Casting Stones

Bobby Miller struggled as he waddled from side to side, his arms wrapped around a large rock, fingers interlocked beneath. The weight of the stone quickly transformed his arms into jelly, but with one final heave he launched it into the pond.

Bobby inhaled so deeply the cool air burned his lungs, but he insisted on being heard.

“Are you deaf? Did you hear that!?”

He was satisfied with the terrific splash it made, sufficient enough to chase a Mallard hen and her ducklings from the cat-tails. After all of these years he supposed the bottom of the pond looked like a rock quarry. The stones were used to get God’s attention, before praying for something they really needed. His father explained, “The larger the rock the more urgent the need.” A five-year old boy’s mind is always grinding and the first question was why God lived underwater. Randy Miller explained to his young son that nature was God’s back yard and he could be found in the willows, the water, and the wildlife, practically anywhere. Back then Bobby’s father had all of the answers, but not so much any longer—not in the last year.

Since the day his father sincerely knelt on this very shore and begged God to spare his wife’s life. It was as though his father’s words and sobbing disappeared into thin air. Maybe God had gone fishing that day too, but either way Bobby’s mother died less than a week later.

Bobby ran his finger along the stainless barrel of the revolver. He didn’t feel the urge to pray, not even once, as he dropped each round into the cylinder. If God was truly there, he knew what he intended to do. He could conceal the torment no longer; the hopelessness he wrestled with each day had finally gotten him in a stranglehold. He was tapping out—giving up. How could an all-knowing being be oblivious to such things?

He rocked the pistol to the right and the cylinder locked firmly in place. Bobby rehearsed the scenario countless times on an empty chamber, but now battled against the quickened pace of his heart. Logic dictated he wouldn’t even hear the blast and at super sonic speed there would be no chance to flinch, as long as he remained steady through the pull of the trigger. The coldness of the barrel against his right temple caused his body to shudder.

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

Even as the words came Bobby felt awkward in his demand. He had extended his last bit hope and waited for something—anything. In the absence of such, he commanded the muscles in his trembling index finger. Halfway through the quarter-inch pull that lay between life and death he heard faint giggling.

He tossed the revolver in his backpack and turned to locate the source. On the path leading toward the pond he could see 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 for a moment.

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

“I’m Bobby, what’s your name—and do your parents know you’re down here alone?”

“Miranda”

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

“Daddy’s up in heaven now—but I’m very lucky to still have Momma. She’s parking the car.”

Bobby understood the difficulty of such a loss and could see the discomfort in her reaction.

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

Her tiny hand stroked the red velvet cloth and then she twirled the ribbons holding her pigtails.

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

Bobby fought valiantly to control his frustration, but tiny, young ears should not be subjected to such things.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Lots and lots of times. Me and Gramps catch fish here, but there’s lots of rocks to get snagged on. Sometimes Gramps cusses when the hook gets caught, ‘Damned if he knows how there came to be so many 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? It’s my understanding angels are quite rare.”

“Yeah—and they’re hard to find too.”

Miranda’s mother joined her along the shore. She appeared to be early thirties, consistent with what Bobby had expected, but strikingly vivacious, which he had not.

She extended her hand towards him and smiled warmly.

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

Bobby barely heard any of the words she spoke and continued to cling 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. I really should be going now.”

Bobby gathered his backpack and as he started up the path he heard the pitter-patting of tiny steps behind him. 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’s name was 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 down by the pond, because all angels really like water, please thank her for saving my Mommy.”

Intrigue

Jeune Fille Vert by Tamara de Lempicka

The designer had to be proud. Only an artist with imagination could transform a sheer piece of lime cloth on a bolt, into such a magnificent display. Green was perhaps the perfect choice, inspiring envy among the crowd that had gathered to ogle. While women recoiled and hissed, the gentlemen envied the dress itself, clinging so closely to her dangerous curves.

Soft lines of an innocent face seemed to contrast a body that knew much more. Those full lips had surely experienced more than daddy’s cheek. Perhaps the white hat was selected to add a touch of sophisticated elegance or was it merely a feeble attempt to tame her ferocious bedroom eyes? Was this the beginning of an endless day spent under searing lamps and clicking camera shutters, or had she slinked from an alley after a lust-filled night serving the perverted needs of a community?

No one knew for certain from which side of town she came, but she had unquestionably arrived and stirred passionate reactions. There was no doubt the mannequin in Neiman Marcus’ window had never looked finer.

Contentment

(Painting by by Edouard Manet--Bar at the Folies-Bergere-1882)

Sweet Molly, with recent knowledge
I regret this awkward retraction.
Perhaps it best you forget my face
and continue your life of distraction.

Drunken patrons and friendly breasts
I believe shall make for discontent.
Only a fool would offer to buy
the goods so many cheaply rent

My dear Charles, you are but a fool
with these haughty words you speak.
At the risk of sounding semi-cruel
your offer is my third this week.

Spirits and breasts; a smashing combination
that fill my coffers right proper.
Perhaps it comes as stark revelation
I’ve no use for a snob or a pauper.

Future Investments

In our relentless pursuit of an uncertain tomorrow we often trample the blessings of today




Frank listened with horror as the closing bell rang and the Dow tumbled six-hundred fifty seven points again today. His stomach was in knots; the overpowering urge to vomit did not pass quickly. He reminded himself of the foolish thinking; losses had only occurred on paper. As someone who scraped for a lifetime in anticipation of a few good years it felt more like a hatchet buried in his skull.

His financial adviser had been wrong in prematurely predicting the market’s bottom, but in all fairness, so had many others. “You have to ride this thing out, give it some time,” he would say; sage advice for the thirty year old executive with a 401K or parents saving for a toddler’s college fund. For Frank and Maggie Wilhelm, time was the enemy. An impatient visitor had arrived unexpectedly, easily crushing every defense mounted against it. In his heart, Frank knew there would be no negotiations, and little delay. The evil marauder would only depart if he possessed what he came for.

Frank waited for the teller’s return to the window. Apparently a witness was required for such a transaction. A short, rotund man in a white suit accompanied her return. The fluorescent lighting did little to prevent the glare of his polished scalp as he waddled to the counter. The obligatory handshake was nearly as ineffective as his explanation of bank policies. In an effort to make his position crystal clear, Frank grasped the knot of the little man’s tie and drew him close.

“Look, Boss Hog! I’ve just about reached my limit of cartoon-like characters in my life. I’m graciously willing to forego the thanks you owe me, as I’ve allowed you to profit from the use of my money long enough. As your pathetic sign indicates, I am one of your valued customers, and would appreciate your prompt cooperation in retrieving my funds!”

With eyes the size of flapjacks the man muttered under his breath about pre-notification for such large transactions, but nonetheless retrieved a pen and added his signature to the withdrawal paperwork. The bank officer flinched nervously as Frank’s hand reached across the counter again, but this time in an effort to smooth the wrinkles he had created.

“I apologize for the rash behavior. If Mrs. Hog would be so kind as to forward the cleaning bill I’ll gladly compensate you for it.”

Frank shared equal glances between the busy road he traveled and the receipt he gripped in his hand, which reflected an account balance of $0.00. The strangeness of the moment can only be explained as an epiphany. Within arms reach lay what remained of fifty years of obsessive behavior. Every extra penny had been squirreled away, and now precisely for what? For a half-century he had cursed himself for even briefly considering tapping the funds, while precious needs had gone unmet.

Maggie’s eyes were closed as she rested peacefully upon the couch. Frank realized in her weakened state just how valuable a few moments of rest had become. He placed the box gently alongside her and quietly slipped from the room.

For several days following a chemotherapy session, Maggie showed no interest in food, even the smell of such things caused violent reactions; upheavals of epic proportion and duration that were painful even to listen to. For the last several months Frank remained content subsisting on takeout, eaten in the car, or a cold sandwich that created minimal odor.

He tried to remain neutral and supportive in the very personal choice of treatment. Had it been him, he would have allowed nature to take its course, but perhaps that was the easier way out. Maggie wanted to experience each phase of life in its entirety. He recalled her words with admiration; ‘Without raw, excruciating pain how will one realize the value of inner-strength? Dark thunderheads that spawn raging, tumultuous seas would have no purpose except to give a deeper appreciation for the sun that overlooks placid waters and provides warmth to the very core of our souls.’ Maggie’s words were often profound and thought provoking, even to a simplistic man such as Frank.

