

The pretty Latino waitress, behind the counter, kept her back to him. She was now busy replacing stock and making a few notes on a small notepad. She finished off her chores and then turned round to re-fill Eli’s cup with coffee.

"I hate those damn prairie dogs,” she blurted out, "if I saw one around here I'd freak."She spied sidelong at him as if analyzing him.

"Oh! they're not so bad. In small groups they're quite playful." She squirmed a little making a slight noise of disgust then headed for the back grill.

"I'll bring you back one if you like?" he shouted. She turned her head, giving a small grimace, and then disappeared.

Eli’s job took him all over the western plains. And he loved it. His friends called him the ‘prairie dog’ man, but that did not bother him one little bit. When they were stuck in the city inside stale offices, he was outside in the clean air. While they saw cars and yet more cars, he saw blue sky, rugged landscape and dirt, mounds of dirt, but what the heck, he liked the feel of the earth.

Like a lot of naturalists Eli was essentially a bit of a loner, (the waitress already had him figured out on that one) and if you cornered him on the subject he'd probably admit to you that he preferred the company of animals to that of his fellow man. But he was not what you would call anti-social. He would rather communicate one on one, and socialize in smaller doses and in less congested conditions than most of his peers appeared to do. A solitary naturalist if you like, but he was easygoing and content with his life and career choice. He was born to observe, hard wired to make connections. No fuss; no yapping on about things, just quietly observing, inserting tracking devices, and giving fanciful names to the dominant leaders of the pack. He'd been like that since his childhood, ever since his mother encouraged him to keep a diary.

So doing field research for World advocacy, a non profit organization dedicated to the preservation of wild animals, was the ideal job for Eli. Observation, note taking, and solitary field trips, what could be 30

better? 'it's like a sore dick, you just can't beat it.' he mused to himself.

Throw in some Coconut custard pie, a cup of black coffee and I imagine he would tell you that nothing could be better… except maybe Prairie Dogs.

Prairie dogs, almost trapped and killed to extinction, as he would tell anyone who asked, were his specialty. But really he liked all the wild animals on the plains, and he could track and monitor all of them. 'All the hunters and all the gatherers', he would say. On the one hand: Wolves, Coyotes, Grey fox and the Ring-tailed Cat; and on the other: Gophers, Prairie dogs and Jack rabbits. Today, in point of fact, as all last week, he had been surveying the population numbers of the rabbits and prairie dogs in the outlying prairie.

As he drank his coffee, Eli was still staring out the window and musing over the empty diner. It was just perfect at this time in the morning. That such a mundane place could be so contemplative just amazed him. Before setting off from the diner, he climbed down off the stool, to move over to those side booths, stretched out behind him.. Here he would finish his coffee while looking out into the blackness that was the window or at the solitary plant pots that sat on the window ledge.

As he slid into the black leather booth, he checked one of the plants to see if it had been watered. He'd never looked closely over the rim into the potted plant. It contained small grey pellets must be fertilizer and a small water funnel. The device protruded from the surface like a miniature water tower on a lunar landscape. Two dark green stems, perfectly cylindrical, left the soil like bamboo, each forking into two and having at their summits palm-like fronds in profusion, deep green also, but fringed at the tips with brown. Perfectly still the alien looking pot plant pretended to be asleep. Asking only for some space to grow and some rest when all the cups and saucers had returned to mother earth and the darkness of space again closed in on the cafe and its interior.

Satisfied, he wrote up his private diary. Not his official one. Just a few observations about the previous day, a few lines concerning curious or strange things he'd seen the day before. He did not feel settled in his mind if he did not make those simple statements in his diary. They brought a kind of closure to a day’s events for him. They kept a crisp record of strange, but minor details in his life that he could relive and mull over on re-reading. Invariably it began with words like, ‘the strangest thing happened, ' or “I couldn’t believe my eyes….'. So, after settling down on the seats, he opened the diary up and wrote: “I couldn’t believe how strangely the animals were acting yesterday…. playing by a high tension wire, running round and round like mad hatters...' The waitress came back with the coffee pot.

"We get a lot of kooks in here," she said in a matter of fact tone, glancing at the notebook.

"Like Old Kamikaze Petersen?" Jeff smiled, looking up.

31

"Yup! I saw you two talking yesterday, must have a lot in common."

"So you noticed he’s a little off?" Jeff asked. “He loves the water too.” He teased her.

"Oh, he's just an ol' crop duster over the hills back of the road. He flies in sometimes, real early. Just parks his plane right in the middle of the road."

He laughed, "Yes, I noticed that plane."

"did he tell you 'bout that monster Jack Rabbit he saw last year?" she was smirking as she said it.

"I thought he said it was a mole," Jeff was grinning now.

She snorted "Whatever it was, he’s a few screws short."

He laughed again, "he look’s harmless enough" "Yea! Sure, probably has someone tied up in his basement," she replied, and walked away.

It was time to go to work. The best time to observe rodents was dawn, or dusk, and he’d pitch his little tent in the field. The tent was covered in fake ivy with an opening for a camera, it would take at least a half hour to set up his place of observation.

The map said he had only to follow the road for twenty miles and then walk for five into the shrub.

There was an army base somewhere behind the distant mountains according to the map, but there should be no problems with any flyovers.. If he drove fast enough he could be in place while it was still dark, get settled in and hunker down for some Prairie Dog watching.

The spot Eli selected was a comfy indent near some bushes overlooking the Platte River, and what looked like Goose foot, and Gentian growing nearby. He touched 32

the plant and decided it couldn't be Soap weed, must be Locoweed. The soft dirt had a small, flat, low stone in front of it, ideal for accommodating binoculars, night vision of course, and other bits and pieces.

It was still well before dawn when Eli saw his first groups of ‘doggies’. He snapped some photos. Usually there was a small surge of 'maiden' activity then a brief lull and then the main showing of the clan. He had seen the first but the second didn't seem to be coming.

He took a drink of the cool crisp water and vaguely wondered why the change in behavior. Then, while picking his binoculars up, he saw what he could scarcely believe. Inaudibly, and as if from nowhere, a large silver circular object rose quietly out of the river, as it came into view, Eli noticed it was covered in fantastic lights. Soundlessly it hovered, not a hundred metres from where he lay, spinning all the while. There was no sound whatsoever from it. Not a leaf stirred. And it was the noiselessness that amazed him even more than the sight of the thing. Eli was well used to picking up the most minute of noises. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the thing literally disappeared. It simply vanished.

He rubbed his beard and breathed in deeply. At that point some Prairie Dogs popped their heads up out of the ground, and gave the ‘all clear’ signal , They formed a small circle and yapped excitedly. The ‘doggies’ had witness the same exact thing as Eli. He quickly by habit started snapping their picture, wondering why he just stared at the craft and did not take photos. He stayed there all morning taking readings and giving names to the 'doggies' puzzling in his mind what he had just seen.

Then, before the heat of midday took hold, he drove back to his motel, back past the diner, back past the thin stream of traffic now heading the opposite way.

In bed he mulled over what he had just seen. "Was it? Wasn't it? What was it? Military? Extra Terrestrial?" Still unsure he fell asleep.

The next day was to be his last survey in that area. He now had to choose a different spot, but he could still visit his favorite diner for his early breakfast. He had half hoped to meet Kamikaze Petersen, but the plane was not sitting on the road this morning.

"Mornin," the waitress drawled, "the usual?"

"No, I'm running a bit late; just some coffee."

"Sure!" She disappeared into the kitchen.

The place was completely empty. Eli slid into one of the booths by the window and stared out into the darkness. Then he took out his diary. He turned over onto a new page, dated it, hesitated awhile, and then wrote, 'I can’t believe what I saw yesterday, a spacecraft. It rose up out of the Platte river, circled slowly then vanished…

33

He suddenly felt the urge to go see a man about a horse. He had woken late and forgotten to go back at the motel. So he got up, and leaving the open pad on the table, went to the restroom. The waitress saw him enter the toilet as she came out of the kitchen with the fresh coffee. At the bench table, the coffee poured into the cup, she noticed the open notebook on the counter. . Never much of a reader herself (though she considered herself a reader of people) she just couldn't resist a peek at it. She fixed her stare on the opening line, read it, reread it, and mused, “Must be something in the water….”

34

The heckeling Magpie It was a night, Both dark and dreary, As I sat alone, All tired and weary, With thoughts of making a homemade bomb, with a nuclear core.

As I sat there in my trappings, There came a sudden tapping, As if someone gently rapping, Rapping upon my front stoop door.

Have my thoughts betrayed me?

I whispered, sopping up my gravy, Could that be Mr Landlord?

Who will be sore, Rapping upon my front stoop door?

No, 'tis the wind, and nothing more, but there continued gentle rapping And still there was a tapping, A gentle, sullen rapping upon my front stoop door.

Standing up and leaving my dinner I grabbed hold of my Louisville slugger And stalked my front stoop door.

35

"Oh Mr landlord? I implore, If that is you without my door, Know that I am truly poor For quite frankly you will be very sore And I grow tired of your whaling saying "you can't live here no mo'" But still there came the tapping, The gentle, sullen rapping, tapping and a rapping on my front stoop door.

I put down my heavy iron, For the tappin grew annoyin And prepared to knee his groin If it were my mr Landlord Who would be sore rapping, tapping upon my front stoop door.

I opened the door, And to my suprise, A Magpie flew past my eyes, And perched upon a statue, Of Marilyn Manson I just happen to keep above my front stoop door.

"Ha!" I laughed "'Twas a Magpie nothing more, That was rapping, A'rapping upon my front stoop door, And not the silly landlord I tried to ignore.

It is seeking shelter, From this night both dark and dreary And is tired as I am weary, Let the little fellow rest, Upon the head, Of the statue of Marilyn Manson I just happen to keep above my front stoop door.

And to be sweet, I offered it a treat, But Heckled the Magpie: "Stick it up your ass, you two bit whore 36

I was shocked for sure, For I did not know that Magpies swore, And I retreated to my chair once more, To thoughts of Mr. Landlord who would evict me for sure, But quoth the Magpie, "Stick it up your ass, you two bit whore "Ooh you!" I shouted as I munched pork crackling, "Did I not let you in when you were rapping, Rapping on my front stoop door?

The night is dark and dreary, And we both are tired and weary, A cessation of this swearing I implore, And let my thoughts return to Mr. Landlord who would toss me out for sure But heckled the Magpie: "Stick it up your ass, you two bit whore.

"Aaaaaaaargh!" I screamed at the little devil, This reminds me of Cousin Kneival Who I recall was driven quite mental, By practices both Satanic and Dental.

"I'll wring your neck with my bare hands, I'll kill you where you now do stand, Upon the head of a statue of Marilyn Manson I just happen to keep above my front stoop door, And those words you shall speak nevermore!"

But as I ascended my front stoop door, I lost my grip and I did fall, To land and bump my head on the floor, And the last thing I saw, Was the Magpie still sitting above my front stoop door, And quoth the Magpie, "Stick that up your ass, you two bit whore.

Now on nights both dark and dreary, Even if I'm tired and weary, My thoughts no longer turn to Mr. Landlord because we bartered services for sure, 37

But to the Magpie Who still sits stuffed, upon the head of a statue of Marilyn Manson, I just happen to keep above my front stoop door.

A Whim and a Prayer, or how Angels really got their wings

Senga lived a godly life. She went to Mass each Sunday and Synagogue each Saturday. She volunteered in the Innercity soup kitchen every Wednesday, and was crossing guard at the elementary school. To have the wings of an angel was her life's passion. The day she died, she had the greatest expectations, and couldn't wait to be greeted at the pearly gates.

38

Senga stood in front of the ornate gates of Heaven peeking through the bars to see the angels.

St. Peter strolled over to talk with her.

"I see you have lived a perfect life for 80 years. We are so proud of you. You have truly earned your wings. He handed her a small pin. Wear them with pride, Senga Angel."

"What the hell is this?" asked Senga, ―Do the wings expand or something when you put them on?"

"Expand? No, that is it. Just what you see there. Quite an honor really."

Explained St. Peter.

"Come on! I was promised wings to fly. Like the pictures in that Holy book."

"Sorry, Angels don't really have wings at all. But we knew how much you wanted them, so we borrowed that pin from an old pilot. We did it on a whim."

Senga stared at St. Peter open mouthed. You mean I worked my ass off for eighty years in the name of God and all I get to show for it is this tacky TWA pilot"s wings ? Holy shit! I prayed my whole damn life for....for this?"

"Ppppthtttttttttt!" responded Senga, as she stomped down the golden path to the Ivory Tower. ―Pilot's wings. God damned pilot's wings."

Senga poked the eye hole of a fluffy cloud making it elongated and comfy. She absentmindedly yanked at it severing it from its vapor body. She lay on her stomach watching butterflies and bluebirds, fly over the grassy knolls below. Stupid creatures, she thought. Stupid butterlies with wings. She saw her Semite healer friend floating on a nearby cloud and whistled to him.

"Hey, Saul, come on over here!"

He popped over to her cloud and sat with his legs crossed. "I believe I know how to grow wings." he said. "I have been studying the Seraphim and feel I know how it is done." "They appear as they circle the Merkabah."

"They are the privileged choir and acquire wings for some feat beyond the call of duty. You can't grow wings. Even the Cherubs wings are just shiny cellophane and bent wire. We mere angels don't get em at all." " Remember the old proverb...just have faith. Well, if faith can move a mountain, why not grow wings?"

"You may have something there pal. But, I don't think growing them is the answer. Maybe finding them and attaching them myself."

She sat quietly for a few minutes." Yes, I think that is it. Would you like to come with me to 39

find some wings? No? If anybody asks where I am, tell 'em I'm off mooning St. Paul again.

That'll send them into a major tizzy."

Senga poofed off the cloud and re-emerged behind a silver tree on the knoll. She tripped a Cupid-wanna-be as it skipped by and grabbed its bow and quiver of arrows. The Cherub was attacked by a licking horde of puppies and didn't see Senga run off to the Heavenly Library.

She found a book titled 'God's Winged creatures great and small'. She rifled through it, hunting for the perfect wings. Ahhhhh, the Volcanic Dragon on pg. 322, with a picture on facing page was perfect. Last seen in a cave on Mt. Shasta, it was the size of a large giraffe. She swung the quiver over her shoulder, grabbed the bow and vanished from the Library. She reappeared on Mt. Shasta, immediately realizing she did not have to fly.

Senga peeked into the fissure. She saw nothing resembling a dragon. Carefully she stepped into the opening. She could hear the faint echo of a snore and followed the sound through the maze of corridors. She turned a final corner and stumbled upon a large reptilian beast. A dazzling transparent wing covered its irridescent Reddish orange head. A fiery glow came from the back of the cave, and glistened with flashes of light on the sleeping dragon. Senga stepped softly up to the beast and touched its throbbing side. It did not wake. She carefully strung the bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver. Silently she pulled it taut and aimed at the large red dragon.

"POOF" she was covered with soot as the dragon uncovered one nostril and blew sizzling breath at her.

"Stop it!" she sputtered. The dragon snuffed again. "I am an angel, and I demand that you quit doing that."

"Oh by all means, you're an angel. A fallen one I presume." "Why else would you be bothering me?"

"No--oo. I am a... a hunter angel. I am out hunting for ...things."

"I didn't think angels were tempted to lie. What are you really?" ―I told you I'm a hunter angel." Senga coughed as the dragon breathed out at her. "STOP IT!" "What do you want?" asked the dragon." And remember, I can tell when someone lies, because I invented them. I suppose you are searching for a way back there?" he nodded toward civilization, "or the sword of Arthur?" He eyed her cleverly. "Or perchance you are looking for something more personal? A vanity perhaps?"

"There's a lot you don!t know about angels," said Senga.

"Hey I was an angel once, myself," snorted the dragon.

"Of course... I mean, how did...Give me your wings you demon spawn of Satan."

40

"Oh heavens, silly girl. Go play someplace else. I'm napping." He turned and wrapped his pointed tail around his scaly body.

Senga picked up the arrow she had dropped and aimed it at the back of the dragon. ZZing, she let it fly. It stuck in the dragon scales and stood straight up like a daisy swaying in a spring breeze. The dragon slowly turned it's swirling eyes toward Senga. It inhaled deeply its mouth and nose oozing thick gray smoke. He opened his mouth to let a trickle of flame escape and stopped suddenly. He tilted his head and belched a sulfurous burp. His head came to her level and he stuck out his long snaky tongue and licked her startled face.

"Hey, knock it off!" shouted Senga. "What the heck are you doing?"

"You're very cute when you're mad." He rubbed his head against her and knocked her playfully backward into the cave. "I love you!"

"Are you crazy?" questioned Senga. I'm trying to kill you and steal your wings."

"Kill me? Kill me? You wouldn't kill somebody that loves you, would you.?"

"Oh no. gasped Senga. "It‘s the arrow! She pulled the arrow out of the dragon's back; it dripped steaming crimson blood. Oh hell. Those stupid Cherubs were using real cupid arrows.

The dragon was still sobbing causing a flood of tears to puddle in the cave. Senga climbed on to it's back and sat looking at the rising water.

"Please stop bawling. I won't kill you. But, you have to quit the waterworks. I'm not sure angels can swim."

"I can't stop...I...can't understand why you...he sobbed. I need a hug!"

Senga climbed over the folded wings and put her arms around the dragons neck. He smelled like hot cinnamon buns. She buried her face in the soft leather and could feel the pulse of the his heart thumping warmly. The dragon purred.

"Can you fly out of here?" asked Senga.

"Certainly!" said the dragon. " Hold on!" He took a step toward the passageway, and spread his wings. With a belch he let lose a fiery ball of steam and he rose up the shaft of the volcano.

He burst out into the blue sky and beat his beautiful wings into the thermals.

"Oh my! gasped Senga. This is fabulous!" She hugged the dragon closer. Will you come to heaven with me and be my wings?" ―No, I'm not allowed in heaven, I got kicked out. Not even for you. But I have an idea."

He flew down to the lake at the base of the mountain. There was a pile of bones left over from 41

his feeding. At the top of the mound was a set of swan's wings. Senga liked them and knew they would be perfect angel wings. She placed them on her shoulders and the dragon carefully fused them to her back with a soothing warm flame. She jumped on the dragons back and they flew off into the air. She stood up on his back and let the wind swish through her wings. A gust caught them and she twirled off into the sky. She quickly grasped the way to flap and float. She was an angel, and she had wings. She caught up with the dragon, and shouted her delight.

"Thank you! Without you, I would have never gotten my wings!" Senga flew off into the clouds and vanished into the heavens.

"Whatever you're heart desires! You owe me one!‖ the Dragon whispered.

Cupid's arrow shoots cosmic love dust As cosmic winds blow storms in starlit skies all spirits fuse together in One cloud in continuity there are no highs as light breathes life in misty orgon crowds.

As God pours rains and rains make life and seas time and space reveal imaginations.

All nature's One and One is energy Love connects Creation's wild sensations Broken shadows darken sweet music's way as darkness plays in dots and dashes there intelligence arises making day and Love binds broken pieces ev'rywhere.

42

Shorty shorts not short enough

Font of U A consonant walks into a bar and sits down next to a vowel. "Hi!" he says. "Have you ever been here before?" He clicked, tongue in cheek.

"Of cursive," she replies. "I show up here all the time.‖ She resonated in a nasally tone.

He can tell from her accent (which is kind acute) that she is a Vowelly Girl. He looks her over.

She's short and has a nice assonance along with her resonance.. He thinks she has a fine uppercase as well. He remains stationery, enveloped by her charm. His initial reaction is so pronounced, he doesn't know what to say. He is, at present, tense.

"You've a lovely set of...teeth," he sputters. "Do you Crush with breast--I mean, do you brush with Crest?"

"Oh my God, gag me with a spoonerism! Your mind is in the guttural, for sure." She capitalizes.

Admiring her figure of speech, he falls into a fantasy. He pictures a perfect wedding. They exchange wedding vowels. The minister says, "I now pronouns you husband and wife." They kiss each other on the ellipsis. "I love you, nou‌n forever," he velars. The conjugation is in tiers. (In a word, they knot.) He awakens from his daydream and proposes a dance, perhaps a ChA, ChA. She declines.

"Let's go outside," he says to her. "I'd like to make a word with you."

43

"Are you prepositioning me?"

"I won't be indirect. You are the object of my preposition."

"Oh my God, you're like, such a boldfaced character!"

"I see your aspiration. But I'm font of you."

"Do I have to spell it out to you? You're not my type, so get off my case!"

Reluctantly, he decides to letter b. "Now my evening lies in runes," he laments. He leaves, hoping to have letter luck next time. ************************************ Never Would Never looked good out on Main Street, his feet a foot above a fiery sidewalk, his wings wide, his eyes glazed. He's higher and wiser than most, his lowest moments behind him now, dim memories, all the earth unfolding upward, lifting him upward as well, a raging angel who certainly when tempted… ever will….

Would had held a packet of an illegal substance for hours, waiting for Never to show, waiting in a slow rain with a hacking cough, drained. This is what he did. Hidden in his jacket pocket, deep in the darkness there, the tiny white bundle waited as Would had waited for Never….thinking will he ever?

Now it was an hour or more further into the rain. Never's out on Main sporting a dark hat, and a fine high haze and Would‘s on another corner, further downtown, waiting forever for another sucker with a pocketful of bait. **************************************** Words from the Asylum AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows?

My friends forsake me like a memory lost.

I am the self-consumer of my woes; They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.

And yet I am -- I live -- though I am toss'd Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dream, Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem 44

And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best Are strange -- nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod-For scenes where woman never smiled or wept-There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,-The grass below; above, the vaulted sky. ***************************************** Ode To America

Why are Americans so united? They don't resemble one another even if you paint them! They speak all the languages of the world and form an astonishing mixture of civilizations. Some of them are nearly extinct, others are incompatible with one another, and in matters of religious beliefs, not even God can count how many they are. Still, the American tragedy turned three hundred million people into a hand put on the heart.

Nobody rushed to accuse the White House, the army, the secret services that they are only a bunch of losers. Nobody rushed to empty their bank accounts.

Nobody rushed on the streets nearby to gape about. The Americans volunteered to donate blood and to give a helping hand. After the first moments of panic, they raised the flag on the smoking ruins, putting on T-shirts, caps and ties in the colours of the national flag. They placed flags on buildings and cars as if in every place and on every car a minister or the president was passing. On every occasion they started singing their traditional song: "God Bless America!".

Silent as a rock, I watched the charity concert broadcast on Saturday once, twice, three times, on different tv channels. There were Clint Eastwood, Willie Nelson, Robert de Niro, Julia Roberts, Cassius Clay, Jack Nicholson, Bruce Springsteen, Silvester Stalone, James Wood, and many others whom no film or producers could ever bring together. The American's solidarity spirit turned them into a choir. Actually, choir is not the word. What you could hear was the heavy artillery of the American soul. What neither George W. Bush, nor Bill Clinton, nor Colin Powell could say without facing the risk of stumbling over words and sounds, was being heard in a great and unmistakable way in this charity concert. I don't know how it happened that all this obsessive singing of America didn't sound croaky, nationalist, or ostentatious! It made you green with envy because you weren't able to sing for your country without running the risk of being considered chauvinist, ridiculous, or suspected of who-knows-what mean interests. I watched the live broadcast and the rerun of its rerun for hours listening to the story 45

of the guy who went down one hundred floors with a woman in a wheelchair without knowing who she was, or of the Californian hockey player, who fought with the terrorists and prevented the plane from hitting a target that would have killed other hundreds or thousands of people. How on earth were they able to sacrifice for their fellow humans? Imperceptibly, with every word and musical note, the memory of some turned into a modern myth of tragic heroes. And with every phone call, millions and millions of dollars were put in a collection aimed at rewarding not a man or a family, but a spirit which nothing can buy.

What on earth can unite the Americans in such a way? Their land? Their galloping history? Their economic power? Money? I tried for hours to find an answer, humming songs and murmuring phrases which risk of sounding like commonplaces. I thought things over, but I reached only one conclusion.

The Miracle called freedom. ************************************ Useless Facts you don't want to know he electric chair was invented by a dentist.

Did you know you share your birthday with at least 9 other million people in the world?

When it was built in the 1940s, the state of Virginia still had segregation laws requiring separate toilet facilities for blacks and whites.

The human heart creates enough pressure when it pumps out to the body to squirt blood 30 feet.

Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour.

On average, people fear spiders more than they do death.

The strongest muscle in the body is the TONGUE. "I am." is the shortest complete sentence in the English language.

The longest word in the English language is 1909 letters long and it refers to a distinct part of DNA. It's impossible to sneeze with your eyes open.

You can't kill yourself by holding your breath.

Americans on the average eat 18 acres of pizza every day.

Every time you lick a stamp, you're consuming 1/10 of a calorie.

You know that you are more likely to be killed by a champagne cork than by a poisonous spider.

The cruise liner, Queen Elizabeth II, moves only six inches for each gallon of diesel that it burns.

There are two credit cards for every person in the United States.

Cat's urine glows under a black light.

Leonardo Da Vinci invented the scissors.

In the last 4000 years, no new animals have been domesticated.

Babies are born without knee caps. They don't appear until the child reaches 2-6 years of age.

Nutmeg is extremely poisonous if injected intravenously.

The most common name in the world is Mohammed.

Michael Jordan makes more money from Nike annually than all of the Nike factory workers in 46

Malaysia combined.

One of the reasons marijuana is illegal today is because cotton growers in the 30s lobbied against hemp farmers-they saw it as competition.

Only one person in two billion will live to be 116 or older.

The name Wendy was made up for the book "Peter Pan." If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days, you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee. If you fart consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb.

Cats have over one hundred vocal sounds, dogs only have about ten.

Our eyes are always the same size from birth, but our nose and ears never stop growing.

In every episode of Seinfeld there is a Superman somewhere.

If Barbie were life-size her measurements would be 39-23-33. She would stand seven feet, two inches tall and have a neck twice the length of a normal human's neck.

Feb 1865 is the only month in recorded history not to have a full moon.

The Pentagon, in Arlington, Virginia, has twice as many bathrooms as is necessary....

111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321 The phrase "rule of thumb" is derived from and old English law which stated that you couldn't beat your wife with anything wider than your thumb.

Stewardesses is the longest word typed with only the left hand.

Shakespeare invented the word "assassination" and "bump."

Marilyn Monroe had six toes on one foot.

If you keep a Goldfish in the dark room, it will eventually turn white.

Women blink nearly twice as much as men.

Right handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left handed people do.

The sentence "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" uses every letter in the The average chocolate bar has 8 insects' legs in it.

The average human eats 8 spiders in their lifetime at night.

A rhinoceros horn is made of compacted hair.

It is impossible to sneeze with your eyes open.

The giant squid has the largest eyes in the world.

Who's that playing the piano on the "Mad About You" theme? Paul Reiser himself.

In England, the Speaker of the House is not allowed to speak.

The longest one-syllable word in the English language is "screeched."

On a Canadian two dollar bill, the flag flying over the Parliament Building is an American flag.

All of the clocks in the movie Pulp Fiction are stuck on 4:20.

No word in the English language rhymes with month, orange, silver or purple.

"Dreamt" is the only English word that ends in the letters "mt".

All 50 states are listed across the top of the Lincoln Memorial on the back of the $5 bill.

Almonds are members of the peach family.

Winston Churchill was born in a ladies' room during a dance.

Maine is the only state whose name is just one syllable.

The youngest pope was 11 years old.

The world's youngest parents were 8 and 9 and lived in China in 1910.

A snail can sleep for 3 years.

American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in 47

first-class.

China has more English speakers than the United States.

The shortest war in history was between Zanzibar and England in 1896. Zanzibar surrendered after 38 minutes.

A polar bear's skin is black. Its fur is not white, but actually clear.

Elvis had a twin brother named Garon, who died at birth, which is why Elvis' middle name was spelled Aron; in honor of his brother...... **********************************************

Giant Gargantuan Gongurra GGG was a dirty, nasty hood, who, who, who lived in the middle of the misty, marshy wood.

He was huge. He was rude.

He was oh so very crude.

He had a lot of hair.

He loved to scare.

The size of his dining chair, was that of a full grown mare.

A nostril in the middle of his nose, looked like the hole at end of a hose.

Had popping eyes, with whopping sties.

Being mean without a pause, 48

Oh what a devily devil he was!

On any given day, be it winter, spring, or May Gongurra was not satisfied till he‘d cheated, fibbed and lied, He hit, he bit, he threw a fit, he poked a rake, he raked a snake, he punched a nose, he tickled some toes.

Being mean without a cause, Oh what a devily devil he was!

One day Gongurra went to the market, but his giant car, he just couldn‘t park it.

For a while he silently swore then drove in through the door.

This caused such a scare that people fainted here and there.

Someone gibbered like a fool.

Another dribbled out his drool.

A woman in the grocery line, started squealing like a swine.

Screamers and yellers, were sliding inside umbrellas, were tumbling down the cellars, Oh those scaredy frightened fellers!

Only one small child aged four, found the hullabaloo in the store, to be a terrible, frightful bore.

He began walking out of the door.

Then Gongurra put up his hand, and as a gesture, it was grand. ‗Wait a minute, stop, desist.

Come back, return, I insist.

Where do you think you are headed?

Don‘t you know I‘m a thing to be dreaded?‘ That child (oh he sure was a brave lad) 49

waved and said, ‗Nice to meet you, I‘m glad.

But now I must be on my way, au revoir, bye bye, and have a good day.‘ He then gave a loud guffaw, so loud, it was a cackling caw.

Once he had chuckled this noisy chuckle, the boy bent down to clasp his buckle.

Gongurra began to froth and fume.

His nose shot out a smoking plume of hellish, greenish outlandish fire, that almost burnt the boy‘s attire.

Then Gongurra screamed: ‗When I growl, little boys shiver in their socks.

When I froth, little girls shrivel in their frocks.

And when I shout, grown ups, turn whelping, yelping pups.

And now listen to this, this is rich, along comes this kid, this tiny stitch, Look at him; he‘s no higher than my knee, But he, he has the guts, the guts to laugh at me.

Oh his titter-titter, makes me so very bitter.

So scaring such a bad little boy, is something I‘m going to enjoy.

I hope you folks don‘t mind, (ha ha, I don‘t mean to be unkind) but I‘m going to roar at him, throw this broken door at him.

I am going to breathe out fire, let him sweat, let him perspire.

I‘m going to rave and rant, I‘m going to puff and pant.

I‘m going to yell and scream, till he thinks it‘s a hellish dream.‘ Those who heard these slimy threats, broke all out in sweaty sweats.

They cried ‗Have mercy‘ They begged, ‗spare Percy.‘ (Such was the boy‘s given name) but to the giant they sounded lame.

50

‗Like cream on crest of crusty bread, this stuff has gone to the boy‘s head.

I‘ll clear it with a cuff or two.

He‘'ll be better when I‘m through.‘ Thus putting aside any mercy, the giant advanced on Percy, who, as you will recall, was not very tall.

To top it all, he seemed even more small, as (to buckle his shoe) he was bending.

Oh the scene was quite heart rending.

But did the boy recoil? Was he afraid? Did he cry?

Oh no! He did not. His eyes were completely dry.

He asked the giant to come closer. He wanted to tell him bye -bye. ‗If that‘s your last wish... Ok.‘ Gongurra agreed with a sigh.

As the giant bent down, Percy grabbed his gown.

Then reaching past Gongurra‘s frown, the boy climbed up to his crown.

There he whispered something in Gongurra‘s ears.

Lo behold, the giant‘s eyes began to fill with tears!

In his temper, there was a complete switch.

He laughed, he cried, he hugged the tiny stitch People who saw this were truly amazed.

How had Percy calmed a giant who was half-crazed?

What had the boy said that was so well phrased?

So, his secret, they begged the boy to share.

Would you like to hear it? Do you have the time to spare?

The answer is simple for those who have the guts, who dare, All that the boy told the giant was, ‗I like you. I care.‘ Gongurra was used to pushing and fighting, He was capable of hitting and biting, But a friendly move, a kind word?

That, to him seemed so absurd.

All around him there was ill will, which he gulped like a bitter pill.

This giant had always fought hate with hate.

He never thought there could be any other state.

51

When he heard, the kind word that the boy did speak, the giant‘s knees turned weak.

Thus Gongurra was completely floored like a lion who forgot he had once roared.

So Gongurra put behind his dirty, nasty days.

So Gongurra gave up his devily devil ways.

Now, a new job our giant‘s got, in the supermarket‘s parking lot.

Here (with an inch tape and a marker,) he has become the perfect parker.

He calculates the space.

He marks the place Then he picks the car that‘s come in, as easily as if it were a biscuit tin, and places it in the space, where he‘s marked it in its place!

Now no longer does Gongurra rob, you see the giant‘s useful now, he scribbles, races, parks or tows...

Tows?

Hard to get the devil out of him. ********************************************

Rockabye My Baby with a Gypsy Melody ―Hush, little baby, don‘t you cry, Ole Momma‘s gonna sing you a lullaby,‖ she crooned over and over, sometimes humming until the small, sleeping figure began to fret, then she returned to the words. She rubbed his little back and that seemed to soothe him. How strange, she thought, it‘s like suckling. He sometimes bubbled in his sleep and she wiped his mouth gently with a tissue and disposed of it immediately in a nearby wastebasket, never losing the soft, swaying rhythm of the song with so few words. ―Hush, little baby, don‘t you cry, Momma‘s gonna sing you a lullaby. Hush, little baby…..‖ The old man rolled over in contentment. His body was so small and tended to curl up like a baby‘s. The bones looked tiny, but there was no spongy softness covering them; only slack, wrinkled skin. "Lullaby and good night, go to sleep my dear dear baby...."

She had walked as close to the edge with him as she could. Her gaze drifted to the patch of 52

translucent sky beyond the window. She remembered standing on the rocky beach holding him in her arms, speaking words of love, his hands roaming every inch of her young supple body….. as the sun was going down fast enough to see it move, she had suddenly realized she was looking over the edge of the planet. For no reason she could think of, she had flung out her arms, thrown back her head and hollered, He-e-e-lp! as loud as she could into the wind. But no one heard her call, She glanced down on his ravaged body, to see clear blue eyes looking at her, a wisp of a smile on the old mans wrinkled face. ―Mama,‖ he said and with a rough sigh he was gone. Just gone.

Wrapped in the blanket that she comforted her grandbaby in….. ―I know, she said as she pulled the blanket up around his chin for this last, best sleep. I know.‖ Rockabye my gypsy with a baby melody."

poppin' fresh When he said, "Sit on my lap and see what arises" I gotta admit I was happy to oblige Like Poppin' Fresh he said "woohoo" and slipped smoothly between my thighs As he turned the temperature to high from between my slightly parted lips escaped a soft sigh 53

But I never realized that he was a baker so I wasn't prepared when I found out about the bun he left inside my Easy Bake Oven Oh my, what a surprise!

Happy Chicken Wing, All You can Eat on SciFi Sunday

Euna Ling hated the way the half starved, hungry look seemed to alter some of the customer‘s faces when they pushed their way through the door of the Happy Chicken wing, All You Can Eat Buffet located On Mott Street in China town. The constant jingling of the bell over the door was close to driving her insane. She worked as a cashier, Monday through Friday from 11am to 6 pm covering both lunch and even worse, the early dinner crowd!

All in all, the job wasn't too bad, all she had to do was take money, smile, make change, direct people towards the general direction of the food, after that they were on their own. It was just recently that she had become increasingly disturbed by the throngs of people waiting in the front lobby, pushing to the front, trying to be the first to rush through the cafeteria style lines.

The red crushed velvet carpet was threadbare from the steady flow of customers. This was 54

the first 24 hour buffet in town, and The happy Chicken wing was turning quite a profit.

The only enjoyment she really got, was making up the sayings for the fortune cookies, hand writing them and inserting them at the end of the night. ―If you get struck by lightning, cancel your charge accounts.‖ ―The world may be your oyster, but it doesn't mean you'll get its pearl.‖ ―He who laughs at himself never runs out of things to laugh at.‖ ―man who goes to bed with stiff problem, wakes up with solution in hand.‖ ―If you want the rainbow, you suffer the rain.‖

A look of gluttonous greed glowed in pair after pair of eyes......paying the 5.75 + tax for the "All You Can Eat Buffet. Some pronounced the word as "boo-fay" and this irritated her more then the ones that pronounced the "T" at the end of the word! Clazy Amelicans.

She smiled her most pleasant smile, took the 5, 10 and 20 dollar bills from sweaty palms and counted out change. She said "enjoy your mear" but nobody ever heard her, as soon as they snatched the change from her hand they were off! She was glad that the owner was harvesting feral cats, and kept them fed in the dark alley ways between the rice shops. The frozen carcasses of cats and dogs could be found in the meat lockers in the basement.

Quick as a bolt of lightening, customers started piling up the three sectioned, cream colored hard plastic plates with Jing du spare ribs, fried wonton, spring rolls, shrimp rolls, lomein, chow mein, Moo goo Gai Pan, more then anyone person should eat in an entire week let alone a 60 minute visit to a restaurant. The dessert table was even worse when whiny, snot nosed children got done poking all the pastries, rice cookies and pies, with booger crusted fingers turning the soft serve ice cream machine off and on, off and on, leaving melting mounds of chocolate vanilla twist ice cream melting on the metal surface.

She even caught some customers sneaking food into plastic containers to take home. This was strictly prohibited by management of course, but when she complained to her shift manager, (a 22 year old, dishwater blond, a guy by the name of Clay) he had only snarled at her through clenched teeth, his face red and sweaty, "quit your bitching and just get the egg foo young tray filled back up."

55

‗Later on she found out he used to masturbate into the four seasons surf and turf.

It was beyond disgusting. Coming back for seconds, thirds, and sometimes fourth helpings too, she noticed through greasy, smacking lips, bits of steamed broccoli or stir fried chicken, fish or beef clinging to gums and razor sharp teeth. This often reminded her of piranhas or wild predators, out for a kill. She often worried that if she stood in one place too long someone might try to pile her up on a plate and pick her bones clean!

It was no small wonder then, that she decided to poison them all, on that hot, humid new York City summer day. Each and every person that wandered into the Happy Chicken wing All You Can Eat Buffet was greeted with a smile, not knowing that the mono sodium glutamate was exchanged for a much deadlier white powder.

She smiled the biggest smile, and told everyone, ―Wercome, enjoy much food, Manja, Bona Petite, you rucky amelicans.‖ Hot temperatures of 106 degrees steamed the New York City side walk, as the establishment baked a lot of metropolitan native brains, all the while, Euna ling happily stuffed the fortune cookies with the day‘s fortune: ‗Virginity like bubble, one prick, all gone‘. ‗Man who run behind car get exhausted. ‗Man with hand in pocket feel cocky all day. ‗Foolish man give wife grand piano, wise man give wife upright organ. ‗Man who walk through airport turnstile sideways going to Bangkok. ‗Man who scratch ass should not bite fingernails. ‗Man who eat many prunes get good run for money. ‗War does not determine who is right, war determine who is left. ‗Wife who put husband in doghouse soon find him in cat house. ‗Man who fight with wife all day get no piece at night.

56

‗It take many nails to build crib, but one screw to fill it. ‗Man who fish in other man's well often catch crabs.

―And on the First Christmas God Created Sibling Rivalry‖

ONCE UPON A TIME...God celebrated the very first christmas, He was a good father who had two Sons.

The eldest Lucifer and the young one, Jesus. The father spoiled his oldest son, who was never satisfied with the things his dad did for him. As hard as his father tried to please his oldest boy, the harder the son seemed to complain and throw fits and exclaim that he loved his brother more....

The younger son, Jesus was rather unassuming and, as you might imagine, did not receive the same attention from his father as the older boy did. The younger boy seemed perfectly happy with whatever his dad gave him. In fact, the boy often made better of the circumstances than they actually appeared...

ONE DAY...

JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS EVE, God the father decided he was going to do something really spectacular for his boys. He had worked many hours of overtime and saved quite a large sum of money to buy expensive gifts for his sons. As he began his scouring all of creation for the 'perfect gift', he soon realized that his oldest son would not be happy with just one big gift, so he bought the boy two. Then, after picturing in his mind the older boy's reaction to only receiving two gifts on Christmas morning, the dad bought three, then four, then five, and so on, until all his resources were spent.

Feeling quite pleased with himself at having bought so many perfect gifts for his oldest son, God, the father suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to purchase even a single gift for his youngest boy.

57

The dad felt ashamed and embarrassed at this oversight. An overwhelming sense of panic struck him like a lightning bolt as he thought of his little boy having no gift to open on Christmas day!

Out of money and with time running out, the father began driving around the block in search of something.... ANYTHING! to give to his youngest son as a gift. Just before he headed back into town, he spotted a German Shepard out for a walk with his owner.

'Aha!' he thought. 'Perhaps I can find a suitable gift there for my little boy.'

With a sliding stop on the shoulder of the road, he leapt from his great chariot and began searching for something of value to give his younger son. He looked in vain, finding nothing suitable as a present.

WISHING NOT TO GO HOME empty-handed, the dad was suddenly aroused by the potent aroma of a handsomely large, pile of freshly deposited dog doo, He had an idea! Rushing back to his car, he shifted some of the store-bought gifts around to different bags. Taking an empty paper sack, he trotted back to the pile of dog shit, and carefully scooped it into the bag. He was quite proud of himself for the skill he deployed in retrieving the 'special gift' because it looked as if the German Sheppard had deposited its waste contents into the bag, personally.

RELIEVED AT LAST, the father sped home and spent the next several hours wrapping the various purchases in shiny new paper, trimming each parcel with ribbon and bows and cute name placards (all addressed to Lucifer , of course!) Once again, due to his emphasis on his older son, the dad ran out of paper and trimmings for Jesus's only gift.

EXHAUSTED BEYOND BELIEF, the dad simply folded the top of the paper sack over twice, ran several staples through to hold it shut, and quickly scrawled his younger son's name on one side of the bag in pencil. Then, guilt-stricken once again, he quickly shifted what blame he could for this fiasco, by adding the words 'From Santa' under his son's name. Then he shoved the bag to the most remote corner under the tree and crawled off to bed for a few hours of rest.

AND THE BOYS AWOKE EARLY. Rushing into the semi-darkness of the living room, to the foot of the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, Lucifer shoved his little brother, Jesus aside and flung himself headlong into the mountain of gifts addressed to 'only' him. In a whirlwind of shredded paper and peals and outbursts of spontaneous delight, he tore into every gift in record-breaking time. There must have been 50 presents ripped open by the eldest child!

AND TRUE TO HIS PLEASANT DISPOSITION the oldest boy, after dumping the contents of the last gift unceremoniously onto the carpet, shifted his expression of glee into a horrible twist of a scowl and screamed at the top of his voice, 'IS THAT ALL I GOT?!!!' His father stood in the afterglow of this warm reception in something akin to a stupor. He was, in fact, speechless.

JUST THEN...

58

Jesus , who had been sitting patiently in anticipation of the wonderful gift(s) he would open, turned and asked his father, 'Daddy, what did you get for me?'

A nuclear war head could not have pierced the father's heart with more ferocity than the words his little boy spoke. Feeling like all the blood was draining from his trembling body, still unable to talk, the dad pointed a shaky finger to the dark shadows at the farthest point beneath the tree. This was too much to bear! The father began sobbing uncontrollably at the sight of his little Jesus eagerly and gingerly pulling the paper sack out from under the tree. His son had an expression on his face as if the bag were filled with the most precious gift on earth!

SLOWLY AND WITH GREAT CARE the younger son removed each staple. As he read the message on the outside, tears welled up in his eyes, as he excitedly proclaimed, 'Daddy, it's from Santa!!!'

THE LITTLE SON'S FACE did not change expression, even as the unpleasant odor of the bag's contents escaped into the room like a bursting dam. He peeked into the bag and paused.... (The father felt his own heart stop beating at that very instance.)

HIS RIGHT EYEBROW RAISED EVER SO SLIGHTLY once the boy recognized the shapely pile that was his new gift.

'OH, FATHER!! OH, FATHER!!' the boy cried with great joy.

'Oh how wonderful, Daddy, I almost got a dog!"

Lucifer was green with envy, he pursed his upper lip, then pouted and cried, "You love him more than me!"

59

AMERICAN DREAMS

Don’t Let the Dream Die,

He spreads the blanket on the cold hard concrete just inside the doorway of the empty building, waiting as the dog takes her usual place then squeezing in next to her. He winces as he sits, the blanket only barely containing the bitter sting of the cold. He places his hand on her head, gently stroking the silken fur, and she lies down, her chin resting on his knee as a soft sigh of contentment escapes her. He watches the people pass by and places his battered hat on the ground. It was once blue, but time and rain has bleached it to a dirty Grey.

Gently, almost lovingly, he takes his guitar from the case, his fingers lightly strumming at the chords.

The calluses on his hands mark the places where the strings have rubbed against his skin. He smiles 60

wryly as he looks at them. Everything in life leaves its mark.

The dog scolds him with her eyes as she moves her head to make way for her rival. It’s the only time she looks that way. She has been hungry, thirsty, tired, cold and wet but never once has she reproached him for not giving her a better existence. He is her god and when he calls she must obey, what he meters out she must endure.

He is a better master than most. Whatever he has he shares with her; shelter, food and warmth. He has never hurt her or shouted at her. She rests her head on the blanket and closes her eyes, content to wait as he tries to earn them food and maybe even enough for a bed for the night. begins to play, his voice at first weak then becoming stronger. He is hungry and tired; it was a long walk from the place they stayed the night and there was no money for food this morning. But sing for his supper he must and he has to make a good job of it, or there will be nothing to eat again tonight.

He's lucky today. It's January, cold and wet, and people give a little more readily then. He has a theory about that. He thinks that it's guilt for the excess of Christmas. Whatever it is that causes them to dip into their pockets, he's glad of it.

Many people stop to stroke the dog. She doesn't seem to mind it but she gives no outward sign of pleasure either. Her eyes flicker open for a moment, then close again, not inviting their attention but tolerating it. Before she chose the man to be her companion she had known many people. Some seemed kind until she got too close, then chased her away with shouts and kicks. Time has shown her that she can trust him but no one else.

The man carries on playing and singing, wondering why they never speak to him. They hardly even glance in his direction, bending slightly and looking at the ground as they drop their coins into the hat.

He wonders when he became invisible, what they find so disgusting about him that they can’t bear to look at him. Yes, his clothes are old and not as clean as he’d like. He needs to shave but he has no sharp razors left. The only one he has took chunks out of his flesh the last time he tried to use it.

As his fingers pluck at the chords, drawing out a melody that makes him think of better days, he starts to remember. At first his heart and fingers stumble as he recalls the last time he played this song.

He thinks of the home he once had, Emily with her smiling eyes and ready laughter, the friends he drank with in the little village pub every Friday night, his workmates, the plans he'd made … all just a dream now. Tiny snapshots of his life, like pictures in a photograph album, appear in his mind, and his mouth curves at the corners while his voice strengthens and his fingers find the chords. He is singing for them now, singing for all he had and lost, singing for a life that slipped through his fingers like a miser's gold.

The dog opens her eyes and looks up at him, the change in his voice alerting her to his change of mood. She opens her mouth and pants softly, her expression that which on a human face might be a 61

smile as she watches him.

A few passers-by hesitate, their hurried steps slowing as something in his voice catches their attention. They dig into their pockets, throwing coins into the hat, some missing in their rush to pass him, the coins rolling onto the blanket and hiding in the folds.

He doesn't see them for now the snapshots in his mind have changed. He sees his Emily, the last time he saw her. The smile was gone, her gentle face covered in blood, her broken body lying on the road. He staggers towards her, falling to his knees besides her, remembering how her laughter turned to screams as the bus came towards them, the headlights burning into the car like demon's eyes.

The dog begins to whimper as his voice changes once more, no longer strong but breaking as he sees it all again, yet his fingers still relentlessly picking out the melody. In his mind he turns the wheel once more, trying desperately to move the car from the path of the bus but failing. He sees it hit them, his eardrums feeling as if they must burst from all the sounds. Emily screaming, the engine shrieking, the bang as the bus broadsides them, the squeal of metal as the bus pushes the car across the road.

Emily, her seat-belt unfastened, soars through the window, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces. In shock, he wonders idly how she ever learned to fly like that, her arms outstretched, her body arcing gracefully towards the ground. She flew like an angel, but angels were never meant to fall.

His friends tried to help, but no one could. Emily's parents forgave him, there was nothing to forgive they said, patting him gently on his shoulder as they walked away from the graveside. He looked for Emily everywhere, finally finding her at the bottom of a whisky glass, the alcohol numbing him enough to sleep and dream of her.

At last he had nothing left. His friends dwindled away, unable to find a way to help him. His job and home were lost, his plans forgotten. And so he had come to this, wandering the streets with the few possessions he could carry with him, the dog at his side and the guitar slung over his shoulder.

And, as the dog whimpered softly, tears ran down his cheeks and the passers-by stopped to look at him. He kept on playing, seeing no one.

Now it was their turn to become invisible. From his lips, he sang; Ode to the Homeless And god can tell you everything, he Always knows the score, he can pick you up or let you down like the Ski lifts doing daily chores at St. Moritz 62

And all the things you say and do Well he'll try and comfort you, and speak softly words you never heard before.

In a humble part of Brooklyn, there's a beating bar and grille, and it carries creature comforts for the derelicts and indigents that frequent there. a slab of ham, some crusty bread, will suffice for days ahead.

And a half a pint will keep them warm at night. in an alley lays a bag-man embracing his prized but meager fare but his face is one of serenity, no trace remains of his earthly despair.

And passersby, stare and shake their head, not knowing that he's dead, and there's no one here to mourn his passing on.

And a city soon discovers it has lost a native son, he's interred unnamed, and though ashamed the multitude refuses to bear the blame, they cry that it's unfair because, they've always done their share and the numbers of our homeless marches on.

And our homeless warrior, our forgotten begotten son, has won his final battle, while for many it's to that front, and the tomb of our unknown soldier becomes our saving grace, we provide in death, what we couldn't in life, his final resting place.

63

American dreams revisited

64

The mall was empty this time of the morning. . The loving embrace of my warm comfy bed, had left me behind. It could be enough, without too much effort, to pity my plight in life.

The Newark, brick city skyline loomed closer as the Bus pulled over the clay street Bridge, this was as good a place as any, to embark on my journey of self pity.

I always took the same bus and sat in the rear. I kept a low profile the kind that draws the least attention. I never looked for a spare seat, though by that time that would have been a rarity. My journey took me from the well kept streets of Kearny, to the city's heart, and I would wonder where all the travelers on the bus were coming from what forsaken time of the day did these souls leave their loving embraces behind?

They had become a familiar cast. The guy who held onto the shoulder strap and drank His hot coffee every morning always boarded in Harrison. He looked as if he had never spoken in his life, just brooded and stared under those grey brows. There was the pretty young girl who dressed with style. She was always engrossed in some conversation, with someone, day after day. Then there was the guy in the wheel chair, the bus driver said he was a drunk and stole it, but everyday she’d pick him up at the same stop, and it would take 20 or so minutes to get him on the bus and locked in.

