Table of Contents

poetry

(the passionate stuff)

prose

(the meat & potatoes stuff)

lunchtime poll topic

(commentaries on relevant topics)

Of This
I am Certain

salt water taffy

i’m still out of breath
thinking about you, us
all these years later
i know i should be over it;
you have a wife and i have myself
but i cannot help but think
of everything i lost
because your selfish needs—
reminds me of how the
nurses kept waking me at the hospital
to check my vitals
when all i really wanted or needed
truly was sleep,
and the breathing exercises i had to take
to prevent pneumonia;
only served to freak me out rather than
calm me down
the same way when my family tells me to
let you go
it only plays up old wounds
breaking open new scars and i find it hard
to remember to inhale and exhale—
sometimes life gives you salt instead of salve.

hymns of peace

there was no mother’s milk
or soft bread
that wrapped comforting arms around me

i only had you
a man who used his pain as a weapon
whilst mother worked and worked and worked some more,

and i always was made to feel like a burden
when all i wanted was love;
nightmares when all i wanted was dreams—

you always told me to get my head
from the clouds,
but my dreams gave me wings and i couldn’t listen

to the topography of the nightmares
you gave me;
the darkness was too great a burden

for my soul
so i just cut you loose from my heart
throwing the bones of the past in the rivers of my past—

i let the creek wash over me
songs and hymns
of peace.

you have no power here

you may be a king in your kingdom,
but you have no power here;

pretty silver tongued devil
i know you for your ugly truth
and i have warned my daughters

of your kingdom
you will never overthrow
my world of dreaming—

you tried to take my future away,
but my inheritance was never in the arms
of a man;

i am a valkyrie born of love and light
my magic is that i will never fade
immortal of the stars

my heart will burn away every nightmare—
return to your kingdom of dust,
and blow away;

you have no power here
i will not remind you again.

Sonja

...knew this hooker once, Sonja.
“Sonja with a J” she’d say.

It was the hump of the morning
when I ran into her.
She was walking to her stop
& grabbing a bus to work;
a west end whore house
in the city of Providence.
The place was run by
a connected Italian dude
whose cousin is a famous boxer.

Sonja was dolled up for her clients
as she called them,
but man, she was a looker.

Weather was cold, sunny & clear
A fine New England morning, early spring.
The air was clean with a slight scent
of nearby Narragansett bay
that told me it was low tide.

I was already drinking to take off the chill,
hitting off a plastic half pint bottle;
the usual,
that cheap as shit Russian vodka,
Karkov.

Sonja had a 20 minute wait for her bus.
We chatted it up &
started joking back & forth.
She told me the latest news-
like who got shot & who got busted,
who OD’d.

She told me a dirty joke
& we both cracked up.
She laughed at her own jokes.
I liked Sonja; a genuine person.
That’s when I asked her.
...
“Hey - Sonja, got a question
& don’t be offended...
If you took each & every pecker,
you ever sucked
and put them end to end...
how long a line down the center
of Broadway
would that disgusting thing stretch?”

I was feeling no pain &
sometimes say stupid shit
when I drink,
but in a way, at the same time,
I was like, drunk curious
& wanted a round figure.

She stops dead– flicks away her cigarette
twists her head & looks me
dead in the eye.
Curling up that broad ebony brow;
disgusted like, she scolds me.
“I’ze iz saprized atchu Zeke...
axin’ me a quession like dat!”

I’m feeling stupid now,
shifty in the feet.
Sonja isn’t saying anything.
Tapping the toe of her heels,
she takes a long, sensuous
drag off her just lit, Kool cigarette.
She exhales slowly
with a little smoke
escaping the corners of her mouth
& her flared nostrils.
Sonja made it look sexy
like I was watching an old
Humphrey Bogart gangster movie.

Still looking at me
with pinched, bright red ruby lips
& through those two,
cutting & very narrowed, green almond,
eyes.
Still unsmiling
she was just beating me down
with a look.
She could do that.
The sparkly blue eye liner
glittered in the sun.

Sonja lifts her chin
tilts her face
looks up to the sky, left then right,
then turns back to me.
Words, finally some words.
I was ready for a beating,
I took a pull of vodka.

Sonja taps
her chin with her index finger,
sucks air through her teeth.
The momentary silence
was about to be broken.

“About that line on Broadway uze is axin’ me about
& so damn interessed in ...
Ya know- it’s hards fo-me to answer dat Zeke.
How’z iz I supposed to rememba’ how many
& how long all doze dicks had been
& fuck bitch, I hates math anyways!”

Bending over some she tilts her head
catching me out of the corner of her eye
& busts out with a laugh
the neighborhood could hear.
Slapping her hot Tina Turner thighs
with both hands she lets go,
“Sheet Muh-Fukka- Got’cha!”

I sprayed my hit of vodka
we both fell out a good long minute.

Sonja raised her left shoulder
tucked her face, spun around
& sashayed away.
With one last look over her shoulder
& still giggling
she swished her ass
& blew me an extremely sexy kiss.

The bus had arrived
Sonja went on to work.

With a grin still pasted to my face
I went back to sipping,
& rolled myself a Bugler cigarette.

Shaking my head, I lit a match...

Of This I am Certain

The birds in my yard are keeping secrets from me,
Of this I am certain.

Their leader, no doubt, is a brilliant red cardinal often a perch
On my fence.

The ground wasps, on the other hand, are less oblique.
They simply want to bore dozens of perfect, tiny holes in the ground

Leaving behind equally perfect, tiny mounds of dirt
Remarkably uniform in size and color.