“What’s the special occasion?” Maggie asked curiously, as she smiled from the doorway.

“Just an extremely belated gift, my dear—open it up.”

Maggie eyes brightened as the wrapping fell to the floor in shreds. She flipped open the velvet case and recognized them instantly. She held them to the light; the pair of marquee cut diamond earrings she had long given up on. She swallowed determinedly against the obstruction forming in her throat.

“But, you always said they were too expens…….”

Frank wrapped his arms around her and with his thumb gently brushed aside a tear.

“Forget everything I’ve said in the past, Maggie. I’ve been a damn fool! Far too long I’ve been a dark cloud in your life, and if it’s not too late, I want to be a ray of sunshine.”

Against her wishes, for more than two weeks Frank showered her with a gift each day, many of which she had forgotten she ever desired. Yet the final presentation, she had waited a lifetime for. Even as young girl dreams of such fantastic places filled her head.

The beauty of Italy and France transcended all expectations. A soothing violin melted the cares of the world from her mind and carried them away on the notes of a sweet melody. Fine Italian wine felt like velvet to her tongue. A simple crescent moon held a particular fascination when viewed from beneath the Eiffel Tower. While marveling at the dome of the Sistine chapel, they foolishly considered Michael Angelo’s possible inspiration for such perfection.

But memories of Vienna, above all other, would stand eternal. As they floated effortlessly down one of the many canals, the dark blanket of night came to life with lunar expression. The orb surrounded itself perfectly with shattered fragments of sparkling brilliance.

Frank took her hand firmly in his, and with renewed conviction repeated his forty-three year old wedding vows; none of the words more meaningful and heartfelt than on this particular night. In an anonymous gondola, with the moon shimmering softly against their silhouettes and souls undeniably entwined as they had been forever, they shared one final passionate kiss.

Masquerade at the Red Rooster Cafe

Harry knocked as much of the dried hog manure from his boots as possible; outside the restaurant this time. Being forced to sweep the entire floor, with Ma Jones taking an occasional swipe at his backside with a wooden spoon, wasn’t something a wise man wished to repeat. He still had trouble seeing the fuss; the Red Rooster Café had a dirty old wooden floor anyhow, but she did have a point. Between glancing blows Ma muttered something about raising pigs ain’t no excuse take on the manners of one. Her love for the rundown restaurant she owned could never be questioned.

He removed his Pioneer seed cap and hung it on the rack with a heavy sigh. There were three crusty, old caps already hanging and he knew what that meant. The ‘Nothin’ Runs Like a Deer’ belonged to Bill, Ernie wouldn’t be caught dead with anything that didn’t have a Caterpillar insignia on it, and Clyde, he never was right, least not after the lightning strike; a diehard Cubs fan.

According to such nonsensical ethics by which old men are bound, Harry’s late arrival meant he was on the hook for the tab. He ignored the snickers as he passed en route to the table in the corner. It seemed like as good a day as any to kiss a crisp twenty dollar bill goodbye.

Clyde looked the froggiest of bunch, and decided to leap.

“It’s 6:40 am. Hell, we was ready to call the coroner—just knew you was dead. Had most of your funeral planned, but we come to an impasse on the floral arrangement—didn’t know whether you’d prefer foxtail or cocklebur on yer casket. I told ‘em shoot the works, and throw in a lovely spray of ragweed—if it don’t cost too much!”

Harry grinned as he drew up the last empty chair at the table, “What if I was layin’ dead somewhere—smashed under a tractor, eyes all bugged out, just like last Sunday when Jeff Gordon eased passed Dale Jr. at the checkered flag?

“We was ‘bout to plan on orgnazin’ a search party—right after we finished breakfast. What’s it matter if we found ya, stomachs a growlin’ or with sausage-gravy drippin’ from our chins—dead’s dead, ain’t it?”

Harry couldn’t let the set up line pass, “Speakin’ of dead—how ‘bout them Cubbies, Clyde? I tell ya what, smart money’s on your dry streak with the ladies endin’, ‘for that sorry excuse of team wins a playoff game. Best I figure….both prospects is cursed; one by an old goat and the other, according to spinster Johnson, that’s hung like one!”

The table erupted in laughter just like every day, the only variable seemed to be who lay on the ground skewered, and which of his pals stood over him holding the spear. Among the four aged farmers there were plenty of insults to be passed around and in the effort of fairness, none of them escaped. This ritual had gone on as long as any of their foggy memories could recall. Although the physical gathering place had changed, the four cantankerous old men would not be displaced easily. Perhaps the respectable townsfolk had hoped to drive them away by removing the ‘liar’s bench’ from in front of the now defunct local feed store. The benches demise had been the end of era, of which they’d seen many, and was celebrated as such. For several days and for no apparent reason they gathered on the sidewalk, huddled together like lost puppies looking for a home. The seat was gone, but the stories lived on.

None would forget the morning Ernie danced and hopped about wildly and eventually shucked his overalls. He could find no team players offering assistance when he announced with a wince, a large splinter had burrowed its way in a very inappropriate region. Poor old Clyde; never went anywhere without that pouch of Redman tucked in his front pocket. One morning he found himself so preoccupied with telling a story he hadn’t factored in the brisk breeze. Between pauses he let loose with a long stream of brown juice that immediately took a liking to the front of his white shirt.

Time has a way of moving things along, even in tiny, little farming communities. There were reasons to leave the bench, but none more convincing than Trisha Steinmeyer’s backside. Ron Propiel didn’t have anything on Bill. He swore if somehow he could wedge a walnut between those cheeks it wouldn’t stand a chance of surviving more than a step or two. A half hour late he continued to fuss with the details of somehow attaching a device to her fishnet stockings that might catch the cracked nuts once they fell. We decided to save him from the embarrassment, by warning that if he was so bold as to ask Trisha’s permission, the cracked nuts might be his own.

Around these parts, at least among the men-folk, Trisha’s figure was the ninth wonder of the world. Her curves had spurred more inspiration, as well as lustful thoughts, than the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls ever would. Like the Canyon, an air of mystery surrounded her. She had given birth to two children, although some of the older women claim to hold proof she adopted. Surely there was stage in New York that would welcome something as fine; if not a Broadway stage, a pole in gentleman’s club. On the off chance it was the latter, they’d agreed in preparation to schedule a poker night.

Seeing the last straggler arrive, Trisha made her way to the corner table to take orders. Somewhere in that pretty head she had memorized the preferences years ago. The only challenge was to determine which of the delusional fools would try and help themselves to a handful of her skirt.

“Mornin’ fellas.”

She filled their cups and sat the cream and sugar nearest Ernie since he was the only one who didn’t drink his coffee black. The kind gesture did not go unnoticed, and Ernie was the first to flirt. The other three disguised snickers behind their coiled fists.

“Had a dream about ya last night, Trish.”

She continued setting the silverware beside each place, knowing that pretending she didn’t hear him wouldn’t deter him completely.

“You was in bad shape—oh yeah, in fact I figure I saved your life. Pulled ten inches bone out of ya, I did!”

She abruptly stopped pouring coffee and turned to face him. The three others secretly hoped she might be so disgusted that she slapped the taste from his suggestive mouth.

“Ernie, honey, you must have dreamed that twice; five plus five is ten. Spinster Johnson comes in here to eat too, and she’s been talkin’!”

It was one thing to get hacked on by the boys, but even Trish was whaling on him. Over the laughter, he could be heard pleading his case, loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear.

“She had bad lightin’ out there—and besides the water in that pool was ice cold!”

Harry felt badly for Ernie; a man couldn’t much change what he was endowed or not, so he proceeded to change the subject on his friend’s behalf.

“The market’s crashin’, price of seed and fertilizer’s doubled, hate to think of home heating cost this winter, and a damn flat tire on my truck cost me ten minutes. Now I gotta pay for a bunch of old coot’s breakfast! How’s life mistreatin’ the rest of ya?”

Harry directed his inquiry toward Bill, who had not been heard from this morning. Bill was crafty; in the company of such folks it paid to be silent, but finally he caved to the pressure of three sets of beady eyes fixed upon him.

