Poetic Justice

Thought For The Day

2012-02-09T08:02:00.000-06:00

Being bitter or better is a daily choice. There are easy days when the sun shines bright, but more prevalent are those days we can't outrun the storm. When our minds tell us the best we can do is curl up and feed the fury. All of us wrestle with idea of complete submission, but I pray that in those quiet moments we are still enough to hear our heart's whisper of rainbows and promise. There is not much middle ground here, we either choose to see tomorrow as a miserable collection of yesterdays or the blessing that I believe it to be. Nothing guaranteed, simply a life extended by twenty-four precious hours, and the opportunity not to reverse or regret decisions made, but to analyze and improvise, to be better even in one small way tomorrow than we were yesterday.

Some Days

2011-12-26T08:54:00.000-06:00

Some days just start upside down. I ain’t talkin’ about a jackleg at the drive-thru skimpin’ on the scalded milk in your white-chocolate mocha. More a life-style that leaves you wakin’ up at the bottom of a dumpster every morning, hands and feet bound. There’s an undetermined amount of garbage between you and fresh air, and as much as it turns your stomach you know the only way to get there is to start eatin’. Makes you wanna hurl most days, but don’t let anyone tell ya being a detective in the South Bronx ain’t without its perks.
A junk-yard dog ain’t much for paradin’ around at a show—prefers to run at his own pace, bites at the leash that binds him to another’s will. White-gloved ladies with floppy-brimmed hats know the only way he’s takin’ home ‘Best of Breed’ is if he eats the competition. A dog like that does what he knows to do in order to see another sunset. Granny Donatelli taught me about the kind of tenacity that boils from within—that it’s OK to be that kind of dog.

In nursery-rhyme terms ninety-three pounds of sugar and spice ain’t nothin’ to fear but it’s a game changer when you’re ten years old and that gnarled thumb and forefinger latches onto your cheek like a pair of dollar-bin vice-grips. Survivin’ the clench meant you done only half the work. The shake that followed consisted of a painful and vigorous thrashing that in some perverted way brought her great pleasure. But come to think of it, wouldn’t the world be a better place if all ten year old boys understood the importance of bringing their grannies pleasure?

Professional wrestlin’ was the steak and taters of grannies television diet. Even as a young boy I figured if two half-dressed fat dudes wanted to slither around pressin’ private parts it shoulda happened behind closed doors, but I came to appreciate what wrestlin’ done for her. While nobody was lookin’ she climbed out of the shell the world saw and become as real to me as my young psyche could handle. After you seen it once you learned to recognize the warnin’ signs. Things was headed south when her eyes went glassy and the corners of her mouth got shiny. Only once had I seen such a display of raw aggression, but had trouble reconciling the two. Comparing your granny to the neighbors Rottweiler bordered on sacrilege of the highest order. Let’s call it an early brush with reality; the day I stood in my bedroom window and watched Moses display in convincing fashion why a three-legged cat should never venture far from home. Granny and the most feared dog in the neighborhood bore undeniable similarities. Both had jowls that quivered with anticipation and a mindset that left reason two blocks back. Like the spring-loaded hips of Moses, Granny would lean forward in her rocker and outta nowhere would loose a string of curse words that would make a Turret sufferer blush six shades of red. As profound and disturbing as the episodes were the whole thing lasted no more than a few moments. Once the referee accepted the submission Granny fell limp in her chair, like an expressionless shell of a human body after an alien abduction. In those eerie moments before granny came back to me completely, I knew exactly how the priest in the Exorcist felt. I too wanted to do somethin’ to help, but the thought of her head spinnin’ around 360 and spewing pea-soup left me frozen in time.

Some people might frown on a young boy learnin’ to curse and spit tobacco from his paternal grandmother, but if you wanna learn to read you gotta go to the library. Granny was real—no pretenses—right down to the ability to fart like a three-hundred pound man with an unholy penchant for chili dogs. Even today her bits of wisdom live on. She reminded me there’s at least a dozen ways to skin a cat. It was her way of tellin’ me there’s always more than one path to a destination.

Cops are a strange breed, believin’ justice comes in all forms. So long as it comes timely, ain’t any of ‘em bad. Not one standin’ on the dock was frettin’ over the prospect that justice arrived in the form of an extended nap in the East river. Alfonzo “The Bull” Luchesse was stiff and lifeless as we fished him out of the sludge, and all I could hear is Ganny’s voice sayin’, “Dead is dead ain’t it?”

The Bronx white-pages had fewer names than those who legitimately wanted to see “The Bull” on a one-way trip outta this world. Business owners tired of being shaken down, rivals lookin’ for a cut of the drug traffic, and jilted women. Alfonzo showed no prejudice when it came to the ladies; he loved them all equally lousy.

After floatin’ a few questions around the neighborhood I decided to pay a visit to a particularly buxom brunette named Bridget Bardello. With a name like that you’d think she’d scratch out a livin’ doing somethin’ pretty—a florist or somethin’. Fact was she did work with arrangements; choreographed all her own dance moves. Bridget hit the stage hungry-like from start to finish. Straddling a shiny pole running from floor to ceiling she doled out her magic in small, tantalizing doses. There were other dancers in the place, but Bridgette was the roller-coaster that kept ‘em standin’ in line.

Nothin’ says classy like a flashin’ neon arrow, but I suppose the clientele slithering around the Rumpus Room weren’t as much into ambiance as amenities. The night was all played out with the exception of a couple lizards staring at leftovers through blood-shot eyes. I approached the corner table and slapped a bottle of Thunderbird down between the old dog and his bone. Bridgette looked surprised a guy could drop her mid-sentence and split for the door. Did I mention the fact I ain’t much on ice-breakers?

“No offense, Baby, but I think he found you coutin’ ones from last night’s take a turn-off. Didn’t look like a math major, but between the two, he figured the Thunderbird was the guaranteed ride.”

I expected her to be upset over the prospect of lost business, but Bridgette was a pro. She worked men like Charlie Daniels eats up a fiddle on a Saturday night.

“So Bridget, word on the street is you and The Bull had a public fallin’ out the night he went for a swim. There anything you need to get off your chest?”

“Just these pasties—you offerin’ to help?”

Her response came between drags on a Virginia Slim, accompanied by a giggle. She stood and saddled up close figurin’ the odds were slim I could resist those babies waggin’ in my face like two-dollar lollipops. There I was in the middle of a gentlemen’s club after hours, pressed against a firecracker like Bridgette. A man could get lost with no chance of findin’ his way back to sensible ‘til sunrise, but I had a job to do.

“Sugar, I’m not opposed to a girl short on brains making her livin’ by horizontal means, but if you’re fishin’ tonight you got the wrong bait for this cat. Don’t tell me the fragrance you’re wearin’, let me guess. I’m desperately torn between Dumpster Diva and Heavenly-Ho. And as far as your pasties go, I’m like the hometown grocery…don’t do plastic.”

I glanced in the men’s room mirror and again at the photo. Provoking Bridgette into slapping me across the face was easy, and although the pattern did match the bruised cheek of Alfonzo Luchesse it wasn’t enough. So like many a gent gone before I left the Rumpus Room unfilled—but not without a piece of evidence I hoped to be substantial. Four-inch stiletto heels brought Bridgette to five foot nothin’, but man did she pack a wallop—enough force to break the clasp on her bracelet.

I suppose he noticed the hand-print on my cheek and the crooked smile that accompanies a jacked-jaw, but good friend don’t ask those kinda questions. Virgil Valvano adjusted the jewelers loop for a closer look.

“Sloppy craftsmanship…nothin’ I’d want my name attached to, but the rocks are quality. I’m certain I sold ‘em. Let me check my files.”

The prospect of Virgil keepin’ records made me smile like a homely girl standin’ at the punch bowl eyein’ the last geek plastered to the wall. In the ten years since our initial introduction Virgil had done good for himself. As an undercover agent I had arranged a rendezvous in a dark alley off 142nd to buy a 100 grand worth of illegal diamonds. With both of us bloody and bruised our dance ended with Virgil sporting some shiny new wrist-ware. Like any good date I introduced him to the back seat of my car—face-first with my boot planted in his backside for leverage. In exchange for rolling over on his supplier in Angola the prosecutor cut him a break. I had to admit, reformed look good on Virgil.

He returned to the counter grinnin’ like a shit-eating dog waiting to teach his pup a new trick.

“You’re a bold man—flashin’ around fifty-grand worth of ice like it was CZ.”

Dropping the hardware into the inside pocket of my jacket I spent a solid minute prayin’ I hadn’t done an injustice to my favorite pair of boxers.

“You sold a house-worth of diamonds to someone and don’t recall that off the top of your head?”

I allowed the cold steel of steel of my sidearm jammed against his cheek to signal the deterioration of my mood.

“Don’t play with me, Virgil!”

“I ain’t playin’. Fifty-grand ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at but business is real good these days.”

I nodded toward the security camera in the corner.

“Virgil, tell me you got a popcorn maker in the back and can’t wait to show me some video.”

Granny always said, ‘You can’t make chicken-salad outta chicken shit.’ The buyer in the video was dolled up like the Queen of England, but the stiletto heels had enough bling to make a blind man beg for a second pair of shades. Bridgette Bardello and I definitely needed to have a more intimate chat so as I could wrap my mind around just how much disposable income a stripper has these days.

A few hours of shut-eye proved costly—it always does. Over a couple of drinks the owner of the Rumpus Room told me Bridgette didn’t show for her shift. Her dressing room was as empty as Monday morning church.

I spent the next two days trackin’ down extravagant purchases with no common theme. Other than the fact Bridgette and the ‘Bull’ had a butt-load of cash and didn’t mind spillin’ it in all corners of the city. On day three I woke feelin’ like an old tom cat humpin’ a ball of yarn—I was getting’ chafed.

Midmorning I got a phone call from the coroner. DNA results showed the body we pulled from the river was not Alfonso, but his twin brother Arnold. Talk about night and day. I can only imagine the scrappin’ that went on in their poor mother’s womb; the indigestion caused by a gangster and priest rentin’ the same space. None of it made sense.

Thought for the Day

2011-11-29T08:28:00.000-06:00

Take a picture of someone you love today. Carry it with you and let it remind
you life is fragile, that you should treat every day with care, and you get out
of life only what you are willing to invest in others.

The Glue

2011-09-17T15:15:00.001-05:00

As the clock rolled into the second hour, boredom spread to every corner of the sanctuary. Even the pastor’s wife, Irene, appeared powerless against the forbidden meeting of eyelids and the sudden twitches that accompany the uneasy entry from consciousness to rest. The occasional snap of Mrs. Hallock’s gum transformed into a metronome gone bad; a feverish pace I feared might sprain her tongue or prematurely and irreversibly wear the enamel from her teeth. Just twenty minutes earlier the Johnson twins were content to snap the back of each other’s ears with rubber bands. Now one lay across his mother’s lap and his mirror image over his fathers. Each set of eyes glazed over and mouths agape, like a poisonous gas had incapacitated them. Not even the mischief and energy of five year old hellions could withstand Pastor Wieland’s sermon. As for me the pain was real and tangible, settling below my beltline. For a moment I contemplated turning to the row behind for verification that my tailbone had bore completely through the impenetrable oak pew.

A new kind of restlessness sprouted as Pastor Wieland began sputtering his traditionally prolonged prayer. Before the much anticipated hearty Amen, I offer a prayer of my own. “God, if at all possible, allow his mind to be too consumed with his message and its purpose to hear the collective sigh from his parishioners. Without question the pastor’s a bit antiquated in his thinking and preaching style, but Harwood Grove would be an emptier place without him. He is a faithful servant and a fixture in our community; bless him and Irene fully—and please nudge Irene so that she wakes from her slumber before he lifts his head. Amen.”

From the pastor’s perspective, sneaking in a little work on a Sunday afternoon was indistinguishable from using a butter knife to carve a nun’s heart from her chest while she sleeps. He would carefully avoid lending words to those lines of thinking, but a man of such conviction and strict adherence to the Word need not voice his every thought for us to know them. One could search long and hard and never discover an ounce of hypocrisy with respect to his sermons and how he conducted his daily life. Pastor Wieland made the ideal neighbor, but only one home separating his from mine left me nervous—afraid of the incongruity he might observe in my life with regard to words and actions.

Certainly the ‘old money’ he and Irene descended from would afford the ability to live in relative luxury at the edge of town, but that is precisely the point. Irene found great purpose in staying home to raise her boys to be good men, and her husband opted for the meager salary and general scrutiny of a small town pastor. Together they displayed a sense of purpose that transcended collecting worldly reward. Some in the community busied themselves with the matter of interest earned on inheritance, but anyone with half a brain and one eye saw it spread throughout the community and I suspect much of the principle found its way there also. The pastor joked about why they had not settled in the country, claiming to have heard a clear message from God. “How should a shepherd watch his flock from a distant field? He cannot—he must take residence among them so that he can keep a careful eye on the wolves that would destroy them.” I suspect God trained his eye not only for wolves, but also lambs with a mind to stray.

Finding no use for the last bite of a grilled-cheese sandwich, I tossed it on the saucer and went about clearing the table. The window over the sink provided a clear view of my garden—now a disturbing scene of chaos. Like watching a funeral procession of a loved one, I dug deep to recall memories of better times. The arrival of spring ushered in an overwhelming sense of renewal where the smell of freshly tilled earth settled in my nostrils and a sense of accomplishment as I surveyed the rows of carefully planted seed. Months old now, the memory was stale. In its absence a sense of guilt and neglect settled heavy. I was the shepherd sitting on a hill too far away to reach those things entrusted to his care. The garden represented only my most recent shortcoming, and I suspected someday soon full disclosure would require me to gather the courage to check the rear-view mirror of days past. Presently I found it too painful to examine tiny images of opportunities slipped away.

A wise man would have chosen a flame-thrower, and I contemplated it until I surmised that inquiring at the hardware store about the rental of such an item of destruction would surely prompt a call to local police. Instead I gathered an arsenal of tools from the shed and entered the battleground. No sooner had the first beads of sweat formed on my brow a familiar voice startled me.

“John Benton—I certainly hope deep beneath those weeds there’s an ox in the ditch.”

Pastor Wieland chuckled.

Small talk seemed my only choice for buying time.

“Pastor, what brings you out this afternoon?”

I half-expected him to say the sound of the devil’s tools clanking so near his home woke him from a dead sleep.

“Just heading out for my afternoon walk and thought I’d see how things were with you. What did you think of my sermon this morning?”

“Your sermon—I thought it was long…..I mean long overdue.”

Shifting into full recovery mode, I hoped a few ripe tomatoes and cucumbers would serve as reparation for hasty words.

“Pastor I was sitting in my easy chair after lunch resting peacefully for the day—being Sunday and all. But I began thinking about how displeasing it must be to God to see these beautiful tomatoes go to waste. Do you think you can see past the fact that I just happened to rescue them from certain destruction on the Sabbath?”

His frown melted into a smile.

“Those are beautiful tomatoes, and Irene hasn’t fixed cucumbers and onions in quite some time. I suppose if I pray over them long enough they’d be fit for nourishment.”

Pastor set the vegetables aside. A smirk appeared on my face as I visualized a cat dropped from a rooftop—I felt I recovered reasonably well.

“Back to my sermon, John. Often I feel I’m delivering a general message to the masses, but on rare days I get the distinct impression my sermon is directed at only a handful, and on even rarer days I feel God is funneling my words to one very specific heart. Today I felt you were the only one in the sanctuary. Did you feel it too?”

I had felt it completely. I was the catcher repeatedly calling for a change-up, but God was on the mound shaking off my signs, throwing fast balls directly at my heart. As of yet I couldn’t admit the impact to myself. I needed time to interpret the message and how to properly apply those principles to my life.

“Pastor, you sure it wasn’t Amos Little sitting a row over that was your target? He looked pretty convicted to me.”

“You know, John, maybe you’re correct. I think I’ll head that way. Thanks for the produce.”

Before the pastor reached the edge of my lawn I asked God to forgive me for throwing the trail. I also prayed fervently that Amos wouldn’t return the favor by sending the Pastor back my way.

Even though the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the temperature hovered in the high seventies I lit a fire. My insides were chilly. The pastor’s message dwelt on past indiscretions and conflicts, how easily small words and deeds are perceived by those wronged as more significant than the offender recognizes. That there is no statute of limitations on wrongs needing righted and apologies that lodged and died during the thought process. Reminding us that the road to hell is paved with good intentions and the time for action was yesterday.

The dancing of flames is a mystery of sorts, one moment swaying in unison and another battling to determine sufficient air space for coexistence. If God intended us to be solitary creatures we would have been born in cages, without mouths to speak, ears to listen, hearts to feel, and arms to hug. Each time I am still enough to absorb it, the vastness of his plan for humanity awes me. With night draped over me fully and fire fading to ashes another bitter truth rolled over me with all the subtly of a locomotive. None of us is guaranteed even a single second of tomorrow, all the plans we push off to another day could implode in an instant. How will we feel when He finds us lingering hands full of nothing but excuses?

“Hey Marcus, this is John, tell the boss I’m taking the next couple of days off. Not sure if I have any vacation time left, but pay or no pay I have important business. In his airtight world of self-importance it will be a tough sell, but smile wide when you tell him he’s been trumped by a bigger boss. Thanks, man.”

At seven a.m. the aisles of Nuemann’s Market were practically empty. Truth was business became scarce altogether since the big-box stores opened up. Yet Neil Neumann continued to struggle to make something of what his father and grandfather identified as a vital service to this community. I respected him immensely for that.

“Hey, Neil, got a minute to talk?”

“Nothing but time these days…business ain’t good, John. Took a second shift job at the factory to keep things afloat and Jenny ain’t too happy about it. Keeps pushing me to close the doors, but I just can’t turn my back on what pop and granddad built.”

With little warning sunken eyes lost in the shadows of dark circles began to leak. Thoughts from the night before prompted a reach across the counter. I used my God-given arms for hugging and prepared both my ears to listen. Neil needed hope and encouragement beyond what I could provide, so we prayed silently over the meat counter.

“Sometimes God has a way of altering our paths, fixing broken ways of thinking. It just occurred to me that maybe he was reserving that lonely stretch of empty pew beside me specifically for you and Jenny. Talk it over with her and maybe I’ll see you on Sunday.”

After I offered Neil my handkerchief I meant to say what needed said.

“You remember when your dad ran the store, how all the boys stopped here every morning before and after school, picking up a pack of gum or handful of candy? Candy meant nothing to me. At that time my love was baseball. I idolized every facet of the game; the sounds and smells of the ball park, the players that were bigger than life. They had a way of transporting me to where my mind needed to be.”

I retrieved a pack of baseball cards from my pocket and placed them on the counter.