I once dated a woman who often complained her job as a fashion model
Was so much harder than it seemed.

It wasn’t, of course.
She was more like the wasps than the birds in the end.

Every generation has an artist who becomes famous and wealthy painting stripes.
But not me, I only painted circles. Bad luck, I suppose.

What does all this have in common?
Well, only the birds could answer that question,

Particularly the proud cardinal
Whose spectacular crimson plumes and effortless, undeniable beauty

Is a constant, living reminder
That nature triumphs over art

As music conquers boredom
And laughter eases pain.

Seward Ward Bio,/h2

    Seward Ward is a poet, painter and longtime New York City bartender. He has published poems in the Washington Review, Dogwood, Avalon Literary Review and Art Times with work upcoming in The Cape Rock. He lives in northern New Jersey with his wife, daughters and two unnaturally large cats.

Engaging with the Kafkaesque

Dark, my world,
animated shapes conveying
little or nothing
to ease a so-restless mind,
unquiet spirit

No cheery sounds
of laughter over corny jokes
or cheery singing
out of tune at the washing-up
after dinner for two

Nothing and no one
to home in on for comfort;
shoulders to lean on
but shades of wishful thinking
on scrap paper

Kafkaesque, dragging
on senses that, oh, but faintly
offer resistance,
yet creating just space enough
for breaking dawn

Light, proving a match
for its nemesis, now a gathering
of sun nymphs
inspiring wings of a skylark
to force an entry

Song, waking the heart
to possibilities and potential
enough for mind, body,
and spirit to be curious, wake up
to the challenges

Constructivist Universe

From yellow to gray
from gray to blue
from figurative to abstract
cubism

From drum (bell) and bell (clock)
to shades cool and light
from decos and decas
to squares and rectangles
modernism

From door and facade of ecclesiasticals
to smalls and bigs of relativity
from geometricks of shade
to shape of mathematical
universalism

In Torres García constructivist canvases
paint changes from universe to universalism.

(Thanks to Joaquín Torres García 1932 Contraste 1942 Arte Constructivo
Museo de Bellas Artes Buenos Aires and Bar Coruñés Montevideo)

Hospital on Fire

Portrayals of the ministers of vice
without symbolism come down to
places of tortures scenes of war
hospitals firing like matches at night

Goyaesque human figures remain
too small to show humanity’s humility
in lack of love of each other
as it seems they can’t control

Forces of nature like a volcano
erupting in red and yellow
the sick and ill carried out
on stretchers crawling limping

The scene is that materialized and naturalized
human form is succumbing to matters of disasters.

(Thanks to Francisco de Goya 1808-1812 Incendio de un hospital, Enscena de guerra and Museo de Belles Artes Buenos Aires)

In Between
Les cheveaux longues et courtes

In between long and short hairs
the visitor is left doubting
which painting she loves more
which girl he likes better

To the left
long hairs as long as
Modigliani elongation
red hairs reddish mouth
broad neck like a giraffe
blackish short like puma

To the right
on the head remains
eyes blinded as by paint
hair stuck up like haystack
and the face appears in details now
thin but long brows
longest nose reddish mouth
against naturalized and stylized green

Silence of both figures of woman
tell a story of endurance and eternity.

(Thanks to Amedeo Modigliani 1920
Buste de femme 1920 Figura de mujer
and Museo de Belles Artes Buenos Aires)

Mirror Boat

Naivism and nativism
meet in mirror boat

From landscape to industry
chimneys and elevated corners
of pastel gray houses
that rock like a boat
to waves of industry.

(Thanks to Rafael Barradas 1926 Paisaje de hospitalet
and Museo de Belles Artes Buenos Aires)

Ode to The Melanin Crown

Why are black women so angry?
In the streets of birth, the women cry
As their babies are pried from their bosoms
Signing baby boy’s birth certificate
And death certificate
Fearing their joy will turn to grief
As a crib turns to a crypt

Their daughters being slaughter
For their complexion
Pigmentation not light enough
Compliments follow by the asterisk
“for a black girl”
Crying in arms why they’re not enough
Even when they try to be us

Why are black women so angry?
Their skin absorbs the sun
Hair defies gravity
they hold to power to bring unity yet diversify
They are divine

Yet they were stolen from their thrones
And thrown into section eight housing
skins worn as a sick joke

Worldly possession stolen
Ripped from their skin
Carved from their heart
Picked from their minds
And repaid in self-hate

Why are black women so angry?
Because we have every right to be

The other side of confession

He found solace in the way
Glass shatters in his hands
Crimson stained like
The cathedral windows
This was the closest he’ll get to God
blood replaced wine
Glass replaced bone
He was finally at peace
With his sins
“I’ll never be a man of God” he confessed
As much as he wants to
Anger burns a hole through him like Hellfire
Eyes set ablaze
Like a demon he once saw in his dreams
He recites the same makeshift prayer
He whispers to himself at Mass
“Dear God love me back
I’ve made no deals with the Devil
Yet I’m turning into a demon
Amen”

Learn more about Christina Culverhouse and her work at http://www.christinamariefineart.com.

What The Bell Didn’t Save

They fumble through crowded halls
Parting ways with friends
Sharing goodbye kisses
Only young lovers

An unsettling feeling
Brought stomachs to feet
A secret intuition no one ever spoke of

They soon learned by...

