By definition a laureate is someone honored for significant achievement. When did the criteria become based on intentions? It reminds me of the Popeye cartoon and Wimpy exclaiming “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.”

Suddenly I’m struck with a fantastically progressive idea. Perhaps we should begin handing out diplomas at college admission offices simply because the fresh faces gathered there exhibit a reasonable desire to educate themselves. And as soon as that happens I’ll anxiously wait at my mailbox, certain the first two timely payments on my new vehicle will be enough to convince the lender to sign over the title. Oddly I’m reminded of a quote involving good intentions and the road to hell.

I do hear some opposition to President Obama receiving the Nobel Peace Prize; primarily based on the grounds he has not promptly withdrawn troops from Afghanistan, which in itself should preclude him from consideration. I’m perfectly content with that. A president should be concerned with the leadership of his country long before giving a thought of garnering hardware on a victory lap. I only hope President Obama has enough steel to resist the progressives long enough to ensure we finish a worthy battle. We’ve all heard plenty about the “illegal war based on lies in Iraq”, what exactly would be the reason for leaving Afghanistan? “It’s been too long—the road’s too hard—we’re sure Bin Laden is remorseful”?

Those blindly promoting peace seem to lack a basic understanding of good and evil. While the principle is worthy, all equations are not so easily solved. Two gaping holes in the Twin Towers= Evil. Do we somehow think that after eight years when a surviving family sits down at the dinner table no one notices the empty chair? Maybe it’s similar to the Roman Polanski sympathizers; let’s just forget that he admitted to drugging and sodomizing a thirteen year old girl—it’s been so long—who are we to judge, right?

Personally I felt the Nobel Prize was cheapened significantly when Al Gore received it. Only in America can one profit so obscenely from a questionable premise that began as manmade global warming and since been retooled as climate change…hmmmm. Seems like a simple achievement test question.

Which of these things is not like the other?
A. Desmond Tutu
B. Mother Theresa
C. Martin Luther King
D. the Dalai Lama
E. Al Gore

I’ll not deny President Obama has the potential to achieve great things, but it might not hurt to take a second look at the picture above.

I've begun working on a potential novel. I'm posting the first chapter in hopes of garnering some opinions. My wife has already given it a mixed review, so don't think I am easily offended. It's difficult to tell anything from such a short excerpt, but I'm just looking for some honest input.

Beck Conley lay motionless; listening for the noise she subconsciously believed had awakened her. Several quiet moments allowed a jittery mind to settle. With nothing to fear, her body returned to a peaceful rhythm, chest rising and falling like the bellows of a blacksmith. On the far side of a meadow, she observed a shack. Even as she contemplated moving there, she stood inside. So is the beauty of dreams—more than choosing a destination, the destination chooses us.

A burly man dressed in leather stooped to light a forge. Angry flames hissed and spit in protest, sending an orange flicker of light creeping across the floor. Satisfied with the settling flames, he returned upright and shuffled to the center of the room. His movements were slow and deliberate and soon he found the relocation of furniture to his liking. It seemed a pity the dinner table wore a thick covering of dust where a cloth of should have been, and as it were, a single chair had no match. A broken spindle in the back made for a toothless grin, but the man seemed none the wiser. Although he passed very near her, he did not acknowledge her presence. Becky could only imagine working in such poor lighting conditions had done nothing for his eyesight.

When he reached the north wall, he placed an open palm against it. The ground beneath her feet began to quake and crumble. She sought refuge behind the first piece of equipment she came to, and with only the top half of her startled eyes visible, she witnessed a small structure rising from where the table had been. The wooden floor splintered and an overpowering aroma of stale earth and time settled in her nostrils. As it grew vertically, the bucking and writhing of the house threatened to bring down the tired shack, but with a final quiver the walls exhaled, like the last ragged breathe of an animal lived too long.

The kiosk in the center of the room had four sides, the breadth of each just wide enough for a door. Becky watched as the man lit a torch and disappeared through the door directly in front of her. With the door standing ajar, she ventured from her hiding place. Beyond the entry was a stone staircase leading downward. She reached the last step and moved further down the corridor, as he lit torches mounted along the walls. Becky carefully maintained enough distance to remain undetected. Within the walls of the corridor were shelves that seemed to stretch into forever. Each row contained hundreds, if not thousands of objects. Some were polished and perfect, others cracked and faded, but each uniquely its own. Just ahead, the man paced before them, occasionally allowing his hand to hover, but never pausing too long. To do so would have signaled the value of one more than another. With his attention focused squarely on the shelves he spoke to her.

“Why is it you have tarried so long, my dear?”

Struck with fear of discovery, Becky conformed to the wall. She could not even grasp how she had come to be here, and now the eeriness of realizing her arrival was expected. Becky’s heart leapt to her throat as he turned his torch in her direction.

“Speak to me child, I must hear your voice.”

Devoid the luxury of thinking things through Becky was compelled to answer him as a daughter responds to the direct questioning of her father.

“Perhaps, if you describe what you are looking for, I can help you find it.”

His laugh filled the hallway and came at her from all directions.

“Your voice is the only clue I need.”

The man reached toward the shelf and retrieved an object. Becky could not explain the connection between them, but walked toward him. He drew the object close and the brittle of a laborer turned to velvet. He rocked the object back and forth like a newborn, and as he did, Becky experienced an unsettled feeling deep within her core. As she was now within arms reach, he held the object close for her to see. It was his troubled eyes she could not look past, as if handling such things brought great sorrow.

“It is so very heavy now—filled with unnecessary things, but as with all of them, it is salvageable. Regretfully, some must be broken before they can be repaired. Do you understand at all, my dear?”

Becky felt compelled to nod in confirmation even though she understood nothing. Her gaze returned to the shelves, perhaps objects there were the key to understanding. Her eyes settled upon one housed in a glass container. It looked no different from the rest, why should it deserve such shelter? Suddenly his eyes joined hers as he intercepted her thoughts.

“The one in the case belongs to me—and the one I hold in my hands is your own.”

Squinting of her eyes caused a furrow in her brow to deepen.

“Then I must ask an obvious question. Why do you care for others before your own?”

“Walk with me as we return upstairs and I will try to explain.”

As they walked, he reached for her hand and she gave it to him willingly.

“There are rules, of course. Each of us is provided the opportunity to affect any we choose—but the care of our own depends upon others. Mine sits behind glass because presently there are no others.”

He reached the top of the stairway and opened the door for her. Becky was in a state of confusion, but her mind was clear enough to realize they had made no turns in the corridor, yet had exited a different door than they had entered through. The four chambers were positively interconnected.

He walked to his workbench and selected a tool. Grasping the object with a long pair of tongs, he inserted it into the mouth of the forge. As the flames lapped at the glass, Becky felt a burning sensation in her chest. She watched the olive skin on her arms grow visibly pale, and a nauseous feeling roared inside her. When the discomfort became more than she could stand she launched a frantic search for the door.

Once outside, she knew nothing more than to run. The lush grass of the meadow passed quickly, and each hurried step propelled her further into the woods where the terrain became unforgiving. The darkness belonging to the forest quickly swallowed her trail. Moved by fear, she pressed forward through the brambles, imaging the thorns grabbing at her dress were gnarled hands of the dead. Becky’s mind quickly surpassed the fevered pace at which her legs were pumping, but in the darkness her foot lodged beneath a tangled root. She struck the ground violently, sending debris in all directions. For a brief moment, she was innately aware of the pounding of her heart, how it throbbed in her temples, but as the burly man at the forge loosed his hammer, the object exploded. When the last shard fell to the floor of the shack, the accelerated beating of a heart ceased also.

Her eyelids fluttered before slamming open. She remembered nothing of a dream. Upon hearing it a second time, she was positive the clanking of iron originated just outside her bedroom window. Shuffling towards the source, she parted the louvered shade and observed a strange man working. Glancing at the clock, she recalled their phone conversation. When they spoke yesterday, ‘Smokey Joe’ indicated an early arrival, but surely even a clod realized ‘suburban-early’ knew nothing of 5:17 a.m. Things in suburbia were not so structured. Early did not have an assigned timeslot, it arrived mysteriously, formed from the indecisive minutes between a first and second latte.

She offered a glance back at the bed where her husband Mike still rested. Despite a thirty-fifth birthday, his youthful face barely produced stubble. Perhaps she too could rest soundly if the relentlessness of time had not settled so harshly upon her. Passing years cruelly stole whatever they desired and left only sagging breasts, thickening thighs, and crow’s feet in their wake. As men became distinguished and stately, women simply slid further down the scale of desirability. Such inequitable results, drawn along sexist lines, were a bitter pill. It was much easier to believe superior D.N.A. was to blame because no amount of fretting could change that.

Becky would have preferred the freedom to plan her husband’s birthday celebration alone. She still believed joining friends for a round of golf at Medina or even a foxhunt in France were infinitely more desirable than a silly old-fashioned hog roast. The pool of party planning acquaintances she had accumulated over the years would be of no use. Their talents were many, but certainly they were not magicians. Even a fool realized the variety of apple stuffed in a hog’s mouth was insignificant; eventually the eyes of her guests would settle on the horror of charred flesh, and what would she say to comfort them? Perhaps more than anything, Becky resented her husband’s lack of appreciation for how hard she worked to maintain their standing in the neighborhood. Presently, Smokey Joe’s inconsiderate clanking presented a clear threat to that.

Joe stood over his cooker in a grease-smudged apron. His forearms were thick and covered with coarse gray curls, more resembling fur than hair. Deep laugh-lines began at the corners of his eyes and dipped out of sight beneath outdated sideburns. His cheeks were full like cherry colored dumplings. Only a cigar stub pasted to the corner of his mouth disturbed the conformity of fuzzy stubble lining his jaw. He hoisted the heavy iron lid with ease and stoked the coals beneath. Two measured raps against the baffle set the exhaust pipe belching plumes of white smoke, and his unlit cigar danced when he spoke.

“Sorry ‘bout the noise ma’am, but this here ain’t no Cornish Game Hen—takes twelve to fourteen hours to proper cook a hog.”

In Becky’s mind, taking the life of one of God’s creatures, searing the flesh, and calling it dinner seemed much like senseless killing. Had she not invited him here she had half a mind to phone P.E.T.A., but the careful process by which Joe went about his work gave the notion that it was of cosmic importance. Drawing of coals from one location to another oddly piqued her interest and she leaned closer.

“Ma’am, yer welcome to look all you care, but with that loose fittin’ robe, you’re a wardrobe-malfunction away from havin’ tender parts branded’.”

Becky tended the ‘V’ where the purple robe crossed her breasts. She doubted the furry man realized his naturally offensive air or the sensitivity of the subject. Despite such serious protocol violation, she decided against addressing him directly, instead choosing to fold her arms high across her chest. With barely a moments pause the gravely voice came at her again.

“Daddy taught me to run a tight ship—safety first. What’d the neighbors think if I was rollin’ you around in the grass tryin’ to put out a fire?”

With the mention of neighbors, Becky shifted her attention to a large home bordering the east, but only a security light illuminated an empty stone drive. To the west was Dr. Morrow’s large picture window, but at this hour, it too remained empty. Mrs. Morrow was a sweet woman otherwise, but everyone knew she liked to talk. Becky could only imagine the sordid tales of infidelity circulating poolside if Mrs. Morrow had been perched there.

“Ma’am, I can’t help but notice, you ain’t much on this whole concept—uncomfortable like. Most likely vegetarian or vegan, ain’t ya?”

With arms stiff and chin lowered, Becky had endured enough of his insolence.

“My eating habits are of no concern to you, not to mention my tender parts. Honestly, I cannot recall the last time I found intellectual conversation huddled around a cooker—or a cremation furnace, depending upon your level of enlightenment. I hired you to do a simple job; perhaps I’ve made a mistake!”

A pale sky announced the approaching sunrise and Becky swiveled again to check the homes for activity. A smile crossed Joe’s lips and the quivering of the cigar stub belied an urge to speak.

“Yer a feisty one ma’am, no doubt about that, but you are correct. I’ll tend to cookin’ and leave you to checkin’ on the neighbors.”

Becky adapted the shortening of words, as if mocking the manner in which he spoke would settle under skin.

“What do you mean, ‘Checkin’ on the neighbors’?”

“Jes seems to me, it ain’t much of a life if you go around worryin’ ‘bout what others think. There’s plenty of things in this world to keep people apart, but a very few that draw them together.”

Joe looked beyond the cold green eyes that wished him dead, up the hill toward the sliding glass window. He watched two young girls prancing and dancing with one another. They lived in a place where bedclothes were ballroom gowns and a kitchen was suitable for a promenade.

“Children’s one of them things that draws us closer.”

In a huff, Becky turned towards the home while Joe’s cigar drooped noticeably. He spoke slightly louder as he addressed her back.

“Backwards as you believe me to be, take notice of ‘em ma’am. Encourage the foolish, spontaneous things, ‘cause they won’t dance forever.”

Joe’s voice trailed off awkwardly as his mind began churning out memories. For a very brief time he watched his own cherubs flitting behind the glass, but they were grown now. Fine young women raised in someone else’s home, calling another man daddy. The other man was lucky. Myra was a peach, the kind of woman who didn’t aspire to much, long as she had a man who loved her and a couple of kids to dote over. These were complexities too abstract for a young truck driver, one who spent too many hours chasing dotted lines into the horizon and too few at home. Joe had not intended to ruin a marriage, but naïveté and youthful thinking was no excuse for poor judgment, and so a man who started out hauling hogs, ended up cooking them for a living.

As the hog’s juices began to flow the catch pan required his attention. After returning upright, Joe found the hand of a curly-headed man thrust towards him. He wiped his own against the apron, but instead of reaching for it immediately took the opportunity to describe the importance of a catch pan.

“Don’t ‘spect the misses needs every cur-dog in the neighborhood sniffin’ around. Truth is—dogs really ain’t the trouble—just a bad combination. You ever seent how grease runs straight through an ole hound? He’ll be leavin’ more than he takes, if you know what I mean!”

For a lean fellow, the stranger presented a firm grip, a sign of an honorable man. His eyes were made of a curious blue and twinkled when he spoke.

“Mark Conley—you must be Smokey Joe. Becky tells me you’ve got quite a personality.”

“Good to meet ya, Son, but I reckon she said more than that. Didn’t mean no disrespect, but I ain’t never been much of an attraction to the ladies, even when I was young.”

Joe’s mind wandered as he spoke, leading to uncomfortable pause.

“‘Cept for one pretty brown-eyed girl, but she had good sense enough to slip away. Straight-talkin’ gets me in trouble from time to time. Kinda like an old man ramblin’ about a dog’s loose bowels while yer tryin’ to enjoy a cup of coffee.”

Joe nodded towards the cooker, “Seems a damn shame, but dead critters and me get along best.”

Mark sipped from the cup while he circled the cooker, examining as he went.

“It took some time before Becky warmed up to me. Sometimes it helps to let a woman think they’ve changed you somehow—knocked off the rough edges. You know, made you into something more than you would have been without them.”

Joe drew his thumb and forefinger through the stubble until they met at the point of his chin.

“Seems to me, you kind of a package deal, Mark; eye-candy on the outside but a sharp mind to back it up. No Sir—young and dumb ain’t got no place here, nice house, good wife, and blessed with two fine young girls—nothing but blue skies ahead for you, Mark Conley.”

There comes a time when you reach a destination. You have either arrived or find the place you were seeking does not exist. Blogging has become more a chore than pleasure. It is time to leave it to those who still find inspiration in it. Like sweet memories, those I met on this journey will linger with me. Although the majority I have not seen, I feel I now know better who they are and what they wish to be. My sincerest hope is that all find their destinations, for each life is but an unfinished story.