“Don’t remember the exact date I stole them, just that I did. In the following days and weeks I couldn’t muster the testicular fortitude to bring them back. The look of disappointment in your dad’s eyes would have crushed me. But in all these years I also couldn’t bring myself to open them.”

Beside the wrinkled and yellowed pack of cards I laid a fifty dollar bill and continued my explanation.

“Figure a dime for the cards and forty-three years of interest, ought to be close. It’s amazing how heavy an ounce worth of cards became though the years. Unfortunately, Neil, some things can never be made fully right. Because of my hesitation and head-strong ways your dad has already passed. It doesn’t have to occur today or tomorrow, but I need you to grant me forgiveness on his behalf.”

I traveled no more than a half a block down Main when Neil burst through the door after me.

“Hey, John, there’s a Mickey Mantle rookie card in here!”

I lifted my head skyward to find a deeper shade of blue than a moment earlier, and an irrevocable smile spread across my face as I called back to him.

“It belongs to you, Neil—it always has.”

As I walked northward down Main the steps came easier. For the first time in decades it felt good to be moving toward something, instead of hovering or in retreat. The subtleties of the sidewalk consumed me, in particular the division between each section. Without the one before or after it was simply a concrete pad, an island of isolation, having no beginning point and leading nowhere. Every life needs a destination.

Stopping by the flower shop seemed the right thing to do. It could never be enough, but I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. With bouquet in hand I rounded the corner and the sun ducked behind a dark bank of clouds and shadows melted into pools below grade. Landscape surrounding the place was immaculate, entertainment they shipped in top notch, and the level of care impeccable—all of it cleverly designed to absolve us from guilt. We would sleep sounder if a loved one stayed somewhere with a peaceful or regal name like Shady Acres, Bickford Place, or The Regency, but fancy names fooled no one. Each of the residents carried forlorn expressions like they were standard issue, a byproduct of realizing that for the lion’s share this place was the last stop.

I never intended to stop coming. Certain aspects were easy, like looking past how time twisted the body and expressions of the woman who raised me. In a strange but comforting way, reciprocating those things she had done for me so many years earlier; reading a book out loud, brushing her hair, stroking her hand, they all seemed to draw the arcs together and complete the circle of life. But sadly and without warning I reached the limit of my inner-strength. On a rainy Wednesday afternoon she could no longer recall my name, that I was her firstborn—that I ever existed at all. Selfishly I pressed until she became so confused and agitated she chased me from her room. How absurd it sounds to say hurt kept me away for this long, but I am at a complete loss to describe this horrible thing that swooped into our lives, gobbled up something as sacred as memories, and in its wake left behind an indescribable emptiness.

I arranged the flowers in a vase on the nightstand, and drawing up a chair I was content watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept. A loud noise in the hallway caused her eyelids to flutter before slamming open. She seemed less concerned about a stranger sitting bedside than with the contents of the vase. Her eyes lightened and the corners of her mouth lifted.

“Carnations are my favorite—how did you know?”

I grinned and shrugging my shoulders.

“I thought every woman loved carnations?”

“Perhaps they do, but they hold a very special meaning in my heart.”

Her eyes drifted from the present into the past and she began telling a story I’d heard a hundred times before, but was starved to hear again.

“My late husband brought me carnations on our very first date. We lived in the country and he never was good with directions, you know. He was to arrive at 5:00 pm, but somehow got lost. By 5:45 I was busy trying to manage the prospect of being stood up. Just after 6:00 the bell rang and I swung open the door and my entire world changed forever. Out of all the prospective women out there, such a beautiful man arrived on my doorstep wishing to spend time with just me. From that moment forward, when in his company, time completely lost any relevance at all.

We sat by the pond talking for hours before he worked up the courage to hold my hand. He was a strong man and his hands were calloused from farm work, but he held my hand like I imagine God holding a dove. It was harvest season and he had to leave much earlier than he wished, but as he walked me home he explained the meaning of the three different colored carnations. Light red represented admiration, and he was already consumed by it today. The white stood for pure love; he said that he firmly believed we would discover it together in the months to follow. Finally the last carnation was dark red and symbolized the deepest love and affection one can feel for another. Something so splendid it had to be spread across decades to fully appreciate the expanse and depth of its beauty. I blushed as he told me he wanted to share that gift with me. While the sun was busy settling into the horizon that evening, I hid his words in my heart, and even though he’s passed now because of him my heart remains full forever.”

She stopped speaking and stared at the flowers again, as if they were a portal between yesterday and today. She blinked several time before turning to me.

“I apologize for boring you with such a story, and I’m very sorry my condition doesn’t allow me to remember people and names. I didn’t catch yours.”

Tending the corners of my eyes I composed myself and searched for a proper response.

“Names are kind of overrated aren’t they? If someone decided long ago carnations were called something else, or if they had no name at all, would they mean any less to you? Let’s keep it simple—just call me Sonny and I’ll call you Ma if it doesn’t bother you. I enjoyed your story and would like to make a promise to visit once a week if you’ll have me.”

The way she busied herself fiddling with a button on her gown made me nervous about the proposal.

“Sonny—you’re right about names. You seem like a nice enough fellow, and being a good listener is very important in life. I think I’d enjoy your company on a regular basis.”

As I left Bickford Place that evening I noticed someone sitting on the park bench just beyond the door. Twilight didn’t allow for positive identification, but his words to me did.

“Well, John—I can tell you for certain it wasn’t Amos Little God was speaking to yesterday morning, but I think you already knew that. How’s your mother doing?”

“Pastor Wieland, thanks for being the glue that holds people like me close and long enough to God that we develop a lasting bond.”

We shared the bench until the moon hovered high above us. Spoken words were minimal, but I remember hearing something very profound that night that still sustains me, and I’m almost certain it wasn’t the pastor voice I heard whispering.

“Humility is life’s great equalizer, a brutal reminder you are only a renter in this world. Continuing to wrestle with things beyond your control exposes the flaws of the human mind and spirit, but I love you anyway. Have you considering that losing your mother-son relationship was required for you to discover her as a friend? Friendship is what she needs most in her last days. John, I need you to leave here tonight feeling you salvaged those things within your power to affect, and isn’t that the way every day should end?”

Pain-Eater

2011-07-09T10:57:00.003-05:00

Her words trailed off as her friend drifted closer to sleep. Laura released her hand and placed it by her side. Lifting from the chair she slipped quietly toward the patio door. A breath of fresh air would provide a welcomed relief from the distinct smell of death. It wasn’t overwhelming yet but the presence was building.

A sudden spell of dizziness and nausea washed over her. She gripped the rail with both hands and stared at the small amount of supper that now lay spoiled on the grass. The side effects of chemo were tightening their grip and Laura knew the worst was yet to come. Like a fog hanging in the back of her mind, she realized this particular battle was potentially more than she could take on. In the end—if it was greater, it only seemed fitting things should end where they began.

The sun hung low in the Wisconsin sky, clinging to the remnants of today as if it had a reverent fear of what lay on the other side. Billowy shadows crowded the adjacent hillside. With respect to shape the darker counterparts were an exact replica, but a colorless rendition could never do justice to the oaks standing guard over the hillside. The incline rose gently beyond the creek until it melted into the shadows near the guardian’s feet. Such perfect imagery sparked memories of a magical place where two young girls, hand and hand, skipped through grass that shifted and waved like ripples on the ocean. A thousand times she walked the dusty lane to Sharon’s place where they sipped tea from tiny cups, giggled at the names of young boys they had no interest in, and waded in the creek when the spring rains came.

That particular day in May the duo wandered further down the creek than Sharon’s mother allowed. Their actions far removed from disobedience or rebellion; more a silent agreement that some missions in life are greater than any boundary. The blackbird’s wing was injured. Each time Sharon cupped her hands the bird fluttered further along. When Laura looked back the two-story home had faded into a speck on the hillside, and even birds grow tired of chase. Laura was certain the adventure had come to a disappointing end when the bird left the confines of the creek banks for refuge in a mulberry tree. Undeterred, Sharon ascended the clay bank with her eyes fixed squarely ahead. Using exposed tree roots for hand-holds she propelled herself quickly up the face. The two sounds were inseparable; the snap of a root bowed past the breaking point, and Sharon’s shriek. Laura’s heart raced as she heard the subsequent thud and watched the muddy water surrounding her friend’s foot take on a crimson hue. Moments melted into millenniums. Steep banks on either side were like brick walls a hundred feet tall and every moment that passed seemed to draw them closer to touching. Propelled by an urgent sense to escape the walls, Laura grabbed Sharon’s arm and dragged her to a shallow spot. Sharon gasped, struggling to reclaim the wind that had been knocked from her. Thoughts of broken bones and ruptured innards sent Laura’s mind reeling, but once gasps gave way to quiet sobs a sense of peace washed over her. She wet a handkerchief, placed it over Sharon’s eyes, and gave specific instructions to envision the wounded bird. Laura examined her friend’s foot and discovered a shard of glass extending from it.

“It’s going to hurt for a second, but I promise you’ll be alright after that. Have you caught the bird yet?”

With a firm tug the worst was over, but the wound was angry and ugly. Laura pressed the separated pieces of flesh together to slow the flow.

“Sharon, you’re going to be fine….good as new I promise.”

Laura had no idea of the power of her words or in her touch. When she removed her fingers from the wound only a scratch remained. Laura stared at the crusted blood on her hand; she knew what she had seen. She never told anyone about the gaping wound turned scrape in a matter of moments, and especially about the mysterious gash that developed in the arch of her own foot within a matter of hours.

Fifty-seven summers had come and gone; the scar barely visible, but what transpired in those few hours would shape a lifetime. At the age of nine Laura discovered her gift. She supposed it was a gift, but not at all like she remembered Reverend Michael’s referencing in his sermons. Mrs. Turner baked the most amazing pies and every Wednesday she took six of them to the homeless shelter and no one disputed that a voice as angelic as Daisy Clark’s belonged in the choir. It seemed so ironic that even in the house of the lord those believing in miracles were few and far between. Miracle, in the biblical sense, was too strong a word. The symptoms, pain and suffering did not simply evaporate. It was more a transference to her own person. Through the years Laura discovered there were few limitations to what could she could absorb. A tiny hoot-owl colliding with a glass window and falling lifeless to the ground produced a migraine lasting a few short days, but there were others that left her bed-bound for weeks, and some remnants simply refused to leave. Laura took comfort in knowing the limp she carried on her right side allowed a young man somewhere in Maine, barely in his thirties, to live a relatively normal life. Had she not been driving that dark road she knew his head-on collision would have been fatal. After so many years and multiple encounters she still didn’t know what to call it, but reluctantly settled on referring to herself as a pain-eater.

Laura returned to find Sharon sleeping peacefully so she began straightening the living room. Since Sharon’s lymphoma diagnosis and subsequent treatment, it really had become a place for all things, portable hospital bed and toilet in adjacent corners. Laura sensed it was more a ‘dying room’. She inhaled deeply and the smell was stronger now, but yet she smiled. The day Laura arrived; the two lifelong friends had nearly come to blows. Laura wanted to sleep on the couch because of the proximity to her friend, but in no uncertain terms Sharon disagreed.

“You will stay in my old bedroom, or I’ll call the Sheriff and ask him to remove you from my home! We’re good friends you know…the Sheriff and I. Not another peep…it’s bad enough you came here to look after me. You’ll not have a sore back doing it!”

Laura lifted the photo from the coffee table, wiping the dust from the edges of the frame. The Sheriff and Roy were best of friends. Laura knew what it felt like to have a forever-friend, but wondered how awful it must be to lose a husband of thirty years. Standing at Sharon’s side at the alter she recalled the moment they were presented as man and wife. A smiling of their eyes announced to the entire world that Roy and Sharon were made for each other. Now Roy rested no more than two-hundred yards away; lying still beneath ground at the foot of the tallest oak. A simple stone for simple man he said. Laura supposed if she had married she would have wanted someone like Roy. There was one proposal of marriage, but Laura knew that a commitment like that would produce second thoughts when it came to the use of her gift, and she could not live with herself if even one time she passed an opportunity to use the power God had given her.

Laura needed to finish what she had come to do. She scooped Sharon’s hand. Closing her eyes she pushed her mind to reflections of days gone by, but skipping on the hillside while the sun caressed the faces of innocent girls was not nearly enough to dull what flowed from one hand to the other. The wrinkles around her eyes tightened as she focused on drawing the poison away.

“Stop it!”

Sharon was awake now, and visibly agitated.

“Don’t touch my hand again!”

Laura laughed nervously, “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because I’m fairly certain of what you’re doing, and I won’t allow it to happen. While I was sleeping I had a dream. God’s coming for me and he isn’t far away. Close enough that I hear his voice clearly. It’s time for me to be with Roy, and he told me he still has plans for you.”

Laura matched the intensity of her accuser managing to lie with a straight face.

“Don’t be silly, dear…it was just a dream.”

Sharon wiggled until the pillows beneath fit the small of her back.

“All of the pieces are falling in place now. You’ve had this gift since we girls, haven’t you—this power to heal people?”

Laura fought against them, but the swirling of emotions brought on bitter tears as Sharon unraveled secrets of the past.

“In the creek that day—I fell twenty feet, and barely a scratch. When you were staying with us after Roy Jr. was born. Senior was at work and I was in shock because my two-week old son stopped breathing. You took him from my arms and rushed to the other room. You told me you gave him CPR, but he was dead wasn’t he….until you brought him back?”

The room grew still as death itself, while flashes of scenes and people played in Laura’s head. Like a nightmare, as it always did, a tiny face moved out of the collage and hung in place until the image broke her completely.

“I would have given anything to have been here for Roy Jr. the second time!”

Sharon motioned her close.

“Here’s what I know. In a world where it is difficult to illicit a wave from a neighbor let alone a stranger, you are willing to give all you have to others. You gave me eight precious years with my boy before he passed…he was born with a bad heart. I know there are scores of others that you cared for. It is an unbelievable gift you’ve been granted—loving people like Jesus. Get it out of your head that you have been sent here to save me from what God has planned. He’s not finished with you, he told me exactly that. Move out of the way and let him take me now.”

Laura missed her friend intensely, but better Roy's stone had finally received its mate. She supposed in certain cases letting go is the kindest thing we can do.

Laura pushed her walker over the gap where the elevator met the tile floor. She was broken and tired, but never failed to smile. Just two days shy of her ninety-fifth birthday Laura fell lifeless on the sidewalk. She was far enough down the street that none of the workers at the children’s hospital saw her go, but they all remarked how wonderful it was to see her hugging and squeezing all of the young patients, steadying each of their trembling hands with hers, while she whispered the importance of faith and hope into ears that were starving for such things.

For many of you this story will seem foolish, sorry you wasted time reading it. It is purely fictional, but the amount of faith you possess will determine the believability of it. I whole-heartedly believe God places people in our lives for specific reasons and often only for a season. Who am I to question the ability and means of our Creator? You decide how the story ends, but in my version the sky opens and an exceedingly bright light accompanies a band of angels coming to retrieve one of their own. Perhaps one of them removes their wings and fixes them on Laura’s back, taking on human form to stay behind in her place.

A Better Man (Part 1)

2011-05-28T08:34:00.000-05:00

For a man with two first names, Kenny Joe Southerland seemed like a nice enough guy, but I’m pretty sure that’s what everyone assumes when they first meet a college roommate. At least in Vegas the odds are plainly posted. Best case scenario you split a 12’ X 20’ space with a sleep talker that rambles like an auctioneer with a serious Red Bull dependency. A couple hops over on the roulette wheel and you discover your ‘roomie’ enjoys “Sweating to the Oldies”, buck-naked with the exception of four inch stiletto heels because he likes the clicking sound of a tile floor. In fairness to Kenny Joe, he bore no semblance to the aforementioned, but nonetheless inside of a semester I came to view his mere presence as minutes shaved from an otherwise productive life.

According to father, my first mistake was failing to inquire about his major. “The minds and personalities of those drawn to drama and theatre are too abstract and loosely constructed to mesh with those geared for hard science and medicine.”

Father dealt exclusively in condescension and while he believed an eloquent undressing somehow made it less offensive—it didn’t. There existed a certain friction between Kenny Joe and myself, but it paled in comparison to the chasm separating a father and his son. Verbal disagreeance would only incense him—that much I had learned. Instead, a mental marquee scrolled from one side of my mind to the other, “A man forged under the noonday sun—brittle and unforgiving.”

Of four siblings none of us escaped completely, equally damaged by means of entirely different methods. Ours was a world where something as uncontrollable as gender dictated everything. During my informative years he openly referred to having endured the setback of three daughters; careless words like a hard frost striking lilies in full bloom. While my older sisters pined for a moment’s attention I begged for respite from it. Each morning I knelt bedside praying for something as benign as blithe dismissal or perhaps even a brother to dilute the full measure of his critical eye and burden of great expectations. As it were no rescuers came. I only watched my sisters fade further into nothingness and one dreadful day rolled into another as he molded me into a miniature version of him. He wanted me to believe there were worse outcomes in life than becoming a respected neurosurgeon that made a comfortable living, and perhaps occupationally speaking there was, but more than anything I regretted that someday I too would warn my son to avoid contact with those who ignored the seriousness of life.

Kenny Joe’s inspiration came from a performance in a third grade play and his drama instructor, Miss Jenkins’ insistence that she never witnessed such passion from a frog. A public school teacher not only recognized a young boy’s natural ability and desire to perform, she went out of her way to nurture, encourage, and coach him. As such Kenny Joe spent his weekends crunching cheese snacks, honing his Kramer imitation from a lost episode of Seinfeld while I grappled with a more complete understanding of Homosynaptic plasticity. It is crystal clear to me now that my disdain for him then was due to the absence of a Miss Jenkins in my own life.

“Doctor, he insists you were his roommate freshman year. Will you take the call?”

Despite the venomous ways of the world, Kenny Joe’s amiability remained. After fifteen years he spoke to me like a neighbor over a privacy fence, extending an invitation to celebrate his birthday. The 750 miles separating us should have been reason enough to decline, but I was convinced more than ever that Kenny Joe had been born a better man, and I needed to understand why.

Early in my life spontaneity and I crossed paths briefly, but offering a time slot in a busy schedule insulted his very nature, so we quickly claimed irreconcilable differences and moved on. Open-ended decisions left my insides tied in knots, so early evening fell over the city and although I was behind the wheel, selecting a gas station on the outskirts of Memphis was purely precautionary as it was still close enough to turn back.

Standing staunch behind the counter was a man of Indian descent. His turban added a foot to his height but strangely gave perspective to a beard that turned gray waiting to reach his waistline. Arms folded high across his chest indicated my arrival left him waiting longer than expected. The entire scene felt creepy and scripted, as if I was an understudy thrown in at the last moment, unprepared and unsure of my lines. After placing a cup of coffee on the counter I become aware of his penetrating stare. Dark eyes with the power to convert moments into millenniums, focused squarely on me. Even fishing in my front pocket for payment took entirely too long.