Watching bodies crumble
Like twin towers
The schoolyard scatter with
New found poises
And bullet casings

Not knowing that this is their last goodbye
Not knowing they’ll never see each other

They prayed with their last breath
For one more
Just another breath to say goodbye

I sit
Watching it on TV
Tears blurring out victims faces

They look like me...
Young, happy, alive
They were supposed to be alive

Why does he look like me?
Why does he look like me?

Because he is just like me
Young
Parting ways with friends
In crowded halls

That night I prayed
That I’ll never become
Another young scatter posie

Edible Language

Eating Empires of influence
McDonald’s in Moscow
Le Big Mac in Paris.
Everywhere language goes
Commerce follows
Hence KLEENEX not tissues
WENDY’S not hamburgers
Until we speak brand names
Wear corporate advertising
Gain status via labeled fashion
GUCCI vs NIKE, JAY Z vs BEYONCE
Until we become corporatised
Speak in ad-talk, Tweet and Twitter as verbs
and we are owned by our possessions.

Michael’s Story

I was raised on a farm with no indoor plumbing
and her long strands of rainbow and leprechaun glitter slides down her back.
Let’s remember Michael, she says.
This is not the story of my life.

Sometimes the heart of a smile is in its spray of joy and jasmine;
other times, silver beacons, clear weather smooth.

This is a love poem that ends badly,
a death song chanted and varnished, hung to the heavy air of distemper,
trolled through unforgiving, indifference, lust and cruelty.

Black ice scowled the curve of the highway.
Michael’s pick-up truck could not hold on.
They found him in the morning in a field of ice
dead and frozen, his head unmarked,
the doors easily opened.

Her eyes pastel shaded and easy,
blue with flecks of grey and brown,
a brightness waking the neighbors at rooster’s calling.

I wish to remember Michael, she says,
his kind hands and blistered fingers,
his long feet and narrow knees,
his way of talking without an accent
his way of touching my hair with fairy dust.

Audrain County,
deer run across fields of energy
dissolve into stars when night covers the moon.
There is a legend that tells us when the deer bed with the dawn,
it’s their watchfulness that brings the sun to this side of the world
and their wakefulness that sets it to sleep.

Love poems are made of trite blocks,
walls that climb vines to places common.
“I took a line for a walk,” Miro said,
and Franquois Boucher complained nature
“is too green and badly lit,”
and when the vines circle backwards
to the painter of serpents with human heads,
the artist Hugo Van der Goes
went insane on a walk to Cologne,
a blaze of virus entering his Garden of Eve.
All of this created within love.

She has a brother and sister of the dawn,
well lit and satisfied,
and she can run with the best of them
and lead the herd to safety
always.

So love goes.

about Michael H. Brownstein

    Michael H. Brownstein’s work has appeared in American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, After Hours, cc&d, poetrysuperhighway.com and others. He has nine poetry chapbooks including A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004) and The Possibility of Sky and Hell (White Knuckle Press, 2013). His book, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else: A Poet’s Journey To The Borderlands Of Dementia, was recently published by Cholla Needles Press (2018).

Disquisition on Sexual Proclivities of Gods

As almost everyone knows
God fathered baby Jesus
but with so many ancient fables
depicting Gods
routinely defiling virgins,
was Mary’s role consensual?
Now let’s allow,
without quibbling over
the enormity of His heavenly embellishment,
Gods being Gods,
He could induce pregnancy from afar,
but wouldn’t He still need Mary’s approval?
Besides, by our current standards,
given their monumental power imbalance
could Mary have “freely” agreed
- Could a pious maid turn down God?!
Nonetheless, god willing,
even if she could,
was immaculate Mary
at the legal age of consent?
So, when it’s all weighed and balanced,
if God revisits earth
He’ll be charged
like any other sex offender,
which could be a kind of homecoming
as His priestly flock
so religiously emulate their Almighty’s lead.

“Mona Lisa”

Basquiat
drolly transformed
“Mona Lisa”
to a grotesque
presidential bust
on a dollar bill;
deriding, at least for me,
our persistent commodification of art.
For despite practitioner’s pretensions,
fashionable market validated art
is a trophy investment
of the uber-rich
and our global culture’s
most profitable venture
into “art appreciation.”

(follow this Amazon link to view the art.)

Not Adam

It’s not like we’re
Adam and Eve
Living out one prototypical day
After another,
Blissful and productive
In their own private Eden,
Each petty, mundane task
Ennobled by originality –
Every thing a first thing.

Not us: Scratching in this
Dirt all our lives
No garden in view,
We do the same things
The same way we
Did them yesterday,
Living lives of ignoble repetition.

Heads down, we work away
In the shadow of curses,
Getting our bread by
The sweat of our brows,
Keeping pace for the mere doing
Seldom taking the time
To think about why until
Some petty, mundane thing
Shimmers like sunlight
Breaking on water,
Trees whispering to the dusky
Breeze or laughter, like bells,
Magical and simple, pierces the crust
Of ash and dust,
Awakening our dreams of Eden.

Opens the Way

I walked down the streets of my village once
and stopped when I saw a doorknob in the dirt.
I couldn’t help but pick it up, and keep it.

There was no lock, just this black doorknob and base.
It was so rusted that the doorknob wouldn’t even turn,
almost like it was a finial and not a doorknob.

I don’t know why I decided to keep this thing,
other than with the hope that wherever I go, one day
this doorknob mat begin to turn and open

the way for me from deep in the depths of oceans,
to up mountains, to up through the sky — until it
opens the way to where I could only dream to be.