“Well, I almost hate to tell this—but, Momma decided I needed some culturin’ so she sets to draggin’ me from in front of the tube; perfect timing as usual, just when I settled down with a beer to watch an episode of wrastlin’ that I haint never seen before. ‘Fore I knowed it we was in the car headed off somewhere in Iowa. Get this….for a wine and cheese tasting. If that kinda experience didn’t kill a man—four hours in the car listen’ to how they ain’t so romantic anymore, would. Turns out, musta had too much cheese and not enough wine. Got myself all bound up….went through three issues of Woman’s Day this mornin’ on the toilet, and still not a cloud in the sky!”

Ernie didn’t have to say anything. A man would have to think long and hard to find something more degrading than people funning about his business.

Clyde barely broached the most recent failings of the Cubs. Harry supposed Cub fans and the mascot representing them were much alike; all fiery and hungry in the spring, but when fall rolled around they were looking for a hole to climb into, content to spend the playoff months in hibernation. The disappointment of his team had become predictable, just as his rocky relationship with his wife. Seems they was on the outs again. Clyde spent the night on a familiar couch. Sometime during the night he had to relieve himself, as shrinking bladder can attest. On his way there he stumbled over the cat. Half asleep, and apparently dreaming of an encounter with Bigfoot, the battle was on. Ole Mitsy didn’t give an inch; to hear Clyde tell it, he ended up on the floor with that cat goin’ for his throat. A powerful mule punch finally sent the feline sailin’, but it was too late. Not only had Mitsy remove the first several layers of hide from his nose, Clyde spent the remainder of the night in soaked boxers.

Behind the masks they choose lie normal men. Despite Ernie’s rumored shortcomings he remains a lonely man. Clyde has become a peaceful old soul who accepts defeat easily, simply because it has become the norm. Besides constipation, Bill suffers from a variety of physical ailments, much like the runt of the litter, and during these rough financial times, Harry hovers dangerously close to losing the family farm.

The whole scene is enough to make dr. Phil bury his head in his hands and cry. (we’ll leave the ‘d’ in lower case, since Oprah’s the only one convinced he’s a real doctor). The Red Rooster Café serves as a type of Redneck therapy.

“Time we get out and ‘hit a lick at a snake, ain’t it’? See y’all back here tomorrow mornin’!”

Worthy

Jerry Steinhower turned to look over his shoulder one last time. Something told him the journey would be less difficult if he carried the image with him. The once make-shift shelter, comprised mostly of pine boughs, now served as a final resting place. He had spent hours lingering at a treacherous crossroads, wresting with demons; his conscience torn between staying with his friend’s lifeless body, or to move on. The odds of surviving the harsh Canadian elements were slim, but he had made a final decision. Nothing he could do for Harley Crider would bring him comfort now, or ease his own guilt. Jerry knew it should be his body lying on the pine needles with simply a patched together cross marking the grave.

The two had wandered severely off course, but by the time Harley realized his compass had malfunctioned the sun was but a sliver. Such an error, under normal circumstances, would have been recoverable, if not for the unanticipated squall. During the night the storm had dumped more than three feet of snow. A crystalline blanket transformed the five miles between them and the spike camp into an impassible nightmare. Hiking the rugged terrain under normal circumstances had been a challenge neither properly anticipated. Harley made the decision to wait for rescue.

From a novice’s point of view, he had done everything correctly. First, securing shelter; then as the thin veil of darkness became dawn, concentrating on a rescue plan. The signal fire was admittedly weak, but the best Harley could manage with limited resources. They watched small plumes of smoke rise, only to be dismantled by the breeze. Minutes became hours, hours became days—and still no one came. The beauty of the sinking sun became an evil indicator; the onset of unbearably cold nights spent shivering in the darkness of the wild.

Jerry had balked at the proposition of holding Harley so close, but soon welcomed the small amount of warmth transferred between bodies. Despite the ominous circumstances, Harley never lost his composure or his humor. Noticing Jerry’s hesitation, Harley suggested envisioning Ann Margaret in his arms, dismissing the wiry facial hair and the extra hundred pounds.

There had been no means of calculating the depth and darkness of the void created by the absence of his friend. Although they had been isolated in a wilderness there had been two. Jerry experienced an inexplicable comfort when in the company of his woods-wise friend. His persuasive words had convinced him to accept the invitation to hunt. Jerry’s had never held a gun and had no desire to kill anything, but he did wish to explore the mystical glue that Harley claimed held his life together. Two nasty divorces, a bankruptcy, and the loss of a job were hard to argue with. Harley dealt with each of the harsh blows in his own simple way; disappearing for a week to the wild, and returning with a rejuvenated frame of mind. Jerry wanted to experience that kind of liberation in his own life.

He did regret the injustice that had befallen his friend, but surely if Harley had chosen a spot to rest, it would have been here in nature’s pristine hands. Forever coddled by the surroundings that blessed his soul with flight.

Jerry felt his nose hairs freezing against the walls of his nostrils. The increasingly frequent bursts of visible breath were only the outward signs of distress. Perhaps the energy he exerted in brushing the snow over his tracks could be better used elsewhere, but time was of the essence. He could hear strained voices calling in the distance, and only prayed they didn’t turn in his direction. Jerry wiggled beneath some low hanging branches and settled with his back against the sturdy trunk. Those that searched that day came close to saving a man, but efforts to disguise his trail proved worthy. Harley would have been proud; not with the decision Jerry made, but with the execution of his plan. It was better for those that searched to remain naïve to the worthlessness of the man they sought?

An eerie fog hovered above the wind-driven caps of snow. Such isolation and solitude brings a mind to ponder many things. Images of dejected faces came in a barrage. His son appeared first, in a dusty uniform that belied the glow of victors face. Only in a twisted mind, could a late night at the office become an acceptable reason for missing his debut on the mound. His mate, Jane’s lovely green eyes, muted by cataracts composed of hurt and misunderstanding, staring in disbelief as he awkwardly offered a coerced confession in response to the damning evidence of a mistress. His father’s sunken and withered face flashed quickly; a tired, old man who could wait no longer. He had passed away in a forgotten corner of a nursing home room; his last words a desperate cry for his only son—a son who chose to honor an age-old feud over the dying request of his father.

Frozen tears clung to his chapped cheeks. As Jerry wiped at his thawing nose he observed a large man trailing behind the others. The determined gait was unmistakably Harley Crider’s. Perhaps he was coming for revenge. Possibly he knew the terrible mistakes Jerry had committed leading to his untimely demise.

Jerry recalled being uneasy with the weight of the .44 magnum in his hand, but dutifully performed his watch while his friend slept. Neither had heard the wolves approach. Only Harley’s cries for help jarred him from his inappropriate slumber. He rushed to the aid of his friend, but familiar blood painted their muzzles, almost smiling as they welcomed the late arrival.

Jerry could never be certain whether intentional fangs or the inadvertent round that pierced Harley’s skull had closed the deal. In either case the burden rest squarely upon his shoulders—and his heart.

It came as no surprise that Harley returned to him with a smile upon his face, and with angel at his side. The two stood silently together as if they waited for Jerry to speak or to join them. He did neither. If they anticipated profound words, he was incapable of them, and had no intention of leaving this spot. For one fleeting moment he considered begging for forgiveness, but Jerry knew his transgressions spanned a lifetime, and were certain to be judged too great. Among a million other worthy prospects, he could not fathom his own soul worth saving. He simply closed his eyes and watched the outlines fade into the mist.

Untimely Departure

How could we fathom such a day
when candy skies turned brittle black?
When paper dreams were blown away
and our towers fell amidst attack.

Untimely death disguised in holy shroud
misguided here by Allah’s will.
Twisted martyrs pray out loud
and seek promotion for those they kill.

Seven years can’t heal the wounds,
broken strangers plague our dreams.
Our hearts cry out to those in tombs
beneath the twisted buckled beams.

A final breath drawn alone
thoughts of family, fleeting last.
An empty grave beneath the stone;
a burning torch will never pass

Innocent child not yet grown
“When is daddy coming back?”
Endless questions spawn our own
it’s only answers that we lack.

Not only victims cast that day
but heroes rose above the flames.
Ask those stumbling in ashen gray
how they perceive Bin Ladin’s games.