“Never underestimate the power of a journey”, he said.

He seemed quite certain of his words and as much as I wanted to believe he spent his spare time writing tiny messages stuffed inside fortune cookies, the improbability was absurd. I acknowledged a strange power in the moment, but perhaps he was bluffing. Pointing to my car just outside the door I intended on drawing him out.

“Thanks for the advice, but it’s only a few steps—do it every day.”

My attempt to dismiss his comment as horoscopic in nature not only failed to bring a smile, but provoked a deeper reach into uncomfortable territory.

“A reflection knows nothing of depth. Whether in a puddle or the ocean it always appears perfect, but it is the obligation of every man to himself to dive beneath the surface and explore the integrity of what it is he projects.”

The storekeeper’s name was Vivek, and he intrigued me completely. Initially because he exemplified the kind of man my father denied existed. By way of owning a business he qualified as a contributor to society, but he also possessed a significant philosophical component belonging exclusively to radicals and free-loaders. As our conversation progressed it became increasingly difficult to view him in such stark and rigid terms. Neither at that moment nor now can I begin to explain his sage-like intuition. He saw more of me than I was willing to; the moment I entered through the door of his mart he sensed I was as disengaged with my surroundings as the day I was born. More specifically Vivek insisted that visiting Kenny Joe was about much more than barbequed ribs and cole-slaw. I had not been searching for a beginning point for this journey—or perhaps unknowingly I was. In either case Vivek stirred something within me that continues to linger and grow in intensity, like a boiling summer breeze riding the lead edge of a storm.

With a rainbow of neon fading in the rear-view mirror and a dark highway stretched out before me, it became apparent why so many desire the company of the city. Busy streets and overloaded schedules leave little time to answer the questions a mind naturally wants to ask. Learning to dissect people like regions of the brain was an unintended consequence of becoming my father’s shadow. I was a student skilled in the art of avoiding personalities and emotional connections, and Father, the instructor much too eager to teach dysfunction. Had I possessed the inner strength to break free from his way of thinking perhaps things would have been different, but I suspected there were a million others out there waiting to take his place; wolves standing in the shadows of the meadow, those that killed more for pleasure than hunger.

Dark hours on a lonely highway became an odyssey of sorts, one revelation predicated upon another, each progressively more disturbing, but I sensed this was a place of hard truths, where the excuse of transferring responsibility for my own shortcomings was unacceptable. Subconsciously I had assigned my father the role of ogre, and myself as victim, but as I closed the distance between the perception of myself and who others perceived me to be, the collective bits of truth rolled over me with all the forgiveness and subtly of a locomotive. We were one in the same; the beast was a detestable but accurate representation of who I had become. Certain truths were inescapable and indefensible. Only a fool builds his life on the foundation of another. My personal and professional life shared a single point of failure, fatefully entwined like the twisted snakes in the symbol of the profession I represented. One of the primary tenets of the Hippocratic Oath is to “Do no harm”, and alone I had done more to desecrate that than ten men in a lifetime.

Sifting through the ashes of self-evaluation delivered me to an uncomfortable place, but I am convinced had I not come here that tomorrow would be nothing more than a miserable collection of yesterdays. Until now I believed epiphanies existed in the minds of the foolish and easily coerced, but I assure there is not nearly enough breadth in the definition of random to describe the connection between the quiet moments of dawn and my own personal awakening. What was unfolding within and all around me was profound enough to pull to the side of the road.

There were a million places I could have been at that moment, but parked on the side of the road just this side of nowhere was my destiny. Watching a thousand paint brushes, each of them broad and knowing, heal the smallest cracks in the landscape with color. The hues were indescribable, except the overwhelming feeling that each of them represented the hope and promise of a new day. The procedure was radical, leaving more of me lying on the roadside than was left to continue. A majority of me was too damaged to salvage, more suitable for buzzards that circled overhead.

The River

2011-02-12T09:56:00.000-06:00

She stood in front of the mirror in a state of undress, her form muted only by a thin, black slip worn the night before. Katie smoothed the wrinkled silk from top to bottom, her hands rising over exaggerated curves of implants falling abruptly to her protruding abs, starved of reserves by liposuction. If she were alive, her mother would be pleased that there was literally nothing left of an awkward and homely girl that lived in the mirror. Most of her mother’s words and thoughts died unexpressed carried to an early grave. When a well-constructed thought passes through a brain scrambled from too much vodka and the effects of a crack pipe, it becomes gibberish. Katie remembered only a single lucid conversation, and having no company it lingered awkwardly until it lodged in her brain like a cancer.

Katie was excited about starting Jr. High, and busy fastening a large blue ribbon in her hair when a knock came at the door. Her mother walked straight that morning and her words were unusually crisp and shrill.

“Girl, when was the last time you ran a brush through that bird’s nest you callin’ hair? Come over here and let’s throw some make-up at that nasty complexion God gave ya. Lord have mercy, your chest looks like your little bothers—grab a box of tissue and start stuffing. I’m just dying to pin up that skirt a couple of inches, but them knobby knees is a show stopper. Katie, a girl unwilling to maintain her own appearance will never get a second glance from a decent man.”

Her mother was nothing more than a painted horse on a merry-go-round, plenty of men were willing to pay for a ride, but they never stayed long and none of them were above beating or leaving them in the end—what did she know of decent?

Katie’s insides ached to the point of throwing up, and the tears were as warm and plentiful as ten years earlier. Slumping over the bed she retrieved her journal, turning to a worn page where all of the names had been crossed through. Each man had a corresponding page detailing the breakup. She had been a hopeless fool to think the latest would be different.

Harley was either oblivious to suggestion or in the running for the world’s cruelest man, she was too upset to decide. Yesterday marked the year anniversary of their first date. Katie had in mind a quiet dinner at the new Italian place on 32nd, and perhaps a movie afterwards, where they paid full admission price instead of sneaking in the side door when the attendant was on restroom break. Splitting a calzone at some dingy pizza parlor felt like a biker boot to the mouth.

Her mother lied. Decent men were attracted to naturally pretty girls like the waitress, and those made of plastic got kicked in the corner like a day-old Christmas toy. This full-time job of hoping for better was for losers. Katie moved back to the bathroom mirror where she found comfort.

Feet, thighs, and upper arms were good places to work, really anywhere rarely exposed to the public’s critical eye. She applied pressure to the box cutter, sliding along until it separated the skin cleanly and a thin line of blood rose to the surface. Over and over she repeated the broken process. Doctors say that scars are a body’s mechanism for healing; they only add obstacles to a cutter’s already misunderstood existence.

It is difficult for me to convey how proud I am of Katie for sharing her confession during our group counseling session. Katherine Ellen Luby is so uncomfortable in her own skin that cutting provides a temporary relief from an otherwise unbearable existence. Her story is only the most recent, but due to its profound impact on a man who hears horror stories each day I am compelled to share it with the world.

We are all but single stones in a raging river called life; moved, shaped and carried by forces beyond our control. For many it is a frightening and desolate journey, whereby dysfunction has displaced hope, betrayal has mired the beauty of the river to such an extent they no longer believe it will carry them to a greater connecting body of water. My station in life is to uncover these stones, convince them that while withdrawing to stagnant water may save immediate discomfort it is only a cruel suffocation in disguise. This story is written for those who have found a comfortable resting place, quite possibly injured themselves; that feel they are too jaded to be moved by the river. It is a difficult and gradual process, but in the end I—rather we will have failed if we cannot convince those within our reach that we believe more today than yesterday that the ebb and flow of the river has purpose.

Lost

2011-01-16T15:26:00.003-06:00

There is rarely if ever a good reason to prolong the inevitable so I was pleased to finally receive my summons to the Vice President’s office. An exit interview was something I had polished over the years, learning that unless a company was in its infancy there was no use wasting anyone’s time explaining the true reason for your leaving. If there was even a spark of interest in saving a good employee at the expense of the bottom line, the changes would have occurred long ago. For different, but equally selfish reasons, employers and employees allow a mutually bad relationship to linger too long. In cases of divorce the judge simply declares irreconcilable differences, but without the benefit of an impartial ruling body, it always reminds me of a bad ending to a knife fight. My solution: man-up, accept the blade of the other against your throat, agree to count to three, and it’s finished. Counting in unison squelches any lingering doubt that one party is more or less responsible than the other.

No sooner did I arrive, he slammed down the receiver of his phone and bolted past me, leaving a cloud of mumbled obscenities floating in the room. The simplicity of the moment was grand, no longer was I obligated to share in the frustration or take sides in daily pissing matches not of my own making. Some time ago I had given up the prospect of making any substantial difference here, and pushing the door to and uttering inaudibly, “Good luck with that”, teetered on the precipice of caring too much. It felt exceedingly good to sit in one of the cheap visitor chairs because in precisely two hours I would be just that.

Roughly fifteen minutes passed before I questioned his return. It was part of the executive game, a subliminal message that corporately speaking you were a bottom-rung dweller and undeserving his best effort. He took his plays directly from some Universal Corporate Behavior Manual with the following buried in a mission statement gone awry; “Deferring meetings indefinitely and showing up late is acceptable behavior if you carry a smart phone that blinks like a light house on Cape Hatteras during hurricane season.” To me, it was inconsiderate and rude behavior, something all good mothers warned against. I could only assume he awoke each morning aspiring to become everything I hoped to avoid in life.

During the past year the dysfunction at this organization had morphed ten times over, his office a direct reflection of a ship steaming toward a jagged reef. His desk calendar looked like a panel of Egyptian hieroglyphics, where indiscernible scribbles outweighed printer’s ink three to one. Adjacent sat two laptops, an obscure reference to his importance that I found particularly amusing. The all-seeing eye in the corner of the room was blind, the hard drive on the computer responsible for closed-circuit monitoring had crashed months earlier and was deemed too expensive for repair. The backup of the corporate e-mail database had been failing going on six months now, and twenty-three emails stating so had been ineffective in producing any substantive actions to rectify it. If this was not the birthplace of hypocrisy it was undeniably a finishing school for it. His sales force peddled the statistics every day, grim numbers for companies with no business continuity plan with regards to data losses too great to consider. Reluctantly I acknowledged some burdens are simply too heavy to carry with a single set of hands, but in one hour and forty-five minutes and counting, the albatross hanging around my neck belonged to another.

Eventually he returned and disappointingly his part of our final discourse came directly from a canned document. Monotonous words flowing from an expressionless face allowed my mind to drift to some random point in time before the corporate machine had commandeered another minion.

The image of a young boy walking along a dirt road was as clear and vivid as life itself. A corridor of trees lined the path on either side, barren branches and long shadows indicated late winter and the approach of dusk. His shoulders were slumped and his course uncertain as he lingered at one side before moving to the other. He was obviously distraught, his attention divided between the dark forest and glances toward a setting sun. Leaning deep into the shadows his calls to a lost friend echoed back at him and the lack of response produced an eerie sense of indescribable loss that resonated deep within me. Only when he dropped to his knees and began to sob in elongated bursts did I see his face for the very first time, shocked to identify him as miniature version of me.

I had been mistaken all along, never considering the man who sat across from me a fellow victim of circumstance. In postal terms, perhaps he was a drop-shipped package, wrapped in plain brown paper, lacking a return address. Maybe the past several years were only a miserable prelude to what I might say to him in the scant two minutes that remained.

“Stop, with the nonsense!” I blurted out.

His eyes grew wide, but he said nothing as I swept the collection of vendor awards over the edge of his desk and into the trash can.

“Reach in the bottom drawer and pull out the dusty picture of your wife and children. I want to know where you daughter intends to go to college. How your boy felt when he saw the baseball clear the fence in the county tournament? I want to know where you and the Mrs. plan on retiring once you finally realize this job…..any job, is nothing more than a pit-stop on a grandiose but very finite journey called life.”

2010-12-25T08:09:00.000-06:00

Consider for a moment you are in Bethlehem, seated at a dinner table with others that have also traveled back to their home town to register for a new tax. You’re weary from the journey, but the innkeeper is gracious, the food is plentiful, and the wine is good. Suddenly there is a rap at the door. Curiously you lean forward in your chair to see who is calling. The innkeeper turns the young couple away as he has room for them. He returns to the table, but his steps are slow, as if deep thought has consumed more of him than the notion of moving forward.

“It was Joseph and Mary, do any of you remember them?”

The man sitting next to you speaks quickly.

“I’ve know Joseph’s father for years, what a disappointment the two of them must be; Mary, carrying a child that is not her husbands, and Joseph too blind to see the truth standing before him. Do you know each of them claim to have been visited by angels…..heavenly bodies indeed!”

The others seem to share his opinion, or perhaps they see no danger in combining too much wine with gossip. Suddenly the table is abuzz with sharp words and ugly innuendos. The inn keeper is troubled by this and excuses himself. You join him outside for a breath of fresh air. He notices he is not alone and addresses you.

“Do you know the couple, and surely you have something to say as well.”

As at the table you keep to yourself and simply point to a brilliant star overhead. You suspect there is something special about this night in Bethlehem, something that transcends the understanding of man, yet was designed specifically for his rescue. As you consider the depth of the night, a chorus of a thousand angels floats down from above; each of them proclaiming the arrival of their King. You understand little of what has transpired, but for now it is enough to know those still inside the inn are profoundly mistaken.

We all want our holiday gatherings to be perfect, like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. While such imagery warms our hearts, in reality the perfectness of it does not exist. Even the arrival of our Savior came under less than ideal conditions. Although the Bible does not speak to it, I’m certain that Joseph, Mary, and their parents endured some level of ridicule and humiliation, but their faith in God was greater.

Put aside what the world tells you Christmas should be. Rest assured in your faith that God did send his Son by way of Immaculate Conception, selecting earthly parents who were pure commoners for an unprecedented arrival…that the baby Jesus did have a resting place in a feed trough, and the only thing perfect and flawless on that night, was the one true savior of the world.

Gummi Worms

2010-12-11T08:15:00.002-06:00

Tommy Braxton slowed to a trot. His calf muscles were in knots and the straps on his backpack were slowing sawing through the bony portion of his shoulders. A sense of injustice washed over him as he placed his hand on his front pocket. His lunch money had been there only moments earlier, but tossing it on the ground had saved another beating.

For years now, Gus Childers had been his personal nightmare. Rumors floated around school as to how someone came to power within an organization comprised of equally disgusting villains. Tommy supposed it involved some form of hand-to-hand combat or perhaps he had eaten his predecessor alive. A face to face meeting with Gus Childers never lasted long; he preferred you face down, eating dirt.

Comfortable with the distance between them, Tommy turned toward the scavengers and waved a defiant middle finger. The response to such a rebellious gesture came in the form of an angry growl. Even at 300 yards his sentiment rang clear.

“Go ahead you chicken-shit, hang out with the hobos—but you better believe I’ll be waiting again tomorrow!”

The scamper had carried him to the train yard, a poor choice of escape routes considering the ample supply of ammunition within arms reach, but rarely if ever does fear consult logic. On such a chilly morning Tommy knew to follow the sign. A trail of white smoke rolled skyward until the shelter of the roofline exposed it weakness, and the swirling wind dismantled it easily. He rounded the north-east corner of the abandoned depot and saw the familiar glow of the burn barrel. Despite their many differences, the heat was like a magnet, drawing the wanderers into a tight circle. Tommy searched for one face in particular. Carl had never given his full name, but with no mortgage papers, bank accounts, or auto loans to sign for, a career hobo had little use for a last name. Tommy admired the freedom of his lifestyle; Carl had seen a thousand places and answered to no one. He spoke to Tommy as if he understood the wildness of his heart.

Tommy made his way into the circle and emptied his pack. Large bags of Gummi Worms spilled onto the ground.

“Let’s here it for Old Man Carver—deaf and blind as he is, I slipped in and out of there before he knew I lifted a thing.”

The smallest of the group wasted no time in claiming an entire bag for himself. Dwarf, aptly nicknamed, was second in command behind Carl. He held the dubious distinction of being the oldest of the wanderers, but forty plus years on the run had taken their toll. The hunch in his back required him to lift his bald head in order to keep from speaking to the ground. He stared a moment at Tommy’s ripped jeans.

“Looks like you run into trouble this mornin’, Tommy.”

“Same old, same old—turns out Gus Childers and his goons wanted my lunch money more than I wanted my ass beat.”

The miniature man grinned as he withdrew a knife from his boot and ran his thumb across the blade.

“Big, red-headed kid ain’t he? For another bag of them goodies we’ll see if ole Gus Childers is as rotten inside as he his out!”

“I’ll take care of Gus one day and you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

Each of the outstretched hands had been satisfied except for one; one which lacked three fingers and half of a thumb. Carl had slipped trying to board a train outside of Boston. Tommy never tired of hearing about learning to pick his nose with a pinky finger or the nasty visual represented by wiping one’s backside with an inexperienced hand. No matter the circumstance Carl took what the world was willing to give and made the best of it.

Tommy held up a giant bag of worms reserved for his favorite, “So where’s Carl?”

Dwarf tilted his head to the left. “Ain’t sure you wanna talk to him this morning—crabbier than usual I’d say!”

“This’ll put a smile on his face,” Tommy beamed.

Carl stared at the bag Tommy tossed at his side as if it were poison.

“Ain’t this a school day?”

“What are you…a truancy officer? Why spend another boring day in school—when I can hang out with you guys learning about the real world?”

Carl’s voice took a serious tone, one that Tommy was unfamiliar with.

“Sit down here for a minute, Tommy. Let me tell you about the ‘real world’.”

“What do you plan on doing once you graduate?”

Tommy smiled, “Not sure I will—graduate I mean; thinkin’ about droppin’ out and hoppin’ cars with you.”

Carl exploded and grabbed the collar of Tommy’s shirt.

“Get it out of your head that you’re anything like me. First thing you need to do is take the stolen stuff back and then you need to stop coming here—not for a week….forever!”

Suddenly the friendly surrounding had become cold and demanding. Tommy was on the verge of tears as he stood to leave. Carl grabbed his arm.

“Look, kid—it ain’t that I don’t like you, but you got potential. This ain’t about stolen candy, but that’s where it starts. Tommy some day you’ll have to look in a mirror and the stranger staring back at you will ask questions—hard questions.”

Carl fished around in the pocket of his soiled flannel shirt until he produced and envelope and handed it Tommy. Inside was a picture of a young women holding the hand of a little girl.

“That’s my mirror, Tommy—and I hate what I see staring back at me.”

Carl’s voice wavered as he continued.