In a more measured time, I would have buried myself in a book, yet I was still held by the fancy of 65

youth, and savored in casting my gaze between the passengers, and in watching the green of the suburbs give way to the inner-city brick prison, under that lucid, revealing light.

All, it seemed, had its place, inside and out, as well ordered as a balance sheet, handed down from above. Yet, there was something out of place, and, that misfit was me. What was I doing here? It felt like I was playing out a role, not living. I was barely 18, a young 18, and at that time of morning my friends were still getting ready for school, and here was I with a ticket to... to where? My future? It was too late to go back. Only the newness of the whole experience stopped me from falling completely into self-pity.

Certainly the career high-rope I found myself on, NJIT school for postal employees, was not one to inspire my morning blues to bloom into more colorful rainbows.

But, if this is the path I’d follow it; I was one of the sheeple, just a number, Just let me join the flock, pull the wool over my eyes. I wanted so much more, I hoped for fortune, fame, what kid in America didn’t?

It was just after 8am, that the bus arrived at Broad and Route 21, enough to give me time to kill, each morning, before the walk to the main Post Office. Coming off the bus early to the Little strip mall on Route 21 was something I started a week earlier, here there was a Dunkin donuts, and I’d stop in to see the counter girl, her name was Juanita, and she was beautiful; she always gave me an extra donut with my coffee latte. I noticed an older woman, sitting on the bus stop bench, agitated, waving her hand, and beseeching passers-by.

The rush hour masses were avoiding her .. And was I not one of them? I veered a path, to avoid her frenzied questioning line of sight, and with chin planted in chest, ran her gauntlet. By now, I could hear what she was saying to all within shouting distance, "Scuse me, 'scuse me, please, 'scuse me..".

By now, I could see her, in the corner of my eye; she was a homeless old woman, tattered and lifebeaten. I had seen her a few times picking through the dumpster at the McDonald’s on Broad and Market…

"Excuse me, young sir?" She had seen me, and I knew her question was aimed at me.

66

"Excuse me, yea you young fella?" There was a human, plaintive tone in her request, that however I longed to ignore, I knew I could not. Why had she chosen me, from the crowd, to direct her question so personally? I turned to her, and looked her in the eye. For a moment, all she did was stare, as if taken aback. I gingerly walked toward her, I felt compelled to answer.

"Yes, ma’am?”

"Ahh, good for you, , I didn't think you'd stop. Do you know what time it is?"

A reasonable enough request, except she was sitting directly under the bank temperature and time clock, that lit the time and the temperature every few seconds.. It could easily be seen from where she was. I was probably the only one, of the passers-by, who wasn't wearing a watch. I never needed one.

"There's a big clock right over there, by the Bank of New York….see? You can see it from here.”

"Yeah, I had noticed it, thanks, . I've been up all night, you know, and my old bones aren't what they used to be…but that clock on the bank has been broke for over 2 years now…it never moves just say’s 12:01.

I waited for the clock to blink, and sure enough, I knew it was about 8 o”clock, so She was right, the clock was wrong.

"Okay, no worries, I can get the time for you. Just stay there, and I'll be right back."

"Yea, sure, I’ll be holding my breath waiting for you.” She said with a cynicism that said she knew I was lying.

She needn't fear, I said I would, and that should have been good enough for her, but I was young, Freddie the freshman, the American dream still blinding my eyes.

I returned to where she was, and she hadn't missed a beat, from her earlier mantra to all passing by, as if I had never stopped “excuse me anyone here got the time?”

"I have the time. It's quarter past eight."

"Oh my, I thought you’d left, didn’t think you’d be back though." She eyed me curiously.

"Why would I do that for?"

67

"You know, it’s rush hour, no one has time to stop and give a person the time of day. Everyone’s Always in a hurry. I've been sitting here for ages, and you're the first one to stop. I don't know what's happening with the world, it's changed so much. So, what are you doin around town?"

"I'm... just off to work," It wasn't a phrase I was use to, and got caught in my throat.

"Ah.. Work, huh? Good luck to you.”

"Things aren't so bad, it's a lovely day. I'm happy to...." she interrupted me...

"When you get to my age you realize all days are the same. You know what today is? It's the day I was born.”

"Oh-hh… happy birthday!"

"That’s a joke, right? Hey thanks anyway.” She said, shuffling again on the bench. " Well …..Anyway, enjoy your birthday. There must be something you can do today. You got the time, remember? It's quarter past eight, or just after now, you have the whole day to celebrate.”

"Haha.. yeah sure, I have the whole day. Well thank you for stopping by….

As I turned, to ascend the last set of steps, she gave me a final farewell.... "Thanks again, young man, you are a true American. “ There was something in the way she said those words, that made me feel blessed.

“Happy birthday, I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name is Regina that I will never forget. “ Well, happy birthday Regina,” and I reached into my pocket to hand her some Money. “what’s that? She asked, “put that away, I don’t need that.”

I was humbled, and didn’t know how to react. I stepped toward her, and said, ‘’Please, take this, it’s my present to me on your birthday.”

68

She cackled, revealing missing teeth, while she took the offering.

Was it really so hard, for anyone else to stop for this harmless soul? I was glad I did, and I wasted little time in congratulating myself, on being a fine humanitarian... and an American.. Upon reaching the top of the stairs I felt an urge to turn around, and view the joy I had left in my wake.

And, there she was... sitting just the same as before, agitated, waving his hand, asking of all who walked by, "'Scuse me, you got the time?... do you got the time?" As if I had never been there at all. This was a defining moment in my life.

There but by the grace of god go I. I thanked whatever god might be, for allowing me to see this old woman’s plight. I never once complained about the life I had been dealt.

I went to the brick city soup kitchen on Market Street, about a week later. An old woman was ladling soup into small plastic cups to indigents, homeless and never’do wells. She eyed me suspiciously; After all I was just a young kid.

“I’d like to know if I could volunteer my services here?”

“Sure kid, we always need help around here, go see Josh in the back, and see what you can do to help him.”

I walked into the back of the kitchen, large caldrons of soup boiling away, an old Jamaican man by the name of Josh, Wearing a dreadlock cap with Bob Marley on the front and a Jamaican flag on the back, looked up, “cool running’s man, you must’ve been sent by Jah," his spliff hanging loosely from his lips.

I grabbed an apron, and said “put me to work, I’m ready for anything.”

He laughed loudly, “hahahaha” gafawing at me, “That makes me feel downright Aiery, well then…..I’m gonna rastaclaw your bumbaclaw…..”

“I only want to help?” I quizzed…not understanding him.

“Ah yes, of course, I bet you want to save the world…..young American dreamer.”

69

A Faker’s Trick in the Dessert

There were the three of us.

Me, I'm Katima my sister Ria, and my mother Habeeb. If I ever actually called her that, I would still feel the smack well into my grave.

We loved street magicians, performers, fakirs. We traveled from Turkey, all along the Gulf of Aden in search of them, and had seen dozens of great magicians and miracle workers.

A man in Misratah ate fire. Not just a wad of fuel soaked cotton in his mouth for a second, mind you. He would reach into his wood stove and come back with great handfuls of flames. Then he would lick his 70

palms, show us his burning tongue, and chuff out his cheeks for us. Me and my sister thought this was terribly funny, and he would clown a little more for us before swallowing. Then he would spew a great lungful of smoke at us that smell like truck fumes.

There was a woman in As-Karabuk who would make the shore crabs dance. She would wave her hands and sing to them, and they would line up for meters, then do steps and shuffles for us. We would sing and clap along with the woman, and the crabs would wave their claws in time with us. I would pick them up and put them down a few feet away, but they ran back to their places, seeming kind of embarrassed.

My mother often selected a few of the big ones for us to cook later on.

There were others, less amusing. A child in Tukrah could produce liquor from her palms, and would gibber like a crazy person the whole time, holding her hands up to the sun. A woman who lived east of Suree caused black motor oil to leak from animals. I still remember a lamb that choked to death on the stuff, dying in front of us while the slime flowed from its ears.

There was also the great guru of Asbeki, who could pick up anything with his penis. It was quite an amazing act, watching him use it like he was using one of his hands. It reminded me of an elephant using his trunk.

Then there was the rope trick.

We had heard about a man in Banghazi who did an amazing act. He only appeared once in a great while, and people would crowd to him when he did. His name, or at least what people called him, was al-Akbar.

I remember that ride along the coast, in the back of a truck hauling chickens. Ria was holding a chick, 71

petting and cooing to it, and Mother was counting her henna needles and vials. I looked out along the beach, watching the sea birds swoop and play. Sometimes, it looked like they came too close to the ground, and turned into people walking along the beach. Maybe there was too much sun.

Bursa was nice, but the bazaar was just like any other. Stall after stall, full of things people didn't really need. Not that we could criticize: My mother sold packets of hand ground henna and did applications on middle class women's palms. Ria and myself would sing pretty songs for a few dinars near her chosen spot, so she could keep an eye on us. I always wanted to wander off, but I also enjoyed the singing... Its one of my favorite memories of Ria. After we had made a little money, we went looking for al-Akbar after the Dhuhr prayer. Wandering through the rows, we listened for laughing or cheering, or the clink of coins thrown to the ground.

We didn't hear any of these things, and came across him quite by accident. He was a bit out from the main souk, in a field of sickly looking weeds. A crowd was around him, but they were silent. It was creepy, like a dead spot in the world.

Working our way through to the front, we saw him: everyone's idea of a Sufi mystic. He wore standard fakir clothing. A turban, and white, billowy pants. He had an ugly leather bracelet on, with nonsensical script embossed around it. It matched his ugly face well. He had a scraggly beard, with thin lips and a sharp nose. His eyebrows were unkempt, and his eyes looked as if he hadn't slept in years.

The most unusual thing about him was the rope, though. He had a long length of rough rope coiled around his neck, from his chin to the top of his stomach. It looked like a lion's mane, piled up on his shoulders. The two ends dangled at his sides, bouncing in the sea wind from the west.

His eyes wouldn't focus on anything... his face remained blank. I had seen the look before, but not when the fakir was waiting for the crowd. Usually they walked around and talked to the people, joking with the adults and doing small stunts for the children.

But he didn't stay that way for long. Almost as soon as we had arrived, he came to, in a way. Still not looking at any one thing in particular, he started speaking in a rough, hollow voice.

"I will leave soon. Who will join me?"

My uncle smoked eighty American cigarettes a day, and still didn't have a voice like that. It sounded like he had burnt his throat with glass and acid.

The crowd was silent.

"Nobody will come with me? There are beautiful things to see, strange things to do."

72

Not a sound. I held Ria in front of me, with Mother at our side. None of us wanted to go anywhere. The whole thing was very creepy.

Finally, he snapped his long fingers. I felt my sister jerk a little at this, and he spoke up again: "Nobody?"

Then it happened.

Ria had always been a noisy kid, the kind that screams out whats she thinking and feeling at any time. It had gotten her into trouble at mosque many times, but I think my mother appreciated it in a way. At least, she had never tried very hard to break her of it.

But this time it betrayed her. She made a kind of hurr-ing sound, like a half formed thought. I heard her try to catch herself, but it was too late. Al-Akbar's head turned towards us.

I started dragging her back into the press of the crowd, whispering curses at her foolishness. She backtracked with me, and I could feel her shaking in my arms.

Al-Akbar had started to slowly stride in our direction, his coils of rope bouncing slightly. I stepped farther back, but ran into the front of someone who wouldn't move. I could see him coming at us, splitting the crowd like a knife splits fruit. His eyes seemed to be changing colors, from a normal dark brown to yellow. I started to feel real fear at this.

Suddenly, my mother stepped in front of him.

"My daughter didn't mean anything, she doesn't want to go anywhere."

"But she said she did, dear mother. I heard her," he said, yellow eyes now training on Ria. My mother spoke slowly, menacingly: "Shes not going anywhere."

The fakir's changing eyes didn't seem to intimidate my mother the way they did me. I could see that they were shifting around now, from yellow to orange to brown and back. I feared they would become red soon and the man would sprout horns and fangs, would become an efreet in front of all of us.

"Dear mother, fear not! Allah will protect us on our journey!"

"Allah doesn't have anything to do with you, or any of your dealings. Leave us alone, and go perform your trick. We're leaving."

And with that, she grabbed my hand and started dragging us back towards the souk. I looked over my shoulder at al-Akbar, and he passed his twisted, dirty hand over the crowd. There was a collective sigh, and then a murmuring. I didn't like the sound of it. Everyone started swaying in step with each other.

73

I turned back and started shoving out of the crowd, but it had become harder. I felt a hand grab my wrist. I shook it off, now terrified. I could feel Ria's slender hand in mine, but something seemed to be holding her back. I tightened my grip on my mother's rough, patterned hand.

"The girl wishes to accompany me! You all heard her!"

My sister moaned in fear at this.

Her hand slipped from mine. I yelled in protest, and looked back. My mother's hand was gone now. I looked the other way, and saw that half a dozen men with vacant looks on their faces were wrestling her to the ground.

Ria was meanwhile being dragged and surfed back towards al-Akbar. She was kicking and screaming, and I saw her kick a woman's hand from the side. The woman's wrist bent at a funny angle, and I heard a snapping noise, but she didn't seem to notice it.

Hands were holding me back, and one was held over my mouth. I screamed into it, but to little effect.

Al-Akbar bellowed like a crocodile over the crowd, "Allah be with us on our journey!"

The people had brought Ria to him, and as he reached out for her, his fingers seemed to grow even longer. I could see his nails stretching out and becoming black. He grabbed her by the shoulders, and she howled in mindless terror at his touch . The group fell back into the crowd, and swayed to the music only they could hear.

The rope around his neck twitched, and then began uncoiling from his neck. It whipped around like a snake, twirling around the two of them. Soon it was free, spinning around them like a sand twister, not touching them, but more making a shell. Through it, I could see a huge, bloody hole in the hollow of the man's throat, like a gunshot wound.

My mother screamed, and I tried to join her. The crowd was making a mindless humming sound, and continued swaying. Al-Akbar was chanting something in a language I didn't know, and Ria continued twisting in his grasp, kicking at his legs.

The rope seemed to hesitate, then shot into the hole in the fakir's throat. His head rocked back from the initial impact, then tipped up, his mouth open. The rope roared straight up, making a nasty purring noise over his teeth as it went. I could see it feeding into the hole, and coming out slightly stained with his blood into the sky.

At this, I bit into the hand over my mouth, barely tasting the blood. I sunfished in their grasp, and broke free. I raced to them, screaming in protest. I tripped at the last, but managed to grab hold of Ria's 74

ankles.

Al-Akbar looked down at me, and I could see that his eyes really had turned red now, and his teeth had sharpened. Bits of the rope came undone on his fangs as it sped up past his face. He said something, but I couldn't hear it because of his clogged throat and the ripping noises.

I got to my feet and started pulling, trying to get her out of his grasp.

"Demon! Let her go! Let her go!"

The rope was all the way through now, a pole leading up to nowhere. It looked as high as an apartment building, like a thin palm tree with no fronds. He took hold of it with one hand, and kept the other on my sister's shoulder.

He said one last word of his chant, and started laughing horribly. The most sickening feeling overcame me, like the first time I was in an elevator in Istanbul, but much worse. The world lurched, and I felt gravity reverse on us. My sense of right side up was now wrong, and the three of us flipped and started falling up towards the end of the rope. Al-Akbar's hand grabbed at the rope, and we were all hanging with our feet to the sky. He loosened his grip, and we started to slowly slide upwards.

"She's mine now, child. Begone!" he growled, and kicked me in the face. I felt my nose break under his heel, and my hands let go of Ria's ankles. I felt the world lurch again as I lost contact with them, and I fell to the ground. I landed on my back with a thud, and looked up at them. Al-Akbar looked down/ up at me, and laughed like a hyena. They started to shimmer like hot air as they slid up the rope.

I screamed at them, and as they reached the end of the rope, I screamed even louder. The rope shivered, and they were gone. Disappeared, into the sky.

The rope became normal again, falling back to the earth. It piled around my head like a cleaned lamb's intestines.

Everyone started yelling, the spell broken. The woman with the broken wrist held it up to the sky, shrieking in pain. My mother screamed the loudest, the longest.

"Oh God, Katima! Shes gone! Shaitan has taken her and shes gone!"

All I could do was look at the spot in the sky that had swallowed them.

Three weeks later, they found her.

A Tuareg guide found her thirty miles south of Bursa, in the desert. We had begged everyone who would listen to look for her, and showed them the picture we had. Eventually we heard about the girl from the 75

desert, and went to get her.

She took turns of chittering like a bird, and long, deep silences. She wouldn't speak normally, and if we asked her what happened she'd grow quiet again. If we mentioned al-Akbar, she shrieked, sometimes for hours. If we left her to do as she pleased, she would sit in the sun all day, mumbling and chirping to the sky. We had to force her to eat and drink. My mother would sit with her for hours, crying and trying to get her to play or sing as she once did, without hesitation.

The Turkish authorities would do nothing. We couldn't tell if they just didn't believe us, but we could see the looks in some of their eyes when we mentioned al-Akbar. We spent a lot of time in waiting rooms, knowing full well it would lead to nothing.

The doctors and healers could do nothing for her. Expensive prescriptions and tribesmen's rituals just made her break out in rashes or cry in fear.

Al-Akbar never returned again, as far as we knew. Half the people we talked to had never heard of him, and the other half would fork their hands at us with the mention of his name.

On the other hand, we now had our own trick for the souks: for a few dinars, my beautiful, little sister Ria can cry diamonds. She cries and little diamonds fall into the sand, and she laughs like a jackal afterwards, a hole appearing in her throat.

Subway transfers

76

The train droned on through the thick smog of the New York city skyline, rattling and hissing like some prehistoric beast lumbering across the concrete landscape with its accidental mishmash of passengers riding in its steel belly.

An old haggard looking woman sat in the cool air of the train and surveyed the dull flash of glass on passing buildings, their fading brick and marble faรงades layered with the omnipresent summertime smog that NYC is famous for. Wavy heat lines rose languidly up from high rise buildings, obscuring everything in the distance and reducing the world to intimate spheres of reality.

She sat slightly bent, huddled against the invasive eyes of humanity, her thin frame hooked over like a life-sized question mark curling back in on itself. Her thinning gray hair hung loosely about her ears and looked greasy adding to her tattered appearance. Her feet, clothed in worn canvas sneakers, were primly together tucked beneath her, her gnarled hands remained neatly on her lap clutching at her overnight bag and transfer ticket, as her eyes watched the endless stream of New York city skyline slide noiselessly by.

77

She could feel the eyes of riders touching curiously upon her, stares were things that she had grown accustomed to in her 80 some odd years. She knew she was dressed rather strangely today even for her, the hospital gown was an additional embarrassment, the clothes she had worn today were dictated not out of some skewed idea of fashion, but of necessity.

Her overnight bag dangled from her hip, still clutched tightly, it was filled with tattered and bloodied clothing from the night before, clothing rendered by some accident or another and she had not thought to herself even briefly to discard them as she silently walked the streets to the train station.

Her mind was far away as she watched building after building fade into the smog, her thoughts were on the culmination of her existence and death as the final frontier.

The train rumbled to one of its many stops; people shuffled around stampeding on and off and jostling each other in that stereotypical relentless New York city way and presently a sloppily dressed young man with an Elvis do, and his pale girlfriend got on the train and promptly sat down across the row from the old haggardly looking woman.

She didn't notice them, her mind was far away, she was dreaming of younger days, in the afternoonâ€&#x;s hazy cradle, perhaps seeking the answer to the question her body was asking, if it was asking a question at all.

The man with the Elvis do nudged his girl and gestured towards the old woman. He looked at the strange figure of the woman in derision and shared an unkind secret smile with his lady friend, who giggled and twittered along with him.

Led on by her approval, the young man continued in an insulting tone, growing louder and less timid. His voice rose to a clearly audible level over the thrumming and rumbling of the trainâ€&#x;s engine. He wanted his voice to carry to the back of the train and capture everyone's attention, he spoke melodiously as if he were giving a speech and he wished for everyone to hear him, he wanted them 78

to hear how funny he was, he wanted them to laugh with him at the odd figure of a woman across from him. “Who let the dogs out?� He guffawed, looking around to the other train riders for approval. A few vague smiles were evident among the onlookers, a snorted half-chortle came from the back, it was an abundantly fat woman with tightly curled black hair in incredibly matching black polyester pants, her huge thighs spreading out and flopping over the seats as the old haggard woman shrank back into herself in sudden pain and abject humiliation.

She lowered her head and stared at the rubber traction mat on the bottom of the train and thought. She stared at the neat little black drainage lines, so parallel and well-ordered and unlike reality. Echoes of previous shame, imprisonment, and remembered humiliation rang in her ears, tolling louder than anyone on the train could possibly laugh, even the guffawing baboon seated across from her, and she shrank even further into her state of silent reverie and in this state of reverie she wondered why strangers lash out in judgment.

"Escapee from Bellevue!" he chortled, choking on the last word and blatantly pointing at the woman so that everyone, including the old woman, could make no mistake about who he was referring to. His girlfriend was laughing, doubled over and holding her smarting stomach muscles. They were laughing so hard that she was on the brink of tears and they collapsed into each others arms in mirth, reveling in their own vomit.

The old woman's eyes slid wetly to the side to see who else might be laughing and she caught the eyes of an old black woman who was seated a few seatsfrom the rear. Silent compassion shone from the jaundiced brown eyes, lending sudden strength to the hurting woman.

She glanced at another passenger, a businessman who looked confused but didn't turn away from her glance, she looked at the silent group of teenage girls who promptly looked out the windows and shuffled their feet and nervously fingered the pimples on their faces.

She turned to the man with the Elvis do, who was full of both himself and ignorant rage, and stared him full in his speckled face and she watched him laugh uproariously, giving occasional unattractive flashes of his true nature. Five seconds, ten, a full half-minute passed and she met his derisive stare with one of her own, her face blazing hot with shame, mounting outrage and intended revenge.

79

His girlfriend went suddenly silent as if someone pulled her plug. She looked down at nothing on the floor, and squirmed in mounting discomfort as the absurd man with the Elvis do, next to her went on with his tirade, "What are YOU staring at you freak? Isn‟t there a Carnival in Coney Island with you as the main attraction? “ She held her glance, piercing him with her ice blue eyes. The silence of the train was almost eerie in its suddenness, descending like an eclipse, even the motor seemed to work more quietly, as if to eavesdrop on what was transpiring among the humans above.

She stared hard and as she stared, she thought hard. Her eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly, her heart blackened and with all her might she sent her feelings out to the ridiculing man before her, physical, mental and spiritual feelings that were once hers‟ alone.

No one could quite tell you what happened then, it happened so quickly.

There were 50 different people on that train and if you asked them what had happened you might get 50 different answers. They all saw it happen but then again they didn't. Even if they did see it happen, they couldn't precisely believe it happened, because what happened isn't exactly a normal thing to have happen, even in New York .

She stared and she thought and she sent her age and frail physical form, out to him, although transferred would be a more apt term for what she did, so; as she stared and thought and transferred, a very strange thing happened.

She grew taller, younger looking, she straightened up for the first time that day, her suddenly blonde hair overflowing, and the young man shrank back into his seat, his eyes going wide in sudden confusion and terror. She gave to him a reciprocal gift in the very finest sense of the word and the young man collapsed exhausted back in his seat as if he was 100 years old and there he huddled not unlike a question mark, while vivid thoughts of suicide and a remembered rape, and imprisonment and a whole life‟s worth of thoughts flooded his mind. He could see the limit of death clearly over his left shoulder. He felt completely drained and promptly fell asleep.

The train pulled to it‟s next stop, the now vivacious woman stood, still grasping her overnight bag tightly, and primly straightening her hospital gown 80

as she rose; she stood as erect now as a West Point Cadette. She turned and glanced back at the trainload of silent passengers, the man with the Elvis do fast asleep. The now young woman gave a small wink and a nod to the old black woman who nodded back her silent approval.

Calmly she climbed down off of the train, and handed the conductor her transfer. The conductor directed her to the next train.

A vivacious smile came to briefly light her suddenly young face, “This is where

I get off.�

81

Nightly Shadows in Neon Auras

Maiden Voyage hits the rocks: There he is, the tall, skinny black kid, still a virgin, the one running down the center of the street, panic in his eyes, confusion in his stride, blood still oozing from that freshly sliced six-inch-long valley across his forehead. Okay, so maybe you're right, maybe it's just his clothing that has you somewhat confused--white chiffon blouse, with ruffled sleeves, matching leather skirt, nylons and black high heels--but the heels are gone now, left somewhere back there near that go- go bar, and so is that long blond wig he was sporting only a short while ago when he mistakenly tiptoed into the wrong bar, filled with the wrong crowd--just one more unsuspecting refugee turned victim on the incoming tide.

That's right, he's a drag queen, and this is the first time he 'dressed' up, which is not the same thing as a transsexual but then I guess such topics don't come up much around the average American dinner table. So please allow me to enlighten you a little. He doesn't live as a woman, or at least not twenty-four hours a day anyway, which means that his feminine alter ego is still somewhat agreeable to the notion of sharing his body without the requirement of radical surgery or feature softening hormones. In fact, if the truth be known, he enjoys his masculinity about as much as the next guy, secure in the belief that he has somehow managed to master the nature of his own borderline schizophrenia in much the same way that a tight rope walker masters the high wire, a tight rope walker working without the benefit of a net.

82

His past is a blur of childhood dreams and broken promises, not all that much different from your own actually, and his future is every bit as certain as the will of God; because of course we're all going to die. His days, typically enough, are spent working feverishly in pursuit of a few Benjamins, --someplace, somewhere, it really doesn't matter--and his dreams, predictably enough, revolve around that equally all too familiar hope that one day things will undoubtedly change for the better; but we all fall for the carrot on the stick routine.

And so, like the nocturnal predator, the female in him only comes out at night, the darker the better, strolling through the uncertainty of the moment with a lustful eye toward sucking the unproductive seed of life from those who are still able to give it, and still willing to give it to him, or her, as the moment dictates.

But not tonight. Tonight he's just running, running for cover, fleeing headlong out across this concrete jungle of neon and taxicabs, sirens and midnight air, civilized decadence and the purely curious reaction of a few autamatons, merely dying, or already dead.

No, he's not a bad man. He doesn't murder the innocent or rape little children. He doesn't misuse the public trust. He's just struggling with what he perceives to be life, desire and his own unique roll in it all. I'm not saying that I agree with him, and I'm not saying that I don't. But then just who the hell am I to say who gets to cast the first stone. . . and who the hell are you to pick it up?

Ho-stroll:

She walks the street, that black sequenced skirt hugging her ass like cellophane and hanging down a mere two inches below the crack of it. Her panty-hose are crotchless, which only makes business that much more brisk since most of it is conducted in the alley anyway. She's a slut, a hooker, a tramp, white trash--the choice is yours. Her smile is just as genuine as drugs will allow, and her attitude lives somewhere in between a wolverine at feeding time and Sister Mary Margaret. She's fifteen, rather young don't you think, and yet she's been doing this now for going on two years. She's pretty good at it too, but it really isn't what she'd planned on doing with her life.

She got her first broken nose when she was eleven, something about sticking it 83

where it didn't belong. Actually the blow wasn't even meant for her, it was just one more sadomasochistic love tap aimed at her mother by a man who wasn't even legally related, and yet had become way too fond of the girl to be considered legally innocent either.

Two years and two broken noses later she was gone, leaving her lower middleclass neighborhood for an even lower lower-class life on the streets. She thought she was finally free, but then such are the minds of the young. And she thought that the man who took her in really cared, but then such are the hearts of the young. She desperately needed to be loved, and the new stipulations of that love really didn't seem all that much different from those she had already faced at home. So she gave up thinking about high school or even going back home,and switched her priorities to disease control and controlling her disease, which was now skag, smack, horse, heroin--whatever she could do to lessen the pain.

Sure, it was her fault, just like when your dog runs out in the street and winds up getting flattened by a speeding car.

Spectral Light: His name is Stephen. He's an Iraqi War veteran, and he's got a steel plate in his head to prove it. He's a pretty nice guy, but he's really not all there. He's just here, on the street, lost somewhere between 1991 and infinity.

He lives in a trash dumpster that sits in an alley out back of a restaurant four blocks away, a fairly nice arrangement actually since, as he puts it, he gets his food delivered to his door so to speak. He looks like shit, and he smells worse, but what the hell does he care; he's convinced that the world is just about over with anyway.

You can find him on this same busy street corner every night between the hours of nine and midnight, the "sinning hours" he calls them, preaching Armageddon, hands moving in rapid succession on the bongo drums, to the multitudes who pass him by with amused disapproval. But still he remains undaunted, convinced beyond all reasonable doubt that he is nothing short of a contemporary Elijah, and he knows it, feels it, trusts it, offering up salvation and collecting whatever donations God sees fit to be dropped into that tin can at his feet. Tonight was a fairly good night--thirty dollars and change.

He's free now, though he used to be in a VA mental hospital. Then one day 84

the powers that be decided that he, and thousands like him, would be better off at home. So they sent him home, which only made getting his disability check that much more difficult since he didn't have a home, although he did finally talk one of the local bar owners into providing him with a legitimate address.

His family has long since given up. In fact he can't even remember if he actually has a family, though he considers all mankind to be his brothers and sisters and is quick to help them in any way he can, which is significantly more than can be said for most of those who pass him by.

But don't worry. His just reward is coming. His paradise is in sight. For despite the overwhelming nature of his obvious shortcomings he has, from the sheer standpoint of suffering for the righteousness of one's own convictions alone, successfully managed to nail himself body and soul to the twenty-first century cross of deserving martyrdom, and now awaits only the calling of his lord. He smiles, secure in the knowledge that he will soon be dying for our sins. . . which, when you think about it, is the gospel truth.

Dark Alley apparitions: He calls himself Daemon the Dagger, a bad dude, or so he says, but that straight razor in his back pocket hasn't tasted dying blood yet, although there's a damn good possibility that it will in the very near future. Yes, he's black, but since poverty and desperation never have been known to show favoritism, many of his compatriots are either white, brown, yellow, red or else somewhere in between, and tonight, as usual, they are all once again busy seeking out victims of opportunity among the patrons of the midnight hour.

He's is a mugger, a rapist, a drug pusher--all this and more. At sixteen he's already been judged to be a youthful offender of the repetitive degree, and he sees no reason to change careers now.

He had a conscience once but it ran screaming from the scene of his last major crime, and why not, since even he agrees that it would undoubtedly have been the next victim on his list.

His idea of 'good will' centers around his own selfish desires, and his idea of 'ill will' centers around face slashing revenge.

His mother loves him, but she doesn't understand. His father loves him too, 85

and used to beat the crap out of him with a metal studded strap just to prove it, or at least until that morning when the cops showed up and hauled the ol' man off to jail for loving his little six year old brother, Jamal, just a little bit too much; manslaughter they called it. Who knows, maybe he's saving the lethal virginity of that straight razor as a welcome home present for dear ol' dad, and who could blame him.

He has nothing, and so has nothing to lose by taking from those who have something. He has no hope, and so is jealous of those who do. He has no future, and so is driven to destroy the futures of others. He is a truly dangerous individual, an untrained attack dog beaten into madness by a cruel and callous master, a justifiably outraged being out to seek his own particular brand of blind justice, an imprisoned spirit looking for a way out of hell, or else a well deserved promotion to a the job of vengeance in it. Stay away from him, and those like him, for he hates all that you stand for and now has little hope of ever being housebroken to that reigned bit of social conformity around which you live.

True, the predators of this world are no less victims of opportunity themselves, suffering beneath the weight of a far too long standing social indifference to their self-perpetuating plight. But in all honesty there is not much that can be done to reverse such pathologically antisocial behavior once it has thoroughly invaded its host, just like there is not much that can be done for a rabid racoon. And so, sadly enough, you must simply avoid it, or eliminate it, before it bites you or someone around you, and pray to God that one day we find it within our collective hearts and minds to actively seek out and administer an effective social vaccine to protect the vulnerable, thereby freeing up humanity from the obvious dangers of such a highly contagious disease. . . and rightly so, especially since more and more of those well fed rodents in your own neighborhood seem to be catching it as well.

Alley Cat strut:

It is now a little after 3am, and she's limping slightly, but that's only because her feet hurt from walking the pavement for the last six hours in heels. Yes, it's been a pretty busy night, and she looks it, sort of like an ice cream cone that was carelessly left too long in the sun. But there is no sun, only the sweltering tension of yet another evening's work. And while it is true that she has just turned 86

twenty-three, at times like this she feels closer to fifty.

Once again she hears that familiar sound of a slow moving car behind her, keeping pace with each and every step she takes, watching her from the rear, watching as her long legs move beneath sheer nylon and short skirt cotton.

Abruptly she stops, turns and smiles, waving him toward the curb with a confident expression of well worn experience.

"Well hello there handsome. And just what can I do for you tonight?" As usual she never says a thing about money. She leaves all that up to him.

"I got a spare twenty."

"For what?" she asks.

"Well, how 'bout a little lip action here in the front seat while we drive around?"

"Now let me get this straight," she questions back, "are you offering me a lousy twenty dollars in exchange for giving you a blow job in the front seat of your car?"

"Yeah," he replies, sporting the customary grin. "So how 'bout it?"

In a blur of screeching tires and strong arms the man is quickly dragged from his car and forced to lie face down across the hood of it. He is handcuffed, his pockets are searched, and they're still reading him his legal rights as the unmarked police car pulls away, taking the newly arrested criminal off to face judgment for his crime against society. At the same time another vice officer approaches the woman as well, but you will notice that no arrest is being made.

This is because she too is an officer of the law, part of a team whose directive is to make the customers of prostitutes every bit as susceptible to arrest as the prostitutes themselves. And so she is wearing a court authorized 'wire', a hidden microphone and transmitter designed to send incriminating conversations to a monitored tape recorder, like the one located in that unmarked police car that just drove off. The man might have been a doctor, or a 87

teacher, or perhaps even a priest. Maybe he was starving for companionship every bit as much as he was starving for his own sexual release; and then again maybe not. Yet, in point of fact, the scores of pimps who perpetuate the ongoing suffering of the young women trapped in such servitude are seldom targeted.

And since mandatory psychological evaluation and treatment are virtually never requirements placed on either the convicted prostitute or her customers, there is really little chance that anyone's needs will ever truly be served by such an ongoing commitment to the legal conscripts that pervade this sort of enforced social morality.

Still, it is kind of a shame that the arresting officers were too busy patting themselves on the back for entrapping the poor 'john' to notice that an elderly couple, by the name of Lipshitz, were being brutally mugged by the 'dagger' and his gang just around the corner. But then there's only so much that the police can do. . . only so many places they can be. . . only so many types of crime that they can concentrate on.

Curtain Call: The night is growing older, lingering on the landscape like a begrudgingly discarded can of stale beer, it's once stout constitution slowly dwindling away, the bubbles slowly bursting, in much the same manner as those transient hordes of homeward bound individuals who dwindle with it. Alas, the darkness will be setting soon, plunging the city back into the stark reality of daylight. Still, it's been a pretty good night as nights go, and the twenty-four hour restaurants are already beginning to fill up with their usual array of hungry local folk whose midnight efforts have made such places affordable for the moment. They're a friendly crowd, laughing and talking like the true yuppies that they portray. Yet in a couple of hours they too will disappear, crawling back into the anonymous safety of their contemporary suburban bedroom coffins for still another day of blissful dreams and hellish nightmares.

We do hope that you've enjoyed your little visit here with us this evening.

You might want to remember that these tours are offered each and every night starting just after the dawning of the dark. Reservations are never required, since we're always willing to make room for one more, and our staff is forever coming up with new and innovative ideas designed to make your stay with us an event you will not soon forget. Oh, and speaking of memorabilia, if you'll just open your camera phones for a brief moment you will notice the old man in layers of weather-beaten clothes lying face down on the sidewalk in a pungent 88

pool of his own vomit. Please feel free to take his picture with you, a memento of the city that never sleeps, a conversation piece for your coffee table.

Once again, this concludes our presentation. But you might want to watch your step as you walk away. I mean, well, let's face it, it is still dark outside and the alleyways cast long shadows of what might be lurking just over you left shoulder. We wouldn't want you bumping into something unexpected on your way home. So nighty night, watch your step, . . . Whisper ever so silently, "I see a safe journey, I see a safe return‌�

89

Lambchops, my favorite pet on Scifi sunday

I always spent my summers at the farm....just a few miles from the Vermont border in New York State, we would meander the country road for miles until we came to grandma's and grandpa's home.

What I liked best about my Grandparent‟s farm were the animals. I could smell the sweetness of dung a half mile before we reached the house in my mother‟s car and this was always somewhat uncomfortable when I was allowed to bring a friend along for the visit, but as soon as we walked into Grandma‟s kitchen, my friend‟s face would brighten at the aroma of hot cinnamon buns or Raspberry Rhubarb pie.

I spent the summers at my Grandparent‟s home and the year I turned ten, an ewe named Molly birthed a litter of pretty little lambs. One morning at the kitchen table, my Grandfather looked over to my Grandmother and announced, “I‟m going to put that runt lamb down today, she‟s not feeding it and it‟s starving to death.”

I piped up from my eggs and looked hard at my Grandfather. There‟s no mercy in farm life. If an animal is too weak, it will starve and the most compassionate thing to do is to put it down. I never could grasp the concept. I adored the baby animals as I suspect most children do; and the runt lamb was 90

especially cute with brown freckles covering his pink downy belly and one floppy ear thrown over his still sewn- shut eye at almost three weeks. I took a deep breath and told my Grandfather that I would bottle feed the lamb, if he would allow me to do so.

He straightened his John Deere cap and got up from the table. “Alright Jenny, but the first time that lamb is neglected, you know what will happen.”

And I did.

I named the Lamb, “Lambchops,” and for the rest of the summer, he went everywhere with me. I dressed him in bonnets, my baby doll clothes, tied yellow ribbons around his tail, strolled him through the garden behind my Grandmother in a baby carriage, and on several occasions, he slept with me in bed at night. After a few months, he thought he was human. He‟d baa baa.. to be let in the screen door at dinner time and more times than not, he was allowed to sit in a high chair and eat dinner with the family. I would lie in the grass behind the barn by the old school bus with Lambchops each day and read him story books.

He wasn‟t a very good listener, grinding his nose into the pages until they were sticky with snot, trying to eat the back cover, constantly interrupting me with licks and grunts. But, if the sun was hot enough, he‟d roll over on his back in the grass and every so often in one sweeping jerk, troll his legs up to the sun with a baa... that knocked the blue bonnet with pink roses off his ears-- and that seemed worth all the trouble.

At the end of the summer, I kissed Lambchops goodbye and promised to visit on Thanksgiving. Whenever my Grandparents called, I heard Lambchops in the background of the farmhouse baaing and carrying on the way sheep do. My Grandmother began to hint around after Easter the next year that Lambchops was getting too large for the house and perhaps he‟d fair better at the Bartley's farm down the road where they had more space. I could understand her reasoning, the last time I saw Lambchops he was larger than any of the sheep in the barn and began to be a nuisance around the property. He dug holes in the flowerbeds, knocked over the neighbor‟s trash cans and one day when Grandma wouldn‟t let him in the house, he charged through the screen door and scared her into a heart siezure.

So that June Lambchops moved to the Bartley's. The Bartley's were a strange family with three boys. The eldest Liam , was a greasy looking auburn haired boy with freckles covering every square inch of his wiry frame, even his backside. He was a year older than me and my Grandma claimed that Liam was 91

a pitchfork short of the devil.

“That boy took his air gun and shoved it in his little brother‟s rectum and pulled the trigger!” She told my Grandfather at the dinner table a few years later.

“He couldn‟t sit down for a month. Can you imagine what it must have been like to go to the bathroom?” My experience with the Bartley boys‟ included riding 4wheelers through half foot trails in corn fields with me hog-tied in a cart pulled from the back, and I believed my Grandmother when she said Liam had thrown his brother Jason from the loft of the barn. At eleven, he was smoking cigarettes and showing me his penis every chance he had, and at thirteen he held me down in the raspberry bushes and ripped open my shirt. I never told my Grandfather what happened, for fear that he would hurt him and instead made up a story about getting snagged with a fishing lure. But, there was also something about Liam that excited me. He could be very kind at times and would surprise me after one of his mean streaks by instructing me on the proper way to cast my fishing rod, or riding towards me on his bicycle, he darted to one side after playing that he was going to run me down and showered me with flowers as he passed. He always blew kisses at me.

The only thing that scared Liam was his father. When the Mick would yell from the porch, Liam would jump into the brush or under a stall in the barn and motion with a finger for me to be quiet. I noticed the lash marks on his back when his pants fell below his hips, but I never said anything. I suspected as much trouble as Liam got into, he probably did something to deserve it. Once, when we were hiding in the loft from his father, Liam put his arm around my waist and whispered, “If he tries to hurt you, I swear to god, I‟ll kill him.”

Lambchops had grown to the size of a small calf by his fifth year and Liam half hinted to me one day walking along the creek side trail, that if I really wanted, he guessed he could show the sheep for 4-H with his champion winning rooster, Pedro. With Liam, I learned never to act excited, but still couldn‟t help myself. I tried to hug him, but instead he pushed me in the water and yelled, “Get away!” A few moments later he helped me up.

Getting a sheep ready for show was not as easy as I thought it would be. There was preparation involved. The ram had to be bathed and combed daily and walked around a small pen. Lambchops wasn't used to being treated like an animal. He resisted the leash and even more, the switch used to train him. But after a few weeks, he was ready for show and both Liam and myself were certain 92

we had a winner. The night before the big event Mr. Bartley surprised Liam and invited me over for dinner.

I‟d never seen the inside of the Bartley's home. The outside resembled an old barn looking shack with a roof of different colored shingles and plastic over all the windows. Insulation was visible in parts of the siding where one piece of plywood sealed a hole in the structure. The first thing I noticed was the smell when I walked in the door. It smelled the same way as Liam--a cross between manure and musty wet clothes. There appeared to be five rooms in the house, the first room had an old washing machine where the clothes were placed into an open aluminum tub and then ran through two parallel rollers to ring them of excess water. An old woodstove was propped up on bricks in one corner where Liam's mother was cooking. She didn‟t turn around when we walked in and continued to stir a pan with her head down. A curtain led to the dining and living room area. There was a small black and white television set in the corner that Liam's father was watching from a beat up recliner, and a wooden table with unmatched chairs where his brother sat coloring. Crates of canned foods scattered the floor as if they were just dropped off that day and needed unpacking, but there were no cupboards. There was a curtain on the farthest side of the house that led to another room with a bed and chest of drawers and another small entrance next led to a toilet with no visible bathtub. Liam‟s mother set the table silently and when dinner was ready, she motioned with a hand for us to sit down.

The food was delicious. Mrs. Bartley was a wonderful cook and had made cheesy scallop potatoes with turnips, corn on the cob, and fried lamb chops.

There wasn‟t much conversation throughout dinner and Mrs. Bartley just nodded when I told her everything tasted good. I could tell Liam wanted to finish the meal and leave quickly by the way he scooped the food eagerly into his mouth and pushed the plate in front of him when I had barely finished half my meal.

“We‟d better get going, I‟ll walk you home Jenny.” He said getting up and I followed him to the door. His father lifted his head and grinned, displaying jagged and missing teeth in his mouth blackened from chewing tobbacco and his eyes were glazed over from what I imagined to be drinking from the jug of clear liquid by the recliner.

“What‟s wrong Liam,” the Mick slurred, “How‟d ya like those damned lamb chops?”

Liam glared at him and said, “They were fine.”

93

His father began to laugh, tipping his chair back so far he almost fell over, but caught himself on the wall. Leaning forward, he shouted as Liam opened the door, "How'd ya like those Lamb chops boy?”

This time Liam turned around. Shaking his head in disbelief, he cried, “No! You didn‟t!”

His father kept laughing and squealed, “Oh, but I did! How‟d your little girlfriend like Lambchops?”

I started to gag and Liam peered at me from the corner of his eye as I threw up all over the floor. Then ever so calmly, he walked over to the dinner table, picked up the hot Dutch oven and smacked the hot side of it across his father‟s face so hard that he fell from the chair and remained there long after we ran from the house.

I didn‟t see Liam the rest of that summer and only in passing the next, but he never made eye contact with me or spoke. Grandpa said he lived in a lean to down by the river, and no one went near him. The summer he turned sixteen, he was arrested for blowing up an old covered bridge in the next county and spent time in juvenile detention.

I received a box from Sullivan County Juvenile detention center, I slowly opened it, there was a letter from Liam, and a carving of a ram. It was beautifully handcrafted and at the base was the name "Lambchops".

Another sheepwreck

A redneck, a sheep, and a dog were survivors of a terrible shipwreck.

94

They found themselves stranded on a desert island.

After being there a while, they got into the habit of going to the beach every evening to watch the sun go down.

One particular evening, the sky was red with beautiful cirrus clouds, the breeze was warm and gentle; a perfect night for romance.

As they sat there, the sheep started looking better and better to the redneck.

Soon, he leaned over to the sheep and put his arm around it.

But the dog got jealous, growling fiercely until the redneck took his arm from around the sheep.

After that, the three of them continued to enjoy the sunsets together, but there was no more cuddling.

A few weeks passed by, and lo and behold, there was another shipwreck.

The only survivor was a beautiful young woman, the most beautiful woman the redneck had ever seen.

She was in a pretty bad way when they rescued her, so they slowly nursed her back to health.

When the young maiden was well enough, they introduced her to their evening beach ritual.

It was another beautiful evening: red sky, cirrus clouds, a warm and gentle breeze; perfect for a night of romance.

Pretty soon, the redneck started to get "those feelings" again.

He fought them as long as he could, but he finally gave in and leaned over to the young woman, cautiously, 95

and whispered in her ear...

"Would you mind terribly taking the dog for a walk?"

And she answered: Gladly.

Turkey!

I only ate one drumstick At the picnic dance this summer, Just one little drumstickThey say I couldn't be dumber.

One tough and skinny drumstick, Why was that such a bummer?

But everybody's mad at me, Especially the drummer.

96

The best job in the world

The grim reaper shot out of bed then grabbed at the bedpost as the room began to swirl violently." What now,? for God`s sake."

God frowned. "I have warned you about this before."

Sorry, sir. Quietus mumbled, his face turning a lighter shade of pale. What`s the matter?"

"What is the matter?" God repeated, his voice booming around the cavern." What is the matter? You are what is the matter. "What are you doing in bed?"

Quietus flinched." Eeeerrrrrrr, would you mind keeping your voice down a bit Arghhhh... got a bit of a headache."

"You have what?" God yelled, his voice rising ten decibels. "Well you do look a little Piqued!

But who can tell?"

The grim reaper groaned and sank down onto the bed." Ugh! Out last night on the town.

Celebrating All soul‘s day, sir. Well, it is my holiday. just feeling a little morbid."

"What on earth ..? You should have been on Earth doing your job, not joining in with the natives.

No wonder that your quota is down again this month, if you spend all your time in bed. Get out of here, now. El turned and walked out of the cavern, muttering under his breath. "They just do not understand how hard it is to run things." He dematerialized then, changing his mind, appeared near the bed again. "I will be back in ten minutes, to check on you." He yelled, "Nobody works as hard as they used to..... good help is getting harder to 97

find.....Hurry up before I get someone else to take your place...."

The Grim reaper let out a ghastly shudder and gazed longingly at his pillows. He knew that it was not an idle threat, so he would have to go. He climbed into his black robe and gathered his hourglass, scythe, gurgling stomach and fuzzy head together and wandered out of the cavern; taking care not to bang his scythe against the walls....His pale horse was nowhere to be found, what the hell was he supposed to ride on?

There were rules to the job. He could only collect souls and dispatch them to Lucifer and his lackeys. He hated that part of his job. According to the rules, he must wait until the moment of death before moving in, he himself could not take a life,. God would be very annoyed if He even suspected that Quietus murdered anything. The grim reaper was very discrete..and knew what to do when his time came.....

Quietus dispatched the souls five monkeys, three polar bear and a fox in quick succession, then, got his eye on a pair of frogs mating. They were both young and healthy but, the queen frog suffocated and met her demise, and Quietus went off to look for larger game. (It was ten days before the bull frog noticed that anything was wrong.)

Quietus found Newell sitting at the breakfast table in his shirt-sleeves. Perfect. He chortled, rubbing his meta carpals together. Mid forties, obese , stuffing his face with lovely, greasy, bacon and eggs. Oh, there is even a stogey burning in the ashtray; and a bottle of ale. Beer at 7:30 in the morning? Newell clutched at his chest and groaned." Oh, my God.....NO!!" " Don`t say that. the grim reaper hissed, his head swiveling around. If he hears you we will both be in trouble...."

Newell looked up and saw the dark, robed, figure. "Don`t just stand there, you fool, get me a doctor. Aaaaaaaargh .." he screamed. " Oh, my head. Quietus groaned, putting his hands over his ears. "You don`t have to shout like that." " I Can`t..... stand pain.....Aaaaaaaaaargh.." Screamed Newell.

"Pain, shpain, it's all in the mind. Don`t be so bloody spiteful, it will only last a couple of minutes. The grim reaper stamped his foot and put his hands on top of his head." My head, oh, it is going to come off. You are a selfish sod, stop it, my head is exploding."

For a few seconds there was silence. Then, Newell slumped over, onto the floor, gasping.

Quietus grinned.

Newell gathered all of his willpower and strength together and screamed. "I feel like death warmed over."

The ghastly figure of doom stopped shadowing Newell, It wasn't worth the extra points he could claim for a human soul and shot out of the building, clutching his head again.

98

Newell recovered sufficiently to use the phone, then lay on the floor, exhausted, until help arrived.

He later thought that he had imagined the robed figure. Must have been the pain. "Death wasn't just knocking on the door, it was right next to me." He explained to his wife.

Doom decimated the rat population of a ghetto in down town Los Angeles , Then the reaper watched seven elephants and a giraffe near Johannesburg expire, then popped along to herd five thousand lemmings into the sea. He thought that it was now time for a nap. He could only have a few minutes, because, if the flood dried up, Archangel Michael would send his mate to do a spot check. Raphael was a bitch about other people`s work schedules. He was the director of time, and punctuality meant everything.

When Quietus woke up he felt a little better, well enough to have another go at a human. But, this time, he would go for an easier target.

Little Anna's face had become flushed as her temperature soared. Her tiny fingers plucked at the blanket, as she lay in the oxygen tent, struggling for breath. Her parents watched, her mother sobbing quietly, as the doctor spoke to them.

"She is reaching the crisis point now. We are pushing massive doses of antibiotics into her, but she is extremely congested. We should know one way or the other in an hour or two."