Time has softened my perception
lingering anger slowly dies.
In a Pennsylvania field’s conception
tears and pride cleanse my eyes.
No more profound proclamation
shall I ever find;
those defiant words “Lets Roll!”
forever echo in my mind.

Purge

Shining countenance emerges
baring a broad and silver stare
as a flustered mind converges
with innocuous midnight air

No resolution to world peace
intricate quandaries unresolved
but another troubled soul released
from stressful demons been absolved

Diseased

Wrong Platform

Miss Amanda Beard,

My poor misguided dear, this is what we as Americans would prefer to see of Olympians. Certainly all four of these swimmers are equally as fine a physical specimen as yourself, but amazingly they resist the urge to shuck their swimming attire in support of an organization that epitomizes hypocrisy. Instead they choose to focus on lifelong dreams of surpassing overwhelming odds and expectations by bringing honor and respect to themselves and most importantly their country. Isn’t that what the Olympics should and used to be about?

I’m certain your Olympic sponsors and individual donors had much higher hopes, but there are many that could say the same of their support of PeTA. True animal lovers have sought the truth and turned in droves from support of such a misleading and ruthless organization. Only the naïve or truly radical supporters can stomach nearly ninety percent of the sheltered animals being euthanized despite millions in contributions per year. How could a private organization bringing in excess of twenty-five million per year have a paltry ten percent success rate for finding homes, where in the same location as their headquarters, Norfolk VA, the S.P.C.A’s rate is nearly seventy percent?
"I often receive phone calls from frantic people who have surrendered their pets to PeTA with the understanding that PeTA will 'find them a good home.' Many of them are led to believe that the animals will be taken to a nearby shelter. Little do they know that the pets are killed in the PeTA van before they even pull away from the pet owner's home."-- Dana Cheek, Former Norfolk SPCA Director.

Perhaps the group is not as innocuous as they would have us believe or the cleverly crafted name would indicate. I’m sure if we hear from some of the brass of the organization we have just been sadly misinformed and mislead by the ‘haters’.

"If we really believe that animals have the same right to be free from pain and suffering at our hands, then, of course, we're going to be blowing things up and smashing windows. For the record, I don't do this stuff, but I advocate it. I think it's a great way to bring about animal liberation, considering the level of suffering, the atrocities. I think it would be great if all of the fast-food outlets, slaughterhouses, these laboratories and the banks who fund them exploded tomorrow. I think it's perfectly appropriate for people to take bricks and toss them through windows. Hallelujah to the people who are willing to do it."-- Bruce Friedrich, PeTA Campaign Director, Vegan Campaign Coordinator, Animal Rights 2001 Conference, July 2, 2001

Well that about clears it up. Not only is PeTA vehemently opposed to ‘no-kill’ facilities, they observe few bounds in promoting their cause, including laws! They’ve incorporated or attempted to incorporate the Holocaust, the widely unknown fact Jesus was a vegetarian, and most recently the story regarding the man beheaded on the Greyhound bus, in their wildly successful and tasteful campaign. I’ll leave you with an exquisitely done piece geared toward children, no less.

Williamsburg or Bust

Today I find myself preparing for what seems an arduous task, although in certain circles it would be referred to as a family vacation. Not that I don’t thoroughly enjoy time spent with my lovely wife and children. It’s the thought of spending sixteen hours in the small confines of our car before we arrive that has me praying overtime for patience. Without a doubt, my imagination-challenged son, Jacob, will be my nemesis. It seems that a half-hour of idle time at home pushes him closer to the edge of lunacy than I’m comfortable with. In planning our drive I’m tempted to locate and schedule a couple of stops with local Catholic priests who are well-versed in exorcisms. (Even today’s effective cleaning solutions can’t touch the green-projectile vomit on the back of a car’s head-rest?)

This year my wife, Beth, had the privilege of selecting our destination. Since she’s a huge history-nut (I hope the term comes across in the loving manner intended), our vehicle will be pointed in the direction of Williamsburg, Virginia. Although I don’t believe in reincarnation, you could certainly make a case that Beth was some type of activity planner in a former life. In her meticulous eye there is no vacation detail that can’t be allotted, assigned, or otherwise sorted. (Perhaps I’m just miffed that my time in the restroom is always slated last and is never ample to finish my business and complete the prescribed reading).

Last evening, with the production and pomp befitting a royal gala, she proudly read our itinerary (I suppose we saved a bundle on a travel agent). My son was less than impressed and I can’t swear to his entire response, due to the trailing off of his voice as he was banished to his room, “Geez….I thought this was summer vacation, sounds like another boring history lesson!” I had to excuse myself as my volley of snickers grew to a perceptible volume. The piercing glare directed at me let me know there was sufficient space in my son’s room for two.

Fortunately Beth is also a peacemaker and painstakingly modified our journey to include a detour to the Louisville bat factory and museum, which instantly made Jacob’s ears resemble those of a jackrabbit on high alert. As a bonus she also threw in a few hours of shopping at the outlet malls that sent my daughter, Allie, into a state of euphoria that only the hardcore connoisseur of all things on sale can appreciate. So it would seem that if I’ve mentally hardened my cerebral cortex to withstand the onslaught of the drive we should be in fine shape.

Actually I’m looking forward to returning to that area of the country. Beth and I spent the first three years of our wedded bliss in Norfolk/Virginia Beach as I finished my time aboard the John F Kennedy. More accurately, including Desert Storm and a normal Mediterranean six month tour, I spent fourteen months floating in the Mediterranean and Red Sea while she steadfastly waited for her sailor to return to port (at least that’s all I hope she did).

I intend to visit one of our favorite restaurants, Momma Lina’s. (this ain’t no Olive Garden). Momma Lina’s is a truly authentic Italian restaurant, the food, the décor, and the hospitality. Back then, Momma Lina herself would make her way from table to table to ensure her customers satisfaction.

I suppose I’d better dust off my fife and drum and attempt to make room in the trunk for such necessities.

Too Many

There was a time
this shack was cramped
barely room to house just four
with fiddle’s song
we chased the blues
and danced upon its floor

We raised them up
on rice and beans
and tucked them in at night
filled their spirits
with buoyant dreams
groomed their wings for flight

I recall his words
my youngest son
“They say we’re just dirt poor!”
I reminded him
it’s a state of mind
and simply nothing more

Boys to men
dusty fiddle case
Ma took rest eternally
this empty shack
these empty minutes
well define my poverty

Too many days
feeding things
much wiser left to starve
I barely whittle
at this life
I’d always meant to carve

Too many weeks
when floor-boards moan
in absence of familiar feet
too many ways
this empty home
will never be replete

Too many months
in solitude
each breath I pray my last
too many years
spent expiring
chasing days of past

Expectations

Wrought from dissatisfaction
these wretched ivory wings
the dysfunctional refraction
in living others’ dreams

Through love’s thin disguise they perpetuate
by means of remote control
with myopic eyes they orchestrate
the unraveling of a soul

This fragile psyche revealing tears
each day nearer the edge she creeps
unable to sift her desires from theirs
perhaps today brings restful sleep

While parents mourn their personal losses
each feeding the other self-absorbed core
never a child who bore their crosses
but a fallen angel in death once more

A Hazy Night in Coon Holler

“Can you two youngun’s quite climbin’ around on the furniture—like two squirrels high on poison buttermilk! Hop up into yer granddaddy’s lap and let me tell ya a story.”

The two young boys settled in, one on each knobby knee. With wide eyes they looked at one another and then back at their grandfather’s wrinkled face, with all of the anticipation of a coon dog eyein’ a fresh plate of biscuits.

It all begun on a particular hazy and eerie night. As a young boy I could barely keep my eyes from the slumberin’ notion they was given to. My younger brother, Timmy, hadn’t put up such a valiant fight and sat across from me snorin’, so I leaned forward just enough to kick the toe of my work boot against the heel of his. You’d have thunk I’d sent a stray bolt of lightnin’ up his leg. His entire body rose, and stayed horizontal fer a second ‘fore meetin’ abruptly again with the seat. His glassy eyes looked like one of ‘em stuffed deers up on the wall above ya. He swung his head wildly from side to side tryin’ to get his bearin’. Reminded me of the neighbors cat after we’d put ‘em on the merry-go-round and spun him until we seent what he had for breakfast that mornin’. Just like the cat, soon enough he figured what I’d done to him.