“That used to be my wife and daughter before I made the decision to leave. We were so young and I was scared to be a daddy—scared to fail the woman I loved. Chelsea was only three when I hopped my first train, last week my little girl got married and in my absence some other man walked her down the aisle. Those you abandon and hurt will eventually grow cold and indifferent to you. Neither will take my calls any longer, can you blame them? This shell of a man rides a train because that’s all he knows. Tommy, there comes a day when there are no more trains—when you can’t run any farther from yourself and you realize the problem never was the world, only how you chose to deal with it. It will literally break my heart in two if I ever meet up with you in a boxcar. Don’t throw away your future, don’t be a wanderer!”

Tommy left the train yard that day beaten. It wasn’t the ‘face in the dirt’ kind of beating Gus Childer’s delivered, but stung just the same. He respected Carl and his request, finished high school respectably, and graduated from a community college some years later.

Tommy walked the familiar path with purpose; he wished to check on the wanders, more specifically to thank Carl for his advice. In one hand he carried a diploma proudly and in the other a jumbo bag of Gummi Worms.

As he stared at those that circled the fire Dwarf’s was the only face he recognized. He didn’t attempt to lift his head as he explained the circumstances surrounding Carl’s sickness and eventual death. Before turning and melting into the darkness he handed Tommy an envelope. The scribbling was difficult to read with only the dancing flames’ intermittent light. Tommy BRAXTON; the last name was capitalized and underlined.

Tommy,

The very first day you came to the train yard I knew you were different, but in my selfish desire for company I allowed you to stay. For that I must apologize; but for the harsh words I spoke to you I cannot. When you walked away from here I celebrated inside.

Since I know you’re a thinker—yes; the small amounts of cash I mailed to you each month was earned honestly. Once you enrolled in college I found a reason to work again. I lost something very valuable in a boxcar back in Omaha and spent twenty six years searching for it.

If you ever receive this letter and it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’ve included my wife and daughter’s address. Tell them I spent a lifetime regretting a decision made in haste, but that I died with a smile on my face. I finally did do something I’m proud of—and you’re it, Tommy Braxton. You represent hope for the future.

A Hunter's Eyes

2010-11-27T06:44:00.000-06:00

Autumn creeps ever closer, displacing humidity with each determined step. I embrace her arrival, as if feelings otherwise could change the inevitability of natures’ power play. A distant landscape is washed in yellow, orange, and fiery red hues, and it occurs to me death shall never be displayed more brilliantly. Across the harvested fields lies the heart of the woods, calling to me like a forgotten friend.

Despite settling down early I wake restless and frazzled from the hunts in my head. While the world-weary slumber, I prepare in the dark for another opening day. My mind readies itself to record the hunt, as it has for years; archiving each detail, making them available for replay. Subtle—like the grin of a possum, a smile creeps across my unshaven face as I reach past the collared shirts to the camouflage that patiently waits. Appointments, voicemails, and deadlines become tiny specs in my truck’s rearview mirror.

The moment my boot encounters the crunch of fallen leaves I’m innately aware of the fact I’ll never be more alive than in the midst of nature. Mundane tasks flushed away and replaced with data relayed from heightened senses. I am completely in tune with her and she with me, content with a smaller role on a grander scale. It is another world where communication occurs on a higher plane, spoken words become awkward and unnecessary.

A towering oak is the first to address me with a mere gentle waving of branches. She has boldly stood the test of time, but splintered limbs on her right side signify that even nature cannot sing harmoniously during every chorus and from time to time one force imposes its will upon another. A tip of my cap serves to acknowledge her fortitude, as well as my intention to scale her side. Whispered words leave a visible trail in the chilly air, “It’s good to see you again, my friend.” Through the darkest veil of night, the gnarled knot on her side winks in approval.

For another year she has held my front row seat. Nestled among her branches we shall both witness an unscripted play as if for the very first time. With the precision of an orchestrated symphony, orange and red light splashes over the horizon, dancing across the broken stalks. Inch by inch the rays bring life and death simultaneously. Cyclical beauties are the beginning and ending of a day, yet what transpires in the hours between is life; hours comprised of minutes, minutes of seconds, each appearing only once and never to be regained. Where lamenting those wasted in the past will only consume the present.

Even now as I sit in my tranquil state, the transformation from hunter to hunted looms near. Truly it began seconds after drawing my first breath, but it is only now I’m aware of its steely approach. Being prey is nothing to fear, for everything is hunted by something or someone. My prayers are only that I may face the hunter who desires me with dignity and grace.

Casting Stones

2010-11-18T07:37:00.000-06:00

He stared at the ground long and hard enough until the color and shape of the pebbles melted into a slate of mud-puddle brown. This path had been good thing; his father’s company, laughter emerging strong as it skipped across the water, but for reasons too varied and complicated to fully comprehend, today he made the trip alone. Bobby Miller’s gait was noticeably impaired by burden; the weight of a stone, easily half his own, had quickly turned his arms into jelly. This would mark the third time he stopped to rest and while his heart returned to a normal rhythm he observed the trail much differently than ever before. It still dove sharply and disappeared beneath the surface, but today there was an air of finality to its course; a distinct line of separation between two mediums, a boundary not easily crossed. Thinking in philosophical terms made his head hurt. Bobby adjusted his grip, and with a lopsided heave launched the rock and chased it with angry words.

“Have you gone completely deaf? Did you hear that!?”

For two-thirds of his life Bobby had been coming to this pond and supposed by now the bottom of it looked like a rock quarry. Casting stones was a way to get God’s attention before praying for a specific need. “The larger the rock the more urgent the need”, his father said. Randy Miller’s belief in the unseen was unshakable, and how should a boy mistrust the instincts of a man who raises him? Even persuasive words loose their influence when stretched thin across the years. Bobby supposed a foundation built on the faith of on another was destined to crumble. The concept of stones and prayers seemed illogical now, yet a rare smile crept through his guard as his mind flashed to a more innocent time.

The mind of a five-year old grinds twenty-four hours a day, and more a matter of chance than logical deduction, he recalled with clarity the first question to boil to the surface and roll from his lips. ‘Why did God choose to live underwater, Dad?’ Randy Miller explained that God was the creator of all things, but that he took special care to pour his very essence into nature, and if Bobby looked hard enough he could see God in the weeping branches of the willow, in the stillness and churning of the water, and in every creature that roamed the meadows. For a moment in time Bobby was convinced he saw the wonders of which his father spoke, but the sightings were brief and without question the creator of all things had moved far from this place.

Presently, what stirred within was festering and ugly; it had been for some time, yet none of the fury was directed at his father, how could it be? That sunny, Sunday afternoon the two of them had cast more stones than on all other days combined. The blame lay squarely on an unresponsive and less than compassionate God. It was as if his father kneeling on the shoreline pleading for his wife’s life meant nothing. Her passing was like the sun had been ripped from the sky, and his father’s explanations sounded more like excuses. Bobby didn’t believe someone else had been waiting for answers longer, and there was no possibility that another’s hurt could be deeper than his own.

He traced the stainless barrel on the revolver with his index finger. The world has become harsh and cold and Bobby was no longer five. Never once did he feel the urge to pray as the rounds hit the bottom of the cylinder. This torment was too much; the hopelessness he wrestled with each day had finally gotten him in a stranglehold.

“One last chance, God. If you have even a remote plan for my future you better speak up load and clear!”

Bobby felt awkward in his demand, but after floating his last bit hope he waited for a sign. Like a rush of warm air tails a subway shooting through the tube, images past came in a barrage. The predictable din of thoughts colliding and careening created a buzz, but Bobby was certain he heard a faint giggle.

He quickly tossed the revolver in his backpack and turned to locate the source. He saw blonde curls bobbing just above the weeds and a bright red and white fishing bobber leading the way. As the young girl entered the clearing she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him.

“Who are you?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“My name’s Bobby, what’s yours?”

“Miranda”

“Do your parents know you’re down by the water alone?”

Her curly head tilted downward and she kicked at the dirt.

“I don’t have a Daddy—but I’m a very lucky girl to still have my Momma. She’s parking the car.”

Bobby recognized the discomfort in her reaction and changed the subject quickly.

“That’s a mighty pretty dress you’re wearing—just to go fishing.”

Her tiny hand stroked the red velvet cloth and then moved to twirl the ribbons holding her pigtails.

“It’s a very special day. The first time Momma could leave the hospital in a very long time. I wanted to show her the place me and Gramps came and prayed for her.”

Bobby fought to control his frustration. Tiny, young ears should not be subjected to the thoughts running through his mind.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Lots and lots of times. Me and Gramps catch fish here. Sometimes he cusses when the hook gets caught, ‘Damned rocks!”

She took a deep breath before continuing and her blue eyes grew wide in anticipation of her words.

“While we prayed an angel touched my Momma.”

“An angel…really? I’m no expert, but it’s my understanding angels are quite rare.”

“Yeah—and they’re hard to find too.”

Miranda’s mother joined them along the shoreline. Instead of scolding her daughter for speaking to a stranger she extended her hand towards him and smiled warmly.

“Sorry if Miranda’s been talking you to death. She’s never met a stranger, and the excitement of being here today—well, has put her over the edge.”

Bobby barely heard any of the words she spoke and clung to her hand. She was younger than his mother, but reminded him so much of her; the bubbly reception and the quick unnecessary apology.

“Sorry about the handshake, it was very out of place. Well—I really should be going now.”

Bobby gathered his backpack and started up the path, but the pitter-pat of tiny steps caused him to pause. He turned and knelt in order to come to her level.

“It was very good to meet you Miranda and I hope you catch lots of fish.”

The curls above her forehead wagged as she nodded and spoke again.

“Mom says her angel had a name—Katherine Miller. Kinda of a funny name for an angel ain’t it? She couldn’t use her heart no more, but it still had beats left in it, so she gave it to my Mommy as a gift. If you ever see the angel, please thank her for saving my Mommy’s life.”

Crossroads

2010-10-23T21:10:00.001-05:00

Marcus Jamal Conley comes from a long line of street urchins, a reminder that even among the classless there is room for advancement. He studied under his father, and his father before him, becoming a master at discovering vulnerability and exploiting it for his own gain. Had he stuck to burglary perhaps things would be different, but Marcus crossed the line that night and dragged the rest of us into a revolving nightmare. Every morning I deal with consequences extending from a situation in which I had no control, and honestly I’ve grown weary of trying to reverse the past by simply willing it away. Marcus did his time in the eyes of the law, but I am convinced certain levels of justice are not attainable within the boundaries of our judicial system.

After twenty years in the penitentiary and less than two hours into his freedom I almost felt badly for what I had done. The sight of an empty bar was more than he could resist and I had hoped it would be. A tiny cluster of bells clanking above the door probably sounded more like cymbals crashing on either side of his head. I’m certain he expected to find an alert bartender, but instead he discovered an elderly man behind the counter, seemingly too preoccupied washing glasses to look up. A few lonely wisps of white hair and a hearing aide perched in his left ear provided the vulnerability Marcus preyed upon. Just hours before his arrival we peeled away the height chart pasted to the door frame, ensured every barstool in the place was empty, and relocated the cash register to within sprinting distance of the door.

I allowed Marcus to close half the distance between he and my father before winking at him from my hiding spot. Due to poor hearing he often speaks much louder than he realizes; which I’m certain rattled Marcus all the more.

“Kinda creepy out tonight, ain’t it—being Halloween and all? Why don’t you pull up a stool; you look like a man with a story to tell.”

Without a word from the patron dad poured a drink and slapped it onto the counter.

“Two shots of Beam in a tall glass, right, Marcus?”

Crouching in the back room I could see the look on his face and observed a slight shudder as the flesh on the back of his neck was certain to be crawling. My father knowing his drink and calling him by name caught him off guard.

“Nice guess on the drink, buddy, but I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

The lack of an immediate response brought a nervous smile to his face. No doubt Marcus was pleased with his bluffing abilities, but like a storm comes creeping across the plain my father’s fist against the bar was the thunder, and his radically changed tone a heat-seeking bolt from the sky.

“Look, jackass—by now both of us know it was more than a guess. Go ahead and drink up—it’s likely to be long night for a bastard like you!”

Emerging from the back room I approached with the confidence of a double-barreled shotgun and the cold steel of a trigger beneath my finder. I advanced toward him until the barrels rested comfortably between his ribs.

“You heard the man, drink up!”

After placing the empty glass on the counter I removed a handgun from his jacket, sliding it a safe distance down the bar. My father took the shotgun from me and rested the business end on the bridge of Marcus’ nose, nodding toward the entrance.

“Take care of the shades and lock door. Now that our guest has arrived, it’s time to party.”

“Look fellas, I certainly appreciate the drink, but you got the wrong dude. Why you wanna close the shades and lock the door? I’ve been in the pen for the last twenty years; what do you want from me?”

I settled in and rested my chin on the back of a barstool.

“You’re in luck Marcus, the memory game we’re about to play took place exactly twenty year ago today. Around 7:30pm you entered a bar on the other side of town looking to rob the place. When the bartender resisted, you pistol whipped him with the butt of your gun. Does the scar my father wears on his forehead look familiar? While you’re accomplice was clearing out the register, since it was Halloween, three trick-or-treaters wandered in; a chubby little red-headed guy in a clown outfit, a beautiful, curly blonde-headed princess, and the youngest of three, an adorable four-year old fairy.”

“Look man, I didn’t hurt them kids. I gagged ‘em and left ‘em tied up in the back room, I swear!”

“Marcus, those were my children and his grandchildren, and most of me wants to believe you meant them no harm.”

I reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes.

“These are very bad news; not good for you at all.”

“What do you care—you a doctor or some shit?”

“I am indeed a surgeon—but honestly it would have been better if the smokes had gotten to you before I did. You being in possession of the cigarettes doesn’t bode well for the outcome of your evening.”

While father held Marcus at bay I began stacking tables and chairs until I was satisfied with the barricade at the front entrance. I moved to the back room and finished my work there.

“Marcus, I’ve always believed in crystal-clear communication, so let me explain the details leading up to the finale of this fascinating game.”

I offered him a cigarette, taking one for myself.

“Their names were Frankie, Melissa, and Alexandria. They never returned home that night from trick-or-treating. Although my father believes otherwise he bears no responsibility for that. He was unconscious, how could he know they were there? Once he came to there was barely enough time to save himself. The authorities were unconvinced that the fire was related to the burglary, but a friend of mine who works on the forensics side of investigation determined a discarded cigarette lying near a trashcan ignited the blaze. Whether you actually tossed the cigarette is irrelevant, because my mind is made up that you did, and tonight is all about freeing my mind from worry and regret.”

I flicked my cigarette over his head into the grain alcohol I had poured on the floor. When Marcus turned his attention to the small fire I plunged the butcher knife through his right thigh and into the chair beneath.

“I’m a fair man, Marcus. I’m leaving you with a couple of choices you denied my children. It was no mistake we named this bar Crossroads and right now you’re at a very important one. I’d prefer you suffered the same lingering death that my children did, but you may also choose the front door. As I stated earlier I am doctor and there’s about a ninety-nine percent chance the knife has severed your femoral artery. By the time you remove the barricade I estimate you’ll have no more than two minutes to make the fifteen-block run to the hospital. Marcus, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our game. On the outside chance you do survive, rest assured I’ll find you and we can pick up where we left off.”

The Groundskeeper

2010-09-12T21:32:00.001-05:00

I wasn’t convinced the rigors of travel alone produced this kind of unrest. It was more than likely the broken vow to never return that plagued me. While I still considered Dallas my home, a second layoff and an over-zealous divorce lawyer had pushed me into a corner. My father opened his home and regretfully I knew he would. Sleepy towns and people like him never change. I gauged his obsession with caring for strangers to be terminal in nature. What he called a gift from God, I considered a curse, and to complicate matters he appeared content frittering away his life caring for the dead.

My opinion of his character was starkly different than any other. The townsfolk held him in high regard and I supposed by now were making plans for his sainthood. Although he spoke often of tolerance and understanding, he extended neither in my direction. On his best days he barely tolerated me and made no effort to understand my life at all. Even a young boy learns to cut his losses. Kept at arms length, I learned that caring for your father is far removed from loving him deeply or ever wanting to be like him.

“Son, you don’t know how good it is to have you back.”

“Temporarily, Dad…I’m only here temporarily.”

I remembered how Momma asked me to be understanding and patient. Dad was slow in dealing with a terrible accident involving a neighbor boy that happened some years ago, but my own hurt continued to fester. I hated the cemetery and what it had done to him. It was awkward watching my mother run out of excuses for his absence from school activities. I understood the time spent engraving stones; it was the profession he had chosen, but the non-working hours he lingered there and the inability to let go were particularly damaging. As far as I was concerned, he was as empty and hollow-eyed as any spirit roaming there. I suppose more than anything I wanted for him to admit that I had done nothing wrong; that it was his inattention to his only son that predisposed me to a life of failure.

He still moved pretty well for an old man. Hustling about the shop he gathered objects and placed them into a tired wheelbarrow; one I remembered having more red paint than rust. Most of the contents consisted of maintenance related tools, yet a few seemed out of place. He offered no explanation and I had no intention of asking; it was still like that between us. After perusing the items one last time, he gripped the worn handles, and motioned with his head for me to follow.

“Red Foster had taken care of this cemetery for years. Red was a righteous man, started cuttin’ grass here when he was in his twenties. Some say it helped pass the lonely days after losing a wife—you know they wasn’t married more than a couple years. Anyhow, Red done fine work; even the fussy widows that build their lives around findin’ fault, had nothin’ but praise for him. But in time, Red passed. He left behind a son, but he never was much count—bad seed, I guess. Old Red didn’t deserve most of what he got in life, ‘specially that boy. Roy showed up two day late for his daddy’s funeral and drunk as three-hundred Indians. He took to smashin’ bottles and cussin’ his old man for not leavin’ an inheritance. Truth was Red didn’t have nothin’ but a big heart and he give most of that away.”

The mention of Roy sparked a flurry of memories, most of them only partial recollections. During high school he and I were a couple of misfits who enjoyed more than one bender and the mischief that accompanies too many beers. Each morning before first bell we gathered under a tree across from school grounds and shared a cigarette. Memories of those Lucky Strikes triggered an urge, and I stopped long enough to light one.

“Hey, Pop. Is that how you see me—some kind of no count renegade?”

The extended amount of time he spent stroking his chin made me nervous, but on the other hand I wanted to hear him say what I always suspected.

“What makes you think something like that?”

Without saying more he lifted the handles and began moving again.

“As I was sayin’—‘cause of the commotion and since I was the caretaker now, I had to escort Roy from the property. There ain’t no merit in drivin’ a boy from his father’s grave, but I felt a sight better after me and Red had a long talk. He said I done right, ‘cept he’d a taken a chunk of his hide before he sent him packin’.”

He stopped abruptly, but said nothing; leaving me to believe the extra steps had provided time to reconsider my renegade status.

“Don’t be leavin’ your butts layin’ around, especially not by Ernie’s marker. Died of lung cancer in ’82 and he can’t stand the smell of smoke.”