Quietus nodded his head. "Or sooner...just give me five minutes, pal." He stood at the head of the bed and gazed down at the baby's face. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Hi, kid. How about you and me going for a little toddle up those stairs, eh?" He pointed at a staircase that had appeared in the wall of the hospital room, next to a painting of a pale rocking horse...

Her eyes were glazed but, with an effort, she brought them into focus and grinned. "Who is the boney man, Daddy?"

"Boney, indeed." Death rattled, leaning forward." Come-on, time to go" Suddenly, time stopped, as the child grabbed the reaper's hourglass and began to tip it backwards and forwards. The room slipped sideways and Quietus stumbled; nearly taking off the doctor`s head with his scythe. The room was frozen in time. The doctor stood, immobile, with his clip board in his hand. The nurse had one leg raised in the air as she attempted to take a step forward. The father was halfway out of his chair and the mother sat, with her mouth open, reaching out to her child.

The grim reaper scrambled to his feet."Hey, Give me that, you little brat."

The child giggled and turned the hourglass. The room slipped again and Quietus rattled to the other side of the bed. "Boney man fall down again, Daddy." She began to laugh, and her voice echoed around the room.

"Stop it. The reaper shrilled. "You are bringing my headache back again." This made the child 99

laugh louder, and she tipped the sand again. The grim reaper's head began to ring.

It was all over in a few moments. The child got bored with her new toy and flung it on the bed. Destiny snatched at his time-piece and reached out for his victim. But, as soon as Doom came near, she began to laugh again. "You got no nose, no mouth, no eyes." Her laughter grew louder and louder. With a snort of disgust, the reaper fled through the wall.

Time returned to normal and the child`s eyelids began to droop. Her eyes closed and she fell back onto the pillows. Her parents leaned forward anxiously.

"It is alright, we have won." The doctor said, as he held her wrist. "She is asleep but it is a normal sleep. I think that she should be alright now; she's not quite out of the woods yet mind you, but the worst is over."

The reaper was not making the toll. He was fed up. They were just not co-operating at all.

This was worse than pulling teeth. He took his Rolodex out of his pocket and checked on his score. He frowned. He would never reach his daily quota, and he was already a week behind.

God was going to kill him. He laughed at the thought, then regretted it, as his head began to swim. Why me? he muttered, seeing three hens become roadkill, then he shot off to Puerto Rico, to admire the handiwork of a few Chupacabras. The fast traveling did not help." Oh, God, my head....This must be what suicide feels like."

He heard the answer, "Suffer", from the heavens, and scooted off to a remote part of Antarctica to sulk.

His time on patrol was never over. It was times like these when he needed an assistant to take over. He asked for one once, but the answer was no. He was in deep trouble; up to his neck bone in it. He worked out that there were only about ten minutes to go. Slowly he circled the world before leaving.

He was just drifting over Central Asia when he saw them, thousands of them. He chortled with glee. "War, lovely war, never ending massacre's.....my work is never done..."

There was no time to be particular, but wars were chaotic anyway. Luckily, Anna's interference had messed up his hourglass, giving him extra time in which to do a good job.

Happily, he totaled up his points, then he turned back. Just enough time for five more to make both sides equal. The grim reaper did not take sides, and both sides always lost anyway.

Quietus smiled as he wandered off. Forget the headache, pal, you are over your quota now. A quick trip home, to spruce up the image; it was poker night, . "YES! Thank you God, Shit, and to think, I nearly spoiled it. "This has to be the best job in the world."

100

Praying to God A little boy wanted $100.00 very badly and prayed for weeks, but nothing happened. Then he decided to write God a letter requesting the $100.00.

When the postal authorities received the letter to God, USA, they decided to send it to the President. The president was so amused that he instructed his secretary to send the little boy a $5.00 bill.

The president thought this would appear to be a lot of money to a little boy. The little boy was delighted with the $5.00 bill and sat down to write a thank-you note to God, which read: Dear God: Thank you very much for sending the money. However, I noticed that for some reason you sent it through Washington, DC., and those assholes deducted $95.00 in taxes

101

Jack the hamster, a grim faery tale

Jack the hamster had spent his whole life on a wheel, in a cage, by the door of Room 17 in the Lotus Laboratories building, constantly running. He never stopped, not even to eat, since he was fed intravenously with a special protein mixture. Running was all he knew.

The world was changing all around him, other hamsters in the room with him, had come and gone. Jack hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed the many people who had walked in and out of the room in the days and months he had been there. Jack only knew the wheel, he‘d run on it all day, and slept upon it at night.

Today life was going to change for Jack. It was 8:15 a.m. when the earthquake hit. The building Jack was in was specifically designed to withstand such quakes, and it did, but not without swaying a bit. First, Jack didn't notice the movement, then quite suddenly he felt the cage sliding and in an instant the cage which contained Jack was laying on its side on the floor of Room 17, with the door wide open. Jack dazed by the fall, tried to get back on the wheel.

He couldn't. His whole existence had been altered by this quasi-natural happening.

Jack stood motionless for several minutes trying to get his bearings while he stared out of the door of his cage, unsure of what to do, now that he was no longer running on the wheel. He stepped toward the door and retreated trying to get as close to the broken wheel as he could. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never felt his heart 102

pound before. He wasn't even sure what was happening. He felt quite odd. He realized he was very excited, his heart was pounding, and he was breathing hard, this was something he never experienced before.

The lab door suddenly flew open. The burst of it frightened Jack so badly that he scurried from his cage and underneath a nearby table and hid behind a chair leg.

He looked out and saw a giant bending over and looking at the fallen cage. Then the giant's eyes were darting around the room in search of something. Frustrated, the giant picked up the cage and placed it back on the top of the counter near the door where it had rested before the tremor, and left the room.

Jack, now more courageous than before, decided to explore his surroundings and went about the room, here and there to see what was going on.

He looked at all the cages in the room, most of the cages contained hamsters like himself.

They all seemed to be running on wheels, just like the one in his cage. Jack could see them running and running. He wondered why they didn't just stop.

"Why don't they just get off those wheels?" Jack thought.

Why didn't he ever get off the wheel before now? Maybe they didn't know how. Jack wanted to tell them, but he couldn't. They were up too high on top of those counter tops. They wouldn't be able to hear him.

"Hey!" Jack yelled. "hey you up there, can you hear me?" ―Hey! I‘m down here, is anyone listening?‖ ―Look I‘m off the wheel!‖ No one answered, to them, Jack was a non entity. Jack noticed a ramp and made the effort to climb up it, when he was high enough he started shouting at the top of his lungs. Some of the hamsters looked down at Jack, but continued running on their wheels.

"I must be crazy, trying to get them to listen to me."

Jack thought. He was happy any way. Somewhere inside him there was a peacefulness. He no longer felt the urge to keep pace with the wheel. He just wanted to live inside of his newly found peace.

"Is this what it's all about?" He thought. "All this time I've been running and going nowhere. I never even realized until my cage fell. If it hadn't fallen, I never would have known, and I'd have run on and on like the others, on a wheel going round and round, heading nowhere, forever."

Suddenly the door burst open again. The giant entered the room. He spotted Jack, immediately retrieving the hamster into his large hands. Jack was terrified.

"Now what?" He thought, as the giant inspected his tiny being. The giant then placed Jack 103

back inside the cage that was once his home and onto the "dreadful" wheel. Jack just stood there motionless. The giant nudged his back. Still he did not move. Perplexed, the giant rushed out of the room making harsh noises. Soon he returned with another giant. They both were making those noises now.

One of the giants walked toward the cage with a large pointed object.

Jack was somewhat curious as to what the giant was going to do with the object. Suddenly he found out. A tremendous pain seized his little body, and he could feel himself slipping away from it. His head started to spin, his vision blurred until there was only darkness. He looked and before him, he could see a large white hamster. Fear surrounded him. The large hamster spoke.

"Jack, my son, I am here to welcome you."

"Where am I?" Jack asked, feeling instantly calm upon hearing the great hamster's voice.

"You're off the wheel forever, Jack, you're where you belong now, where there are no wheels."

"There's plenty of wheels back there." Jack replied.

"Yes Jack, the giants love wheels. They think that they can learn from them, they think they gain power by them.‖ "Can they?" Jack quizzed.

"No, they can only learn by getting off them, the way you did Jack."

"Well, I was shaken from mine. Why don't you shake theirs?"

"We have been Jack, we've been shaking their wheels for a very long time."

104

Every Yot and Tittle

"Jennifer, you are a cheat and a liar." I was standing in front of the whole fourth grade class wishing I could disappear, as my teacher, Miss Sullivan, shouted at me, shaking her plump finger in my face. The whole class sat stone-faced, watching to see if I was going to cry. I started breathing loud, fast breaths, hyperventilating, and holding in the tears. I felt totally ashamed, though the part about being a cheat was not true, I was innocent of the charges against me.

I had lied on occasion, but not today.. I lied yesterday, though, when I told my Brownie troop that Tiger Woods was my father. But I'm not a cheat, I'm thinking, as she stood at her desk and accused me.

"But, Miss Sullivan, I did dot the "i".

"Don't give me those innocent eyes, Jennifer. Her finger pointed to my spelling paper. "You dotted that "i" after Lisa took off credit for no dot on the "i" in "ignorant�. You sneaked in a dot. Back to your seat and don't let me catch you cheating again.

105

I was ashamed and embarrassed even though I didn't do anything wrong. For the first time my record for perfect spelling was broken and I wasn’t going to win the fourth grade weekly spelling prize. I already have an elf pin, a gnome pin and a hobbit pin. Daddy is so proud of me. He boasted to everyone that they would soon run out of the seven dwarfs.

Lisa was jealous. She never won anything which is why she took a point off me. Everyone in the class says she’s conceited with her red hair and long braids snaking down her back.

"Look, Lisa I tell her," there's the dot. See it? " "You sneaked it in after you took your paper back, Jenn," Lisa swung her head around so fast, her braids struck me in the face.

I was so nervous heading to the front of the classroom to tell Miss Sullivan. Old fart face Sullivan with her Greta Garbo ringlets pasted on her forehead probably won't believe me. "A liar and a cheat!" she yelled, right in front of the whole damn class .I didn’t cheat.

I started crying and ran to the coat closet with my spelling paper in my hand. I grabbed my scarf, mittens, hat and coat. I bolted out of the classroom, down the steps and out the heavy school door. I ran down Kearny Avenue carrying all my outer clothes in my arms.

“It’s freezing” I shivered, “good thing I only live half a block away.”

"Miss Sullivan called me a liar and a cheat," I sobbed when I reached home, my mother looking at me with abject pity.

"So, you left school?" Mother quizzed. "You just walked out?"

The telephone rang. It was Mr. Sansone the principal. My mother was talking to him in a very low voice, then grabbed her winter coat. "Come Jennifer put on your coat" Ten minutes later we arrived at his office with Miss Sullivan.

“She called me a liar.” I cried.

"I would never call her that," said Miss Sullivan "Wait one minute," admonished Mr. Sansone while perusing my spelling test. He pointed at a word on my spelling paper. Jennifer did not dot the "j" in judgment" A minute later they were all smiling and agreeing. I get a point back for "ignorant" and lose it for "judgment."

So I went back to my classroom with my teacher, the liar and wondered about judgment.

106

Ecliptic Voodun In the Gloam

Louisa Jean sucked on some sweet logan berries that had ripened in the bramble.. Her Orchid parfume hung in the languid air, an ethereal affect of her daily visits. The battering of voodoo drums began slowly, rhythmically in the nearby Louisiana woods, as the sky darkened at midday due to a full solar eclipse. Blood from sacrificed sheep smeared the trunks of trees and the grass was stained red with the sacrifice of ten ravens. Today would be a full eclipse, and there would be no light for six minutes.

"Gris-gris lives as you live." Clothed from head to toe in a white ritual gown, Beulah spoke harshly, with corncob pipe in hand. A barking hound at her side also announced his presence, Louisa Jean looked up expectantly smiling from ear to ear. “Mawmaw!”

"I have something special for you." Beulah said in a raspy voice.

Beulah took the object and blessed it, turning it in her hand several times counter clockwise as she took a long drag from her pipe. "This belonged to my grandmother who passed it down to me and now it's yours, three generations blessed.”

107

Louisa jean held the pendant in her hands. “It’s so beautiful!" Beulah licked her fingers to shine the stone. "It's a fire Opal. It is a talisman to bring you cosmic energy, so that your inner soul can be healed.

It opens your psychic center and tells of evil portents by turning a dark hue. It will protect you from harm. Take it child! Wear it from now on."

Louisa Jean graciously accepted. Beulah took Louisa Jean’s face in her hands that showed all too well her seventy odd years on this Earth. "Words that come out of us like words that stay within, bind us to those we love, forever."

They began to walk. The wind’s remorseful sigh, warned of the approaching storm. The dog then perked up his ears, listening intently to the ominous whistle. Spooked, the old hound sprinted far ahead of the two women. Beulah laughed and looked up at threatening clouds.., " Danm coon hound, the physical world is restless today, a solar eclipse on 7/22. Today the moon becomes as blood."

As they arrived at Beulah’s cabin, music crackling from an old Victrola could be heard.. An old woman sat on a porch swing, the archaic RCA Victrola at her side playing a love melody from day's gone by. She continually fiddled with the tuning feeling her way with her fingers. Deep scars and wrinkles were visible across her face, and sightless eyes..

"How is Great mamere doing?" Louisa jean asked.

Beulah sighed as she looked at the aged woman on the porch swing. "Slowly dying of old age, dear one, but her time is not yet come.”

The interior corridor of the house held a sacred temple to Baron LaCroix-The Loa of the Dead. He was wearing a top hat, black coat tails, a gold cross around his neck, smoking a cigar. An altar was erected in his honor with various candles, symbols, colorful beads, bells, samhain oil, and rum. Beulah’s son, Antoine beat the voodun drums. Louisa Jean gave her nod of approval at him, and Antoine responded with a flirtatious smile, still tapping the rhythm out on the drum.

"P'tite Tawaye, how far along are you?" A squeaky almost unintelligible voice from behind them became audible. It was Beulah’s mother, Minirose .

Louisa Jean turned around and placed her hands lovingly on her stomach. "four months."

She looked back at Antoine who was now in full trance mode, still tapping on the drum. Beulah turned her full attention to Louisa Jean . "Are you ready to do this, child?"

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I reckon.” Louisa shook her head in agreement With that they walked to the back of the cabin, into a small room used for scrying. The room was painted completely black and was empty except for a chair carefully placed in front of a large scrying

108

mirror. Beulah pointed to the chair and told Louisa Jean to sit.

"Clear your mind and your heart, be open to the forces that will be called upon to guide you." Beulah instructed her.

The old woman appeared with an herbal drink and handed it to Louisa Jean. “Ghede’s power is strongest tonight.”

"You must drink this now." She whispered. Louisa took the drink, and downed it in one big gulp, immediately her head started spinning.. She became nauseous.” I got the Mal au Couer” Trying to keep herself from passing out she then focused her eyes on the mirror. She instinctively felt the dark. Images then started to appear in the mirror, she heard a voice as if she was under water..

Antoine beat the Voodun drum louder and began to chant: Attibon Legba ouvri baye pou' moin ago!

Ou we Attibon Legba ouvri baye pou' moin ouvti baye!

M'ape rentre quand ma tourne, Ma salut Loa yo!

Attibon Legba open the gate for me, I ask you please!

You see, Attibon Legba, open the gate for me, open the gate!

I will enter when I return, I salute the Loa!"

Minirose’s voice in rhythm with the drumbeat now, placed the fetish stone bowl in Louisa Jean’s lap. “you must run your hands over the stone.” She was now dressed in dark ceremonial garb, and presided over the ritual as the Bokor – Mambo.

Louisa Jean’s hands felt the bowl in the dark. She could feel the scales of the serpentine image carved 109

upon it. Slowly images took form in the mirror…..A black man and a white woman could be seen making love among tall grass, their covered wagon parked nearby.... “I’m your’s forever Je t'aime toujours !"

Louisa Jean’s eyes widen and she whispered "Great Papere? No!" A group of hooded men came upon the young lovers in the tall grass….The woman was dragged across the ground, then severely beaten by the hooded men, and left to die. . The black man was then tied to a tree. "If we let this nigger go, it won't be safe for your mother, wife, or sweetheart to walk down the streets of Baton Rouge!" “let’s hang the bastard! Hey, boys, it’s lynchin’ time.”

One of the men brought a thick rope and made a noose. "I can't see his body." Louisa Jean cried “The mirror keeps fading in and out…..”

"The body is no body to be seen." Beulah responds. "It is from the Earth he came and it is the Earth that will send him back to us by the power of Ghede.”

“My love, my Pookie" Minirose whispered, “Mi aime jou, I know you will come back to me.” .

Louisa Jean stood erect, not noticing Antoine in the doorway, the sounds of the voodoo drums, silent.

"Reborn? Him! How is that possible?" Louisa Jean asked.” Dit mon la verite'!”

Beulah sidled up close to Louisa Jean, and placed her hand on the girl's stomach. Antoine winked at Louisa Jean as she stared on in disbelief. "By the darkness of the fertile moon we ask the Baron Samedi in his hour of greatest power…..”

Crossroads of the Loa

The Shop Keeper's spirit meandered down the dusty road like an abandoned cur, stopping here to look at a dead person alongside the road. His feelings were 110

like something soaring out of nightmarish dreams. Shading his eyes from a tremendous January sun, he peered off to the right where a wounded psyche lay being baked into something calloused and hard and no longer part of the poor soul from whence it had come. To his left, where he didn't have to shade his eyes because the sun was hot on his back, stood a huge mountain of broken walls and windows. Tears the size of his hand tumbled down its weathered slope to drop into a swirling vortex of death, which reprocessed it back to betrayal, forever recycling the sadness of man's treachery. The Shop Keeper, closed his eyes and sighed as old Sol began its final plunge behind the broken spine of Port Au Prince, the whole of Haiti had become a Wanga, the result of Petro magic perpetrated by the white devil.

"I can't do this."

No answer. The Shop Keeper expected none. But it wasn't silence which greeted his declaration, not at all. Faint moans of anguish could be heard over the tormented pleas of a small child. Male? Female? He did not know. It mattered not. The pain was real. Yes. He withstood the sound better by keeping his eyes closed. He realized that the faint moans were coming from himself.

The catastrophic events were familiar. He had never been here, though. Not in this life. That was the thing, then. Since everything here seemed twisted, the whole world upside down, the Shop Keeper had to ask the question.

"Am I going to die like this?"

Far away he heard shattered hope screech.

"Will I get out of here alive?"

Raucous laughter issued from wickedness. The shopkeeper had heard it before. Wickedness never showed its face. Coward. Instead it played out it's evil game through the sonic booms hitting the ocean floor. The reason you can never see it is because it is the darkest side of you.

This rather unusual event was familiar in an obscure, unfamiliar way. Since early this morning, or was it yesterday morning, oh, no matter. Since he'd found himself suffocating in this place, he recognized certain . . . things. Nothing he could put his finger on and say, "Look, I remember this from . . ." No. Nothing like that. There was a surreal quality about certain things which defied definition. Although some of the things he knew he had never seen before but 111

still, he knew what they were.

Like the stench of thousands of bodies, swelled in death, baking in the streets.

Was he next? Then he wailed as loud as he could and stopped with a wimper as the dust filled his parched lungs. He knew not why he was naked nor where his clothes were. He shivered. It was approaching nighttime and he recalled it had gotten cold last night.

The shopkeeper swooned in and out of consciousness. Soon he came upon a wooden bridge built over foaming, raging rapids. He stopped, fearful of crossing the bridge. He took a tentative step. The bridge creaked, gave somewhat to his weight. Another step. Groans from the timber. He froze. After a deep breath he took five very fast steps and was about in the middle of the bridge when he heard them.

He stood, naked, afraid, and alone. Debating whether he should go back or go forward. Instead of doing either he placed his hand on the bridge's railing to keep his knees from giving way and causing him to collapse from the terrifying dread. He leaned forward trying to steady himself and the noise became ferocious. He knew he should not, but still, he looked into the rapids.

But actually, the foaming water was not rapids. What was probably a languid little stream normally, was foaming and churning because of the drowning libidos and accompanying egos, a cacophany of raging souls caught up in the electromagnetic field created by the vortex of souls, 'gro-bon-ange,' being forced from their clay bodies, by the 'bitter loa.'

"Please, what do you want from me?"

He stared into the horrible scene as hundreds, no thousands of perishing libidos screamed out for one more chance at life's breath before being taken into the void. Defiant and lustful to the absolute end is mankind's absorption with ego against skin. The Shopkeeper lingered his eyes on the tempestuous torrent below because to not do so he would have had to look into himself.

Taking a few quick, very intense mouthfuls of air, he leaned further over the railing and stared into the turbulence below as if he were seeing the very last thing on earth. Rank odor emitted from the air, an odor which could mean only death and decay. All of a sudden he saw something scurrying from the stream.

Then another. And more. Egos were making a mad dash for . . . where? Where 112

could an ego go if it had no body to prod and to push? Still. They were leaving the earth by the thousands and they looked so comical that the traveler laughed in spite of his own dire situation.

What had been fetid odors wafting from below gave way to a different fragrance, the lingering smell of all the lovers he had known. The combined smell was at first pleasant and satisfying. Taking the Shopkeeper back to better times and the sensuousness of women's caresses. Faces flooded his thoughts. .

"See?" The Baka spoke. "I am your lover, can you not see that? I am the only thing you have ever loved, I am you."

The Shopkeeper screamed. Then he ran and ran and ran, the road abruptly becoming as straight as it was crooked before. He could not escape from himself, though. He understood that. The woman thing was gone but it still lived as surely as he took the next gasping breath, and it did so because it was him with all the warts.

A forlorn, solitary howl interrupted the Shopkeeper's perverse musings. Such a sad and lonesome wail could only come from a horse. The shopkeeper took it as a warning. A cautionary howl for strangers who walk among the remnants and distasteful ingredients which make up mankind. He needed to shelter himself from this pale beast.

"Why?" He startled himself with his question. Shelter because he was, or would be, cold. Shelter to hide his nakedness. He was ashamed of his slightly rounded stomach, his slightly sagging breasts, his slightly receding penis. Shelter to hide his imperfections.

Oh, my. The pale horse was there with him, pressing his cold, wet nose against his bare leg. Oh, my. The horse walked ahead of him. He was, of course, not a horse A beast though. He was that. A beast that spoke.

"I am here to take you there." Actually the shopkeeper did not see the beast's mouth move when it talked, but he knew that it must have.

"Where?"

"Follow me." The baka loped off but the shopkeeper did not run after it. Soon 113

the horse was out of sight.

He did continue walking though. What else was he to do? There was no where else to go. As he walked, he was met with ghostly images from his past. Only they were not spirits. Unless spirits could touch and feel and bleed and sob and scream into his face all manner of fearful words and screeches and claw his backside and frontside and attack his genitals, especially his genitals. He could not defend himself because somewhere without him being aware, his arms had become paralyzed. So, he was at the mercy of these agonized, brutalized entities and they went about the job of making him pay for his indiscretions. Still, through it all, he walked, and as he did so he found that he desired to forgive his persecutors even though it seemed they had held onto their grudges.

Now he understood. He knew now. They were all gone and in their wake, left the parts of themselves they blamed the shopkeeper for destroying. Hearts, broken hearts were the most prominent but there were also minds unstable and potential destroyed. Potential destroyed was the most awful of them all. He had heard of potential his whole life and had never known exactly what it was. Now that he was looking at potential destroyed it was all he could do to keep from screaming. Potential destroyed was a dreadful thing to behold. Potential destroyed was a small golden sphere approximately the size of a small green pea when it fell from those now gone. When they touched the ground there was an audible gasp and then no more sounds. The golden sphere morphed into such a lovely child, a child of no particular sex but a child of innocence and a child desirous of guidance, someone to attach to and grow into love personified. It was not to be, however, because the lovely child's skin began to peel from its body and as it did its eyes stared straight into the shopkeeper's and the eyes said, "I never had a chance to grow into my potential,." Then it turned into a caricature of an old hag, the kind you see in fairy tales as witches and melted back down to the pea size it used to be, then melted back into the ink dark ether of void. When that happened, the shopkeeper had to turn away, the horrible stench and penetrating stare was just too much for him, as his senses were assaulted by the Marasa, the contradictory forces of the universe.

He stumbled down the road, half running, half walking; stumbling. A huge, intense, bright light blinded him and caused him to lurch sideways and finally collapse onto the sandy road, and just before he passed out he heard the moans and shrieks and screams of all the broken bodies suffocating under the broken structure that was once his home.

114

His eyes opened to the loveliest woman he had ever seen. She had been wiping his forehead with a cool, moist rag. She smiled, the world smiled too, and was happy.

The shopkeeper was in bed. Not his bed. She poured a sparkling glass of water and touched it to his feverish lips and before he sipped from it he knew that it would be the best water he had ever drank. It was. She sat the glass on the small table and stood to leave.

"Oh, please," the Shopkeeper said, "don't go. Where am I? What is your name?"

The Zanj smiled. The world smiled again. "You are here. My name is Over."

With that she turned and left him alone. But no. Someone else was here. The Shopkeeper sensed another presence.

"How do you feel?"

The voice, like the girl's, just saturated him with breathtaking sensations. A rich baritone voice full of wonderful . . . ambiance. "Tell me what I am doing here, please."

"My name is Cross," the voice answered. You are being prepared."

"Why, am I--" "Yes. You are dying, . You are in the hospital room in the city where you reside.

We have been preparing you for the transition."

"Oh." "Fear not, we will treat you kindly."

"But the crossroads, and oh, the people and all the--" "That is part of the transition, an unkind part to be sure, but necessary."

"Why? To show me my past sins?"

"No. Everybody thinks that. It is a cleansing. Not everyone gets caught up in the vortex, you did not, because you were a good person....�

"But the earthquake, all those people trapped, then being caught up in that 115

torment...I witnessed it...." “you are dead now. My companion and I will assist you the rest of the way." The young woman appeared beside the bed.

"Take her hand, now mine."

The shopkeeper saw the voice standing beside the 'Hounsi' they both wore long, flowing white robes many thousands of departed children were hanging on to them, and when he took their hands he understood the significance of their names. Cross over.

The Truth shall set you Free!

116

I leave this testament as a warning to the future, if there is a future. The infection spreads across the world, corrupting all that it touches. I do not have the power or courage to stop it, I do not know if anyone does. I have seen it claim my friends and family. I shall not let it claim me. Death shall claim me: unsullied, strong, pure. The poison that I have administered is quick and painless - death before dishonour, you could say.

I have seen what the scourge has done to the world and I do not wish to become a part of it. It is no longer my world, but a mockery of all we held dear.

It started so very innocuously, as such world-altering events often do. A military raid in a little place called Ghazni, you've probably never heard of it.

OFFICER'S REPORT: August 17th. Vagrant; male, Moslem. No ID at time of arrest, no name given or forthcoming from questioning. Ragged clothes, no shoes, no money at time of arrest. Vagrant was very happy, however, and very co-operative in nature. Believed to be intoxicated: at least we can't see why he would be so damned happy, considering his circumstances; perhaps deranged?

He was found wandering in a poppie field. (cf. psych report) When questioned about his incongruously happy state (i.e. what drug he had taken), vagrant laughed; stated "I got the TRUTH! You want some, man?" Vagrant was subsequently searched again for drugs; none found. Tests were inconclusive, seemed to be clean.

How wrong they were. They just couldn't detect it, that's all. If they would have gotten rid of that vagrant then, they would have saved the world.

OFFICIAL MEMO, August 21st, from the desk of Sergeant Murphy.

Re: Gitmo Protocol. No officer is allowed within 3 feet of Prisoner Hicks. After the severe attitude change of Officers Sanchez, Williams and Carpenter, we believe that Hicks still has a quantity of Truth and is disseminating it - his continued state of happiness testifies he has enough to feed his own addiction as well as spreading it to others. If you are exposed to his preaching, you shall be dismissed as have Sanchez, Williams and Carprenter. This is a message for your OWN PROTECTION. Prisoner Hicks, a converted Christian is dangerous and his religious beliefs are dangerous.

You see, it started to spread, like some inexorable cancer. Just as hard to stop no cure; a suppression; a remission. But it still lay there, like a silent serpent, to lunge when defenses were lowered. They tried, as I tried, but they failed, as I 117

failed.

OFFICIAL MEMO, August 25th, from the desk of Sergeant Murphy.

I have interviewed Prisoner Hicks and after careful deliberation I have violated my own orders. Prisoner Hicks has shared his incredible insights with me, it has made me so happy, it has made my life complete. All the officers whom I have dismissed I welcome back with open arms; I apologize, please forgive me. All of you, please visit Prisoner Hicks yourselves but be quick; since he will be released on the 28th. Join me in happiness!

Thankfully, Sergeant Murphy was quickly relieved of command by Internal Security. Some noble individual obviously reported his treasonous activities to the proper authorities. Prisoner Hicks was not released as promised. When Internal Security stepped in and saw the threat to our great nation, they locked down Gitmo and had their top scientists work on the nature of his contagious truth.

Believing his words to be some lethal edict against This great country, Prisoner Hicks was declared a Terrorist and was sequestered away in a hermetically sealed cell. None of this took his euphoria away. This proved how dangerous his truth was. Hicks was put through extreme torture. Water boarding, sleep deprivation, hours of exercise that would have weakened any 'normal' man.

PROGRESS REPORT: Special Agent Beck.

We have been compromised. The hermetic seals have been sabotaged, we have infiltrators within our ranks. Guantanamo is psychically affecting our black ops officers. Too many of our agents have gone rogue; colleagues whom I have depended on for years suddenly have changed their ways. A break-out by key infiltrators was attempted last night and almost succeeded. Hicks-afflicted rogue agents seem to be particularly peaceful and non-confrontational. If they weren't I believe we would all be dead by now. It's like we've been invaded by flower children! More on this as it breaks.

(This, however, is Special Agent Beck's last report. He is believed to have gone rogue also. Within the month all agents at the facility became afflicted, inexplicably listening to the Imam who was preaching to the prisoners at Gitmo.

All agents were removed for detoxification and rehabilitation; a new squad of Internal Security was deployed to secure Prisoner Hicks.)

Something had to be done. Euphoria was spreading all over the country; no one could stop its relentless advance. Everyone forgot about the depression. Entire 118

groups of people, everywhere, without any definable connection with one another were being addicted; calling themselves "Seekers of TRUTH". They networked; they grew in strength, an insidious infection upon our country. Fortunately wiser, rational people held the reins of power and sought to behead this Moslem viper before it could strike.

PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS: March 22,.

Due to his treasonous activities threatening the social fabric of our fine nation, Prisoner Hicks is sentenced for execution by lethal injection on July 4. His beliefs have become a scourge upon our streets - everywhere can be seen the happy, smiling face of the Seeker. Removing the leader of this corruptive, criminal syndicate that promotes widespread and frequent use of Moslem propaganda should halt this terrible plague which he has unleashed upon us. Ladies and gentlemen; I promise I shall stop the spread of Moslem conversion that is corrupting our youth and destroying the fabric of our society. Our Truth shall march on, by any means necessary. My government and I shall save you, loyal patriotic citizens that you are, from exposure to the religious fanatics who call themselves 'truth seekers.' . And I say to you; truth has no place in this great country of ours or anywhere else in the world.

A voice of sanity against the tide of madness.

The frequency of break-out attempts by the Seekers intensified a hundredfold, they did not succeed in Prisoner Hick's release at Gitmo. Political groups argued in court long and hard for his sentence to be revoked, but a presidential decree has too much weight for such insignificant attacks to make any difference.

Prisoner Hicks was executed at his appointed time. However the Seekers of Truth had gained in Hick's sacrifice the very model of a modern martyr - he went to his death with joy suffusing his features - we couldn't take that away from him, no matter how hard we tried. I'm afraid that his rapture did make me somewhat wistful, I hoped someday I would experience such bliss, even for just a moment. But that would mean accepting his beliefs, his religion, his god awful truth - and I did not want such taint upon my soul. I could not relate it to anything I already knew, it was so different to the established order. Perhaps I was just content with what I had, unwilling to risk my worldview by exposing myself to the possibility of Euphoria without monetary means.

THE TIMES, July 7, Although the President expected the death of Prisoner Hicks to paralyze the Seekers of truth it seems that membership of this strange group is steadily 119

increasing. Whole towns have joined this seemingly tranquil movement. Peaceful demonstrations have been held; BRING "Allah" TO THE PEOPLE, one of their more popular slogans. It seems the death of Prisoner Hicks, while meant to stop the Seekers of truth has actually accelerated their cause.

It was true. We cut the head off the snake, not knowing it was the Hydra of legend. A multitude of heads appeared; too many cells of resistance to be put down. Racing across the country like raging wildfire; spread to all nations. We were the best hope of the world, perhaps the biggest lie, but we could not stop the power of free will, which is the basis for the Moslem religion..They say it is the will of Allah. But we knew better, it was personal free will.

Too little, too late.

What is the truth? Is mine the same as yours? It must be very addictive, beyond the siren's call of heroin or cocaine, the stuff the government has been feeding the sheeple to keep them subservient. It must be very powerful, leading these addicts to fight, maim and die for their belief in it. However, some have resisted its enticing seduction, they speak of such terror and agony that it has brought them, haunted night after night by tortured dreams. Free will seems to be a paradox, pleasure and pain hopelessly combined together.

My children, my spouse, my friends. All joined the burgeoning tide - all Seekers of truth. This leap of faith has taken all I held dear away from me by their willing surrender to what has possessed their souls.

I know they feel pity and sorrow for me because I have not joined them; I feel pity and sorrow for them because they have been warped and twisted to unrecognizability by their faith. They are no longer what they were before, they are no longer patriotic,they are no longer willing to pick up arms and kill.

The thing that pains me is that they are so happy. They cry "the truth shall set you free!" and perhaps, for them, it has. I can feel myself dying as I write this, mercifully the torment will end soon.

Gentle reader, you have read my account. I chose to refuse the offer of this truth, Suspicious of what it would do to my ego, to my way of life...seeing it as the total demise of our great nation, how can we truly say "In God we trust," if we allow this nonsense to continue?

120

Screwed and Tatooed

He trudged along the crags of the abandoned shore, wounds now opened from his bare feet scraping on the jagged rocks. The sunlight washed over him, as the crashing waves did not. He 121

walked slowly yet with purpose, with determination. Sometimes he wondered why he was so driven, why did he walk this long road? He supposed ... it was just what he had always done.

There is a certain momentum in being obsessive compulsive, a certain cleansing as in a ritual.

As he wandered along the beach, surrounded by the light of the sun over the waves, he thought about his journey. Ever walking upon this beach, as if time stood still, the sun ever upon the horizon. His only clues that he was not in some eternal stasis with an unchanging landscape that may have been painted upon some wall, were the waves regularly crashing upon the shore, and his own presence here.

He felt the marks upon his flesh, scars of the past, a part of him now. A burden he bore as if the titan Atlas, holding up the world. He reflected upon that metaphor. No, he did not carry the world, just the torment of one man. He knew he was enslaved in this infernal system, he had been branded, he wore the Mark of Cain, he had received the mark of the beast, given to him by his master, he had been pierced through like the Eunichs of some Ancient civilisation. ... He stomped on now with purpose.

He could feel the essence of each tattoo seep into his very being. Were they merely representations of tribulation, or something more ... malevolent? He was branded now, forever marked, the emblems took on a life of their own as they seeped into the seven layers of his epidermis, seeking expression in his consciousness.

The Serpent.

He felt it coiling around his left bicep, fangs sinking deep. He remembered the burning green venom of jealousy and possessiveness, flooding through his blood. His heart ached with the memory of a love he had lost to that bitter poison. Her once caring words twisted with hate. The serpent blameless - it was he who had embraced it; how could he not expect to be punctured by its bite?

The Scorpion.

The black widow stung him each time he orgasmed, each time he had made love, he suffered the little death., the venomous stinger striking him at the height of passion. On his right shoulder the wrathful arachnid danced her dance of death gleefully wallowing in an orgy of destruction and gruesome stinging. He remembered the state he had sunk to, more beast than man, base urges fostered by hatred of the world, yet still more hatred of himself. He had revelled in the excesses that such an animalistic soul brings, and she was ever present to administer instant Karma.

The barbed wire.

122

Weighing down his biceps, his ankles with their shackles. The

barbed wire draped over his collarbone and neck like a noose. He wished he could loosen their hold upon him, shift some of the weight, but being tattooed into his flesh this was a futile hope.

The weight of guilt upon his soul, the terrible things he had done, the people who had suffered, for he could never make amends. That was why he walked so slowly, the weight not only of his own pain, but the pain of others.

The Skull and bones.

The skeletal reminder of what we all become, a strangely cute depiction of death, but of a dark majesty, a creature of putrefaction. Staring out into the world from his back, riding him with its malignant power, like some twisted loa and its slave of chevaux. Taking him over with thoughts and feelings of abject fright and terror, sending tendrils of dread into his very being. The fear to act, to make a mistake, to fail. It seemed far better to hesitate, procrastinate, be passive - let everything happen without him. An observer impartial, always blameless, yet also guilty by omission. And the skull and bones, had spread its corruption through him, claimed a piece of his soul.

The Unquenchable Flames.

Flickering upon his shins, sending spirals of smoke, they would burn him, . Burning him with its perpetual combustion, to slake it's thirst upon his flesh. Its seductive voice of apathy and self-annihilation calling out to him to abandon his journey, to end this torment called Life. As he endured, day by day, the unrelenting suffering, the pull of the flames, grew stronger. He did not know how much more he could resist.

He looked out to the sea, The most recent Tattoo still scabbed upon the swollen skin. The bleeding heart, pierced through with a dagger, dripping blood. He stared down at his chest, and realized the blood dripping from the knife was real. He put his finger to it, and wiped the blood from his chest, . The restless spectre beckoned him to seek his peace in the waters. He sat upon the rocky shore, the sun setting, and watched as he started to bleed from the barbed wire, his eyes grew dim with the pain, the Scorpion now stinging him with her last breath, the serpent squeezing the breath out of him as it tightened it's hold around his neck.She had been there for an ageless time, ever beckoning him to her. And in her eyes, there was no hate, no reproach, no anger. Just torment, and he knew she mirrored the torment within himself. The tortured spirit merely wanted them both to be at peace.

Upon the back of his hand a single red rose, He kissed it, his very last breath taken as he stared at a thing of beauty, his last act, claiming this joy forever.

123

The Other

His name was Jesus. Julia Alvarez called her son E man u el, making a chant out of the four syllables. She said his name as if it were a chain of prayer. A holy benediction. A promise to God. Made it seem he had numerous names, each more wonderful than the last. In her drunken stupors she would dream that Emmanuel was Christ come again, to save her and lift her from the pits of an alcoholic's hell. Not Catholic thinking, but the Booze had its own god and its own canticles.

124

Then Julia "found" Jesus. Good Catholics weren't born again, they were always saved. However, it had taken everybody's Gods to finally get through to Julia Alvarez. She had been a crack whore when some junkie impregnated her, and had remained one for years, riding the needle to her own oblivion - one that never included time or attention for her sacred son.

Reverend Robertson Dollar came to town, set up a revival room in an old building once occupied by a grocery store owned by a Korean couple who were killed for $11.00 and a case of Coors. This tin cup preacher man, with his golden hair and pretty face came through the barrio with his spiel about grace and forgiveness. Right there in that filthy storefront church Julia had embraced the man's salvation story, as later she would embrace the man.

Preacher Man had promised to take her away from the utter poverty and misery of her situation - then beat it out of town without a word of goodbye or explanation, probably deeply shamed by his succumbing to the fruits of the flesh; more likely spooked by Julia's sudden upward reach on the scale of the converted. Jesus heard that during one of the Reverend's holy "fires" Julia had stood up shaking and filled with holy spirit; her proclamation - that Jesus was poor in His lifetime, so money meant nothing.

Some seekers needed only that tiny chance to weaken and hold their wallets shut as the basket was passed from one to another.

Most itinerate preachers were hap-tic in their ministries, laying on hands and sifting through the donation basket to fondle the fruit of their ministries.

Holy redemption turned Julia to the absolute holy of holies. She became what all converted become, whether those giving up smoking or losing weight or finding religion, they were now pure and harangued everyone, demanding they give over to Jesus and be saved, or to go on a diet or throw away those demon smokes, or lie in the bowels of hell.

Oddly enough the abrupt departure of the preacher did nothing to cause Julia to backslide or blink herself awake to her old reality. Jesus figured once the preacher had faded to a memory thin as an addict's resolve, his mother would revert to her old self. That day never came.

She drove Jesus crazy, pouncing on him the minute, no, the nano-second he came awake. Exposing her needle tracks and scars from a hundred ulcerations, Julia pleaded and begged for Jesus to see the light.

When he had all he could take he would shout at her, "Mama, its fine for you, this business, but it aint right for me. I aint done nothing so bad. . . as all . . ."

The sound of Julia's meaty hand against her son's cheek was the slap of meat on saddle leather. Jesus had endured her beatings when he was young, but Julia knew that would be the last time she slapped her son. Hate drew his face into a pucker and his eyes warned her off.

"Emmanuel, I . . . oh, man, I didnt mean to do that. But I worry about your immortal soul." Julia knew 125

she stood close to an edge she never wanted to cross, and she was genuinely contrite as she moved out of the range of his retaliation.

"Ma . . . you keep your crazy shit to yourself. You got two other sons and they’re both in Jail. Your daughter services half of this end of town. I ain’t never done nothing to even get in juvie. Why can't you be proud of me, Mama?"

Jesus had only seen his mother twice more as she evolved in her fanaticism, preaching and raising her Bible in his face. Jesus began staying out more and more, reluctant to face her raging religious mania. He tried living at home, just staying out until the old broad was asleep, but the times he had tried that, she had come in and shook him awake, ranting endlessly, spittle running down her pockmarked jaundiced skin.

In later times Jesus would come to wonder if what happened to him had been tilted into being because of Julia.

There was no gang for Jesus. His runty body was twisted with the aftermath of a stroke from being born addicted. Jesus wasn't exactly ugly, he was slack-jawed and blinked as if the passage of the world was more of a mystery than he could fathom. Most kids thought he was retarded, so they never bothered to include him.

Most of the young men in the barrio were razor-tempered and always trying to fight someone. Jesus had seen Juan Johnson slice a kid to ribbons for getting mud on Juan's shoes. Juan was a walking bludgeon of attitude. His mother, Carmella had married a white man, and proudly took his name. Since he was old enough to go to school Juan had to fight those kids ignorant enough to tease him about being Juan Johnson. "Is your old man Howard Johnson?" They would shout at him day after day.

Jesus had watched Juan administer a dozen quick savage plunges of the knife, followed by an ululation of sheer joy at the savagery. Patterns of blood spatter had given Jesus's face the look of someone who had cried the crimson into place. Londi and the other wetbacks panicked when they saw the speckled emptiness of Jesus's face.

"Jesus, watched. We gotta do him too."

Juan sauntered over to Jesus, taking off his do-rag and almost tenderly wiping the blood away. "This guy ain't seen shit - have you, buddy? Jesus ain't like a real person. He's re-tarded." Juan slipped his arm around Jesus's neck, snug enough to get the boy's attention, and whispered, "Now, my man, we're tight, right? Sure we are. So you ain't gonna mention this to anyone are you?" Jesus stood still with his empty face and stared at a point that could have been across the street or on another continent.

Inside himself Jesus was not retarded, he knew. But the speech problem left to him from the stroke kept him silent. No one had ever heard him utter more than a word or two, each word drooled out rather than spoken. Jesus would not tell, he wanted no interplay with the world he was forced to live within.

126

Now when he could have used a friend with a crib to offer him a corner to sleep in, Jesus had nowhere to turn. He began sleeping in whatever hole he could find or make. Not doorways, cops rousted those guys, but inside fruity-foul smelling packing crates or abandoned buildings, and often the stalls of rancid, disease ridden bathroom stalls of the subway system.

He had first slept sitting up on benches, hoping the security guy wouldn't roust him. They rousted him and good, leaving a bloody landscape that had once been his face. Jesus figured it was like that "kick the cat" thing - where some loser made himself feel better by making a loser of some other poor guy.

He took to being crafty, finding a nook or cranny that was hidden from view, but the bulls found him there too. After a particularly enthusiastic, convincing "lesson" the cop dragged him to the main doors and kicked his legs out from under him, then he tossed Jesus into some nearby bushes, where he lay dazed and barely conscious for hours. Finally opening his eyes, Jesus saw a pair of eyes watching him eyes that seemed at best, other-worldly.

First thing Jesus thought was that the guy was all twisted and deformed, but when he opened his eyes the next time he saw that the guy was a just a typical bum squatting over his body, smelling of waste and despair. Yet there was something about those eyes, some scary something that leapt out and slithered along Jesus's chest, constricting his breath.

Without a movement so much as an eyelash blinking, the bum stared at Jesus, as if not understanding his stillness. As if waiting to see what other amazing thing Jesus might do. As if species seeing species were not the same species at all.

Rising, the bum lifted Jesus as easily as you would lift a baby. Fear spiked through Jesus, but the beating had been savage and he slipped into unconsciousness, welcoming the dark.

When Jesus woke up, it was to more darkness, deep and silky-silent. Not even the breathing of the bum disturbed the absolute absence of sound. Maybe the guy had robbed him and gone away. All he had was a twenty-dollar bill he had been hoarding since his mother has begun to slip away from reality. He couldnt even command his arm to reach for his pocket. Ennui wrapped tightly around him, like a burial cloth.

From his left something rose once more, with a shiver of sound as faint as if it came from the reaches of space and time. Startled, Jesus tried to force his blind eyes to see. But nothing came within his vision and he wondered dumbly if the guard had hit his head with that nightstick hard enough to take sight away from him forever.

Unsure of the unseen presence he could now hear, Jesus lay still of his own volition, afraid a wrong move might end his life. That prospect didnt frighten him at all, he had seen the world and it had cut him off like a wart that spoiled the visage of the whole. But Jesus didn't want more pain, didnt want to survive only to be tortured by someone in that tomb-like darkness.

127

He drifted into and out of awareness for a long time, or so it seemed to him. Then he woke to a blue light that did not waver or burn. Its luminescence softened the concrete walls of the place where he lay and without thinking Jesus searched for another person, forgetting to be afraid. Some few feet away was a hunched figure. It wavered in the still light, seeming to drift from one shape to another. A trick of light, Jesus knew.

Jesus's world was black and blue, just like his pummeled skin. He couldnt distinguish himself from the surroundings, or from the figure still hunched in the corner. As he watched a hum began, much like a piece of machinery starting up quietly. When he realized it came from the bum, Jesus knew real panic for the first time. He had absorbed all the world had tossed to him, barely feeling a prickle of emotion, but this hum cut through his dense shell and he began to cry silently.

Suddenly the bum was over him, as if Jesus had slept through the movement of the other. It touched his eyes and Jesus slipped away from himself and let the darkness claim him before he had to face what was now his fate. Jesus awoke several more times, but always to darkness now. No blue light shone in the cavern where he lay. Fear and pain were his companions. Entities that he understood and knew made him still alive, regardless of the source of each twinge.

A sound roused jesus. It was a voice that spoke not into the blank air, but into Jesuss very brain it seemed. "Tell me," It rasped.

"Tell you what, dude?" He had spoken without thinking and the sound of his voice bounced off the walls.

Tell me, it repeated and a collage of images raged through Jesus's brain, everything. The word was not a concrete thing, but more a concept that Jesus immediately understood.

"You tell me where the hell I am and what you want. . .then maybe Ill tell you something." He lay rigid, afraid, but excited at the same time. This bum wasnt your average boozer or stoner. No, Jesus thought to himself, this . . . this whatever it was nothing that jesus had encountered before. He was immediately aware that he thought of it as it - not he.

The shifting pile of strangeness did something that brought back the blue light; Jesus was grateful for its comfort. He was freezing and had soiled his pants, the smell putrid to his own nostrils. Pain from his wounds pounded him with a heavy hammer. Again it rearranged itself, but did not approach Jesus.

Instead a series of images sluiced through Jesus's mind, elusive and slipping by too quickly to grasp.

Then he shivered with the cold and fear and immediately he heard, "Tell me."

Never retarded, jesus was actually many more notches up the IQ scale than anyone would have believed. He got it. It wanted to know about the shivering. Once again pictures flared through his mind, confirming that was what knowledge it sought.

"Cause Im freezing, man," Jesus said aloud. He could almost feel the questions in his head. It had no idea 128

what freezing was, and this thought captured his imagination as well as scared him more than anything he could ever remember.

Deciding to try to communicate through his mind, Jesus did so without thought or wonder at the exchange. He had to try several times to define heat or its absence. His companion appeared to absorb concepts rather than words and it made it easier for Jesus to get his point across.

All at once it shivered in its corner and whether through the excitement of comprehension or mimic, Jesus wasnt sure. But the blue light now pulsed, emitting sudden and welcome heat. Jesus felt the others question forming in his brain and he shouted, yes!

At first the light blued to cobalt intensity, causing Jesus to send images of too hot. Then it mellowed to a blue of cornflowers and Manny sent warmer images. Suddenly it seemed to grasp the concept of degrees of warmth and cold, and the blue light adjusted to a comfortable faded navy. Manny was spent and drifted off to a more peaceful sleep.

Chapter Three No one missed Jesus. Maybe Julia missed her son a bit because Jesus was the one who went to the store and figured out the bills. Each month he would make out a tidy budget for her disability check, giving her only what was left over so she kept a roof over her head. Then when she was dope sick Jesus would boost to buy her a fix.

Boosting was risky. Jesus would go into the store and casually fill a basket with items - and then stroll out the door without paying for them. In a busy store no one had time to decide who had paid and who hadn't. Then Jesus would take the stuff to the dope man and be given a dime-bag for his mother.

Now Jesus laid in its dark lair, answering its concept questions and trying to teach it to use spoken language. That concept was one the other could not grasp. Jesus never once questioned the fact that this stranger was really strange, because for the first time in his life Jesus felt smart and useful. A voracious curiosity nagged him to find out more and more.

Up in her untidy apartment that smelled of garlic and aging woman, Julia Alvarez had fallen into a netherworld of her own. Convinced she was sanctified and holy, the woman's eyes grew bright and wild, her voice strident and her mannerisms holier-than-thou. She had gone to church services in several area churches and cathedrals, standing up to spout her personal beliefs and urge the others to come to Jesus.

UnfortunatelyJulia was so busy preaching the Alvarez method of getting to heaven that she took no time for cleanliness or hygiene, soon becoming a rival for John the Baptist in fervor and dishevelment. She would not attend services at Holy Redeemer. Father Gilchrist was on her list of subversives and allaround troublemakers. Julia had gone to him when she first was saved, telling him about the miracle in her life. The good Father was not impressed. He was implacable. The Holy See had never condoned the theory that the itinerant preachers spouted. Father Gilchrist was a hard-line Catholic who had blessed Julia at her dedication. That was plenty good enough for him.

