Three

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?

Play Ball

Fanned out by Charles Dana Gibson




The roar of the Boston crowd was deafening. Those who could afford tickets to the final game had certainly gotten their money’s worth. Game seven of the World Series between the Red Sox and the St. Louis Cardinals had been nip and tuck throughout. Now with men on second and third, two outs in the bottom of the ninth, and the home team down by one; ‘Rip’ Jones strolled to the plate. He tipped his cap to the fans with a confidence that the game was already in the bag.

As long he did what they agreed to, the game was all but over. Jack Stallings smiled at the pure salesmanship with which ‘Rip’ sold the sham. The Bean-town faithful would watch in horror as their hero took each pitch straight down the middle without even offering a swipe at it.

Jack had no misgivings about being in the middle of throwing a game. Fans were merely miserable riffraff; those too naïve to believe something as sacred as baseball could go to the highest bidder. Soon they would learn everything and everyone has a price. ‘Rip’ would be instant millionaire while Mr. Stallings stood to make substantially more. A quick tally in his head calculated each of three strikes to be worth approximately fifty-three million a piece.

“Not a bad night’s work he mumbled”, as he gnawed off the end of his cigar and settled back in his seat.

The Cardinals’ ace nodded to his catcher and fired a fast ball down the middle. An anxious crowd grew silent as the umpire raised his right hand confirming a strike. Jack simply nodded in contentment. Two consecutive curve balls missed just outside and the crowd came to life again. Jack rode the edge of his front row seat and cursed the pitcher for his inability to throw a strike. ‘Rip’ didn’t flinch as the umpire rung up strike two, but Jack nearly came unhinged as the closer threw the next pitch in the dirt.

“You son-of-a-bitch, throw a fast ball down the middle will ya!”

‘Rip’ called time and stepped out the batter’s box. With each practice swing the roar of the crowd intensified ten fold. The umpire motioned for the batter to return to the box and he did, but not before holding his bat in one hand extending it to centerfield.

Jack laughed out loud, “With skills like that, this boy will make me billions.”

The pitcher shook of the sign twice then went into his windup, delivering a scorcher headed straight for the heart of the plate. In the blink of an eye, ‘Rip’ turned on the ball and sent a line drive twenty rows deep into the center field seats.

Millions upon millions of baseball fans the world over scratched their heads as they listened to the post game interview. ‘Rip’ insisted on dedicating his game winning home run to Jack Stallings, but why?

The next morning each of the major newswires carried an audio taped phone conversation. The incriminating words undeniably belonged to the owner of the Yankees, Mr. Jack Stallings III. The Sox had crushed the Yankees in the American League Playoffs three years running.

Gummi Worms

Tommy Braxton slowed to a trot, comfortable with the distance he had put between himself and those who wished him harm. His legs were cramping under the weight of the backpack, but the shield had spared him a multitude of welts. Tommy rested his hand on his front pocket—where his lunch money had been only moments earlier. Tossing it on the ground was the only thing that saved another beating. It had sent the scavengers scrambling and given him a head-start.

He turned and waved a defiant middle finger in their direction. The response to his rebellious gesture came in the form of an angry growl. Gus Childers’ voice rose from the distance and sliced the autumn air. Although the threat in no way carried the fear of a face to face confrontation, his sentiment rang clear.

“Go ahead you chicken-shit, hang out with the hobos! They’re the only one’s that will have you, but you better believe I’ll be waiting for you again tomorrow!”

The scamper had carried him to the old train yard. Perhaps a poor choice of escape routes considering the ample supply of ammunition within arms reach, but fear rarely consults with logic. Truly did it matter, rocks or fists?

Tommy recognized the wisps of smoke rising from an old burn barrel. Despite their differences, the heat like a magnet drew the wanderers into a tight circle. Tommy searched for one in particular. Carl had never given a last name. With no mortgage papers, bank accounts, or auto loans to sign for, a career hobo had little need for one. Yet he had seen thousands of places; moving about as his heart guided him and controlling his own destiny. Tommy admired the freedom of his lifestyle, but also appreciated his words. Carl looked past the acne of a teenager and spoke to him as if he were already one of them.