I cannot say with certainty I will not return here, but for now I must go

Harvest House

Jenny used her purse to chase the rooster from the doorstep and warily watched for his return. His nervous strut indicated he too was uncomfortable with her presence here. She brushed the dust from her dress and exhaled deeply before rapping on the screen door a second time. Had anyone actually come to the door she would have fainted straight away. Earl Stevens was going on two years dead and his wife, her only daughter, had disappeared more than six months earlier.

The authorities called Jenny’s home to ask questions, but she could provide them no information. Her disappearance provided few details and eventually they concluded, although strange, her departure appeared to have come on her own terms. Ellen went where the wind carried her. Despite preaching against such rash actions of following hearts, Ellen became ‘her own woman’. At seventeen she left life in the city and moved to Kansas to marry Earl Hawthorn Stevens. The span since civil conversation between she and Ellen was something she rarely visited. They stood on separate islands; the years between them had become a fog, and details of hurtful conversations were often better left fuzzy and undefined. Under these strange circumstances Jenny was seeing her daughter’s home for the very first time. Perhaps the letter she held in her hand would indeed provide answers as it promised. Jenny knew no one in California, and it provided no return address, but the signature did appear to be her daughters.

Jenny entered through the screen door and consulted the map scratched on the back of letter. She ascended the staircase and found her daughter’s bedroom. In the southwest corner of the room she saw the picture on an end table. Jenny was but eighteen years old when the photo was taken and truly had forgotten how beautiful and full life had been. She placed the photo face down and moved the table aside. Beneath it she located the loose floorboard and lifted a dusty diary from its hiding place below.

Jenny had endured a four hour drive to reach her daughter’s home and her sciatic nerve kept tally of every bump. She wiped the dust from a rocking chair near the window and took a seat. Before the troublesome nerve had time to settle a cold chill traveled up her spine. She knew without question Ellen loved this chair.

June 16 Harsh words were spoken as my mother and I parted ways. It is not so much she believes she is right, but more she knows I am wrong. Too much time has passed and admittedly I am weak as I do not pick up the phone but neither does mine ring. I’ve found there are wonderful things beyond city lights, things I was encouraged to deny. Cycles of life present themselves more clearly as I work in the garden. As she has promised life is difficult on the farm, but there are things and people here that nourish my soul. Would she have rather kept my company while I became skin and bones before her very eyes? Odd as it seems I’ve placed this picture to stand guard over my innermost thoughts. It represents my mother when her heart’s voice spoke louder than the world’s.

Aug 12 The days we shared together ended at three-hundred sixty-seven; barely a year and not nearly enough. Since Earl’s passing the creaking and moaning of a century-old house no longer seems quaint. Its breath sounds eerily like his footsteps on the staircase. It is during these times I especially miss my mother as I wrestle with womanly desires. The cradle Earl refinished in anticipation of babies no longer represents promise. For a time it sat in the corner, but eventually seemed suitable for kindling as it spoke to me in unusually cruel ways. On certain very sad days I place a pillow beneath my blouse and dream of things that will never be.

Aug 27 After the day’s worries have expired along with the setting of the sun, I sit on the porch and speak with him. It seems much less complicated to pretend the accident never happened. Underneath a starry sky when he holds my hand I can once again believe in foolish things—like forever. His soothing voice minimizes the painful task of starting over again—this solitary life of one.

Dec 25 My mind is consumed with running, where I might escape these painful rats that gnaw at my and fingers toes. I wiggle them occasionally so that they see I am alive, but they know better. I phoned you yesterday, but chose to leave no message. If you did not recognize my voice or return my call it would be worse. Had we talked, I would have spoken to you about fear; fear of dark things. However, friends that come to feed are better than no friends at all, but soon they may tire of such trivial things as fingers and toes and move on to more tender things.


Mar 21 As I read the previous entry I am glad to have rid myself of the company of that woman; she was desperate, tired, and without hope; not at all what I wish to be. I have sold the farm ground and nearly completed renovations of the home. The bedrooms will soon be finished just as we had planned, suitable for two boys and one girl. It has taken several months but I have located and accepted the challenge of raising three mentally handicapped teenagers. Since this home has a renewed purpose it should also have a name. I’ve settled on the name Harvest House.

Apr 10 Mark, the most severely impaired of the three, remains content watching the world pass. His eyes see far more than most, but what he views prove too formidable to put into words. Even his own name represents a challenge; “Mork” is the best he can do. As his mother I regret that in a world defined by standards and measures, my Morkie’s life will likely be filled with a multitude of “best he can do’s”, but truly what more can a mother ask of a child. If consciences were laid bare could anyone deny the benefit of absorbing more and speaking less?

Despite her own handicap, Julia is consumed with ‘mother hen’ instincts. The satisfaction she derives from helping others, especially ‘Mork’, is evident in her infectious smile. Who else besides Julia would cry for hours when she learned the Grinch’s heart was two sizes too small? What a blessed gift to be unaware that mending the hearts of others fills her own with purpose.

Unfortunately Darren can best be described as illusive, like trying to capture a breeze with bare hands. I remind myself his autism feeds his desire for distance, but it breaks a mother’s heart when each time she reaches for him he only travels further away. The more determined my attempts to climb inside his head the more intrusive he perceives the trespass. Perhaps Julia’s assessment is most appropriate, “Can’t you see Momma; his happiness is found in freedom.”

May 5 Although there can never be blood connection, no share D.N.A., on rare occasions when I look deep into my reflection I see in my own personality each of them.
For three consecutive days there has been no sun. Some in the house are skeptical of its return. From dawn until dusk dark clouds paint the rural sky, but even imminent things fail to deliver on promises. Although they are unaware, the children at Harvest House are waiting for much more than rain. For now I am the only one who knows of the complicated matters that lend heaviness to the air. I must shield their childlike minds from reality; the precious dears have done nothing to deserve such burden.

June 6 This morning my mind was preoccupied with more than breakfast preparation. While the children were in tune with the aroma of fresh biscuits, I recognized the unmistakable smell of rain riding the lead edge of a storm. I sighed in relief as the sheets of rain sweep across the fields. Perhaps now the headaches would subside and the sun could shine once again.


Aug 15 Breakfast conversation seemed unusually slim and when the sporadic words did come Julia sensed they were forced. She asked what it was that worried me. In a rehearsed voice I attempted to reassure her, but she remained unconvinced. She said my voice was not perky and my sparkly eyes were dull. Naively she asked if one of them had misbehaved. In a wavering voice I told her that each of them were cherubs and angels can only bring hope and light.

Sept 13 I busied myself with such innocent things as counting cotton balls and tongue depressors, but I knew Dr. Morrow would return. His frown indicated the test results were not favorable. Up to this time Dr. Morrow had been supportive, but he lashed out at me when I mentioned the children. He said what I had done was unconscionable. It was true; I did know I had leukemia before I adopted them, but he did not understand the level of suffering (mine or theirs). I left his office in tears, torn by my greedy actions. He told me he would call child services and arrange to have the children placed back in homes. It would be better that way; my time left would be doubled if I didn’t have to care for them and they could receive the specialized care they needed. Momma, they need love, not to be tied in chairs for hours upon end. These children are not a burden to me, but a blessing. I have made my decision and our bags are packed. Please do not think badly of me, Mother. In my heart I feel I have given as much as was taken. Once you receive the letter the end is near. I trust your judgment in finding them families. My only request is that they not be returned to the homes they came from. Julia is the only one I have told and she has been instructed to call you once I pass. She will have directions to where you can pick them up.

No sooner had Jenny laid the diary down her phone began to ring. With hands that trembled she answered but was unable to find words.

“Grandma Jenny, this is Julia. Momma says it’s time.”

A Father's Son

It was a time of celebration far too long in the making; a festive occasion where banners flew freely and those gathered basked in its glory. Sparks of electricity bridged the gap, arcing from one guest to another, energizing smiles and providing fuel for the dreams of tomorrow.

A sudden hush fell over the crowd as they were asked to take their seats by a distinguished looking gentleman.

“It is a glorious day, indeed, and our distinct privilege to have Reverend Darius Williams II as our speaker. Please join me in giving him a warm welcome.”

The Reverend appeared comfortable behind the podium. Time only allowed a quick glance at his watch and like a man seeking to make up for lost time he launched into his speech.

“The houses along Spruce Lane stood in rows of conformity. Precisely .75 acres of plush Bermuda grass surrounded each, mowed and manicured twice weekly on Wednesday and Saturday between the months of April and November. Each owner was free to apply for a tree permit, but if approved it would be a Blue Spruce and could not exceed six feet at maturity. Routine patrols ensured the Sea-gray #12 brick exteriors remained free from debris. Cracks in the mortar could not exceed two inches in length. Owners which fell out of compliance would find themselves reprimanded with official notices of correction. An owner ticketed more than twice in a calendar year would be summonsed before the architectural council, and nothing good ever came from that. Those who presided there did more than dabble in evil; within the secret chamber they formed unholy alliances. The neighborhood was a nightmare of symmetry and oppression. Just as a cancer can never be content with a single organ, so was the dysfunction here.

As a young boy I struggled against myself. It was my heart which took exception to what they stood for, or more importantly what they stood against. Yet my father, an eternal pacifist, continued to preach against hate. He reminded me often, ‘The harboring of hate will not only kill the heart, but render a heart blind to solutions.’ Believe what I tell you, many speak of principles but few have the courage to apply them to their own life.

The council allowed my father to address them and for six long hours he pleaded to stop the expansion. His desire was to spare the tattered homes and broken down house of worship that lined the north perimeter of the golden neighborhood. Not only did they flatly deny his request, he was savagely beaten as he left the meeting place that night. I suppose a not-so-subtle reminder that a black man might realize his place in society.

Even when the bulldozers arrived he asked the neighbors to carry him there. I begged him not to go, but he assured me he had an obligation to speak for those having no voice. His body was broken but those who gathered came to hear his spirit speak, and without judgment he calmly put his faith in dialogue. On the surface my father pleaded for worthless homes and real estate, but they belonged to relatives, friends, and neighbors, and even a seven year old realized there were greater things at stake. Armed with an open Bible and crucifix my father began to speak, believing fully that God would provide him words that might change the course of events. His once powerful voice that carried conviction from the pulpit now sounded weak and ineffective against the backdrop of whining diesel engines. In the end powerful words were not nearly enough. Justice of the day allowed a single neighborhood and its powerfully corrupt council to hold us all hostages.

For months I was summoned to my father’s room each evening as he required help to kneel and pray. Although I requested to leave and return when he was finished, my wishes were denied. He knew the importance of me hearing as he prayed for the very men who had beaten him. While obedience required me to sit, obstinacy prevented the words from penetrating my mind.

Year after year I bitterly harbored that which my father warned against, and still I wandered there in a wilderness of my own making even as he passed. On the year anniversary of his death I went to lay flowers for him. Through a stand of trees came a single beam of light, powerful enough to penetrate the walls I had fortified. In that golden ray I heard my father’s voice and suddenly realized this world could ill-afford another damaged heart.

In that moment of revelation I found my mission. Little did I realize the rocky road would bring me before the very council my father once stood. There was little hope that my words stood a chance of being more convincing than his, so instead I prayed my father’s belief might be put in practice. Even on his death bed he held firmly to a notion that appealing to the sensibility of another man’s humanity might produce results—and eventually it did.

The past has passed, but should not be forgotten. The very ground on which this sanctuary sits was the land my father fought to preserve. Long ago I forgave the council for stealing my father’s dreams. Dreams are of our own design and where one rises and falls certainly another can be born. As you move forward so shall I. It is with great pride I can finally announce; I am my father’s son!”

To the casual observer this is nothing more than a tired farm implement whiling away its last days as the branches of a nearby tree attempt to obscure it from view. Au contraire; in the proper hands this bad boy can sling five-hundreds pounds of manure in the blink of an eye. You say, “But Dan, between the two houses of Congress we already have 535 professional versions, why do we need more?” And to that I can only respond, “Good question.”

But due to an acute state of boredom I decided to compile a list of characteristics for each. (Due to posting issues I am unable to do a side to side comparison with columns. It will make much more sense if you read an item number from one category and the coresponding item under the other category).

Manure Spreader
1. Sales pitch accurately depicts merchandise
2. Can be openly purchased at auction
3. Superior customer satisfaction rating
4. Sits idle a good portion of the year
5. Quite adept at spewing poo
6. Pulled behind a tractor


Elected Official
1. Is this even the same guy I voted for?
2. Will openly auction his purchase
3. Sketchy; see ability to be purchased
4. Same
5. Same
6. Not a bad idea

* The views and generally piss-poor attitude depicted in this article may not reflect the view of the blog owner, but in this case they do.

Mine That Bird

I’m a big enough man to admit that jealousy is an ugly thing. He vaulted from virtual obscurity to a fully bona fide stud in a shade over two minutes—the horse I mean. Although I suppose if the lighting was right and he was buying me dinner, Calvin Borel isn’t necessarily an unattractive man.

I guess we can’t consider him a stud in the true sense of the word; actually Mine That Bird is a gelding. Hopefully news of such a private nature does not travel through the horsing community as readily as it does through a small town filled with busy-bodies. Nothing is sacred any longer and poor Dale Dorfler learned the hard way.

The purchase of a life size blow-up doll combined with half-pulled bedroom curtains would not have definitely spelled his doom were it not for Gladys Glasscock’s penchant for binoculars. You see, Dale was a rather rotund man and according to Gladys’ account, he attacked the O-shaped mouth of the Marilyn Monroe look-a-like with such veracity that on four separate occasions he had to pause and patch his buoyant beauty.

Within a week of his infamous display word had spread. Most folks believe the last straw came at the hands of Gladys’ two seven-year-old grandsons. Rusty Glasscock and his brother Woody performed their rendition in front of the plate glass window of Dale’s Hardware store. Just where two little devils acquired an inflate-a-date remains a mystery, but their realistic reenactment drew quite a crowd.

Faced with humiliation on a level that few can relate to, Dale closed the store early. Sadly he folded his latex lover, placed her in the passenger seat, and left town under the cover of darkness. To this day his house remains empty as no local would knowingly subject themselves to Gladys’ prying eyes.

Word to the wise: for her seventy-third birthday she received a video camera. Remember to draw the shades lest the indiscretions of today garner a plethora of U-tube hits tomorrow.

Circle of Influence

During the course of a lifetime we connect with thousands of people, but busy lives, selfish interests, and simply circumstances, keep acquaintances from entering our circle of influence. Yet there are those that defy logic, requiring neither proximity nor extended exposure to leave an indelible impression. Bob Church (aka Bubba Lee Strunk) was one of those rarities; pretentious and unapologetic in his candor, yet humble enough to be uncomfortable hearing the profound impact he has made. Often the most enjoyable slices of life arrive late and depart far too soon, so is my acquaintance with Bob Church.

Our first meeting occurred on the internet, peculiar for a man unabashedly comfortable in his own skin to be loitering in a virtual realm where paupers routinely pose as kings and reality is none the wiser. Bob Church did not ‘do fake’; he was nothing less and nothing more than he appeared to be and a tag line at the end of his e-mails was a not-so-subtle reminder to the rest of us: “Life’s short…get over yourself.”