Other People’s Worlds

After spending a lifetime
looking through a camera lens,
photographing other people’s lives,
I look at the sum of what I’ve done.

See photos under glass, framed on walls,
scenes captured with vivid contrast
and events caught in vibrant colors.
And then I look at the people —

most are gripping and grinning
in their instamatic moments,
but some are looking away,
and it makes me wonder.

I’ve spent a lifetime glimpsing
into other people’s worlds.
When I catch them looking away
I wonder: what are they thinking.

What worlds am I missing
by putting this camera in front
to my face, pointing, clicking.
Just so I could stare, and wonder.

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), KOOP (91.7FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images. Starting at this time Kuypers released a large number of CD releases currently available for sale at iTunes or amazon, including “Across the Pond”(a 3 CD set of poems by Oz Hardwick and Janet Kuypers with assorted vocals read to acoustic guitar of both Blues music and stylized Contemporary English Folk music), “Made Any Difference” (CD single of poem reading with multiple musicians), “Letting It All Out”, “What we Need in Life” (CD single by Janet Kuypers in Mom’s Favorite Vase of “What we Need in Life”, plus in guitarist Warren Peterson’s honor live recordings literally around the globe with guitarist John Yotko), “hmmm” (4 CD set), “Dobro Veče” (4 CD set), “the Stories of Women”, “Sexism and Other Stories”, “40”, “Live” (14 CD set), “an American Portrait” (Janet Kuypers/Kiki poetry to music from Jake & Haystack in Nashville), “Screeching to a Halt” (2008 CD EP of music from 5D/5D with Janet Kuypers poetry), “2 for the Price of 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from Peter Bartels), “the Evolution of Performance Art” (13 CD set), “Burn Through Me” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from The HA!Man of South Africa), “Seeing a Psychiatrist” (3 CD set), “The Things They Did To You” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Hope Chest in the Attic” (audio CD set), “St. Paul’s” (3 CD set), “the 2009 Poetry Game Show” (3 CD set), “Fusion” (Janet Kuypers poetry in multi CD set with Madison, WI jazz music from the Bastard Trio, the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and Paul Baker), “Chaos In Motion” (tracks from Internet radio shows on Chaotic Radio), “Chaotic Elements” (audio CD set for the poetry collection book and supplemental chapbooks for The Elements), “etc.” audio CD set, “Manic Depressive or Something” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Singular”, “Indian Flux” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “The Chaotic Collection #01-05”, “The DMJ Art Connection Disc 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Oh.” audio CD, “Live At the Café” (3 CD set), “String Theory” (Janet Kuypers reading other people's poetry, with music from “the DMJ Art Connection), “Scars Presents WZRD radio” (2 CD set), “SIN - Scars Internet News”, “Questions in a World Without Answers”, “Conflict • Contact • Control”, “How Do I Get There?”, “Sing Your Life”, “Dreams”, “Changing Gears”, “The Other Side”, “Death Comes in Threes”, “the final”, “Moving Performances”, “Seeing Things Differently”, “Live At Cafe Aloha”, “the Demo Tapes” (Mom’s Favorite Vase), “Something Is Sweating” (the Second Axing), “Live In Alaska” EP (the Second Axing), “the Entropy Project”, “Tick Tock” (with 5D/5D), “Six Eleven” “Stop. Look. Listen.”, “Stop. Look. Listen to the Music” (a compilation CD from the three bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds & Flowers” and “The Second Axing”), and “Change Rearrange” (the performance art poetry CD with sampled music).
    From 2010 through 2015 Kuypers also hosted the Chicago poetry open mic the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting weekly feature and open mic podcasts that were also released as YouTube videos.
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), the three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound ISBN# ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, Prominent Tongue, Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# ISBN# hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry (with poems written for every element in the Periodic Table), a year long Journey, Bon Voyage! (a journal and photography book with select poems on travel as an American female vegetarian in India), and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed. 2017, after her October 2015 move to Austin Texas, also witnessed the release of 2 Janet Kuypers book of poetry written in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and a book of poetry written for her poetry features and show, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (and both pheromemes books are available from two printers). In 2018, Scars Publications released “Antarctica: Earth’s Final Frontier” and “Antarctica: Wildlife” (2 Janet Kuypers full-color photography books from the first passenger ship to Antarctica in 2017), performance art books “Chapter 48 (v1)” (2009-2011) and “Chapter 48 (v2)” (2011-2018), the v5 cc&d poetry collection book “On the Edge”, and the interview/journal/poetry book “In Depth”.