129

Before long Julia had developed paranoia that cemented her bones in place. They were jealous and out to get her. Satan had sent his minions to torment her and cause others to ridicule and reject her. At the same time she was crashing off heroin. Had never given it another thought after being saved. The results were not typical of heroin withdrawal, however they manifested themselves there was no real comparison. Julia's slide into madness was a new cure for addiction, one that threw her into a frenzy and bouts of destructiveness. The apartment began to look like something from another dimension.

Sparkling bits of broken glass littered the piles of excrement where Julia had dropped them, too deep in her swampy mind to even realize what she was doing.

Julia Alvarez had slipped so far into the alien and insane that no one came to check on her, or even called. They were not willing to listen to Julia's ranting and her foul temper that had come out of nowhere. They all told themselves they needn't worry or see about her, Jesus was a good son, he would take care of her.

Six-year old Emily Hanson was wedged under slabs of wood that crumbled with decay at her every move. As still as death itself, she waited. When she at last fell asleep, thumb tightly corked into rosebud mouth, she left the zone of FEAR. That her hiding place was filthy and smelled of urine made no difference to her. This was her safest haven. This was safe from him. He waited to welcome her onto his lap that was hard with something she didn't quite understand. At first he had just wanted her to slide her bottom around on his lap. In the throes of his orgasm, he would grab her waist, pushing up with the hard thing until it wet her panties.

He would hold her there, sometimes starting all over again.

Emily's mother Jackie was nuts, at least that's what her daddy said. Jackie stayed in her room rubbing her swollen fingers over a statue of Elvis, which was the base of a lamp that trickled murky gloom over the immediate area of its range. Jackie rarely called for Emily, and the child was fine with that. Visits meant smothering hugs and tearful apologies that only confused Emily.

Late at night she could hear her parents screaming at each other. Her daddy called her mommy a frigid bitch, nut case, loser. Her mommy's replies were unintelligible, just gasps that rose in pitch to a level where they stopped and her sobs replaced the other noises. Six year-old girls grasped concepts that adults were sure were their milieu alone. Emily knew her mom didn't want to do the sex thing with Paul, her father, so Paul did it anyway.

The first time he pulled Emily onto his lap she was three years-old. He fumbled with her ruffled panties and slid her around on his lap. He never took out the thing, so she had no idea what it looked like, just that it felt like a rod so big it could hurt little girls.

Now hiding was Emily's only choice. Daddy had begun opening his zipper and sliding her tiny hand over the thing. If she tried to pull away, her father would bend her arm in a way that the arm wasn't designed to go; pain ripping through her shoulder.

130

Then he began to insert his hairy-knuckled fingers between her legs, at the bad place. Emily didn't know why it was bad, but she knew. Her conception of Daddy's thrusting finger rubs made her feel her place was bad. "Now, dont that feel good, honeypie?" He'd always ask.

It did not, it hurt. It filled her with numb dread. She was dimly aware that the current play would go on to something else, a something she didn't know but its evil squeezed at her heart. So she hid. Never in the same place twice, until she found this hole. He couldn't find her here because there was a little metal wall she wriggled behind that kept her out of view. It smelled like poo poo and things crawled between her legs - but better them than her father's rough, demanding fingers. It's there she met the Other, this thing that promised her peace in her short lived life, it understood her and started to absorb her through symbiosis.

There they were, a crippled trinity, each part unaware of the other, but destined nonetheless to completing each others circle of being. One dervish twirling them all, swirled them around as a stick stirs paint, making a new pigment.

Jesus was changing. He didn't know how, with his limited scope of knowledge, he just accepted all on dumb faith. Or with the perspective of one who lived under the assumption that whatever came his way, he deserved. Not one thought of self-preservation bit at his cheek, no resistance flared in the soul of one crushed by life and by society. Taught well his worthlessness, Jesus was a sponge.

The Other was like pollution, he knew deep in his little-used brain. It was poison, but pretty poison with a fascinating web to spin around Jesus. He would never know that the Other was the strangest thing that ever inhabited the earth. Both pollution as Jesus saw it, and sperm from another place so far away as to be ever unknown.

Sperm that had drifted through eons so numerous that they had no more meaning. Perhaps Eternity was its name. As it ventured into the universe with seven planets, a sun and a moon, it was drawn by something it could not name, being not yet sentient; more like a waking dream. It had tasted mankind and found it appealing. It hungered for that thing called evil, much as a gourmand would hunger for spicy food . . . finding pleasure in the most potent of taste.

Why it chose to feast on evil was a matter of random circumstance that would dart like a rancid thread throughout its journey. It fed off the psyche, the essence of other life forms. It's origin, a place so far away that it might have been God's first breath.

Earth had devolved into a sewer, a hinterland of hatred, violence, and populated with beings without conscience or moral barriers. Of course it had felt the others, the weak and listless; wanted no part of white bread when it could close itself around jalapeno peppers and hot oil, onions rather than crackers.

Evil, its concept and consequence unknown and unabsorbed by the sperm, was its craving. Evil energized and excited the palette, gave birth to energy that could be fertilized and grown into functioning organic matter in the Petri dish of the fermenting rotting refuge that collects beneath.

131

The top of this place called Earth was a sickly coating of grease beneath which raged the delicacies.

Beneath, in those hidden places, drainage ditches, abandoned buildings, storm sewers and the labyrinth in which squirmed the sociopath, the insane, the walking wounded and those who slaughtered, raped and maimed. . . and killed just for fun. Oh, my they were tasty, and the Other fed voraciously.

The sperm had evolved enough after several centuries of feeding on the dregs of the inhabitants of this and other planets. Weak evil had been the best it could find, until it arose into 2012 on the planet called Earth. This era was fervid, rabid with delicious evil - so it fed and watched for a womb to impregnate.

Jesus was the culmination of that dread, he became that womb.

Actual spermatozoa die quickly. This was a engineered sperm, meant to travel the icy reaches of whatever universes it had to in order to find its womb. Just like the sci-fi movies, this breed had created what might be called a procreation - an eternally viable machine made of nano-substance. These nanothoughts held the sperm of that ancient species, protecting it like a nanny with a baby. Sperm may not have been the term for this life-creating matter, but what it was called made no difference.

Neither Jesus nor the other were able to think on a high enough plain for discussion. But in the span of time the Other would awaken to its "self", then it would feed on those necessary to provide it information. And Jesus, Jesus was merely an oven to bake the bread of that alien life.

No act of sex was involved in the Others impregnation of Jesus. One of its many ribbony arms reached out with a lancet, stuck a tiny particle of living cells into the cut on Jesus's arm. Since it did this while Jesus slept, the host was never aware of the intruder.

Whether the Other's concept of evil and the human concept were even vaguely similar was something debatable. Julia found evil in the most humble speck of dust, inserting Satan into the formula, while the Other may have considered evil a fuel necessary to it's existence. All things are only what we name them. The rest is woven with our separate ideas, ideals and idealism. Cloven-hoofed, horned, man-like creature? High octane fuel?

Awed by his captor or creator, Jesus had no inkling of the thing germinating inside him. Emily had no idea that what stung her thigh in that place behind the wall was more than a small stab, maybe on a nail or brad. No way to know that an ordinary wind had caught some of the nano-substance, whirling them into the detritus that found a resting place in the foul building. Fate works in chaos, the Other, a sponge soaking up the residue of each action.

132

Shorts for thought, and Laughter "Love" "I really love you. I just want to touch you."

"But you can't."

"But I must, I will."

She began to speak again but his soft lips touched hers. It wasn't what she thought it would have been like. He was gentle, soft, caring. As their tongues touched. All their cares were lost in that one moment.

"Twice" Looking at the two of diamonds, a card given from a lover long ago. He feels the sorrow of the many lives lost of that awful act. The childless parents, the parentless children. All because of the two of diamonds. Sent to fiery graves. In the oceans deep. Nothing to do but look at the two of diamonds, and weep. Ripping the card to pieces. All in time and space. Many of the hour, he wished to see her smiling face. Thinking of the many innocents lost in the blaze. Or trapped in the water maze. All the laughing was a useless task. No one ever pulled off their deceiving mask. A line about, above, all others. The loss of the sisters, the brothers. Never again will he see her smiling face. Off the bridge. He only has the wet two of diamonds to remind him now. It might as well be the Ace of spades.

"Corner" Sitting with a bottle about to be taken. He thought of all the hate in the world. "Just end it now" he said under his breath. He opened the bottle, took out the pills, and swallowed. All of them, all the Valium.

Death was lurking around the corner. He laid back on to his bed. Just waiting. But someone walked in.

“Laughter�

Laughter is an intangible thing - it has no detectable shape, odor or color, no copyright or patent, cannot be genetically manipulated (although of course, they are trying!) cannot be taxed or processed, does not need a visa, passport or work permit but passes readily over national boundaries and cultures though some regimes and clerics would like to ban it if they could - for laughter is no respecter of title or position and can easily bring down King, Prime Minister or Pope!

133

The Celtic bards knew this as does the monkey and the wise child... there is even a fortunate handful of men and women (the Dalai Lama comes to mind) to whom laughter is a much-loved friend, as warm as blood, as close as breath - laughter even laughs at Death!

Some say that at some point pleasure and pain become indistinquishable - perhaps so too with a tear and a smile.

What horrors and ecstasies lie beneath the Buddha's equanimity?

Laughter can be the bright face of the sunlight but also the crazy wisdom of the deranged night - do not vampires, rapists and murderers laugh as they feast and slaughter?

Crocodiles laugh themselves to tears!!! pins and needles, needles and pins, he who laughs last, will always win.

Laughter, rather laugh with the sinners, than cry with the saints!? you are the Cosmic Mother's daughter (though not perhaps the first, who took much after her mother and bore the name of Hunger) - slightly wayward, slightly fey, But the very best medicine on a rainy day a subtle combination of the earthly and the divine. so grab you bellies, grab your guts roar with laughter, to the madness, resign.

134

Lesson at the ball park

Little League baseball is a great American institution and a learning experience for children, and that it may be, but your baseball experience, brother, provided at least one significant life lesson for me. You may recall that day to which I am going to refer. A finer example of small town atmosphere and a sultry summer day could not readily be found, at least in my memory. The heat of the day was just beginning to cool and the sun was moving relentlessly towards the horizon, now and again passing behind a cloud. The ball diamond itself, one out of two laid out in what was once a place called 'bunny land'. It was the epitome of a Norman Rockwell painting. Parents and other children were positioned haphazardly on the aluminum bleachers. Boys flirted with girls, who returned the favor in kind. Some boys, perhaps vagabonds just looking for something to do, rode their bikes between, around, and sometimes nearly into people as they made their way from seats to snack bar or back again, clutching soda or candy of half-empty boxes of popcorn. Cheers and laughter and babies crying mingled with the air as dusk was falling.

You, little brother were clearly the smallest person on your team and your diminutive size was so noticeable in comparison to the other boys, for whom the normal hormonal changes were already underway. You were not regarded, to be charitable, as much of an offensive threat. The pitchers at this level of the game tend to dominate the hitters anyway, though in this particular game many runs had already scored, as much from walks and errors as by virtue of good hitting. It was, as I recall, a classic scenario. Your team was down by a couple of runs, and there were two outs. The bases were loaded, and I knew who was due to hit. I cannot express to you adequately, and you may not understand this until you have a son of your own and sit in a similar situation, the turmoil of feelings through which I was going. A couple of parents whispered under their breath, but loud enough for me to hear, their dismay 135

at the next batter. They did not, of course, realize that the object of their scorn was my little brother. I alternated between wanting to tell them to shut up, and hoping that he'd pound a solid single somewhere to shut them up. My own palms were sweating. My heart beat harder than I could ever remember.

You see, I never got a chance to play ball. I never had the opportunity to perhaps be a hero, if only for a few minutes. The possibility was never presented to me, though I longed to play, so many years before, as the smallish, skinny, nondescript tomboy I was. The psychiatrists of the world may play mind games with this, assuming that I was living in some vicarious way through my brother, hoping against all hope that he would come through and somehow vindicate me. But I was not trying to assuage some long-standing childhood agony. I was a sister watching my kid brother play baseball; hoping against hope he would not strike out.

My kid brother didn’'t even look up into the stands when he went up to the plate. The pitcher was one of the best players; I knew that just from watching so many games, and he threw the ball harder than just about anyone. I imagine that he, as well as most of the other spectators, was thinking that three pitches would be all that were needed. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. And the little guy goes down on strikes. Game over. People began to shout and cheer in the cacophonous way that Little League crowds do when something major is about to happen. Parents of the opposing team were yelling for a strikeout. But my brother's teammates were encouraging him to hit the ball. Other parents shouted with less vigor for him to get a hit. I imagine that their enthusiasm was dampened a bit by his small size and the apparent mismatch in front of them. And yet he just grabbed the bat and strode to the plate and dug in.

A part of me didn’'t want to watch. But the sports fan I am and the big sister, I’'ve striven to be won out, and I stared as intently as anyone. The pitcher threw the ball. And God Almighty if he didn’'t smack that ball high in the air toward left field. The sound of the impact between the ball and the aluminum bat was ringing and true. It was a clean shot clear out to left field, certain to score at least a run or maybe two. I watched in slow motion as the smallest player on the other team ran his little legs off then he did the impossible, he catapulted himself sideways leaping high into the air, snagging your gamewinning hit in the webbing of his glove. It was the third out. Game over. What an incredible play, a herculean feat for that little twerp. It was breathtaking to watch him make that play!

The opposition cheered and lauded the rookie outfielder for his great play. And it was a marvelous play. He essentially saved the game by robbing you of a moment of glory. Your teammates groaned and then lined up for the post-game ritual of hand slapping. Inside, I deflated too, lamenting the fact that you were “THIS CLOSE” to being a hero. As the crowd dispersed, you came up to me in the stands.

Instead of the downcast look I expected, perhaps even tears, there was a big grin on your face. You looked at me and said, “"I really hit that ball hard, didn’t I?" ” What a lesson to learn, presented to me by a young boy who should've been disappointed, but instead had the best day of his life by simply making solid contact with a baseball. It didn’t matter that his team lost the game. It wasn’t of significance that he didn’t get a base hit. He was absolutely tickled by the fact that he tagged that pitch, 136

and it took an incredible, unbelievable catch to get to that ball. My brother would always remember that day, He often said after that "hit it where they ain't."

The indigent I knew

He walked our streets never seemingly going anywhere, yet, he always appeared to be going somewhere. He had no clothes to speak of, as most days he could be seen wearing the same old shirt and pants. His shoes, if you dared call them that, were tied to his feet with ragged bits of leather lacing he must have surely gotten from and old baseball glove somewhere and where he got his meals, only the good lord knows.

His given name was Eli, though most folks just called him a bum, or worse and not worth a plug nickle was something I had heard since my childhood days. He'd been around that long. He'd had his share of trouble too, for this and for that, but usually it was because he slept on the park bench and went to the bathroon where he could. He never complained though, at least that I had heard, except when they'd take away his prize possession, an old straw hat that he claimed he'd gotten in the cuban war. Yes, most folks were just plain mean to that old man.

But the man that I saw always had a crooked old smile on that withered face for any he'd meet and he always had a word of greeting, no matter what the conditions. Nor did it matter to him what your position was, from the mayor all the way down to the youngest child, he'd smile that toothless 137

haggardly smile, tip his old straw hat and say "afta'noon Ma'am" or "good morning sir."

The man I saw every sunday morning would sit on the steps under the old church's awning. He would sing, pray and just carry on, even playing his harmonica, every ole spriritual tune yu could think of, righ there on the church's front lawn. I asked him once to come sit with me but he just smiled and said "Old Eli ain't allowed inside." Then he would slip me a few coins to place in the offering as it would come by.

Once I asked him why he was always so kind to those that always seemed to forsake him. Again, he would smile and his eyes would twinkle as he made his reply: "Mos' likely as not those uns treatin others so mean ain't had nothing but meanness given em, so's that's all they gots to give out, poor souls. So's I tries to be nice to them that suffer me no kindness, it aint no fault of they own. 'Sides, ain't that what that there Bible you holden says do?" Without words I just nodded my head and said a prayer and thanked God for his words of wisdom.

Now it's been several years since old Eli passed on and not many in the town have even noticed. But the change to me can easily be seen, it's in the way people now just walk past each other, never noticing, or at least pretending not to. Every Sunday morning I still put a few coins in the offering plate of that old church and here lately, people just look at me with faces forlorn as I play that harmonica on the old church's front lawn. I just smile and tip that weather beaten, age worn straw hat and say, "good morning ma'am." All that old man ever gave me was the love of God, a tune on the harmonica, and his old straw hat. You see, its all he ever had but I'm proud to say "thank-you, it's more then enough Dad."

Snow, devine intervention

“Do you believe in God?” Asked David's Uncle Sam. ”No.” David replied. Only he had no idea what he was in for.

138

Sam took a long drag off the cigarette hanging from his mouth, and put the cigarette between his index finger and middle. He gently dumped the long train of ashes in the nearby ashtray. ”Well I certainly do!” he said, then picked up the bottle of beer that sat beside his chair on the side table. He then took a long look at David, knowing that he was missing his parents, and that there was nothing he could do to cheer him up, but he might be able to give David some kind of hope. All he had to do was to be with him for the holiday weekend. ”You know David when I was your age, the boys and I would run up that there hill and get on a sled and zoom…” Just then David interrupted. “”Why do you believe in God, Sam?”” asked David.

Taken a bit by surprise Sam's eyes widened, “”Well it was back in 1963 in this little place where my five brothers and I lived.” ” “”Was my dad there too?”” asked David “”Yes your dad was there too,”” Sam put his beer down and slid a photo album from under the table were the beer sat. he put it on David's lap “”It's all in there, Take a look..go on your dad is in there when he was just about your age…”…” Sam picked up his beer once more “"Gracy?" could ya bring me another beer please?"” ”Sure.” Grace quietly slipped in and out of the living room yet being ever intent on the story that was to come. “”So.. where was I?”” Sam started again. “” oh yea….It was the day before Christmas eve, and your dad was hopping mad that we didn't have a Christmas tree that year. So when we got home from school, he went out to the garage and grabbed five shovels. One for each of us, and handed them out to us. He told us we were going to shovel driveways and sidewalks for money so we could buy a tree for our mom and dad.” “”Did you make a lot of money?”” asked David, his eyes widening at the mention of his father.

Sam laughed “”Money ha! There wasn't any snow on the ground yet” “So why would you go?” asked David “”Ah but…”…” Sam interrupted “”We were asking the same darn question of our brother, just then it began to snow, and snow, and snow, it was like a miracle, there was no forecast, it snowed because your daddy wanted it so bad, the way you constantly beg me for a horse.”

139

“"Wow, cool, then what happened?"” asked David Sam cracked open his second beer. ””So we went from door to door asking people if they would like us to shovel away their snow, and the five of us that day made a pile of money.” “”How much?”” asked David “Well it wasn't a matter of how much we made, because I really don't remember . But it was enough to buy a Christmas tree, a turkey, and a gift for our mother and father. Your dad looked after that for us.”” “"So the miracle was the fact that it snowed. Right uncle Sam?"” asked David “"Oh no, the next day the snow had all melted away."” Sam grabbed for another cigarette from his pack, but Grace pointed her finger at him, so Sam had to just grit his teeth, and tucked his pack of cigarettes under the cushion of the arm chair. David began to look through the photo album. “”So on Christmas morning we had all gotten up to open our gifts. But there were only two gifts under the tree, one for our dad, and one for our mother.” ”You didn't get anything for Christmas?"” asked David wondering. “”No, not a single thing…”” Sam Said bluntly. “But we couldn’t wait to see the look on our parent’s faces, when they opened their presents.” ”Boy, that must have been sad for you all!”” David said. “”Hum, not really, I waved my hand to my brothers as our parents sat at the breakfast table in silence, and we grabbed the shovels once again, and just as we walked out the door, that Christmas day, it began to snow again. My brothers asked me how I knew it was going to snow, and I told them I read the weather report in the newspaper. They all had a good laugh. So that whole winter we made money shoveling snow.”” Sam's beer was empty again. So Sam got up and threw the empty can away. “We shoveled snow, so that we could eat. And it snowed every time your daddy would grab that shovel.”

David noticed a sleigh in one of the pictures, “"do you still have this sleigh?"” he asked and pointed to the sleigh in the picture. “”Oh yes,”” said Sam “”would you like to see it?”” he asked. “”Sure!”” exclaimed David Sam and David slipped on their boots, put on their coats, and dashed out side to see the sleigh. Just then the phone rang, “”I’ll get it!”” Grace yelled.

140

She picked up the phone “”Hello?”” .

“Grace, its Mike, how are you?” ”Oh, hi Mike, good of you to call”” she said. ”Is there anything I can bring over for the Christmas dinner?” ”asked Mike.

Grace did not have to think very long for an answer. “"Yes there is."… “”Well what do you need?”” added Mike “"Mike do you have any old pictures of your brother and his wife?" “”Yes we have lots of pictures from the days when we lived next door to each other.” “"Could you please bring them over?"” Grace asked. “"Sure I could, but I'm curious as to why?” asked Mike “Well, today it looks like David and Sam really hit it off for the first time, and David was looking at some old pictures of his dad, I think it’s helping him to grieve. He has really opened up today.” Grace started to hold back her cries of sadness and joy. “”That’s wonderful Grace, I'll be sure to bring them. Bye now.””. Mike hung up the phone.

Grace continued to cry cheerfully to herself, as she peeled some potatoes for the Christmas dinner. It had been months since David had any kind of real conversation, and inner action with anyone. Today had been the first day in a long time that she saw the boy in such a good mood. The death of his parents was a sudden shock to the whole family. This was a day of healing for Grace and her family. Sam put back a cigarette, didn’t take a third beer, and David was on the mend.

It was now noon Christmas eve day when the door bell rang. Grace answered the door, and Mike was standing there with photo albums in hand along with a few bags of food. “”here ya go Grace, I have more stuff in the truck..” ” Mike said with a smile. He proceeded back out to the truck. Grace said with a surprised look “oh…… o.k.” ” As she started to haul in the goods.

Grace carefully placed the photo albums in sight on top of the living room coffee table knowing that David would see them there. One of David’s favorite sitting spots was on the living room floor right by the coffee table.

141

“”I sure hope you have a lot of room under the tree for all these gifts?”” yelled Mike from the lane way.

By the time Grace had got back to the door Mike had piled more stuff by the open door way, and was gone for a third trip back to the truck. Grace just shook her head, and continued to haul in the packages, and bags of food. “”expecting an army are you?”” yelled Grace “”Yup, Chris called to say he could make it, So I brought over more food in case you ran out” Mike laughingly said. “”Well you’re going to have to peel more potatoes and carrots, Mike.”” Grace said as she folded her arms and tapped here foot. “”O.K. I can do that…” Mike said with a smile.

That evening Sam, Grace , David, Mike , Chris his wife and their three children all sat down for their traditional family Christmas eve dinner. David had found the photo albums sitting on the coffee table and he and his three cousins spent most of the evening flipping through the pictures and asking all kinds of questions of Grace and her sister in-law, while the men were in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes.

Later that evening after the children were put to bed, Sam Mike and Chris told the Girls there going out for a walk with the dogs. “”What! we can’t come along?”” asked Mike’s wife Clair. “”Well you can if you want, but we were kind of hoping to do a little man talk..”” piped up Sam “”Oh you guys go ahead, I wanted to show Clair the newly finished basement anyway,”” Grace said with a smirk.

The men headed out and had almost forgotten to call the dogs. “”Well that was close.”” Mike stated. “”It sure was, I didn’t want to have to come out here too late in the night”.” Sam said “”Grace might have picked up on what we were up to.””

After a long walk down the road to the next road turn out, the three men approached a pickup truck, with another man waiting. At the end of the truck was attached a horse trailer. “”Thanks Jim” Mike said “”we’ll unload the horse if you could just drop that bundle of hay in the corner of the field, I’d be thankful”.” “”No problem Mike, I sure wouldn’t want to be you fellows come morning when your wives see that horse. ” “”We have it all figured out.”” Said Sam “”Sure you do”” laughed Jim At that the three men made their way back to the house with horse in hand. They had made it look like the horse had jumped over the side yard fence, they pushed in the fence to the ground. They tried to make it look like the hay blew into the field. The dogs were a little hard to control, but they managed.

142

Their little gift was all set up. All they needed now was a little luck and hoped that the horse would be fairly quiet through the night. Just then it started to snow. The men slowly walked back to the house, all of them wiping tears from their eyes.

The next morning the adults woke up to the sound of children yelling and laughing in the yard. Grace looked out the window and turned to Sam “”You didn’t! oh my God you did!”” And there in the field stood a young beautiful white mare. “”It’s more my fault, I talked him into it, but I can take the horse back any time!”” Explained Mike.

Sam looked at Grace “”We need to know now Grace, if the boy can keep the horse, because we have to get out there before the kids terrorize her.” ” “”The boy is going to have to look after her, and you too Sam!”” Grace demanded. “”That was going to be the deal”” Sam sighed.

Everyone put some clothing on and rushed outside to greet the horse. “”Can I keep her!”” yelled David, as he saw Sam come out.

“How do you know it’s female?”” asked Sam.

“I know the difference between a mare and a stallion” retorted David.

“How the heck did that horse get in here?” asked Sam. “”She must’ve jumped the fence, over there…”” David pointed to where the horse tracks lead to the edge of the fence. “”Well..” Sam said slowly “”If we can’t find the owner, I guess you can keep her, but you have to feed her and brush her every day.”” Sam of course would only find the owner if the boy was incapable of looking after the horse. “”Sure I can do that, everyday!”” David repeated “”So what are you going to name her David?”” Asked Grace “It’s got to be a good horse name David”” Said Mike “”That’s right, can’t give a horse a human name.”" Explained Chris "“Well David?”" Sam asked with curiosity.

143

For a while David stood there and thought he would name the horse in memory of his Mother and Father, and there was only one name that came to mind. David then turned to everyone and with great joy he said ””Snow!... I’m naming her Snow!”

Live for Art, Die for Art

144

Olga Karris leafed through a book of photos stapled together among the perhaps more beautiful books on the shelf. She had been one of many to come across this grotesque packet at this small bookstore and coffee shop, but the only one to not discard it immediately. She paused in flipping through them and gazed thoughtfully at one of the pictures and decided it was her favorite. She tucked the book under her arm along with a Nora Roberts book she had not yet read. As the young, blonde cashier was ringing up her purchases, she paused when she came to the packet of photos. ―"This has no bar code." ―"Are you sure?"‖ Olga asked, not wanting to be parted with the photos she had so quickly become attached to. ―"This is not a book, ma‘am."‖ She began to thumb through the first few photos, but quickly folded it shut, feeling sick. ―"Look I don't know what you're trying to do, lady, but take your pictures and leave me alone."

Olga paid and left the store with the book of photos, wondering how it got into the book store, who left it there, who was behind it's glorious contents.

When she arrived at her small apartment, she sat on her futon and began to scan the images of the little stapled collection. They were all photos of people, some with animals or plants in the photos with them, or rather pieces of animals and plants, but they were all obviously edited by a computer. They were brilliant. They were like nothing she'd ever seen in her life. On the first page sat a middle-aged man, staring up at her through shallow, miserable eyes. He was missing lips; the skin on his mouth sewn shut with a thick black computerized yarn. He just gazed sorrowfully through the glaze barrier of the photo and Olga's apartment. Olga was struck by the way the man's obvious agony only drew out mournfulness. He did not appear as though he would cry out even if he could have.

145

The next photo's contents contained a young man of about twenty-five. His hair was partially aflame and very singed as he sat reading in a big black armchair. He had the expression on his face as though he was reading pure bliss that sprawled the pages of his book. Olga was inspired by the way he could seem so at ease when his skull was surely smoldering like the log in the fireplace behind him.

The third photo was of a little girl who had once had long black hair, which now bound her bald, bloodstained body to a torch that was burning just above her head. Her eyes were closed and her fists clenched as though she could fight off the pain with telekinetic energy. The torch was displayed at night, stuck into the slits of a guardrail on a bridge.

A photo in the gruesome series that Olga was admiring was of another young man who was sitting at a dog bowl labeled Dark Angel's Trick.‘ A choke chain bound his neck leading to his own hand where his tight fist was pulling at the metal links with all of his strength to end his pain, for atop his black hair, sewn into his scalp were a pair of tan and black dog ears, rounded at the tip like those of a German Shepherd. Coiling around his hips as he sat on the tiled kitchen floor was a floppy tan and black tail, stained with pixel burgundy. Sewn to his lower lip was the lanky pink tongue hanging from his jaw as though the man was panting.

Although there were dozens of edited pictures, the photo that Olga had chosen as her favorite was of a woman of about thirty. She was hovering near the ceiling; the picture had been taken from below. This picture had been very well edited to give the appearance of flying. Her arms and legs outstretched, she was majestically lifted in midair. She had large white feathery wings attached at the shoulder blades and she flew like a beautiful swan inside of the Victorian bedroom. Her long black hair blew in the turbulent air she was surely soaring through in her mind. Her eyes were closed, she smiled gently. Her stomach was missing and her entrails lay about the Cherrywood dresser and four poster bed. Olga sighed at the pure genius and beauty of it all.

Olga had never been an artist, but now she knew she could and desperately wanted to create this art. She wanted to create this art as more than a photograph edited by someone with a clever mind and an excellent graphics program. She wanted to know that they could be real, that they would be real. She could feel the potential hovering in the air, sinking to her level, draping over her like a light blanket, waiting for a signal, a sign to begin, sinking deeper and deeper, penetrating her mind until every molecule of shadow screamed in a whisper ―COMMENCE." So Olga fled her house, stuffing the little booklet into the pocket of her dark hooded sweatshirt as she went. She did not know where or how to begin until she saw him. A young man out jogging— with his German Shepherd. It was perfect. It was a sign to start. She had to. She had no choice anymore; it was beyond her own control. The muses and all of her artistic inspirations took over from there and spilled words through her mouth like thick cider and pouring like pastels onto a blank canvas of man and canine, canine and man. ―"Hi, how are you doing today?'‖ she began as she stopped the jogging man. ―"I'm just out for a little jog with Schatze here."‖ He stroked the beautiful beast on his great ears.

146

His brilliant ears that had nice thin skin just like a leathery fabric … ―"Well, I am conducting an experiment and series of interviews of men between the ages of 20 and 35 who own dogs and was wondering if you'd be willing to contribute?" ‖ ―"I'd love to help you out,"‖ The young man smiled at Olga She grinned back and said, ―"Thanks, just come with me and I promise you, you'll really help to make an impact on the art of the community." ―"Art? I thought this was about dogs."‖ He looked politely curious as they walked further and further away from people and buildings and houses, she talking smoothly as watercolor washes and he listening gently, not knowing, not seeing.

She knew not before it happened, and not so much after it happened, but was very aware of it while it was going on and relived it constantly to bask in the pure pride of her art. Scalpel, chain, dog dish, maybe she planned it, maybe she didn't, but it was all there as the needle weaved in and out, up and down, through and through.

When she was finished, she stood back, leaned forward, walked away, and went back to adjust the tail, curling it just so as a finishing touch the way a painter would flick the last highlight into his subject‘s eye, and now it was perfect. The fur, the shining chain, Dark Angel's Trick, the burgundy reflected in her gaze and she knew it was real. It was real and it was satisfactory.

She never knew how long it was after the man and his companion, who now were one, until the next one began. It could have been but five minutes from returning to the town or it might have been months. Olivia would never realize as she dwelled solely on seconds, minutes, just a few fractions and fragments of time and lived only in that box where she was the artist and she was the creator and the destroyer and she was the one to make real what she wanted. But the second one came in almost the same spot as the man and his Shatze.

The man was reading on a park bench. He seemed drawn into his book, melting into the pages and completely oblivious to what was going on around him. She knew she needed to capture that rapture if it was going to satisfy her. She knew how, but it needed to be quick. Somehow, her materials appeared. Again, maybe she planned it, maybe it was fate, maybe she had analyzed the situation for weeks before acting, but she knew how. Her distraction was set and just as planned, maybe it had been tested before by herself as she lived on in a different realm with the art of skin and fur, but the man, her next uncut stone, did not react. He kept on reading. She had already forgotten her distraction, all that mattered was that the people were gone, it did not matter if more of them perished for it was for a good cause, the cause of art.

He was taken out quick so as to preserve the expression, yet it did not quite turn out right. ‗"That's alright,‘ thought Olga. ‗It's nothing a few stitches can't repair."‘ He was taken to the house, the one meant for him that Olga had known, perhaps by instinct, was the right one. The owners were out and she was free to prop him with his book in their elegant armchair in front of their extravagant fireplace for them to find upon arriving home again. Then, 147

for the finishing touch, the flick of highlight in the eye, she merely needed one flick of the Zippo.

Beautiful.

Her next masterpiece was at a hopsital. He was already dying. This seemed almost seconds after the reading man now that she had two fantastic memories to relive and revisit, but must have been longer since it must have been complicated. Olga was oblivious to any complications since it was the artist's personality that had never awoken in her before now who had done it all. She was posing as the doctor. It was natural. She had access to her materials. It was easier this way because in order for her to be satisfied, this one needed to be left alive. She had the anesthesia, she had the tools, and with quick, clean cuts, the man was left without lips. He was fixed, nonetheless, with her yarn. She thought to herself as the needle swam through flesh, ‗This is fun.

Maybe I'll take up sewing."

She had but to leave him there, resting right on his hospital cot and know that when he awakens, he will be looking up at the viewer of her third masterpiece with his mournful eyes, and he would be her living art.

Next came the young girl watching the torch. The little girl was even walking across the bridge, her long hair dangling behind her. All she needed was to be knocked out and then dealt with, which is what most likely happened before she was bound to the torch post. This one was beautiful because it shone with the youth and the purity and innocence. Olga saluted to her and the torch burned and worked its way down toward her still living body. Olga now considered herself an artist to compete with the greats. She was proud, and she knew that if she could make these things real then she could make anything real, and such beliefs would come in handy in the next masterpiece, because this one was going to be the most difficult of all to make beautiful.

The swan practically found her in the riverside park which now seemed just an art supplies store, a place to collect her canvases and slabs of uncut marble, and all she had to do was reach toward her belt to find the switchblade. But she did not, could not, find her next victim. There was no one else on this earth worthy of this one. She knew that it was not enough to see it as reality, but she needed to be it in reality. She knew she had never been much to look at and now was her chance to be the art and the artist, she now thought of herself as a bit of a stylist doing a bit of beauty work on herself. She knew her makeover would be her own undoing, but the pure joy of the finished masterpiece filled her being.

She returned to her apartment where the bedroom was prepared by her,—to be exactly as needed and decorated just so. She sewed the wings to her own shoulder blades and had tied herself up and was just needed to pull the strings to levitate her and to fire the gun into her stomach from below. She stretched her arms and breathed her last beautiful breath to die in magnificent agony and art to be discovered by someone unfortunate enough to find what should have remained a fantasy. And she smiled. Art would become her fatality, and her fatality in her art became her reality.

Patriotic note to uncle Sam 148

No, I am not your brother. And I am not your friend. And as for the last one of your constituents who saw fit to block my path, I believe the authorities are still out there somewhere looking for his body; or was it her body? Oh well, I guess the gender of the dead doesn't really matter all that much, especially when one considers that in a few short hours nothing's going to matter . . . nothing at all.

Now please don't misunderstand my intentions here, for I have nothing against you personally. But then isn't that the way it always seems to be. I mean, the autonomous safety of the contemporary coterie dictates that no one individual can ever be singled out as entirely to blame in these situations. It's just those profit driven precepts of ingrained corporate policy, or the obvious pitfalls of politically motivated bureaucratic mandate, or perhaps even that all too often lopsided plane of the law. But it's obviously not your fault alone, now is it. So don't feel picked on. After all, it's not just you that I'm going to kill. But I like you so I'll kill you last.

No, I wasn't born hating you. I didn't spring from the womb bent on your destruction. In fact, if the truth be known, I even came to trust you as a child, adhering to your social conformities in the hope of gaining your respect. But you did not respect me, for you do not respect yourself, your brothers or your enemies and give no thought to those who die around you unless, of course, it comes to suit your purpose.

You told me we were born alike. You told me we were equal. You said that justice stands to serve the needs of one and all the same, and honor crowns the heads of those who's actions well deserve it, but you lied. Perhaps you lied in fear that I might somehow learn the truth, though I am not a fool and came to know such things quite early on. Yet even in the face of my rebuke you continue to lie, spouting forth such an overwhelming barrage of peace-meal facts and blatantly self-serving assumptions that at times I doubt if even you can plainly tell the difference, or even care to try. For you hold the power, and with it comes the righteousness, the law, and yes the gun, with which you keep the likes of me at bay, and far away from your front door.

You sent me off to fight your wars while your own children went to college, and yet to this day have not seen fit to allow me the decency of a living wage with which to raise my own.

You said that I could play the game, then made the rules so vague and complicated that neither one of us can truly understand them, which works quite well to your advantage since I have neither the time nor money necessary to clarify such matters.

My crime was not the violent sort, yet you locked me up with vicious men who taught me vicious ways; a punishment in which time became little more than a secondary concern. These men put a gun in my hand and made me point it at a supposed, 'enemy.' When in truth You were always my enemy.

Still, you take no blame for my condition. But that's perfectly all right, since I would not forgive you anyway. I will, however, allow you these final moments of life in which to gather your influential troupe of loyal cohorts around you in a last fleeting attempt to rationalize the true nature of your intent. Pray, 149

oh covetous souls of affluence and power, pray that I should be struck down before I throw this doomsday switch of vengeful retribution. Pray as I have prayed--in the darkened corners of your tenement slums; on the blood-soaked battlefields of your self-induced wars for economic profit; in the dying arms of those I could not care for due to lack of monetary wealth. Pray. For only God can help you now.

This lunatic's toy--which I have killed so many to place in my possession--came from you, and so it seems only fitting that you should now reap the full rewards of your own psychopathic endeavors. After all, you said that such an all-inclusive weapon would surely put an end to war. And so, shortly, I will help to prove you right. Yes, an end to war, an end to hate, an end to every malady and problem known to Man; an end to all that Man has been, or ever hoped to be; an end to you, and, of course, an end to me. Yet I would gladly die a thousand deaths to see the world wrenched free from your control; too bad you feel the same way about giving it up. But then therein lies the real difference between us. For I do this not to seize power but to eliminate once and for all the vile stench of death and oppression which lies rotting beneath your careless misuse of it. And in as much as you have continued to remain so adamant about refusing to use this authority for the common good, I see no reason for the rest of us to go on suffering needlessly as a direct result of such an arrogant and brutish attitude.

Am I mad? Absolutely, by all definitions of the word. Driven over the brink of sheer insanity? Sure, why not, it was a short drive from where I started. But these are just words, and words have no reality in themselves. It is the reader who gives them life and twists their form to suit his own design. And my design has come from words you choose to disregard.

What's that you say, just one more chance? Just one more chance to make things right between us? One more chance to feed the hungry. One more chance to do a deed without the thought of profit. One more chance to understand that all men suffer in their ignorance while children suffer from it. Just one more chance is all you need to set the world right? I highly doubt it.

There is not much time left now. The detonator reads two hours and twenty minutes--oh, my mistake, make that two hours and nineteen minutes. Funny how time flies when you're running out of it. Perhaps I'll go and take a nap. I would like to be rested for the end, or the beginning; whichever. Besides, sleep for the socially afflicted has always been a pleasure beyond words. Know why? . . . I thought not. It's because such slumber sets us free from this perpetual nightmare you so casually call The American experience. So you see even if death should prove to be nothing more than an endless sleep at least all our prayers will truly have been answered.

I'll be leaving you now. But don't worry, you'll be leaving pretty soon yourself. Still, it is kind of a shame that we never actually got to meet each other face to face, though in all honesty it probably wouldn't have changed things very much even if we had. I mean, let's face it, I'm just one more nameless brick in the pile, while you, in all your self-perceived intellectual splendor, are the master bricklayer. So tell me Master, just whose fault is it that the wall collapsed anyway? Sure, I can be a bit more to the point.

How's this: in as much as you feel morally justified in proclaiming that you're not personally responsible 150

for my internally flawed condition, can it be any less logical for me to believe that I'm equally guiltless for cracking amid your ill-conceived design. And while it might just be the dogmatic nature of subjective presupposition, or perhaps even the unavoidable self-righteousness of innate human belief, which allows one to interpret the definitions of good and evil, right and wrong, guilt and innocence--or even the ongoing plight of millions--as little more than just a matter of perspective . . . so what? It's all just an academic question anyway; right? And then again maybe that's the real problem to begin with. I feel it is my patriotic duty, no my honor to blow you all to smithereens. Holy Jihad has come home to roost.

My Amazing arm

My amazing ability I was standing out front of my house, tossing a tennis-ball into the air and catching it. I really wanted someone to throw it to but it was one of those times when all the neighbor kids didn't like me. I was naturally good at throwing a ball hard, far and accurately and sometimes I could convince my friend Richie to stand at one end of the dead-end street we lived on, while I stood at the other and threw him the ball. He could nearly always catch it, but could never throw it all the way back to me; it always bounced at least once.

Richie was one of them, today, so I just threw the ball as high and as straight upwards as I could and caught it. Jeffrey, Harry, Joey, Adam, Willy, little Margie, (her brothers always called her "maggie" and Peter were standing in front of John John's house, laughing and plotting against me. We were all nearly the same age, around eleven. There were two older brothers of our group; Tim, who was Richie's elder by three years, and Johnny, who was the eldest of six brothers and sisters, many of which were standing

151

in front of John John's house. They were off doing things that teenagers do, having nothing much to do with us little kids.

I ignored the kids across the street, and they ignored me, for the most part, but, from time to time, one of them looked directly at me, then said something to the group who would all laugh with the abandon of conspirator's plotting against a common enemy.

I was nearly tired of the game of actively ignoring them and was going to go inside and watch cartoons when Willy, the youngest of us all at eight years old, broke away from the group and started my way. He'd been sitting on his bicycle and rode it over to where I stood, a smirk on his face. He stopped with the front tire nearly between my legs and said, "Hey Donna!" His smile was a bit too bright for my tastes, and I suspected a trick, but wanted to get it over with, knowing that after a cruel prank the outcast was typically taken back into the fold, all being forgiven.

"Hey," I said.

"What'cha doin'?" he asked.

Chatting wasn't Willy's specialty, and he usually avoided it, so I knew he was waiting for an opening to do something physical. Usually the prank involved luring the victim behind a bush to be pushed into a puddle, or was given a candy-bar that someone spit on. There would be lots of laughter then they would chase the victim down before they could get home and tell their mom, and profusely apologize, making things even again.

When I saw Willy coming I'd thrown the ball into the air a few more times, but stopped when he got close. I didn't want to be attacked while looking up.

"Right now I'm holding a tennis ball", I said.

"Oh," he said.

It suddenly annoyed me that we were going through this little dance, and I'd decided that this time I wasn't going to be drawn in so easily, and if I was hit or kicked that I was going to jump on him and beat him up. I knew that my beating him up would start a full-scale war with all the kids who lived on our dead-end street; worse, with his older brothers and sisters. Willy was the youngest of them, and they were always fighting amongst themselves, until someone outside of their family hurt one of them, which 152

caused them all to stand behind the offended member. I felt I was ready to do battle. I was a girl, but I was the toughest kid on the block.

I took a step back from Willy's front tire, and threw the tennis-ball high into the air: not as high as I had been throwing it, but high enough to have to look up in order to catch it. I saw Willy tense, then relax when he saw I was going to jump back to avoid his attack, if it came. I saw, looking over his shoulder that everyone in front of John John's house was watching. 'Good' I thought, 'I won't have to brag to them about how I kicked Willy's ass'.

I took another step back towards my house, and this time threw ball as high as I could, thinking I could detect movement from Willy with my head back, but by the time I'd sensed it he'd rolled forwards on his bike and punched me hard in the throat then stepped on the pedals of his bike and raced away.

The blow took my breath away, and I fell back onto my behind, both hands clutching my throat, embarrassed more than hurt. Willy was racing to the group in front of John John's but they were scattering like roaches, in all different directions. Since he no longer had the safety of numbers to protect him he swerved off to ride to the end of the dead-end street, then turned right.

When I could see clearly again, and could breath reasonably well, I grabbed up my tennis-ball and moved around to where I could see him between the houses, racing down the hill. The street ended at the bottom of the hill and he had to make a choice to go right or left. He went right, which meant I would still be able to see him. And, even though he was now a block away I could hear him laughing maniacally.

I moved to the opposite end of my house, which lined up with the house behind it, knowing I would see him come out that side. I saw that his big brother Johnny and Tommy's older brother Tim were at the corner Willy was racing towards, straddling their bikes and talking. I knew I could throw my tennisball that far but thought I would lose some accuracy with the bit of wind that was blowing that day, and decided on a rock about half the size of the tennis-ball.

I held the rock in my hand feeling it's weight, allowing my muscles to get used to it, thinking that I probably couldn't hit him, though I knew I could throw the rock as far away as he'd be and then some.

And then I saw him.

He was struggling because of the short steep hill that ended where his brother and Tim were, but he was still laughing his ass off. The older boys were ignoring him. Feeling exposed with the evil thoughts in my head I looked around to see that no one was watching. The others must have went into their houses through back doors in order to avoid looking like they were running away from anything that might have happened in the street, in case their mom's noticed that someone had punched me in the throat.

The fact that Willy had rode away like a chicken, and that things hadn't gone to plan, with placating apologies from everyone, I decided that I was going to hit Willy with that rock: that I would not miss.

153

Then I cocked my arm and let it fly, throwing it somewhat ahead of where Willy was, knowing the rock would take a little time to arrive.

I stood there watching the rock, amazed from my own ability to throw so well, and flushed from the excitement of doing it. It seemed to float in the air. I had to look up so high to see it that I couldn't see the ground, only baby blue sky and white puffy clouds, and a small gray rock. It was beautiful.

I began to think the rock had gotten stuck in all that blue, or that maybe the dot I was following was really a bird, when it began to sink, then rapidly fall. I got dizzy following its course out of the washed out blue and into the over bright colors of the earth and lost sight of it. I looked for Willy, who, in the instant my eyes found him, fell off his bike, halfway between the last house he'd passed and where his big brother and Tim were. I felt as if I'd knocked him off his bike with my thoughts, but I saw the rock bounce off into the grass across the street.

All the blood rushed to my feet, and my feet scrambled into my house where I shot up to my room.

Mom ignored this, it being summer, and having endured many explosive entrances and exits from her son who was addled by so much free time and lack of structure.

I rushed to the window in my room which was on the back side of our house, and watched and listened as Tim picked up his friend's bloody little brother and place him on the handle-bars of his bike.

Johnny seemed indifferent to the cries of his little brother, who was usually crying do to some cruelty he'd caused. He did look puzzled, though.

Tim's arrival on the dead-end street was met by several moms including Willy's, who was in a housedress looking like she'd just woke up from a nap. Willy's cries could be heard for blocks around.

I was standing at the front door, forcing myself to look concerned, so that no one would suspect I had caused all the havoc happening on the street. In minutes, Willy's mom had slipped on house-shoes and having installed Willy in the front seat with a dishtowel on the bloody wound on his forehead, squealed away down the street.

Joey, and Johnny hung around on our dead-end and talked to the mom's who had come outside to try and make sense of the chaos. I saw my enemies standing next to their houses and in their backyards; guilty looks on their faces, as if they felt responsible for what had happened to their young assassin.

It seemed that no one was pointing a finger at me, so, to make my innocence more believable I went outside and stood near the group of mom's and older brothers so I could hear what they thought had happened. As I stood there John John came up and said 'hey' as if nothing had happened. Then the rest of the kids came to gather with us all in the street to listen.

I was annoyed to find that Joey seemed to think a small meteor had fallen out of the sky and beaned 154

little Willy. Johnny thought that that was ridiculous, and that a bird had dropped a rock on his little brother. John John's mom kept asking Tim if maybe Willy hadn't fallen off his bike and hit his head. Tim and Johnny both denied the possibility of this because Willy cried out before he fell.

Harry, nudged me and asked me what had happened. Widening my eyes I said, "I don't know".

Eventually the group separated into its individual parts of older brothers, mom's and kids, then the mom's went back to their houses, and we all ran off to play hide and seek.

I had been scared that someone would find out I had hit Willy with that rock, but now I was annoyed to find that no one even suspected that I had done such a thing. Everybody knew how well I could throw. I had hoped someone might at least have said, "Well, you know Donna's got a pretty good arm, maybe she threw that rock." I really wanted to tell someone, but thought better of it. I might have to throw a few more rocks in the future.

A Bard's muse on Scifi sunday I saw a motherless waif today, sitting on a park bench, watching all the other children playing. His face was dirty and stretched with a long frown. The laughter of the other children seemed to make the frown longer, as dads rode down the slides with their daughters or moms gave an occasional push of the swing to their sons. There weren't any parents who ever paid any particular attention to this boy though. Each night he would curl up underneath the swings after everyone had gone, closes his eyes, tucks his little arms inside his shirt to keep warm, and I suppose he dreams of a home with a mom and dad he could play with.

I suppose that was all he ever dreams about.

I saw a derelict today, standing on a street corner, haggard and rain soaked with one hand holding up a sign that read, 'I AM HUNGRY'. His other hand was held out to the cars coming up to the stop sign.

Hoping, I suppose, for that feeling of cold change dropping into his palm. But the drivers stopping at the sign didn't give the homeless man any notice. And then one car pulled up to the sign and the driver got out, handed the homeless man some food and a drink and filled both of his palms with change. And then he hugged the homeless man and left. And the haggard homeless man smiled and continued waving at the cars...

I saw a young mother today, pushing a stroller down the street, stopping at each display the stores had in their windows. She modeled the image of herself, cast in the window, in front of the clothing that was on display. Imagining herself like a queen, I suppose, then shaking her head she would carry on. But when she came to the KidsRus store she started to cry. Tears erased the smiles and her hand was held over her mouth. She walked to the front of the stroller and lifted out a doll and showed the doll the wonderful things in the window. Then she laid the doll back into the stroller, wiped her face in her 155

sleeve and walked on. And I wondered what pain brought her to that window each and every day.

I saw my therapist today, and I tried to explain to her that I see things in people. I feel things in them through their actions. I know their stories, adventures, sorrows and pains, how they cry out for attention, even though I've never spoken to any of them. Every day I look out from my window in my room and see these lives pass before me and I know these people, I can feel them.

The therapist listens to all of my stories, and then tells me in a sweet low voice, there are no windows in my room.

So, I suppose, this must be the reason why I see her.