Soon after our meeting Bob was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer; the timeline remains fuzzy as he rarely spoke of it directly. In my opinion, it was not that he struggled with his own mortality but by recognizing it unduly, he was giving it more power over him than it deserved. No matter the odds a former-Marine will never embolden the enemy and finally when surrender is unavoidable it cannot be under the terms of the enemy. Bob’s words from a recent e-mail stick with me, “In small doses I feed him poison. Despite my efforts he may win the battle, but I’ll be damned if I stroke his head and feed him!”

Bob was a regular working man as required by the world, but it was at the request of his heart that he penned his stories. Had he bowed to the masses and written the type of drivel an editor wants to hear, I’m convinced he would have been on a book-signing tour ten months out of the year. As much as the world needs to see his work, they deserved it in pure Bob-esque form. The following is a paragraph from a response Bob gave to someone that asked, “Why do you write like you do?”

So chide me if you will—mock me if you must—but somewhere within, you know I’m right. If you’re interested, I have one piece of advice for any writer: Leave the safety of acceptance and you will find a new world so complex, so appealing, so goddamn interesting… that you won’t want to leave. Never again will you be satisfied to tell someone else’s story in someone else’s terms; never again will you accept normality as a hallmark nor universal acceptability as a precept. Don’t describe a character’s life or actions, but help me experience his dreams. I promise your writing will fly like never before—with or without a few extra illusory similes.

At Bob's personal request there will be no extravagant funeral, simply a gathering of friends and family to celebrate and reminisce. No doubt he will be watching over those in the circle, for they meant the world to him, but I wish for him to know that his circle of influence goes well beyond those in attendance. Although I am unable to physically attend, tonight we will chat as long as you like.

The cooler is packed, the minnow bucket full, and there’s an open seat in the boat. Even though the crappie left their beds weeks ago, still you wink and accept the invitation. A mischievous smile crosses your face as you dust off one of your famous stories.

“Dan, did I ever tell about the time…….”

As we head off to a quiet cove, impervious to the troubles of the world, my mind quietly records the chuckle of a man larger than life. Bob Church I salute you. God speed and Semper Fi, my friend.

Divorce

Below you will find a piece called the ‘divorce agreement’ that has been circulating the internet. The red text is original. The blue comments were added by an individual who obviously suffers from the same affliction as President Obama; a delusion that his vision is that of main stream America. Although I wished to have used a white font to complete a red, white, and blue theme (patriotism drives the liberals nuts). I did not however wish to be labeled an unrefined, intolerant racist, which I can see coming a mile a way. There is also the fact that a white font on a white page would only feed the left’s belief that conservative views and voices should remain invisible and silent. So as they boldly proclaim, I will ‘go green’.



Divorce agreement:Dear American liberals, leftists, social progressives, socialists, Marxists and Obama supporters, et al:We have stuck together since the late 1950's, (You mean since Reich Winger Joe McCarthy screamed that everybody he didn’t like was a communist? Hey, that sounds familiar. And we'll ignore Nixon's Enemies List) (You shall be judged by your works. An eloquently delivered telepromted speech does not a leader make. If President Obama walks like a duck, no amount of ‘change we can believe in’ will magically transform him into an eagle) but the whole of this latest election process (You mean when the guy with the most votes won.) (Most likely the original reference has more to do with the slobbering love affair of the liberal media swooning over a ‘rock star’ than it does with ballots) has made me realize that I want a divorce. I know we tolerated each other for many years for the sake of future generations, but sadly, this relationship has run its course. Our two ideological sides of America cannot and will not ever agree on what is right (Obama won. Most Americans voted for him and want him to succeed. Republicans are not just against Democrats; they are against democracy.) (This gaffe is very telling. Only the Democrats ‘want him to succeed’. Republicans would like to see our country succeed in spite of its current leader) so let's just end it on friendly terms. (So we can still be friends.) (Unlikely, as friends rarely make preparations to seize another friend’s private business under the guise of protecting the masses. Democrats will always believe the government must save the poor helpless people from their own ignorant-selves) We can smile and chalk it up to irreconcilable differences and go our own way. Here is a model separation agreement:
Our two groups can equitably divide up the country by landmass. (We tried that in the Civil War, but if you insist, we’ll take the Northern states and West Coast.) (Spoken as a true liberal. If we cut out the heart of the country the fringe elements become normal and much more palatable) That will be the difficult part, but I am sure our two sides can come to a friendly agreement. After that, it should be relatively easy! Our respective representatives can effortlessly divide other assets since both sides have such distinct and disparate tastes. We don't like redistributive taxes so you can keep them. (Great. So we don’t have to redistribute our tax money while two thirds of all the corporations pay none.) (Distortion is a powerful thing among weak minds. The top ten percent of earners pay sixty-eight percent of federal income taxes. Do your research.) You are welcome to the liberal judges and the ACLU. (OK. We’ll take justice and civil liberties for the common folk.) (I believe he meant to say, take justice and civil liberties from the common folk. As where the California 9th Circuit Court of Appeals believes the ‘wisdom’ of a few justices overrides the will of the common folk. Don’t get me started on the ACLU, who happens to support N.A.M.B.L.A. If you don’t know what it is Google it) Since you hate guns and war, we'll take our firearms, the cops, the NRA and the military. (And we’ll arm those who swear to protect and defend the Constitution.) (I serious doubt anyone believe they qualify as supporters of the Constitution, but Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid fumbling to load a weapon; I’d pay to see that unfold) You can keep Oprah, Michael Moore and Rosie O'Donnell (You are, however, responsible for finding a bio-diesel vehicle big enough to move all three of them). (Now if you can’t be nice, you shouldn’t sit at the adults’ table.) (If the adult table includes Oprah, Michael Moore and Rosie O’Donnell I’m outta here. While they exploit the free market all the way to the bank their hypocrisy whines loudly into my deaf ear. We'll keep the capitalism, greedy corporations, pharmaceutical companies, Wal-Mart and Wall Street. (What you mean is corporatism, where these companies help write the Republicans’ laws to help themselves to more of the people’s money. And I bet this won’t be the only time you side with greed.) (Much like how Nancy Pelosi has loaded the stimulus bill with obvious attempts, not to stimulate economical growth, but to cram the liberal agenda down our throats) You can have your beloved homeless, homeboys, hippies and illegal aliens. (You mean those people made homeless by Republican corporations that moved their jobs overseas? And you mean the aliens illegally hired by some of those same Republican corporations?) (If memory serves, it was President Clinton pushing NAFTA, opening the floodgates of cheap labor. Be mindful of how you address the ‘undocumented workers’, because as soon an Amnesty bills passes they will be a ‘must have’ for the Democratic Party of the future. We'll keep the hot Alaskan hockey moms, greedy CEO's and rednecks. (Greedy Wall Street CEO’s are your kind of people. Smart rednecks know those CEO’s are Republicans.) (Why must we keep using Republicans in place of CEO’s and business owners. Are there no Democratic CEO’s and do the Republicans have a lock on small businesses?) We'll keep the Bibles and give you NBC and Hollywood. (As long as you take Jerry Falwell, Jim Baker, Pat Robertson, Ted Haggard, and Fox “News” with you.) (I’ll take these and raise you one; Nancy Pelosi, Barbara Boxer, Harry Reid, Ted Kennedy, Move-on, and the infamous George Soros. Now there’s a hypocritical piece-of-work as he stashes his never-ending pile of cash overseas).You can make nice with Iran and Palestine and we'll retain the right to invade and hammer places that threaten us. (You were threatened by Iraq?) (Countries aiding and feeding the intolerance of radical Islam threatens us all. Put down you peace sign long enough to realize they would love nothing more than to lop of your head simply because you are an infidel) You can have the peaceniks and war protesters. (And everyone else with a conscience?) (Conscience is not the first thing that comes to mind as protestors spat upon our soldiers when they returned from Vietnam?) When our allies or our way of life are under assault, (Our way of life includes the Fourth Amendment, which was assaulted way more by Bush than the terrorists.) (I can only assume we are talking about the Patriot Act. Is murder always mutually exclusive with assault…..nearly 3,000 men, women, and children needlessly lost their lives on 9-11. Last I checked wire-tapping suspected criminals hasn’t killed anyone.) we'll help provide them security.We'll keep our Judeo-Christian values. (And we’ll keep the Bill of Rights, democracy, tolerance, and equality.) (And maybe someday you can sit down for a cup of tea with the terrorists, showing them the Bill of Rights, and discuss how things used to be) You are welcome to Islam, Scientology, Humanism and Shirley McClain. You can also have the U. N. but we will no longer be paying the bill. (Speaking of paying the bill, there will be no more red state socialism to bail your asses out. Let me explain so you understand. Most Republican states, those states that voted for Bush, receive more federal money than they pay in taxes.) (Explain so I can understand. You, Sir, are dangerously close to being removed from the adult table)
We'll keep the SUVs, pickup trucks and oversized luxury cars. You can take every Subaru station wagon you can find. (Ya’ll better leave those Northern state union-made vehicles with us, and keep your Southern state non-union Asian type cars.) (Probably not the best choice as Obama now wields the power to oust a CEO of a company he intends to take control of) You can give everyone healthcare if you can find any practicing doctors. (You’ll have all the jobless families bankrupted by health care costs.) We'll continue to believe healthcare is a luxury and not a right. (So you believe in profit over people. Which is why we say health care is integral to the right to life, liberty and pursuit of happiness.) (Total equality can never exist and the destination is not guaranteed, only the freedom to pursue. These are not new concepts. While it makes for a wonderful story book, show me one place socialized medicine can be called a success. If our politicians will agree to be covered under the same plan as you and I, I’ll take a look)
We'll keep The Battle Hymn of the Republic and the National Anthem. I'm sure you'll be happy to substitute Imagine, I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing, Kum Ba Ya or We Are the World. (We’ll also keep all the music ever recorded by drug users and drunks. That includes Hank Williams, Elvis, and Johnny Cash. And you can dance to military march music at your party rallies.) (I’m O.K. with drug users and drunks making music. It beats filling your cabinet with tax cheats. Hey, I got a great idea, let’s put those who can’t/won’t reconcile their own finances in charge of an entire country’s troubled financial system) We'll practice trickle down economics and you can give trickle up poverty your best shot. (Where have you been the last three decades? The rich got trickled up tax cuts, while the middle class has been trickling down the drain.) (Define rich for me. Did you receive a check in the mail during the Bush administration or did you burn it in protest?) Since it often so offends you, we'll keep our history, our name and our flag. (You seem to have trouble remembering the last 8 years. History comes in books, documentaries and even movies. Remember, you don’t like that stuff. And Palin couldn’t remember any Supreme Court Case she disagreed with other than Roe v Wade. There’s Limbaugh’s anointed leader for you.) (Outright lies and fabrications also come in the form of books, documentaries, and movies. Didn’t your momma warn you not to believe everything you read and only half of what you see?)Would you agree to this? (As revised.) (As re-revised) If so, please pass it along to other like minded liberal and conservative patriots and if you do not agree, just hit delete. In the spirit of friendly parting, I'll bet you ANWAR which one of us will need whose help in 15 years. (Oh, right, just like Wall Street needs us to bail them out.) (Perhaps Barney Frank (D) and Chris Dodd (D) can speak to their involvement in the banking failures, for that matter let’s throw in A.C.O.R.N, Obama’s pet project as a community organizer. I’m certain none of them demanded homes for those that could not afford them, in equality’s name of course. It’s called living within your means. You Dem’s should try it sometime, but Mr. Conservative, “It’s much easier to live within someone else’s means.”

Sincerely,
John J. Wall, Law Student and an American

P. S. Also, please take Barbara Streisand & Jane Fonda with you. (You must be a very OLD law student to remember Babs and Jane.) (By your own admission history comes in books. Actually, I’m sure Hanoi Jane espousing her rhetoric on foreign soil has been scrubbed from our History books by the p.c. police…, but nonetheless, slightly unflattering behavior don’t you think?)

A Dream Within a Dream

With all practical alternatives exhausted the flicker of hope fades further from reach. A burning desire for life now disguises itself as a vague will to live. The latter is not nearly enough. When desire is dissolved from the equation, by default, dread fills the void. My pool of resolve is receding, and as it flees from me I curse the inefficiency of the icy fingers of death lingering at my throat.

Rare circumstances unveil the identity of what lies beneath our mask. With earnest intentions I pray such a tragedy that has befallen me is rare indeed. Even the devil, birthed from a bubbling cauldron of deceit, should not deserve such a torturous end.

All who have drawn breath hope to avoid a lingering departure. Fading in small doses exposes the subtle frailties of the human mind. Even a circling vulture shows restraint. If he descends too quickly on a beating heart, the distress of the prey will cause a surge of adrenaline and spoil the meat. Indeed my flesh has become sour, and like an undisciplined bird I gnaw at my own skin. Each bitter bite invites a new level of torment, but the wounds are never deep enough to break the canabalistic cycle. Oh for the brilliant flames of a fiery car crash or the searing lead from a bullet as it mercifully separates senses from suffering.

A thousand times over I wish to have never known that only grief lies on the underside of a white sheet drawn prematurely. As it approaches, my limbs will not move, eyes refuse to blink, and the coldness of the table seeps into the marrow of my bones. Shallow breaths come quickly now and draw the linen against my nostrils, filling them completely. Without a glance in my direction the nurse turns out the light, and distances herself from loss. The sound of clicking heels becomes my nightmare, as they travel further down the hall. She will return home tonight to her family while I can neither look back nor move forward. Where is the smell of death I crave, and why will she not end this game?

If only a tunnel or a brilliant light would present itself. Yet I continue to wander in circles. In this realm of confusion there is only darkness that feeds on me and I upon it. My troubled soul finds no comfort among the living or the dead and this void leaves me more isolated and alone than I ever wished to be. Against all that is natural and logical my solitary hope is that suddenly I wake with wide eyes and emerge from a dream within a dream.

Today

An eastern sky gives birth to an orange glow and life stirs at horizon’s edge. The promise of day sprouts from the ashes of night. Yet neither night nor day is given to a jealous heart; a wise man realizes they are forged from equal virtue. Today I shall not pass on what lies before me, for it is real. I will sip from its beauty and its sustenance shall sate my ravenous soul. Only the bitter arms of regret will greet a man who waits for tomorrow.

Shadows, slender and frail, seek the seclusion of the woods. Two rolling giants appear before me, never greener or livelier except in the reflection of yesterday’s eye. Twin hillsides careen against one another, entwined like lovers; never less but always more, for content hearts will never know lust for another. Their forbidden dance continues mysteriously below the waterline, but should all things be revealed in one day?

On a journey towards tomorrow the swirling breeze shatters the glass surface into a thousand diamonds, each casting a prism as unique and fleeting as a single moment in time. Hand over hand they pass the baton in a relay to reach the distant shore. Sliding—gliding, never doubting their buoyancy.

A somber rustling of reeds, like the strings of a bass, accompany top-heavy cattails as they waltz to the sweetness of summer’s song. Sorrow-laden branches droop in an irreversible arc. What has she seen that causes the willow to weep? Even the bird cloaked in black is given to song once he discovers the blessing of red on his brother’s wing. He speaks with conviction to his reflection, but only the wind should decipher the words of his heart. Man would only find burden with such knowledge.

I shall become a fixture upon this shore for no commitment is greater than this Eden lying before me. Better I should gouge out my eyes than to offend my maker by dismissing the work of his hands. Perhaps somewhere in the vastness of time there awaits a more perfect union, but more likely it is myth, spun from the silken cobwebs of illusive dreams.