Blindfolded

    “I need to get that chalice, Aiden. The Boston Globe article said some people think it has curing powers. I don’t know if I believe it, but I hope so. The chalice is a replica of a sacred relic from the Middle Ages. If I have your mother drink from it, maybe she’ll get better and come home to us. Won’t that be nice?” She rubbed my head gently and smiled. We were sitting in her Blue Plymouth across the street from Mission Church in Boston. An old man pushed a lady in a wheelchair up the ramp to the front door.
    “Won’t God be mad?”
    “I’m going to return it, sweetheart. We’re just borrowing the chalice to make your mother well again. I think God will understand. Don’t worry.” She rubbed my cheek.
    We crossed the street and entered the musty darkness of the church. The smell of shellac, incense, and old-lady perfume permeated the air. Bright light shone through the stained-glass windows where Jesus was depicted in the fourteen Stations of the Cross.
    “Let’s move to the front.” My grandmother pulled me out of the line and cut in front of a humpbacked lady, who looked bewildered.
    “Shouldn’t you go to the end of the line?” she whispered. Her hair was sweaty and her fat freckled bicep jiggled when she tapped my grandmother’s shoulder. The freckles reminded me of the asteroid belt.
    “I’m sorry. We’re in a hurry. I want my grandson to get a cure.”
    “What’s wrong?” she whispered. We were four people away from the priest, who stood in front of the altar. He prayed over people, then lightly touched them. They fell into the arms of two old men with maroon suit jackets and blue ties.
    “My dear grandson has leukemia.”
    The woman’s eyes teared up. “I’m sorry.” She patted my forearm. “You’ll be cured, honey.” Again her flabby bicep jiggled and the asteroids bounced.
    When it was our turn, my grandmother said, “Father, please cure him. And can you say a prayer for my daughter, too?”
    “Of course.” The white-haired, red-faced priest bent down. I smelled alcohol on his breath. “What ails you young man?”
    I was confused.
    “He’s asking you about your illness,” my grandmother whispered.
    “I have leukemia,” I said proudly.
    The baggy-faced priest recited some mumbo-jumbo prayer and pushed my chest. I knew I was supposed to fall back but was afraid the old geezers wouldn’t catch me.
    “Fall,” my grandmother whispered. “Remember our plan.”
    I fell hard, shoving myself against the old guys. One toppled over. People gasped. His friend and the priest began to pick us up. I pretended to be hurt badly. “Ow! My head is killing me.” Several people gathered around us. My grandmother yelled, “Oh my God” and stepped onto the altar, kneeling in front of a giant Jesus nailed to the cross. “Dear Jesus,” she said loudly, “I don’t know how many more tribulations I can take.” She crossed herself, hurried across the altar, swiping the gold chalice and putting it in her handbag while everyone was distracted by my fake moaning and crying.
    “He’ll be okay,” she said, putting her arm under mine and helping the others pull me up.
    When I was standing, she said to the priest. “You certainly have the power of the Holy Spirit in you. It came out of you like the water that gushed from the rock at Rephidim and Kadesh. Let’s get out of here before there’s a flood.” She laughed.
     The priest frowned. The lady who let us cut in line eyed my grandmother’s handbag and shook her head as we passed.

    That night I slept in what was my mother’s room. As often happened, I awoke to the sound of my grandfather’s voice.
    Whenever he visited, the bedroom glowed with tiny white lights, illuminated bubbles floating in the air. My face and ears became hot and red, and I heard a buzzing noise that eventually stopped. I had confided to my mother about his visits, but no one else. Her claim of hearing the voices of dead people and her ‘visions’ led to a diagnosis of schizophrenia. My grandmother and father had her declared mentally incompetent and she was committed to a psychiatric facility. Nanna was granted guardianship of her, and me as well, because Dad said he couldn’t handle a child on his own.
    “I’m not happy with you, Aiden,” my grandfather said. “Why did you allow your grandmother to steal the chalice from the church? Tis an awful thing to do.”
    He sat at the bottom of my bed, wearing black bottle-thick glasses, his dark hair a curly mess.
    “ ‘Goodness is the only investment that never fails.’ A smart man by the name of Toreau said that. You must return the chalice to the church.”
    “Who’s Toorow?”
    “You’ll learn about him in school. Mr. Toreau is a famous writer who lived about a half hour away from you, in Concord.” My grandfather was an autodidact. He never went to college. He couldn’t afford it and wasn’t allowed admission because he was an Irish immigrant. My grandmother and he, though they did not know each other, emigrated from different parts of Ireland in the late 1930’s. With hope in their hearts, just a few belongings, I’m sure, and not much money, they journeyed to the promised land of their imaginations.
    When they first arrived, it was difficult to get good jobs. People hated the Irish. He dug graves during the day and hauled large bags of mail onto the trains at South Station during the night. She was a maid for the rich protestant Brahmans on Beacon Hill. Eventually, attitudes changed, my grandmother was able to become a licensed practical nurse, and my grandfather, well, he died.
    “Aiden, your mind is wandering. You need to listen to me.”
    “Yes, Grandpa,” I said.
    “You must get your mother out of McCall’s.” McCall Hospital is the largest psychiatric hospital in the Boston area. “She needs to live a normal life. And you must be with her. Every child should be with his ma. The shower of savages at that hospital are pumping her up with all sorts of terrible medicines.” His voice cracked. “Like you, Aiden, she has the gift, and it is horrible that she is being punished for it.”
    To me “the gift” seemed like a curse, a burden.
    “It’s not a curse,” my grandfather said, reading my mind. “Second sight is something that has been in your family for years. Your grandmother’s mother possessed it, and she, too, was demonized. Of course, it was different in Ireland. Many believed her, but still there were those who acted cruelly. There are always people who are blind to the gifts in others.”
    “What do you mean, demonized?”
    “Treated badly. Laughed at. . . . Terrible thing to do to another human being. People said she was tick.”
    “Tick?”
    “Stupid. Even your grandmother thought her ma was out of her head. The story goes that your great-grandmother retreated into herself. Once, she was joyful, envisioning life’s possibilities, but slowly she withdrew, hurt by the malice of others.”
    “What happened to her?”
    “She dropped dead while lifting a bucket from a well. Tumbled right over the stonewall she did. And the night before she had heard the banshees.”
    “What’s a banshee?”
    “You ask a lot of questions.” He laughed. “A type of fairy or spirit. Her entire family listened to the wailing. Then, in the pitch-black of that windy night, they heard three knocks on the door, which means someone is going to die. The next day your great-grandmother was bloody dead, her body covered in green muck. All for a bucket of water.”
    “Did they believe her then?”
    He laughed, somewhat bitterly. “Yes, Aiden. But what good did it do the poor woman. Dead she was. . . . Aiden, most people are afraid to believe in things they cannot see. It frightens them and they become nasty. This is why you must keep your secret for now. Think of a way to free your ma. I don’t want Laura to suffer like your great-grandmother, driven to despair.”
    “What I am I supposed to do?”
    He told me a secret that might convince my grandmother.
    “You’ll figure it out, son. I’m counting on you.”
    “Grandpa?” I called a few more times, but the bubbles of light faded and he was gone. I went to the bathroom and positioned my face under the faucet to drink some water. In the mirror, my cheeks appeared sunburnt. The color would fade by the morning, as it always did.