Although us King Brothers was only fifteen and thirteen, our slight of years didn’t keep us from a very important mission. We was to sit in the church bell-tower and was proud as pickles to be the first line of defense. You see, the townspeople of Coon Holler weren’t an educated bunch, but they aimed to see someone brought to justice. Most likely, if we caught ‘em, some old boy would be swingin’ in the breeze ‘for sundown.

‘Bout a month earlier a fire destroyed a barn and most of the critters in it. No one knew for certain how old Klem Watkins was, including him, but his advanced years could have caused him to leave a lantern burnin’ long after the cows had been milked. When directly confronted about the possibility he simply scratched his gray beard and admitted he couldn’t recall. The entire community felt badly for Klem, but didn’t think much of it—‘til just two weeks later another fire broke out. This time things wasn’t so innocent—worst part was Misses Bandy and her baby didn’t make it out of the old shack in time.

Old man Bandy had gone off to look for work on account the saw mill had closed and times was tough. Poor old feller—strain of finding out such news when he returned left him on the verge of crazy, some say he didn’t travel far. Just sit by the graves and cried all day, twernt nothin’ he could do, ‘cept what he done I guess. All that pain and grief took hold and the only way he seen out was to swaller a shotgun barrel. Pitiful sight—three fresh graves all in a row; they was a good young family, come from good stock.

The officials of the village called a special meetin’ and the hall was jam packed. Lots of folks was beside themselves, couldn’t hardly come to grips with what had happened, but mostly they was mad and lookin’ forward to a lynchin’.

It had been more than forty years since anyone graced the ‘hangin’ tree’, a large old oak at the north edge of town. Most figured just the simple reminder of the old noose swinging in the wind prevented the need for its use, but that night there weren’t no hagglin’ ‘bout the need for it.

The only decision needed made was who would climb up there and replace the old rotted rope with new. Since no one jumped up to volunteer, I suppose Coot Jeevers felt obligated. Now I don’t know Coot to be his real name, but it fit. Coot was the only form of law this town ever seen. Whether he had any official trainin’ remained in question, but most important he did have a silver badge with U.S. Marshall on it and that’s all the convincin’ most folks needed.

Coot and a makeshift posse come together and hatched a plan to catch the scoundrel that was settin’ fire to things. They was local fellers posted all over town, ‘specially along the roads comin’ and goin’. It was me and Timmy’s job to ring the old church bell soon as we seen anything suspicious.

Well, ‘bout the time we quit laughin’ we heard horse hooves comin’ up the main road in a hurry. Among the haze and excitement in my head ‘spose I seent things I weren’t shore of, but what we think we seen scared the tar outta both us. Poor Timmmy, scart him so bad he couldn’t speak for more than a week.

Once that horse and rider come into view, there weren’t no doubt the two of ‘em been raised straight from the ashes of hell! The rider was dressed in black, his cape a flyin’ and flitterin’ behind him. The black mare wore some kinda metal mask like her mount, but neither of ‘em could hide them eyes that glowed cherry-red against the black. The steam that rose from the mare’s flared nostrils made a whistlin’ sound that caused my skin to turn to goose-flesh.

The rider paused directly ‘neath the tower, as if he knowed somethin’ wasn’t right.
Timmy and me knew we shoulda been ringin’ the bell, but neither of us moved a muscle, for fear he’d climb that ladder and hack us into fish food. Like long-tailed cats in a room full of rockin’ chairs, we sat completely still. Timmy and me took turns a breathin’, scared exhalin’ at the same time might bring unwanted and deadly consequences.

Then quickly as he come, he went. We both grabbed the rope and pulled fer all we’s worth. Soon the bell began to ringin’, louder and clearer than I ever heard it. Once we seen the townspeople arrivin’ at the square with guns, pitchforks, and whatever else could maim or otherwise deter a man, we ceased to ringin’ the bell. It seems no one caught a glimpse of the evil marauder ‘cept us two. As we was tellin’ of the hellish things we seen a flash of light lit up the dark—come from the Carver place and the flames began to crawl up the shingled roof.

Coot told us to stay put and good thing he did, them wobbly knees of mine woulda just carried me in circles. I was still numb from fear, why I coulda set on a porkepine and never knowed no different. But somethin’ happened in the next few minutes, somethin’ dark and evil. A black cloud rolled in coverin’ up that little slice of moon, the temperature dropped noticeably, and a heavy wind blew in from the north, fannin’ them danged old flames. ‘For anyone knew it the whole town was set ablaze. Women and kids was screamin’, while menfolk was runnin’ in circles confused—seems like the firebug stayed one step ahead of the water buckets, first at one end of town then a second later at the other.

Timmy and me was feelin’ pretty secure where we was at ‘til I noticed the flames beginnin’ to show through the roof of the church. I knowed neither one of us wanna be no roasted quails so we made our way down the steps in a hurry, like we’d been called to dinner. Once we reached firm terra I grabbed my brother and pointed him in the direction of home. With a push I sent him off, yellin’ behind for him to run like a scalded dog, and he done just that. Soon after he disappeared in the smoke I too got the hankerin’ I needed to be somewhere else, but seemed I was runnin’ in a pool of molasses.

Not more than twenty yards from the church I heard horse hooves from behind. ‘Fraid to turn around—knowed who it would be. ‘Fore I got up the nerve to set eyes on him, I begun to hearin’ the whistlin’ of horse nostrils. I felt the adrenaline rush through me and my legs was pumpin’ like pistons on a steam engine headed upstream. It seemed like the faster I run the louder the horse hooves got. I shore didn’t know what I wanted to do in life, but couldn’t imagine bein’ chopped up in pieces was gonna get me there.

Soon I noticed the runnin’ seemed much easier—nearly fainted dead away when I seent the gap ‘tween my feet and the ground. The evil one had snatched me up by my shirt collar, just like an old barn cat carries her babies around. But I wasn’t convinced he meant to carry me to a safer place. As the mare continued to gallop I was thrown around like a rag doll on Christmas morn. I didn’t know where we’s headed, but that mare was anglin’ for the cemetery, and this ole boy ain’t none to fond of buggers and haints.

‘Bout the time I seen the entry gate fer the graveyard was when I got real serious ‘bout figurin’ a way out of this thing. Never was much good at cipherin’, but I come to a swift conclusion. My old faithful Barlow pocket knife didn’t let me down, just in the nick of time she sliced through my collar and sent me arse over tea-kettle. By the time I shook the cobwebs free I seent the ground open up wide and the black mare leaped into the sky, before plungin’ back into the fiery pit whence they came!

Just as the story concluded the boys mother entered the room and informed the two youngsters it was time to find their jackets and get on the road. She had listened to the last several minutes of her father’s story, waiting in the doorway. He had recently celebrated his eightieth-second birthday and his failing health seemed to concern everyone other than himself. She knew there had never been a Coon Holler or a marauder from hell, but she also knew that each time they visited might be the last time she saw the gleam in his eye as he entertained.

She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

“Pop, you didn’t fill these boys full of craziness about Coon Holler again did ya? Last time we visited they wouldn’t sleep in their own beds for a month.”

“No Ma’am, may God send a bolt a lightnin’ down and strike me deader than a hammer if every word ain’t true!”

“Well I just know you tend to remember things slightly different than most.”

He smiled and used his forefinger and thumb to stroke his chin in a reflective manner.

“Might wanna keep them boys away from the cemetery for a spell.”