Vision

This painting depicts a small country church constructed in 1903. Nestled in the countryside it is as nondescript as a thousand others. While her belfry watches like a worried mother, arched windows whisper of earlier days and simpler times. Her frail voice speaks to a dwindling few. Many that once crossed the threshold now travel to a destination further down the road.

My brother e-mailed a picture of the church we grew up in; her stature and lines no longer perfect as they appear in the painting. Even the holiest of places cannot always escape the forces of nature.

The aftermath of a tornado forces my heart into the back of my throat with a power that words can only dream of. My eyes grow weary, but like the shutter of a camera deliver images that cannot be easily undone. Her brokenness speaks to me with such clarity. For a moment I am with her.

Whistling winds escorted by an eerie darkness roll across the western sky. Quickly the lights overhead seem not nearly enough. There are no tracks yet I feel the rumbling vibrations reverberating in my chest. As invisible as night the train is unmistakably powerful and black. The foundation trembles, even bricks fear the approach of such a force whose course cannot be altered. Plaster strikes the wooden floor with a slap of finality; its last breathe visibly exhaled in dusty plumes. Pushed beyond reason, twisted frames loose their grip and regret displaces oxygen. Colored panes of glass fall from grace in a final, unceremonious descent. Only the howling wind insulates my ears from the morbid, groaning, and grinding within. Antique lights sway sweetly against their chains like a reluctant conductor as the chords of death play on.

I glance from the computer screen as a single thought burrows itself deep into my brain. I envision the Father frowning as I consider why it is he did not spare his own house. Yet I believe he understands completely the frailty of humanity and it is the Spirit that provides company for my lonely thought.

The only face that witnessed the destruction firsthand was that of the clock, hands frozen forever at 10:30. Although the storm passed through on a Sunday morning during regular worship hours, why did the pews remained empty? Perhaps he could no longer bear to see the faithful ten or twelve parishioners languish over the cost of upkeep that meager coffers can longer fund. Perhaps he sent the band of neighbors and Mennonites to retrieve the bell and contents while the tattered frame still stood.

Maybe my eyes see only a fraction of the picture. It is quite possible that tomorrow as I pass the painting hanging on my wall something will cause me to pause, viewing it in a different light. As I stand admiring the past perhaps I will also see hope for the future. Long past due I will take the time to render thanks to the artist for his/her foresight and their view so much broader than mine.

Stingray

Ralph Conley stood at the window with his hands and faced pressed against the glass. His hands were much larger and less grubby now, but the barrier remained thick and cold just as he remembered. No longer did children play games by counting his protruding ribs. Sleek suit pants replaced ratty hand-me-down jeans and fine Italian shoes knew nothing of filthy sneakers too poor to own laces. Fine clothes alone could not conceal the aching memories of past. While his friends wheeled up and down the street Ralph mumbled and kicked at the pavement, often until weary shoes revealed bloody toes, but how could they have known their gleeful cries were like a dagger in his heart?

Behind the glass, workers scurried like field mice at harvest time, but none of their faces were familiar. Likely they had moved on to bigger things; not Mr. Wilson. He stood in precisely the same spot, adjusting the sprocket and chain until it sang a chorus of sweet mechanical music. Time had etched a few extra furrows in his brow and his skin hung more loosely, congregating at the corner of his eyes and mouth, but nothing in this world could deter Mr. Wilson’s spirit.

Over the last several years financial hardships had struck at the private sector with a vengeance like no one could recall, but with a grease-streaked forehead Mr. Wilson stood staunch; cursing any and all who suggested the closing of his bike shop as an appropriate end of an era gone by. Mr. Wilson did one thing well; he provided a vehicle for young boys’ and girls’ dreams, and that was something you simply walked away from.

A tiny bell above the door announced Ralph’s entrance. A skewed glance from Mr. Wilson’s steel gray eyes stopped him in his tracks. Ralph felt like an intruder, unworthy to stand on this side of the door. He had crossed the moat, but wasn’t convinced muddy boots belonged on the shiny concrete floor of a palace.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Ralph didn’t expect to be recognized and giggled quietly at the notion of being addressed with such respect. Mr. Wilson adjusted his glasses as he closed the distance.

“Well I’ll be damned—if ain’t old Ralphie boy. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Ralph smiled, “So you remember me?”

“Ralphie, you was hard to forget. Saddest thing I ever seen—standing outside my window, day in day out. I quit wearing a watch—didn’t have to anymore. I knew from 3:20 right up ‘til dark you’d be there, and then again bright and early on Saturday morning; kicking at the sidewalk as if somehow that might fix things.”

Ralph shook his head, embarrassed that Mr. Wilson recalled such detail, “How come you never ran me off?”

Mr. Wilson put his hand on Ralph’s shoulder as he squeezed it several times in succession.

“Don’t suppose it matters if I tell you now—seein’ your momma’s already passed. Ralphie, I wanted you to have that bike more than anything. One day I went to your house to speak with your momma. Told her I understood she had six young mouths to feed, but offered to give her the bike on credit and she’d pay when she could. I winked to let her know ‘when she could’ might never come, but she wouldn’t have none of it. Said the bike was just another sad chapter in a story called life; that you’d have to learn to live with disappointment just like she had. I supposed she was talking about when your daddy up and walked out—but it still didn’t seem right to me; one didn’t have to do with the other. I realized then I couldn’t make her take my gift—sure wish I could have.”

Like morning dew, a misty haze settled in Ralph’s eyes as he carefully considered just what motivated a stranger to go to such extremes in order to remove even a sliver of disappointment from a young boy’s heart.

“I had no idea, Mr. Wilson. I only knew I admired you and the passion with which you greeted each day, but I didn’t come here today for me. Down the street from my home there’s a family in need. The father has been laid off of work and even before that they didn’t have much. Each day I see subtle changes in the young boy; his eyes grow colder, more sinister, he kicks at the ground, and before long even hope will seem too much to ask for. As a young boy I didn’t know how such things looked but I sure knew how it felt.”

Ralph fished his checkbook out of the inside pocket of his suit coat, “Mr. Wilson, I don’t what appeals to young boys these days, but pick out a nice bike and let’s make this Christmas one he’ll remember.”

Mr. Wilson shuffled off towards the back. Soon the old man returned, steering as best he could an old but immaculate Stingray. The fluorescent lights danced against the deep metallic blue finish and sat glistening upon a sparkling white banana seat.

“Ralphie, when your momma took sick and you quit coming to stand at the window I took the display bike down. I couldn’t bear to sell it to anyone else and just looking at it made my stomach turn.”

Ralph smiled until his jaws ached. Even as he signed the check his eyes glimmered, much like those of a young boy receiving his first ride.

Mr. Wilson drew the check closer, giving away his failing eyes. “Ralphie, I can’t take this—$5,000 is ten times what this old thing’s worth.”

“Not to me and certainly not to my neighbor friend down the street. Times are tough, Mr. Wilson. Consider it a loan.”

Before turning away Ralph winked in an obvious manner, “You pay me back when you can.”

Malfunction/Smunction

Patience is a virtue. If you recall, only a few short days ago I posted on Paula’s wardrobe malfunction and expressed my own man-pig desire that it should have been Rachael Ray in the spotlight. As I scanned the news this morning you can only imagine my disbelief when I came across an interview with Rachael in which they were discussing a little spread she did for FHM magazine some years ago (definitely not qualifying as a wardrobe malfunction).

In the vein of good reporting, and for no other reason whatsoever, I felt obligated to view the controversial pictures. By today’s standards the photos reveal nothing more of an eye-full than a casual observer might see on a public street, but it did spawn another observation. A scarce few of these celebrities are willing to do now, what they eagerly offered in the past. Perhaps the inconsistency that wafts through the air is an aroma completely fabricated in my own mind, but just maybe a quick paycheck in the past pales in comparison to jeopardizing a multi-million dollar contract of today.

Big

Darrell stood at the magazine rack agonizing over his choice. ‘Squeaky’s Oil and Lube’ carried a limited selection and normally something as mundane would not have warranted a second thought, but today he sensed the eyes of scrutiny upon him. The unrelenting gaze belonging to a woman seated strangely close to the rack. Maybe she was an editor or marketing representative and as part of some cosmic assignment forced to observe/scrutinize the reading selections of others. In an attempt to avoid skewing the survey too far in either direction, Darrell grabbed a wrinkled copy of Sports Illustrated; an insipid choice indeed.

The chair in which she sat unquestionably suffered its largest challenge of the day, but it was not alone. Gray knit slacks, stretched beyond reason, could not prevent the excess of her thighs from gently rolling over the edges. A cheap romance novel served as disguise, but her occasional glance fooled no one. The book rested on a shelf of sorts, somewhere near a blurred line of where bosoms ended and her stomach began. An extra chin justified its existence by saving her neck the trouble of having to support her head. Soft facial features played quietly to a deepening scowl. The downward draw at the corners of her mouth spoke not only of her immediate physical discomfort but perhaps a frustration with the world in general; a cage designed specifically to exclude the petite and much too willing to browbeat those less eager or unable to conform.

The lack of patronage on a Wednesday afternoon meant plenty of available seating and the primary reason he chose midweek to tend to business. He slipped into the seat next to her as inconspicuously as possible. While Darrell would never have the distinction of being an intellectual giant he plainly knew what he liked in a woman. If the opportunity presented itself, and he knew it would, he fancied the chance to get to know such a mysterious and voluptuous vixen.

She offered only a brief glance in his direction before swiveling her entire body. So much that her knees made it difficult for the mechanics to enter and exit the garage. Darrell truly didn’t know whether to be offended by the chilly reception or to accept it as a challenge. He wrestled with the possibility that perhaps a woman such as this had absolutely no interest in his six foot three one-hundred fifty pound frame. With disappointment still circulating in his mind he allowed his eyes to wander to the magazine in his lap. Reality hit him square between the eyes (he had the 2009 Swimsuit Edition sitting in his lap). At that very moment in time, a sweaty Duane Wade sitting near his privates seemed far more preferable to the glistening, tan breasts of super-model Bar Refaeli. It would appear Darrell had inadvertently sabotaged his own plan.

“Excuse me ma’am. My name’s Darrell Darnell Ward and I’m currently working on a sociology paper about the consequences of marketing bias and the devastating affects on the young women of today. If you would be so kind, could you answer a few questions?”

Truth be known, the only time Darrell had set foot inside a university hall was to attend his older sister’s graduation. He struggled through welding school with mediocre grades and considered landing a part-time at the John Deere dealer a significant milestone, but in the back of his mind he knew if he pulled this off he would be doing himself a serious disservice if he didn’t at least consider acting school. Although Darrell had no intention of seeking a degree in sociology he did find himself enamored with the study of particularly large women and their thought processes.

Before she could respond the young man at the counter announced, “Lily Anderson, you’re Taurus is ready.”

Darrell resisted the urge to follow her to the counter and instead politely waited until she turned to go.

“Come on Lily, what do you say? This final means do or die for me! Tell you what, there’s a bar just around the corner. I’ll buy you a drink and we can knock these questions out in no time. When I become famous someday, and I believe it’s only a matter of time, I’ll remember you fondly.”

She hesitated momentarily, but there was something about his boyish charm and tenacity that intrigued her. Besides it would give her a chance to lash out at what she believed one of society’s great injustices.

“OK, but just one drink.”

Darrell so loved to hear those words. Lily sat down again and together they waited for his vehicle to be finished. His palms grew sweaty and his heart raced with anticipation as he watched her reflection in the opposing window.

While the world remained satisfied promoting and catering to the petite his niche market continued to be the large and loveable. Living large was not without problems, but it seemed too late to change the pattern. It was simple physics, big women required more liquor, larger bones of course required a larger saw, and Darrell knew all too well the extra freezer space required—before the bodies could be properly disposed of.

Wardrobe Malfunction

I’m thinking of those that may have had a rough day. If this doesn’t bring a smile perhaps the foul mood is terminal.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MawQeAlsOEs

I never connected wardrobe malfunction and cooking. Perhaps if I was forced to, my choice would have been Rachael Ray, but we must take what life gives us. I’m convinced a ‘sassy southern girl’ is likely much more prepared to deal with it. Even if you question Paula’s cooking prowess, it’s difficult not to love her spirit. Perhaps we should take notice of how she handles the situation; if life ‘shucks your drawers’ all you can do is ‘hike ‘em up’ and carry on smartly. Now you know you’re momma wasn’t just whistlin’ Dixie when she told you to wear clean underpants!

Waning Tides

How did we drift apart?
Two souls intertwined
The sharing of one heart
Convergence of a mind

With you I felt complete
Fuller than before
Yet I was giving less
You were giving more

Your grace fine as silver
Meant for serving Kings
I am but a pauper
Doomed to lesser things

My half not near enough
I’ll take that to the grave
Alone I swam too far
For even you to save

I used to see forever
As we gazed beyond the swell
But eyes I thought were mine
Belonged to you as well

Farewell my angel dear
I must set you free
Free to find the man
That I could never be

Freedom

Albert now had a pretty good understanding as to why curiosity killed the cat. The single item he discovered was quite possibly the reason the inventor of the bed made a dark, dusty underside. Albert had done a multitude of stupid things in his life, but stumbling upon his parent’s photo album suddenly vaulted to the forefront. A multi-colored flower on the cover seemed innocuous enough, but quickly Albert learned that dark tumultuous things can lurk under the cover of sparkling wrap.

His palms grew sweaty, his right eye began to twitch, and briefly he considered gouging it out as his painful heritage lay before him in the unlikely form of a gaudy collage. All of his friends and co-workers came from Hoboken, Queens, and the Bronx, but it seems as though Albert Eugene Finster had deep roots in Woodstock.

Unabashed, his father flashed the peace sign while sporting a pale blue captain’s hat and nothing else. His mother rode a wave of hands, seemingly a covert way to invite strangers to cop a feel. Albert knew little of Woodstock, but it soon became obvious that those seeking freedom traveled in hand-painted buses. The pictures themselves were shocking enough, but the captions written beneath opened Albert’s mind to an entirely different level of disgust.

Under the watchful eye of many things, karma and illicit substances being most prominent, with foresight and discretion missing completely; his parents chose the van in the lower left hand corner as the romantic den where they would unleash their animalistic passion. Albert could only image that between bouts of passing the bong and grotesque displays of unthinkable things, in the haze that became Woodstock, a ‘flower child’ was conceived.

The photo in the lower right captured several acquaintances made along the journey to find themselves. Names like moon-flower and free-dog were scribbled beneath. He had no idea if even a single one of them ever found what they were looking for, but Albert was now convinced he had found some of the answers he sought.

Albert hadn’t asked to be a freak, but perhaps his inception in a rocking V.W. van spoke volumes. His mind worked on a different level than most, even his computer-geek peers at the office considered him odd. Instead of counting sheep at night, hexadecimal conversions of I.P. addresses swirled in his head.

Although the sales personnel laughed at the water cooler they recognized a good thing when they stumbled upon it. Hovering over him they spewed out their newest proposal and he would fire back accurate details so quickly they barely had time to record them. He could take an entire map of a network and within seconds could estimate the throughput between devices with a margin of error of less than a megabyte, and really, what’s a million bytes per minute between friends.

Not even his boss could appreciate the vastness of his knowledge, evidenced by the lack of a raise for the third consecutive year. Albert almost wished he hadn’t overheard Mr. Liu’s words, but you can’t unring a bell. There had been a long tirade of Chinese words he could not decipher, but the final blow came in English and rang much too clear. “Round-eye already take too many of my dollar!”