I only nodded in affirmation. It was difficult knowing my father believed he spoke to the dead, and a painful reminder he preferred their company to mine.

He handed me a garden spade along with instructions.

“Make a small trench, leading away from her grave—see how the water’s building up.”

Everyone knows the vaults are sealed, what was a tiny bit of moisture going to hurt? In the short time it took to process the thought my father observed hesitation.

“Time’s a wastin’—get to it!”

The frustration in his tone turned to velvet in an instant when he turned his attention from me to the stone.

“We’ll get it taken care of—don’t you fret none.”

I began to wonder how terribly disturbed a man had to be when he found a deeper connection with those below grade than above.

“For the life of me I can’t explain why—but I still worry about you. Honest to God, Pop, tell me you don’t actually hear these corpses speak?”

It was as if kicked him in the gut.

“First of all, don’t call ‘em corpses! Sounds like one of them stupid zombie movies. Of course I hear ‘em talk and on bad days I hear ‘em cry.”

His finger traced the dates on the stone, lingering over the second.

“In the winter of seventy-eight, Mrs. Barlow hit an ice-patch on route 62. Her Plymouth went off the bridge and broke through the ice. Waiting to drown must be an awful way to go. She don’t ask much, just to keep the water away from her.”

Before I’d had time to fully consider the first story, he gripped my shoulder tightly. It was the first time I could remember feeling his touch and then I noticed the sadness welling in his eyes.

“Son, I know you deserved better, and I wished I could have give it too ya, but turned out I wasn’t strong enough. You can’t hate me any more than I already hate myself. I ain’t makin’ excuses, I’ll take full responsibility for screwin’ up your life, but what I’m askin’ for now is a little forgivness.”

He guided my steps to a plain small white stone before continuing.

“I’m sure you’re momma told you what happened. That we was watchin’ the neighbor boy when she had to run to town and left him with me. He was almost two years old and into everything. While I was cussin’ my work he wandered off. I didn’t notice he was gone for some time—long enough for curious legs to carry him over the hill and into an abandoned well. It tore me up when they pulled that little man’s lifeless body out—knowin’ what I’d done.”

Father lifted a teddy bear from the wheelbarrow and placed it gently by the stone.

“Most of what your momma told ya was right, ‘cept it wasn’t a neighbor boy. You’re older brother’s name was Billy.”

___________________________

The morning heat rose from the valley restless and willing. In shimmering waves it climbed and clawed at the scrub brush. Its roost was temporary as a gentle breeze swept it away. The duo traveled a winding path of rising ground to where my father and I stood. As the gust arrived, more of it traveled through me than swirled around, and when it passed it spoke more clearly than it ever had.

“A single day can change a person’s life, but only if he is willing. He must cast aside the familiar so that his arms are free to embrace the promise of tomorrow.”

The Believers

2010-07-24T08:59:00.001-05:00

One by one, he placed the personal items in a cardboard box. The message was clear; his services were no longer needed. During an unceremoniously brief and one-sided meeting the board called for his resignation, rather by proxy. Each sat tight-lipped and stoic, as if it had been long decided they had no opinion on the matter and it was quite acceptable for one man to speak the mind of another. The chancellor’s words were few with the crux of the matter settled in one efficient swoop.

“The paperwork shall be on my desk by day’s end.”

For the better part of two decades Professor Chad Gardner had enjoyed working at John Hopkins University. He remembered having jumped at the opportunity to head a study on accelerated climate change, but with the two-year program complete the whole matter sat crossways in his gut. The chancellor had advised it was well within his right to appeal the decision, but in the same breath warned that such proceedings often drudge on for years. Time was no longer a luxury for the professor—for any of them.

Chad realized the resignation request came as an indirect result of the climate study. He had not anticipated the barrage of bitter skepticism launched by the elite in his field and no one could have predicted the level of chaos created by media coverage. Together it was an ugly combination; one the chancellor would rather not deal with. The simple fact remained the majority of society was not ready to wrap their minds around something as intense as worldwide drought.

__________________________

In geological terms, a scant five years passed, but the deterioration of the environment and subsequent unraveling of a society progressed more quickly than even his study indicated. Not a drop of rain had fallen on the earth in more than three months. In itself it was the beginning of the end; a creeping death with an affinity for suffering and little deference to the time tables of man. Lush lawns morphed into brittle graveyards of clay while rioters flooded the streets of major cities, forcibly collecting food and water. The procurement and processing of oil came to a halt as a series of explosions rocked the Middle East. Perhaps it was an appropriate final chapter as some believed, a reckoning brought on by greed. Both in scale and severity this drought dwarfed any before it, but it had not arrived without warning.

Dr. Gardner sat alone in a dimly lit room, speaking to the news anchor as if she might acknowledge him.

“A bafoon with a twisted version of reality was I—how do you like me now?”

Flipping between major news outlets incompetency seemed the common denominator; their empty slant like drills against his forehead.

“What will it take for you fools to understand? It doesn’t make a damn whether this catastrophe was caused by man’s misuse of the environment, and to be consumed by such things now is as irrelevant as a group of fireman standing before an inferno deliberating as to what might have sparked the blaze. It’s so unbecoming—this collective wringing of hands!”

He reached for the remote and the screen went dark.

On the heels of his dismissal the ex-professor immediately began to pool resources; coordinating financiers, and persuading a small team of dedicated colleagues and students to join him underground—in the most literal sense. He affectionately called them the believers, and it was those of like mind that created the ‘Den’. While those on the surface simmered in their own juices, the Den was far removed from chaos. The believers had established solar power, a functioning greenhouse, fresh air filtration systems, and a series of large water storage tanks. Some within the group suspected Professor Gardner intended to establish a new society, others believed his claim that he only wished to buy time, but considering the alternative, none of them questioned their decision to follow.

Cloud seeding had existed for decades, but was often dismissed as flimsy science. The process involved injecting silver oxide, delivered by plane or missile, into a cloud formation. Existing moisture was instantly frozen whereby other molecules could accumulate more easily. Dr. Gardner believed the immediate solution to such a complex problem could be as simple as kicking nature in the seat of the pants.

Ascending the spiral staircase he emerged aboveground and quickly set his eyes on the horizon. Dark, angry, clouds gathered and spider webs of lightning spread like gnarled fingers reaching for the ground. In a brilliant show of natural forces the swirling and churning skies delivered on promises long past due. While it was only a small scale test, nearly a half inch of rain fell in a twenty-five mile radius.

__________________________

Dr. Gardner raised a toast.

“To the success of those who believed—through hard work and careful planning we are now in a position that the entire world must listen.”

As a man dictated by protocol, Dr. John Stein waited for the applause to subside before lobbing a displeased glare that narrowly cleared his glasses.

“Bravo, doctor; the results are undeniable, but I’ve grown curious about what I perceive as a troubling trend. Forgive me for not asking this morning when we met in the hallway. It was 3:00am and my mind was not fully engaged. Would you care to explain to all of us your midnight rendezvous’ with someone outside of the group?”
Dr. Gardner appeared unshaken by such a question peppered with the insinuation of wrongdoing.

“John, may I remind you I’m still fully in control of this project. Perhaps afterwards you and I can talk privately about your over-involvement in my personal time.”

The close relationship the two shared while working together at the university had grown strained and difficult when the believers moved underground and Dr. Gardner resented the public airing of what had previously been a private disagreement.

After the others had retired for the evening the two shared coffee in a secluded room.

“John, it was wrong of me not to include you, but the success of this project comes before your own reservations. I want the believers to be recognized and compensated for their contributions. Regretfully, it is against your wishes that I’ve begun shopping the market for potential buyers. Our command-and-chief remains obstinately opposed; his disdain for the free market is more deep-seated than I realized. True to character, he insists on complete government control and I’ll be damned if I turn over the operation to those who ridiculed my study. It’s time to consider other offers.”

Rattled by startling revelations, but more the brashness of his friend’s actions, Dr. Stein allowed a moment of silent processing before launching a torrent of pointed questions.

“Who gave you permission to shop the technology—and when did this suddenly become less about a dying planet and more about personal accolades? You were right all along—are you such a small man that you need to hear it from me? Let it go, Chad, just let it go.”

Dr. Gardner lunged for his friend’s collar and dragged him across the table.

“They chose to make it personal when they took my job for simply being right!”

He released his grip and began pacing around the table.

“Let me continue. As I was leaving the meeting with the president and his advisors, a limousine pulled along side. I must say that King Abdullah from Saudi Arabia is a level-headed gen…..”

“Stop right there! In a single bound you’ve leapt from a respected professor to a damned traitor!”

From behind, Dr. Gardner seized a handful of his associate’s hair and pressed his lips to his ear.

“Let’s be reasonable about this. For decades the Middle East has controlled our economy through oil, is there really any difference?”

“Do you expect me to just stand by and do nothing while you sell out our country?”

In a swift downward motion Chad responded.

“Let me save you the trouble.”

Dr. Gardner knelt over the crumpled body on the floor, the butt of his revolver shiny with blood. He dragged the larger man to a closet, secured his hands, and reached into his lab coat pocket for the syringe.

“By the time that wears off it will be too late for objections.”

Dr. Gardner glanced nervously at his watch as he stood on the tarmac. The documentation in the briefcase was all the Saudi’s would required, but he convinced the King otherwise. The professor would travel to Riyadh and oversee the program until the Saudi’s were satisfied they had purchased a working model.

A flashing blue light indicated the King’s arrival, and it was as impressive as he expected. Comparing street to air, the doctor was about to step aboard a Lamborghini. The engines were throttled to an idle and a hydraulic set of stairs glided until they kissed the pavement. A young Saudi appeared in the entry and motioned for the doctor to move forward.

As he kept a careful eye on the steps the doctor spoke to the man.

“If I’m not mistaken, this is a Bombardier Learjet Model 85, properly appointed at a price tag exceeding $18 million.”

Receiving no response the doctor lifted his head and presented the perfect angle.

Two successive rounds were followed by a voice carrying a heavy accent.

“You are mistaken about many things professor; Springfield Armory, Model 1911, $350 dollars U.S.”

A voice originating from the cockpit drifted into the midnight air.

“Make sure the briefcase sees the entire return trip, the professor as far as the ocean.”

__________________________

Doctor Stein sat just outside of the Den’s entrance contemplating the downward spiral of a friendship. Almost a month had passed and no one had heard from him Chad. If he did return he didn’t know whether to greet him with a hand-shake or launch a stiff right-cross. He supposed he would make the decision when the time came.

In the distance a streaking flash of light caught his eye, far too brilliant for a falling star. Then came a second burst, followed in sequence by others. The fiery tail gave the impression of missiles; perhaps Chad had broken from the believers completely and was attempting trials from a remote location.

Over the next month a multitude of missiles lit up the sky, bringing with them torrential rains, often more than an inch an hour. Soon the ‘Den’ began to take on water and eventually became uninhabitable. Next the low-lying were submerged, then smaller hills, and eventually the tallest mountains until nothing remained.

Nowhere They Ain't

2010-06-13T05:56:00.002-05:00

Alpha company waited until dusk to cross the rice field. The commander assured his men it would be safer then, but safer than what? There was no refuge in this god-forsaken jungle, only lesser-degrees of hell. He should have been home looking after his mother, punching his kid brother in the arm, hitting a curveball over the fence, drinking a milk-shake so thick it produces instant brain-freeze; doing pretty much anything—anywhere, other than fighting another man’s war. This wasn’t even close to how he supposed it would end.

The commander was wrong. Ritchie made the edge of the field and collapsed in the undergrowth. An enemy round had ripped through his left knee cap and even the slightest pressure caused pain to radiate upward through his thigh and settle deep in his gut. The crawl had taken much longer than it should, but Ritchie couldn’t stomach seeing the frozen faces of friends, bloody innards worn on the outside, good men lying face down. He couldn’t allow his mind to absorb the images, not now. There was no getting past the blood trail he’d left behind. It was only a matter of time before it was discovered. Decisions were deceptively simple; do nothing and meet with a final dispatching bullet, or mount an ill-advised attack. There were honorable ways for a Marine to check out, but waiting to be shot like a dog wasn’t one of them.

Ritchie listened to the foreign chatter as ‘Charlies’ combed the field. He couldn’t understand a word, but hoped to determine the number and position of the enemy. Hacking and slashing at the greenery they attempted to unearth the wounded. He felt the weight of his combat knife heavy on his side. If death came calling he intended to face the reaper head on. Both of them were about to find out how much damage a one-legged Marine was capable of inflicting.

He knew well the awful toll of hand-to-hand combat. A significant chasm existed between simply taking a man’s life via a well-placed round, and the task of dispatching him face to face. The introduction of guns had complicated matters, made killing too easy, sparing a man unsettling details; a mouth laying agape, waiting for a last ragged breathe that never came, eyes stretched wide in disbelief, yet ironically unable to see the bullet charging towards his skull. Distance in yards, proportionately lessened the effects of taking a husband from a wife, a father from a child. Men were not designed to make such final decisions, yet here, mere boys struggled with fatal choices every day.

Ritchie waited on his back trail, eventually an unlucky soldier would pass within striking distance. Sounds associated with the clearing of vines were insufficient to mask those replaying in his head. Fear coursing through your soul, so loud you can hear it; the uncertainty of outcome regarding the struggle, the unfamiliar sound of a blade slicing cleanly through a windpipe, and the awful gurgling sounds that followed. Finally, as the lifeless weight of another man rests against you, your soul begins to weep and you pray that this will be the final time.

Chilling scenes from killings past caused his body to shiver and glisten in a cold sweat. Ritchie’s heart-rate ratcheted as he watched a single soldier veer dangerously close. Like a tiger, he leapt from his hiding spot and quickly gained control of the thrashing man. Gritting his teeth he began to draw the blade across the exposed throat; his necessary work almost complete.

“Ritchie—Ritchie, what the hell are you doin’? Let momma go. For God’s sakes you’re gonna choke her!”

Ritchie shook his head from side to side, unwilling to completely trust his ears. Fearing a trick, he loosened his grip only slightly. Slowly he became aware of his young brother’s fists beating upon his back, demanding their mother’s release.

Ritchie immediately raised his hands towards the bedroom ceiling. When she turned to face him, he grabbed his mother and kissed her forehead, tears collecting at the corner of his eyes.

“Ma, I swear I didn’t know it was you—couldn’t never hurt you, ma. Havin’ one of them, damn ole dreams again.”

Betty made use of her apron and wiped his tears. Soon after her husband’s passing, she made a vow to protect her children from all harm but some things are beyond a mother’s reach. Each horrible night her family was separated she prayed that God would bring Ritchie home safely. He had returned, but not the young boy that had left for Vietnam. His eyes had seen too much, his hand forced to perform unspeakable deeds, and now his troubled soul desperately longed for rest.

“It’s alright, baby, I knew you was havin’ a bad dream. Just hopin’ I could wake ya; keep the sufferin’ to ‘minimum. You get on downstairs and get some of ‘dat breakfast. We goin' to Birmingham ‘safternoon to see another doctor. Now go on—git.”

Ben, the youngest of the boys, sat fidgeting in the waiting room chair. Thoughts of baseball consumed his young mind. It had been more than a year since Ritchie came home and he hadn’t even shown the slightest interest for the game. Ritchie’s record of ten home-runs in a single game still stood, balls that sailed well past the chicken fence and into the tall grass that bordered the Johnson farm. The locals used to talk about Ritchie playing in the big leagues, but they didn’t talk much anymore, not about Ritchie playing baseball.

The doctor removed his stethoscope from the young man’s chest. He glanced at the chart and nodded his head in affirmation.

“Healthy as a horse, I’d say! So what seems to be the matter, young man?”

Ritchie glanced at his mother, who appeared equally anxious to hear a response. He didn’t know exactly how to put his troubles into words, especially in mother’s presence.

“Doc, I’d rather not speak in front of momma.”

The doctor lowered his black framed glasses, peered at Ritchie and then at Betty.

“Ma’am, can you give us a few minutes alone.”

Betty picked up her purse and patted her son’s shoulder on the way out.

“You tell the good doctor what’s ailin’ ya, so as we can get the old Ritchie back.”

“So son, what is it that’s bothering you?”

“Well doc, ain’t somethin’ I can put into words, ‘xactly. Just ain’t been right, since comin’ back—my head I mean. Strange thoughts ‘creepin’ round all the time, don’t seem like I fit in no more. Momma and Ben, they treat me extra good now, but with these haints and buggas haggin’ round I’m ‘fraid I might hurt one of ‘em, and I can’t live with that.”

“What do you mean, Ritchie? Do you feel like you want to hurt people sometimes?”

“No—not ‘specially momma or Ben. Done more killin’ in ‘Nam than any man shoulda been asked to do, for his country or otherwise. Don’t wanna never hurt no one again, not on purpose. Seems like it’s ok sometimes, for maybe a week, but they keep comin’ back—dreams, real as anything, doc. Can’t shake ‘em and can’t run from ‘em; seems like I can’t get nowhere they ain’t.”

“Alright son, you can go back to the waiting room now. Send your mother back in, if you will.”

Betty allowed time for the door to close completely.

“What do ya think, doc? Can ya fix him up?”

“Mrs. Barnard, I believe your son’s very ill, but I need him to take a test to confirm my suspicions.”

“What kinda test?”

“Something that would allow me to properly gauge his metal state.”

Betty faced flushed with anger.

“You think Ritchie’s some kinda nut, don’t ya? Test—fer what? So you can lock ‘em away somewhere, forgit he ever existed. My boy gave everything for his country and I’m damn proud of him. Ain’t gonna reward him by havin’ him put some place where all he got to do is watch his roommate drool. Thank you for yer time, doctor. We’ll be on our way now!”

Betty hoisted her youngest from the chair, while signaling for Ritchie to follow. No one spoke during the two-hour drive home. Betty’s mind, still consumed with anger and frustration, Ben thinking of playing in his first World Series, and Ritchie doing his best to think of nothing at all.

-----------------------------------------------------

Betty placed a bag of groceries inside the door, and reached for another. With little warning, life had become difficult. She understood the challenges associated with being a single mother, but Ritchie’s troubles were of another kind, one that couldn’t be solved by working a double-shift.

Ben came streaking down the stairs with his baseball glove in hand.

“Headed over to the Johnsons, ma—be back around dark!”

She opened the cupboard with a smile. Young Ben had developed the same love as Ritchie. The two of them were much alike, but Betty intended to keep a tighter reign on the youngest. She feared she had already lost Ritchie. That damned war claimed many a young life, and not just one’s returning in bags, but others just as broken. Borrowed for killing in someone else’s cause; then when their usefulness determined done, turned back from where they came ill-prepared to resume a life put on hold.

A bottle slipped from her tired grip and shattered on the floor.

“Damn—can’t hardly ‘ford groceries as it is, clumsy old fool droppin’ things now.”