Tommy made his way into the circle and opened his pack. Only a room full of kindergarten children could have been more appreciative of a bagful of Gummi Worms.

“Let’s here it for Mr. Carver. I slipped in and out of there before the half-blind old man saw me lift a thing.”

The smallest of the group wasted no time. With the enthusiasm of an attack dog on an intruder’s leg he chomped at the generous gift. Dwarf, aptly nicknamed, was second in command behind Carl. He laid claim to 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 noticeably lift his bald head in order to keep from speaking to the ground. He stared a moment at Tommy’s ripped jeans before speaking.

“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 stroked his chin for a moment. In a move that revealed hours of practice 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 ole Dwarf might see to it Gus Childers don’t come around no more. Bet he’s as rotten inside as he his out!”

“Dwarf, you better put that knife away. 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 with confidence.

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

“Ain’t this a school day?”

“You’re starting to sound like my parents. Why should I spend another boring day in school—when I can hang out with you guys learning about the real world?”

Carl’s voice took on 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. I thought I’d hang out with you guys—you know, see the world.”

In a commanding voice Carl asserted himself.

“First thing you need to do is take the stolen stuff back and then you need to stop coming here—forever!”

Tommy cowered in response to the harsh tone. The only one he considered a true friend was asking him to leave and never return. Suddenly the friendly surrounding had become cold and demanding. He started to stand and leave, but Carl grabbed his arm.


“Look—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; no one he recognized.

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

Carl’s eyes softened considerably and his 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. This shell of a man rides a train because that’s all he knows. Believe me, there comes a day when there are no more trains—when you can’t run any farther from yourself. When it’s too late you finally realize the problem was not the world, but 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.”

Fueled by Carl’s words Tommy graduated from a community college some years later. He walked the familiar path to the train yard, wishing to check on the wanders, more specifically to thank Carl for his advice. In one had held his diploma proudly and in the other a jumbo size bag of Gummi Worms; one that he had purchased this time.

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 apologize; for the harsh words I spoke to you I cannot. When you walked away from here I celebrated inside.

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

I’ve included the adress of my wife and daughter. Can you go there and explain 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.

Remembering The Fallen

Standing among stones in a field of rest;
white markers of strife aligned in straight rows.
Voices of past relive each bloody quest
yet honor and duty speak louder than those.

If wounds were assessed in years left behind
many expired only miles from home.
Battles were waged and heroes defined;
assuming these wars not of their own

For a lapse in time and it involved me
each would do well to shake one of their hands.
Blessed by these warriors and leaders-to-be
bravely and boldly defending our lands

Our flag waves today in part by their deaths;
those fallen shall be remembered upright.
From sacrificed souls and ragged last breaths
a mighty eagle finds purpose for flight.

Unity

Unaware that several sets of eyes were anxiously awaiting her departure, Martha Jones grabbed her purse to head off to her day job. Finally the door closed and the house was empty, conducive to such a ceremony. Rolland sighed in relief and wiggled from his perch, clutching his lower back as he hobbled along. He wasn’t as spry as he had once been, but for a rolling pin that had seen two World Wars and delivered enough pastries to fill the Albert Hall, he couldn’t complain. He smiled and nodded as he passed his culinary cohorts that gathered for this sobering event. Forming a semi-circle, as close to the edge of the slippery counter as anyone dared, they joined hands. Rolland cleared his throat.

“Spatulas, measuring cups, ladles, and silver; we gather here today to mark the passing of a dear friend.”

A hush fell over those that stared at the near unrecognizable mass of plastic that lay in the bottom of the trash can. Choking back his emotions Rolland continued.