Chitlings, Collards and Black eyed peas

Her chair shook as Miss Sandy-Mae McCoy, placed one foot square in the center of the table and then the other. She stood up straight, clutching at the papers held firmly against her chest with one hand. The other tugged at her skirt trying to will as much fabric into its length as possible. She was tall and skinny, too skinny, with short brown hair teased into the shape of a hornetâ€&#x;s nest atop her head. For the occasion she had chosen a pink blouse, mid-length plaid wool skirt and a pair of high heels that looked like weapons; just in case she felt like playing a sado masochistic lover afterwards. She had forgotten all about having to stand on the table. Around her feet, applauding, sat her peers, her 156

mentors and friends. The women as proud of their star as they would be of their only child getting a base hit at the church tee-ball practice, and the men, craning their necks for a better inspection of shapely legs from the unnatural point-ofview of a cockroach. Serious drinkers all with aspirations of greatness, they were, nonetheless still men who preferred Fruit of the Loom. Tonight they had gathered for the weekly Thursday‟s night writer‟s critique in the bar of the old Globewalker Arcade and Grille.

The Globewalker, far beyond its prime, with paint peeling and dust covering the bar; here where generations of alkies had gathered, spilled out their guts in double-spaced blue ink blood, in an attempt to move ever closer to the edge of the publishing abyss; here where the right of passage required that you stand in the center of the table and spew forth your greatest achievement, Sandy stood.

She had done it. Ripped out her heart, worked it onto the hook as one might an earthworm and flung it as far as she could into swirling cauldron of unpublished manuscripts. First a nibble, then a nudge and as the cork dropped below the surface she snatched the line. A bite! In a death grip battle, with her pole bent double, her line frayed, the burned out broad had landed her catch. Not your average New York Bass either. This was a down-home, seat-of-your-pants giant catfish!

Vanity Press had called her work the greatest thing since Chitlings and Collards met black-eyed peas and for a small fee were willing to publish her epistle. Not your run-of-the-mill dime store paperback either. Five thousand copies in hardback with a dust cover! Enough books to shove in the face even the most cynical mother-in-law and guaranteed to fill up a garage. Vanity Press known worldwide, with a regional office in Kansas City and ads appearing in such noted periodicals as the National Geographic and Redneck Writer. This was the big-time and tomorrow she would be whisked off to Vanity‟'s corporate offices in downtown Slippery Rock, to sign the contracts.

Sandy was nervous. Her legs shaking as she gave her skirt one last tuck.

Around the room, faded photos of her great predecessors stared down at her from dust shrouded frames. There was Bob Levin, donned in cowboy hat and holding his bestseller, The Passionate Faux Pa in The Backseat Of A ’48 Pick UP. And over there, the late great Georgia O'riley, author of, "one more move and I'll kick your balls" , a picture taken from her pole dancing days when she still had curly hair. The romance novelist, Nicholas Piccolo and in the center, the most famous one of them all, the New York best selling erotic sci-fi novelist and man-about-town, Johnnie 'slippery' Vaseline. Sandy felt their presence and drew strength from each of them. This was her finest hour.

157

“My friends, johns, and gentlemen callers,” she said with a laugh. “Thank you all so much for coming. This is the greatest honor I'‟ve experienced since Albert Gentry included me as Waffle House queen in his blue ribbon novel, "Diner Counter encounter" “Once again I bring you good tidings from my professor and spiritual leader, the short Reverend Jimmy-Ray, whom I affectionately call "needle dick the bug fucker." Ray, who has taken refuge in my home on the north side of Fort Mill, formerly known as Heritage USA. Since my conversion, the Reverend has taught me the unique virtues of absolute individualism. And since absolute individualism is absolutely necessary in one‟'s life, if one‟'s life is to be absolutely fulfilling, I have chosen to dedicate this book to him. I will now read a excerpt of my soon to be published novel, "Separating the weeds from the wheat.”"

The members of the group tensed as Sandy shifted on one foot, exposing a bit of thigh.

"There Lorna stood," Sandy began, "“quarter till midnight, standing in the middle of the cow pasture in her best white social dress, and with her left foot firmly buried in a pile of fresh cow manure. Why it hadn‟'t even had a good chance to skim-over yet. Bending over to examine the entombed foot, she raised the half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort, and downed the rest of it. Nothing to do, but find a good stick and get busy picking the offending goop from betwixt her toes.”"

The women sat mesmerized, clasping their hands together in prayerful admiration. The men glancing at each other, eyebrows raised and whispers hushed. Sandy was just getting to the good part, when a heavyset man crashed through the front door, tripped over Cloey, the resident Coonhound and sprawled on the floor like a poached egg. The man was Gomer Hatifield, a former member, whose place on the wall was now only a faded patch of wallpaper, picked himself up and stepped forward.

A Real McCoy, the group‟s leader leapt to his feet in anger. “Hatfield, you have no right. You know we don‟t serve your kind here no more!” “"What do you consider, my kind?”" Hatifield growled.

158

“"Only low-life thrill-writing cliff hangers!”"

Gomer spat on the floor. "“Better that than those candy-coated fantasy writers. Nothing but a bunch of pixies, fairies or fire breathing vamps! No telling how the warped minds of Bootleggers, are translated in the unknown backwoods. That firewater destroys their rationale.

The rest of the men leaped to their feet, ready to pounce.

"Don‟t get your pee in a boil, fellows. All I want is to say my peace and get the hell out of this alcohol soaked literary forsaken den of rhyme.”" “"Then say it and be gone,”" Mc Coy demanded.

“What I‟'ve got to say is to the Sandy,” Gomer said as he stepped forward and reached for her hand. “"Sandy, I heard you reading that, darling and I must say that you move me to tears. But sometimes when you think you‟'ve found satisfaction, all you‟'ve really found is a hard rock in your cheese cake."

"You leave Sandy alone,”" one of the women yelled. “"She‟s earned the right to stand on the table, and show her assets!”"

Sandy reddened and tugged more of the skirt around her legs.

Gomer ignored the comment. "Sandy, publishing is not everything.

Experience is.”

"Throw him out!”. “Blasphemy!"” the others screamed.

“That‟s what I used to think,” Hatfield continued. “Take for instance the tale of one of these fine authors on the wall; A person who might not be welcomed here today because she knew the publishing myth. This woman spent the better part of her life dreaming of becoming a famous novelist. Why she even had a screen-saver on her computer that said, „Famous Novelist.‟ Now I‟m not about to tarnish the reputation of any of these fine published authors who‟s work once made the Globewalker the envy of the whole county, but she had to work up quite a sweat to pay her dues. Ten novels she wrote. Published six of them too, but did that lead to a life on easy street? Many of you think that when you‟re published, you've made it, but you couldn‟'t be further from the truth.”

159

Someone growled.

"Why she didn‟'t live on easy street; she lived on poverty hill! Actually you had to go down a dirt road behind poverty hill to get to her house. And why?

Was it because she hadn‟'t written a best seller? No. Any of her books could have jumped to the top of the charts. It wasn‟t that. It was because she was so wrapped up in absolute individualism that she forgot that she was once a young man!”

There was a gasp.

"The moment we taught her to laugh; the instant we got her to convert and admire those shapely legs like the true heterosexual she once was; that‟s when she remembered her actual identity, changed her name and sold her book, "It takes alot of Balls, to remove your Johnson," for a million dollars!”

Everybody stared with their mouths agape.

"So now you know truth, Sandy,” Gomer concluded. “The Reverend Ray is not for you.”

“What?” Sandy screamed. “Do you mean that Jimmy-Ray is in reality the late great Georgia O'Riley?”

“That‟s right, Sandy. I could spot those semi-intellectual, cliff-hanging thrillwriters a mile off.”

“Do you mean she wasn‟t killed when she was sucked out of the toilet of that 727?”

“Nope. That was just a cover story dreamed up by Vanity Press to hide her new identity and, of course, to ease the burden on her grieving husband.”

Sandy climbed down from the table of the Globewalker Arcade and Grill, a tear stain on her cheek. Each member of the group hugged her and agreed that Gomer had done right in telling the Sandy the horrible truth. By a vote of five to three, they agreed that cliff-hangers and thrill-writers would once again be allowed a seat at the Globewalker Arcade and Grill.

160

As Sandy McCoy gave Gomer Hatfield a final hug, he teasingly whispered something in her ear. “Now that we're done with the birds and the bees” he said, “Let's get down to the black-eyed peas."

Choo Choo, the Lone Shark

Choo Choo twisted in the seat of the Beamer and grimaced as he hit the steering column with his knee. The black gym bag had catapulted into the passenger floorboard when he screeched to a stop earlier. The damn car was too compact and small. Especially for a man of his size. Shoulda traded it for a Lincoln or a Buick, but he liked having it as a reminder of his collection abilities.

It was the only thing he had ever hidden from Big Frank. Just a little white lie.

The guy had come through with the remainder a short time later but Choo Choo decided he was keeping the car. Squeaky little accountant dweeb had protested, virtually broken down and cried, but he wasn‟t risking going to the cops and 161

damned sure didn‟'t want his wife finding out. Community property was a higher juice than even Frankie charged.

Choo Choo grabbed the bag and slid out of the car. He unzipped it and pulled out the .25 cal pop shot pistol and strapped its ankle holster to his leg. He grabbed the 9-mm Glock and slipped it in his waistband. The pistols were mostly for show, but you never knew when you might need them for protection.

The piece de‟ resistance though was the butterfly knife. Choo Choo pulled it out last and with a couple of flips of his wrist the blade was open and ready for business. He ran his finger gingerly along the razor sharp edge. There were doctor‟s scalpels wouldn‟t cut so smooth. Guys saw him flip the blade out, they‟d start pissing their pants. It had the magical effect of almost always producing more cash.

He wasn‟t quite sure what to expect this time. The john had been on the books for about six months. Several small loans always paid back with vig on time. Big Frank had decided it was easy money when they had asked for 25 G‟s. Normally, the boss didn‟t go for such an amount unless you had been with him a year or more. And now he was late with the first payment. Big Frank wouldn‟t normally have sent him out on a first call. He was more soldier and a closer out of the bullpen, if necessary. But dropping 25 G‟s was enough to make anyone nervous.

He looked at the address he had written on the folded index card again. This was the place. 2500 Lexington, apartment 3-G. Wasn‟t the address Big Frank had given him but it hadn‟t been tough to track the john here. Most of the time guys on the hook didn‟t stay in one place too long. But no one could hide forever.

The hot, dry air made Choo Choo feel like he was in a sauna. He could already feel moisture around his collar and under his jacket. Couldn‟t wait to be done with the job and back inside the cool air of the Beamer.

Choo Choo checked the floor of the apartment building before coming to the door of 3-G. No one else seemed to be around. Good. He didn‟t expect any trouble, but just in case, it was easier not to deal with the nosy neighbors. He rapped softly on the door.

"Yeah,” the muffled answer came. “Who is it?” " A deep voice, answered sounding aggravated. Good, he thought. Just wait. I‟ll give you something to be aggravated about. Choo Choo smiled. Hadn‟t shook 162

anybody down really good in a while. Would be fun to watch the john go from surly to whiny.

"Pizza.”"

“Didn‟t order no fuckin‟ pizza.” The deep voice growled from the other side of the door. Probably staring at him through the peephole. Choo Choo let out a big wide smile.

"Open the door,"” he said softly.

The door opened a few inches and a dark haired man in a black T-shirt and black slacks peered out. “"Who the fuck are you?”" " John Fucking Travolta, he mused. “I‟m selling Girl Scout cookies. Open the door. We got business to discuss.”"

"I don‟t have nothing to discuss with you.”" The guy met his eyes in an angry stare. Black, cold pupils that matched the color of his shirt.

"I‟m sorry you feel that way,”" he nodded and smiled again. He stepped back from the door. As the john was pushing it closed, Choo Choo rammed his large frame into the door tearing the chain lock free and splintering wood. The john stepped back in surprise. Another guy dressed in the same ridiculous disco outfit was on the couch watching TV. Closing the door behind him, Choo Choo straightened his jacket. It was more for effect. Banging into the door hadn‟t so much as caused a wrinkle. “"Thanks for inviting me in, gentlemen. You don‟t want Girl Scout cookies; we can talk about a debt you owe. Be healthier for you anyway."

The john regained his composure and stepped forward, almost threatening, definitely unafraid. Unusual. Choo Choo knew his mere size was enough to make most men cower. He towered over the guy.

“I don‟t owe you nothing. Get outta here.” No threat of calling the cops and if the guy was packing it was only a sock.

"It‟s not me you owe. But you borrowed 25 G‟s from a businessman. The first 163

loan payment is due. 5 G‟s. I‟m the collection agency. I don‟t accept credit cards or checks.”" He felt the adrenaline racing through him. This guy was gonna be fun to take down. Be sobbing like a baby. He was patient. Didn‟t take this shit personal. Let the asshole dig his own grave.

"Like I said, get outta here. Be healthier for you.” " The punk hadn‟t moved an inch but his eyes now seemed to be on fire. Fucker had to be on drugs. Why else would he be that stupid? His idiot twin remained seated on the couch.

“I don‟t think you understand the consequences of your action, asshole.”

Slowly, Choo Choo reached into his pocket and grabbed the butterfly knife. The cool metal felt good in his hand and he could feel a surge course through him.

Might have to leave the punk with a little reminder of how to be respectful.

"Where‟s the 5 G‟s?"

"Get the fuck outta here, you whining guiny wop dago bastard."

That was the last straw. He pulled the blade and flicked his wrist to open it.

"Maybe you didn‟t hear me good, fuckface,” he whispered. He held the knife up in plain view and made a slow, but distinct slashing movement. “You owe the man money. I‟m here to collect.”"

"I told you to leave.”"

Man‟s accent had been slightly Italian, like Berlitz for mobsters, until the „dago‟ comment. Now it was plain. Like a stupid tourist.

“My hearing is fine. Yours needs some work though. You want I should open your hearing canal a little for you?” He pointed the knife at the guy‟s head.

“I ain‟t got nothin. Check back next week.”

Tone was already softening. And he might have inched back a step or two. The knife was positively magic.

"Next week, there‟ll be another five due. You need to give me something 164

now.”" Choo Choo smiled. “And I‟ll give you a reminder so you won‟t be short next week. Might help your attitude.”

Instantly, the john‟s hand flew towards his arm. Asshole had stepped back, now he was closer. Almost in slow motion, the guy attacked. Choo Choo brought the knife up. Slashed at the punk. His hand stopped in mid swing. His wrist was caught in a vise. It was the john‟s hand. Choo Choo jerked his hand back but the grip on his wrist tightened. He could feel the knife dropping as he reached with his free hand around his back to draw the pistol.

Shock and panic struck. He realized the gun was gone. The john‟s partner came into his view, holding the weapon. He hadn'‟t seen the guy get off the couch. How the fuck had he done that?

“I think it‟s your attitude that needs adjusting,” the john hissed. With a blur, Choo Choo saw his knife. Or its movement.

Choo Choo felt the wind of it passing him. A cool breeze. He felt a tug and then extremely light. The john released his hand and Choo Choo staggered back, momentarily losing his balance. Suddenly, it was very cool. Maybe it was the breeze. Then he noticed his tie was missing. He took another step back as he noticed something was wrong with his shirt.

“So how‟s it feel to be a gutted pig?” the john sneered.

Choo Choo felt himself shaking from the cold. What the fuck was he talking about? Then he noticed the entrails on the floor. His eyes followed the line of gut and intestine. They stopped at his midsection. They were his.

"Frankie the piss ant isn't going to like this. "

converse sneakers filled with a forgotten childhood

165

The door was slightly ajar. That's strange Laura thought keeping her Gear joggers on as she walked to the center of the room. Her eyes scanned the wall-unit; ticking off the few valuable possessions she owned. Crystal ornaments, check. Gold medal for running, check. Silver framed photograph of her dead mother, check. It was all there, nothing out of order.

There, just beside the end table she saw them. A pair of well-worn, black converse shoes placed next the door to her bedroom. For some reason they made her more afraid. Her spine tingled as she tried to identify whose they could be. Her palms started to itch. A cold sweat broke out, sticking her blouse to her skin. She inched back toward the entry door. Her heart rate tripled. The sudden pounding in her temples stopped her in mid-step. Frozen, as suppressed memories flooded in to overwhelm her defenses. Visions of rape, molestation, taunting, and beating assaulted her senses.

Her brother enacted his nightly rituals. Taking off his converse sneakers, he put them in her wardrobe and with a soft cooing voice accompanying the stench of slowly rotting feet, she knew he was there.

"For safekeeping," she would hear him utter.

She thought he did it to make her feel he belonged, but really it only made her clothes reek of him. She instinctively knew he was marking his territory, and that included her room and all of her possessions.

"I have the Mick's leather strap" were always his next words.

In fear of his savage backhand, she would do as told and lay the threatening tool at the foot of the bed within his easy reach. Taking care to be quiet, she would whisper the words she knew from painful experience he wanted to hear, while wondering what Mom would do to her if she found out. She knew it was all her fault, her doing, that made her brother visit at night while Dad drank his bottle of pinch.

Exhausted and devoid of emotion, when he was done, she was made to kneel at his feet and put those 166

converse sneakers back on, carefully lacing one tie at a time to complete the ritual. Almost always, the smell made her gag and would bring tears to her eyes as she fought back the retching urge that would be followed by swift, belt-driven, retribution.

Hot humid days were the worst. Woolen socks helped but the smell would still stick to them and linger long after his nightly visit. She would lay awake in her room smelling him and his rotten feet till daylight gave her an excuse to escape.

Shuddering, she took a deep breath, expecting the cloying aroma of her past to assault her, but smelt nothing. Slowly she came back to the present and found herself kneeling on the floor with a pair of Rock port walking shoes clutched in her hands and tears streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry... Miss Bentley isn't it? I didn't mean to startle you like that but you did tell me yesterday that the super would let me in. It's all fixed now anyway, your bedroom air-conditioner should work a treat.

These humid days are a bitch eh?

"You alright Miss Bentley?"

"Umm, err yes. I am sorry, I forgot you were coming. Took me quite by surprise, I'll be all right now.

Here, these are yours I take it?" Laura finishes as she shakily hands the shoes back to the woman.

"Why thank you, had em for years. Most comfortable pair I own in fact. I've even been around the world in em. Didn't wanna dirty up the cream carpet in yer bedroom see. Now if you'll just sign here I'll be gone - - You sure you're OK?" "No, but thanks anyway" Laura replied as she signed the work order with unexpected tears in her eyes then lead the way to the front door.

Arachnophobia anyone? Spinning the Scifi Web on Sunday

167

Tick, tock, tick tock......

The clock ticked off seconds in wooden knocks. I willed my eyes open as I struggled to fight its hypnotic effect, no doubt the purpose of placing the clock in the room with me. I lay naked on the floor of the attic, curled in a fetal position, with my dark hair brushed over my shoulder and down my side as I had been positioned and secured. I yanked on the soft bindings again, but though they wouldn't chafe my skin, they held strong against my repeated tugs and twists, I wasn't crazy, I knew that it was after me....and now I couldn't move.

Tick, tock, tick tock, like a drip that would not stop.....

Outside, I could hear soft rhythmical chanting interspersed with the ding of metal against metal keeping time. The urge to sleep came over me again, probably for the hundredth time since my capture the day before. I willed my eyes open, then let them relax hoping the lack of struggle would allow my rest without sleep. But the words mixed with wooden knocks from the clock and melodic metal were too much to bear, sleep too enticing. The sounds floated through me, lulling and soothing, until I succumbed to the elixir and slept. I dreamed I was in an attic filled with cobwebs, and dark eerie places.......

Bang! Bang!. Whoosh. Whoosh.

I came awake with a start and strained to hear how the noises around me had changed. Through slit eyelids, I could see the far wall now shimmered a soft blue that sparkled as if electrified. As I watched, the wall began to move and squeak, the entire wall, began to fade, a blue mist curling around it.

I tried again to wrestle out of the bindings that secured my wrists and ankles but couldn't fight loose. Slowly, the wall approached, one long continuous whoosh. Sweat rolled down my face 168

now, into my eyes, blinding me. I swiped it against my shoulder but kept my eyes shut. Outside, the chanting crescendoed, and I knew I would never see daylight. In that last moment I prayed to a God I had only peripherally believed in. I prayed that some word might make it back downstairs to my family, for them to know my fate rather than endure the anguish and uncertainty of not knowing.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

A draft of air passed over me like a swift breath. The chanting stopped. The hairs on the back of my neck stood like tiny antennae.

I opened my eyes and stared into the blue mist that hovered, curled, around the wall now only inches from me. Outside the wall, the village leader yelled once,"Let the feast begin!".

The villagers erupted in answer, "Happy New year," then began chanting, "Olde Lang Sine." The new year has arrived. Eat well."

My heart beat double-time now, missing a beat every few seconds that sent a sharp pain into my lungs and left me breathless. The blue mist floated around me and crystallized into a white web, a death cocoon that left only my face exposed. I began to scream, between labored breaths, a superhuman effort to yank myself from this nightmare, make myself awaken or shock the villagers into freeing me. I didn't care which, as long as I could be free of the web and whatever monstrosity was to follow.

Then it came. From the darkness at the top of the wall, a warm, sticky liquid dripped over me. I looked up as much as I could and stared into eight, red,luminous saucer-like eyes as long spindly legs carried her from the top of her web. With lightening speed I was cacooned in a silken robe, and dragged to the top of the wall and left to slowly suffocate.....

The Psycho-Pathologist on Scifi Sunday

169

City morgue, you kill ‗em. we grill ‗em

The morgue was stone silent. Every time Manny made this observation (as he inevitably did each time he entered the morgue), he felt a little silly, as if using morgue and silence together in the same thought was redundant, seeing as a morgue was, by definition, a solemn, silent place. The morgue was always exactly the way he left it, still and silent. It was almost as if he could predict the future. Eventually, it got to the point where Manny would not only anticipate the morgue being quiet, but also predict in advance his resulting observation that the morgue was quiet. He would stride down the dim, subterranean hallway, knowing full well what his impression of the morgue would be. Then he would push through those big, double metal doors, think Yup, this is pretty quiet, and then laugh out loud.

This process repeated endlessly, getting funnier and funnier with each successive cycle, as another level of self-analysis was added. ‗Hey, didn't I think the same thing last night, and the night before, and the night before that, and the night...?‘ He was redundant, and anal about it.

Manny did not mind the redundancy; he even looked forward to it. The nightly ritual lifted his spirits, started the shift off with a much-needed dose of bland humor. A sense of morbid humor was essential, Malcolm thought, in order for any sane person who worked with corpses underground in the dead of night to keep his sanity.

"So why do I have so much trouble convincing girls of this?" he asked himself.

This is how Manny developed the bizarre habit of stepping eagerly into the morgue with a maniacal grin on his face, fighting a losing battle to suppress his giggles, and then bursting out laughing.

He had worked the graveyard shift for two straight years, and only once in all that time had he broken with tradition. It was the night right after his tradition had almost broken him. His supervisor, the City's chief pathologist, and a hard-ass prude, had been down in the morgue unexpectedly performing the only bimonthly inspection to be performed in the 1980's This guy had a stick up his ass, and his head too for that matter.

Manny had walked through the door, laughing like a hyena, to find ole' Watson poking around in the body of a rape victim, Manny had autopsied the night before. The man looked up with eyes like billiard balls, his equally white face twisted with an expression of utter horror. Manny purposely bit his tongue to stop the fit of laughter, and tried to transition it into an exaggerated coughing spell.

170

'Last time I ever laugh in the morgue.' he shrank from the glare of Watson's bulging eye balls.

Once Manny finished coughing, the expression around Watson's staring eyes had changed little, so he launched right off into an explanation for the cadaver he had accidentally left out overnight.

"Well you see, I probed her vagina, and it‘s smooth as a baby's bottom. Do you think that's weird? I didn't want to disturb her, so I left her there on the bed. I thought you might want to give her a go. In case you want to try something different."

Watson looked like he was going to gag. Manny bit his tongue again, harder. 'Last time I ever TALK at all!'

Watson gave him a wide berth as he very quickly and carefully made his way around to the doors, his cue balls never leaving Manny. Manny notice the boss had an erection.

Don't think I'll be seeing him down here again. No big loss.

That was a month ago. Manny's resolve not to laugh again lasted all of one night. Tonight he entered the morgue like he always did, chuckling at his own stupidity, when suddenly he realized something that stopped him dead; the morgue was not silent. In fact, it sounded like all hell was breaking loose, and that's scary for a morgue. Metallic clanging was emanating from the back of the room.

The entire rear wall of the morgue was an array of sliding slabs, a tiled grid of metal oven doors which, when opened, revealed not the Sunday roast, but various other types of dead meat, some cooked, some skewered, all ready to serve on sliding tables that extended out from the wall.

Once, a posthumous spasm on the part of an Italian orchestral conductor named Perrizzio had nearly given Manny a heart attack. Such spasms were commonplace on the autopsy bed, but Perrizzio had decided to conduct his coda inside the slab, his flailing arm striking the door with a soft metallic thump. Manny had been sitting with his back to the slabs stuffing a turkey. The noise made him jump up so fast he knocked a pan of intestines onto the floor. Scenes from Night of the Living Dead flashed through his brain. Then he thought the conductor, must not be dead, mistakenly sent down to the morgue and buried alive. Finally, the idea of a spasm found its way into the light, and Manny calmed down considerably. He pulled out the slab to find the old Italian dead, just like he was supposed to be. Manny was relieved, but a bit disappointed as well.

Perrizzio's arm was lying up beside his head, his hand positioned as if he were holding a baton.

"What an opus! Bravo, bravo! " Manny laughed out loud.

Tonight, Manny was not laughing. He was reasonably close to peeing his pants. Manny experienced an eerie sort of deja vu as his thoughts followed a parallel course to those of the previous incident.

[Zombie.] 'Oh God, the dead are returning to life! Damn you Romero! No wait, that's impossible; he must never have been dead the first place. Maybe I should help him.'

171

[But what if he's got a voodoo curse on him?.

[How do you know?] Um, excuse me.

[What is it?] WHO THE F*CK ARE YOU TALKING TO?! Hang on, maybe someone‘s just having a posthumous spasm.

CLANG. Bang Boom, A very violent posthumous spasm.

Clang. Clang, clang. CLANG. Clink. Clang. Clunk. SCREEEeeeeeeEEEET. A very long, violent posthumous spasm.

One of the slab doors shuddered in its housing. That would be Mr. Bob, who was found floating face down in his in-ground swimming pool. Fear slowly crystallized around the base of Manny's spine, working its way up his back with icy fingers. Another slab in the far corner rocked from side to side gratingly, and extended several inches out from the wall. Manny stood perfectly still, staring, his body becoming numb, detached. He was just a pair of eyeballs perched in a stiff, inert carcass. Presently, nothing happened. Feeling started to return to Manny's body. His mind was back in a flash.

'Interesting. I've never been really scared before.'

The phone rang, relieving Manny from his worse case scenario vision, "Hello city morgue, you stab em' we slab em' " Manny giggled...it was the boss making sure he was there.

Part of him wanted to bolt, to get out of the morgue as quickly as possible and never come back.

Nah, that's crazy. "You kill em' we chill em' you gag em, we bag em...he droned on....

But another part of him wanted to look inside that slab, and wanted it very badly. Manny knew this part of himself quite well. Curiosity indeed killed the cat. What did Poe call it? The Pimp of the Perverse? He knew it ever since the day back in tenth grade when his biology class had dissected cats. He remembered the smell of formaldehyde, the screwed up noses, and the remarks of disgust from his classmates. He did as the Romans, and although some of his revulsion was real, curiosity overrode all other concerns. He wanted to see inside. The very repulsion held a strange sort of attraction. With his scalpel poised over the dissection pan, ready to begin his first autopsy ever, the irony of the situation suddenly struck him. Curiosity had indeed killed these cats. He laughed out loud.

Manny began walking cautiously toward the slab in the corner. He advanced slowly and held back in turns, as his desire for personal safety fought a losing battle with the compulsion to see inside. The door of the slab floated lazily toward him, the only object in sharp focus in his field of vision. He paused just in front of it, gathering up his courage, then with a sudden prodigious effort he yanked the slab all the way out.

172

A face like a knot on a gnarled tree trunk greeted him, almost split in half by a woodsman's axe and leaking sap everywhere. Manny sighed in relief. In reality, the woodsman‘s axe had been the upper edge of a highway guardrail, along which the unfortunate motorcyclist had found himself sliding at 93 mph. Face first. The excitement draining away, Manny looked down at the face derisively, placing it in an ever-growing gallery of mental images entitled Yale's theory of skulls.

Two splinters of jaw held aloft either side of the mans chin.

Now here, we see why the genetic trait for cleft face doesn‘t show up more often among the population. Manny giggled. This tag must be a real asshole. He's got a crack between his cheeks!

Manny began to laugh. The other slab slammed open, and Manny jumped two feet and seven inches into the air. He was familiar with the phrase to jump out of one‘s skin, but he always assumed it was hyperbolic. In fact, the unexpected spasm of adrenaline shock and the staticelectricity feeling of goose bumps created a distinctive sensation of having left one‘s skin behind. Mr. Petry turned his head languidly to the side and stared at Malcolm with dull, freezedried eyes. This was unusual because Mr. Petry had suffered a massive coronary thrombosis three days prior. ―I guess it just didn't take.‖

That was unusual because Manny had drained out all Mr. Petry's blood two days prior. It was sitting in a two-gallon metal tank beside the autopsy table. Yes, quite unusual indeed. With a sound exactly like a skateboard rolling into a wall, the slab slid the rest of the way out and hit its stop. Mr. Petry's upper body flopped over the side. He parted his blue lips and hissed at Manny as cold air escaped from cold lungs.

"Thats odd."

All Manny could do was stand and stare. If there were a desk in front of him, he would have gripped the top until his knuckles turned white. As it was, he stood slightly hunched over, every muscle in his body locked up, the interplay of various opposing tensions causing him to shake involuntarily. With his arms dangling, Mr. Petry reminded Manny of the kids hanging from the jungle gym at his old elementary school. During recess, he would sit on a bench and stare into space thinking. Thinking about the blood flowing through the veins and arteries of the other children on the playground. He imagined how it would look if the rest of their bodies were transparent, and all he saw was the blood. A field full of walking circulatory systems, like mauve dandelion spores borne along by the wind. Thinking about how all that blood would splash to the ground if the bodies suddenly vanished. Thinking about what the bodies would do if all the blood vanished. Thinking about the kids on the monkey bars staring back at him. Were they really upside-down, or was he?

A flap of mud-brown material that Manny could only imagine as the corner of a soggy quilt unrolled from inside the cavity behind the slab and covered Mr. Petry's feet. As Manny watched, it inched its way over and under, enveloping Mr. Petry's legs as if he were sliding into a sleeping 173

bag. Upon closer inspection, there were three greasy lips. Further down, they merged into the surface of a single fleshy tube, a gigantic earth worm that was ingesting Mr. Petry whole like a boa constrictor swallows a mouse.

The slab creaked and groaned as the creature shifted its weight and lifted Mr. Petry upright, an accordion of bloated segments like a bendable drinking straw. The lips lolled back, and for a moment the whole monstrosity reminded Manny of a rotten banana, the skin half-pealed to reveal a corpse. Mr.Petry danced a limp swing as the worm gobbled him down, bobbing its head like a duck swallowing a piece of bread. The mouth-flaps closed like a rosebud in a sudden frost, the only evidence of Mr. Petry's existence an ungainly bulge in the tubular body.

It was when the seeping warmth that had been accumulating around his crotch started to trickle down his left leg that Malcolm finally regained the capacity for abstract thought.

"I've just wet myself."

It was quite a revelation. Manny took a step back and looked at himself from the outside, standing there wetting his pants and staring at a giant earthworm that had just eaten a corpse.

"How Sweetly bizarre!"

He saw himself standing there, and became aware of the fact he was paralyzed with fear. Then he saw himself standing outside himself looking back at himself and becoming aware of the fact he was paralyzed with fear. Ironic he still couldn't do anything about it. He laughed nervously.

As if divining the source of the sound, the thing turned and pointed its tapered snout directly at Manny. The lips pealed back just enough to allow a brief, wheezing intake of air. Abruptly, the trepid rigor mortis loosened its grip and dropped Manny into a whole new kind of bad feeling.

His knees buckled, and he sat down clumsily on the edge of the cadaver's slab. Manny's blood was colder.

A hand became visible between three folds of grimy flab as the lips began to curl open. Fingers outstretched, it protruded from a mire of sticky mucus as from the earth in front of a tombstone on the jacket of some cheap horror movie. The arm bent at the elbow and hung down as a soiled mop of Chinese noodles appeared beside it, giving the impression Mr. Petry was climbing out of his alimentary grave. The mouth-flaps splayed wide apart like the petals of a water lily, and Mr. Petry's head rolled back as the worm disgorged his shoulders, his slimy countenance set in an expression of childlike wonder.

As a mortician, Manny had smelled more than his fair share of decaying offal. He thought he was immune. The gentle breeze that issued forth from the mouth of the beast knocked him back on top of the cadaver, retching so hard he couldn't even scream. Mr. Petry's palm swung upward, his elbow locking out so his one free arm reached out toward Manny. His strangely awed face seemed to entreat ‗Come on in, the water's fine.‘ As the worm descended upon him, Manny at last found the breath to scream in earnest. Instinctively, he curled into fetal position and fell onto the floor. With his eyes screwed shut, he felt sodden flesh pressing against his back like the 174

canopy of a sagging tent after a hard rain. With a sense of ironic familiarity, he thought, 'I know everybody says it, but I honestly never thought I'd go out like this.' His panicked screams became peals of hysterical laughter.

Presently, he realized he was not being eaten. Inch by inch, the pool of delirium emptied, exposing the ceramic tiles of rational thought beneath. The pressure on his back was the body of the worm, not the mouth. He felt something shift inside it and bump him, perhaps a foot or an elbow. He rolled away under the slab and opened his eyes. One of Petry's feet swung over the edge and hung down, only to be sucked back up again a moment later. Above Manny's face, the slab moaned and dipped downward alarmingly as the creature hoisted more of its bulk on top.

Manny rolled out from under the ledge with small cry, scrambling to his feet and backing away.

Intestinal segments disappeared into the cavity behind the slab like train cars entering a tunnel.

For a few seconds, Manny was reminded of the jumping arcs of water in some fancy fountain as the writhing tube exited Mr. Petry's niche and entered Bobs. Then the rear end fell to the floor with a wet smack, a swollen dunce cap with three seams, identical to the front end.

The morgue was quiet. Manny stood staring into the black hole behind the slab, trying to decide whether or not he really needed to believe in what his memory told him he had just seen. He hoped not. But there was the trail of mud smeared across the floor between the two open slabs, and he was short two cadavers. There must be a better way to explain this .

Unfortunately, he couldn't think of one that didn't involve himself having committed some vile and demented crime. Reluctantly, he decided to stick with the worm story. Not that he'd ever tell it to anyone but himself. Thoughtfully, he walked over to Petry's slab to confirm his assertion.

I'll never see it, the tunnel probably turns away after a few yards, Manny thought, not really believing it. The tunnel was perfectly straight, a smooth-walled throat of slicked earth receding into distant darkness. He thought he saw a flicker of motion. Well, that settles it then.

The more Manny mulled it over, the easier it became to believe it. Come to think of it, this was just the type of thing he always knew existed. Not consciously of course, but there was always the subliminal annoyance of never really getting to see inside. For the first time in his life, he had. He gazed down the tunnel. If this were one of those cheap horror movies, I‘d crawl in there on my hands and knees.

[Go ahead.] OH, NO YOU DONT!! No way, no f*cking way in hell!

[You know you want to.] Oh, no I don't! You can suck my morgue worm.

But the nagging curiosity was sitting there in the corner of his mind, disturbing in its confident air of inevitability. Part of him wanted to bolt, to get out of the morgue as quickly as possible and never come back. But another part of him wanted to crawl down the tunnel, and wanted it very badly.

Watson looked up from his desk as Manny burst through the basement wall and into the front office. He crawled through the wall, and stood up, gasping for air as if he had just sprinted the 175

entire length of the worm hole. A darker shade of blue was fanning out from the crotch of his blue jeans. Watson hadn't spoken with Manny since the night of the... incident, but something in Manny's eyes told him if he planned to make an intervention, it was now or never. He gulped fretfully, and got to his feet.

Watson was a creature of the night, with no more ties to the land of the living than the occasional John Doe he shipped down to Manny, Interpersonal communication was not one of his strong suits, or even one of his flimsy undershirts for that matter. As he approached the basement wall, Manny's face turned white as his lab coat, and Watson was relieved not to be the only one dreading this conversation. Hesitantly, he reached out to put his hand on Manny's shoulder.

"Hello, Manny, what can I do for you?"

Just as Watson's hand reached the height of the doorknob, Manny grabbed hold of his forearm with such sudden speed and forcefulness Watson nearly jumped out of his skin. With Watsons' sloped forehead and severe overbite, his bugging billiard balls were the foremost projection of his face. He stood staring into Manny's light-less eyes and deadpan visage for several minutes without either of them moving an inch. Watson never saw Manny blink. Then realization spread across Manny's face as he stared deeper into Watson's bulging eyes. Watson, it was Watson, Manny stared at Watson's lab coat, the bottom was covered in mud.....

At length, Manny peered deep into Watson's eyes, and shook his head slowly from side to side in shock, then revulsion. Then abruptly, he let go of Watson's arm and pushed past him toward the exit. Watson stood facing the basement door for a few moments, not seeing it. He heard the office doors swing open and closed.

"Well, they can't say I didn't try," he thought with a shrug of his shoulders and a giggle. Watson sighed. It would probably take him several days worth of phone calls before the police took him seriously enough to send someone, but they never had before. He turned around to go back to his desk, and caught a glimpse of Manny's bleached white lab coat disappearing into the night outside the glass doors. He would have to clean the streaks of mud from the Morgue's marble floor.

Musings between the 11th and 12th floors

176

Robert Kimball was running 5 minutes off schedule. He had taken his thirty-minute run this morning, shit, showered and shaved as usual, but somewhere he had lost some time necessitating taking the elevator rather than his usual descent down the twelve flights of stairs. He disliked using the elevator. It had been malfunctioning of late and several people had become trapped in there over the past several weeks. He checked his watch as the elevator doors were closing. He would still arrive at the office 25 minutes before his actual work day began, although he liked to be there exactly 30 minutes prior.

The doors were within six inches of closing when a hand came between and reopened them.

This hand sported bright red nail polish and numerous silver rings and a wrist adorned with various bangles. The lady that followed equally disgusted him, Melanie Green, in her tight black leggings and short cropped tee, her multicolored hair teased on end sporting the usual tribal face paint, graced with an array of facial piercing. To add insult to injury, her tattooed belly button was stretched beyond recognition with a protruding ring. He had caught glimpses of her over the past several months and figured she must be in her last month of gestation. She was no more than seventeen at the outset and still living with her parents.

"Mornin Bob." Robert nodded…

She blew a huge bubble and smacked her gum loudly as she entered and he caught a whiff of cheap perfume. He re-pressed the ground floor button and readjusted his tie and absently swept a microscopic bit of dust from his immaculate navy blazer. The elevator proceeded in its decent with slight hesitation. Floor 11...and then it happened...a grinding, clanging halt. Damn, of all people to be trapped on an elevator with! He heavily applied his finger on the alert button.

"Oh fuck! Pressin that damn button ain‘t gonna do no good. That super is the laziest goddamn asshole. I heard the Joneses were in here for nearly three hours before he even noticed."

Robert opened his briefcase and pulled out his cell and dialed the super‘s number. Nothing but loud static greeted him. He composed his work number and received the same results.

Melissa giggled, the whole time taking stock of the items in his case; a new shirt, still in the package, dental floss, a razor, after-shave and two clean monogrammed handkerchiefs.

"Man, you sure are well prepared there, Bob, but I don‘t see no rubbers in there. I sure wish my dickhead boyfriend had had one of them about nine months ago. Now he says it ain‘t even his."

177

Again she laughed that strange high pitched girlish giggle, only this time she halted midway and gasped, then slunk slowly down the far wall of the elevator. Robert watched her as she looked between her legs and a large puddle formed.

"Jesus, Bobby, I think I just pissed myself."

Robert observed that the fluid now emerging was clear against the grey linoleum of the elevator floor, and there was no odor detectable, must be amniotic fluid. Again he applied his finger heavily to the alert button, holding for the count of ten Melanie grimaced and a notable look of horror came over her hideously painted features.

"Fuck! This ain‘t supposed to happen for another week. The doc said I had another week and I ain‘t even read that damn book he gave me. Don‘t just stand there staring, you asshole! Do something!"

Again she winced. " Ahhh-hh ….Shit, this hurts like hell!"

Sweat mixed with tears began to pour down her face running all rainbow colors.

Robert Kimball, opened his brief case and took stock of the items within. He carefully removed his blazer and laid it over the lid of the opened case, then rolled up his sleeves and removed his pure silk tie, laying it over the blazer. Paying no mind to her screams, he unceremoniously pulled her tight leggings and panties down and off and moved her knees up into a bent position. He withdrew a length of dental floss and dipped it into the after shave then poured some over the razor and his hands. The head was already crowning it wouldn‘t be long now.

He knelt before the writhing teenager on the elevator floor,"I'm not a doctor, I just play one on TV." He smiled...trying to ease the pain of embarrassment.

He eased back the skin of her bulging vulva as Melanie gave one mighty push and deafening scream. Out popped the head and he deftly turned it to one side as the rest of the slimy, squalling babe emerged. A slight tap to its backside brought sputtering, piercing infant cries joining Melanie‘s whimpers. He laid the female offspring on it‘s mommy‘s belly and waited for the thick, blood engorged umbilical cord to stop pulsing. Once satisfied that it had subsided enough, he tied it off with the dental floss and cut it with the razor. He took a deep breath and hoped he had no late meetings this evening and tore open the new shirt and snuggly swaddled the infant. He handed the tiny bundle to the child mommy, lifted her tee shirt and placed her swollen tit in its mouth.

Speechless, and still in shock, she nursed the child, thus quieting its lusty cries. The placenta followed quickly after this and he laid it aside. Robert Kimball then took the two clean handkerchiefs and wadded them up against the mother‘s birth sight and pulled her panties and 178

leggings back up to hold them in place. Satisfied that all was in order, he poured the remaining expensive after-shave over his hands and unrolled his sleeves, buttoning the cuffs and putting his silk tie and immaculate blazer back on just as the elevator lurched downward.

There was the familiar ding, … ground floor lobby. He emerged from the elevator and told the waiting super to call an ambulance, then glancing at his watch, he breathed a sigh of relief ten minutes to spare. He could easily walk the two blocks to work and pick up his morning cappuccino and paper and still be on time. He looked at the young girl sitting on the elevator floor holding the newborn, "I should have taken the stairs," He thought out loud.

A Fair Trade in the Misty Woods

The fog hadn‘t lifted when Stacy and Maureen began their morning walk. Maureen bent over from the pain in her arthritic joints, grumbled about the damp settling in her bones, but waved aside any help from her younger sister. ―I don‘t want your help. Just slow down!‖ ―Sure. I suppose we should stay on the road today. Its too foggy to go down to the lake.‖ ―Why are you afraid of the fog?‖ Maureen hook her head with disgust at the irrational fear. ―You‘re not still afraid of the bogey man are you?‖ Stacy laughed, ―Not Bogey men, but I just don‘t like the closed in feeling of fog. I like to at least feel like I am in control of things. In the fog, I feel like others are in control. Don‘t you ever feel like you are being watched?‖ ―No. The only thing about fog that I hate is that it hurts.‖ She rubbed her fingers moaning a little at the pain.

179

They walked for a few paces in silence. At the path down to the lake they stopped. ―Well? Asked Stacy, ―Do we go down, or just walk around the block?‖ I kind of have a feeling that we should.‖ Maureen glared, ―Why do you always have feelings? You‘re as crazy as a coot.‖ She stepped onto the path. ―I don‘t feel any reason why we can‘t go down to the lake. So, stop being a baby and come on.‖ Stacy pouted and watched her sister, stooped and limping, head down the path. ― All I meant was that it isn‘t the best morning to go down. I feel the damp in my knees, I can only imagine how you feel.‖ ―I am fine!‖ ―Fine! We go to the lake!‖ Stacy hurried to catch up. ― Sh-shoosh, do you hear that, maybe it‘s a fog monster coming to get us.‖ Maureen looked at the writhing mist amid the trees. The sun had managed to penetrate and send cloudy rays down to the ferns and blackberries. It was spooky, but not ghostly. ―Shut up.‖ ―Shouldn‘t we be to the lake by now?‖ asked Stacy, ―We‘ve been walking for almost a half hour…‖. ―I know. I can‘t even hear it anymore.‖ ―I need to rest for a couple minutes.‖ Maureen sat on a decaying log and rubbed her knees. She mumbled, ―I‘d give anything to stop the pain.‖ ―Let‘s just go back. We were stupid to come down today anyway.‖ They both looked back up the trail and gasped. What the hell! What they could see of the path, through the fog, was a very steep incline.

They turned as if on cue to a noise below them; a woman materialized out of the mist.

She used an ornately carved stick to pull herself up the steep path; long, brown- spotted, fingers clenched the gnarled wood. Bits of gray lichen and twigs were sticking out like feathers in a headdress from her downy white hair. Frizzy tendrils escaped from the braid that tried to contain them down her back. Her face had a pale aura and she had a mole on Her right cheek. ―Oh, hello. She said with a deceptively sweet voice.‖ I‘m glad you made it.‖

180

Stacy and Maureen looked at each other puzzled, ―Do we know you?‖ asked Stacy ―This is the perfect morning,‖ the woman continued. ―I love a good old-fashioned pea-soup fog.

Don‘t you? She looked at each of them intensely with her gold-speckled green eyes. ―We‘re trying to get down to the lake," explained Stacy, ―But it seems to be in a different place than normal. Has to be this fog I suppose. The lake certainly didn‘t go anywhere.‖ ―Lakes do go places. They wander miles in the starlight and visit universes while the rest of us sleep.‖ She smiled at Stacy, ―But you‘re correct. The lake is just through the trees.‖ Suddenly the sound of the rushing water filled the morning. ―Mind if I share your perch? Mossy logs and grassy knolls are my favorite places to rest.‖ Maureen surrendered her spot as Stacy moved to the end of the log.

"I‘m Stacy and this is my sister Maureen." She put out her hand to shake; the old woman ignored it. We were talking about bogey men before you came up from the lake. You kind of startled us.‖ ―How are your knees Sweetheart?‖ The woman quizzed Maureen ―Why? My knees are none of your business old lady.‖ Maureen tried to stifle the groan as she abruptly stood. Come on Stacy let‘s get the hell out of here.‖ The old woman chuckled, ―I can take the pain out of your joints forever.‖ She reached out and gently touched one of Maureen‘s swollen hands. "Are you ready to give it a go?‖ The hand she touched lost its arthritic look, and surprise replaced the shock on Maureen‘s face when the pain disappeared. She rubbed her knuckles and quietly sat back down.

Quickly, the woman turned to Stacy, go down the path to the right, and get the shovel and bucket standing in front of my cabin. ―You said you‘d give anything to be pain free right?‖ She turned back to Maureen.

Stacy ran into the mist, jumping the over-grown tree roots and wandering blackberry vines. In minutes she was standing in front of a quaint, one-room log cabin. Pink, yellow and red roses entwined with ivy up and over the roof. She immediately found the shovel and bucket and ran back. ―Here,‖ she gasped as she stumbled toward the women. ―It didn‘t look like either had moved while she was gone. ―I never noticed that little cottage before.‖ ―Thank you. Now, very carefully, turn over the moss and soil where you are standing. Try not to 181

dig down into the rocks.‖ Stacy was suddenly consumed with fear. She looked up her face contorted She shouted,. ―You‘re a witch, or something right?‖ . You‘re planning on killing us aren‘t you!‖ Stacy put the shovel down and backed away… ―Sweetie, you have nothing to worry about.‖ The woman‘s laugh seemed to drip honey. Your sister is doing the digging for me. All I am going to do is make some muddy water from this soil.‖ ―Stace,I think it is going to be alright. She isn‘t a witch She reminds me of that neighbor of Aunt Pat‘s . Remember she had all kinds of medicines and elixirs‖. Stacy reached out to grab her sister‘s hand. "I won‘t let her hurt either of us.‖ ―Stacy, your sister is right. I‘m not a witch. I am just an old woman that lives in the woods. I want to help you out of the pain you‘re in. I have watched you struggling to climb this hill recently, and can tell your legs hurt.‖ She spoke softly and the fog danced with her words. ―Maureen , take the pail and go down to lake and fill it.‖ Why are you doing what she tells you? Stacy tried to reach the bucket before Maureen could. "I am not going to allow her to put mud on you. Come on. Let‘s just go!‖ Stacy looked at the deformed body of her sister. Maureen was only sixty years old, and had been in pain most of her life." No. I think she can help."

She snatched the bucket and zipped down to the lake. She stepped into the cold mountain water and filled it over-flowing. Carefully she hauled it back to the women. She slowly dumped it on the ground as the old woman directed. The smell of earth; loamy, mushroomy, and rich wafted up from the mud. The old woman gingerly knelt next to the mud and stirred it with a twig from her pocket. She uttered some strange words and grabbed a handful of the mud. ― NO! shouted Stacy. ― I am leaving whether you do or not Maureen!" She tried to turn but was rooted to the spot. Let me go you witch! ― ―I am sorry. You‘re frightened, this will only take a few seconds...." ―NO!‖ ―Very well then. Go.‖ The woman dropped the mud back into the hole.

Are you really a witch?" asked Maureen ―I am.‖ Maureen knelt next to her. ―I know that you aren‘t like the old witches in the books, but I guess you really do spells and things?‖ She picked up a handful of the mud and stared at it. Would this really help her?

182

"What do you think?" The old woman took the younger womans chin in her hand and looked deep into her eyes. "You do believe don't you? What is the one thing you dream for yourself, more than anything?‖ Maureen's gaze didn't waiver, ―I want to see beyond sight. I want to see the whole of humanity, the whole of heaven. from beginning to end.‖ She had forgotten that her sister stood behind her, anxious to leave. ―I get glimpses now and then of things, but they are faint. I really want to see.‖ ―What are you talking about?‖ shouted Stacy ―Come on. I can‘t make it up that hill without your help.‖ ―Step into the earth child. If you want to see, just step into the earth.‖ She pulled herself up with her cane. ―It isn‘t all beauty that you will see, but the wondrous worlds are there. Everything is there…‖ Maureen stood between the woman and her sister. Stacy grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the hill. The woman gestured to the muddied water; holding her spellbound with a look. After a moment Maureen shook off her sister's hand and stepped to the very edge of the mud. ― Don‘t do it! If you step into that mire , you might lose your family.‖ Stacy was whispering hateful words. ―Don‘t be such an idiot. Come home with me now.‖ Maureen glanced at her sister, and stepped into the muck and mire. Immediately she sank to her knees. The old woman laughed and her sister screamed. A flash of silver-white light surrounded her as she sank. Bells rang with glorious reverberations, and shimmering tinkles. She smiled at the angel-winged cherubs dancing around her; they became the babes in her daughter‘s arms.