The smell of technology sickened him; he reeked of it. Virtual servers, paged memory; everything he dealt with was fake and birthed from a concept in some dope-smoking programmers mind. When did a Blackberry cease to be something sweet and left seeds stuck between your teeth?

Today he would walk away, but not before he deleted the entire SAN, each and every file of extended storage. Albert removed the log entries indicating he had changed the rights on Mr. Liu’s account. Anyone hired to investigate the dreadful loss would be left scratching their heads, wondering why Mr. Liu had deleted his own critical data.

Albert stared past the computer monitor to the other side of the street. The new high-rise had begun to take shape and the work zone buzzed with activity. Foul-mouthed foremen barked out their orders. As barbaric as it seemed the bosses knew what it took to get things done. In the construction world, pussy-footing around only resulted in missed deadlines, and getting those stanchions poured was all that mattered on this particular today. Loading a pile of bricks into a wheelbarrow and transporting them from one location to another held a strange simplistic appeal. The ashes from a half-smoked cigarette drooped while the operator’s muscles involuntarily contracted with the predictable pulsing of the jackhammer. The trowel of a mason performed as a paintbrush in the hands of a skilled artist.

Albert Eugene Finster was not a hippie, but labeled by the world as a freak; one that had not yet found himself. He spellchecked his resignation e-mail, added his electronic signature, and pressed send.

Tossing his leather binder in the nearest trash can he walked across the street. With confidence he approached the man wearing a white hardhat. His presence was greeted with a scowl, barely visible behind a stub of a cigar protruding from the foreman’s square jaw. The man ripped another chunk from the soggy mess and with the precision of a laser bounced it off Albert’s right shoe. “What can I help you with, pretty boy?”

Albert smiled, “I’m looking for work, and before you ask, minimum wage is fine.”

Reconciliation

He wrestled with the tarp in the seclusion of his garage. Beneath it laid an eerie likeness that sent shivers down his spine. Stan Kilmer traced the lines of the hood with his finger. Dual black racing stripes still meant business; as if 383 cubic inches didn’t have a voice of its own. The ’69, canary-yellow Road Runner was pristine and every detail transformed him back to September of 1989.

Since then a strict adherence to isolation had provided no answers and like a rattlesnake in a glass jar, his mind began to vilify things not inherently evil. After two decades on the run he remained convinced of only one thing; no one can effectively change his future without first reconciling his past.

As the car idled in the driveway he went back to lock the garage. Not that anything of value remained there, but such a road trip as this had no itinerary. He had intended on leaving while the world still slept, but Mrs. Stuckey was an early riser. She appeared startled as she stood on her lawn, perhaps surprised by the appearance of a recluse. Stan had built no rapport in the neighborhood and felt no obligation to make a positive first impression. Her posture indicated a lack of appreciation for the choppy sound of a mild cam. He held steady on the brake and pressed the accelerator until the rear tires broke loose. An exaggerated wave and smile from him only intensified her displeasure, but white smoke from the tires soon formed a wall between the two.

Like a shot the car raced to end of the cul-de-sac. As the tach crowded five grand and slid around the corner Stan surprised himself by how quickly he found second gear. With a slight chirp of the tires and without a sliver of remorse he leaned hard on the accelerator heading towards open road.

Cars from this era were born to gobble up pavement in quarter mile meals, but much like a sprinter who fades in an endurance race, the handling and comfort could only be described as substandard. Stan wanted to feel the road beneath him, enduring every bump that he had banned from his narrow world.

The rural scenery had changed dramatically but as he approached, subtleties of the landscape fed his internal compass. An empty and crumbling foundation was all that remained of Todd’s home. Stan might have driven right past if not for the tree. A mighty oak still stood guard at the back of the lot and had resisted the corrosive nature of time.

Stan turned his head skyward, staring past the limbs to the tree-house perched above. He tested the wooden ladder with a shake. Several inches in height and an undisclosed amount in weight were certain to have skewed the equation, but Stan had never been adept at calculating odds—not then and not now. Yet he hadn’t driven twenty-two hundred miles to back out on a technicality.

The breeze whistled through the stand of pines just as he remembered. Amidst their lonesome song he found his best friend’s voice taunting him. Even then Stan feared heights, but with the lashing of a drill sergeant and the unquestionable smoothness of James Dean, Todd’s voice would prevail as he stared down at him.

“I didn’t know they piled shit that high! Put on your big-girl pants, Staaanley. I’ve got the September issue of Playboy up here and the Van Breeschooten twins can’t wait forever. If you ain’t up to it just say so. I’m man enough to send ‘em both away smiling!”

Todd was always the confident one, seemingly in control of all things. At sixteen years of age, neither of them could fathom a circumstance where his firm belief in self could ever fail—but it would, and Stan still hated he was there to see it.

He reached the final rung and stepped in; his eyes immediately darted to the corner where Todd invariably sat. Long and lanky with a stolen pack of Lucky Strikes, lifted from his old man, setting within arms reach. Un-inhaled smoke burst from his mouth in puffs as he spoke.

“So what’s the plan, Stan?”

Words so crystal clear and the laughter of teens trailed off into nothingness. Only painful silence filled the void. Like an unwanted squatter, only a shadow occupied Todd’s space, but even it seemed uncomfortable there, nervously moving with the breeze. Out of the emptiness came a voice.

“I knew you’d come back, but what took so long?”

The familiarity of the tone could not be denied, but only a dark shadow hovered in the corner.

“You always did let other’s expectations rule you. What? If you talk to me people will think you’re crazy? Earth to Stan; there ain’t nobody here! Didn’t you come to talk me anyhow?”

After a small hesitation he dismissed the voice to imagination and fell to his knees. Stan searched the floorboards until he found the one containing no nails and retrieved the contents hidden beneath. He wanted to move, but could only stare at the corner.

“Look, Stan, this ain’t some creepy Friday the 13th thing. Come on, grab our stuff and let’s go for a ride.”

Stan shook his head from side to side in short jerky motions, “I don’t—I don’t think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Actually it’s a great friekin’ idea. Now come on, let’s go.”

As he walked back to the car Stan continued to glance over his shoulder, but he saw nothing. After settling into the driver’s seat, a sheepish voice slid past his lips, “Are you still here, Todd?”

Several moments passed and there came no response, suddenly Stan felt foolish.

“Will you look at that? After twenty years, Karin Van Breeschooten still can’t get enough of me—but really, can you blame her?”

Stan glanced at the passenger seat where a thin film of dust covered the September, 1989 issue of Playboy. He recalled how Todd had justified getting first choice. Todd assumed the bulk of the risk while the storeowner had his back turned. Although identical in every nuance, he chose Karin, and as a mere accessory to larceny, Stan’s reward was Mirjam. Even in crime they were as inseparable as the twins themselves.

“Fire this thing up, man! I bet balls to the wall she does all of a 140.”

Stan brushed aside the comment about the car’s ability, but did start the engine. As they traveled the back roads Todd eagerly tried to reconnect to a past that Stan couldn’t seem to shake. Stan’s hands, white knuckled at ten and two on the steering wheel, began to shake uncontrollably.

“Come on Stanley, this ain’t daddy’s model ‘T’. Kick it in the ass!”

Todd’s needling produced results, but not what he anticipated. Stan let off the accelerator completely and crept around the curve before a string of venomous words exploded, “All you can talk about is the good times we had.” Pointing out the driver’s side window a distraught Stan continued, “Take a look at this fucking, nasty ravine over here! Does it look familiar to you at all?”

Stan rubbed his hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, massaging as he went.

“You really don’t remember any of it, do you, Todd?”

Stan shook his head and giggled nervously, “Well, what you can’t remember has haunted me every day since. Saturday night September 23rd, 1989. You, me, a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, and a car that looks exactly like this one. Around midnight, all of us set out on these gravel roads with something to prove and our asses on fire. AC/DC was blasting on the radio and I’m certain we were already driving too fast, but when you said ‘kick it in the ass’, I didn’t hesitate. I remember seeing 105 as we crested that rise, but at that precise moment I also remembered the curve and what lay on the other side of it. With brakes locked and gravel flying I fought the steering wheel with all I had. The instant remorse that suddenly consumed me wasn’t even close to being enough to save us. Gravity sucked us over the edge and the car rolled so many times I lost count. Only two things crossed my mind on our downward spiral. I hoped that somehow my parents wouldn’t know we were drinking and I prayed for my own death, so that I would never have to face you.”

With tears racing down his cheeks, Stan looked to the passenger side, “Do you remember now, Todd, and more importantly can you ever forgive me?”

Stan heard what sounded like the clearing of a throat.

“I remembered it all; I just hoped the years had allowed you to forget. You always thought of me as stronger, but you only saw the front put on by a teenager; I knew the truth.

As I lay dying, crushed beneath the weight of the car, you summoned great courage by trying to lift from me. You don’t think I remember the grotesque sound of your biceps ripping from the bone as you struggled against things greater than yourself. Not once did you cry out in pain. Even as the heat from the flames grew, the comfort of your hands beneath my head made my last breaths easier. As the blackness closed in upon me I felt peace; knowing that wherever I was headed I would never find a truer friend.

I’ve enjoyed our visit, Stan. My only regret is that you have suffered so long, worrying about my thoughts of you in my last moments. May your conscience also be at peace. Rest well knowing that even as a boy, you were always the better man.”

Narrow Gate (Final Chapter)

Coming Home

Another torturous evening has descended upon me. Not only has Althalo failed to arrive, but only an hour prior a messenger delivered yet another burden. It seems a clan belonging to another kingdom has laid camp only miles from our city gate. As of yet their intentions are unknown, but fear among our people is growing. Even those lacking details sense our vulnerability.

Tonight I am honored to share my table with royalty; it is a strange night indeed. During my years of service as wizard to the king I have never known this man that sits across from me. Tonight he wears no robe or crown and his scepter sits idle. These tired eyes and furrowed brow belong to a father consumed with worry for his only son.

As the candle burns low and I prepare to retrieve another, there comes a knock upon my door. The man who stands in my doorway is difficult to describe. Familiar, yet not at all the same as the night we stood together at the narrow gate. Rags of insecurity have been stripped from his body and he is fully clothed in the armor of service and humility. A welcomed sight indeed; and I hope to hear in great detail the adventure that spurned this transformation as well as an introduction to the dwarf standing by his side.

“This is a great night in the history of our kingdom and deserving of equal celebration!”

As father and son are reunited I usher Althalo’s friend towards the cupboard to assist in the preparation of ale.

“I recognize you from the vision, Quintara, but did not anticipate your return here.”

She offered only a wink, “Neither I—but your new king is quite adept at the art of charm and persuasion.”

While the first round sat comfortably in our bellies I filled our cups again. “Tell us Althalo, tell us every gory detail. I shall not sleep until I learn of this three-headed dragon.”

He settled deeper into his chair and my eyes widened as he weaved the tale I had longed to hear.

Our meeting, the dragon and I, came in a state of sub-consciousness, or perhaps a dream; it makes no difference. Watching from a distance I spied a man in a field tilling the ground. He was transparent and my eyes saw his heart brimming with things he loved. He toiled in simple deeds but the sun shone brightly upon him and the birds of the meadow sang sweetly.

After a time I no longer watched, but became the man in the field. The handles of the plow were still warm and freedom flowed from the ground filling every void. My heart would not mind if that moment in time could have endured forever, but quickly the sky turned black and a shadow loomed over me like the clouds of a storm. Stillness in the air gave way to turbulence as the flapping of his thunderous wings caused the ground to tremble. As he drew near a poisonous fear welled within me and for a moment I considered hiding amidst the shadows of the forest. His talons were immense, but if he fancied me in his grasp I should not make his task easy.

Our battle raged for an eternity and more than once I lay wounded, resigned to defeat. The innocence of the meadow crossed my mind as the green hues of life become stained with an unholy mixing of blood; perhaps more of my own than I should attest. Prompted by the expectations of many I stumbled to my feet again. During a final thrashing of beast of man my blade found its cause. I snatched the life from his chest and in the firm grasp of my hand his heart struggled to find a final beat.

On each side of the dragon lay a head; neither recognizable as my sword sliced cleanly through, but once separated from the host his powerful grip over me became obvious. On the left of me lay fear; not in pure form, but the feeling one warrior has for another as they stand together on the front line of battle. A dread that he might not find in himself what is required to defend his friend’s life with the vigor of his own. On the right of the beast lay the hideous head of pride; an abomination that no man wishes to see in himself, while those surrounding him can see nothing else.

While still digesting the dismantling of my own shortcomings, out of the mist rose a second dragon. It clearly did not belong to me, but instead to a part of me that was destined to make me whole. Despite my broken state the passion of ten-thousand men boiled within me, for I knew my own victory meant nothing if this battle ended in defeat.

We clashed in the air, and with a screech that shook the heavens loose, he bore the brunt of my weapon. Lying on the ground wounded, I perched upon his mighty chest. Grasping the hilt with both hands I made ready for a final assault. In the waning hours of day the blade of my sword glowed with a cobalt sheen. With the power of my own slain beast surging through it, I delivered a crippling blow.

Exhausted I fell to the ground. The severed head lay within arms reach and I struggled to pull it near, for I wished to gaze into the glassy eyes of regret that I should never fail to recognize it. A heavy sigh rushed past my lips. In the distance I glimpsed Quintara shaking free of the chains that had so soundly bound her spirit.

She rushed to my side with great urgency and caressed my brow with lingering fingers. The moment her lips touched mine my spirit soared to the heavens. If there are words tender enough to describe our love they have not yet been written. Should they ever take form they will be whispered from the lips of angels.

“Father and King, if it be your wish I shall take the reigns of this kingdom tonight.”

With tearful eyes the elder nodded in affirmation before Althalo continued.

“In this dimly lit chamber, among elite company, I avow my allegiance to this kingdom and my new queen. Until my last breath I shall defend both with my honor.

From this day forward it is my vision that man and dwarf may serve side by side and my solemn duty to see that not even the least in my kingdom shall face their dragon alone, but that we might as a whole bring a united force against any foe that should seek to limit the potential of this great and blessed land.”

The Narrow Gate (Continued)

Slaying of Demons

Althalo woke with a stiffness deep in his bones, unquestionably the result of a restless night spent curled on a ledge. After leaving Warez at the gate he did not wander long before seeking shelter. He settled for a dark nook among the rocks where a man in a foreign land could go unnoticed.

As dawn became day he was taken by the desolate and mountainous terrain that stretched before him. No fields, forests, or creatures; not a single sign of life. Warez had spoken plainly about seeking assistance, but in a landscape where obscurity lay nestled among nothingness where should this journey begin and where might it end?

His father had emphasized traversing the path, so Althalo set out upon the winding road in search of Quintara. Like a spider’s web, deep crevices shattered the surface of the path and plumes of dust swirled with each plodding step. As his weight shifted from one foot to the other he could almost hear the mournful cries from a land languishing in a perpetual state of thirstiness. The sun climbed further into its journey across the sky and scorching rays dealt angrily with that below.

A few precious drops of water dripped from his chin as he pushed the cork back into the skin. He stretched and allowed his body the luxury of soaking up the coolness from the rock that supported him. Somewhere between consciousness and the place a mind drifts he observed a slight noise, but it was trivial in nature and did not warrant the opening of his eyes. Perhaps only the sigh of a boulder as it baked helplessly in the heat. As he slipped further from reality he experienced a slight pressure on his leg, but dismissed it as cramping in his calves. When the annoyance returned a second time it felt more like a deliberate tug and without warning a vision of a great dragon appeared before him.