    Nanna’s back was to me when I entered the kitchen. The table was set—one white plate, a green paper napkin, and silverware.
    “It’s about time you woke up, sleepyhead.” She smiled and brought a red mug of coffee to the table, then opened the refrigerator and passed me the cream before moving back to the stove.
    “Over hard, as you like them.” She flipped an egg and wiped some grease off her pink nightgown. Rollers dangled precariously atop her forehead.
    “Thanks, Nanna. . . . I was thinking.”
    “Here we go.” She laughed. The bacon sizzled.
    “Maybe we should return the chalice?”
    “Hand me your plate.”
    She put two eggs and three strips of bacon on it. The toaster popped.
    “Grab the bread, and butter it while it’s hot.”
    She poured herself a cup of coffee, black, sat down and faced me. Nanna rarely ate breakfast. She preferred to smoke and drink coffee, sometimes with whiskey in it. She lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke from her nose.
    “Now why would we do that?”
    I put three sugars and cream in my coffee, looking down while I stirred. “Because it’s wrong to steal.”
    She laughed. “Phooey.” She waved her hand at me. “I told you we are just borrowing the chalice.” She put her hands on her hip. “I think God is happy we are helping a sick person. We are doing Christian work. Like those missionaries in Africa and China.”
    “ ‘Goodness is the only investment that never fails.’ ”
    Her face blanched and her large hazel eyes widened. “Where did you learn that?” She looked behind her for a second, as if someone might be there.
    “I read it in one of Grandpa’s books. It was underlined.”
    Her face relaxed and she spoke softly: “I can’t tell you the number of times I heard your grandfather say that. And a bunch of other malarkey.” She laughed. “He had another favorite expression.” She tilted her head and laughed. “ ‘If it was raining soup, the Irish would go out with forks.’ ”
    “That’s funny.”
    “It is and it isn’t, which gets to the heart of this conversation, Aiden. People need help. That chalice may cure your ma. Stealing it was only a venial sin, not a mortal one.”
    “What’s a venial sin?”
    “A minor sin. Like a white lie.”
    “Is lying about leukemia to make people feel bad and distract them a venial sin?”
    She sighed. “Yes, Aiden.”
    She turned on the faucet and looked out the window. “Everybody lies. You need to get used to it. The sooner, the better.” She rinsed my plate. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
    Through the glass, beyond the oak trees, the blue sky was filled with cumulus clouds, a foamy ocean above us. “What’s a mortal sin?”
    “It’s more serious, a grave violation of God’s law.”
    “Was stealing the chalice a venial or a mortal sin? And how do you know the difference?”
    She turned towards me. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Don’t think about things so much.” Like my grandfather, her “th” often sounded like “t” or “d.” “Now go get ready.” She brushed me away with her hands. “Scoot.”