She watched as the casket was lowered into the ground knowing it was her father that hovered near. She saw the ages of life ahead. She couldn‘t turn her gaze from any of it. She smiled, cried, shuttered or grew angry at the things she saw. But, though she saw the increase of weapons, of war, and the images of peoples dying, she saw that flowers still grew, and babies still cried for their mother's arms. She knew that life would always be, that she could always be a part of it.

She stepped out of the muddied water. The fog was gone and the lake lapped the shore just feet away. Maureen had managed to crawl up the hill. The old woman was gone her garments lay crumpled in a heap. Stacy stooped to check out the heap. The ornate walking stick was all that was left. Maureen picked it up and walked to the little rose and ivy covered cabin in the woods. ―You know that cottage is not really there right??‖ she turned to Maureen. She had changed, she walked upright, a small mole on her right cheek. Maureen, where are you going?‖

183

Maureen opened the wooden door to the cottage and stepped inside she carefully hung her jacket on the peg inside the door, and put the teapot on to boil. A quick glance showed that everything she needed to study was lovingly arranged on the shelves; herbal lore, midwifery, odds and ends of magical spells and elixirs. She settled in the comfortable warmth of the room and smiled. ―Home sweet home ―

A bitter pill to swallow

A thin shard of sunlight burnt through the clouded plastic windowpane making it's mark on the long narrow table as Beth Ann concentrated on lifting a spoonful of split pea soup to her slight parched lips. Funny, she thought, today's lunch matches the color of the walls in the community room. That sickening olive green color. The color of puke or snot. She laughed to herself. If she chose not to eat today‘s selection, she could slam the bowl against the wall and it would blend right in. No one would even notice.

Surely none of the other patients would even hear the metal bowl crash or see it careen through the air like a flying saucer. Some of them did not even know they were eating pea soup. Most of them did not even know their names. Maria rarely ate her lunch but she beamed when they served her purple Jell-O with whipped cream. She would dump the bowl over and swirl the JellO with her fingers on the table smiling as she created her unique masterpieces. She bragged to anyone who would listen that she was Van Gogh's granddaughter. But no one ever believed her.

184

No one much liked her Jell-O creations anyway. George, on the other hand, never took a seat at the table. He'‘d walk past the others begging for quarters. He was going to Horn and Hard-art in NYC to buy a baloney and cheese sandwich from the glass cases that spun around in circles. No one would tell George that they were out of business for thirty years. Even if they remembered they couldn't‘t have told him.

Of the hundred or so patients at Sullivan House, no one could remember much of anything. But Beth Ann had her wits about her today. Her name was Beth Ann Shelly. She was 53. And she was pretty sure Sullivan house was her home since 1987. But some things were puzzling. She wasn‘'t sure when or how Daddy had died. Was he sick? Was there an accident? She couldn‘'t recall. At times, like a movie rewinding, Beth Ann would see a small piece of a day from her past; her washing dishes at the kitchen sink watching a cardinal feed, or planting string beans in the small patch of land to the left of the house, or reading a story to Danny after his bath. But then pieces moved and nothing made sense. Her life remained jumbled, scattered. She may as well have been in space flying along with comets. Weightless. Unencumbered. Non-existent. But some things were concrete. She remembered she had a husband once. His name was David, although cancer had robbed his soul from her a long time ago. She was certain she had two children, twins in fact. Jessie and Danny. She tried hard not to forget that. Sometimes they came to visit, but not nearly enough. Their photo was always tucked in the pocket of her gown so she could look at it whenever she wished. The nurses didn‘'t care but once it slipped onto the floor and Leonard tried to snatch it, sneaky like a cat burglar on TV, thought Beth Ann but she spied him out of the corner of her eye as she ate her grilled cheese sandwich and grabbed it back. She used to like George. Sometimes he was amusing. He'd make funny faces and pretend to be Red Skeleton granting interviews to Sadie, Ester and Frank, but after that little trick of his, Ruth Ann was not about to dish out any quarters to George or anyone else for that matter.

Beth Ann twisted her hair with her fingers. It was long enough that she could pull a big bunch of it and tie it in a knot with one hand and then let it fall away, like magic. The others all thought this was pretty amazing but Beth Ann figured she had always had this gift. It was really no big deal to her. Apart from the agonizing absence of her children; Beth Ann did not really want or need for anything, except maybe a mirror. She hunted for resolution in her own eyes to witness what lie within them. There must be something hidden deep behind the sockets, she thought, something that would show her the way out. If she could stare long enough they would surely reveal why she was here. Why Daddy was gone. Why each day was just like the one before.

But, of course, mirrors were never allowed. Especially since the time she stole one from Mr. Ballentine's cleaning bucket. And then there was all that blood that ran like a river from her wrist onto her new pink nightgown and into her fuzzy K-Mart slippers. Nurse Gladys almost had a heart attack. She screamed for help and sopped up the blood with paper towels from the dinner table. Beth Ann never figured it was her fault though.

She was sure Daddy had been there that night and instructed her to steal the mirror. She was just enjoying her slice of pumpkin bread and drinking her hot tea with lemon when he‘'d whispered in her ear that she would look lovely in red.

Beth Ann shifted in the metal chair and automatically straightened her back smoothing her wrinkled flowered gown carefully past her knees. After all these years she never forgot what 185

Daddy had said at the dinner table every night. He‘'d walk past her brothers until he reached the back of her chair. ―Shoulders back young lady‖, he‘'d bark the order with a wide grin, ―or I won‘t finish your peas when your mother isn't looking.‖ Beth Ann laughed but obeyed and the corners of her lips turned high as the heavens. She adored Daddy. She'd jump into his arms as he came through the door after his long day at the refinery. ―Hey Buddy Pal, how's my girl? he'd holler, presenting her mother and her with huge bunches of yellow daffodils. And he looked like Clark Gable. At least Beth Ann thought so. They‘had always been best buddies. At backyard picnics he‘d rock slowly in the Adirondack chair under the cluster of shaded sycamore trees with Beth Ann settled in his lap. She'd watch in amazement as his mouth formed a perfect circle and with a trick of his tongue and cheek, rings of smoke would float like magic through the thick summer air.

"How did you do that Daddy? Can I try please, oh please Daddy?"

He'd never let her, of course. Pipe smoking was not a common practice among five-year-old girls. But sometimes after Daddy had a few glasses of Shafer beer, or if he was in an unusually good mood he'd allow Beth Ann a few sips from the heavy glass pitcher. She'd made a face, but always remembered the sour taste.

"Okay now Beth Ann, stop your daydreaming. I'll take that bowl if you‘re done with that fine pea soup. It looks like you liked it well enough. Hardly a drop left. Good girl, now here‖, Nurse Gladys instructed, as she put the cup of water to Beth Ann‘'s lips ―it‘s time for your little blue pill.‖ Beth Ann glanced up at Nurse Gladys and made a sad face as a child would after a scolding.

"C‘mon now Missy, you know it always makes you feel better. Makes the bad things go away remember? And you have a surprise today. A visitor coming to see you, if you behave that is."‖ Beth Ann took her pill and handed the cup back to Nurse Gladys, her lips curled downward as she continued to twirl the lengthy gray hair through her colorless gaunt fingers. ―"Who would be coming to visit me? I don‘t believe you. I ain 't got no visitors Nurse Gladys, you‘re lying again.‖" Beth Ann surmised. ―"No, I‘m not. Your niece Rose is coming. Comes the first Tuesday of every month. You know that Missy."

"Wait, oh yes, I do remember her. I remember Rose! She‘s the one who smells like lilacs and peaches and I stitched her that beautiful red wool coat with the plaid flannel lining the winter we lived on Berkley Street. Oh I was good then Nurse Gladys. I could whip up anything from a fine piece of cloth. That was in my sewing days. That was when I had fabrics all the colors of the rainbow stacked on dozens of high shelves in my sewing room.‖ Nurse Gladys smiled as she put her hand to Beth Ann‘s forehead gently pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ears. She wiped the pea soup from the corners of her mouth and silently prayed 186

for Beth Ann. Soon after Mr. Gallant cleaned the lunch tables with his large yellow sponge, he'd wheel in his metal bucket and mop the remains of pea soup and Jell-O from the floor. The aluminum tables were moved to the back of the room and stacked near the chairs. The room appeared sanitary for visitors but no amount of room fresheners or pine soil could mask the stench of decay and forthcoming demise that reeked from Sullivan house.

The overhead fluourescent lights cast an unhealthy lime green shadow upon Rose as she entered the day room. Beth Ann sat near the back of the room, rocking unhurriedly in her beloved chair, her eyes fixated on the posters of happy families upon the wall.

"Hello Aunt Betsy, it's me Rose‖. She bent down to kiss her aunt's cheek, ―look I‘ve brought you some lovely yellow daffodils, you‘re favorite. " Beth Ann picked one from the bunch.

"I have a terrible headache today Rose and you know red roses are my favorite. I don‘t know why you wouldn‘t remember that dear. But they do smell nice and they match your hair. My hair was that color once too wasn‘t it Rose?‖ And where are the children? Why didn‘t they come with you? I want to see Danny and Jessie. Oh, never mind, I‘ve forgotten, they are in school today aren‘t they? I know that teacher of theirs Miss Jenkins gives them so much homework too. Oh Lord, I hope they can make it through the fifth grade this year."

"Dan and Jessie are fine Aunt Beth, but they are all grown up remember? They live out in California now, but they‘'ll be coming for a visit soon, I promise." Said Rose.

Beth Ann studied the delicate flower in her lap, like a student examining an insect under a microscope. She was back in that other universe again, frozen in time, where sounds were magnified, all kinds of insidious people talked at once, and pictures were Technicolor, so bright in fact, that the unrelenting headaches were now more common than not. Without a mirror, she had to seek other means to unearth the truth that lie doormat, jammed like a gearshift unable to thrust forward. She‘d vaguely heard Rose speaking of her new-found job at the university, the volume of poems she‘d just published and the stack of photographs she‘d brought for her to look at.

But instead, Beth Ann was in the brand new Cadillac that Daddy just bought at the Ray‘s car lot in the city. They were driving into town to pick up some baking supplies for Mommy at the A&P. Daddy always insisted the Beth Ann go along for the ride.

"It‘s good for the child to get some fresh air Barbara‖," he‘d tell her mother, even though her mother would have preferred she stay home with her to help out around the house. But Daddy always got his way. Probably cause he looked like Clark Gable, thought Beth Ann. Anyway, she certainly had no say in the matter. She was only nine. She wished and prayed for Daddy to be happy in his brand new Cadillac. He told Beth Ann to sit next to him on the front seat. If she behaved, he would let her steer the car when they got to the dirt road near Amsterdam place.

Beth Ann moved her small body closer. She did as she was told; knowing full well that if she did not, the Daddy that was fun and kind would disappear like the cards in magic tricks he‘d perform 187

for her. She did not have to study Her father's face to find signs of his changing ways. By now she could anticipate his needs, see the sadness in his hazel eyes or hear the desperation in the words he spoke to her.

"So what do you say Beth Ann, pretty jazzy wheels huh?" Daddy would shout as he took a swig from the whiskey bottle hidden under the seat. Beth Ann knew Mommy would not like that, but it was one of the secrets Daddy made her promise not to tell. At times, Beth Ann's stomach would tie in knots. How could she make sense of the last four years of secrets with Daddy? How could the man who loved her, told the funniest jokes in all of Arkansas and made her feel like the most extraordinary person on earth – how could he ask her to keep these secrets and how could she betray him and tell? ―Turn up the volume on that sharp new radio, sweetheart. Come here‖, he‘d say as he patted the car seat next to him ―and give your Daddy a big kiss.‖ Even with the windows rolled all the way down, Beth Ann drew in the plastic smell of the new vinyl burgundy bench seats. She hoped that maybe a new car would make Daddy happy again.

She didn‘t like it when he came home late at night and he and Mommy had those awful arguments about Ellen, the lady next door. Sometimes Daddy would sleep on the couch in the den and then everyone was in a bad mood.

He pressed his foot to the floor of the new Fleetwood never caring that the speedometer had passed eighty-five. He was busy belting out ―Strangers in the Night ‖ at the top of his lungs, peering at Beth Ann as he did. Beth Ann smiled when Daddy was in a good mood but it also made her nervous. She didn‘t like speeding, nor feeling out of control.

"Daddy stop, you‘re going to fast, please slow down. I‘m getting scared."

"Oh Beth Ann don‘t be such a baby. Come here now and lay your head down on my lap so you don‘t have to watch the road. And don‘t give me any trouble, you want to steer the car soon don‘t you?‖ "I‘ll be good Daddy, I promise, I‘m not really scared."

"Lie down,‖ I said. ―We are almost at Amsterdam Place‖.

"I changed my mind Daddy; I don‘t want to go there again. Maybe we should just go to the market and get Mommy her flour and sugar. She‘ll be upset if we are late."

"We will soon pal, Daddy is getting tired and I may need to stop and take a little nap and rest.‖ The thick August air brought hardly a breeze through the windows of the new Fleetwood Cadillac. Flushed, Beth Ann held her hand to her throat hoping to force the rising sour liquid back to the contents of her gut. She would not dare ruin the seat of the new car. But she knew what would happen next unless she did something. Daddy was very persistent but she didn‘t want to do this anymore. It had always been hard to tell him no. She loved him. And sometimes

188

he was so sad. He told her to never tell anyone when he lay down and pulled her hand onto his lap. He told Beth Ann that she made him feel better. ―Other people won‘t understand Beth Ann. They aren‘t as lucky as us. They will be jealous that we have so much fun together singing our songs and playing games.‖ But Beth Ann didn‘t want to play games anymore.

As her father's head began to nod backwards, Beth Ann reached over her father‘s body and grabbed the steering wheel of the shiny new Cadillac. She may be headed for hell, if there was such a place, she thought, but she could not bear another moment in her father‘s presence.

Watching the highway curve ahead, she purposely pulled the wheel in a complete circle, passing the dirt road. The Cadillac spun out of control, around and around and around. Her distorted body was inside out, twisted as a wrung out old dishrag. I will sleep now until a sweet dream comes along. To sleep is to die a little, she thought. It will be over soon. The tires screeched, as the smell of burnt rubber seeped through the car windows. The Cadillac abruptly stopped and the world as Beth Ann knew it turned black.

The scent of pine sol and body odor brought Beth Ann back to Sullivan house and to a reality that now felt eerily unfamiliar. For the first time she was able to feel and witness her once invisible past come into focus. The images did not come in waves as Dr. Hanbury predicted they may, but instead they rushed with steady force into every empty, numb cell of her being.

In vibrant color, Beth Ann's childhood unfolded in waves of repulsive visions. She was six; she was seven, then nine in a lemon yellow pinafore dress. She was a child in a car on a dirt road pleasing her father. The images carried undeserved shame, yet at the same time brought closure to a foreign world, a world lived by someone other than herself. It had been the buried fear, the absence of thought that had crazed her. It forced the urgent need for the little bitter pills, allowing her no reason to feel.

Her glance dropped to her lap. With great care she lifted a single yellow daffodil to her nose, inhaled deeply, closed her eyes a moment and turned her gaze to Rose. "It was my fault, Rose, the day in the new car with Daddy when everything went black.‖ Rose pulled her chair closer to her aunt, took her hand and studied her porcelain face. Her expression never changed but discomfort seemed to roll just beneath the surface of her pale skin. ―No Aunt Beth, I‘ve explained before. It was an accident, remember?" Charles lost control of the car. He was drinking and hit the tree on the corner of West and Amsterdam. You were only nine.

It wasn‘t your fault."

"There are things you don‘t know Rose. Things no one knows. It had to end. I couldn‘t keep those dirty secrets any longer, but I couldn‘t let Daddy know that. How could I? It just had to be over."

The community room darkened casting shadows onto the pale green walls. Nurse Gladys flicked the switch a few times to remind the guests that visiting hours were over. Beth Ann, released from her own hell of darkness, squeezed Rose‘s hand not from fear but as a link to the world, a 189

sign of connection once again. A slight but guarded smile formed on the corner of her lips.

Tomorrow would not be like the day before, she thought. She would not force down her little pill. Beth Ann had her wits about her today. This time she was sure.

Premeditated Leadurgy

It was just a little piece of lead, not really much at all by itself, and might just as easily have wound up serving as a much needed sinker on some kid's fishing pole, or maybe as part of a paperweight. It had no special properties, except of course for the normal properties of lead, and like most earthly elements was given to employing the silent virtues of lasting endurance over the typically transient worth of verbal communication. Just exactly how it came to be at this particular place in time had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the usual strategies of selfmotivation, and almost everything to do with that truly mystical nature of fate's own random choosing; though in all honesty its future destination would be strictly adherent to a great deal of personal commitment and lengthy deliberation.

Etching all those tiny letters on the little piece of lead took up a considerable amount time and commitment as well--mainly because they were indeed tiny letters, and the hands that carved them were old and past their prime. Four hours it took, four hours of squinting and doing and squinting and redoing until at last they were perfect, or as perfect as one might expect. And even though the little piece of lead was actually just one of eight, made especially for the occasion, the fact that it had been singled out as the only one to be so painstakingly engraved would prove reason enough for it to also be singled out as the first, thus leaving its care to be more or less watched over by proud and admiring eyes, also past their prime but still functional, a hint of glaucoma persisting at the periphery of vision.

Of course the little piece of lead was now no longer simply just a faceless part of that equally faceless ingot it had once been. In fact, those many long hours spent succumbing to the handcrafted metamorphoses of metallurgy had ultimately succeeded in shaping not only its all important outward appearance (from which the requirements of social acceptance are known to take root) but an equally definable inner purpose as well--a genuine 'calling' for lack of a better word--to fulfill the conscripts of a well worn social destiny, an all too familiar mandate with 190

which man strives to retain his undeterred mastery over all he sees as subject to the notions of his will. And so its head, if one could say that it had a head, was now round and smooth and hollowed out down the middle, not that this impaired its mental processes in any way for, in all honesty, lead has no mental processes. And its butt, if one could say that it had a butt, was now seated ever-so-tightly into the open end of an accordingly calibrated brass canister which, among other things, made the possibility of self-imposed movement for the little piece of lead nothing short of impossible, although the possibility of self-imposed movement for a little piece of lead is nothing short of impossible to begin with. And so it was that the little piece of lead no other viable alternative than to simply remain where it was, content to be the first of eight, made especially for the occasion.

Now perhaps it might also be worth mentioning here that lead, in and of itself, is a mature element. True, alchemists once believed that lead was really just a teenage element and that with a little well placed guidance and sulfur, or mercury, it would eventually grow up to be gold; but this, as we know now, is plainly not the case. For lead is lead and gold is gold and, poetically speaking, never the twain shall meet, let alone consent to the prospect of actually becoming one and the same. In addition, lead is also a rather easy going element. It obviously doesn't ask for much, and it appears to the average onlooker as if it doesn't really expect to receive all that much in return either. It seems to realize that its monetary value will never rise to the level of its true worth, and this is probably the reason for its outwardly complacent attitude (almost apathetic actually) about being cast into a multitude of simplistic shapes and sizes considered beneath the dignity, and cost feasibility, of most other metals.

Yet if the truth be known it is just this docile temperament to which we are all indebted. For together we have succeeded in forging out a combined legacy of mind and matter whose ongoing influence stretches from the very dawning of our own recorded history all the way to the present age; a genuine tribute to both the unyielding determination of man, as well as the pleasingly pliable personality of an element whose inherent talents seem continually well suited to that ever changing script of human endeavor known as progress. It is not given to rust, or any other natural form of swift molecular decay, and thus has permitted us to develop a great many useful alloys and electrical storage devices upon which we so trustingly rely, not to mention an easily affordable degree of backbreaking density whose molecular makeup has allowed us to effectively curb the seepage of nuclear radiation. And least we not forget, lead is also still the only known substance here on earth that Superman cannot see through. So, all in all, we might say that lead has continued to remain an active member of our society despite its advancing years, thus offering up another weighty (if not altogether shinning) testimonial to the truly productive nature of the elderly.

The day was hot, August in the afternoon, and the interior of the suit coat pocket was dark and worn with age. The little piece of lead was now totally isolated from the other five, though to tell the truth they were all equally just as isolated from one another in their respective chambers. Still they were all facing in the same direction, a condition whose validity presupposed the knowledge that they had already received the rudimentary elements of a definable face to face with, and came into being only after they had each been gently slipped down into one of those six hollow chambers--bored neatly in a circle through that nickel plated cylinder--which maintained the collective compliance of all six little lackluster faces by virtue of a well machined tolerance for 191

the diameter, and extruded rear lip, of their aforementioned brass encasements.

The question of purpose, of meaning, did not present itself, but then lead never has earned a reputation for being the quizzical sort. In fact one might even venture to say that this malleable metal retains an altogether fatalistic outlook on life, accepting the reality of its situation with all the blissful tranquillity of a true believer. After all, change will come when it comes, and those who are controlled have no control, so why pretend.

But surely if the little piece of lead had been given ears to go along with its face it could not have helped but wonder as to the ever-growing melody of up-beat music, spontaneous cheers and engaging laughter--those joyous sounds of human exuberance so common to just this sort of festive human gathering. If there had been a nose on its face it would also have smelled the sweat and cologne and tobacco and food, all of which figure quite prominently into the overall mood of such a congested outdoor atmosphere. And a mouth, well, a mouth might even have induced the little piece of lead to speak its mind (for even those who have no mind are often prone to speak) and thereby make its presence known to all. "Look here," it might have said, "It is I, encased in Copper, made especially for the occasion." But this, of course, was not to be.

Now most of us would concede that lead does not feel. And while this may, in all philosophical honesty, be little more than just a blatantly self-serving assumption on our part, it is, nevertheless, a belief given to widespread acceptance throughout the scientific community and so offered here as contemporary fact. In contrast however, we humans have evolved to the point of being literally overwhelmed by the sheer volume of such mind-boggling sensations, and must therefore continually struggle to unravel a microcosm of nerve endings and mental contemplation from which even death itself cannot be counted on to provide a safe sanctuary.

To further complicate such matters (if such matters can truly be complicated any more than they already are) is our apparently irrevocable decision to equate the word 'feelings' to both the physical and emotional spectrum of our existence, thereby shackling the very essence of our intangible ideals to the considerably less illusionary whipping post of this materialistic world around us. Anger for example is defined as being hot, although the true climate of a long suffering hatred has been known to freeze even the warmest of hearts into nothing less than a solid block of emotional ice. Love is blind, and yet has very little trouble leading us headlong into the waiting arms of a truly eye-opening broken heart. We itch for a fight, rise to the occasion, then typically fall from grace onto the jagged rocks of public condemnation. Life is just a road we travel, anguish a cross we bear, and the self-perceived righteous of our own beliefs a tool we use to subjectively plug double barrel shot guns of unwavering truth from the shifting sands of an all too abstract imagination.

Lead however feels none of this, and so is free to remain forever impervious to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and failure. In point of fact it neither laughs nor cries nor loves nor hates, and so it simply sets and waits, for it's only man who contemplates the nature of its use.

And yet if the little piece of lead could have felt at all it surly would have felt quite anxious. For it was now being lifted up, made ready for the presentation--the first of eight, exhibited in full metal jacket regalia.

192

It had no eyes, it could not see the tunnel now before it, and so was unaware of the bright sunshine that quickly filled this guiding pipe of precisely finished steel. Of course the cries of those who stood in close proximity to the little piece of lead had no choice but to fall on deaf ears (for it goes without saying that no ears are indeed deaf ears) and so even the loud blast--the one that sent it rocketing down this tunnel and out into the world which lay beyond--did not turn the head of the little piece of lead but merely faded off into the background as it raced along its airborne route . . . an incoming projectile for someone special; someone whose name was engraved on the little piece of lead. They would be receiving this small piece of lead, or should we say "Biting the Bullet."

It was just a little piece of lead, the first of eight, it's jacket a smooth copper made especially for the occasion. It had no mind. It had no voice. It had no will. It had no choice. It couldn't see, and couldn't know, the reason or the way to go. So don't condemn this piece of lead, accuse the will of man instead. For peace to come we must agree . . . the problem lies with you and me.

School days for the adolescent outcast on scifi Sunday

School and Ridicule She came in one misty spring morning without fanfare just the slide step-clunk, step-clunk of a girl swinging her right leg in a brace to slide- step-clunk. Probably polio but nobody knew. But this day marked a turning point in his adolescent life.

Her name was Carly, and she was the shy, quiet type. She sneezed as she stepped-slid-clunked to her desk. She sat right down but had to lever her leg into place. Then she loosened the side brace hinge to bend her knee and with both hands, pulled her leg under the desk to sit like all the other kids.

He glanced at the usual suspects. A furtive look, as he'd known since seventh grade not to 193

maintain eye contact with any of them (especially Mike) for more than a second. Nick, Mike, and Dave, were watching Carly with lasering eyes. He expected a snicker, a chuckle, a mutter.

They were silent as they scoped the handicapped girl. This was big. He knew how big.

Charlie Bagely had been Igor since the seventh grade. He had a mild case of Scheuermann's kyphosis resulting in a small hunchback. It wasn't much. Didn't even need bracing according to his physician and definitely not surgery. Yet Charlie was short and pudgy and it was a lock when Nick noticed his difference. The difference that now defined an eighth grade boy. In the oceanic expanse of young adolescent conformity, Charlie was a black fly in the silky white ointment. But he wasn't alone anymore.

"I wonder if Brace-leg rusts if she's out in the rain too long," Dave mused to his locker goons Nick, and Mike.

"Yeah I bet she needs to carry around an oil can," Mike smirked back.

"You're an idiot sometimes." Nick snapped. Dave, just chuckled.

Charlie was a little disappointed in the nom de guerre assigned to Carly, by Mike and his henchmen. He'd hoped for something nastier. This was just a description. It wasn't an insult! Not like Igor. But he noticed the sea change since Carly had arrived. The daily fusillade of insults and childish pranks to Igor had dropped down to just an occasional musket shot. Rarely was he the focus of an escalation of verbal torture. He hadn't even have to do the Igor walk that Mike used to make him perform, especially at lunch in the cafeteria on a daily basis.

"Igor, get me my tray!" Mike would bark. "Yes Master." Charlie would reply and bring the tray to Mike's table with a slow swinging bent gait, one arm swinging loosly to the side. Kids would laugh. Charlie, feeling humiliated and helpless, would want to die. He'd often skip hot lunch and sneak his cold lunch in the restroom. What it lacked in olfactory and auditory ambiance for munching his salami sandwich it at least provided the tiniest improvement in self respect.

He could live with spending less time down range from Mike and his thugs. His biggest fear was how long would this last? The rest of the school year or just a week?

His answer came all too soon. Less than two weeks from the day Carly showed up, the 'gang' had lost interest in her. Their snickers, name calling and derision didn't seem to upset her. She ignored them and went about the business of junior high. Mike, for once, had failed to ignite a brush-fire of scapegoating among his fellow eighth graders. They would go with the show to a point. But to pick on the crippled girl crossed even their line. But there was always Igor for a laugh.

"Igor come here!" Mike called out in a singsong voice. "Igor come here!" he repeated. Charlie felt a chill like he'd never felt before. They were in the locker room after P.E. The teacher was in his office talking to two students who'd gotten in a fight during gym dodge-ball. Mike was sitting on the exposed toilet taking a crap.

194

Charlie stared at Mike. Nick and Dave, both clad in gym towels moved menacingly towards Charlie. "What?" Charlie asked.

There were 19 boys in the locker room. You could have heard a jock drop. Charlie walked over to Mike. "Igor, this toilet's busted."

"Huh?" Charlie replied.

"Huh?" Mike parroted back. "Igor it won‘t flush anymore, but I dumped a turd the size of a coney island dog in here," Mike cracked while staring between his legs at his production. Kids were laughing now every so softly they could hear every word.

Charlie just stood there. He wanted to run. Never stop. Something very malicious was going down. This was new. Scary. " Igor, I need you to move my turd to that toilet." Mike commanded quietly while gesturing to the toilet next to him. "Then you can flush it for me."

The snickering and snorting was louder. Charlie felt the hot rush of embarrassed blood in his face. Mike stood up. Mike stepped aside and locked his stare onto Charlie. "Do it you little hunched back, fucker!" Marco snarled. Charlie did it, while all the boys roared and laughed behind him.

In third period Social Studies the next day, Charlie couldn't stop staring at Carly. She was, along with being an unfortunate victim of polio, a very attractive girl. Long thin dark brown hair, pouting lips, an oval face , and pale skin, and almond shaped brown eyes. Her garb looked like something the Amish would even find out of style. Long gingham dresses that appeared to be 6 generation hand me downs starting on a Conestoga wagon out of Missouri. And she wore laced leather boots. One, of course, had metal braces riveted to it. She looked old fashioned and yet the clothing suited her well, it seemed to add a mystique about her, and added to her beauty.

The bell rang. Fourth period Science was next. Up the main hallway then down the west wing.

Charlie lingered behind. Normally to let Mike's goon squad get a good head start. Today it was different.

The kids flowed into the hallway like book carrying salmon into a stream somewhat heavy with the odor of floor wax. Carly was step-clunking up the gentle ramp to the west wing intersection.

Mike and his boys were against the ramp wall idling and being smart asses. Charlie came up quickly behind Carly. He timed her step-clunk for the step with the good leg. When Carly's good leg was just up and she was balanced on her braced leg, he swiftly kicked (it was more forceful than your basic junior high hall tripping) her leg and send her sprawling to the floor face first.

Carly made a horrible thump and her books shot out of her hands when she reflexively tried to protectively extend her hands and arms.

195

Kids were yelling. Mike saw the whole thing. "You little fucker! you fucking asshole!" he shouted as he rolled in on Igor with both fists flying. He beat Igor about the head and face and neck. Nick swooped in and tried to fire a stomach shot in, but Mike had this show. He was pounding Igor into tears.

Mr. Norman, the shop teacher, lumbered down the ramp to break it up. Later, while having a smoke in the faculty room, he told a couple of teachers how damn strong that Mike was. And how he might have saved Charlie Bagely's life.

"Why did you do this Charlie?" the Principal asked. "Why did you hurt that poor young girl?"

Charlie had no response. He was sobbing. His face had been tended to by an angry school nurse who really would have preferred Charlie to just sit and bleed for awhile. Nothing was broken.

Tomorrow his eyes would begin to swell and blacken.

Carly was checked out by the nurse too, and in a much more caring and concerned way. The nurse told her husband about it all that night, and mentioned how surprised she was that the poor crippled girl never cried once. What had gotten into that boy anyway? He was always so quiet and unassuming.

She wasn't injured but her parents were called anyway about the incident. They showed up in a smoke belching 82' Ford wagon, a 20 year old beater with a homemade metal roof rack on top.

Both were dressed in even older more worn out clothes than Carly's. Maybe they were hillbillies.

On the last day of school, the day after graduation, kids roamed around aimlessly and ignored the teachers. Charlie sat under a white birch tree, behind the wood shop. He was reading 'Harry Potter and chewing stick after stick of double mint gum, for lunch. He never heard the slidestep-clunk.

"Hi" Carly said.

"Umm hi" Charlie replied with eyes like a deer caught in a hunters headlights.

"I know why you did it" Carly said softly.

Charlie said nothing. He looked down and stared at page 111 of the latest Harry Potter book. But the words made no sense. He saw letters that he knew formed words that he knew but he could not comprehend them.

"It wasn‘t ‗cuz you hated me."

Charlie tried to read the words backwards to see if that worked.

It was ‗cuz nobody laughs at you when you're bleeding huh?

"It was nothing personal, I'm sorry." Charlie whispered… he was watching the 'gang' who were sitting in the playground ready to eat their lunches.

196

"What's going on?" Carly asked.

"I'm just tying up some loose ends, end of the year and all." mused Charlie as he stared hard at the group of boys.

Charlie sat quiet as Mike and his Hench men sat around getting ready to eat their lunch. Charlie knew he'd have to make a run for it, his escape route was neatly planned out before school, he went to the office to gather up lost books and bring them to the library, and waited for the late bell to ring, before he instituted his plan of action, he walked slowly toward the lockers, specifically #322 opened the locker ever so gently and pulled out Dave's Lunch box, opened it up and unwrapped the plastic wrap around his steak and onion sandwich, he quietly pulled out the brown paper bag from his pocket and emptied the contents into the sandwich, removing the steak at the same time. He then carefully rewrapped Dave's sandwich, closed the lunchbox, returned it to it's place in the locker, closed the locker, and continued on to the library with the trove of lost books.

"What are you waiting for?" Carly quizzed.

"Payback's a bitch!" Mused Charlie, as he watched Mike take a bite of his sandwich. "I'll see you next year."

Charlie ran as fast as his chubby legs would take him. He hit the ground running, flew threw the Gymnasium, through the nurse's office, down through the janitor's room, and out the small exit in the back of the school. He ran up Davis Avenue, and ran into his Aunt's backyard. He'd hide there for a few hours, until his aunt came home. He went there often and she would not be surprised to see him.

197

God is in the fox hole

I was blown headfirst out of the fox hole. I stumbled, my numb feet dangling on the threshold, and pin wheeled madly into the dark. I found a small opening with my face. The firefight continued well into the night.I looked around no one in sight. Heck I was just a news reporter, I decided to take my chances and run. The Fallujah night was alight in flames, I had no idea which way the British unit went, so I decided to trek north, suddenly a group of insurgents, perhaps sunni, perhaps shiite or Baaths' spotted me, I had no where to run, I knelt on the ground, my hands in the air. I was hit on the head..... ‌‌When I awoke, I was in the chair. They kept me there for days and when they were finished they threw me in this foxhole, me, a pencil pushing fat assed foreign correspondent.

Wood squeaked on wood followed by the sliding sound of metal on metal and a ringing clink as the bolt was thrown home. The floor was cold dirt, partly covered by a gritty layer of fine gravel. Several of the sharper pieces had penetrated the skin and I felt fresh trickles of blood on my sore face. My legs were still twisted under me but I made no move to rise, lying motionless instead in the complete blackness that had accompanied the closing of the door.

I felt tension start to drain from me, the pent-up fury of the mistreated body. It was strangely relaxing to be alone with the pain. Until this moment I had been more concerned with fresh painthe moment to moment terror of waiting for a new caress. How many ways, in how many soft places can they touch you? Waiting for the pliers to come again, to pinch some small patch of white skin until the blood burst from under the rusty jaws in pulpy streams. How long can you sit silent, waiting for a new set of nerves to start their screaming burn towards overload?

198

The dull throbbing of abused flesh seemed a familiar, almost normal feeling now, much preferable to the hyper fear of fresh damage. I let the pain go, let it flow from me with my still running blood, flow into the packed dirt. I traded the warmth of my body to the floor, and let the floor give me support in return. The floor was there, real, pressing into my face. I lapped out my tongue and dragged it once across the dirt, tasting the earth and stone, the copper tang of my own blood. The floor stayed firm under me. I sat up in the dark.

As soon as I sat up the feeling began to return to my legs in burning waves. With every labored pump of my heart boiling fire and ice surged. My legs shivered in convulsive shakes.

Silently I let the circulation return until the pain had reduced to a throb on a level with the other pains in my body. No more solos, all choral agony. As long as they were all singing the same tune I could cope.

I began crawling, dragging my rear end and my useless legs, pushing my self along backwards on my hands. Sharp rocks bit lightly into my palms, nibbled at my fingers. I was searching for the wall. I found it by cracking the back of my skull into unyielding stone. The cell lit up with flashing streaks of white light that illuminated nothing. I groaned, then cursed ―God damn it!‖. ―Pray to Allah for salvation, not damnation.‖ Spoke a quiet accented voice from the black. I started, pushed back hard against the wall. I had thought I was alone in this black pit. ―Who the hell are you?‖ I demanded. ―A prisoner, like yourself.‖ The disembodied voice spoke a local dialect of harsh Chechen. I could understand it, barely, and I answered in the same language. ―Do you have a name, prisoner like myself?‖ It occurred to me that I had cursed in English.

How did this ‗prisoner‘ understand me? Was he a plant, put here to befriend me and weasel secrets from me? Under cover of my own voice I began to try and stand, pushing hard against the wall for support. ―Do not fear me prisoner, I mean you no harm.‖ Indeed, the voice had not moved from it‘s original location, somewhere low against the far wall. ―That remains to be seen. If it‘s true it will be a first for this God forsaken country.‖ By now I had managed to stand, though I had an idea that my legs wouldn‘t support me long. I began to slip along the wall sideways. ―Allah has not forsaken this country, prisoner. Some men have forsaken their God here, and embraced a physical world full of evil. The American Devil walks the earth and brings down fire on the heads of true followers of Mohammed. His sadistic minions do his evil bidding, killing the faithful in their beds, hunting us in the woods, torturing us in this hole. But Allah still watches for the faithful. A better world than this awaits us, and we must stand ready to go there when He calls us.‖

199

His voice was calm, even. He believed every word he was saying. I was near him now, no more than two feet away, invisible in the dark. His voice rolled out solemnly in front of him towards where I had been. ―We must prove to Allah that we are worthy of entrance into the promised Heaven. We suffer now so that we may appreciate that which comes after. Do not fear suffering, prisoner, it marks you with Allah‘s favor.‖ I held my breath. I could feel him there, near me. If I wanted I could reach out, grab him, grab for his legs. He would thrash, maybe make some small noise. Pin him, shove his back, his neck against the wall, break it, kill him. ―It is I, Mohamed Attah, and you know me.‖ ―Mohamed Attah! But…‖ "Yes it is me, and I have been here for I don't know how long."

"I thought you were dead.‖ ―Yes you did, a good reporter always tells the good story" referring to my article on Attah's demise.

This made him pause, but not for long. ―You lied!‖ ―I wrote the article based on the evidence that was given to me." ―No! What do you mean! I was whisked away from the airport by the CIA." To think just a few hours before I was comfortably numb in my hotel room.

Despite the occupation, you could still get liquor from the hotel bar‘s discreet manager. The first bottle I opened was scotch - twelve years old. Heady stuff that burned deep long after you swallowed. The first shot went down hard. My muscles ached with that sharp crawling pain that comes when I first drink again after a long time. I worked my way methodically through that first bottle in a matter of hours. When I'd finished it, I smashed it against the wall.

I called down for more booze before I was halfway done with the second bottle. When the room service waiter arrived with the fresh stuff, he was disturbed by all the broken glass. He didn‘t want to give me any more. A folded portrait of Ben Franklin convinced him that his fears of damage to the hotel room were baseless, and he set himself quietly on his way.

The second bottle went the way of the first, and then I broke it the same way. Eventually, I passed out.

200

The knock on the door came before midnight. The unit was moving out and I was there to report and record their successful retake of Fellujah.

The never-ending night crawled on. Attah lay on the opposite side of the dugout hole in the ground a few feet from me. He would not stop praying. His voice whispered softly through the cave. At first his voice had been weak, still full of his pain, but as he prayed his voice gained strength, conviction. The sound of his voice was making me crazy. I could hear him praying over and over, praying to Allah. ―Shut up.‖ The sound of Attah‘s prayer stopped. A brief pause only, then he began again. ―Shut up, I said. Cut out that useless babble.‖ He paused again, then spoke angrily in the dark. ―They kill my people to make us forsake Allah. They have tortured me to make me forsake my God. They have taken my fingers! Yet I will not forsake Allah, for you or any other man. I will pray, as it pleases Allah and it pleases me.‖ ―There is no God, no one is listening to your prayers.‖ You're going to die in this foxhole. ―Ah, but you are so wrong my friend. Allah is here with us now, as we speak.‖ ―Allah is here now?‖ ―Yes. I believe he is with us always.‖ ―So he was with you in this hell?‖ ―Yes.‖ ―Then why did he let them torture you? Why did Allah watch your suffering and do nothing?

Why did he let them take your fingers?‖. Silence from the other side of the cave. Was I actually causing him to question his faith? I pressed on. ―If Allah loves you so, why does he make you suffer? Why did he allow this war to happen at all? I admit this war was made by men, but does Allah care so little for his creations that he can stand idly by and watch them die? Those that shun God have died, but many have died with his name on their lips, and for what? They still die.‖ ―Of course we must die, but do not shun Allah because you fear death. Allah sees all that happens here in this world, and only he may decide our reward or punishment in the next world.

Those that do evil shall feel his wrath in the next world. We who have loved him throughout the 201

worst shall sit by his side as angels.‖ ―You suffer for nothing. God does not see your pain. In the whims and twists of a random world suffering touches everyone, priest, president, beggar, thief, we all know pain. And from whore to pope, we all find joy! Any man can know all things, given time. All suffering and all joy belong to man alone. Don‘t pray to God because no one is listening! And for nothing, you‘re keeping me awake!‖ ―I will pray for you, lost soul prisoner. I will pray to Allah to have pity on you tomorrow when your time comes. I will pray for my own safe deliverance and for the salvation of my country from the American henchmen. I will pray that my brothers smash these demons and free me from this place. But for the sake of your peace may I silently pray.‖ ―For cryin‘ out loud,‖ I muttered to myself, then said, ―don‘t pray for me! If your ‗brothers‘ come around with some tanks any time soon I‘ll be more than happy to make a jail break with you, but don‘t pray for my soul! I‘m doing my damnedest to get out of this mess. There‘s no way I‘m going to just roll over and die. You only go around once, make the most of it!‖ ―Do not be ‗cryin‘ lost soul prisoner. A ‗jailbreak‘ as you say would be very fine now, yes. I will pray for this jailbreak.‖ ―Man! I didn‘t say ‗I‘m crying‘, I said… Oh, never mind! Just shut up!‖ The sound of a drop falling into a standing puddle echoed into the stony silence. As much as I lusted for escape, I needed rest. I was beaten, literally. Attah didn‘t seem like much of a threat any more. If they were going to go back to work on me tomorrow I needed soothing sleep. I stretched out on the hard floor, pillowing my head on my arms. Pain called for attention, ministration, from multiple insults. The darkness all around reached in and took me.

The door slammed open and all the light in the world that had been pressing in all around us, blind rats trapped in the dark, exploded into the cave. My eyes burned with white fire and I screamed. I held my arms in front of me to block the light. Two huge black silhouettes with assault rifles entered the cave, clattering their hard soled boots on the threshold. They paused, looked at me, then at Attah holding out his mangled hands to ward off the light. They moved past me and grabbed him, one on each arm. Attah did not protest, going limp in their fierce clasp.

They dragged him towards the door, his feet trailing, banging his toes hard on that treacherous threshold. He continued praying however, as they carried him away.

In the moment before the door closed I looked past it to the other side of the foxhole. An old man stood, dressed in gray tattered rags, pressing his back hard against the cave wall. He looked at least eighty, wrinkled face and hands, Dirty blue print turban, ringed with a fringe of fluffy white hair. We locked gazes. His eyes were the same gray as his ragged shirt. He smiled gently.

The door slammed shut and stole away all the light again, forever.

I had no idea how long it had been since they took Attah. In point of fact I had no idea how 202

long I had been asleep before they came for Attah. A few hours? An hour? Fifteen minutes? Now I was awake. Wide awake. I had been wide awake since they dragged poor Attah off to his second rendezvous with the wire cutters. Mohamed Attah was not foremost on my mind however, despite that I could hear his screams from somewhere nearby. Through the thick stone walls his high shrill cries of anguish carried with surprising ease. I had decided that the wet work room must be close by. No matter. My interest was closer to home.

Who was the old man?

I had seen him clearly. I saw every detail of him in those brief seconds. His shadow closed around him in the foxhole. His stocking clad feet, socks holed beyond all hope of repair, toes with scraggly yellow nails staring out, curled into the rocky dust. It had been certainly an hour since the screaming began and the old man had not spoken a word of greeting. Had I not seen him in that instant I would not now have realized that he was in the foxhole with me.

Why was the old man here?

What crime had he committed to end up here as a prisoner of this backwater war? What crime had any of us committed though, really. By the whim of some capricious fate he came to be here in this black cell with me. So why not speak, and ease some of the pain of solitude with conversation? Perhaps he waited for me to speak first. What should I have said? What I did say was, ―Have you got a cigarette?‖ Silence. He must have heard me, but he didn‘t respond. He could at least say ―No‖, and leave it at that. Speak, I silently implored. When the guards had come in they had looked first at me, then at Attah. They had not even glanced at the old man, even though they had passed within inches of him. And what about that? He had been standing right next to the door. Weren‘t they afraid he would try to escape? Speak!

Was the old man really there?

Was he just a figment of my over stressed mind? Did I make him up to keep me company in the long night? Why couldn‘t I have thought up something female and willing? And a bed, or at least a soft mattress? Damn your eyes, Speak! Then he said, ―Tobacco I have, and a few matches, but for smoking I have neither paper nor pipe.‖ His voice passed through me like a sigh. The smooth French accent that has made women swoon for centuries. He was really there. And he had tobacco! I could have kissed him. Instead, I fumbled in my trousers pocket for paper of any kind. Just when I was sure I had nothing to offer, my hand closed on the crumpled scrap of what I knew instantly to be a receipt, the remnant of another life. ―I have some paper. It‘s my dry cleaning ticket. I don‘t think I‘ll be needing it.‖ He chuckled, pleased.

203

―You speak French! Americans have become so much more civilized since my day!‖ He padded over to me and sat down, leaning his back against the wall. There had been no hesitation in his step, he seemed very sure of where the boundaries of the room were, even in total darkness. ―Have you been here long?‖ I asked. ―Yes.‖ He sighed slowly. ―A very long time. I‘m a leftover from a long ago war. Let me have your paper.‖ I handed it to him. Our fingers never touched, the paper seemed to float out of my fingers. The thick brown odor of tobacco filled my nostrils with breezy fields and clear sunny blue skies. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly that I was riding down the highway in a sleek powerful automobile, window down at 90 miles per hour. I could feel the thrum of the car under me as the wheels hummed over the hot tarmac. I sat silent while he rolled the cigarette. I felt totally at peace, yet I felt an other worldly exhilaration.

He asked me, ―What‘s your name?‖ I laughed. ―American Spy Lost Soul Prisoner. What‘s yours?‖ ―Emmanuel. Shield your eyes, American spy. I am lighting the cigarette.‖ I put my hand flat over my eyes. The match flared, hot and bright in the black. I peered over the top of my hand to see his illuminated face. I asked him, ―How do you know so well where the wall is?‖ The flame sucked into the neatly rolled tobacco with dark yellow power. Crackling, the ashen paper peeling away from the hot ember. His gaunt cheeks drawn taut, thin hard lips pursed tightly as he drew on the cigarette. His slitted eyes were on the ember, hooded and deep. The match flickered, faded, died. His hands moved just enough to pull the smoke from his mouth. A slight tight smile lit red by the glowing cherry, then smoke rolling out nose and mouth in delicious streams. He offered it to me, butt end first. ―The wall. The wall and I are old friends. I have seen too much of it, in too many wars. I have pressed my back against it countless times for an eternity, felt every mortared seam, every crack.

I know it too well. You also must know it now. I heard what you said to our friend Attah. To yourself now you must listen. You also know the end. You're back is against the wall."

I hadn‘t had a single taste of tobacco in eight years. I had quit in a sincere effort to get back into shape after one particularly well fed holiday season. I hadn‘t had one, but I had wanted one every day for eight years. I took the proffered smoke, put it to my lips with fiendish joy, and inhaled deeply. I held the smoke down in my lungs until it scratched hard as a trapped cat to get 204

out, then blew it out in a glorious rush. I felt my heart speed right up, thump, Thump, THUMP! Then the flush of the nicotine rush came right on. I felt my face glow. I laughed, short, ha, ah, cough, grin, cough, cough, cough. ―I don‘t want to know the wall that well. Unless this place really picks up soon… I mean, I don‘t see any appetizers on the menu. I can‘t even see the menu! This place, I mean, it would have to really pick up…you know? I mean… I don‘t want to be here that long!‖ I laughed. My eyes stung from the smoke. I blinked hard, trying to make my eyes water. Blink. I rubbed hard, but no tears would come.

We both watched the ember, mesmerized by the glowing circular trails as we passing the cigarette back and forth. He drew lightly, sipping the smoke, then easing it out in short puffs. I sucked at the hot damp paper hungrily, holding every puff deep, feeling my blood pressure go up, up. When the butt was less than an inch long he gave it to me with a flick of his fingers. I grasped at it hungrily, pinching it between two fingers, sucking at it until I could feel the heat of the burning ember through my fingernails. ―Why suck at it so?‖ he asked me. ―Let it die. Have some dignity.‖ ―Why?‖ I finally dropped the last scrap of paper. The last small spark winked out before the thing ever hit the floor. "It just might be my last." ―Roll another one.‖ I said. I stood up. My vision had a red tint to it now. Still couldn‘t see, but ghost images on a red field now instead of black. I took a step forward. Nothing around me. I spread my arms, swung around, back and forth a little, felt the air rush by my outstretched hands, cooling the sweat on my palms. I swung my arms back and forth, back and forth.

A match flared behind me with no warning. I spun towards the light, starving for it, but he flicked it out. A white afterglow, a corona on the red black field. Another hot ember flared bright. My eyes locked on it. ―Give it to me.‖ I tapped my foot. ―Here, take it.‖ I smoked in a giddy rush, standing up. My head reeled with the strong unfiltered smoke. ―Take it easy,‖ he said, terse. ―Are you annoyed with me Manny? Why?‖ I laughed, giddy, flushed. The cigarette definitely helped. I could see ! ―Who do I hurt?‖ ―Maybe yourself.‖ ―Maybe! or maybe not!‖ I could see the door and I turned towards it. I looked over my shoulder at the old man.

205

―I‘m getting the hell out of here.‖ I stated. ―Enough of this shit. Someone should have been here by now to get me out!‖ I could see the door clearly and I headed towards it with legs that felt strong and sure. ―Maybe this is all for naught.‖ I heard Emmanuel mutter to himself. I whirled back to face him. ―Listen, buddy! Who are you trying to impress? You try to play it cool, but who are you playing for? Laugh, dammit!‖ I spun away again. The door. Find a way to open the door. ―Let me out! Let me outta here!‖ I kicked the door. Screamed. ―Guards! Guards! Get me out of here right now! Guards!‖ I pounded on the door. Splinters drove into my clenched fists. I slumped against the door. Behind me, dimly, as consciousness began to fade yet again, I heard the old man, ―Go on, boy, go on, rage against the night.‖ I pounded until I had exhausted myself, I couldn't make the effort to move...falling asleep in the fetal position, dreaming of the safety of my mother's arms...