Safety in Shadows

Image by: John Good - NPS Photo

“Safety in shadows” a tiny voice rose
as Mike toiled and burrowed down deep
Weary and worn are his little mouse toes
joined by his spirit from constant retreat

Haunted by mishaps involving his furriest pals
swooped up by hawks stalking the fields
They make the tastiest treats according to owls
as they sharpen their talons and beaks

Comfortable for now watching life unfold
from the safety of a burrowed nest
But jealous of stories told by mice more bold
in pursuit of insatiable quests

Then came a day when dusk settled in
Mike knew it was time to save face
But his crafty plan required a friend
which chooses to travel at a much slower pace

He meanders under his friend all dressed in gray
across perilous fields and over distant hills
For not even the bravest birds of prey
are willing to temp his poisonous quills

Identity

Hanging by a thread
conscience full of dread
searching for a trace
of my recently misplaced
Identity

Never had I known
that being fully grown
in my anxious mind
a job could so define
Identity

It now seems quite a blur
this unbecoming stir
perspectives gone askew
in how I choose to view
Identity

My shrink suggests I chill
and prescribes another pill
to ease my troubled mind
in hopes that I may find
Identity

The doctor claims success but I surely must digress
my wife holds reservations about these medications
although it seems I’ve long forgot what it was I sorely sought
side effects are rarely known yet I parade about my home
at every waking chance in multicolored underpants

Fabric of a Nation

Images ingrained upon ‘old glory’
where pints of blood paint her bars
deep within the soldiers’ story
lies mettle to fashion silver stars

Found in tank brigades and mortar rounds
are heartbreak and widowed wives
while battle scenes and grotesque sounds
barely scratch our armored lives

Independence that shapes a nation
whereby fallen heroes pay the rent
from broken souls bleed liberation
and the freedom to dissent

What’s the cost to shed one tear
or stand respectfully before a stone
no earthly fate commands such fear
as the prospect of not returning home

Gaping wounds only time can suture
leaving conflicts’ reminiscent sting
today we salute soldiers past and future
in a land where freedom rings

Timber!

Like ants swarming a hill they scurried past the waiting area, busily moving from one place to another, yet very much like humans they seemed unconcerned with working towards a unified goal and oblivious to the others surrounding them. Only when having to resort to collision avoidance measures would they acknowledge another, and even then in terms of a terse word or a blatant look of disgust. Some understandably were in a hurry to reach a connecting flight and had no desire to deal with the inconvenience of rebooking.

Primarily most appeared firmly focused on business and dressed for success, carrying with them laptops, cell phones, and Blackberries. Twenty years later the means to an end differed, but he could see through the flimsy disguises just as he had then. Stiff collars and power-ties could only go so far in concealing the cutthroat, self-absorbed nature they so embraced. The slow degradation of society had made no miraculous turnaround. Not for even a millisecond did he regret his decision to abruptly severe all ties with such a civilization.

Barry Wienhelm had virtually withdrawn and disappeared from society on July 18, 1988. While working his shift for B & L Logging Corporation it appeared that once again the boss had ordered them into a restricted area of the forest to start clearing. Due to the companies’ huge spurts of growth, the fines for such infractions amounted to little more than a hand-slap. The value of prime, pristine logs that could be extracted proved to easily override the tiny amount scruples that Joey Buford possessed.

Joey was the third-generation “B” in B & L Logging and Barry worked as a team-supervisor that reported directly to him. This arrangement provided for constant tension that Barry could never quite put his finger on. Perhaps Joey’s condescending attitude and lack of respect for any and all rules contributed to his unlikable demeanor. Barry generally had the ability to dismiss his arrogance with a smile, hoping that ‘what comes around goes around’ would soon come, but this particular confrontation started ugly and finished worse. What should have been a discussion regarding business and legality soon degraded into a bout dedicated to personal attacks and eventually into a contest of physical blows.

To this day Barry enjoyed the satisfying thud of his right fist connecting with Joey’s smug, square jaw. Not even the sound of his unconscious body crashing to trailer floor stirred any feelings of regret. However, even Barry realized that in hindsight he should not have fired up the largest bulldozer and either crushed or otherwise debilitated every piece of equipment on site, bringing the operation to a halt for several weeks. Barry could have peacefully protested his employers’ transgressions had he been constructed from different fiber. A cardboard sign just didn’t seem to carry the fury that boiled from within. Barry found the visual impact of a seventy-ton Fiat Allis 31 raging out of control more to his liking.

In the back of his mind, Barry knew the distinct possibility existed that the authorities would someday locate him and bring him back to civilization for prosecution. Although he did take pride in the fact he eluded them for almost twenty years.

With only a few hours separating them Barry already missed his cabin, whose construction required him to fall indigenous pines with only his bare hands and an axe. Those trunks had been stripped by manual means and hewn by hand to fit together perfectly. He missed the serenity of the river, his steadfast companion; a friend which provided fresh fish for his nourishment and more importantly each peaceful morning offered to carry his troubles and frustrations to a destination far downstream.

While it remained fact, Barry had destroyed a few trees in a restricted zone, but the act had been to serve a genuine purpose. Those that had fallen remained on the very same mountainside that had given them birth. In his own mind Barry made a great distinction between creating a shelter for himself from God-given resources and ruthlessly logging vast amounts of acreage in the name of greed under the guise of logging.

The burly officer emerged from the restroom and without speaking a word reached down and unlocked the handcuffs, freeing Barry’s wrist and ankles from the chair. Other than reading his Miranda rights and a brief compliment as to the cabins’ fine construction, Officer Vanderhorn remained a man of few words.



________________________



Barry sat calmly aside his public defender as the jury made their way back into the courtroom. These criminal acts had occurred so far in the past it remained difficult for him to summon any remorse. During years of isolation nature served as judge, jury, and executioner. In his mind, had God interpreted the infractions to be serious enough he would have fallen victim to the great predatory wolves or been mauled by an eight-foot tall grizzly looking for a meal. Since none of these forms of natural justice had befallen him, he assumed he had been pardoned.

Judge Harriet Feldman made her predictable announcement.

“All rise as we hear the verdict read for Langerfeld Corporation versus Wienhelm. On the first count how do you find?”

“On the count of destruction of company property with malicious intent, we the jury, find the defendant guilty as charged.”

“And on the second count, how do you find?”

“On the count of first degree manslaughter, we the jury, find the defendant guilty as charged.”

“So says the jury, sentencing will be scheduled for one week from today. Court dismissed.”

Barry’s face showed no emotion. The public defender had dismissed his suggestion that the murder charge could have been refuted as self-defense, but the defender did have a point. It would be difficult proving that a man with a small pocket knife posed a lethal threat to a man wielding a double-bladed axe. Especially considering that Joey had not drawn the pocket knife until a swift blow had severed his right leg at the knee.

Boys Will Be Boys

My mother used to say
via quite a spiel
“Don’t you believe in fairies?
Why can’t you see they’re real?

Suspending disbelief
lying just beyond the brink
if fairies did exist
I’d prefer their wings were pink

I’d mold her from the heavens
if the sprite was a she
what a spectacle of galaxies
my pretty nymph would be

Twinkling stars for eyes
a comet tail for hair
“Angelic are her features”,
say all that stop and stare

Of this fairy I’ve created
Mom would likely sigh and frown
for as you can plainly see
she wears no silken gown

The Door of Tomorrow

She knocks upon tomorrow’s door
weak and weary from the fray
gathering arms from future store
to battle demons here today

Clashing with agents of time
reluctant to extend life’s lease
serving penance without a crime
a sentence without release

Pale blue eyes have seen too much
vibrant curls reduced to skin
the smile belies her fevered touch
and the raging beast within

She borrows strength without remorse
choosing hope over sorrow
trusting in an altered course
through the power of tomorrow

Compound Interest

The pneumatic cylinder hissed its displeasure as it caught the weight of the door. A doctor’s sterile white cloak disappeared into the hallway as the barrier crept closed. Earnest L Whittington took pleasure in such repetitive things. The closing apparatus performed flawlessly while not a single person noticed the contribution, except Earnest. At a time when plenty of thoughts weighed heavy on his mind he dismissed them completely in favor of watching mundane mechanicals perform repetitive work. He himself could not begin to explain the unnatural manner in which his mind worked, but had managed to harness his preoccupation for all things mechanical into something useful. He chuckled as he recalled having been told of the improbability of a man simply listening to an engine and diagnosing which cylinder fired out of sequence.

Soon Dr. Horton would return with the test results in his hand, and Earnest would again leave frustrated, no closer to understanding his persistent ailment. The doctor would read the mumbo-jumbo in his pathetic, inflection-challenged voice.

He waved the chart above his head as if he were Moses returning from the mountain. His enthusiasm indicated that somehow decoding the chicken scratches on the page would miraculously change his patient’s quality of life. His voice struck with the finesse of a four inch needle in the buttocks. Though painful, Earnest promised he would give his friend a chance before he seized the opportunity to speak his own mind.