Althalo unsheathed his sword and scrambled to his feet in a single fluid motion. Before thoughts became coherent his sword was swatted from his hand and his body struck the ground with surprising force. His spirit wilted as he felt the pressure of a boot in his chest. The sickening sound of his only defense clanking against the stones reverberated in his ears. He blinked in an attempt to merge two distinct sets of images that floated before him, with little expectation other than to clearly view the slashing teeth before they ripped into his flesh.

“How is it that you hold any hope of defeating a dragon when a dwarf such as I should separate you from your weapon like an infant from a mother’s breast?”

Shoulder-length blonde hair did little to dull her harsh words or the weathered and wrinkled face it surrounded. Pale blue eyes twinkled with curiosity as a twisted smile overpowered her lips. Raucous laughter filled the air as she offered her hand. Displaying the strength of a warrior twice her size she snatched him onto his feet. Althalo hung his head, lingering longer than needed to chase the dust from his clothing. Upon retrieving his sword she admired it a moment before placing it into his eager hand.

“Shall I assume you are Quintara?”

The top of her head barely reached his belt as they now stood on equal ground, but there was no doubt her spirit belied a miniature stature.

“I believe assumptions have landed you squarely on your back, Sire; perhaps it wiser to rely upon facts. I am indeed Quintara and you are the soon to be ruler of a kingdom.”

He knelt on one knee and as he pressed his lips gently against the back of her tiny hand.

“I am deeply offended that your game should separate rules for humans and dwarves? ‘Soon to be ruler’, barring assumptions would leave me simply as Althalo.”

The attention of his lips brought a rosy hue to the apples of her cheeks.

“Your charm may sway maidens and dwarves, but dragons are not so easily impressed.”

Althalo moved his hand to a leather bag attached to his belt. The rhythmic rustling of coins accompanied his words.

“Warez has directed me here. In my own mind I question how it is that a dwarf should know about such things as dragons, yet I trust his wisdom. He has advised I enlist your assistance in this battle I seek. How much will it take to secure your allegiance?”

Quintara smiled and invited him to sit with her.

“You have much to learn about dwarves and dragons. While gold can buy many things, my allegiance is not for sale. It stirs within my core, and is already pledged to you, Althalo.”

He did not comprehend the loyalty she displayed, but sensed genuine sincerity in her voice.

“And what advice can you offer in the way of dragons?”

The corners of her mouth drooped and the sparkle in her eyes turned cold like embers of fire left unattended. She gazed across the horizon and began to reveal a painful tale.

What you see before you used to be lush and alive, but now I alone must bear the brunt of barrenness. I should have become queen of this kingdom; it was my destiny. Yet I refused to answer my own dragon’s call. Many times he summoned me to the battlefield, but each time I fled. Putting my own personal desire above the masses has now brought unbearable sorrow and regret.

Without a strong leader this kingdom was overtaken by marauders. A mighty clan of dwarves, once numbering in the thousands, has dwindled to merely a dozen. Now we cower in dark places and are forced to live underground like animals. Do not let this happen to your land, Althalo.

These mighty dragons Warez and your father sent you to defeat, they are of your own creation. Every one of us has dragons to face. Our inability or unwillingness to meet them eye to eye only feed their spirit until they become colossal. Each fiery breath is a direct challenge we must defend against or eventually we become the beast.

There is great satisfaction in serving and leading others. I recall seeing it in my father’s eyes as he sat upon the throne, and it was a thing of beauty. Although those chosen for such high purposes must defeat their own demons before they step in and can assume the burdens of those they lead. As much as I wish it were so, Althalo, I cannot physically assist you in this battle. It is your own. Do not waste your time seeking the beast; he will come for you soon enough, but also do not hesitate even for a second when he challenges.

He stared across the empty horizon, absorbing what could have been.

“Your eyes have seen many things and they have made you wise. Once I’ve defeated my own challenges where should I find you? A king would be honored to have such counsel at his disposal.”

Quintara stood, their eyes locked for a quiet moment.

“It is best you return your land and your people and I return to mine. The few that remain need my service. It is all that I can offer them. Someday in a kingdom far from here, the name Althalo will become great. I shall carry with me the peace of knowing I spoke with him.”

The Narrow Gate

The trumpets cried a familiar song while the purple runner seemed to welcome him. Althalo had nearly forgotten how it felt to stand before a king. The ruler sat motionless as he approached the throne. Although his state of health was in decline his grip upon the scepter remained firm. His gnarled fingers, responsible for dispensing justice today were the very same that killed in justice’s name yesterday. Tales were many, recounting the fierceness of his sword and the loyalty with which he defended this kingdom he now ruled. A thousand times over Althalo wished it were not so, but his respect for the king had much more to do with his rise to power than the royal blood they shared.

Within the wisdom flowing from his father’s gray beard Althalo could find no cause to question the sincerity of his words. As they had always, his words struck with force. Like the magic blade of a sword, swiftly and without conscience separating dreams from obligation. The wall between father and son remained and neither could deny calloused hands from stacking stones. Althalo had discovered what moved his soul and it had nothing to do with serving and ruling a realm.

Althalo stood behind the plow as the horses lunged forward and a final chunk of sod gave way. The smell of freshly turned earth was unmistakably the aroma of independence. At that moment the sun shone brighter and the birds of the meadow sang a sweeter melody. An errant breeze rising from the stream meandered through the forest and took pity on his dusty brow, but like the death of a star the brilliance of his smile faded into darkness. As desirous a moment as it was, none of these things could displace the heaviness of his heart.

The burden stemmed from the separation of brothers. Their paths would never cross and closed eyes should not see the paths wind in opposing directions. While Valdar prepared to take their father’s position as ruler, Althalo yearned for a destiny beyond the safety of castle walls. If roles reversed for but a single day Althalo’s heart should never forgive him.

A lone raven entered the field and lit near him; the sheen of his darkness accompanied by the beating hooves of a stead. It is unclear whether the burden of great sadness was carried upon the raven’s wings or in the messenger’s words, but in the serenity of the field he learned Valdar had succumbed to a fever and the king requested his immediate presence.

Young Althalo stood before his father while he spoke knowingly of a narrow gate, one hidden among the snares and undergrowth. Although many pass by it daily to enter through that which is wide, he insisted this gate was prepared for only one. The fear in his eyes spoke loudly of the danger that lurked there. It was not the fiery breath of dragons Althalo feared, but the responsibility of a kingdom that weighed heavier than plate armor.

When allowed to speak Althalo surprised the court with his response.

“Your majesty, I do not question your words, but suspect it wise to seek counsel with Warez before embarking on a mission of such great importance.”

You must forgive my harried state, but the most troubling thoughts have been swirling in my mind. Althalo did visit me that evening. Please, set those dusty magic books aside and have a seat. Ah, this is more like it—a cup of tea and biscuit should put an end to the unseemly growling of my entrails.

Oh dear, by now you must be convinced you’ve settled among pigs—please help yourself. I am truly grateful for your unexpected visit and perhaps sharing the tale that has me so rattled should be a better use of my time than pacing these small quarters.

My name is Warez, counseling wizard to the king. I believe Althalo’s tale may be greater than any other, but today it remains incomplete. As the rain and fog have settled on this kingdom a dark cloud has settled over my home. He has yet to return from his quest and my worst fear is that he may not return at all.

Sorcery can only take a wizard so far, when the sun sets low in the sky even a wizard cannot escape sleeping with his actions. As you well see, the dark circles shadowing my eyes are the result of wrestling with demons of great decision. I’m certain you will agree Althalo must succeed, for the survival of this kingdom depends on it.

Althalo arrived here as I was about turn in for the night. In fact he sat in the very chair you now occupy. With good manners as his guide, he nibbled at a biscuit. Yet in his hesitation for food I sensed a welling of trouble in his soul. The doubts he aired continue to ring in my head with the great clarity.

“I should never wish to bring shame to my father in front of counsel, but how should I find this path? Will it recognize me or I it? How should I be certain the path is mine? In my absence what words will bring comfort to the fair maiden I am eternally bound to? Will the people of this kingdom accept me as ruler when they have forever expected Valdar?”

Wise beyond his years, Althalo showed great courage by daring to question our ruler and my vision. Regretfully I could only provide a portion of what he sought, as much as the king’s orders would allow me to reveal.

Under the cover of darkness we left the familiar and ventured forth. We approached the tree that bears no fruit, which for centuries has stood guard over and obscures the narrow gate from view. A strange wind swirled overhead and I knew those wishing harm were aware of our movement. Quickly I grabbed Althalo and we took refuge in the shadows, where the remainder of our conversation consisted of hushed voices.

I reminded him of the name Quintara, and his first order of business was to locate her and enlist her services. I gave only a vague description of the three-headed demon that guarded the exit, but emphasized his importance. By whatever means necessary Althalo must sever each of the heads before retrieving the heart. Within the heart lay the answers to all questions; those he posed this evening as well as dilemmas that thwart a king.

I thrust into his trembling hand a fine sword provided by his father, and perhaps saying too much I confided the ruler’s preference for Althalo over Valdar as his successor. As my last words were swallowed by the howling wind and roar of thunder, I opened the gate. Fear of the unknown gripped me as I watched him melt into the darkness, as if I was releasing my own child into the dangers of the world.

In the short time we were together I developed a particular fondness for Althalo. I suspect there will be no resistance once he returns and I shall have no reservation in following our new king.

Scathing Review for ‘The Waiting Room’

OK, so my wife was right about The Waiting Room—I hate it when she’s right. She did confide in me that the story sucked, which was what I had hoped someone would say if they didn’t catch the subtleties I intended, but what she did not do was to ask herself why someone would write such a story and let others read it, which does nothing for my self-esteem, by the way. I’ve re-read the story without the perspective of knowing the subtleties around which I wrapped it. I find that I cannot separate myself from it completely, but feel confident in saying I missed the mark substantially.

Let me explain and perhaps you can suggest where I went astray. The story hinges upon the doctor’s names, which in hindsight is probably one of my mistakes. In Greek, Poneros is defined as ‘evil’; not simply someone who acts to cause pain, but a state of evil that perpetuates itself (the devil) and conversely Soter is defined as savior. If I had been able to plant that seed I think the story would have taken on a different meaning, the one I intended.

In the interest of better writing, and more clearly conveying concepts within a story, perhaps you can suggest improvements.

The Waiting Room

Amy Walden could not explain what it was that followed her, only that she was powerless against it. Its presence was undeniable; here in this waiting room and within those that waited. She sensed this place had not suffered forever—only since her arrival. The breath of yesterday had been choked from it. The room exuded bleakness, as if the walls had been painted in reverse; the brush swallowing color and life with every stroke.

She was simply another dark decoration, matching the motif perfectly. Although the consequences had been unintended they were no less inevitable. Everything and everyone Amy Walden touched withered and died. She and the room were one, beaten and broken left to drown in their own sterility while tones of nothingness screeched a chorus of lament.

Amy had been in his care for more than two years. During that time there had been no marked improvement in her condition, but yet his invitation remained open. Dr. Poneros was careful never to claim he could cure her, only that he understood and shared in her misery, and what a wretched existence it was. There was no refuge from the ubiquitous voices that streaked from their hiding places stabbing at the very core of her soul.

To this point Amy had refused their invitation, but perhaps today was made for dance. Although the performance would be anticlimactic it was what the voices demanded. If she gave them what they wanted would they not allow a moments rest?

In something resembling more of a guttural growl than voice, she shrieked.

“Your fucking decorator should be fired!”

She ignored the terse glances of other patients who waited; especially the woman scowling in her direction as she covered her young child’s ears. Without further outburst Amy fished around in her purse momentarily before rising to her feet. In a calm manner she raised her arms overhead and twirled like a ballerina. Open slashes on her wrists lay wide and deep, but she continued to twirl pausing only long enough to render a disconcerting laugh. Only she found the splashes of color against the white pallet pleasing. Amy continued this dance of forfeiture until the nurses rushed to her aid.

That was all she could recall of the disturbance even though it had transpired only hours ago. Dr. Poneros had quickly administered another syringe full of Haldol before bandaging her wrists and placing her in a padded room. If he had spoken to her at all the words were insignificant, but she had remembered the sting of the injection. The doctor claimed they were necessary, but for what she was unsure. The drugs did nothing to inhibit the voices and only incapacitated her so that fleeing was not an option.

Although she could no longer feel the warmth of tears on her cheeks she could hear them as they dripped steadily to the floor. Despite the terrible walls that were required to separate her from the world, she cried out in desperation.

Dr. Poneros smoothed the wrinkles in his lab coat before casually grabbing another patient’s chart, though his nurse stared indignantly at him.

“Dr., aren’t you going to do anything more for Amy?”

He smiled briefly.

“What would you have me to do? She made the decision to come to me and I’ve accepted her. What else is there more to say? Can’t you see there’s a waiting room full of prospective patients? Let’s not lose our objective, nurse. If you have cause to think otherwise, remember that I’m in charge here.”

The receptionist hesitantly poked her head through the door.

“Dr., there’s someone here to see you.”

With a heavy sigh, he asked. “Who is it, now?”

“It’s Dr. Soter.”

He tossed the chart back into the bin and rolled his eyes.

“I don’t suppose I have much of a choice do I? Send him in.”

As the familiar face entered the room Dr. Poneros bristled.

“To what do I owe this unscheduled visit?”

“I’m here to see Amy Walden.”

Through clenched teeth Dr. Poneros responded quickly.

“Amy’s my patient. What do you want with her?”

“She called for me, of course. She has tired of your wicked games and wishes a second opinion.”


Dr. Soter picked up Amy’s chart and reviewed the history for several moments. Although he was troubled at what he saw, he was no stranger to hope. He frowned slightly before drawing near his adversary.

“Dr. Poneros, it’s again obvious why so many years ago I cut you from my team. You’re a renegade and the world would be a far better place without you. Yet we both know that’s not possible and sadly you still serve a need for many, but even you cannot deny her this request. Step aside, and let me see her.”

The heavy door squeaked in protest as it was opened and a stream of light entered the room. Huddled in the corner Amy shuddered in fear, anticipating another injection. The doctor knelt beside her and without introduction began to speak.

“Right now I know you’re suffering intensely and are consumed only with escape. Yet the offer here for escape comes at a very high price; the door you open may bring another lion down upon you.

Amy, give me your hand.”

She placed her hands beneath her legs and adamantly shook her head from side to side.

“You don’t know what you’re asking me to do, Dr.”

He looked at her with compassion filled eyes before extending his hand once again.

“Amy, I know all about your precious child and how terrible it must feel to believe you caused his death. When you held him in your arms and his crying finally stopped, but then his tiny chest failed to rise. I know what a burden that must be, but my dearest Amy, you were not the cause of his death. In fact your love sustained him for as long as he clung to life. That loss, as great as it was, must remain in the past. As you can see I have no fear of you. In my sight you are but a gentle lamb. Prove to yourself that nothing will happen and place your hand in mine.”

Moments later Dr. Poneros could do little but glare as the intruder emerged carried Amy in his arms. It was never more evident that this man represented everything he was not.

“I will be caring for Amy Walden from this day forward. Strike her name from your registry and I will gladly add her to mine.”

U-Turn

He whisked his laptop from the counter and without even a sideways glance rushed out of the house. Lawrence brushed by his wife’s puckered lips and his son’s outstretched hand. Each of them only required a small slice of time, but as of late his presence came and went like a cold winter breeze.

The bills were piling, his aging home was in need of repair, and his boss routinely barked about prioritizing and productivity. In fact Mr. Sorely had flatly stated that if Larry failed to bring the Gockenour account back with him, he just as well save them both a difficult meeting. He assured Larry his final paycheck would be mailed to his home and if he had any specific questions to contact Human Resources.