On her way to retrieve a towel Betty noticed an envelope on the table. Dish-towels and spills suddenly became unimportant. Betty folded into the easy-chair and opened the envelope addressed to Momma.

Been havin’ an extra bad day, decided to take the ole coon dog for a run. Ben sure loves his baseball. You make sure he practices good, some day he might just find a spot in da majors. Momma, I’m hurtin’ way deep down inside, don’t know how to fix it. I know you hurt too, I hear ya cryin’ at night, and know its cause of me and the way I am now. I feels like that sick old calf we had, couldn’t stand to look at it sufferin’, but can’t put it down neither. Kinda why I’m huntin’ today, don’t wanna be a burden to ya, don’t wanna see ya hurt like that.
That night in my bedroom, didn’t mean ya no harm; thawt the gooks was comin’ after me again. I’m so awful tired, momma, tired of fightin’ things ain’t there.
Ya took good care of me, but I’m grown now, need to fend on my own. Pop’d be proud of what ya done fer us boys. Sure will miss yer cookin’. Don’t hold supper count a me. Figurin’ I’ll be gone a good while. Don’t know ‘xactly where I’m goin’, but ‘spect it’s far, far away. Think I’ll just keep walkin’ til I find somewhere they ain’t!

Three

2010-06-06T23:28:00.001-05:00

As his soon to be former psychiatrist, I continue to stand by my original diagnosis. Charlie Spangenburg teeters on the edge of neurosis. Despite the affliction he is one of the more intelligent patients I’ve encountered. Yet his refusal to cooperate outweighs any intrigue I once held for how uniquely his mind works. At his request I am providing a referral. Please see the enclosed documentation and audio tapes of our previous sessions. Charlie believes he might benefit from a ‘more competent doctor’, and perhaps he will.

Best Regards,

Psy.D. Myron Masters

At the time this letter was penned I truly believed I had seen the last of Charlie Spangenburg, but last week he came crashing back into my life. The patrolman on duty offered security video showing Charlie repeatedly hurling himself against the reinforced glass of my office front. Upon arrival they found a bloody and belligerent man who had taken up residence on my couch and demanded to be seen. I knew something drastic had occurred in his life, such aggressive behavior is virtually non-existent in this type of disorder. I refused to have him arrested, so at 3:53am I agreed to resume our sessions.

His appearance, goals, and future are narrowly defined by obsession. Each facet of his life fits neatly into a slot. Breakfast consists of two Grade ‘A’ brown eggs, never white. Three strips of bacon laid diagonally near the eggs, but not close enough to touch. A saucer, in the three o’clock position, is reserved for toast; stone-ground wheat exclusively, toasted for precisely sixty-three seconds—sixty-three of course being divisible by three. Three is the number that rules Charlie’s life.

The streets of Manhattan are overrun with platoons of business men. They jockey for position at crosswalks, curse into their cell-phones, and traverse the sidewalks with a determined gait. Had our first meeting occurred there, I would have had no reason to assume Charlie was anything more than one of the clones. He arrived in my office stern and white-knuckled, clutching a worn leather planner.

It was my inquiry in regards to the contents of the binder that immediately set us at odds. He likened my request to that of allowing him to rifle through my desk simply to satisfy his own curiosity. Charlie gave me a deeper appreciation for how more patients should view their doctors. Although I must admit, our sessions often left me frustrated and exhausted, feeling as if I had been subjected to a battery of questions designed to determine the purity of my motives.

The responsibility for our first round of sessions ending badly rests squarely upon my shoulders. I had pressed Charlie too hard, too soon, and had no intention of making the same mistake a second time. Something monumental had taken place. Even before I could extend a greeting, he placed his planner in my hand.

It was a journey of despair; painful, daily musing from a boy who longed to be a part of a world which presently found no use for him. The writing was barely legible, letters overlapping and sporadic spacing between lines. Quite understandably so, when I discovered where Charlie began his journaling. His mother asked him to retrieve something from the back of the woodshed. Afterwards she claimed the wind had blown the door closed. Subsequently, she dropped the pretense of asking him to retrieve things. Charlie maintains that is he unable to recall the frequency or length of such punishments, but I am convinced he is still a young boy attempting to defend his mother’s own dysfunction.

Hidden in the back was a very detailed chart for his life’s course. Charlie explained that all plans begin in pencil, and only when an item is determined as likely can it be traced over in pen. I noticed the entry under the heading ‘girlfriend’. Despite the ink, permanent and irreversible, the name had been marked through completely.

“So Charlie, do you want to tell me about Suzanne?”

“Suzanne and me were both messed up; ‘mind-cripples’ she called us. She heard voices and I counted shit, that’s just how life is.

For a head-case like me, March 3rd was like Christmas. I had reservations at her favorite restaurant and tickets to the opera. She didn’t know it, but I had already traced her name in pen. During intermission I was going to ask her to marry me.”

“She didn’t accept your proposal?”

“I didn’t get the opportunity to ask. When I awoke that morning her side of the bed was cold and empty. She was beautiful, particularly the first thing in the morning. Part of me knew she was too good for me all along, but we’d lived together for almost two years. Her clothes were still in the dresser and her purse was on the table, but I knew she was gone. I went outside for a smoke. She only allowed smoking on the balcony, because she knew heights and the business of the street made me dizzy and nervous. I think she really did love me, Doc.”

“Does that surprise you, Charlie—that someone in this world could find you loveable?”

Charlie stared at the back of his hand that rested on the desk. We both watched the tapping sequence, thumb through pinky, pinky through thumb. He never looked up as he responded.

“Doc, after your own mother locks you out, numbers ain’t a bad place to be.”

“Charlie, neither of us could control what your mother did. I’m sorry for interrupting. Please continue—you were on the balcony.”

“Yeah I was. My head started spinning and I tried to focus on the open sliding glass door. Just as I prepared to lunge for it I heard a faint whimper. She was still in her nightgown, huddled on the ledge. Too far for me to reach, and I don’t think she wanted to be saved. Before I could do anything she looked me straight in the eye, counted to three, and jumped. All I could do is watch her fall. God, I didn’t want to, but I counted the seconds from the ledge to the street. What kind of sorry bastard does something like that?”

Charlie didn’t allow me to respond.

“Anyhow, that fucking number three ain’t so good anymore.”

That was the last thing I ever heard Charlie Spangenburg say. He didn’t show for his next appointment, and wouldn’t answer my calls. His landlord says he still sees him from time to time, but he’s become more of a recluse.

I gave up my practice, not exclusively because of Charlie. Over the years there were others I couldn’t help. I guess Charlie was right, some people hear voices, and others count shit, but that’s just the way life is.

Worthy

2010-05-31T07:40:00.003-05:00

I'm never quite pleased with the things I've written. Sometimes it seems the plot was lacking, others times too much description, but always not quite what it should have been. Perhaps only my perspective has changed. I'm not the person I was, even a year ago.

I've begun to re-read some of my short stories and intend on re-posting a few. Some will change slightly, others more dramatically, and sadly some are beyond rescue.

Worthy

Jerry Steinhower turned to look over his shoulder one last time. The journey would be easier if he carried the image with him. A make-shift shelter comprised of pine boughs served as a final resting place. Hours had passed as Jerry lingered at a crossroad, wresting with demons; his conscience torn between staying with a friend’s lifeless body, or the decision to move on. Odds of surviving the harsh Canadian elements were slim, but there was nothing he could do for Harley Crider that would bring him comfort now. The only sign of his friend existence was a mound of cold dirt and two twigs fastened with twine in the form of a crude cross.

The two had wandered severely off course, and by the time Harley realized his compass had malfunctioned the sun was but a sliver against an unforgiving sky. Under normal conditions such an error would have been recoverable, but not after the surprise attack of a northern squall. During the night the storm had dumped more than three feet of snow, transforming the five miles between them and the spike camp into an impassible nightmare. Harley made the decision to wait for rescue. From a novice’s point of view, he had done everything correctly. Giving first priority to shelter, then as the thin veil of darkness became dawn, formulating a plan for rescue. The signal fire was admittedly weak, but the best Harley could manage. Small plumes of smoke barely cleared the tree tops before being dismantled by a stiff breeze. Minutes became hours, hours became days—and still no one came. The sinking sun became an evil indicator of the onset of another unbearably cold night.

Never once had Harley lost his composure or his sense of humor. Jerry remembered balking at the proposition of holding another man so closely, but Harley knew the small amount of warmth transferred between bodies was the difference between life and death. Harley suggested he envision sharing the sleeping bag with Ann Margaret, even if she had developed a thick coat of wiry facial hair and put on an extra hundred pounds. Harley was strong enough for both of them, but now he was gone.

There had been no means of calculating the depth and darkness of the void created by the absence of his friend. They had been isolated in a wilderness, but even then there had been two. Jerry’s woods-wise friend provided an inexplicable comfort. His confident air and persuasive words extended beyond the forest. After months of needling, Jerry decided to accept the invitation to hunt. Although he had never held a gun and had absolutely no desire to kill anything, he wanted to know more about the mystical glue that held his friend’s life together. Harley Crider had survived them all; two nasty divorces, a bankruptcy, and the loss of a job. He dealt with each harsh blow by disappearing for a week into the wild, returning with a rejuvenated sense of purpose. Jerry needed that kind of liberation in his own life.

Jerry’s legs were on fire, he was only a few hundred yards from the shelter and his heart was already racing. His energy reserve was running low, but time was of the essence. Strained voices became clearer and louder as they turned in his direction. Jerry quickly ducked beneath the low hanging branches and settled with his back against a sturdy trunk. Those that searched that day came with a hundred yards of discovering him. Harley would have been proud; not with the decision to cover his own tracks, but with the execution of his plan.

With the searchers safely past and his hiding place undisclosed, an eerie fog melted the gap between earth and sky. The collective forces of exertion, hyperthermia, and guilt ushered a barrage of images past. A young boy wore a dusty baseball uniform, sporting a frown that belied the glow of a victor’s face. Jerry intended to be there for his son’s debut on the mound, but ties with the office were too strong. His wife’s lovely green eyes stared in disbelief as he offered a coerced confession in response to the damning evidence of a mistress. His face was sunken and withered; a tired man who could wait no longer. He expired in a forgotten corner of a nursing home as Jerry honored an age-old feud over his father’s last request for reconciliation. There was a large man trailing behind the others. The determined gait was unmistakably Harley Crider’s. Harley was only the latest in Jerry’s life to have had greater expectation than he could deliver.

Jerry recalled being uneasy with the weight of the .44 magnum in his hand, but it was his duty to perform watch while his friend slept. Jerry never heard the wolves approach. Only Harley’s cries had jarred him from an inappropriate slumber. He had rushed to the aid of his friend, but blood-painted muzzles smiled as they welcomed a late arrival. There was no way to determine whether intentional fangs or the inadvertent round that pierced Harley’s skull had closed the deal, but either scenario was equally sickening.

Despite his grizzly fate, Harley returned with a smile upon his face and an angel at his side. The two stood together as if they waited for Jerry to speak or to join them. If they anticipated profound words, he was incapable of them. Jerry’s transgressions were certain to be judged too great. Among a million other worthy prospects, he could not fathom his own soul worth saving. As heavy eyes and doors of opportunity tend to do, they closed. Harley Crider and his escort faded into the mist.

Motherhood

2010-05-09T12:36:00.003-05:00

What a scary proposition when God himself promises pain and suffering. After the fall of Adam and Eve in the Garden, God promised the miracle of birth would not be accomplished without a price. If it existed back then, I suppose it would be a perfect example of “buyer beware”—If you wish to procreate come prepared to experience the ultimate blessing and curse rolled into one.

As a male, I will not pretend to completely and accurately describe motherhood for I know it is something that cannot be fully appreciated without experience. Consider that when a woman chooses to give birth she sacrifices everything for nine months, and nearly everything for the rest of her life. All of this giving in order to produce a life outside of her own—to extend the existence of humankind for another generation.

The responsibility is awesome. During those nine months she must maintain her diet, her rest, and exercise, because these needs are no longer singular in purpose. She carries her young 24/7, no rest, no holidays, and often discomfort is the course of the day. She and the life carried within her are physically and emotionally connected. Her way of thinking changes dramatically whereby something unseen dictates her every thought and action. A motherly instinct is evolving. She will protect her young with a ferocity that is otherwise not in her nature. Soon, preparation of a nest begins; a nurturing environment that will satisfy and comfort the miniature life placed in her care.

When the birth is complete and the umbilical cord severed little if anything changes. The connection made is permanent. A mother will never see a child more beautiful than her own, will never let a cry or skinned knee go unattended, and will do everything in her power to shield them from the harsh ways of the world. She will answer calls in the night, scrub vomit from bed-clothes and sheets, and settle in a rocking chair with the love of her life coddled close to her bosom. With hearts in synch she will sing a sweet lullaby until the words have soothed the hurt away.

These loving actions do negate or minimize a father’s involvement. The raising of a child must involve a balanced approach, but the connection with a mother can never be replaced.

A mother’s life is full of firsts; first tooth, first word, first step, first haircut, first day of school, first date, first breakup, and on and on. A mother cannot help but wish for a child’s success in life and each of these milestones is a step in a positive direction. When they prepare to leave home and forge a life of their own, she hopes that she has prepared them well.

Have you ever considered where you might be without the influence of your mother, wife, or grandmother? It seems grossly inadequate that we should set aside a single day for the women that have so positively impacted our lives. As humans, mothers are not perfect, but I’m confident that the world would be a lesser place without the unconditional love they instill in our hearts and minds.

At whatever point you are in your life, whichever corner of the world you call home, make the phone call, a visit, or even a prayer if she has gone before you. Before the day is through, tell her how much you appreciate her sacrifice, that you would not be half the man or woman you are today if she had not set aside the lion’s share of her heart for you.

2010-04-17T20:15:00.001-05:00

On a field-road at the outskirts of town a farmer stands surveying his plot. It is a barren place where seed planted in rows laid dormant in the cold earth until decay destroyed them from the inside out. His wife is a laborer at a factory. She performs the same repetitive duties and with good reason believes the week to come will only be a miserable collection of yesterdays. Together they live in a town whose footprint hasn’t changed in twenty years. The streets are dotted with few businesses; their proprietors barely exist. The last fresh face to arrive here is now withered and worn. At night when the air is still and sound carries further than it should, I hear the cry of hope drowning and the empty thud of crumbling dreams.

This is a place that lacks faith, has no hope for tomorrow, and the promise of growth has gone unrealized. Without faith, hope, and growth there is little to separate birth from death.

Nothingness

2010-04-11T20:15:00.002-05:00

Roman Samuelson was bruised and bloody. His massive forearms no match for a heavy wooden door. Like an animal in captivity he attacked the cage that held him.

“By what authority do you keep us here—I demand my freedom!”

His defiant chorus collided against unforgiving walls until the intersecting crossfire canceled any noise at all. He and I were not alone in our suffering. Most spent the day standing with heads hung low, circled like cattle sensing a storm, but whereas bovine nervously await the first clap of thunder, in this case the igniter of awful things came in the form of a faint chuckle rising from a dark corner. Farley’s laugh was unmistakable; the old man was rife with madness. He whiled away his days reasoning out loud or sitting glassy-eyed laughing at words no one hears. Harmless really, but Roman Samuelson found a challenge in everything.

“Who is it that finds my demand entertaining? Let him speak his name, so I shall know which of you to crush!”

Roman moved to the corner with purpose in every stride. Upon arrival there was a thrashing of bodies and clashing of spirits that could not be disguised with darkness alone. As the pair transitioned from shadow to the light, Roman emerged first, dragging behind him a feeble man caught by his shirt collar. Farley’s laughter erupted in volleys, even as Roman threw him into a pile, and most oddly when his head struck the floor. Yet to have his fill, Roman seized a handful of hair and engaged the lunatic in conversation.

“Farley, you have suffered in this place longer than any other. Surely you know of a secret passage. Share it with us and I will forego the pleasure of snapping your neck!”

His body was awkwardly tangled and a trickle of blood filled the crease in his forehead, yet his laughter remained constant. There was a distinct disconnect, as the question posed swirled about before lodging squarely in his mind. When it did the laughter stopped, and for the very first time we heard coherent sentences.

“I refuse to address you as Roman; instead I shall call you Jude. You are a rebel, and here in the afterlife there is no place for an untamed spirit. There are but two means of escape, and only a fool insists on a third. My poor boy, your very existence is an illusion…a charade of sorts, and breaking my neck will do nothing to affect that. Roman Samuelson is abbreviated Roman S., but in his blackened heart he is already Jude S.”

Roman’s brows narrowed and his grip loosened. Farley slipped through his grasp, but instead of fleeing he wheeled and moved closer. From point-blank range Farley delivered his last cogent sentence. It came in bursts, the gaps filled with mad laughter.

“You see it clearly now—don’t you—don’t you, Judas!”

A faint jingling came from the hallway, followed by the sound of a lock rattling under the weight of a key. Every desperate eye fell upon the door and every heart skipped a beat. It was each of our deepest desires to be claimed by one side or the other and both had arrived.

In the time it takes for a door to swing we were in the presence of the two most powerful forces in the universe. Out of reverence each of us found our feet, with the exception of one. Farley was in a particularly tortured state, turning circles and hopping like an agitated chimp. Drool slung from either side of his mouth as he shrieked.

“The time has come for one…the time has come for one….soon we all will see, the time has come for one!”

There were many things of which Farley was unaware or clearly mistaken, but he had a thorough understanding of what was to take place. Each time they arrived, the light and the dark, one tortured soul would leave this chamber.

The fairer of them stood to right of the throne and despite our desire he could not be directly gazed upon for his light was too brilliant. However, the lesser of the two, on the left, was not without merit; he too was alluring in a primordial sense.

Just as thunder shakes the heavens, his words rattled our bones.

“Does anyone wish to speak before a decision is made?”

From the rear of the throng came more of a roar than a voice.

“There is one among us that is plotting to undermine your authority.”

Roman parted the crowd, stumbling and cursing those that stood in his way.

“Lord, it is Farley who has betrayed you.”

A murmuring of disbelief filtered from font to back.

“I do not come forward without proof. In his dark corner there is a tunnel. Can it be meant for anything other than escape? Come, and see with your own eyes.”

There was the beginning of an escape route, and Farley spent most of his time there.

The light shone upon the crowd, probing the breadth of us.

“Is there are friend of this man? Who will stand with Farley’s and speak on his behalf?”

The opportunity to acknowledge him was issued three times, yet no one moved from their place. My heart had noble thoughts, but my feet carried me deeper into the safety of the crowd.

“If there is no man willing to prove otherwise, Roman, you have won your freedom. Step forward and reach out your hand.”

With the speed of a serpent’s strike, the dark one intercepted Roman. Firmly gripping his wrist he turned to address the others.

“Inaction is good; your silent mouths bring me great hope for the future.”