I woke to the sounds of keys. I was lying directly in front of the door as the keys rattled in the lock. The door was going to hit me when it opened. Harsh words spoken angrily, a kick of the door. The door pushed at me, rolled me over, light flooding into the foxhole from behind my head. I could see the whole cave lit up clearly. A curse, a kick in my back, hard. I moved my head so I could see the far corner. Both guards kicking at me now, my shoulders, the back of my head. I could see the whole cell. It was empty. The old man was nowhere to be seen. ―Where‘s the old man?‖ I asked, my mouth dry, my voice a croak. They grabbed me by the arms and pulled me from the cell. My feet dragged across the threshold. I started to struggle to free myself. ―Where‘s the old man? Where is he? What did you do to him, you bastards!‖ I squirmed, but I couldn‘t get my feet under me. I fought, but it was nothing to them. They dragged me along, boots clattering and banging a merry tune on the floor. They dragged me into the room with the chair. The chair‘s loose straps were dangling like tired hands on limp wrists, waiting. Dark brown stains covered the floor. They threw me into the chair. I twisted, shouted. ―Oh no. No more. Not again. Where‘s the old man? Where‘s Emmanuel? Stop!‖ They lashed my arms down tight. ―Where is he? Where is he? Where is he now when I need him?!‖ They lashed my legs to the chair. They stood back to survey their work. One had a long scar down the back of his hand. I saw it when he reached out to hold my face. He asked me, ―What old man are you talking about, American spy?‖

206

"The old man that was in that black hole with me...What did you do with him.??"

The masked men stared at me hard. One pulled out wire cutters...the other slapped my face, ""what old man?"

I stared back just as hard, "God was with me......"

207

DRAGONWOCCKY

faking faery orgasm Twas chilly, in the slippery groves The queens slept corked beside the knaves All creatures left the strawberry's in droves And frost froze them in a loving daze.

"Beware the Dragon Frost, my girl The fire he breathes from his icy lair Beware the call of love's new pearl All the naked freeze when bare.

She took her twinkly lazer gun thermal charged by solar flare The little faery craved some fun And flitted into the dragon's lair And, as she climbed the white snow fell The Dragon Frost could smell her smell Came breathing fire in one big swell And the mountain went a shaken!... Well?

One, two she screwed and slewed The ice mounds turned to mud Her ray gun fired, he fell below Made a river of his blood.

208

"Hast thow thawed Sir Dragon Frost?

Come to my bosom, "my angel girl" O' twitless faery, wherefore the cost Whilst, she turned into a pearl.

T'was the god of serpent foolery With the warmth of crystal fire All dragons are just faery bait to make you freeze and spire T'was chilly, in the slippery groves The queens slept corked beside the knaves All creatures left the strawberry's in droves And frost froze them in a loving daze.

209

Faery's Bring rain on wings of Emotion

The north wind's crescendo was matched only by the howl of a lone wolf.

There is a sad faced lilliputian gnome, of sorts at my window, peering in at me, her dark hair slick against her delicate, pathetic, sad features. As she taps softly against the glass and raises her timourous eye to mine a shudder passes through my soul - she looks as if she hasn't eaten for weeks. But I am determined not to let her in. Letting her in would play havoc with memory, twisting it and obsuring lighter humor of day's gone by. No sense allowing entry to play upon my weak will in my darkest hours, I beg the nymph take leave.

I know these creatures. They come on the thin Grey wind, starting their lives as tenuous threads of drizzle that gradually put on limbs and features of mist and dirty crystalline sleet, flakes of wind blown snow able to mold themselves to the shapes of drifting dreams and the ghosts of unfulfilled desires that rise up from sleep or continue briefly to roam the Earth after their souls have vacated their bodies at death. Thought forms of the lowest order, finding refuge in the small stagnant pond, the dead decaying tree stump, ....

By the time they have reached the forested Worlds and the tiny towns and villages strung like semi-precious gems along the silver ribbon of the Great River they have already attained arms and legs, and fuzzy features ready to assume the favored forms of men and woman's imagination.

Possessed of a natural prescient telepathy they intuit the features of our loved ones and carefully mimic them. Not exactly of course. That would be self-defeating. Men would throw up their arms in horror, recoiling from such obvious mockery. No, they choose subtle nuances and casts of the human form - the turned up nose of a lost daughter, the sloping cheeks of a sister who died in her infancy, the eyes of a brother or friend, the curving lips of a sweetheart we have never 210

forgotten - putting them together with meticulous and terrible artistry to produce a form that is both familiar yet unfamiliar, that causes our intellect to question in cautious puzzlement but compels our inner hearts to open their doors unreservedly in welcome and joy.

How many men and women, seeing one of these formless gnomes of mist and innocent malice at their door (for despite their hunger and vampiric need to feed on human emotion, they are merely elemental forms of nature, as cold, yet no more terrible - at this stage - than the grim North Wind they ride on) have opened their hearts and homes to them, taken them in and succored them? It is only later, when they have imbibed enough of their compassionate hosts energy and life-force that they begin to exhibit the first real stirrings of any independent identity, becoming more solid inside, as those that have taken them in become paler and weaker, older and less able to fathom the nature of what is actually happening to them. They are torment pure and simple, created out of the sadness of what never was.

As the human hosts approach a premature senility - usually benign and accepted as the natural way of things by the rest of unsuspecting society - the wraith creatures begin to exhibit the traditional aberrations associated with the fully mature Changling: the tantrums and fits of unprovoked malice, the inexplicable cruelties that begin as mischief and spite but often lead to acts of deliberate torment and suffering. They possess the mind of memory, the heart of broken promises.....

But because of the Age-old Ban on discussing or even admitting the reality of the Faerie Worlds that lay adjacent to ours, people hold their tongues and turn their eyes aside, unwilling and unable to admit to the full extent of the horror they have admitted into the abode of their affections. Perhaps their vehemence in denying the very existence of such things is the greatest proof of all that deep in their drained and betrayed hearts they know the terrible truth, enchantment has been used to entrap them.

I have been called lowly names, wicked, pagan, bohemian, evil, cast aside by my fellow men, is it because they fear my magicks' and elixirs? our learning and easy familiarity with arcane alchemy?

No! They come to us readily enough when they need potions and remedies for their ailments and afflictions. They are ready to part with jewels and gold that we might see into the future for them, to locate missing heirlooms, or officiate in the annual chanting of the Heart Songs in the open mounds of kirks and Forest to keep the fertility goddess happy.

No - they despise us because when the North Wind blows and the thin Grey rain is falling we will not open our houses to the pale-faced little urchins that come tapping at people's doors and scratching at their windows.

211

And when they crumble into psychic decay, when their bodies and minds no longer continue to serve them, they secretly or openly curse our heartiness and longevity. Sometimes I have even heard them whispering that it is us who are responsible for their premature aging and dissolution.

But in truth it is the inevitable and tragic result of their own misplaced compassion in inviting the small spirits of the wind into their hearts and forgetting about the pursuit of happiness.

Many times I have wished it might be otherwise, that we might speak openly of the truth of these things - but the ancient edicts forbid it. And, I know, assuredly they would not listen.

But there it is again, the feeble scratching at my window, the pitiful mewling and whimpering as the sprite becomes progressively weaker - for once, of course, it has assumed its given set of features borrowed from its potential host's mind, it is only with the greatest expenditure of energy that it can (if at all) change them. It is doomed to woo the mortal it has chosen as its surrogate parent or perish back into the mist from which it was once formed.

Alas, my little sad-faced fae of crystal and mist, in this case you have chosen unwisely. I recognize enough of the features you have borrowed from my mind to incorporate in your artful and ruthless disguise: the sad smile of Margiel my mother; the arch of eyebrow of a young woman I knew when I was a novice at Willows keep; the coloring of hair identical to my sister's as she lay dying of fever so many years ago in our tiny house in the Shawnee Hills.

Where have they truly come from? these impossible Children of the Wind, that feed upon man's imagination and the joys and sorrows of our hearts?

Certain wizards say they are the offspring of the Sophia, in her crystal cave and Frozen Tears far away in the uttermost North; others aver they are the children of the morning star who envy men their simple lives beneath blue skies and warm yellow sunlight.

They are the forgotten ghosts that lay in the mist of time, becoming solid by way of the elements that are willing to form them for a moment, or a lifetime depending on our weakness.

Ah, but now it has grown quiet, the tragic, heart-rendering whimpering has finally ceased. even the rain has stopped and the wind is but a remorseful sighing that blows fitfully down the cobbled streets and twittens...safe from the cobwebs and dark corner's, the cerebral hemorrhage stops.....

212

The grasshopper and the snail

The insects staged a race between the grasshopper and the snail The snail , urged on by well-meaning friends who assured him that he was, in his own way, every bit as special as the grasshopper, accepted the challenge, at first with a stubborn determination to see it through no matter what the outcome, and then (because his friends' exhortations had begun to cloud his common sense) with a crazy but irrepressible hope that victory might somehow be possible for him.

Despite the seeming pointlessness of the exercise, the grasshopper, since he could see no compelling reason to refuse, accepted with an amused shrug, and was waiting there at the starting line when the snail, accompanied by the cheers of his supporters, moseyed up leaving a long line of slime behind him.

At the sound of the starting shot the grasshopper lurched forward, placing one foot after the other at what for the grasshopper was an excruciatingly slow pace. The course laid out by the animals consisted of one complete circuit of a pond in a clearing in the woods. The grasshopper, who could have completed it in a few seconds, estimated that it would take the slug at least four days at the rate he was traveling.

The grasshopper stood still, thinking what to do next and wondering what he was doing there in the first place. As he watched the snail make his slow way down the grassy path, he was tempted to dash around to the finish line and have done with it. Then, the better to please the crowd, he thought he might run to within a few feet of the finish line, then wait for the snail to catch up with him before shooting across to victory. He liked this idea better, but it seemed a bit cruel to him. And so he walked as slowly as he could up to where the snail had progressed (a distance of some three feet) and sat down to think some more.

213

In this manner, the grasshopper followed the snail all the way around the pond. The snail never once stopped trudging along, but the grasshopper was compelled to spend most of the time sitting still and thinking. It was the most time he had ever spent thinking about anything in his life. He vacillated from one plan of action to another. His thoughts ranged from the present situation to more universal things. He considered his place in the world and compared it to the snail‘s . He compared being big and hard and heavy with being small and soft and fast. He tried to imagine what it must be like to be a sober and cold-blooded creature that lived for many moons, instead of fun-loving and hot-blooded and doomed to die after only a few summers.

After four hours of meditating he hadn't decided which was better, or even whether one was better than the other at all.

But by the time the finish line was in sight, the grasshopper had attained a degree of wisdom seldom attained by his kind. The first result of it was that he had resolved to hang back and let the snail cross the finish line first. After all, he had nothing to prove; everyone knew he could win if he chose to do so. It would make the snail happy, and it would be the wisest thing to do. In this way, both he and the snail would win.

The grasshopper was indeed happy when the snail crossed the finish line first. His supporters were positively ecstatic, clapping him heartily on the back and casting triumphant and, thought the grasshopper, rather snide looks in his direction. A moth who had been particularly vociferous in his support of the snail hopped over and shook a tiny fist in the grasshopper‘s face, and said, "I guess he taught YOU a lesson, grasshopper!"

For a long time after that, the grasshopper found himself an outcast among the insects. He was "the grasshopper who'd been beaten by a snail," an object of scorn and pity. (The snail on the other hand, was much in demand as an inspirational speaker.)

The grasshopper was a bit stung by all of this at first, but he soon found his circumstances rather enviable. No one ever challenged him to races anymore, nothing exceptional was expected of him, and so he was free to spend his days basking in the sun and eating sweet clover. The snail in his own way had taught Grasshopper a very valuable lesson. Once or twice he caught the snail standing and staring at him, but he couldn't tell whether the expression on the snail's face was one of contempt or one of envy. Whatever it was, it wasn't very pretty.

Then one day the moth came flying over to the grasshopper and said breathlessly, "Have you heard? The lightening bug challenged the snail to cross The Road tomorrow, and the snail accepted!"

The grasshopper was aghast. "But he'll be killed!" he exclaimed. "What on earth made him think he could do it?"

"Because he beat you in the race," replied the moth. "He knows you can cross The Road without getting hurt, and since he's faster than you he figures he'll have no problem at all."

"But I only went across The Road and back one time, and that was when I was young and 214

stupid," protested the grasshopper. "My great grandfather on my mother's side was killed trying to cross The Road!" But the moth had already flown off to tell others the news. "I let him win!

How stupid can one snail be?" the grasshopper shouted, to no one in particular.

All day long the grasshopper pondered what to do. Finally, he ran off to try and reason with the snail. The snail wouldn't believe that he'd let him win the race. Slow of mind, and slow of body.

He actually thought he'd won it fair and square. The grasshopper even offered to run another race with him to prove what he was saying, but the snail only said, "You can have your rematch after I cross The Road tomorrow."

In desperation the grasshopper said, "All right, tell you what I'll do. I'll race you across The Road tomorrow. Is that fair?"

The snail shrugged. "Sure, if you don't mind being beaten in public again. I don't care. Just don't get in my way, okay?"

News of the rematch spread quickly, and the next morning at the appointed time a huge crowd of insects was gathered by the side of The Road. The snail‘s supporters were all there to cheer their hero on. He stood shifting impatiently from foot to foot waiting for the starting gun to sound. In the meantime, the grasshopper looked nervously down The Road in each direction as cars came speeding by one quickly after another.

At the coo sound of the mourning dove, the snail crept forward. Three cars had whizzed by before he even had both front feet on the asphalt. He turned and looked back at the grasshopper(who was standing still only because he was waiting for a break in the traffic) and said, "Can't keep up, eh, grasshopper?"

In the time it took the snail to pronounce this sentence, the grasshopper saw his opening, and shot across The Road at absolutely top speed. It was awesome. The other insects let out a gasp in unison, partly over the grasshopper‘s speed and partly because, despite his speed, he had just barely slipped by in front of a huge truck. The wind from the truck blew up a cloud of dust and knocked a few of the smaller insects off their feet.

When the dust had settled, there was the grasshopper standing on the opposite side of The Road.

The snail gaped at him in astonishment, hesitated, and then lowered his head in shame and 215

backed away from The Road. Seeing this, the grasshopper breathed a sigh of relief. With a wave across The Road at all his former friends, he turned and vanished into the woods.

The grasshopper never came back across The Road. (As he would have been the first to admit, he was afraid to risk it again.) Only once in a great while a butterfly would fly back from the other side with stories about a wise old grasshopper who lived alone on a great hill and taught humility and self-control to all the insects there.

The snail withdrew into himself, figuratively and literally, he stayed in his shell. He became sullen and taciturn and wouldn't talk to anyone anymore. A few mornings later, his body was found floating in a bowl of beer, he knew to keep away, and yet there he was bloated and floating in a vat of beer‌.The grasshopper quicker in flight and wit had won the race..yet it made him very sad. His sadness was seen as wisdom. Grasshopper decided to share his wisdom with all the slower insects of the garden, and became a great teacher.

216

Musings from the crystal Cave

With his paint brush and pencil in hand, the small child began his masterpiece.

"This will be the best tree ever!" he told his mother as he drew the outline of a tree.

First, the long, subtly curved lines of the trunk, with just enough roughness to represent the bark without making it look forced. He continued to draw more lines nearer the edges, giving the impression of a third dimension. Satisfied with the trunk and branches, he contemplated the leaves. They were what distinguished an artistic sketch of a tree from the meager drawing of a first-grader. The boy changed a simple shape into a complex fractal with many components working together to create a opaque and clear three dimensional leaves.

Leaning over his shoulder, his mother commented, "Your tree is very well done, Joshua, Why don't you give it some color?"

"I'm saving that for last," the boy answered while pursing his lips and pushing his paper aside to work on a new drawing.

This one would be a single leaf. First he drew a simple outline; adding shading and jagged edges to show depth. Most people consider a leaf to be an irrelevant thing which just happens to be part of a tree. His drawing made it seem like so much more.

Joshua was never quite able to tell his mother that he didn't know what she meant by color. All he ever saw was different shades of gray when he opened his crayons or colored pencils. Like any little boy who wishes to please his parent's, he was afraid they would somehow think him unworthy of their smiles for a job well done. Finally placing his pencil on the table, the boy pondered for a moment, and then made his decision. Picking up his colored pencils Josh looked at each color, his mind frozen in panic. Shrugging it off with a look to his mother, he checked to 217

see if she was watching. Satisfied that she wasn't, he chose one at random and began to give his drawings color; red.

As Joshua grew older, it became evident that he had an amazing artistic gift. Although, whenever he added color he was criticized. So to play it safe, he only used a regular pencil.

Always looking for new subjects to draw, he would gaze out the window, or sit in the park on a bench just watching the world go by. Sometimes Josh would watch his mother work in her garden. She would spend hours tending the delicate flowers, often commenting on how wonderful the different colors looked against the green of the grass or the blue of the sky. It must have been beautiful if it was that important to her. In his artist's mind, Joshua thought how large numbers of flowers were difficult to draw, but the tiny intricacies of one small flower were an artist's paradise. The world looked far better under a magnifying glass.

There was just one time that anything but detail stuck in his mind. He had been boating on a quiet lake with his father. The mountains towering above them must have been standing there for millions of years: longer then he could perceive. They had witnessed the beginning of the human race, the end of the dinosaurs, and the separation of the continents. Gazing up at the mountains, he had thought about something much more ancient than them; those luminescent flecks of light that brilliantly dotted the night sky. Stars were older than the earth itself, the subjects of so many dreams. As Joshua and his father lay side by side in the boat looking up at the stars that night, he remembered his thoughts of the day and asked, "Dad, are the stars older than God?" With a puzzled look at the boy, his father replied, "I don't think so. Where did you get that Idea?"

"Its so quiet, I was just thinking about things," was the boys quick answer.

"I don't think anything is older than God," was his father's final reply, as he sat up and started to row to shore.

Joshua often thought about that night as he drew another masterpiece of detail. He was just another grain of salt dissolved in the sea of existence. That's one of the reasons why he loved detail. Taking comfort in the idea of these tiny objects looking upon him with the same sense of awe he had experienced on that lake, he shook himself out of his short-lived flashback, completing the finishing touches on his latest work, another crimson tree.

His parents were beginning to get worried. Their child was obviously old enough to draw a green tree, yet he continued to make them red. His only explanation being, That's the way they are. They took him to a psychologist who analyzed the paintings and asked few questions.

"Have you ever had his eyes checked?" the doctor questioned.

"Yes, but he's not near or far-sighted." His bewildered mother replied.

"No, no. I believe it is colorblindness and a very rare form at that. You say he rarely colors his art. Have him seen by an optometrist.

218

The parents thanked the psychologist, leaving with their confused and very frustrated child.

He did not understand the concept of color; he wanted to learn. His parents tried to explain the concept to him, but he was still confused. They had lived with color their entire lives and taken it for granted, whereas he couldn't fathom the concept. His parents did not provide much help, so he looked on his own. Pulling out a dictionary, Joshua read to himself.

A sensation produced by rays of light of different wavelengths. It made color sound more unreachable then ever, even more distant from his grasp. That night he dreamed in black and white. Not only was his concept of color radically altered, but his parent's view of him was dramatically changed as well.

The next morning, his life seemed to turn upside down. He found his parents being particularly nice to him. His mother, with a fixed worried expression, constantly looked in his eyes. He'd been perfectly happy before, without this color nonsense. Apart from the odd comment about trees not being red, and him having no taste in color, he hadn't minded. Now his parents were making such a big deal out of his problem. He felt as if he had been missing out on something all his life. That night, Joshua found his old set of colored pencils, dusted them off, and started applying them in random ways to the paper. When he showed it to his mother, she cried. At that moment, he knew he'd never be normal in his parent's eyes again. It was very hard for a twelve year old boy to accept.

Years went by and the little boy grew to be a young man, leading his own life. Many times he would reflect on his childhood, remembering a life that was so grand while his problem went unnoticed. Everyone complimented his talent for art. Then everyone suddenly treated him as if he were different. For a year, Joshua had to wear a very unusual pair of glasses that were supposed to help. The only problem being that he had no idea if they were working. He didn't know what was supposed to happen.

As he sat staring unseeingly at the TV one day, something caught his eye. A news broadcast about a new eye treatment at a local University. The advertisement for the treatment depicted a man throwing out a pair of glasses similar to his own. Joshua couldn't believe it. All his life, he thought he would never understand color, and now he was finally given a chance to experience it. The very next day he made arrangements to get the treatment for himself.

He was told the procedure was a success when he woke up in the recovery room a few weeks later, feeling very disoriented. A needle was removed from his arm, and he opened his eyes.

Panic nearly had him screaming. He couldn't see where the doctor's voice was coming from, or anything else for that matter. A wet bandage blocked his vision as a liquid seeped into his eyes.

Worse then seeing black and white, Josh was effectively blind for the week the bandage had to remain on.

That week seemed to last a lifetime. People he had never seen before, just hands with voices, guided him around and helped him try to lead a normal life where he couldn't see a thing around him. Those seven days were unbearable. The constant feeling of the bandage stabbed his eyes like millions of needles poking him simultaneously.

219

Finally, the moment of truth came. His pain turned to anticipation. For the first time in his life, Josh was going to see color. He was finally going to understand. The doctor was talking to him, warning him of some things he needed to get used to, but he wasn't paying much attention.

Slowly, the doctor began to loosen the bandage. It was lifted off, inch by inch, taking care not to rip or pull. His eyelids felt heavy, but the pressure was changing. He had been told to keep his eyes closed, and then very slowly open them. Saying good-bye to a life without color, he greeted a new milestone in his life as he opened his eyes.

Almost as soon as they opened, his eyes quickly shut from the sight. Color simply overwhelmed him. Most of the time, it was too much of an effort to focus. He just let his eyes stare blankly into space. Color was also a bit of a disappointment. His imagination had provided so much more. Josh's recent encounter with reality changed his perspective, causing his art to lose its appeal. His vision problem solved, the young man felt terribly isolated. His gift had fled him. Was it the right price to pay to now see the beauty of nature, rather then to express it himself?

After many years of self inflicted censor, Josh felt the need to draw again becoming stronger within him. Eventually he gave in to the need to create. After carefully preparing for the occasion, the man picked up his pencil and began to draw. He sat in a stark white room with a white washed table, his tablet and a set of drawing pencils at hand. He had taken to wearing only black, grays or white long ago. Although somewhat satisfied with the result of this experiment, he felt there must be more he could do to blot out the colors that had robbed him of his gift. After that first attempt, the man started experimenting with dark glasses, and even masks with no holes in the eyes. Josh realized that his vision was what distorted his art, making it unreal.

The acid was burning, but it did its job quickly. Josh felt the burning sensation and searing heat upon his eyes. He refused to wipe them, he refused to clean them. Every day for a week, he poured the acid slowly on each eyeball, until he could no longer see.

Letting his fingers do the work he knew they were capable of, he felt much more in tune with his art once again. Being blind was only a small price to pay for contentment. He passed his days in a darkened room creating visions of light. Never once applying color to his shades of grays, whites and blacks.

The old man applied the finishing touches to his childhood masterpiece. A tree.

The living tree. A divine paradise in the depths of his mind: perfect. Smiling, he held his creation in his hands. He liked living through his art, sharing his dreams, or in this case, his past, through his art. Placing his painting on the seemingly endless wall of his works, he reflected back on his latest meaningful work of art, his life; an example of mankind's attempt to alter nature, and craft perfection, only to find that flawlessness is not always the ideal, and that the gifts you receive are not to be given up for what you desire, but are given to you, so that you might open your hand and give back.

220

Free Will the Fall of Man

Genesis revisited The vast darkness of the void stretched off into forever. At its edge lay the Nothingness, Chaos, that from which all things are distilled. He sat crouched close to the ground, surveying what lay ahead. "Lucifer?" Gabriel calling him back from the depths of thought he had faded into. "The unit commanders have been appraised of our orders. We are ready." Lucifer stood up and looked at his lieutenant.

"Gabriel, do you think it's worth it? Why must so many be sacrificed for the creation of a new world?" Stoically Gabriel looked back at him, no answer other than a shrug he could give. Lucifer walked off into the forest of camps upon the plains, Gabriel watching him fade into the camp fires.

Gabriel whispered into the air "He suspects nothing.", and as if in supplication of a prayer he was answered. "His betrayal must be complete Gabriel. He shall bring order to Chaos. Men will never be tempted by Satan's anarchy." Gabriel understanding what his master asked of him stood mute. The plains of Gehenna swallowing his silence.

The army of Seraphim, Angels and Arch-Angels stood in stiff columns before them. Lucifer and Gabriel resplendent in their silver and gold armor, passed them in review, saluting as they went. Not a single one showed fear or regret.

Hard Avatars, prepared for Armageddon were they.

Lucifer cleared his throat. "Today we are Divine Justice." His voice bellowing 221

out across Gehenna to the sea of grim cherubs. "Through His wisdom shall we forge victory. His will, the hammer with which we shall smite our foe. Drive them from what His love shall create. A new utopia, that we shall shepherd, and protect against the anarchy." The assembly now roared to life. A mighty cry of war let loose echoing from the infinity. Lucifer and Gabriel leading them as mad conductors of some winged symphony. They rose from the plain, their wings spread against the Chaos, to meet their fate.

Yahweh sat quietly upon his throne, watching the grand spectacle transpire.

Soon the final foundation stone would be set. The sacrifice of his most loyal servant, but a small price to ensure the freewill of Men, his ultimate creation. He waited for some time as the last of his army slipped into the Nothingness before retiring. Creation would soon occur.

The fighting began shortly after the army had entered Chaos. First in slow dull skirmishes, with no objective or reason. The farther they entered, the more resistance they encountered. Steady and unending streams of formless terrors threw themselves upon the Angels, desperate to hold their advance.

Deep within Chaos they succeeded. The battle devolved into a war of attrition.

The cries of Angels wailing out as they were destroyed by foul and devious crafts.

The Angel's themselves slew the Daemons at a horrific rate, their spiritual essence covering them in a dense, viscous film.

Lucifer led the attack, himself deep in the thick of battle. Gabriel stood by his side, each dropping their immediate foes in front of them. "They are so many, how can we defeat them?" Gabriel's voice shrieking against the gnashing of swords, and the din of annihilation. "If we can defeat Satan, they will break Gabriel." Lucifer now looked across the battle line, spotting his target. "There he is Gabriel! Defeat him and the day is ours!"

Gabriel now looked upon what Lucifer had spied. A large formless mass of putrefaction, void of any order and celestial honor. Pure spirit, convulsed into a mockery of grace and beauty. With a signal, Lucifer's personal guard formed about him, thrusting into the enemy line. Gabriel followed covering their rear, fighting back the Daemons as they fell upon them.

Finally they reach it. Satan simply was. It had no knowledge or will, it simply existed, devoid of all but the basest desire and foul divinity. As lesser cherubs approached it, Satan ended them, totally denying them existence. They vanished, absorb by it's void. Heaven's greatest champions now stood before it, beautiful in 222

their divine rage.

The battle now intensified. Lucifer and Gabriel unleashing terror and wrath upon Satan, in such manner that Chaos had never witnessed. As the battle raged, Satan fell back, unable to withstand the avatars joint assault. Desperately he tried to fight back, Gabriel and Lucifer far too agile for it's craft. Finally Lucifer delivered the mortal thrust, and Satan collapsed, dying slowly. Dissipating in small bits back into the Nothingness.

The remaining Daemons, now rallied to their fallen leader, moving to encircle Lucifer and his guard. "Forgive me my brother, for Primal Love has moved me so." Gabriel now whispered to Lucifer. Lucifer turn to Gabriel, a question upon his face. He didn't notice until too late the lance as it thrust into him, by Gabriel's own hand. Gabriel now rose from them, retreating quickly from his ordained deed. Samael and Beelzabub flew up to restrain him, but were met by the arriving Daemons, seeking vengeance for their fallen Lord.

Gabriel now drew his trumpet, sounding the retreat. The Angels desperately moved with all haste towards Gehenna, a few Daemons in pursuit. Now at last He entered the fray. Yahweh moved through Chaos, leaving ripples through the fabric of that realm. Lucifer cried out to his Lord "Save me! Save your first born, Oh Lord!" Yahweh glanced at him, Lucifer's arms raised in desperate prayer for redemption. Yahweh face belied nothing, unmoved it seem by the cries of his most loyal and annointed cherubim.

A brilliant light now filled the void. It rays pushing them back. Lucifer and Satan falling deep, merging their electromagnetic energies into the Chaos, until the light vanished from their view. Thus was the beginning and the ending of the First Day. The wind woke him from his sleep. He had no concept of where he had come from, or where he was. His only memory, the wind waking him just now.

As he looked about him, grand trees surrounded him, his body resting on the soft grass that stretched out upon the hill. The river in his view snaked across the landscape to the horizon. There it broke into four silver branches, reflecting the sun.

As he surveyed the world around him he noted two trees at the center of a clearing. They curved away from each other, their branches laden with fruit. He approached one of them and looked at the fruit, hunger now enveloping his senses. As he reached up, a voice whispered to him on the breeze "Adam". The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

223

"I am the Lord, Your God. I created you from the dust and clay to fill this land with my Law and Will." The words confused him. "You may eat of any fruit, but that of these trees. For the day you do you shall surely die." Adam dropped his arms from the branches. He was aware only that his master had spoken, and he should obey.

As the days passed, Adam became more familiar with his world. The floral and fauna all new, yet familiar to him. Yet none could defer the loneliness mounting in him, the yearning for another human to touch. "Why have you left me alone my Lord? Why have I no companion to share my world and ease my longing?"

Yahweh now placed Adam into a deep sleep. When Adam awoke, he spied a new creature in the garden. One who was a gift to a strident prayer.

It shared most of his form, yet was different in subtle ways. Upon it's chest instead of hair, two firm fleshy orbs called invitingly to him. It's hair reached down to the small of it's back. A flaxen flow, complimented by it's soft jade colored eyes. Adam knew that at last he was not alone in this world. He stood up and approached the new creature. It reached out with a small hand, it's touch supple against his skin. Adam now reached out to it, curious how it would feel under his touch. It's skin a silken surface, it's scent a blissful dream. Hand in hand they walked off into the garden. Yahweh looked on, pleased with his work. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The heat of the fires surrounding him brought him to consciousness. His body still adorned with Gabriel's lance. Lucifer knew that he was dying, murdered by a graceful betrayal. Samael and Beezalbub were near him. "Lucifer, are you OK?" the words from Beelzlbub's lips dotted with compassion and concern.

An agonized grimace was all he could muster in response. Samael and Beezalbub easing him into a prone state. Lucifer signaled to Samael to remove the instrument of his oncoming demise.Samael eased out the lance, an angelic effluent following behind it. In a whispered voice Lucifer began to speak, "Leave me be."

"Master you must live. Gabriel must be brought to justice for his crime." Lucifer answered him. "No, I cannot Samael . Beelzabub and you must complete that divine task. Even now, my essence dissipates into the Nothingness. I am lost."

Lucifer's whispers now became gargled and incoherent, his coughs flowing with his blood. "Master we are but cherubs, against an Avatar we have no strength.

Only you can complete this deed." Samael now pleading with Lucifer, willing 224

him to live a little longer.

Beelzlbub now looked upon Lucifer's broken frame. The creature still held a small spark of divinity, but not for much longer. "Master, perhaps if you absorbed what is left of this broken beast? It still contains enough divinity to heal you. Then you can do what must be done." Lucifer turned his gaze now on Satan. The beast was near death, it's dark existence nearing a final end. "It could corrupt me my friend. To give such another chance within my frame could bring down all that our Lord has built." Lucifer stammered.

"But to leave one who has betrayed us against the Law as guardian over the new Utopia? Too leave a known evil to exist against one that is improbable? Which is the greater misdeed to our Lord?" Samael now begged of him. Lucifer knew that the possibility existed that he could become the shade he absorbed, but his duty, ingrained into his creation cried out for justice. Reaching out with his hand, Lucifer made his choice.

The weeks passed like a blur in the Garden. Adam by now had called his companion Eve, her form Woman. Each day they wandered the New Utopia, exploring it's wonders. Each night they explored each other, learning slowly through touch and caress the art of passion. One night as they laid upon the grasses looking up to the stars, Eve spied the two trees in the center of the garden. She rose from the soft natural mat and moved to the first tree, hunger peaking her curiosity. As she reached for the heavy fruit, Adam grabbed her wrist. "You mustn't! It is forbidden to eat of these trees." Eve looked at him confused by the words he spoke. "Why should this be forbidden to us? Has your Lord gone mad? Why tempt us in this place?"

Her questions struck Adam like a fist of stone. Who was he to question his creator's motives? "It simply is the Law." was all Adam could retort."Law? What Law do you speak of? Has your Lord ever mentioned it to you? Spoken with you at length of it tenets and punishments? How can one obey what one knows nothing about?" Adam's mind bent inward from the vertigo her questions caused. What Law was he following. His Lord had made no mention of what it was, simply that it existed.The only crumb of knowledge was the ban of eating the fruit of these two trees. All else was open to debate. Adam frustrated by his lack of answers dragged her away from the tree, her eyes lingering on its fragrant temptations.

Lucifer felt ill. The absorption of Satan's energy nearly ended him. As he 225

convalesced, he faded in and out of consciousness, each time struggling with the new beast within him. The beast becoming stronger as he healed. "Angel, I will take what you have given me" Satan whispered to him during his delirium. "You will be my instrument of vengeance upon Yahweh. Then I shall consume you, take your skill and memory. Your Avatar strength and corrupt this new world of men." Lucifer then faded back into unconciousness. Nothing more than a dream he considered, nothing more than a dream, it wasn't real it was only a dream.

Slowly, Lucifer had gained his strength, nursed closely by his loyal guards Samael and Beelzabub. When his strength had finally returned, he prepared his mind for the task that lay ahead of him. No Angel had ever transgressed the Law. How would he bring Gabriel to justice? Gathering his guard, he prepared the plan.

"Samael, what if we were to disgrace Gabriel? Make him fail at the task he has been appointed to?" Lucifer asked of his cherub. Samael looked at him,. "How would we do that? What would such a task involve?" great knowledge now overwhelmed Lucifer, and spoke for him, "We corrupt Man. Destroy what he protects." Samael and Beelzabub looked at Lucifer in disbelief. "Why would we do that? Would that not also go against the Law?" "The Law has been violated and flaunted before us. We are forsaken by our Lord. Forgotten and ignored." Satan's words spilled from Lucifer's mouth.

Satan using Lucifer's memory, and his new found power of persuasion to seduce the cherubs to his side. The cold seductive logic of it enticed Samael and Beelzabub. "How do we do this Lucifer?" Beezalbub asked. "Leave it to me. I will corrupt them to Gabriel's shame." Lucifer replied.

Within Lucifer's mind, a battle raged. A battle the great annointed one was losing. Satan's will was devouring him, slowly, methodically, without repose.

Gabriel's lance had damaged him deeply, and left him with little strength to fight this unexpected battle. To survive and gather strength for one final blow to regain his grace, Lucifer hid within Satan. As Samael, Beezalbub and himself began their accent to the new Utopia, Lucifer waited, waited to smite down Satan, and save himself and mankind from the dragon's ill fate.

Eve laid down in a soft green open field in the Garden. The Sun drying her body from her swim, it's warmth caressing her much as Adam's touch had. As she turned her head she saw the tree from which Adam had pulled her hand from.

226

It's blossom's now filled the air with a decadent fragrance. As she closed her eyes she imagined the taste of it's fruit. Pulpy, soft, it's juices running down her cheeks and neck, it's ripeness a sweet temptation.

"Adam? What would occur if we ate of the tree?" He was puzzled again by her curiosity. His arms were laden with fruit of all nature for them to eat. Dates, figs, grapes, berries, and passion fruit among them. "We would die on that day the Lord said to me." Was Adam's reply. He hoped that the answer would settle the matter. He grew tired of the effort of answering her questions.

"But what does it mean too die? What is death? Why threaten us with something we have no knowledge of? Why fear it at all?" Now Adam was astounded by her questions and troubled by them as well. He never knew what it meant to die. He had never experienced it, or witnessed it in the Garden. It held no meaning to him, so why fear what he knew nothing of? Yet he did know to disobey his Lord would have grave consequences. What they were he did not want to discover through folly. "The Lord forbade it. That should be enough. Must you question He that brought you life?" Eve remained mute to his reply. Her thoughts now sparked with the desire to taste what was forbidden to them. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Gabriel rushed to his Lord. Yahweh had sent for him. As he knelt before Yahweh's throne his mind began to race on what mission his Lord may have for him now. "Gabriel, I am concerned with the woman Eve. I fear that she may transgress the Law." Gabriel looked up at his Lord, "But was it not temptation that you wanted?"

"Temptation and transgression are two separate matters . Temptation is to test the resolve of men, not make them disobey." The words spoken had a special meaning to Gabriel. He began to understand what was being asked of him. "You want me to guard the Tree of Knowledge my Lord." Yahweh raised his brow at Gabriel, his being transfixing Gabriel in his all knowing gaze. "Yes Gabriel, protect the Tree. If Adam or Eve consume of it's fruit, exile them both from the Garden, into the world surrounding it." Gabriel nodded, rose from the floor and marched out of the throne room.

Yahweh smiled at his skill. For all the while as he he spoke to Gabriel, he watched as Lucifer, Beezalbub and Samael rose from the Nothingness to the new Utopia. He cloaked them from the angelic host guarding the approach from Chaos, allowing them entry into the Garden. Man would now fall, and freewill 227

would reign the world.

Lucifer's will had gathered unto itself what strength it could. The great annointed cherubim knew that he had not the power to defeat Satan directly. He would need to wait for the beast to be distracted. Only then could he hope to destroy it, and with it himself. He hid quietly in the unreality of his mind waiting for that moment. The three angels observed the new creation known as Man. Methodically they followed every move that Adam or Eve made. They studied them looking for any weakness that could be exploited. Fate would soon smile upon them.

"I still do not understand your Lord Adam. Here I stand before this beauty, and am forbidden to delight of it's fruit. And for what? For the fear of something unknown, a hollow threat." For weeks Eve had dreamt of the taste of forbidden fruit. Now as she stood before the tree, she could feel it's siren's song call to the very depths of her soul. Yet there stood Adam, stoically reminding her that it was not to be. "Eve, for all that is sacred, return no more to this matter. Time and again I have told you. Must you tempt your Lord's wrath?"

Eve's silence gave him his answer.

As she looked away from the tree she noticed a small long creature. Kneeling down it crawled into her hand, it's skin smooth and soft. "Adam, what creature is this?" she asked, her hands caressing the small animal. "It is a serpent. They are actually quite friendly." Eve nodded in agreement. She walked off into the Garden, cooing softly to the serpent, it responding with soft chirps.

"Samael, tonight you shall posses that creature" Lucifer said to the loyal cherub.

"What is it you wish me to accomplish with that act Lucifer?" Samael queried.

"You shall entice the woman Eve to eat of the tree." The two cherubs looked dumbfounded at Lucifer. "Lucifer, that is the Tree of Knowledge! Even we angels are forbidden to eat of it." Beelzalbub protested. "All the greater Gabriel's shame will be then. As for you Beelzabub, you shall rejoin the host, find those sympathetic to our cause. Now go both of you, we have much work to do." The cherubs left him, leaving Samael to watch Eve wander alone into the forest.

The days passed. Samael on that evening had possessed the small beast, now Eve's constant companion. Beelzalbub for his part had rejoined the angelic host, 228

sounding out those that had been loyal to Lucifer, sowing the seeds of rebellion.

Gabriel for his part questioned Beelzabub upon his reappearance. The cherub told him of the fall and of Lucifer's death. Though uneasy with his explanations, Gabriel accepted them. He was far more preoccupied with his new task. He stood guard over the Tree of Knowledge, waiting for her.

Adam nor Eve of course could see the angels. They were oblivious to all but themselves and the Lord, who spoke to Adam from time to time. Eve again approached the tree while Adam napped. "Look upon it serpent. Does not the fruit look inviting? Yet we are forbidden to taste it. We are held captive from it.

Threatened by a punishment we know nothing of." Much to her suprise the serpent answered her.

"Fear not reprisal. Death is not what will occur. Eat of this tree and you like the Lord will know the true nature of good and evil." The shock of the serpent's voice stunned Eve, yet her curiosity was far more powerful. "Good? Evil? What are they? What knowledge would it bring us?" Samael now chose his words carefully. "You would be like gods yourselves. You will be able to decide for yourselves what path to follow." Eve now feared nothing. The Lord's ban seeming to have no hold. She reached up.

Gabriel watched carefully as Eve approached the tree. He saw her stand there and talk to the serpent she carried always with her. He saw her reach up and pluck the fruit. As he began to draw his sword and attempt to stop her, he was held fast where he stood by a voice, a voice he thought now long gone into the Nothingness. "Gabriel, I have come to punish you for your betrayal!" Gabriel looked upon the first born of Heaven. Lucifer had come for him. Instinctively he sounded his horn. Soon the two were encircled by the angelic host. Satan smiled wryly at them. Here he knew he would destroy Gabriel and Yahweh's new creation in one fell swoop.

"What madness is this Gabriel? Why would you sound the alarm? It is Lucifer returned to us! Is this the best welcome that you can give?" Beelzabub's voice rang out. "He has not called you to welcome me cherubs, but to destroy he whom he betrayed" The assembly of angels gasp at Satan's words. "He struck me with his lance, and left me for dead upon the battlefield. Tell me brother, what form of Divine Love and Justice warranted such a heinous crime?" Gabriel looked at Lucifer. He saw his flaming sword drawn, it's fire burning angrily.

The murmur of confusion rose in the host of angels surrounding them till at last even the Seraphim began to question him. "Is this true Gabriel? Did you betray 229

Lucifer before our Lord?" The question rising from them. Gabriel solemnly answered them "Yes." A cry now rose up from the angelic host. A cry of anger and rage. Many who stood there now served with Lucifer, and held a deep loyalty to him. Satan raised the sword above his head, and charged Gabriel. The War of Heaven had begun.

Gabriel parried the blow, falling back from Satan's rage. The angels themselves falling into battle, dividing themselves between supporting Lucifer or Gabriel.

The walls of Infinity echoed the terrible gnashing of swords, lances and maces.

The death cry of angels sounding out in a terrible sonata of grim war. The great avatars traded blows, with each parry and thrust laying waste to the world about them. Mountains fell, fields burned, and rivers changed course. The battle raged for what seemed eternity, but in all Eve had only now lifted the fruit to her mouth. Gabriel saw this, and turned to stop her, in doing exposing himself to Lucifer. The blow dropped him to his knees, the broken remains of his right wing lying next to him. Lucifer now stood over him His sword prepared for the death blow. Gabriel consigned himself to his fate.

The cry that now rang out from Satan stopped all the combatants. Lucifer had struck. As his body fell from Gabriel, it convulsed from the battle raging within him. As Lucifer battled Satan he looked out to the tree. "Samael....No....." he whispered in pain and anguish, but it was too late. The juice flowed from her mouth and down her neck. The Law now broken by the sweet flavor of Knowledge. As Lucifer watched, Satan swallowed him, taking all the light of the heavens. The greatest Angel of Heaven now dissipated into the Nothingness.

"Forgive me my Lord for I have failed you...." were his last words.

Samael, now freed of the serpent picked up Satan's body and sounded the retreat. "Take us back to the Chaos Samael, our task is complete." Satan whispered to him. Samael did as he was asked, Beezalbub leading at least a third of the cherub and seraphim who had sided with them into the infinite void.

Gabriel and his charges watched as they fled, giving no pursuit. Gabriel now watched as Eve fed Adam the fruit. The fall was now complete.

230

The Interrogation room

"I'm telling you, man, I didn't do it, I didn't do it!" He was desperately trying to hide the fear in his voice, but to no avail. His hands were trembling. His body was sweating. Pepe Nicco was on the verge of breaking down. He was innocent, and yet he felt so guilty.

Can you really blame him? Who wouldn't be? Sitting there in the cold steel room was one thing, but he could deal with that. The bright lights? Those he could deal with too. Truth be told, Pepe probably could have dealt with the fact that he was staring at a lifetime in prison, and maybe even facing the death penalty, what put chills down his spine, was Inspector Garlson.

He couldn't make him out in the bright lights, but the voice was scary enough. It sounded like Anthony Perkins, with a slight touch of psychosis.

"We have the knife with your prints. We have witnesses placing you in the house with her at the time of death. In short Mr. Nicco, we have everything we need," Outside, the storm became stronger. Water began to drip from the old station's ceilings. Pepe gazed up at the dark figure, looming over him like a hawk stalking it's prey. Garlson was something of a notorious figure in their small town. He handled his suspects coldly and without mercy. Something Pepe wouldn't normally have a problem with, but Garlson was clearly insane. Far too many men had walked out of this very interrogation room with serious, occasionally life threatening injuries. It was clearly impossible that all of them had "Fallen", or "Tripped".

"Are you gonna answer me? Or just stare off like some damn retard?"

Pepe couldn't think of anything else to say. As if Garlson wasn't bad enough, the dripping water from the 231

ceiling was starting to get to him.

"Look, I told you," He was nearly gagging on the words, "The husband came home, found us in bed, and he started beating her, I swear he must've killed her," "Right, and he left you alive so he could frame you," He paused a moment, "I don't suppose you could tell me what this guy looked like?"

"He was big, tall...I don't know, it was dark," "Oh, of course, it was dark," Garlson's massive figure leaned across the table, and met him eye to eye, "Do you know what I did to the last guy that used that line on me?"

'He could kill me now and say I attacked him,' He thought, 'And he would too, he's that crazy,' The sweat poured down Pepe's face, and that dripping, For gods sake the dripping was driving him mad.

Garlson moved in closer on him, so close Pepe could feel his breath. He had reached his breaking point.

He couldn't take it anymore.

"FOR CHRIST SAKE I SWEAR I DIDN'T KILL HER!!!" He screamed. Within seconds the deputy burst through the door.

"Is everything okay?"

Garlson broke eye contact with Pepe for the first time since he walked into the interrogation room.

"It's fine...everything's fine," The deputy let out a sigh of relief.

"Is this the guy who killed your wife?" He asked.

"Yea, this is the guy," Pepe glared from across the table in astonishment.

"It was you," He whispered.

An evil smile came across Garlson's face.

"Take him away, will ya?"

232

"Thou shalt not tempt the lord thy god

"The story of creation is nothing but a myth,” Michael’s high school history teacher announced to his class a few days after they began reading the classic, ‘Gilgamesh.’

"Adam and Eve didn’t exist, and why would a god punish people and allow them to die in the first place?"

"Sir, I believe in God," Michael protested.

"And I believe in the resurrection!"

"Michael, you can believe what you wish to, of course," The teacher replied. "However, the real world excludes the possibility of miraculous events such as the resurrection. The resurrection is a scientific impossibility. No one who believes in miracles can also respect science. History has shown that there has always been a scientific explanation for certain miracles and so called acts of God.” 233

"God isn't limited by the five senses or science," Michael responded.

"He created everything out of nothing.”

Engaged by Michael’s outspoken faith, the teacher proposed a scientific experiment. Reaching into his refrigerator, he grabbed a carton of milk, and filled a glass to the brim. “okay then let’s do a little experiment, I'm going to drop this glass on the floor, Mikey," he stated.

"Gravity will pull the glass toward the floor with such force that the glass will most certainly break." Fixing Michael with a look of challenge, he concluded his proposal. "Now Michael I want you to say a prayer right now and ask your God to keep this glass from breaking and spilling milk when it hits the floor. If he can do that, then you'll have proven your point, and I'll have to admit that there is a God." After pondering the challenge for a moment, Michael slowly stood to pray. "Our Father who art in heaven," he began. "I pray that when my teacher drops the glass...it will break into a hundred pieces!" "...And also, Lord, I pray that when the glass breaks, my teacher will also fall onto the floor and have a massive myocardial infarction and die. Amen “ The classroom erupted in gasps, and then snickering, then they grew silent waiting with great expectation. For a moment the teacher did nothing. At last he looked at Michael and then at the glass. Without a word he carefully poured the milk back into the container, and put the glass down.

"Class dismissed," the teacher said sitting back down to clear his desk.

“There are no atheists in foxholes Mr. Barnes,” Michael taught.

234

Just a Vagabond

He was a foreigner. It was plainly obvious, he was not from around here, and somehow, I could not think of him as being from somewhere specific. But that seems silly, surely, someone is known somewhere? But he always looked like a stranger, showing up unexpectedly, and leaving unannounced. when he arrived in town, he looked so out of place, like as if the world had decided to send an envoy to Brigadoon. Telling us to wake up and enjoy ourselves! to change from our boring little sedentary ways.

In yesteryear, he would have been called a bard, one who wandered across the land with stories and songs to share with all. Nowadays, I guess the most accurate label would be transient, or indigent or just a gigolo . He used to do little jobs to pay his way here, but I know enough people would have eagerly given him free room and board. I know I would have.

But he insisted on doing what he could, cheerfully paying for some cheap room. Just the pack on his back and some well worn, yet still sturdy boots. Walking everywhere, town to town, across the continent. Alone.

I could always remember when I saw him the first time, when my heart flew, on the wings of imagination. His reflective eyes were somehow pictures, in their reflections things of normalcy seemed so much more vibrant, more exciting. I remember once when I caught my own reflection in those deep blue eyes. I looked so happy and unleashed. Free. I went to a mirror after he had left, but I looked just normal. I was disappointed. I could see so much of what might have been, the possibility, the dream the potential of me.

235

He came the year after, and we did not expect him, but most of us welcomed his return warmly.

He again worked his little jobs, and people noted him around town. I wondered if he was always coming back here in the summer. Oh, lets stop dancing around the subject. I prayed he would come back next time.

So I approached him. I can say that honestly, to the suspicious ones, the grim gun toting fathers and scandal-wary mothers. I approached him, because I did not know if he would come back to me. I mean, come back to us.

I had not talked to him much after his first visit to this town. I know I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. When he was near I thought he would be able to hear my heart beating deafeningly and look at me curiously, wondering why so much noise came from such a quiet-seeming form. But if he heard that great thumping, he did not remark upon it, did not even show that he heard it.

I woke early, I was too nervous to sleep properly. Too jumpy and agitated, and I was so terribly worried about how he might react. You know how it goes, your mind conjures up possibility upon possibility what may happen, from the best case scenario and rational, to the bizarre and fantastic. I felt very vulnerable, but I knew that if I lay there in bed trying to sleep, I would not rest, and what was more, I might miss seeing him before he left again. Perhaps for good this time.

I made haste to his boarding house, prepared to see him before the break of dawn. It did not even cross my mind that it would be too early to see him, that he would not be terribly accommodating to a young girl waking him while the day was so new. Amazing, for all my mindless mental meandering, that had never entered my thoughts back then. I blame the sleep deprivation. Or bless it, in retrospect.