He had spent half the night preparing for the presentation, rehearsing the opposition the board might present. He felt confident in his abilities to counter them all. At 1:30 am he noticed his wife had turned out the lamp that sat on the nightstand next to their bed. At 2:03 he suddenly remembered his promise to Lawrence Jr. All the little man had asked was to be tucked-in by daddy and if time allowed a bedtime story. Larry could feel his life slipping away an inch at a time, but once this multi-million dollar account closed the chaos would end. Plenty of time would remain to right all of the wrong turns.

He tapped the face of his GPS repeatedly as the irritating voice insisted he had traveled past his turn. Pulling the car to the shoulder he verified the destination a second time, while it displayed the headquarters for Gockenour Manufacturing it continued to give false directions. “Please make a U-turn to get back on course.” Frustrated, Larry muted the voice and continued to follow the visible route. As he turned on to U.S 30 headed south the voice returned. “Please make a U-turn when allowed—Please make a U-turn now.”

Larry was confounded that the audio had somehow re-enabled itself, and despite logic each time the message was repeated the computerized voice seemed more urgent. The screen flickered and went blank. A not-so gentle thump brought the display back, but instead of the destination being Gokenour his home address flashed on the screen.

Larry turned the unit off and reached for his phone. He would contact Mr. Gockenour’s secretary for directions. The quiet voice on the other ended confirmed he had reached the correct number, but before he had time to identify himself a million pieces of shattered glass pelted him.

His body churned uncontrollably inside the vehicle and nothing could block out the awful sound of crunching metal. Momentarily as the car rolled he could see other vehicles skidded to avoid him. As quickly as it had begun his car rolled one last time and teetered on the roof.

When he opened his eyes he was face to face with oncoming traffic and knew his car must still be on the highway. Larry tried to crawl to the broken window, but his legs were not strong enough. Instead of another failed attempt at escape he fumbled through the debris until he located his phone. With trembling fingers he entered the digits of his own cell number.

His wife had already left for work and was unreachable. In an effort to make her husband less accessible she had the voicemail removed from the home phone and Cheryl had vehemently refused to be tied to a cell phone.

Larry didn’t know the extent of his injuries or what the future held, but the choices were slim. There might be a possibility they would find his cell phone and his wife could retrieve the voicemail he was about to leave.

Each time the raising of his head required more effort. He peered out the window and watched as the onslaught of cars sped towards him and at the last second peeled to one side or the other.

“Cheryl, it’s me baby, I’ve got to be quick. God willing I’ll be able to apologize in person, but if something—something bad should happen, please make room in your heart for forgiveness. I honestly intended on making things up to you, but my time may have run out.”

Larry paused for a moment as the heaviness in his chest grew. Not more than a thousand feet away a large truck crested the horizon.

“In spite of himself, Mr. Sorely is right—I have lost the ability to prioritize. Not my accounts, but my life.”

Nervously he divided his attention between the on coming truck and his important message.

“Please tell Jr. that daddy was a good man, but that he simply screwed up. Make sure he understands there’s no point in forging on when you’re on the wrong path. There’s never any shame in making a U-turn.”

Smoke was pouring from each of the eighteen wheels of the truck, but the proceeding shadow continued to gobble up huge tracks of the road. With all of his might Larry tossed the phone as far as he could. There was nothing left to do but close his eyes tightly and brace for the shock.

Vintage 1990

Sara abandoned her wine, carelessly plopping the glass on the sun-warmed deck, while she watched an unforgettable drama play out on the lake. One of the boats peeled from the others and turned towards the cove. As the driver trimmed the throttle and idled into the no-wake zone, Sara responded to an eerie sense calling her to the railing.

The ragged idling of the engine gave way to voices. The male’s forceful cadence was only occasional interrupted by a nervous giggle from the girl. They remained too far to make out distinct facial features, but Sara knew they were young, likely still in high school. Even the gap separating her from them could not disguise the young girl’s beauty, and despite that distance every detail of the young man appeared menacing as his shadow swallowed hers completely.

Like a threatening sky gives way to lightning his elevated tone and abusive words gained strength. One ugly and unnecessary blow laid the groundwork for his unconscionable desire. Each violating thrust of his pelvis caused more precious blood to trickle from the gash on her forehead. Her golden curls soon turned crimson, but locks can eventually be washed clean. Sara knew the staining of a soul was forever.

Several days passed but vivid details continued to torment. She had mulled them over a million times yet they remained intangible concepts, resistant to grasp and impervious to answers. Even something as innocuous as the wind had also sided with him. Without conscience it carried his victim’s cries of protest to the back of the inlet where they melted hopelessly into the dark woods of the shoreline.

Sara had remained at the railing, frozen like a statue in a painting; cold, lifeless, and fixed. As much as she wished, leaving the canvas was not an option. She simply couldn’t afford the energy to engage another beast. Although she had prayed for them, there were no columns of support flanking her side. The blade of her sword had become thick and her armor had worn thin.

Like the others, this sanctuary had become tainted; the home on the lake, the view, and the deck which rarely spoke, but listened so well. Tomorrow would be a packing day and she would move on once again, but for now Sara turned to the comfort of her wine glass. In the reflection of what remained she saw his face with startling clarity. As if tasting poison she jerked the glass from her lips and shuddered at the stare of his cold grey eyes. Eighteen years removed and she still felt the perpetrator hovering inches above her own broken and partially clothed body. In a dark alley between Brewster Ave and Main, a stranger had stolen all that was good and familiar and left in its place emptiness and despair.

As the sun sank low and the shadows grew long she glanced at the empty glass. In the wine cellar she brushed back the dust and allowed her hand to hover over one section then another. Sara recalled a time when she enjoyed wine and for a moment pretended it made a difference which bottle she selected. The racks contained bottles of the same shape, size, and color. Each a 1990 vintage; the year she disconnected with the hope of feeling nothing at all.

Long Shot

“I went to shoot Johnny, but he was already dead.”

Without even the hint of a cracker this caged canary was singing his heart out. Un-coerced information just isn’t supposed to come this easy, but his predisposition to song intrigued me, like a chili-dog with extra cheese and onions lies in wait for a man with irritable-bowel syndrome.

After serving a stint up-state, Johnny Smirconich resurfaced in my beat. His arrival was as welcomed as a turd floating in the east river. Not that my beat was squeaky clean but I prided myself on progress made. I intended to cut off the source of raw sewage spilling onto my streets by squeezing Johnny to roll over on his boss, ‘one-eyed’ Don. My efforts would be severely hampered by this inconvenient dirt nap. Fresh leads were becoming scarce and I hoped lighting a fire under Mark Kimball would provide something.

“Kinda ironic don’t you think? You go to a man’s house to kill him and presto, he’s already taken two rounds to the melon.”

The young man simply shrugged, “Just a matter of time, really—you piss enough people off they’re gonna come looking for ya.”

As much as I hated to admit it Mark was right. The line of those wishing to exact revenge on Johnny Smirconich produced more slobbering, wild-eyed onlookers than a Chippendale dancer at a nunnery. Only the fear of retribution kept the angry mob at bay. ‘One-eyed’ Don was known for brutally defending his own, even a lackey like Johnny. The killer was either extremely stupid or very well connected.

I was a man of proven techniques, pacing seemed to produce a decided advantage in fraying my quarry’s nerves. As I moved from view, I retrieved a cigar and offered it to him.

“I hear congratulations are in order. Is your wife expecting a boy or a girl?”

Wide eyes telegraphed his disbelief; that I had actually done some homework, but as quickly as he had taken to song; my canary suddenly lost his willingness to warble. He ripped the cigar from my hand and adopted a defensive tone.

“Neither Patty nor her pregnancy have anything to do with this. Is it too much to ask that you stay on topic—flatfoot?”

I stood flabbergasted; never in the history of man has a fine celebratory cigar met with such harsh greetings. The probe had obviously exposed a vein of sensitivity. With the care and compassion a Doberman shows a T-bone I gripped the vein between my teeth, anxiously wishing to discover the source of discomfort.

“Word has it pretty Patty likes to put out and she has a penchant for bad-boys. Honesty Mark, how long did you think she’d settle for bumper cars before looking for a wilder ride? Is that why you went to whack Johnny?”

A vindictive grin graced my lips. In one fell swoop I had accosted his manhood, the integrity of his wife, and at least to my satisfaction addressed the flatfoot accusation. The rage boiled in his eyes and I was certain only a few seconds separated me from information vital to busting this case wide open.

“She didn’t ask for it—that no-good bastard raped her!”

One juicy tidbit is all he provided, a measly hors d'oeuvre tossed to a man expecting prime-rib. He refused to comment any further without representation.

Not surprisingly his lawyer dodged my calls. For three days I left messages with his secretary trying to arrange the meeting. Perhaps some of the sympathy in my voice had been lost in the shorthand translation. I simply suggested the counsel had misplaced his conscience beneath a pile of law books and for the sake of his client I hoped his weakened spine would allow for the unearthing of such.

On Wednesday morning at 4:03 am my phone rang. It was the illusive counselor advising me we would have to delay the meeting further. Mark allegedly awakened to find Patty taking advantage of an early morning swim—facedown in the pool and fully clothed.

A small caliber round lodged in Patty’s brain had significantly lessoned her ability to recall the front crawl. There was a mound of evidence piling up and I was about to unleash an avalanche of justice on a very unsuspecting suspect. Call me twisted, but I was as giddy as a homely schoolgirl standing by the punchbowl at her first dance. With lust-filled eyes she spots the geek in the corner. He fiddles with his pocket-protector while sixteen years of unfulfilled passion boil in her loins. This case hadn’t dragged on that long, but before the night was through I also aimed to get a piece of someone.

An uncomfortable air fell about the place as I paced in front of Mark and his representation. Each of us sensed an eerie explosion was about to take place. The small interrogation room would provide little refuge from shrapnel and I suspected we’d all emerge bloody.

“I suppose the only question remaining is how do you feel about a shiny new set of bracelets, Mark?”

His lawyer smirked, “Don’t waste our time with your conjecture—let’s get down to business.”

“As you wish, counselor—Johnny Smirconich was not a model citizen, and for that matter neither was Patty Kimball, but an unfortunate set of circumstances led to their murders. Due to Patty’s promiscuous ways she found herself pregnant and in desperate need of a father, so she claimed Johnny had raped her. There’s one serious flaw with her choice. Johnny had just finished serving time for a child-molestation charge. A bit of jail-house justice saw to it that Johnny’s offending member was severed with a shank. They eventually stopped the bleeding, but shall we say ‘little Johnny’ was unsalvageable.

Believing his wife’s accusation, in a fit of rage, Mark went to settle the score. After releasing an errant shot he panicked and ran, evidenced by the coroner report stating the round in Johnny’s upper thigh was inflicted at least a half-hour prior to the deadly rounds.

Once Patty learned Johnny had only been wounded she went back to close the deal. Patty Kimball was loose, but she wasn’t stupid. She realized once word got out, and word always gets out; ‘one-eyed’ Don would be coming for Mark. She must have presented some convincing argument.”

His lawyer laughed out loud, but I knew from Mark’s pained expression that my supposition was not far from the truth.

“Both of the victims were dispatched with a .22 caliber pistol.”

“Yeah—the most common weapon on the planet”, his lawyer quipped.

“Ballistic test show these rounds came from no ordinary .22, each fired from a top of the line Pardini, costing upwards of three grand. I must admit the weapon choice seemed a bit strange at first. A search through appropriate records showed twenty-three sold in the New York area during the time frame we’re considering, but most notably only one in a left hand model.”

My information seemed to ruffle Mark’s feathers as the canary regained his voice.

“What makes you think Patty knew how to handle a gun? Besides she was right handed.”

“You purchased the gun, Mark. You snatched the cigar from me with your left hand and the paperwork signed for the weapon has already been analyzed. As far as Patty is concerned, this little piece of evidence should remove any doubt.”

I took the opportunity to back up my assertions with a yellowed news article. The title was ‘Patty’s Pardini Wins Gold’. No one could deny she was a crack shot, but two days before the Olympic finals a cruel twist of fate saw her right hand crushed by a car door. Patty insisted on competing and despite shooting left handed she managed to blow the competition away and glided on to gold.

The sober expressions indicated I had their full attention. I seized the moment by closing to within inches of Mark’s face.

“Isn’t it true that Patty refused to get an abortion which you insisted upon? When she flatly denied your pleas you decided that if you couldn’t kill the baby you would take her life!”

Mark shot out of his chair and bolted for the door. Expecting such desperation I intercepted him midway. The subsequent rustling of chairs summoned two other officers which assisted in subduing the confused man. Before Mark was escorted from the room he turned to me and posed one last question.

“If Patty wasn’t raped—do you think there’s a possibility the baby was mine?”

I carefully considered my response, “Sure, son, it’s possible.”

Mark obviously wasn’t thinking clearly, but who says detectives don’t have a heart. Just yesterday I had confirmed with medical officials that Patty had been informed of the sonogram results; those revealing a genetic defect in the baby. The affliction is called Anophthalmos; a condition whereby none of the tissue for the eye develops. The baby she was carrying was ‘one-eyed Don’s.

Silent Night

Still panting from the five block sprint, Teddy pulled the ski-mask off and immediately emptied the bag onto the table. He began stacking the bills neatly, a pile for each denomination. As his mother entered the room she recognized the gleam in his eye and could not ignore the recklessness with which he spoke.

“Now that’s a haul—almost six hundred and fifty bucks! Did you see the way the shopkeeper’s hands were shakin’? He couldn’t get that register open fast enough!”

More than an hour had passed since she and Teddy had reached the safety of the apartment, but even now Mimi Jones preferred the secrecy of disguise. She searched her heart for words that might turn a sixteen year old boy’s perception, but those she found were distinctly a mother’s.

“Listen to you talk—like a regular thug. This ain’t no haul—it’s next month’s rent, a new pair of shoes for you, and a warm coat for your sister.”

The boy grimaced as she moved closer and took his face in her hands. She spoke slowly, as if delaying important words might allow them to linger long enough to be absorbed.

“Theodore Jamal Jones, this ain’t who we are!”

Even the sincerity in her words couldn’t change the fact it was who they had become. She never imagined times this difficult—this desperate; when cash from pawned family heirlooms would not be enough. Not a day passed when she didn’t dwell on the catalyst that spawned this downward spiral. In her view, her husband had become a poor influence on the children and eventually she asked him to leave. Quite possibly his reluctance to go had not been selfish in nature, but only that he saw a clearer vision regarding the hardships that lie before them.

Worry saddled with hypocrisy made for a heavy burden. A dark shadow had swallowed her soul and Mimi struggled to break the invisible grip. Where was the change that politicians peddled so freely? Change, they touted, had the power to transform, an opportunity that knocked upon doors. Perhaps she was busy surviving when promise came rapping, but it had left no card, not even a sign it had made an attempt. Maybe this illusive ideal was colorblind as so many things seemed to be; avoiding dark neighborhoods such as theirs.

Even the young boys next door, those she had mothered years ago, had soured in this environment. She cried while watching future businessmen, doctors, and lawyers as they played the roles of thugs, dealers, and thieves. Choosing to cast aside each ideal and moral as their eyes became colder, their faces harder, and the possibility of turning back became slimmer. This loathsome beast bearing the name of poverty had a veracious appetite and where she lived, there were many much too willing to oblige. Mimi refused to facilitate the slow decay of her own children. No longer would she merely fatten them for the kill.