Roman fell to his knees as his captor forced his hand toward the crowd.

“The dirt beneath your nails—is it from digging a tunnel, or perhaps a grave in which to bury Farley? Roman, I did not pursue you; there was no need for it. You proposed your allegiance if I would grant you rule of half my kingdom. It is unwise to bargain with the dark side. What is sown shall also be reaped. Today, Farley will leave in the presence of light, and you, Jude, have loved me forever.”

The four disappeared outside the door and a suffocating darkness fell over this tomb. It is difficult to explain to those outside the chamber, but even the most detestable destination is surely better than nothingness. For those that remain, within our chests beat pale hearts yearning for the vibrant colors of pain and suffering; too long have we been subjected to the pastel shades of purgatory. We barley exist; hopelessly wandering in circles, searching for a definable moment when we might again recognize direction. It is with great conviction that I tell you there is most assuredly a fate worse than being damned.

I believe the clarity with which I recall that day only serves as another form of punishment. Inaction is truly a friend of evil. Perhaps no longer being allowed the luxury of experiencing emotion is a blessing. Now, the only reminder that I should feel something comes in brief flashbacks of days gone by. As time grinds on they too will be taken from me. Piece by piece, thought by thought, they will dismantle everything that means anything and eventually only dust will remain.

2010-03-28T22:07:00.001-05:00

The truck shifted into 4WD and the rear-view mirror saw a paved highway shrink into nothingness. Early morning rain lighted on the windshield like tiny, velvet butterflies. Words alone cannot describe the serenity of this road less traveled, and neither can they begin to convey my disappointment as it evaporated. In sharp and unpredictable bounds the driving conditions deteriorated, settling somewhere south of treacherous. The unceremonious meeting of my head with driver’s side glass reinforced the need for evaluation. A sane man would have turned back and perhaps by saying as much I’ve given you more insight to my condition than necessary. Even as a lad I believed conformity a poison, so by default I dismissed the idea of retreat entirely. Not that turning back was devoid of merit, but as each day passes I find myself powerless against the icy grip of those things familiar. How dreadful past compulsions can be. Without regard to outcome, I retrieved a handful of colorful pills, chased them with a shot of bourbon, and forged onward.

As I ascended the mountain my mind gave way to odd and various considerations, but none more perplexing or titillating than time dedicated to the designer of such a narrow and winding road. I found his plans for razor thin margins commendable, and the sheer depth of canyons on either side serving as punishment for miscalculation—genius indeed! I attacked this course with fervor, as I believed any lesser attempt would have deeply offended his creativity.

Yet as fire turns to ice, I briefly shared the cab with my dead mother. Her eyes were as cold and unapproachable as when living. She insisted on frittering away precious moments expounding upon what a thorough and significant disappointment I had been. She was still yammering about nothing when I dismissed her unwelcomed company in favor of a warm fuzzy haze.

When the truck rolled around the final bend one of two things occurred. At the time my condition did not allow me to readily identify which, and oddly I had no preference. After intense scrutiny I discovered it was indeed a heavy sigh and not the hissing of my ruptured spleen.

With my mental state vaguely laid bare and the introduction to my dysfunctional mother, I find no value in withholding other unsavory details of my journey. A victim of diminished capacity, I was unsuccessful in synchronizing the jerking of my eyes and the elusive hands of a watch, so estimates must suffice. After three failed attempts to negotiate the cabin door, I figure it was noontime when I crawled through the threshold and approaching sunset when I fell onto a bed fully clothed.

As morning rose my nostrils swelled with the aroma of stale earth and time. I was content eavesdropping while the rudimentary accommodations murmured of their simplicity. All in all I found the cabin and its contents quite pleasing. Never had she promised a five-star suite, only an escape from those things in heavy pursuit. Where psychiatrists are concerned Dr. Julie Martin was beyond compare. At first I was convinced she had taken me on such short notice because we shared the same office building, but perhaps it was more than book learning that provided such keen insight to my streaks of madness. Nonetheless, offering the use of her cabin for the weekend qualified her as a genuine friend with a sincere interest in my mental well being.

I suppose it is inevitable that at some point one assigned to care for another’s demons cannot help but be consumed by their own. Certainly, it was my own inability to properly defend those placed in my care that has driven me to within arms reach of the edge. Every hour on the hour I pour through the files of three deceased patients of mine who chose to end their own lives. I’ve played back our conversations searching for clues I missed, some occasion when I selected the wrong words, or failed to respond when required.

These distasteful circumstances seem much more palatable if only we adhere to the philosophy whereby we are all simply victims of circumstance. Abusers raise abusers, addicts give birth to addicts, and the poverty-stricken are destined to breed another generation of peasants. There is liberation in believing we are completely helpless to change or otherwise affect our miserable lives, but when we speak in these terms we completely undermine the capability of humankind and give ourselves a free pass to fail regularly and feel good about it.

Yet if we deny such thinking it suggests we have some control of our behavior, actions, and ultimately responsibility for outcomes we clearly did not intend. Perhaps that is too painful and far too heavy a burden for me to carry just now.

The dusty journal entry of Dr. Julie Martin provided me with inspiration. Before the weekend was done I considered others she might send here in the future and was compelled to leave an entry of my own.

Cynicism creeps in slowly, like a wolf stalking a lamb, but among these whispering pines I find refuge. Nature sucks the venom from my soul while mountain breezes sweep away the ashes and songs of birds in hiding sooth the jagged edges of my heart.

Word Catalyst

2010-02-27T21:12:00.002-06:00

Word Catalyst March Submission

"http://www.wordcatalystmagazine.com/pages103/beamscol103.html"

Lunch at the Red Rooster Cafe

2010-02-21T17:40:00.003-06:00

I’ve been comin’ to the Red Rooster goin’ on forty years now. Some folk come for the food, others like the company. I suppose I fall somewhere betwixt ‘em. Bottom line is most of us just glad to have someplace to go. As with any eatery some lunches are plain more memorable than others. Last Wednesday was one of them days, and honestly it does my heart good to relay the story to ya.

Two men was sittin’ at a corner table waitin’ on lunch to arrive. While I ain’t naturally given to the abstract, seemed like the condiment carrier between ‘em symbolized a line drawn along social class, dress, and demeanor. One sported a fresh, stylish haircut and appeared at home in a gray pin-striped suit and leather shoes. The other fitted in a greasy mechanic’s shirt with a name tag sewn in the upper left-hand corner. Everything about that boy indicated he was uncomfortable in his own skin. Few if any of the regulars in the diner realized they was brothers; twins in fact. Not only did they have the same mother, they occupied her womb at the same time. Poor old Mona musta had some kind heartburn.

Thomas stared beneath the table cloth, his nimble fingers punchin’ out a text message on his shiny phone while Tim made questionable use of his fork. Even in a small town, cleanin’ the grime from beneath your nails and wipin’ the tines on a napkin ain’t gonna get you too many dinner dates. Soon as he worked the pinkey finger over good he was ready for words.

“Look at you—punchin’ shit into that phone like a little robot. You got some kind a Goliath set of balls showin’ up twenty minutes late with no apology, and not even a word for your own brother!”

Tim’s attack drew no return fire. With an enemy unwilling to engage he seized the opportunity, this time in a mocking voice.

“Thomas, you’ll have to excuse me. Even though I find your company utterly delightful, suddenly I’m struck with an overwhelming urge to take a big, hairy, rooster-shit!”

As a friend of the family, I had on occasion had the opportunity to speak with Thomas. He’s one of them kind that has trouble listen’ on account of his ratchet-jaw yackin’ most of the time. Don’t get me wrong—I ain’t at all convinced he’s completely heartless—just internally misguided. Through conversation I git the distinct impression, in an odd, detached sort of way he does feel for his brother, but like spoiled milk some things are simply too far gone.

The waitress arrived with his salad and placed a burger platter in front of the empty chair. With Tim not havin’ returned from his business, I suppose Thomas saw no harm in plucking a few fries from his brother’s plate. Fer his trouble he was welcomed with a sharp slap to the back of his head—the kind that sets your teeth to rattlin’ and produces a distinct ringin’ in the ears.

“Stand up you thievin’, no-good son-of-a bitch. In case you’re wonderin’, there’s plenty more from where that came from!”

A bewildered Thomas turned to find his brother loomin’ over him. Tim’s fists were already doubled and his eyes boilin’ with rage.

“You calling me out over a couple of greasy fries?”

“Yeah Thomas, in your mixed-up world, that’s what I’m doin’! Take an ass-whoopin’ standin’ or sittin’….it don’t matter to me; I give you fair warnin’!”

It was along about that time Thomas realized the outburst had drawn the attention of every patron in the place. As their hungry settled upon him I believe he was attemptin’ to diffuse the situation with rationale, but the way he spoke drew snickers from the crowd.

“Sit down, Tim. If you continue these shenanigans you’re most certainly going to make a fool of yourself.”

Tim grabbed his pretty, blue, silk tie and used it for leverage. Each time he wound it around his hand their eyes came closer to touchin’.

“You completely forgot you’re upbringin’, Thomas. Everyone here knows the story—that’s how it is a small town. Hell, half of ‘em in here think I’m a fool for waitin’ this long to pound ya into puddin’. You think I forgot when you stole my girlfriend in the tenth grade, just cause you could? When you nearly broke mom and pop payin’ for yer ivy-league college? How ‘bout when you left me to take care of ‘em while you was off in China? Daddy passed and you was good enough to send flowers, now Momma’s bad sick and dyin’, Thomas, and small as a man you are, you can’t manage a phone call!”

Tim said what needed said and then he reached back somewhere into last Tuesday and delivered a mule-punch that sent his brother sprawlin’. Thomas was out cold, not even a quiver. I ain’t sayin’ it was the right thing to do, but the crowd erupted into applause. Tim didn’t pay no mind to none of us, seemed he had only one thing left to accomplish. You see, when Tim made contact, Thomas’ smart-phone went to skiddin’ across the hardwood like a young pup on a frozen pond. On his way to the door Tim placed a heel on that confounded device, as if it was the cause of everything gone wrong in his life. The whole place grew deathly quiet as Tim took to sobbin’, and cussin’ and stompin’. It ain’t never a pretty sight to see a man busted up like that, but what happened next sent us all home in a better frame-o-mind.

After the first stomp an operator’s voice come on the line clear as day, “We’re sorry your call can’t completed as dialed, if you’ve reached this recording in error, please hang up and try again.”

As a courtesy to the woman on the line, Tim leaned towards the floor and spoke slowly.

“Sorry to bother ya, maa’m, but it twert no mistake; I reached just where I was aimin’!”

Word Catalyst

2010-01-29T06:20:00.003-06:00

Feb Word Catalyst article "http://www.wordcatalystmagazine.com/pages102/beamscol102.html /"

Take a look around....there are some fascinating folks who write there. Hmmm...now that I think of it, I'm not sure why they continue to post my work!!

2010-01-24T13:04:00.000-06:00

I watched a young boy in front of me count out his change. He handled each penny as if it was gold. Still it was not enough. He turned the coin purse inside out hoping for another quarter. When there was none, the cashier cleared his register and set the bread and milk aside.

“Son, I’m sorry. Corporate rules won’t allow us to extend credit any longer. You’ll tell your mother the news won’t you?”

Without expression the youngster collected the coins as if he understood corporate rules completely. The cashier looked at me oddly as I retrieved his items and ran each across the scanner adding them to my bill. When I handed the boy his bag the expression that washed over his face was one of confusion.

“Sir, why would you do this for me?”

There was no time to explain the entire story of the Good Samaritan, or of a woman at the well. I knelt down and placed my hand on his shoulder.

“Son, you only needed a little and I have been blessed with much.”

His eyes of chocolate darted from his own clothing to mine, from the soiled change purse to the credit card I held in my hand.

“But, Sir, if my mother should ask, how will I explain?”

“Tell her truth—tell her that God arranged our meeting today and that we were both blessed by it—and most importantly tell her you love her.”

I sat in the parking lot watching the boy’s form grow smaller in the horizon. As different as we appeared to be, we were the same; the boy is me, the boy is you. No matter how successful in the eyes of the world we become we are no more able to pay our heavenly debt than a poor boy with a change purse. Earthly goods and accomplishments cannot buy our freedom. Only through the grace of God and the sacrifice of his Son can our debt be forgiven.

So if during the course of the day your mother should ask, gently kiss her on the forehead and tell her you love her. You’ll also tell her tell her the news, won’t you—that you’ve met a friend who has the power to change everything.

I Thought I Knew

2009-11-27T09:50:00.003-06:00

I met a Christian man I thought I knew
passing the homeless in the street.
I see it now, that God’s idea
was that he and I should meet.

As men are men; I watched him fall
to a place where words and deeds depart.
He tip-toed past the shattered glass
of someone else’s broken heart.

This ugly man, his ugly deeds
much more than I could fathom.
I grabbed his hand and prayed to God
that my words might bridge the chasm.

But as we stood face to face,
each glance a collective sum.
He wore my clothes, he bore my eyes,
he was the wretch I’d become.

He spoke to me like yesterday
as if both were still alive.
With grace-filled eyes and words like knives
he carved the cancer from inside.

“Once our eyes drift shut
hearts will surely follow.
You cannot help a fellow brother
if you yourself are hollow.

I grant you bread in loaves
and a cup that’s overridden;
not that you should store it all
and keep my blessings hidden.

You must give away your last
showing faith in whence they’ve come.
Until the needs of all are met
our work has just begun.”

Straight From Hell

2009-11-22T19:45:00.000-06:00

One night a week Kathy McKutchin volunteered at a soup kitchen. It should come as no surprise the daughter of a priest would be inclined to serve the community, but on the surface one might incorrectly assume many things. She was not the product of an illicit affair, but a sad set of circumstances, indeed. As an infant she was abandoned in a dumpster behind the rectory. Some choose to believe she was placed there by a remorseful mother who knew her child would be cared for. Others, including myself, quietly hold a differing opinion. Even when she was young, “Straight from hell” the parishioners would say; struck by the irony that God would place a demon in care of a priest. It is difficult to say how such an unfortunate entrance into this world might adversely affect the psyche, but in either case, Father McKutchin plucked her from yesterday’s trash and raised her as his own. God rest his soul—Father McKutchin did the best he could.

It was not his influence that prompted charitable work but more the coercion of those belonging to the Wednesday morning bridge club. Only when it became common knowledge that the aristocrats who came to play cards gave more freely of their time, was Kathy overwhelmed with an urge to help the needy. Dare I say it was not by accident she chose Saturday evenings to volunteer. At every opportunity she reminded them that a sacrifice of ‘premium time’ would certainly be judged more generously than their own.

When she arrived she parked two blocks away. The lighting was better there and if she slipped the parking attendant a twenty he made certain the car was toasty when she returned. If she slithered alongside the buildings, staying within the shadows, there was a fair chance she could avoid awkward conversation with those who waited in line. How difficult it was for her to interact with those cut from another cloth. Words were scarce, even between she and a young man named Marcus who also volunteered on her night. He was too much like those he served, living in the street himself, yet offering his time in the kitchen. Some things were absolutely too good to be true. Kathy watched him closely and made certain to count the silverware after he had gone.

On this particular night, when the last strangler had gathered their bundle and headed into the cold, Kathy busied herself with a single pan. Perhaps if she fiddled with it long enough Marcus would clear the kitchen and her nails might be spared.

“You know there’s plenty of soup, Marcus. Why don’t you have a bowl for yourself? The weather’s brutal out there.”

He held up a tattered Bible—an outward sign of his weakness. Oh how she despised the way he let it speak for him more often than not.

“My strength comes from the word. It says here, whatever you have to done to the least of them you also have done to me.”

Intended or not, Kathy would not ignore a direct assault on her character. As the words circulated her mind her blood boiled and in a mad dash she rushed him. With her left hand firmly wrapped around his throat, she did her best to separate him from the book, but Marcus was wiry and held it arms length.

“When will you put down that silly-ass Bible and take off your ‘Jesus-glasses’. Can’t you see you are one of the least of them?”

Flabbergasted by her aggression, Marcus’ stumbled over his words.

“Mis…Miss McKutchin—you’re wrong. There’ll be more to feed tomorrow—someone will come through that door that needs it more than I.”

With his back arched like a willow, he was pinned between a table and an increasingly confrontational character. The heat of her breath poured over him like an uncomfortably hot shower.

“Marcus, do you recall last year when you dropped your Bible in the crosswalk? Was it your Almighty God that sent the city bus into your path—was it his compassion that broke both your legs instead of your skull? Mark my words—that ridiculous book will someday be the death of you!”

Kathy drew in a deep breath and as a result the small space between them provided for escape.

“Miss McKutchin, the Bible speaks of people like you; those who are already dead without knowing it, but it is also filled with grace—the kind it takes to lift someone from a dumpster and give them a second chance at life. Perhaps you need my ‘Jesus-glasses’ to see that.”

Marcus forged his way up the street. The bank sign showed -20. His thin camouflaged field-jacket flapped in a brisk north wind. He was no more prepared for the elements than his father had been when he wore it as he marched into war. The streets were a battlefield of another kind—here, moving was the key to survival. More than hour passed as he circled the blocks. It was colder than he could recall and his joints became stiff and uncooperative. He paused at the steps of the cathedral and near its door made his resting place for the night.

As he settled an approaching vehicle slowed as it neared the steps. The driver pulled to the curb and as the window descended, Miss McKutchin grinned.

“Looks like you could use a fire, Marcus. If you had a lick of sense you’d see the fuel sitting next to you. You see—perhaps even tonight that book will be the death of you.”

For a brief moment he touched the matches in his pocket, and then glanced at the frost-covered Bible. Perhaps he could make it until morning if he did the unthinkable, but when tomorrow came, how quickly would the streets gobble up a man without faith?

Kathy blew a kiss before speeding away. Still preoccupied with waving and taunting him, the stillness of the night was shattered. Her white Mercedes slammed into a garbage truck pulling from the alley and burst into flames.

Like ants to a morsel, the homeless emerged from the alleys, desperate to warm themselves by a fire. Their hearts were not filled with malice, but their minds consumed with survival. Flames, no matter the source, meant the difference between life and death. Marcus made a valiant effort to stand but his feet were frozen solid. There was nothing more he could do to save her from the fire. In the end, no one could reach Kathy McKutchin.

2009-10-11T21:24:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-09-07T10:58:00.002-05:00

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.”

2009-06-21T08:08:00.003-05:00

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

2009-06-13T17:13:00.003-05:00

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

2009-05-31T21:24:00.004-05:00

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!”