    The drive to McCall Hospital took a half hour. Located in Somerville, just outside of Boston proper, you reach the entrance after winding up a slope of lawn to a sandstone Admissions building. Beyond that structure and throughout the large campus are several brick edifices with classical flourishes, such as gabled roofs, Roman columns, and ivy-covered walls. Large oak and birch trees, like sentinels, line the knolls, where dormitories from a bygone era stand, rooted in stability, a quality the clinicians nurture in their patients. We knew the place well. Nanna drove the circuitous road to my mother’s building, a ward of approximately twenty-five patients, all with a variety of illnesses: schizophrenia, mania, depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and borderline personality. Above the entryway the limestone sculpture of a woman wearing a tunic stood with one arm resting on an anchor.
    Just inside the doorway, on the left, was the nurses’ station, and across from there, the patient lounge with an old television, a scratched pool table, and shelves of tattered books and games. My mother’s room was at the end of the hall on the right, a coveted spot.
    “Can I help you?” a short, small-framed nurse with over-bleached hair and gray eye shadow greeted us.
    “We’re here to visit my daughter, Laura Glencar.” My grandmother motioned to me. “This is her son, Aiden.” She puckered her lips. “I don’t think I’ve met you. Are you new?”
    “I started last week. My name is Nancy. You can call me Nurse Nancy. Let me find out who’s taking care of your daughter. ‘Maura Fender’ you said.” She turned to look at the white dry-erase board with patient names, room numbers, and nursing assignments.
    “Laura Glencar!” Nanna rolled her eyes at me. “This one’s a tool,” she mumbled.
    “She’s new, Nanna. Give her a chance,” I whispered.
    “She’s not new to hearing,” she whispered back, then smiled at the nurse.
    “Oh, it’s me!” Nurse Nancy said.
    “What did I tell you?” she said, a little too loudly.
    “Right this way.” Her hips swiveled in front of us.
    “We know how to get there, Nancy Nurse. You don’t have to bring us. I think your time would be better spent, memorizing that board, don’t you?” Nanna smiled at her.
    “Oh, but it’s policy.”
    “Must be a new policy. Never happened before.”
    Nurse Nancy fingered her gold necklace. “I want to do things right.”
    “I can understand, dear,” my grandmother said.
    “You have some lovely visitors,” she announced to my mother, who was seated by the window looking at patients walking across the lawn. She turned and smiled gloriously, as she always did. My mother was a very attractive woman: thirty-four years old, wavy auburn hair, light green eyes with specks of gold, and fair skin sprinkled with tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose.
    “Give me a hug,” She extended her arms. Nanna sat on the bed next to her and plopped her handbag near the pillow. I embraced her, loving the familiar smell of her Avon perfume.
    “Thank you, Nancy. You just made my day.”
    Nancy beamed and left.
    “She’s a dumb girl,” Nanna said. “Didn’t even know you were her patient. Can you imagine that?”
    “Ma, don’t be so hard on her. She just started working here.”
    “That’s a poor excuse, but never mind. Aiden and I have something for you.”
    My mother clapped her hands and smiled. Outside the window, patients walked in circles, hands behind them, not talking with one another, lost in thought, some muttering to themselves or moving their arms in strange ways.
    Nanna reached into her handbag and carefully placed three items on the tan bedspread: the gold necklace and cross, a small jar of red wine, and finally, the golden chalice, which sparkled in the well-lit room.
    “Mom, where did you get that cup?” Her eyes widened. “It looks like part of the Queen’s crown jewels.” She laughed.
    “A friend of mine loaned it to me.” She warned me with her eyes.
    “Who?” She giggled and raised the chalice. “Such beautiful stones. This must be worth a fortune. Do you know a museum curator?”
    “You could call Joshua that. He works for a very reputable institution. Started it from the ground up. The building is as grand as a temple.”
    “Where is it?” Her eyebrows squished together.
    “Jerusalem, New York. He’s visiting some relatives in Boston.”
    “Jerusalem?” She laughed and folded her palms over the chalice in her lap. “I think you’re telling me a fib.” She raised the cup in a beam of sunlight. “It’s beautiful, but what am I supposed to do with it?”
    “Drink this wine. Joshua says the cup has healing powers. I hope he’s right.”
    “It’s gorgeous. Thank you.”
    “I have to return it, Laura.”
    “I figured that.”
    “Will you drink from it?” My grandmother’s eyes pleaded.
    “There’s nothing wrong with me.” She folded her arms. “But if it will make you happy, I will. Pour some, but be careful not to stain the bed.” Her shoulders drooped.
    As my mother sipped, Nurse Nancy came in.
    “Hey. What are you drinking?” She looked at the small jar, which my grandmother quickly shoved into her handbag.
    “Cranberry juice. It prevents urinary tract infections,” Nanna said.
    Nurse Nancy’s eyes squinted. “I hope that’s all it is. Laura is on medication and alcohol could interact in a negative way.”
    “Of course it’s not alcohol,” Nanna said. “I’m a Christian woman. Today is Sunday. In our family, we abstain from alcohol in reverence to Our Lord Jesus Christ. I’m insulted that you would suggest such a thing, Nancy Nurse.” She wrapped the chalice in a cloth and placed it in her handbag, then clasped the gold cross around my mother’s neck.

    The next Saturday, my grandmother announced at breakfast that we were returning the chalice.
    “Do you think Mom’s cured?”
    “God works in mysterious ways. I’m not sure that a sip of wine from that beautiful cup performed such a miracle, but I pray that it did.” She wiped her hands on her apron and hung it on the wall. “I often doubt the possibility of miracles, but then I find myself thinking that every moment is miraculous. Do you know what I mean?”
    “Like just being alive?”
    “Exactly.” She threw my crumpled napkins into the wastebasket. “We make our own miracles. There’s a saying from the old country, ‘It’s the good horse that draws its own cart.’ We must make things happen on our own instead of sitting on our arses waiting for Jesus to put the world right.” She smiled and motioned for me to get up from my chair. “That’s why we will do what needs to be done. Now go get dressed.”