Earnest and Dr. Leonard Horton had been close friends for many years. Almost fifteen years had passed since the young intern’s car stalled in the middle lane during morning rush hour. Earnest, behind the wheel of his tow-truck, hurried towards his automotive shop as an unexpected detour on Fourth Street had already put him behind schedule. Long before he could see the cause he watched the harried drivers steering to either side of the unidentified obstruction ahead. As he eased the large truck into the right lane he reached down for his coffee. When his eyes returned to the busy street they widened as a man stood squarely in the middle of his lane waving his arms in a crisscross motion above his head. Earnest jammed the brake pedal to the floor, but despite his effort the gap between his bumper and the man steadily closed. He whispered a prayer for an opening in the adjacent lane and swerved in order to avoid the man. Breathing easier he brushed the remaining drops of coffee from his shirt and leaned out his window to voice his frustration.

“Ya fricken nut! Get outta the road!”

The tow-truck had traveled less than two blocks before changing course to assist the stranded motorist. Business had been slow, and he hoped the man wouldn’t have the audacity to ask him to tow the car to a competitor’s garage.

A couple of hours later Earnest had the well-used Mercedes back on the road. The doctor, impressed by the prompt service and unusual circumstances, insisted on making the check out for an additional hundred dollars. He claimed Earnest had been a Good Samaritan of sorts and earned every cent.

“Do you have any questions about the test results, Ernie?”

“Just what makes doctors so smug; pretending to know everything? ‘A hell I don’t what’s wrong with ya, Earnest’ reply, would be appreciated!”

Earnest lip parted as if he wished to continue, but a familiar feeling came over him as his lungs did not fill with air.

“Are you finished Ernie? If you’re dissatisfied, you should seek other services. Considering it was more than a year ago I suggested you see a pulmonary specialist! I continue to see you because you’re my friend and I enjoy your company. As a doctor, I’m doing you no good.”

Earnest’s lungs had partially recovered allowing him to speak in a raspy voice.

“Why did you bring that broken down old Mercedes to me instead of a transmission repair shop after I had already diagnosed transmission trouble? It’s simple—because you trusted me, precisely the same reason I come to you.”

“It’s not the same Ernie. The human body and cars are not the same at all.”

“Bullshit…..you deal in hearts and livers and I deal in timing chains and spark plug gaps. When I suspect fuel system trouble I don’t run a diagnostic check on your brake system. It’s almost as though you don’t want to find out what’s wrong!”

The doctor stroked his graying goatee while giving careful consideration to the words that had lingered on his tongue for many months.

“You want my honest opinion? You have congestive heart failure and since you haven’t visited a specialist and been formally diagnosed and treated. I’d give you no more than a couple of good years. Ernie, don’t you understand? I hoped you would visit another doctor.”

“Boy Leonard, you may know medicine, but your people-skills could use a little polish. You’ve got to ease a man into the idea he’s dying.”

Dr. Horton allowed his disgust to push his head from side to side while he released a heavy sigh.

“You accuse me of sugarcoating your diagnosis and now you say I lack bedside-manner. What is it you want me from, Ernie?”

“A friend, Leonard, and a fine one you turn out to be. Maybe my foot should have found the accelerator instead of the brake fifteen years ago! I’ll see myself out. Think I’ll head home, pull up an easy-chair, and wait to die alone.”

The front brakes squealed as the doctor brought the Mercedes to a halt in front of the trailer. It had been nine long months since the Mercedes had been in for maintenance, the exact amount of time since Ernie had closed up his repair shop. Leonard felt as though somehow he would be betraying his friend if he went elsewhere. He slammed his fist into the center of the steering wheel, frustrated that he had honored Ernie’s last words; most likely he had died alone.

Leonard regretted that his presence, even now had not been of his own accord. He had received a call from a neighbor, voicing her concern over the growing stack of newspapers outside Ernie’s trailer. She apologized for bothering the doctor, but admitted she didn’t know who to contact. As far as Leonard could recall Ernie had no relatives, at least that he spoke of.

He locked his car and reluctantly began the unceremonious walk to the door. The lack of any filtered light peeking through the curtains didn’t bode well for the situation. After two sets of unanswered knocks, each increasingly more deliberate, he tried the knob and found the trailer unsecured. Ernie had never seemed the type to be overly concerned about security. Perhaps he deemed the idea of a break-in less likely than a visit from a friend.

He ran his fingers along the interior wall searching for the light switch. His breathing came in short, rapid bursts as the bare light bulb inadequately illuminated the room. Ernie lay stretched out in his recliner, television remote still in his hand. He hadn’t been gone long. The experienced olfactory senses of the doctor failed to detect even a trace of death in the air. Leonard took solace in knowing his friend had gone peacefully, evidenced by the sheet of paper lying on his chest. If Ernie left a note, it had to be addressed to him.

To whom it may concern…

Leonard, you big dummy, who else would I be writing to? What took you so long, surprised the neighbors haven’t complained about the stench, or maybe they did. I had every intention of calling several times, but I suppose intentions only serve to lengthen my list of regrets. There remains only one piece of unfinished business left in my life and it would seem my procrastination has relegated doing this by proxy. Go to the freezer and you’ll find an envelope.

Leonard did as the letter instructed. He tucked the cold manila envelope under his arm before returning to the chair.

I want to thank you for your friendship. In all these years I didn’t bother to do that. I’ve never believed in fate; with all my heart I believe a greater power placed you in front of my tow-truck that day. For the record, I really don’t regret not having run you under.

In case you’ve forgotten, the envelope concerns the overpayment on your first repair. At first I was opposed to accepting the excess, but you insisted. Times were tight and the bank had sent final notice of foreclosure; confiscating not only my business but the one thing that had given my life purpose. The generosity of your deed sufficiently staved off the hungry dogs. Slowly my situation improved and I set that money aside. As you know I made multiple attempts to return it, but each time you refused, giving a different but equally lame explanation.

Leonard opened the envelope and found a crisp one-hundred dollar bill tucked inside, in addition to a large bundle of cash.

This is the original loan including the proceeds from shrewd investments. Pretty impressive for a non-Wall Street type, huh?

Leonard, there’s something to be said for familiarity. I’ve lived my entire life in ‘Comfortville’, driving a tow-truck for most of my life for God’s sakes. There comes a time when we must all move on. Promise me you will take this cash and purchase a car befitting someone of your status. I always pictured you in a vintage ‘Vette’; jet-black with lots of flashy chrome. A hot blonde in the passenger seat wouldn’t do you any harm. Doc, you need to live a little, tear up some open road. Punch her once for me, will ya? The ‘Vette’ I mean! Here’s to open roads and pegged speedometers, my friend. Cheers!

Leonard knelt quietly in front of the stone, running his fingers across the deep recesses carved there. It would have been a travesty he could not have endured had Ernie’s marker remained undistinguished from the others. Ernie accepted a simple role in life and asked for nothing more. While he excelled in his field, he never allowed the world of business to override his love and compassion for his fellow man.

His fingers moved from the name, Earnest L Whittington, down the shapely outline of the ’67 Stingray that was carved there.

Leonard turned the key and smiled as the aftermarket exhaust roared to life. Ernie had been right about more things than he ever realized. Leonard had passed on the blonde, at least for now, leaving room from his friend in the passenger seat any time he cared to ride.

Savage Beast

The morning started a little rough when my truck battery decided to play dead. Actually there was no feigning of anything and to be truthful it began more than a little rough. The turning of the key produced nothing more than a click, and I in response invented some new words in my fit of frustration. Forgive me if I misquote and since these are not real words I’m uncertain of the spelling. I believe it was, ‘Fricken-fracken, piece ‘o’ schnacken’!

Locating the right tools to remove the battery devoured my last bit of patience, or so I thought. Perhaps it was the seized bolt for the battery hold down bracket, or when the corroded positive terminal broke off in my hand. It’s very difficult to determine which event caused the unhinging to take place, and quite possibly it had been a cumulative effort on behalf of all things mechanical to persecute me.

Actually my morning/afternoon exercise in frustration turned in a positive direction from this point on. To my surprise the auto parts store not only had a new battery that fit in the same physical space, having the same specs in regards to cranking amps, they had the old style terminals (significantly more substantially engineered).