“That’s it, Teddy—no more of this! I’ve slid far enough down this slope, it’s time I dig in my heels and start crawling upward.”

“But Momma, the doctor says you’ll die without the heart medicine. Just one more time—I’ll go alone.”

“Teddy, can’t you see? Part of me died tonight as I watched how readily you took to crime and I don’t need no doctor to tell me that. Promise me, son, no matter what, there’ll be no more.”

Teddy turned away as he felt his eyes burning. Bitter tears carved his cheeks and emotions welled inside.

“I’m the man of the house now and there ain’t nothin’ a man should back down from when it comes to protecting his family. Please, Momma, ask me anything else but I can’t make you that promise.”

So the conversation ended in a stalemate. Mimi knew she could not refute his words as they were her own spewed back at her. Within some circumstances there existed no line between black and white, fine or otherwise, only a void filled with gray.

As the days passed her weakened heart confined her to more days in a worn chair that she would have liked, but Mimi found comfort there. With a ragged throw knitted by her mother around her shoulders, she dozed a good part of the day and welcomed the dreams that infiltrated her rest. She embraced a foreign world so overfilled with joy and love there were no cracks for such demons as worry to slither in. For these small things young Teddy was thankful.

He tucked his sister into bed, covering her with an extra blanket. He also checked to see that his mother was resting peacefully before leaving them that Christmas Eve night. He glanced to an empty corner where a Christmas tree stood in years past and then moved to the thermostat again. The apartment had grown chilly since the heat had been turned off. Teddy pressed an open hand against the thin pane of glass separating his world from theirs. Although the divider appeared translucent it may as well been made of stone, with a large no trespassing sign hanging from it. Many believed the time had come when an affluent white society welcomed the poor black man, but he knew they were liars. Even the aid they provided came at a heavy price. As long as a man was willing to check his dignity and pride at the door they would allow him to beg for a check. How charitable of them; monthly installments to ensure their neighborhoods, churches, and clubs remained snow-white and void of impurities. He would not stand by while they killed his mother. As a naïve and cruel world slept Teddy prepared to provide for his family in the only way he knew.

As easily as he had tucked his young sister in bed, he placed the .45 into his waistband. The cold steel against the small of his back signaled the finality that accompanied such weapons. He didn’t intend upon firing, but his intentions would remain secret as he brandished the weapon boldly.

At some moment during her son’s absence Mimi’s heart simply failed to beat and she exhaled one last breath. Her body was not racked with pain, she quietly slipped away. This eternal state of sleep spared her soul the tortuous details of Teddy’s last battle.

The second time the shop owner’s hand shook with rage instead of fear as he refused to open the register. Teddy leapt over the counter and clubbed the man with the butt of his pistol. In a fit of rage he shook the box open and emptied the contents. As the proprietor began to stir Teddy hurdled the counter and found the door, but as he reached the curb an unexpected hail of gunfire shattered the still night air. He felt the scorching rounds ripping through his flesh seconds before he heard the sound. Teddy stumbled, but the screeching voice of the store owner stoked his adrenaline and carried him as far as the next street light, but at 42nd and Broadway his weakened legs could carry him no further and he fell to the sidewalk.

Teddy had no idea his mother had passed, just as she was unaware he lay on the street dying. A light snow started to trickle from the sky and with a strange urgency he wiped at the flakes that settled on his shivering body. He wanted to ensure that whoever discovered him would see the skin color God had given him. As consciousness began to fade and his breathing became labored he could hear the voice of carolers in the distance. They were joyfully singing ‘White Christmas’. Teddy knew his mother would have been disappointed in his pettiness, but he could not allow those words to haunt him forever. Through a concerted effort he burned his last bit of energy to smile and brush at the snow again. His chest rose and fell one last time as a baritone voice began Silent Night.

Plaid Cactus

My name is Miranda Magee. I’m a third year psychology major and tending bar seemed the perfect opportunity to hone my skills. My patrons openly describe me as well-endowed and wildly popular, I’m certain no correlation. Part of me should be offended by that, but emptying the tip jar at evening’s end has soothed my over-sensitive nature and eventually I accepted the concept that a plunging neck-line seems to prompt mutually beneficial results. However, in my presence, I do insist that customers refrain from the use of my nickname, “Miranda, double D, bit-tit, Magee”.

Tim Wyman is one of the regulars I’ve taken a special interest in. Certainly not in the way he would like, but I’m confident my repeated rejections have not dampened his highly regarded view of himself. Although I believe he has given up any chance of bagging me, he still insists on asking provocative questions. “How slim are the odds that a psychology major should be blessed with such marvelous breasts?” To which I responded, “No less likely that an otherwise attractive man would allow his abrasive comments to ruin any chance he might once have garnered.”

He strolled through the door of “The Plaid Cactus” as if it was any other Wednesday quarter beer night. It turned out to be anything but ordinary. He found his usual empty stool and perched himself there, but the uniqueness of the evening began by his constant scanning of the barroom, almost as if he was seeking someone he couldn’t find.

“Miller draught, Tim?”

Without a hint of hesitation in his voice he promptly ordered a double shot of whiskey. After placing the glass carefully in front of him I began probing. I truly did feel badly for his wife and wanted to see if I could inflict some guilt upon him.

“Your wife must have finally come to her senses and left you.”

Tim grinned nervously and I noticed a slight trembling in his hand as he reached for the drink.

“What—what make you say something crazy like that?”

“Simple—beer indicates you have no specific destination in mind and certainly are in no hurry to get there. Whiskey, on the other hand, tells me you’ve been there before and find the scenery a waste of time.”

Before he could consider my words an attractive blonde in her middle thirties chose the stool next to him. Many a young vixen had fallen victim to Tim’s charm while sitting on that very stool, but she looked capable of fending for herself. After a concerted effort the lighter produced flame and her cigarette began to glow. The smoky haze softened her bleached-blonde hair and hard blue eyes until they almost seemed attractive. Normally Tim would have pounced on her by now, but his mind was obviously elsewhere.

In a perky voice I took the stranger’s order.

“I’ll have a double shot of Crown—easy on the rocks.”

I shot a glance Tim’s way, “Well, there you go…you’ve got a passenger now.”

After retrieving her drink I tossed in a bit of advice.

“Better buckle-up, no time for foreplay, Tim’s in a hurry tonight.”

With a puzzled look on her face the stranger leaned close to him and whispered, “Tim Wyman?”

The smug expression that crossed his face was classic Tim. It didn’t take a roadmap to know he took great satisfaction in discovering a strange doable woman was already familiar with his name. I was certain the surly Tim I knew was on the verge of emerging.

She forced a smile, “I think I’m the one you’re waiting on.”

His furrowed brows indicated disbelief. With a devilish grin his eyes lingered on her sculpted calves and the dress that covered only a third of her upper thigh.

“Darling, on any other night you definitely would be the one I was waiting on, but tonight business comes first.”

It was very out of character for Tim to leave a warm carcass for the occasional scavenger to move in on, but even I could sense the heaviness in the air.

Insistent upon her previous assumption she attempted to convince him. Nodding at her sequin-covered hand bag she tried again.

“I have something for you and I believe you have something for me in return.”

Without saying a word Tim left the stool and made his way toward a vacant table. She gathering both of their drinks and followed him. The table he selected was near enough the hallway leading to the kitchen so without a pang of guilt I posted myself there.

“What is that you have for me?” Tim asked.

She produced a wallet, which he thumbed through quickly before continuing.

“So, you’re telling me she’s dead?”

“Four rounds in the head from a 9mm, just as you specifically requested and now you act surprised by the results.”

I covered my mouth in an effort to mute the gasp. I had long know Tim Wyman’s womanizing ways, but never figured him for murder.

“You watched someone do this, right?”

She smiled convincingly, “Yeah, I watched each of the bullets leave the gun as I looked down the barrel.”

While maintaining eye contact and with practiced precision her hand found his knee and inched upward along his inner thigh, massaging as she went. Her words took on a sultry tone.

“Does it surprise you a woman could be so cold and calculating?”

Tim did seem surprised by her aggression and recoiled until the back of chair abruptly ended his retreat. He reached for the inner pocket of his sport coat, but she placed her hand over his.

“You silly boy, let’s not do this here; someone might be watching, but before we go outside I’d like to know why you had your wife killed.”

Tim tossed a crumpled lottery ticket on the table.

“Over the years my wife and I have grown apart. I’ve recently come into to a large amount of cash and simply didn’t feel like spreading the wealth.”

She removed a pen from his pocket and scrawled something on a napkin before placing both in his hand. She leaned close and twirled his tie slowly with her index finger.

“Tim you are a very naughty boy. Give me a call sometime; I hear Cancun is wonderful this time of year and just in case you’re wondering, I do look smashing in a bikini.”

My eavesdropping had yielded far more than I bargained for. Realizing the urgency of the situation I dialed 911 immediately, but the couple was already headed for the door. The police did arrive in time to find Tim Wyman’s cold body lying just feet from the door of the bar, but it was months before the murderer could be apprehended and tried. Despite what I knew from the inside conversation, reading the details in the newspaper left me with chills.

Mrs. Wyman was not nearly as innocent and naïve as Tim or I believed. She had known about his extramarital follies, the lottery ticket, and the attempt on her life. In fact her murder had not taken place at all. Tim had placed the phone call to have her done in, but the blonde stranger had only used the story to bait her true victim, Tim. She poisoned him in the Plaid Cactus that very evening. Mrs. Wyman had orchestrated the entire thing. For years she questioned his integrity and suspected he was capable of murder. The ticket Tim had purchased was not worth the paper it was printed on, not until Mrs. Wyman replaced it with a forged ticket containing the winning numbers.

Letters From Below

For some reason I'm compelled to re-visit a story I wrote some time ago. I've made some minor changes and apologize up front for the redundency to those that may have already read it.




Perhaps my arrival comes too late. It is quite possible there may be no reconciliation for such things; no chance for peace, but I’ve journeyed across the years prepared to deal with a relationship of neglect. There are some things the mountains of West Virginia cannot hide. My childhood is like an illness gone untreated. I’ve long know the cancerous poison should be cut from my heart. How much should remain—will there be enough to survive?

In the dusty corner of a familiar room my shadow has grown long. Tonight I will ask fear to step aside and embrace the dim flicker of candlelight that watches over me. These tired pictures, dog-eared and yellow, speak loudly of dysfunction. Only one portrait bears saving and I rescue it from the pile, still clinging to the hope it represents.

Tears filled my eyes as my mother’s casket emerged cold and gray, mirroring the low hanging sky. Like giant lumps of charcoal the clouds swallowed the ground in stifling shades of murkiness. The pastor’s eloquently designed words of comfort fell at my feet with no hope of penetrating my wall of protection. His feeble attempts to describe the life of a woman he barely knew offended me deeply, on my mother’s behalf. How could he have failed to praise her adhesive nature? She was a peacemaker, a capable liaison stuck between two polar-opposite slices of humanity, as were my father and I.

Cole Deavers was a hard man, by even the most lenient definition. Proper etiquette required me to address him as, ‘sir’. Earning respect never occurred to him; he simply extracted it by use of his heavy hand. Neither I nor my mother could escape the terrible wrath of those hands. No room in the shack provided a corner dark or deep enough. It was those hands forged from years of toil in the coal mines that struck fear in me. With each alcohol-fueled blow came the erasure of any admiration I ever had for the man.

Mother, I believe out of desperation, made excuses for his Neanderthal-like behavior. Only on one occasion did she confront him directly, and pitifully she wore the markings of that challenge for some weeks. The beating should have been mine. I would have preferred it that way, but regretfully it was for my cause that my mother suffered so greatly.

Her only offense was caring for her son too much. She continued to squirrel away coins, placing them in a Mason jar tucked high atop a pantry shelf; saving to buy a guitar. Only mother was aware of the love I possessed for music and performing, something a third-generation coal miner refused to wrap his mind around. She was shocked to find the jar empty. My father never admitted his culpability, expecting us to believe the week-long binge was purely coincidental. A man can forgive a great many things, but the larceny of another man’s dreams shall never be forgiven wholly.

Upon graduation my bags were packed for Nashville. I approached my father, who despite the rising sun remained comatose in his easy chair. More than a dozen of his closest friends, disguised in the form of ‘Old Style’ cans, steadfastly by his side. In good conscience I cannot relay the ensuing blue streak that flew so freely from my father’s lips. Also I cannot find words to accurately describe the rage that distorted his face as he demanded I address him as ‘Sir’.

With both fists doubled I prepared to defend my decision. I fought hard to keep my voice calm, but my mind gave way to the repressed emotions of seventeen years of hell.

“‘Sir’, is an indicator of respect, perhaps had I know the wonderful man my mother fell in love with, I could do that, but that was before you climbed into the bottle! The empty man you’ve become has not earned my respect!”

Briefly he struggled with equilibrium before finding his feet, but one well-placed punch on that protruding square jaw sent him back to the comfort of his chair. He gripped the chair arm, his knuckles white and ready to dispense justice, but before he could respond or react I spewed my final words to my father.

“You go ahead and double up, but I ain’t no boy or defenseless woman to beat on as you please! I’ve got seventeen years of hurt and disappointment you never saw fit to deal with and if you make a move towards me you’re going to carry some of my pain with you for a long time!”

In retrospect my hasty actions and vengeful words brought me little comfort, yet they did allow me to make my necessary escape from these mountains. Insincere apologies during brief moments of sobriety couldn’t heal the open wounds, nor could ten years of separation and a successful music career in Nashville. Sadly I must confess I had no intension of leaving the bright city lights to return to this dark place I sit tonight; not until I received a letter from a nurse that was caring for my father. As I read it aloud once again, this particular setting seems more appropriate than I imagined.

Dear Walker,
You don’t know me personally, but I’m a nurse caring for your father. He expressed a desire to set things straight before moving on and begged me to transfer his words from a hand-scratched note. I’m sure you’re unaware he was involved in an accident recently. He and four other miners were trapped in a collapse. Although they were rescued after several days, your father’s sustained life threatening injures and will probably pass before you read this:

Walker, I now find myself a prisoner in a world of dark, much the same as I held hostage your mother and yourself. There are so many things I need to apologize for. I’m sorry for the empty Mason jar in the pantry—so many containers filled with hope I raided, but I’m proud of you son. Occasionally I hear you singing on the radio which makes me smile.

The air is getting scarce, but I’d like to make one last request. ‘Sir’, if you can find it in your heart, please visit my grave and sing me a song. For I don’t believe my destination will be the same as you and your mother. I fear I’m only trading one dark lonely place for another.
Cole

Striking the match, I watch its temporary flash illuminate the room; its healing flare igniting the letter placed beneath the photos. Ever-widening flames creep up the curtain and engulf the walls. Satisfaction consumes me as I watch my past burn in the embers.

The squeaky screen door wishes me farewell as I take refuge on the rotting porch and strum my guitar in honor of my father's last request. The chords' lament leaves me to contemplate one nagging thought. Perhaps some day I’ll be the bigger man, but for now I suppose my father and I are much alike.


Burn

“Tonight I’m lettin’ go
of all the painful dreams.
They’ve eaten through my soul;
moved on to tender things.

I’ve laid out all the wrongs
upon this wooden floor.
Tonight I’m burnin’ dreams
Slamming shut the open door.

Chorus:

I’ll burn the past tonight
that holds me back today.
My soul’s atakin’ flight
It’s time I fly away.
I’ll burn the past tonight
that holds me back no more
my soul atakin’ flight
from a past that haunts no more.