The mistress of the boarding house said that he had already arisen. She did not know where he was. For a moment I was struck stock-still. Here I was, it was still almost-dark, and he had already left? It couldn't happen, my plans could not have been so horrendously disarrayed! I cannot express how despondent I was. When I rose from my bed, I had a feeling of destiny, of serendipity. That something wonderful was going to happen. And now the emptiness, the vacuum of kismet, that whatever power had blessed me with this glorious future, had taken it away without warning.

I did keep composure. I did not weep like a child as I walked down the street back to my house.

But my head was heavy and my feet dragged like concrete. Running here had taken moments, walking back seemed as if it could take a lifetime.

But what was that? A silhouette against the almost dawn. Within that construction yard, someone standing against the sun. I knew then that my patron had not deserted me. I rushed through the gap in the badly-nailed fence and climbed the little tower of steel and wood stacked in a heap.

It was him, and I knew it would be. I started to speak, and he turned to me, a finger upon his lips, 236

motioning me to silence. He just pointed towards the blue and silent sunrise, gazing at the light which hurt his night acclimatized eyes. But he didn't care. I followed in his example, opening myself to the beauty of the sunrise, I always enjoy them but I do not see them because I am not part of the dream, I have a workaday life.

But for him, I changed my ways. Here I was, witnessing this, sharing this mystical moment with him. We did not speak a word, just were together, not even touching. I dont know how long we stood there, just watching, feeling, breathing in the new air, as if the world was just made, and that we were the only two people on the Earth.

But the moment did eventually pass. I wished that it would never end, just him and I and the sunrise. Just in that magical moment between night and day. Forever.

He still didn't speak. Silent, as he had been watching the dawn, but he smiled at me. I didnt know what to say anyway, or how to respond with words. So, I just smiled back. He leaped down from the stack of materials and offered his arm, as if I was some high-born lady coming out of a stagecoach. I took it easily, yet I didn't want to seem eager to touch him. I remember gulping nervously as I did take his arm and step down, he might have thought it was the possibly hazardous way down, but it was just the feeling of something sacred about touching him. Maybe sacred was not the right word.

Perhaps it was like Percival finally touching the Grail. Perhaps Ponce De Leon finally drinking from the Fountain of Youth. That what I had been yearning for, for a year now, I had finally achieved, a touch from the man whom I had held a torch for was so close I could hear him breathing, feel his heat. I would dream a dream.

We parted. Painfully, abruptly. I had spent too many sweet silent moments with him. I had to get to work. I tried not to show how much leaving would hurt me, that he would think me foolish and infatuated. But again, he just smiled at me, and walked back to his boarding house. Stopping once and turning back to look at me, still smiling.

At work I could hardly function. Having no sleep, and when I could think, all I could think about was him. I jumped whenever someone entered, I thought it was him. I saw him everywhere, smiling, around me and as unsettling as this seems, it was like some pleasant dream. Thankfully no-one knew of my laxness, I had a reputation of a steadfast worker, and this reputation would save my job today.

I could not wait to leave however. As the clock neared that ever elusive 5, I was ready to burst. I toyed with the idea of leaving early, I was so tempted to give in and risk everything still just on a whim. I had it bad, he was in my blood and I could not get rid of him. As if I would try.

Don't get me wrong. I've had crushes before, pining away on some unattainable hunk, cursing fate for not allowing my dreams to become reality. But this was different. My feelings did not flutter like a butterfly, light and of little substance. I was drawn to him, our year of separation had not diluted this pull between us one bit. And I didnt even know him! My mind argued with my heart so much, and I suppose it was my mind that forced me to endure those last 15 minutes.

237

That it could all go wrong and I shouldn't lose my job over something that might just be a stupid crush. But my heart had no doubt at all.

But he was there waiting at the boarding house, eyes bright, eager to see me, again with that smile reflected in those deep blue eyes. Again, even in the common room of the boarding house, it seemed like we were alone, that the others playing poker did not exist. Not the bored college students playing some card game in the corner. Not the disapproving mistress looking at both of us with distrust. When he smiled at me, I could not help smiling back, and the world might have crumbled all around us, and we would not have noticed.

We left, again, I'm not sure how we stayed in that timeless moment, but it was dark outside as we walked along the street. I did not feel afraid, he was with me, and perhaps foolishly, I did not see myself needing anything else. We sauntered around, eventually ending up upon a high hill overlooking the city, amidst the wildflowers that were running rampant up here, a cool breeze wafting down from the mountains. Too cool, as I got closer and closer to him, leaning into the curve of his body as we stood there, feeling that heat of his flesh again. Growing heady on the feeling, the slight fragrance of his skin mixed within the flowers, I clung to him, as if he would be torn away in some fierce storm. We sat down, half sprawled upon each other, looking up at the sky, moonless and clear, the stars radiant, the only light in this wilderness we shared. The night was a cathedral of stars, our cathedral, and ours alone. This moment was ours, and nothing could take it away from us now.

We talked about all manner of things, his voice almost lulling me to a dreamy sleep, encompassed in his gentle embrace. He held me tight to keep me warm against the chilly night. there was peace and serenity in his sweet, soft hands. I lay my head against his chest and felt his warmth on my face, and heard his heart beat against my cheek. Feeling his power, feeling his passion, the flames never banked, as I heard him speak with such fervor on all different things, his ideals and his dreams. He was so open with me, so trusting, a woman he had not even known a day, and he told me his innermost secrets of his soul. I could not hold anything back, I spoke of everything within my heart, and how I had been waiting for him to come back to town. He smiled and stroked my hair at that.

"You know, I'm glad you found me this morning."

"What? But I'm glad I found you also," snuggling deeper into his chest, my face turned upwards to meet his gaze, a little triumphant grin upon my face. He was mine now.

"I didn't know if I would keep coming back here. I didnt know if there was any point."

"You weren't going to come back?" My fear was apparent, transparent in my once relaxed state, my eyes shading to shock. This could have been the last day I had ever seen him. The sense of almost-loss cut through me, a chill that even though I was wrapped up in his flesh, I still felt cold.

"I wasn't even going to come back this time. When I left this town last time, I thought about why I should come back. I take all different roads on my travels, and normally, if I repeat a stop, its 238

just passing through. Once Ive learned something from a place, I keep moving. Id learned everything from this town."

"So why did you come back this time?" Gripping him tightly, as if to reassure myself that he was here. I no longer felt so relaxed and happy, I was worried about him leaving.

"There was this girl in a faded pair of bluejeans, And when I looked into her eyes, there lay such dreams they could fill book upon book written down. And well, when I was close to this town on my wanderings, I thought I would see if she was still here, and if she still had those dreams in her eyes."

He smiled at me, and I wonder if he knew that I was the only girl in town who liked wearing bluejeans. Most of the other girls I know just don't look good in them and wore dresses with lace , but Ive always liked my appearance in them, even if people say I looked too boyish.

Looking deep in my eyes, he told me, "And she still has. And what's more, she came to see me just before I was going to head off on the road again. I was hoping you would. I was just hoping so hard, that this lovely woman would approach me and show me those dreams. At least in part. I don;t think, even if I spend my entire life with you, that I will see them all. Some kinda lucky on my part I guess."

Again, that crooked grin, but in his eyes I saw something deeper, as if that slightly self-mocking grin was just a veil over his heart.

But veils? I guess my bright red blush was some sort of veil too. " You really see that in my eyes? I remember then, when I first saw you, I saw my eyes reflected in yours, and they looked so wild and beautiful. But then I saw them again and they were dull as always. It seemed that I could only be that way within you. Within those eyes, with such wisdom raining down upon me, these insights he had into things, into different truths and knowledge. He humbled me sometimes with his thoughts, not meaning to, but I was in awe of his knowledge and introspection.

"Dull? He snorted. "Of course you cannot see the wonder that you are, being so modest. I am the vain one here, I fear. Again, that self-mocking crooked grin, but I looked sternly at him, he did not seem vain to me. You are yourself, and that is special. You are special. You might have taken yourself for granted, since you see yourself every day. You don't know what its like to see you after a year of absence.

This is something I wrote just for you: I‘m called to you, my goddess do with me as heavens do For all the earth and galaxies glow bright with painted hues.

And as I rise into your skies no earthly language speaks The god-thoughts penned in our undress make heaven'‘s starry streaks.

239

And so I pen this symphony of vapors in your sky Consuming just the thoughts of you as sacred wishes fly And any time I listen to just any mortal's pen I dream of you in language where no words are there to end.

For you are everything within the All-of-me And as we soar past heaven‘s seas your vapor sets me free Without a need to ever know language of any kind Dissolved in you who needs to speak? I‘m always in your mind.

My voice low and deep, "Oh,yes you are." And I kissed him, yearning for the taste of him within me. He held me closer, and we just stayed that way, until we fell asleep, warm in each others presence on that hillside, connected beyond the flesh of the body.

The moment was with us once again. That blessed, sacred moment of achieving the Grail, of drinking from the Fountain. Filling our shared dreams as the sun rose upon our sleeping physical shells, as our souls danced and played far above the mundane, mortal world.

I don't think I have been any more happy. Ever. Just one day, just one night and my world would never be the same again.

But our time was too short. He said he had to go again, wandering. I wished he did not, but I knew each place he visited he learned something new. And he promised he would return and share it with me. But I did not want to let him go, now that I had found him, now that he was mine. But he went. He promised he would come back soon, again. With a kiss, he was gone again.

I could still feel that kiss on my face, and I cried for his absence. I was inconsolable. None of my friends could help, it probably didn't help that I never told them why I was upset. Then when things were at their worse, lying in bed, tossing and turning, just like that first night, my mind a whirl with thoughts, a memory surfaced. Something hed said almost by the by, in our time together. You are in my heart, and I am within yours. There is no distance, we are one being separated by the thickness of a shadow. I am always with you, and you are always with me.

Come what may.

I slept. Whenever I felt upset, I concentrated on that, and it made me think of him, feel him inside my heart and soul. And I did not mourn him as if he was dead, but celebrated his life within me.

But he was true to his word. He came back after a few months, walking straight into the tiny office, his face still covered in road dust, pack slung across his shoulder, and an inch of dust upon his boots!

I didn't care about the dust, I kissed it, kissed him and just savored the beautiful man in front of 240

me. My other half, my soul. My boss is a sweet woman, and she always let me off early when he came into town, she remembered what it was like to be young and in love.

My friends did their inspection of him, as if appraising his worth as my love. But he was so charming, and again so beautiful, they were captivated and envious of my success. But I didn't care, I did not revel in their undisguised jealousy and sneer from a lofty perch at my happiness. I was in Heaven, and petty concerns like that no longer concerned me.

Again, when we were together, the world may not have existed. we had our own little world, and we were above all other concerns. There was only that moment, the moment that was ours, that we shared with each other. All else in life was of no importance.

I can only vaguely describe my bliss. Words cannot do justice of how my soul flew with him. He was my life, my love, and my soul. The flame of love never wavered, my soul was glowing with my joy. Nothing could take that away from me.

No one else trusted him. they had their judgments, spent hours logically driving home how ridiculous I was, how I was throwing my life away. How nothing would ever come of this. They asked me where he went every time he left, they asked me all manner of questions I had no answers for.

But the question that laid me low, I cannot even remember who had asked me. I just remember the hateful voices poisoning my heart. Hes so handsome and charming, how can you trust his fidelity when he is on the road? So many eager young women must be interested in him. How do you assure yourself of his loyalty?

I hadn't thought about this. I guess I had not wanted to think of this. What if he met some woman that was prettier than me, more interesting, smarter? Doubt leaked into my soul again, I wondered what he saw in me. Maybe he said this to all the women, and he had one in each town?

Telling each of them the same thing, with that charm of his, that wonderful way he had? He could do it, and I would be none the wiser.

I knew of a man's needs, my cynical heart started to wonder how any man could restrain himself after months of abstinence. Even if I was his only woman in a relationship, he could relieve his tension with some woman of ill-repute when the need took him. Then return to me for a brief stay, and then stay with his whores of the highway.

He came back, and I was ready for him. "You were gone a long time, where did you go?? Did you meet someone else perhaps?"

He slowly looked over my face, his smile fading "You really need to know? Truly?"

I had him. He was guilty, evading my question.

He sighed, and my heart tore. He‘d been unfaithful to me. I was just another rag to rut with, a comfortable ride while he was in this backwater town. I just waited for him to confirm my suspicions.

241

"No. I never have. And I never would. You really needed to ask?" His words were soft, torn from his throat reluctantly. "You were my only. You were the woman I loved, and I wouldn't have done anything to hurt you. I would have done anything for you. Anything at all. I never wanted to spoil this, so as to lose it."

Something within my heart screamed in torment, as my eyes dulled from their indignation. My eyes filled with tears, my heart felt like it was dying, growing cold and lifeless as I almost folded up in pain.

We had lost the moment. It had passed. No longer did we exist together in that perfection, it had decayed before my eyes, from my actions.

"I came here, I had missed you, so very much. I was hoping to see you, feel you beside me once again, and talk with you about my experiences. Most of all, I just wanted to be with you. But I come in and I see no love here for me. I have seen those looks in the eyes of many, but I did not think to see them replace the dreams in your eyes."

I reached out a hand to him, but he was already turning away from me, I could no longer feel that beautiful, wondrous love we shared. It was as if a sumptuous meal had turned to ashes in midbite. My hatred and mistrust oozed out of me like an inflamed wound lanced, but it did no good.

He still left, as I crumpled up upon my floor and cried. I saw him walk out the door, heading toward the train tracks, those dusty boots clumping noisily as they threw up the dust with every step.

It has been many years, and he has not come back. My friends and family have assured me that it would have been a mistake, to spend time with such a gypsy, a vagabond with no home and no prospects. A wild man with no roots sewing wild oats. My father threatened to chase him away with his shotgun if he ever stepped foot in this town again to seduce his daughter.

But I know he will not come back. There is nothing for him to find in this town. The girl with the dreams in her eyes laid bare a nightmare, and there is a haunted, lost look in her face now. I tried to make him mine, but he was never mine. He just loved me, and I loved him. I still do, years and years since I have seen him. I wonder if some of him still loves me, even though I hurt him so. I still wonder if he ever heard the last words I whispered to him, between the sobbing as I lay there reaching for one last touch, "I still have books and books for you to lay open. I still have dreams."

242

A Little birdie told him

Danny Dingle was a pleasant young fellow with big wide shoulders and shoes that wouldn't stay tied. He lived alone in a small house that had once belonged to his parents, only now they were dead. Danny was very happy to live in that house. He was very happy to work selling tickets at a movie theatre, and when he got paid every Friday he was even happier.

In fact, that is the word that best described Danny Dingle, He was very happy.

"I am so happy to meet you," he told everyone he met.

When he went to a restaurant and the waitress brought him a cheeseburger (no ketchup), he would tell her, "This burger makes me so very happy."

Then he might even add with a huge grin, "And so do these fries."

One day at the movie theatre where Danny sold tickets, his happiness began to get on the nerves of his co-workers. They weren't as happy as he was, and the more he said he was happy, the worse every body else felt.

"He's just too damn happy," they said. "He must be whacked in his head."

So they called a local Doctor who specialized in people who were whacked out. His name was Doctor O. Nobody knew what the letters after the O were.

Doctor O. came over to the movie house and pretended that he was a customer.

243

He went up to Danny Dingle who was smiling very widely behind the ticket counter.

"I'd like a ticket to see the movie called Affliction", Doctor O told Danny.

"I will be very happy to sell you a ticket," responded Danny . "Oh, so very happy." He took the Doctors money and handed him one ticket for Affliction.

Doctor O. thought he could detect something wrong in Danny's head. He tried a test.

"I think you are mentally deranged and very ugly," Doctor O informed Danny.

Danny smiled. "I am sorry you think that."

Aha! thought Doctor D. :...but I am still so very happy, in spite of myself," finished Danny. He gave Doctor O. a big hug.

Doctor O. went over to Danny's co-workers. "You are correct, he is whacked in his head," he told them. "No one can be that happy."

The co-workers nodded and elbowed each others ribs.

So Danny Dingle was committed and had to leave the house that his parents once lived in. Now he lived in a place called Bergen Pines. There, Doctor O. tried to help Danny.

"How do you like living here?" Doctor O. asked Danny, soon after his arrival.

"Oh, Doctor.... it is wonderful. I am simply bursting with happiness."

The Doctor frowned. Now now, Danny boy. How can I help you, with that attitude?

Doctor O. wrote papers on Danny Dingle, and he became well known as an expert in dealing with obsessive happiness. There were times when Doctor O. became frustrated and felt like giving up. But he knew that he had to cure Danny .

It became his life's Passion.

244

Every once in a while the Doctor asked Danny how he felt about things. As long as Danny kept giving answers like, It makes me very happy, Doctor O. He knew that Danny was still a very sick man.

Finally, almost five years after Danny had been committed, there was a big breakthrough.

"How are you feeling today?" the Doctor asked.

Danny looked up from the magazine he was reading. He smiled at the Doctor.

But then he frowned.

I have a slight headache, he said. "I think I'm feeling bad today."

"Eureka!" exclaimed Doctor O. A short time after that Danny was released. Doctor O. waved at Danny as he walked away from the Sanitarium. The Doctor was satisfied. He had helped a sick man.

Danny walked along the sidewalk towards home. Before he had gone very far he saw a bird sitting On a branch of a tree. It was a Red Robin, singing in a tree.

Danny looked up, when he heard the Robin, singing, "I'm so happy to be outa that place," and sang and whistled along with the bird. He laughed till he cried, "I must be cured, because I am so happy." Sang Danny. A huge smile of contentment spread over Danny's face.

The bird flew off and landed on the window ledge of the Sanitarium, he sang loud. Doctor O who was making his rounds stopped to listen to the bird.

"Why are you singing so loudly,? Asked Dr O. "Because Danny is so very happy" sang the bird.

Dr. O pitched a book at the bird, "Go on, get out of here, you damn nuisance, I cured Danny, he's normal like the rest of us now."

The bird flew away, singing loudly, "Danny's happy, Danny's happy."

245

Dr. O grew furious. He ran from the Sanatorium in search of Danny, and found him sitting in the park, butterflies lighting and dancing all around him, birds singing loudly from the bushes and trees. The rage the good Dr. was feeling completely consumed him. He had cured him. What was going on.

"Danny, oh Danny boy!" He yelled. What's going on here?"

Danny looked up to see Dr. O, and frowned, and quietly slunk down in the park bench. "Dr. O. whatever is the matter?"

Dr. O. gasped for breath. "I thought you were happy there for a minute."

"No, NO, I'm just hitting away all the bugs, they keep bothering me," said Danny, as he shushed the butterflies away. "Why would you ever think that?"

Dr. O. looked at Danny, "A little birdie told me."

"Oh Dr. O, you have worked so hard to cure me, maybe you need a long rest?" suggested Danny.

"No, I heard the bird, he told me you were happy."

"A little birdie told me, a little birdie told me......Dr. O went back to the sanitarium. He sat by the window and listened to the singing birds, and watched the butterflies, "A little birdie told me." Dr. O, sat up he realized that he was so very happy. "I must be cured!" Sang Dr. O.

246

Making a choice on Scifi Sunday

Francis found himself caught in a bitter battle---two hearts wished to claim him for their own. And both claimed the other for a liar---low, deceitful---beneath contempt. One appeared a faery princess, delivered from a dark tale---her words soothing and low. At times she seemed almost to read his mind...and his heart was moved by the story she told--of the demon that sought to destroy her...how he saved her from a scarab tale, of pages ancient scribe's enfolded her into, only to be chased forever through it's pages, no end of escape in sight....until he lighted upon the page of her affliction and brought her forth into the realm of his imagination....

The other was a Child of Light---Spriteful, filled with truth. She had been his lover---and he held her dear 247

to him---but could never understand why she became so distraught at the mere mention of the faery princess. The child of light fed him truth's serum, and kept him away from the pain of material reality.

Only there were things the wood nymph could not say---things that he had to learn himself. She watched in aching sadness as more and more her lover regarded the faery princess. She despaired--could he not smell the stench of love decaying that hung around her? Could he not taste the sweet stench of rebellion in her every breath? She feared for Francis, she feared for herself......

And finally it came that the man child, Francis, could bear it no longer---and the three gathered, the Princess dressed in pure linen, the wood nymph clad in rays of light. For beauty there was no choosing--each delighted his eyes. But the faery princess met his glance evenly---while tears glittered in the wood nymph's eyes.

What was this sadness? Why would she not speak? The princess smiled warmly, and shrugged. " Silly sprite", she used to say.

"I love you both." he said at last."Why must I choose?"

The woodnymph looked away.

The Princess smiled...and said "You do not."

"Then I will not." he said smiling---and the wood nymph shuddered, her shoulders shaking. The Faery 248

Princess smiled into his eyes---and reached out casually and seized the woodnymph's gossamer wing...her hand closed like a claw---and in a moment it was crunched in her palm, and fell to dangling.....a broken wing....

The manchild stared in horror. This was not what he expected---never intended...

The Wood nymp stared at Francis, her eyes dripping tears as if they would never stop.

"Even no choice is a choice, my love." The wood nymph said sadly.

She turned then, and quietly left, her wings hanging like an atrocity---a maimed butterfly, who would never find air again.

He turned to demand of the Faery Princess an explanation...and smelled the thick gagging scent of death that hung around her like perfume. The blade planted neatly under her breast, as she turned her eyes to him....

"Am I not everything you always wished for?" she whispered, the glittering eyes fading to black...

249

Shooting for all the marbles

Jake didn't come bouncing off the bus like the other kids. He stepped slowly down to where we stood, on our new school's still black asphalt. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"My dad got laid off and we're living in a motel."

"Oh." Stuff like that happened all the time now, we knew. When my dad was laid-off from GM; he still managed to pack the pantry shelves with cans of beans, and bags of rice. He even managed to buy a fallout shelter in case of a nuclear holocaust . The news claimed kim jong il or Iran was going to blast us with missiles. Dad's been unemployed for over a year now, but claims those commie bastards still aren't going to get us.

"My dad wasn't working last Christmas," I offered. "It was still OK." We turned and walked down the alley way, toward the play ground. Jake toted his lunch sack choked and dangling from his fist, not with the top rolled into a handle to carry like a dad's black lunch pail. He stopped and turned to me, giving me his "You don't understand" look.

With jaw set, Jake blurted in exasperation between clinched teeth, "I won't get no more marbles."

This was a real problem. We at Washington Elementary could tell the worth of a kid by the size of the lumpy ball swaying in the toe of his purse, an old sock, knotted on top, and tucked up under the belt. Boys were on the marble standard. We didn't know, or care, what monetary system girls used. Marbles mostly changed hands through games of skill, like marbles in a pot or chase. If a purse got too light, one could swap Devil dogs or other lunch sweets and regain status.

250

Jake's father, working at the moon marble shop bankrolled Jake with the many marbles carried home in his toolbox. Moon Marbles. Jake didn't play marbles well and thus paid his dues to the big kids, allowing him access to their side of the play ground. Now he was in danger of being exiled from this training ground that taught us how to be the big kids when our time came. Jake might drift off with Sammy, the geek, who played jump rope with girls.

We walked out onto the playground's black-top, past the tether ball poles, across the large white four square grids and through larger dodge ball circles, to the hang out where the pavement ends.

There was time before the bell and Rocky spotted us right off. He was in the fifth and a head bigger than us.

"Want to play chase, for a Marble?" Rocky asked Jake. Jake hooked his finger into his jeans' watch pocket and fished up his shooter. After only five shots, a glassy tick sounded the end of the game. Jake sighed. He un-knotted his sock and strained out a snippy, careful to let the lowly cat-eyes trickle through parted fingers, as we all did, to reveal mostly snippies , purees and boulders as his cupped hand emerged. The fifth-grader accepted his spoil and left us alone.

"Why didn't you just give him a pee wee?" I asked.

"And what? get my ass kicked? asked Jake.

Jake usually didn't mind losing, knowing school time was easier if he spread his wealth. Jake wasn't good at run or jump playing, but he was wise. I once asked him why boys had nipples. He explained how, while we were still swimming in our mom's bellies, the last thing God made before we came into the world was our lungs so he could puff the breath of life into us. He said God poked his fingers into our baby bodies and left two little swirls on our chest like where you'd swipe a finger's dip in a mixing bowl.

At second recess jake sat on the wooden curb edging the black top. A buffer of dirt, worn weedless by workmen's boots, tailed off into the thin new green where the taste of tar and dust faded to the smell of grass stains. Many marble players would run this curb, up to twenty, bowing and groveling boys moving in spurts, popping up, sprinting and squatting still again as they rushed to slay or die before the buzzer blared out across the play ground.

I told Jake about our beans and rice Christmas last year, when my dad apologized for the lean pickings around the tree. It was great. I got a real hunting knife in a leather sheath.

Jake pressed three toe breakers down on the dirt between his feet and topped them with a forth, forming a simple pyramid, then walked away toward the grass. With the rubber toe of his sneaker he plowed a line in the dirt.

"Think you can hit those from here?" Jake asked, and nodded his close cropped head toward his pile of marbles.

"Yes." "If you miss I keep the shooter. And you get to keep all my toe breakers if you hit them," Jake 251

smiled. All the hardness was gone from his face. I could see the smart in his eyes again, assuring me we would use this recess properly--to have fun. My first shot went wide-right. Jake ran up to scoop my dead shooter out of play. Right, right, left, then a clear tip.

Jake yelled, "Got to knock it down," when I jumped to pocket my prize. Knees to the dirt, I began a volley. I missed two left, one right. Then a hit! The little pyramid exploded in a small cloud of dust. I dumped my winnings down my brother's old gym sock. To win four marbles at once was a heady thing and could surly be done with less than eight shots. I was hooked, as would be most boys on the school yard as Jake moved us from playing games of skill to games of chance.

I lunched with Jake that day. He finished the innards of his throttled lunch bag fast, and hit the tile running in the wrong direction, toward the ladies in blue, with hair nets, who doled out hot lunch. I waited for him out where the red brick hall dumped on to the playground, where girls clustered near sour dumpsters and chanted, " Texaco, Texaco, over the hill to Mexico, where they make those--red--hot--," then doubling the cadence of long hardtop slapping jump ropes, "PEPPERS!"

Jake emerged from the cafeteria with an empty, one gallon Ketchup can. At the edge of the black top Jake set up his small pyramid. Boys soon swarmed around Jake's shooting gallery like summer flies, first passing, then pausing, and eventually landing in swarms. Jake was quick about policing spent shooters and tossing them into his can. Boys were shooting two and three at a time and Jake asked my help in keeping new targets set up. Even Rocky and other, older players, had depleted their purses attempting to win bragging rights at Jake's shooting gallery.

After lunch break Zack returned to his class with three inches of marbles in his can.

"I have plenty of marbles, for a while at least" mused Jake.

Over the next few days many socks were replaced with mother-sewn pant-leg bags, with draw strings, or for the arcade operators, coffee cans. The number of marbles in circulation tripled. Six or seven shooting galleries competed every noon, but Jake was always favored. If a pyramid of toe breakers wouldn't draw, agates would, only agate shooters of course, and toe lines would move close enough to entice, yet assure a margin of favor toward Jake . He took in a nearly a full can one Friday, before all were convinced they really couldn't tumble a pile of steely boulders with shooters restricted to non-boulders. A glut of marbles reduced their worth to less than pennies. Rocky liked tossing handfuls on the roof, where the gutter carried them clattering over to a down-spout that sent them skipping under the feet of the jump-ropers. Fifth and sixth graders no longer demanded payment in marbles to hang on their turf. Boarders had devolved.

Arguments, shoving, and blows, became common beyond the black top. Only a small hand full of elite players abandoned the edge and continued "chase" out along the ball field. The galleries even allowed a girl to shoot. "Her marbles are the same as ours," Jake explained. The cloud of dust beyond the edge became thicker each noon as groveling boys crushed and uprooted the new grass.

252

"Look. It's the principal." Jake spotted him, seldom seen on the playground before, then returned to gathering shooters as they thudded off his backboard. The principal walked straight toward us, then stopped and scanned the asphalt. Sammy and some girls were skipping long rope, and two safety monitors were playing tether ball. The principal turned and, walking slower, moved over to peer through the gray metal door of the equipment room, propped open by a sixth grade monitor on her chair Inside were shelves lined with dodge, kick, and tether balls. He then retreated back down the Alley way.

Classroom blackboards (really green) all announced the same Friday-morning message, and teachers reinforced it.

"No more marbles allowed at school."

By lunch the marble midway was empty. Players began separating out their "keepers". Bloated bags of moonies, were now nearly worthless. By last recess Jake's feet were crammed between heavy cans of toe breakers stowed beneath his desk. He had traded away next month's lunch sweets and a few keepers.

"What you going to do with all those moonies?" I carried another marble can past Jake's frowning bus driver. I had promised to drag my old wagon over to Jake's bus stop and help haul his hoarding home. We set two more cans behind the green wheel humps so they wouldn't slide forward.

"Well... Not as good as Dad's toe breakers, but they work, you know, as ammo."

"What?"

"Show you how to make one like mine. My brother showed me. You cut long strips out of innertire tubes; they'll send a marble three or four streets over." Jake stretched one fisted arm up and away. The other he pulled back past his chin. He snapped open the hand near his face. "Zap! Right out of sight. My brother says he's killed Birds, cats and even a rat.!" Jake was wise and always knew the way.

"A sling shot?" I asked. Jake smiled, "maybe we can hit ole Sammy from three blocks away."

"Back to your own bus now." I turned to see the top half of the bus driver's head in the wide mirror. I could see from the eyebrows pulled down from under her hat brim she meant NOW. "I'll bring the wagon!‖ I yelled, and darted down the bus steps.

"Walk! Don't run," I heard Jake's driver recite as I jogged with impatience to my bus. I couldn't help but be excited, all the kids dumped their marbles on Jake‌..and now we were going hunting.

253

Horus, father of the Eons,

Evil has a way of showing you what is really happening. that it is all very real. The scariest thing in the world is knowing that it is going to end. The legends and myths do not necessarily brace you for the actual events. The movies they made, were so unreal, yet now they are no longer scripts of a play, but actual events unfolding upon the earth. This was the true magick of Hollywood. Even the books paled in comparison to the sheer horror of what they brought upon all of us. But they bided their time, and then ....

It came as all things do in time, that mankind found he was not alone on this planet, in the time when he was on the brink of destroying himself with a nuclear war. That is when they emerged from the abyss, from where they had slept for the past eon or from the hiding places on the fringes of society, where they could coexist with us. Looking back on it I can't blame them for they were just defending themselves, but they had invaded our land, our time, our universe. They were the demons, the discarnates of a humanity that once was. They had been sealed away, until their purpose was fulfilled.

They attacked with a ferocity that drove men to awe even as they were struck down. At first others didn't what to believe that they could exist.

How could they be here? it seemed too supernatural to be real. No one had ever thought of it before but yet they were real that part is evident enough. They were not the only things that emerged to stop mankind.

Its funny in a way I guess how mankind tried to bring about his own destruction. Then in fearing ourselves, and our worse nature, 254

another race emerged to do the deed for us all. That at anytime they had willed, they could easily have destroyed us all. We called them an alien race, yet they were once us. At least that is what we have come to call them for that is what they resemble. In their death like pale appearance, and perhaps this is what ancient man had named them too.

Their language is unlike our own they communicate not by words but by pictures formed in their minds and sent telepathically to each other. At least that is what our scientists came up with in explanation of things. We are powerless against them because of this for even when we corner one. He can call help from his brethren before we are able to slay him. They come quick to his aid to slaughter all who threatened him.

I remember surviving one such encounter and that is only because I ran.

But still, it is why I am here. Some would call that cowardice but then again if I hadn't I would be dead. One of these creatures has the strength of twenty men at the very least if not more. It makes them foes that on their own can fend off a mass of attackers but even they can be overwhelmed and need to call for help at times.

It had been our arrogance that had cost us the most though. While reporters researched the murders, massacres, slaughters, abductions, and kidnapping, the government claimed they didn't exist. They left us all believing it was just some hoax and it was just some demented individual but that is now of no matter really in these days. For who cares what some government that doesn't exist anymore tried to make us believe, first they wanted us to believe in UFO's, then when we did, they vehemently denied it. But we knew they were around us, watching us, waiting for the right moment to invade this planet. The government knew for decades that they had taken residence in the hollow of the dark side of the moon. Oh they tried to stop the invasion, they even bombed the moon, and the tiny sphere broke into a million pieces causing great havoc on the earth like no other time. As the moon broke up, the meteors fell upon civilization some weighing tons, and the earth shook, volcanoes came alive, and many many millions perished while trying to hide in caves, or underground to escape the carnage.

We are but few now hunted as they seek our extinction. Many of these creatures had lived in our society for thousand of years. We never caught on to their mimic of our lifestyles. For them time virtually stands still age effects them very little. They got around having to breathe by colonizing the oceans.

The one difference that makes a slight comfort about them is they breed slower. It takes their young hundreds of years to mature.

In that we have an advantage though it isn't one that will make a real difference but when their young can be found they make easy prey because they cannot defend themselves. When they do mature they are a foe that is most dangerous, almost unable to be stopped as they wreak their destructive power upon us all.

255

They had watched our world from hidden eyes and knew all our secrets. They knew how to defeat our technology that we depended on. They knew our languages and though we couldn't understand their's they could our's. Our codes fell prey to them as they cracked them almost before they were sent.

Of course, they could read the thoughts of our top military commanders.

Then again that could possibly be the explanation for it all.

We are in the dark as it comes to them for even the myths cannot comprehend their true power. Crosses and holy water are but a pathetic faith in a god that seems to have abandoned his people to their doom, or perhaps never existed. They walk in sunlight like any other being perhaps once they hid from the brightness but not now.

Yes, the myths did speak of them They were there, recorded since ancient times, Heiroglyphics speaking of a time unremembered when they first appeared on the horizon of the earth, but alas we didn't heed their warning. It was our arrogance that caused it all really. It was us that paid the ultimate price for that arrogance that we had possessed. They had it all to their advantage as they attacked us for we didn't know what we could do.

They seemed unstoppable as they came to wreak nature's revenge for what we had done to the earth.

Then as humanity fell apart as the truth emerged to the masses, champions arose to save us claiming they were alien hunters. Some of the self-claimed hunters fell prey to these beasts and met a grotesque and painful end but there were those who knew how to smite these other worldly beings. We confided in them to save us from most certain destruction. But there were those who wanted these demons here, they opened the seals of Solomon the sacred geometry of the flesh, and the demons easily entered the material plane.

They battled these beasts with weapons of a past era. Battle-axes heavy and sharp could sever limbs or even the neck of one of the creatures. Spears to pin beasts to the ground as the executioner did his duty but of all of these men the shield bearers were the most impressive. No weapons did they carry just a large square shield. Their only purpose was to protect the rest from the claws of these horrible beasts.

These men worked in teams of eight with a break down of this. Four shield bearers; three spear men and a single executioner or axe man. They had to work as a team or they wouldn't accomplish in the duty they need to perform.

They didn't attempt to bribe for money or food from the communities they protected. They sought only one goal survival of the human species plain and simple.

It was for that reason I flocked to join their ranks to help save my friends and family. They trained me as a shield bearer and the importance of 256

that simple duty. We were the ones who made it all happen. For the spear men huddled behind us as the foe beat on our shields waiting to bare them to the ground. Then the commander who carried the large battle-axe would finish it with one swift chop. We soon found this all had a great success to it all for it succeeded where other methods failed. It had its dangers yet in this day and age being alive is danger enough. In a good night we could smite seven or more of the beasts. Most of the time not having to leave one area to do it even. For the first would provide us with our next victim by his call for help. Within a few weeks we usually had their ranks knocked down to near extinction in a given area.

Soon the populace of the world grew to adore us and support us in our crusade but it was too late now for us to survive. We had false hopes that perhaps we could defeat them but it all was in vain. We gathered a force larger then any seen since the beginning of recorded history. Our plans had been to find the center of the creatures and strike them hard. What fools we had become to be ignorant enough to think we could defeat them?

Our march was long, lack of food and water made us weak but after days of travel we arrived at the heart of their masses. They met us with an army equal to ours if not bigger. Yet still we did not balk at our task but charged bravely. My team found itself out numbered fast and it fell apart. A large creature flung itself into the middle of our formation. With one swipe of his hand our leader lay on the ground dead.

I screamed and dropped my shield and fell to the ground to cower in fear.

Yet my comrades threw themselves at him not even glancing at me once. I watched him tear each of them apart limb by limb. Like one would to a fly to just be cruel to it on a hot summer day. Then he looked at me his eyes meeting mine. As I screamed for I knew my death was soon to come. Yet he left to wade into the group next to mine and continue his killing.

Soon it was all over just as fast as it all begun it ended. The jrods disappeared into the night with not a work or even a howl of victory. I waited for hours to make sure they all had left when I felt comfortable I arose. With one look at the battlefield I knew none survived this massacre and that I was alone. I knelt beside he who was once my captain and ran my hands over his face. He had been one of the bravest men I know and now is cold with death.

I could hear the breathing behind me of one of them. I knew that death awaited me too but I could not let fear take me again. My eye fell on the double bitten axe I had watched my captain wield so many times before. I touched it and closed my eyes summoning all my courage. I turned with the haft of the axe in my hand. To see the same creature that had let me live before.

His long arm sent out a shaft of light at me and I screamed at it in my rage and fear.

257

He grasped at me to slice my body open with his sharp Laser but I managed to place the axe and a blow from it in the spot where his arm was. The beast howled in pain and I took a step forward recovering my weapon to a stance to strike again.

The beast knew I was ready to smite it and he turned to flee.

Never before had I seen one of them flee from a man. So I took another step and with all my might brought the axe down. It buried itself into his shoulder for I could not aim it like the captain but it was enough of a blow to send it sprawling to the ground. Without a thought in my mind I was upon him. Yet I could not strike only look deep into those eyes that had spared me.

Then it spoke just as any other person I knew yet it's voice carried no accent. "Dont please."

It was pleading for it's life and I could not believe it. Why should I grant it mercy when his kind would slaughter us if in the same place? This was war and only one species could rule this planet yet I knew in my heart we were doomed. For even if I killed this one more would follow and slay me.

I relaxed my grip on the awe so very slightly as I looked coldly at this creature. I could tell he was suffering from his wounds. Yet if he would die from them I did not know. Why should I not kill you beast it is what you would do in my kind. He looked at me puzzled at what I was saying it seemed. Perhaps he was contemplating what I had just said or simply could not understand me.

"You and your kind started the war by destroying nature, we just defended ourselves. You would have destroyed the world if you had been allowed. Nature called on my kind who has slept a thousand of years to return and thin your ranks." He stopped there and looked away as if peering at something in the distant.

"You have sent my race into extinction my fiend." I raised the axe to strike yet I stopped as he raised his hand. His palm extended in a clearly human gesture for me to hold. "Why should I not send you back into the pits of hell where you belong?" " For I am the leader of my kind and I am here to offer you a compromise.

That will ensure your kind will not perish from this planet. Yet still protect the planet from your own destructiveness of it."

I could not believe what I was hearing from this alien demon, I thought it was clearly a trick. Yet he spoke so calmly as if discussing the weather or the local town gossip. I had nothing to lose by listening to him.

For if the rest of his kind had not swooped down on me by now then I doubt they would now for I was starting to believe this other worldly being. What is your deal? So we sat and he explained his plans for the human race. He would 258

allow some to live to breed more of themselves under the supervision of his kind so that we could live as one with the land instead of conquering it. I could see his wisdom in the plan yet I felt he was holding something back.

He made it clear to me that if he could not find one that could agree to this,then he would be forced to kill each and every one of us. I looked off into the distance and thought of another story I once read. All I had to do was nod my approval of his plan and accept to do what he asked of me. I could become the father of a new nation of men. I could be a savior of my race delivering them from the evils of war and into a new era, one of peace and harmony with nature instead of hatred and conflict. He held out his arms as if to encompass the whole world, "This can all be yours, just do what I ask."

I agreed to do what he wanted without a thought of regret knowing no one would know years from now. I told him of all the settlements hidden away from the prying eyes of his kind. I even watched as they went and butchered the rest of mankind, leaving just a few survivors. Mostly women that would be those I breed with to bring my brood into being. It was I who marveled at how his taste was for the aliens all allowed fair beauty to surround them.

He kept the deal we made and allowed me to become the father of a new nation. I was seen as a savior and never had much want again. I knew in my heart that I was the son of the morning star, Lucifer. I had betrayed thousands to deaths just so that I may live. I knew only two beings I could tell that story so I have penned it all for others to see. So upon my death they shall know the truth about our kind and me.

As for the remainder of my days I have spent beyond compare for I am the last living man that fulfills the needs of hundreds of women. So that others can be born and repopulate the earth and make it fertile with humans again.

I now live the dream of so many men who once walked this earth before me.

Yet I carry the guilt that once led Judas to the tree to hang himself for his betrayal and I am fine with that. Others think of me as Jesus come again, that came to save them all and the remnant worship me, Horus as the true son of the father, the way it was always meant to be.

259

Sagacity, Accident of the Fates

The old haggard Norn, stared down into the pool in front of her, her ancient eyes struggling to make out the picture shimmering on the surface. She peered closer; a young man sat on a bed his head in his hands, shoulders stooped with dejection, shaking from his sobs. The crone‘s sister Lachesis, came closer and peeked over her shoulder, a measuring rod in her hands. ―Go away it‘s measuring you should be doing.‖ the crone rasped. ―I‘m merely curious sister, why is it you pay such attention to this one?‖ Clotho , shrugged,‖ I can hazard a guess, she sighed, ―it just seems such a waste for him to end like this.‖ The Third sister, Athropos, who sat at the loom, with a pair of shears, laughed harshly.‖ We are the fates. We have no time for pity, in fact, it‘s time to cut this thread.‖ The old haggard epitome of fate, frowned at the work she was doing.‖ It has always been and will always be so come and look little sister,‖ you will see why we are so intrigued.‖ The woman stood and stretched her spine, walking over to the pool she looked down at the man who had caught her sister‘s attentions so. She saw what the crone had seen, a man his face in his hands the blond streaks in his hair dull from his pain. And for the first time in her existence her heart went out to one of the mortals whose lives she and her sisters entwined, spun, and wove. ―He seems in so much pain,‖ her voice was soft with pity. ―Why is it so? What did we do to 260

make it so?? She questioned their work, again something she had never done before. ―He is sadly all alone,‖ Clotho coughed ―Mortals fear being alone.‖ The sister spoke up.

The eldest of the fates, refused to lift her eyes from the man to look at her sisters. ―It is more than that, he has always been alone. He just can not live like that any more, This man has suffered greatly in his short life, his undoing is what we allowed.‖ She intoned in an accusing fashion.

She frowned at the pool. ―He is going to end his life….‖. She whispered almost imperceptibly. ―Tis a sad thing,‖ but the fabric has already been woven on the loom. It will be as it was meant to be, even we have rules.‖ She shrugged, ―we must follow them.‖ Lachesis‘s head flew up and she pierced her sister with a stare. ―Why?‖ they asked with vehemence ―Why can‘t we change something right now. Why can‘t we change the path of his life, WE are the fates. It is not beyond our power to do so‖ The woman was momentarily at a loss, but she found her voice and croaked, ―Were we to do something for this one, we would have to do something for any who asked,‖ she shook her head, ―No it cannot be done‖ . ―The least we can do,‖ Athropos said, as she huddled over the pool….‖ is give him sleep so he may have one night of rest without the pain.‖ Clothos the old crone, frowned, but nodded her agreement ―This I suppose, can be allowed.‖ The Norns concentrated on the man creating a new thread on the loom, measuring it Carefully as he fell deeply and painlessly asleep, his breathing now regular and restful. ―Enough of this now‖, Clothos ordered, ―Back to work.‖ The girl ran to the loom lovely in her youthful grace, the woman walked, serene and feminine, the crone hobbled her age making her movements slow, but strong. The Norns sat at the loom and returned to their work of weaving the lives of mortals.

The girl touched on the thread that was the man and looked at the crone. Her sister nodded, barely perceptible. The girl smiled, careful not to let the woman see her do so, she picked up another very pink thread and entwined it with the man‘s. ―Sister,‖ Clothos said drawing the woman‘s eyes from her work though her hands continued to knot the threads. ―I only hope we are doing the right thing,…. would you say we have done the right thing?‖ 261

To late the woman realized what her sisters had done. She looked down at her hands. To where she had knotted the man‘s thread with the other, she gasped.

And he smiled in his sleep. In the wonder of this dream he had found her, the woman he had always been looking for. She stood before him her hands at her sides, a warm smile on her face.

She raised her arms opening them to welcome him into her embrace. He slipped his arms around her and held her close, and he knew even though he was dreaming she would be real when he awoke, shed‘ be waiting for him to go to her.

He rolled in his sleep still smiling. He was no longer so alone and in pain. He knew Her, he knew she‘d be there when he awoke.

The woman looked at Athropos, shock making her face white, ―Sister why did you do that?‖ she moaned. ―Do what?‖ the girl radiated innocence. ―There happened to be a synchronicity.‖ "You crossed the threads, you changed the man‘s fate, you were supposed to be cutting not spinning, or weaving more thread….‖ Clothos admonished. ―Did I?‖ she smiled at the old crone, Clothos, a twinkle in her eye. ―It must have been an accident,‖ she grinned.

They all knew it was no accident and the woman had to smile. In her heart she had not wanted to see the man end that way. ―Accident indeed. The fates don‘t make mistakes!‖ the old hag chuckled ―Oopps…serendipity!‖ the young Athropos said with a straight face.

They laughed at her silliness, winding down to smiles. Clothos coughed and said. "Tis good we do not always listen to you, little sister." She smiled a twinkle in her aged eyes, and raised a hand in mock toast. ―Here‘s to the hand‘s of Fate.‖ The young man awoke and headed straight for Gloria's apartment, he had tempted the hands of fate, but could not find it in his heart to take his own life. He knew she would be there waiting for him, their lives now inexplicably knotted together, he innately knew it was now meant to be, their future was written in the stars......

262

Laughter at the Funeral Home

A cackle of laughter drifted down the hall as Mr. Armitage approached his office. Unaccustomed to the sound of laughter occurring anywhere on his premises it was after all the town funeral home. He slowly entered the room, a look of worry deeply burrowed into his brow. As the inside of the room came into view he was met with an extraordinary sight.

They sat in a row facing him. Six of them. For a brief moment he felt a wave of relief as he noticed several of them dabbing tissues to teary eyes, until he realized none of them were actually crying! They had simply laughed themselves to tears! As he let his gaze travel from one end of the row to the other he felt just the slightest constriction in his throat. There were tall ones and short ones, thin ones and rounder ones, yet in some eerie way they all looked the same. And as he straightened his jacket in an attempt to regain his composure, all six pairs of eyes looked his way.

Yes, well, shall we proceed? He asked, nervously, as he slipped into the chair behind his desk, suddenly glad of its support. He straightened a pad of paper on his desk, retrieved his pen from his lapel pocket, clicked it once, then looked up across his desk with his best professional smile.

Yes, they were still there, and yes, though they were doing their best, most of them were still squirming and giggling behind their attempts a straight faces. He cleared his throat and tried to regain control of the situation. You are here about your sister, is that correct?

"Yes." From the center of the row one of them straightened and leaned very slightly forward, obviously becoming spokesperson for the group. "My sisters and I are here to make the arrangements for our sister, Donna‘s funeral."

Silently the mortician let his gaze travel over the line of women. Sisters, three of them. He suddenly felt a little overwhelmed. Trained to handle grief; outbreaks of tears at the loss of loved ones was something he could handle, easily anticipating reactions and directing the flow of 263

emotions. But laughter? He was beginning to feel just a little out of control.

Quickly he drew his eyes away and flipped open his ledger. "We have Wednesday afternoon open," he said thoughtfully.

"I have to golf that day." Stacy interrupted.

Armitage's eyes flew up. Five other pairs of eyes joined his, focused on one of the sisters near the middle of the row.

"Well I suppose we could just have the funeral without you, Stacy," quipped Maureen, the sister to her right, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Laura could bring her camera and take pictures of the best parts and that way you wouldn't miss a thing."

"You would do that for me?" Stacy said sweetly.

"Well ...you know" Laura, to her right shrugged and left any further comment unspoken.

Armitage held back a gasp. This was it! The beginning of an all out feud. He was all too familiar with family feuds. Many of them actually started at the funeral home during preparations. He was certain these women would leave his premises not speaking to each other and felt a little hot under the collar for the morbid sense of relief he felt at finally having something familiar to deal with.

However, Stacy was not daunted. In fact, Armitage was sure he heard her giggle under her breath as she half looked in her sister's direction and winked? "Don't be silly. I'll call Tina and tell her I can't make it. I'm pretty sure she will understand." No one yelled at anyone, no one pointed fingers, no one cried. In fact, they all just sat there and smiled.

"Sorry, Wednesday won't work. I have a meeting that day anyway," Maureen spoke up, and all eyes were now diverted in her direction. Then after a slight pause, the sisters turned toward him in unison.

"Another day then," they said, almost as a single voice. "Christ she picked a fine time to kick the bucket or the safe, didn't she?? They were all laughing now. They all stared into each other‘s face and laughed real hard.

Armitage cleared his throat, loosened his tie, and looked back at his ledger. "Thursday?" he asked, tentatively.

"Stacy?" one of the sisters asked. Stacy shifted and straightened in her chair.

"I'll call my friend and cancel."

"Maureen?" another of the sisters spoke, and Maureen nodded.

264

"I can manage Thursday," Maureen nodded, and Armitage let out his breath.

An hour later he stood in the lobby of the funeral home shaking hands and bidding them farewell. The experience had been like nothing he had ever imagined! To his surprise, preparations had gone quite smoothly. The women had known exactly what they wanted in most cases and had successfully brainstormed the rest, rarely disagreeing with each other. And they had done it all amongst a flurry of jokes and laughter. More surprisingly, as he watched the door close behind the last one, Armitage realized he was smiling too!

"I don't think he knew what to make of us," Laura guffawed, leaning in close to Maureen's shoulder as the group climbed into Stacy's van.

"Can you blame him?" Stacy chuckled, and from somewhere in the back of the van a series of shrill squeaks were heard as Chris, tissue pressed to his eyes, attempted to speak through a fit of breath-stealing laughter.

"Christ, who's going to write the obituary?" He queried. "Remember when she used to write those obituaries as a joke?? Maybe we can find one that will fit the situation. Although how do you write an obituary over a tight wad kicking their safe because they don't remember the combination, and then she died of blood poisoning?" A new round of hysterical laughter. "She was your perverbial 'happy meal', small cheap and greasy."

"Yea she squeezed the nickel so hard, the buffalo shit." Laura remarked. "when she finally took a dollar out of her wallet, Washington was wearing sun glasses."

"I can't wait for the Funeral, it's gonna be a blast." laughed David.

THE END

265

266