Not until my drive home did I recall that my wife’s car had satellite radio. Perhaps music does soothe the savage beast. Since neither my wife nor my impossible-to-please teens were in the car I sought out the station of my choice. Suffice it to say I found my fix in the form of a station appropriately named ‘Hair-Nation’, in reference to the eighties bands. The first song that played happened to be Zebra’s, Tell Me What You Want.

Amazingly after twenty-plus years I recalled each line and quickly found my screeching heavy-metal voice. Glancing in the rear-view mirror gave only a visual indication of transformation that coursed through my veins. I no longer saw cheap Walgreen sunglasses and my inch-long flattop instantly became a bleached shoulder-length mane. Reaching for the volume knob I found that once you surpass thirty-eight the digital display appropriately reads ‘max volume’. My image in the mirror became distorted as the bass made it quiver with excitement. I had almost forgotten the art of driving with your knee, but like riding a bicycle it came to me in an instant. Thankfully both my hands had been rid of the arduous task of steering just in time for my ‘air-guitar’ solo.


As if a healthy dose of Zebra was not enough, the rock gods blessed me with Geoff Tate of Queensryche blasting away the last of my frustrations with Operation Mindcrime. As an encore while I pulled into my driveway Rob Halford of Judas Priest reminded me I had been ‘Breakin’ the Law’.

P.S. To those discerning few; you may notice that I could find no images of Zebra, therefore I included the Scorpions, who entertained with ‘The Zoo’.

Direction

Oh cobbled road of stone
you answered desperate cries
leading from this home
you prevented my demise

Oh winding road of stone
your paths are so diverse
they guide me far from home
these roads I have traversed

Oh solid road of stone
companion true indeed
for years without a home
you served my every need

Oh weary road of stone
with keen and seeing eyes
my loneliness for home
exceeds my weak disguise

Oh friendly road of stone
and healer of direction
will you guide me to my home
which alludes my recollection

Sweet Temptress

Sweet temptress of the day
you bring forth deep desire
with your svelte and sultry way
you lure him near the fire

With silken touch and graceful state
your passion penetrates his will
beyond those smoldering eyes of slate
lie voids no mortal man can fill

Encompassed in your velvet dreams
his writhing soul finds sweet escape
bitter sweet her temptress scream
as he assaults her ashen nape

When evil reigns and lust arrives
with bloodshot eyes she stalks her prey
now living as the queen of lies
no longer temptress of the day

True Blue

He reached up and adjusted the brim of his Dodger ball cap so it tilted slightly downward. The flimsy shield made of fabric did little to thwart the rain. This particular May shower had combined forces with a gusty northerly wind, which transformed a gentle rain into horizontal sheets that tested his will. Each of the determined drops slashed at his face causing his patience to wear thin. Mike Cadiz, a nineteen year veteran of the L.A.P.D, was no stranger to the elements, but tonight he wore no uniform. The oath he had taken to serve and protect didn’t stop when he clocked out. The obvious odor of alcohol emanating from the occupant explained the man’s struggle to produce his driver’s license. Many things had worked to bring these two men together, but mostly luck. Good on Mike’s part and misfortunate concerning the inebriated man.

Mike had exited the convenience store when he spotted the car in the parking lot. A black 2004 Chevy Cavalier that matched the description given by the witness two days earlier. The fact that the owner had made no attempt to conceal the heavy damage to the front driver-side quarter panel surprised him. Mike knew it would be best if he called one of his buddies on patrol, but instead returned to his car to wait.

A rail-thin middle aged man emerged around the corner of the mart. His spindly arms appeared taxed just carrying the brown paper bag. The glimmering of brown glass just visible left no doubt as to his purchase. Mike couldn’t fault him; he too preferred longnecks. Mike lit another Camel light while he watched the man enter the car and promptly retrieve a bottle. He took several hurried swallows before setting the beer aside and reaching for the ignition.

Mike’s reliable Seiko indicated the time, one thirty-two a.m. Few if any of the fifteen minutes he promised his wife remained. Fifteen minutes would have sufficed to run out and purchase a pack of smokes, but then this opportunity came along. Although she needed him there with her, he knew his wife would understand. Only a few minutes of effort could prevent a serious accident.

He allowed the black Cavalier to exit the parking lot and followed at a safe distance. The driver continued to utilize his entire lane and occasionally a portion of the opposing one. Perhaps an indication this wasn’t his first twelve-pack this evening. After the man made an exceedingly wide right turn onto a side street, Mike placed the lights on the dash and activated them.

Standing in the elements, Mike adjusted his cap again. The soaked ball cap had given up what little protection it had provided just a few minutes earlier.

“Sir, this weather is nasty. You think you could hurry a little?”

Mike’s request seemed to frazzle the already nervous man. Document after document fell in his lap as he rifled through his wallet. The beam of Mike’s flashlight focused on the center console.

“Is that an open container in your cup holder?”

“Um—yeah officer, sorry about that, been a long day at work. You know how it is.”

Mike then guided the flashlight to the exterior of the car and examined the damage closer. The crumpled metal did seem consistent with what he assumed had transpired.

“Don’t suppose you can tell me what happened to your car, can you?”

“Well—officer, funny thing, my wife ran into the garage a couple of days ago.”

“Hummmm, I see. I swear the insurance companies would go broke if it wasn’t for the female species.”

The man laughed nervously as if Mike believed his story and eventually if given enough time he could produce a valid license.

“You know what? I changed my mind. Don’t bother with the license; I think I’ve seen enough.”

Three empty casings clinked consecutively as they rebounded on the pavement and found rest in a puddle. The minuscule noise they produced paled in comparison to the actual muzzle blast but it was the clinking that caused a satisfied grin on his face. The first round smashed into the unsuspecting man’s temple, predictably expanded before exploding on the far side, carrying with it the man’s last milliseconds of life. Logic would have prevented the second and third rounds from being fired, but this had never been about logic.

Mike returned the model 1911 back to its resting place, tucked beneath his shirt, hiding in the small of his back. He grinned as he realized his preference for his own weapon opposed to standard issue. Certainly there were dozens of reasons he could cite. The silky smooth action and the immediate response the trigger provided were astounding when compared to the overpriced Glock. But on this particular early morning it was the origin of the weapon that gave cause to smile. The .45 had come from the evidence locker. On an off change that a ballistics test be performed the authorities would show up at the last registered owner’s home looking for answers. Mike knew the drug dealer from which the gun had been confiscated and had a pretty good idea he had not rushed out to register it.

Adjusting the beam of his flashlight he carefully collected the spent casings. After inserting the brass into the front pocket of his jeans he reached inside the Cavalier. The beer remained cold, a testament to justice dispensed quickly. Mike guzzled several swallows before pausing and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Aaaaahhh! You’re certainly welcome Mr. Kowalski. I had supposed the second D.U.I. and suspended license would keep you off the street. Regretfully I was incorrect. Oh, it’s no problem at all. Even I realize what a burden a heavy conscience can be. Hope you rest easier now, I know I will. No, no, thank you for the frosty beverage.”

Mike waited until he reached a busier thoroughfare before flipping on the headlights. As the light turned green his foot pushed heavily against the accelerator, hoping to make up a few of the lost minutes. With only a few blocks separating him and his destination he met with delay. Swirling blue and red lights swallowed his rearview mirror. For a moment he experienced a quickening of his pulse; the results for which he was responsible for inflicting on a daily basis. He rolled down his window as the officer approached.

“Sir, I need to see your driver’s license and proof of……”

“Jose, Jose Martinez, it’s me, Mike.”

“Hey Mike, almost didn’t recognize you. You’re lookin’ a little rough, but that’s certainly understandable. Hey, how’s your son doing?”

“I’m headed back to the hospital now, just had to run for a pack of smokes. After two days he’s still in a coma. The doctor says he could wake up any minute, in a week or a month from now, or never.”

“All of us guys at the station feel terrible about what happened. I assure you, if there’s one bit of justice left in this world we’ll catch that drunk that ran your son over!”

“I know everyone is doing their best and we really do appreciate your dedication. ‘Stay true to the blue’, isn’t that what they always tell us? Well, I better get back up there. My wife’s waiting and I’m already late. You be careful, man, plenty of freaks and misguided souls roaming the streets at this hour!”