“Neither human nor utensil could have anticipated such an untimely demise. Spending only a few short years upon this counter, Patty the pancake-turner never met a stranger. Certainly she had a few dings and dents, but don’t we all. My only regret was that had she had been stainless perhaps we would not be here today, but such things remain beyond our control. Patty jumped at the opportunity to serve, but sadly she has flipped her last stack of flapjacks. Through selfless sacrifice she allows each of us standing in reverence today to serve another meal. It was fate that Mrs. Jones selected her to beat back the flames of an angry grease fire, but mind you it could have been any one of us. Although the charred flesh of her remains lies among the coffee grounds and eggshells of this morning’s breakfast, her spirit lives on. She now joins countless others in the great kitchen in the sky. As surely as I stand before you there will be another pancake-turner that tries to take her place. I implore you to resist such shallowness; her act of bravery should linger in our hearts and minds for years to come. Bless her perforated soul and serrated edges—and God speed.”

Rolland had performed far too many services during his lifetime. He considered himself extremely fortunate to have been passed down from generation to generation. Certainly there had been some downtime in moving from home to home, but the Jones family treated him well. Only once had he had been placed too close to the edge of counter and left unattended, but all in all the nasty spill produced no broken bones or concussions, merely a few migraines.

He took these few moments to reminisce. Rolland did not come from a distinguished linage as did the silver set from France, which to this day still spoke with an irritating accent. Perhaps he was oversensitive to such things. He too had taken his share of ribbing about his southern drawl. Rolland came from the heart of a hard maple in the hills of West Virginia. He possessed no grand pedigree, but nonetheless took great pride in his work. He was fortunate to have never fallen into the hands of an inexperienced cook. The many awards and ribbons lining the small country kitchen stood testament to his and Martha’s abilities. He was particularly proud of the 1973 Warsaw County Best of show. Poor Mrs. Hartwigger, Martha’s nemesis, never saw it coming. Blindly she believed her apple pie would ensure her ten year reign. Rolland smiled as he recalled receiving word that the light flakey crust had won the judges hearts. Just as Mrs. Hartwigger found, all things must come to an end.

In the big city cooking had become a cutthroat business, where many simple utensils had been replaced with machines. Rolland shuddered as he thought of such things. Perhaps someday he too would bow to progress, but for now he was content to live out his days in the solitude of the country, where folks still chose ‘biscuits made from scratch’ over the expediency of Bisquick.

Some days were lonely as Rolland had outlasted many of his closest friends. Cathy the three-legged colander had given up the ghost. For years she performed her duties flawlessly, only with a slight tilt. Those closest to her pretended not to notice her handicap. As long as Rolland could remember the divide between electrical devices and those of manual labor had been great. Stan, the electric skillet, had made an exception and crossed the line, a fine example of kitchen-aids he was. With his cooking surface and heating element still intact, he had fallen victim to a frayed controller cord.

Suddenly it came to him like a bolt of lightening. Rolland would use his wisdom gained through the years to bring unity to all of those who graced the kitchen. If those comprising the culinary arts expected to live on in this imperfect and ever-changing world, all aids must stand united!

In the background Rolland imagined a rally with the rhythmic thumping of Mike the meat tenderizer keeping time as the Thompson tea-kettle family whistled harmoniously the tune of God Bless America.

Closer To Gray?

Yesterday at work, the day following a historic election, I heard some things that troubled me. My desk put me within earshot of a conversation regarding the Presidential race. It began very amiably, as they were discussing work, but quickly evolved from there. The participants were two ladies, one white and in her middle twenties and one African-American in her early sixties. Having worked with them both I suspected the two outspoken personalities would eventually butt heads. Collide they did, in spectacular fashion, like the clashing of horns between two hormone enraged white-tail bucks.

The younger of the two had written a message on the white-board in her cubicle, “Sorry America….Barack won the election!!” It took only a few seconds before the elder voiced her opposition to the message.

“Why would you write something like that?” She asked in an obviously elevated tone.

“Because that’s how I feel.” When pressed for a more complete answer, rather convincingly she laid out her opposition to every major plan of President Obama’s, also her differing views on abortion and her reservations about his questionable associations. As any good debater would, the younger of the two turned the table and asked the elder what philosophies of Obama’s she supported? After a short pause she replied in an outburst loud of enough for the entire office to hear.