2009-05-08T22:01:00.003-05:00

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

2009-05-05T06:46:00.003-05:00

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

2009-05-02T06:25:00.004-05:00

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

2009-04-08T21:29:00.003-05:00

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

2009-04-02T18:40:00.002-05:00

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

2009-03-25T19:47:00.003-05:00

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

2009-03-18T21:55:00.002-05:00

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

2009-03-06T06:25:00.001-06:00

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

2009-03-03T06:41:00.003-06:00

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

2009-03-02T19:21:00.003-06:00

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

2009-02-26T07:08:00.004-06:00

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

2009-02-23T22:03:00.002-06:00

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

2009-02-22T21:08:00.003-06:00

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

2009-02-15T20:53:00.004-06:00

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)

2009-02-08T19:45:00.002-06:00

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)

2009-02-06T07:00:00.002-06:00

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

2009-01-31T16:47:00.002-06:00

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’

2009-01-24T10:34:00.000-06:00

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

2009-01-22T21:19:00.002-06:00

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

2009-01-17T21:36:00.002-06:00

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

2009-01-10T08:43:00.000-06:00

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

2008-12-31T11:25:00.003-06:00

“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

2008-12-21T07:09:00.003-06:00

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

2008-12-14T15:29:00.002-06:00

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

2008-12-12T06:49:00.002-06:00

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.

Full Circle

2008-12-07T17:33:00.002-06:00

Village Carpenter by Edward Henry Potthast

Julia placed the glass of lemonade on the corner of the bench. He stopped working only long enough to flash a quick wink and smile. She didn’t linger for she knew her husband well. The distraction of chatting while working was counterproductive, particularly on a project as special as this.

Beads of sweat gathered in the creases of his brow. Their idle threat became real as the stream of perspiration reached the corner of his eye. With a heavy sigh Gerald Lyons laid down his mallet and chisel. He brushed at the front of his apron and with the aid of his good eye located a relatively dust free spot. Now was the perfect time to enjoy the glass of lemonade, while he could still scoop the layer of oak chips that floated on the surface.

He watched her thin form disappear behind the door of the shack, much thinner than when they had married. The wages of a carpenter were scant and he regretted that as much as anything, but she never failed to smile even when the groaning of her stomach threatened to drown out her small voice. Gerald was born into poverty, but for Julia this existence was chosen.

Julia Rothchild had come from money and privilege. Being the sole heir to untold fortunes she could have had any man in the village she desired. Her parents made no attempt to disguise their disdain for her poor selection; a village carpenter. Horace Rothchild III agreed to the union, but under terms that would benefit him. The marriage would be allowed only if his daughter signed paperwork stating she surrendered all financial ties to the family, including the forfeiture of a dowry.

Gerald cared nothing about the dowry, but in good conscience could not ask Julia to make such a permanent and unwise decision for her future. He quickly rescinded his offer for her hand and made himself scarce. Yet such a woman of strength and commitment would not be so easily deterred.

“Father, would you have your threat of financial ruin control the decision in my heart? A carpenter is not worthy in your eyes, but was Jesus himself not a carpenter? Make no mistake, I am prepared to give up all that I know to become Julia-Rothchild-Lyons. I shall much prefer to die a pauper with a song in my heart, than a princess upon a throne having lived a life of regret.”

With that she promptly signed the papers and left the ballroom never to return.

Some in the village believed Julia suffered from a fever and the women on the street often told her so, but she responded quickly as if she knew their words.

“Just as Gerald can glance at a standing tree and envision a finished product, I have the same gift for people. You should search the world over and if you find a man with half the heart of mine, claim him as your own. His passion is rarer than diamonds and his love of humanity more precious than gold.”

Gerald sat the glass down and returned to his work. He remained unconvinced. Although her words of praise were crafted from conviction beyond his comprehension, he could not deny their power. In her presence he became more than a man whittling at wood. She saw potential in him than he could not imagine for himself.

Julia arrived back at the shop as he finished wiping down the wood.

“Is it complete?” She asked.

With a wide smile he said “It is done.”

The walk to their destination passed within viewing distance of her parent’s home. He watched carefully her reactions, but she only kicked at a stone in the path.

“My Julia, do you ever wish to go back in time, where a life of excess filled the voids of poverty? At this very moment your father’s servants are preparing a feast and I offer you only bread crumbs.”

“Despite the great many room in my father’s house he could not find space for his own daughter and thus that house will never be a home to me. For now he chooses to remain blind rather than see the full extent of his wickedness.”

The sun sank low in the sky as they knocked upon the door for which they came. The small shack belonged to a downtrodden woman and three starving children. She and the two older boys did their best to maintain the crops, but the labors of the field more suited a man. A farming accident had claimed her husband and as the horses careened out of control one of the plow’s shears found the youngest boy’s ankle. A crude severing of his right foot left him lame. Gerald knew of hardship, but not of this magnitude.

In her hunched back Libby Childress carried a heavy burden. Lines of worry etched themselves prematurely in her face, but stubbornly she found her feet more times than the world had knocked her down. By example she taught her boys all that she could. It only seemed right that someone lend a hand in providing the things she could not.

Julia removed two large loaves of bread from beneath a towel and a dozen small eggs. The aroma of fresh bread brought the youngest hopping to the table. Gerald knelt on the dirt floor so that he might speak to the boy.

“Sir William, you are adapting well to your misfortune. You come from fine stock, but even in your youth surely you must know this.”

William’s eyes were fixed on the steaming loaves that sat just beyond his reach. Gerald placed his hand on his head and ruffled his dark hair before standing.

“Momma, may I please have a slab of bread?”

“I should think you might give a word of thanks before you go nibbling at them like a mouse without manners, young man.”

Young William promptly folded his miniature hands and bowed his head. Although tiny his sincere words filled the small space.

“Thankee Lord for this fine smellin’ bread and Mr. and Mrs. Lyons that brung me—eer us I should say, these vittles.”

Libby tore off a corner and William hopped away smiling. She turned towards the visitors and stood as straight as her back would allow.

“I too must thank you for your charity.”

Gerald quickly took exception to her remark.

“No Libby, do not mistake this for charity. Do you recall the harsh winter following your husband’s death? Julia and I would have frozen to death, had you not allowed me to fall the large oak tree on your property. We were able to spare a small portion of the trunk.”

Gerald moved to the door and reached just beyond the threshold to retrieve his work.

Libby’s eyes clouded and she was moved to tears. She ran her fingers along the edge and moved closer to the fire that she might read the inscription. She cradled the two small oak crutches in her arms as if they represented such hope as a newborn babe.
Her trembling voice read aloud so that all might here.

“One glorious day we shall all be made whole; the blind should see and the lame shall walk.”

So goes the story that my grandfather told me when I sat upon his knee. As for the existence of such a village and carpenter I have no proof. True or purely myth makes no difference. It is a story for all generations and as a tribute to my deceased grandfather I will wrap it up with his very predictable but profound words.

“Kindness will come full circle, but also shall evil. Examine the contents of your own hearts and choose your paths wisely.”

Rest

2008-12-04T18:04:00.004-06:00

With fainting gasp her worries rise
sharing woe with marbled skies.
She too frets deeds undone
but even suns are only one.
Close your eyes and rest shall come
to all who heed a setting sun.

Seeing The Light

2008-12-03T06:36:00.003-06:00

Mark Jennings jammed on the horn and swerved into the adjacent lane. His front bumper cleared the white Hyundai with inches to spare. He glared at the young teen in the driver’s seat who only responded with a shrug and sheepish wave. Mark relished the thought of leaping from his vehicle and snatching the oblivious young man up by the nose-ring or perhaps his excessively long hair. A small amount of justice might be served should this twit experience a smattering of pain that he continued to endure on his behalf. Had the thought of spending Christmas Eve in a cold jail cell not crept into his mind, Mark would have certainly crossed the line.

Massaging the stub, where prosthetic met living flesh, no longer brought relief. The prescription for pain medication doled out by the VA hospital had become inadequate, even when combined with whiskey. The RPG that ripped through his transport claimed three friend’s lives and more of Mark than he realized. Physically he lost his mangled left leg somewhere in Iraq, but the poison in his mind grew daily and exponentially.

The difference between Mark and the young man in the Hyundai could not be measured in years, for the span could be no more than three. He couldn’t help but wonder; was this snot-nosed kid the kind that his fellow soldiers died for? No doubt the young man found himself in a hurry to attend a protest where they burned flags instead of saluting them; chanted words of hatred directed at their country rather than picking arms to defend it. He represented the most recent example of what this generation of complacency and entitlement had bred. America had become a place where youth were recruited and encouraged to dissent, where protestors spat upon those who served, and the only semblance of patriotism had to be scraped from the boot-heel of activism. Mark found it ironic that these renegades spent their days cursing the actions and motives of those that stood watch over them as they slept securely at night. In retrospect perhaps a night spent incarcerated did have some merit?

Mark reached the city limits and continued down the dark country road. Only one home lay between the city and his secluded trailer. The peeling paint and plastic-covered windows of an old shack was where Mr. Eldred had chosen to settle after his return. Karl Eldred, a Vietnam vet, had earned Mark’s respect with each tour he had served; three in all. Karl rarely ventured outside the boundaries of his forty acres except for Sunday church service and the annual Veteran’s Day parade. His first and last duties of the day were to raise and lower an oversized flag that stood proudly for all to see. Perhaps if there were more Karl Eldred’s weaved into the fabric of this country it would not be unraveling today.

In the distance an exceedingly bright light drew Mark’s attention. The glow sat just beyond the bare trees and cast eerie and strange shadows that danced upon the road. Mark soon came to realize the source of light was coming from Mr. Eldred’s porch. Certainly had he observed the light previously, it had never shone as brightly as it did tonight.

He made the hard right turn into the driveway. His headlights revealed nothing unusual. A rusty old Massey Ferguson tractor sat next to the wood shed, precisely where it had sputtered and come to a halt decades ago. A late seventies Chevy pick-up truck sat near enough the tractor so that neither looked out of place. Much like the decaying antiques around the farm, her exterior had been eaten away with time. The only sign of life came from a startled rabbit that abandoned his nest behind the rear tire for the safety of the woods.

After a series of raps on the screen door Karl appeared. The aging man answered in his overhauls, clutching a vintage double-barrel shotgun across his chest. His snarl soon gave way to a grin as he recognized the visitor.

“Mark…Mark Jennings, come on in, Son.”

Karl led the way to the living room, weaving carefully between the stacks of clutter.

“I apologize for the mess. Martha used to care for the house. So what brings you by my place, Mark?”

“Well, Sir, I thought I might check in on you. Truthfully, that bright porch light caught my eye.”

Karl’s brows narrowed. His weather-cracked fingers worked against the stubble on his chin, like the sound of sandpaper tasting fresh wood.

“Son, you must be mistaken. That light ain’t worked since the day we placed Martha to rest and I ain’t as steady on a ladder as I used to be. Anyhow—glad you come. I been meanin’ to have a chat with ya, since you moved in up the road.”

“Mr. Eldred, I sure was sorry to hear about Martha. You were a lucky man. Ain’t no finer woman in Crawford County; everyone said so.”

Karl sat silently for a few moments and when he spoke again his tone was changed. Like that of a swirling breeze, confused as to which direction it should choose.

“She put up with more than she deserved. Martha would be the first to tell ya I come back from Vietnam a changed man—and not for the better. These things you’re doin’, Mark; they’ve been done before. Movin’ way out in the country, hittin’ the bottle more often than not—just plain hidin’ from folks.

“Me and you felt a callin’ that some folks don’t never feel, but it don’t make neither of us better than them. We seen things so they didn’t have to. Make no mistake, despite the outcome, war’s a thief—takes valuable things away, things you never imagined.”

The old man stared at Mark’s left leg.

“Mark your time’s been served. She already claimed your leg—don’t let her have your mind.”

Karl pulled the curtain back and wiped the frost from the window. Without saying a word he moved toward the front door leaving his shotgun leaning in the corner.

Mark heard the screen door slam and the enthusiasm of a young voice as well as Karl’s.

“Mark, I’d like you to meet my grandson. He’ll be headed for California in a couple days—gonna make a Marine out of him they say.”

Karl’s eyes became troubled and the words trailed off into silence, “Then ship him off to Afghanistan or Iraq, I suppose.”

Mark stood and shook his hand firmly. The young man’s name did not stick with him, but the nose-ring and long hair were very familiar.

Karl sensed the uncomfortable air and glanced out the window again.

“Damned if I didn’t forget to take old glory down again. Don’t suppose you two might wanna help out an old man, would ya?”

As they exited the shack, Karl made a point to flip the light switch on and off again. It came as little surprise there was not even a flicker. Mark had been mistaken about a great many things.

Three

2008-11-27T08:00:00.002-06:00

As his soon to be former psychiatrist, I continue to stand by my original diagnosis. Charlie Spangenburg teeters on the edge of neurosis. Despite such an affliction he is one of the most intelligent patients I’ve encountered in twenty years of practice. Yet his refusal to cooperate outweighs any intrigue I once held for Charlie and how his mind works. I am heeding his request for a referral. Please see the enclosed documentation and audio tapes of our previous sessions. Charlie believes he might benefit from a ‘more competent doctor’, perhaps he will.

Best Regards,

PhD Myran Masters

Several years back when this letter was penned I truly believed I had seen the last of Charlie Spangenburg, but last week he wandered back into my life. My receptionist stood her ground for a short time, but eventually she proved no match for him. Despite his issues Charlie possesses a stubborn tenacity. Perhaps this is the one characteristic that will see him through. Just as he insisted we resumed the sessions. I found his sudden change of heart curious.

His appearance, goals, and future were narrowly defined by obsession. Each facet of his life fit neatly in a slot, contained and easily managed. Few were aware of the egg-timer that sat upon his dresser or the specific purpose it served. He never exceeded the allotted nine minutes set aside for grooming. The middle-aged New Yorker shuddered at the thought of even accidentally being labeled metro-sexual.

Breakfast consisted of two Grade ‘A’ brown eggs, never white. Three strips of bacon laid diagonally near the eggs, but not close enough to touch. A saucer placed to right of the plate, in the two o’clock position, was reserved for toast; stone-ground wheat exclusively, toasted for precisely sixty-three seconds—sixty-three of course being divisible by three.

During our first meeting Charlie clutched to a worn leather planner. My inquiry about the contents of the binder was met with resistance. I was asked by my patient if he might be allowed to rifle through my desk, simply to satisfy the curiosity of a stranger. This was not the first time Charlie turned the tables on me. Many days it seemed I rested on the preverbal couch, subjected to a battery of questions designed to determine the purity of my motives. Only now on his second round of visits was he prepared to allow me into his world.

It was a journey of despair; painful, daily musing from a broken man who longed to be a part of a normal world which presently found no use for him. The first several pages were barely legible, letters overlapping and sporadic spacing between lines. It seems Charlie began his journal under the bleakest of circumstances. He allowed his emotions to flow, isolated in total darkness behind a locked closet door. Even a mother’s love could not overcome misunderstanding. He could not recall the length of his punishment or even the crime, if indeed there had been one. I sensed the tenderness of thirty-year-old wounds and moved forward quickly.

Hidden in the back I discovered a very detailed chart for his life’s course. Charlie explained that all plans begin in pencil, only when an item was determined as likely, would it be traced over in pen. Curiously I asked about the entry under the heading ‘girlfriend’. Despite the ink, permanent and irreversible, the name had been marked through completely.

Instead of prescribing to the failed model of modification, Suzanne accepted his idiosyncrasies and loved him despite them. Her sudden departure introduced unwanted variables into an otherwise orderly life. Variables in the form of difficult emotions which Charlie had no clue how to deal with.

As I thumbed through the pages it occurred to me the mind is a powerful thing, some believe capable of influencing if not controlling our physical health. Charlie’s experience causes me to question my neutrality on the subject.

March 3: I awakened with chaos all around. Despite turning the apartment inside out I could not find Suzanne anywhere. After a thorough scouring of the kitchen produced no note I knew wherever she had gone Suzanne did not intend to be found.

With trembling fingers I withdrew a Camel Light from the pack. Smoking it with purpose—I only wished to see the thin paper meet the filter as quickly as possible. Although Suzanne was no longer here I felt a strange compulsion to respect her rules. Smoking was only allowed on the balcony.

Thirty stories of air between me and the pavement did nothing for my frazzled nerves. A painful thirty seconds was all I could endure. Retreating to the safety of the apartment, hand over hand I maintained contact with the rail. As I prepared to release my grip and lunge for the open door a faint whimper reached my ear. Looking to my left, thirty feet away huddled on the ledge, was the object of my search. Still in her nightgown Suzanne crouched there biting her lip in an effort to remain silent. This was the day I realized Suzanne was an imposter also. She too had only been a visitor to the world of acceptance.

Upon being discovered Suzanne quickly found freedom in her leap. I still cannot conceive the power of the voices in her head. I had been aware of their presence, but had underestimated the sweetness of their words.

March 21: I fiddle with my breakfast out of obligation. This morning routine has always been more about preparation rather than hunger. I move from the table to the balcony door, only to find watching the traffic below makes me dizzy. The door remains locked as it will forever. I reach for the lever, actuating it open and closed three times. As far back I can remember three had been my lucky number, but finally this fog has lifted and I can see them for what they are; detestable prompts used to feed my repetitive obsessions. Yet out of all of the numbers that churn in my head, three remains particularly loathsome. Even as I speak of it now, I know that three can no longer be part of my life.

Charlie’s knees began to buckle even as he contemplated breaking the cycle. He grimaced as he opened and closed the lock the fourth time. The clicking of mechanism instantly sent his heart into an uncontrollable frenzy. A bolt of pain stretched across his chest and exploded through his right shoulder blade. His breath came in accelerated bursts and Charlie fell to his knees. The objects in the apartment lifted from their resting places and began to dance in a circular motion. With a muted thud the back his head made contact with the carpeted floor. During what he believed were his last moments Charlie watched the ceiling fan rotate, unable to resist counting the revolutions. Within the glass orb that surrounded the bulbs he saw Suzanne’s face. As bittersweet as their encounter had been, within her soft eyes lie the beauty of acceptance.

Now that he has left my office I’m left to ponder many questions. Charlie had not suffered a heart attack as he was convinced, only a severe panic attack induced by the stressful situation his mind perceived. It’s a shame the unique workings of a genius are often his curses. I still hold a sliver of hope that a boy resilient enough to emerge from a dark closet might eventually find acceptance. My office manager tells me we are in need of an accountant. Perhaps Charlie’s mind for numbers may be just what the doctor ordered.

How do we live in a world where our capacity to expand our definition of normalcy is bound by our level of comfort, and hence it becomes far easier to continue the charade? The illusion that we are part of that narrow band of mediocrity eases our conscience as we cast those considered different aside. Charlie Spangenburg lingered at the door of acceptance for years, but never received his invitation. Perhaps someone is knocking at your door tonight—someone very much like Charlie. Will you turn out the lights and pretend the house is empty, facilitating another ascent to the ledge; or will you open your door and ask them in?