“I don’t have to support his philosophies or plans, and you’re obviously a racist!”

As I contemplated the conversation I wondered whether President Obama can really bring us closer to gray, the melding of black and white. I felt badly for them both. I truly believe the elder didn’t care to know Barack Obama’s philosophies or plans, voting for him because of the color of his skin. I also could relate to the young girl who had been unjustly lumped into the ‘racist pile’ simply because she did not vote for Obama.

When talking about the election and I reveal that I also did not vote for Obama the reactions are telling, not so much the words but the tone. “Oh, I see.” As if there is no other reason to have voted otherwise except for bigotry. Usually the conversation ends there, which doesn’t bother me that much. Most people will continue to believe what they want to believe. Actually, only a single person has ever flat out asked me if I would vote for a female or non-white president. With great certainty I smiled and crushed both his assumptions—“Condoleezza Rice, my friend!”

An Invitation

Pigs by Pablo Picasso


Beyond the fence
I watch them play
within their dirty domicile.
Sun-baked muck
cakes their backs
yet seems to make them smile


My mother chides
from yonder window
“Son, you best stay upwind!”
But as she tends to dinner
I cross the stile
to join my oinking friends.

With corkscrew tails
and flattened snouts
they fritter the day away.
How shall a boy of only ten
possess such will
his mother to obey?

The soiled bibs
display my guilt
as I face a mother’s wrath.
Returning with a willow switch,
the stoutest I can find.
Just in case a needed bath
is not all that’s on my mother’s mind.

Shattered Lives

In response to the most recent Word Catalyst Prompt:




The wild graffiti depicting goblins, ghouls, and skulls personified the spirits that supposedly roamed the Olsen Mansion. Newspaper articles had detailed the original crimes committed there and the vigilante justice that followed. When the mob came for him, they found Manfred Olsen standing on the front porch, still in possession of the hatchet that dripped the blood of his own family. Manfred found justice dangling at the end of a noose, while the mutilated bodies of his wife and his infant son were still warm.

Over the following decades there were many claims of mysterious happenings, but none could be substantiated. There was no disputing the horrific things that had happened here, but those murders had been almost a hundred years ago; long since forgotten Jack supposed. Jack’s friend Michael was not completely convinced and this Halloween night Jack intended to prove to him the foolishness of such tales.

The breaking of windows in the mansion seemed to stir the restless spirits that lingered within the decaying walls. Michael reached in his pocket, retrieved three smooth stones and handed them over to Jack. A young boy had to have pretty good aim these days as few windows remained. Jack carefully took aim at the third story and with a grunt released the rock. The projectile entered one of the bare openings and hit the floor with a thud.

“Dang it, I missed.”

Michael handed him another and this time Jack’s efforts were rewarded with the shattering sound of glass as it broke from the pane and fell inside the home.

“I told you those stories were a bunch of crap!” Jack exclaimed. “Did you see anyone at a window; the door swing open and close; Manfred standing on the porch with a noose around his neck? I didn’t think so!”

Michael handed his friend the last rock. “Try one more time—unless you’re chicken, of course.”

Jack ripped the stone from his friend’s hand and whirled it at the third story. Again shattering glass broke the silence of the still night. Jack watched intently for any sign of life for approximately two seconds. That was how long the four inch shard of glass took to fall from the third story and pierce his brain.

Unsure of what had caused him to drop so quickly Michael rushed to his dying friend’s side. Jack’s eyes were wide with terror as he pointed towards the window. Michael looked to third story window where he saw a man casually tossing and catching the rock Jack had thrown. Michael would never forget the man’s satisfied smile or the rope hanging from his neck.

Urgency

A table set for guests
yet only empty chairs.
Missing invitations
explain my dark despair.

What use is a fist-full of todays
if tomorrow never comes?
Uninfluenced by the sway
of a distant setting sun.

Opportunities expire
like a feast in the heat.
Nutrition turns to poison
on the heels of timid feet

Words remain unspoken
deeds mere infant thought.
Alone I bear the burdens
of this lesson time has taught.

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