    In less than an hour we were in front of Mission Church. My grandmother always had the hardest time parallel parking.
    “Get out,” she said.
    I stood on the sidewalk and shouted, “Stop. You’re gonna hit that car.”
    She bent over the seat and looked at me through the passenger window. “How much room do I have?”
    “About two inches.”
    “Christ.”
    She extended her arm across the top of the seat and turned to look behind her before reversing and smashing into the white Ford Mustang.
    “Shite.” She glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Everyone was inside, listening to the Mass.
    After rolling up the windows and locking the car, she stood on the street, opposite of where I stood on the sidewalk.
    “You smashed the bumper.”
    “How do you know it was me? Look at the scratches on the door. Obviously, this individual doesn’t know how to drive.”
    I joined her and traced my fingers along the scratches.
    “Don’t do that.”
    “Why?”
    “You’ll leave fingerprints.”
    I laughed. “You think they’re gonna dust the car for prints?”
    We watched two cars pass. My grandmother waved at the drivers. “Let’s get this over with.” She straightened her blue dress and grabbed my hand. “Hurry and cross.”
    “Do you have the chalice?”
    She patted her handbag. “It’s inside my bag. I had to remove my makeup and a brush to make room. The sacrifices we make.”
    We both laughed. I opened the large carved wooden door for her. She looked at the white Mustang before entering and whispered, “We’ve got to make this fast. Before the Mass ends. I don’t want a scene with the owner of that car.”
    The air was musty, warm, and dark. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust.
    The priest said, “A reading from the first Letter of Saint John. . . . “Beloved: See what love the Father has bestowed on us that we may be called the children of God. Yet so we are.” People turned in the pews to look at us walking down the aisle. My grandmother bowed to them. “The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Beloved, we are God’s children now.” He paused and looked at us as we climbed the altar, then continued reading, half-watching us. “What we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.”
    My grandmother pulled me to a bench at the side. We sat down. The cool stone felt good against my back. The priest stared at us. People in the congregation were moving in their seats, whispering and watching us.
    My grandmother put her hand in front of her mouth and whispered, “I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. Sounds like a bunch of palaver.”
    “Everyone who has this hope based on him makes himself pure, as he is pure.” The priest held up his index finger and smiled, then walked over to us and whispered, “Can I help you?”
    “Yes, Father, like you were saying, that bit about ‘bestowed’ and ‘God’s children now.’ ”
    “I don’t understand, my friend.” The people in the pews were talking louder.
    A man shouted, “Is everything okay, Father?”
    “Yes. Yes,” he called back. “I’ll be right with you.” Again he held up his index finger.
    I pulled the chalice out of my grandmother’s handbag. “It is revealed!”
    “Where did you get that?”
    “A homeless man on the Boston Common was drinking beer from it. I recognized it as the stolen chalice, Father. I read that article in the Boston Globe,” my grandmother said.
    “He was all dirty and sad-looking. I think he needed some healing,” I interjected.
    “We prayed with the man and asked him to let us return it,” my grandmother said. “I told him, ‘God will forgive you because we are all God’s children’ and some of that other stuff you were just saying.”
    The priest’s face lit up. “It’s a miracle,” he hollered to the congregation, holding the chalice above his head and walking to the center of the altar. “Thanks be to God.”
    The people repeated, “Thanks be to God.”
    My grandmother pulled me from the bench. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she whispered.
    People clapped as we hurried down the aisle.
    “Wait,” the priest said. “We don’t know your names.”
    “I’m Elaine, and this is my grandson Galahad.”
    We ran out the door and across the street.
    Her hands shook as she tried to unlock the door. “Aiden, you’ll have to do it for me. I’m a nervous wreck.” She handed me the keys.
    An elderly gentleman with a cane yelled, “Yoo-hoo. Come back. We want to speak with you.” He teetered on the steps, clasping the railing.
    “Yoo-hoo,” my grandmother answered and waved. “We’ll be right over.” Then to me after I unlocked the door: “Hurry up. Get in the car.”
    I ran to my side. We slammed our doors at the same time. My grandmother rolled her window down. “I’m terribly sorry. My grandson is hyperventilating. He gets nervous around crowds.”
    I breathed hard, as if on cue, and waved to the man, then held my chest, pretending I was going to die.
    The man started down the steps with his cane, holding precariously onto the railing.
    “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” my grandmother said, “Let’s get out of here before that buttinsky falls!” We swerved into the street and sped off. “Who says ‘yoo-hoo’ anymore? He must be demented.”
    “Where’d you come up with those crazy names?” I had my hands pressed against the dashboard because she was driving so fast.
    “Something I read. Probably one of your grandfather’s old books.”

    When we pulled in the driveway, I said, “Grandpa will be happy.”
    “What are you talking about?” She scratched her head.
    “Grandpa likes when we do the right thing. He wants Mom to come home.”
    “Of course, your grandfather would want Laura to leave that sad place.” She opened the car door. “Let’s go inside.”
    I followed her across the front lawn and called out, “He’s very upset she has to stay there.”
    She turned and stared at me. “Your grandfather is dead, Aiden. Stop your foolishness.” She shivered. “Let’s get in the house.”
    In the living room, she sat on the couch and patted the spot next to her. “Come sit with me.”
    “Aiden, lots of people have dreams about people they’ve lost. I’m glad you dream about your grandfather. He was a good man. You remind me of him.” She wrapped her arm around me and kissed me forehead. “Would you like some tea?”
    “Sometimes Grandpa visits me at night.”
    “I sometimes dream of him, too. What good times we shared.” She stared into the shadowed room, then turned on the lamp.
    “He told me to tell you that it was not your fault that he died.”
    “Of course it wasn’t my fault.” She puffed on a cigarette, eyeing me suspiciously. “I’m tired.” She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes.
    “Then why do you cry at night and ask God for forgiveness? Grandpa says he’s in the bedroom with you. He wanted me to tell you he’s sorry. He said he was always ‘full as a bingo bus,’ whatever that means.”
    Nanna’s face quivered and she put her cigarette in the ashtray.
    “Where in God’s name did you hear that expression?”
    “What does it mean?”
    “It’s an Irish saying for very drunk.”
    “He said you should stop blaming yourself for leaving him in the chair that night when you went to bed. It’s not your fault that he choked on his vomit.”
    My grandmother shook and tears streamed down her face. I wrapped my arms around her. “Grandpa loves you, Nanna, and I do, too.”

    The next week, we went to McCall’s again. Nurse Nancy smiled. “Laura is doing great today. She’s been busy drawing. Quite a talented artist.”
    “She gets that from me. I studied at the Louvre in Paris.”
    “Really?” Nancy cocked her head. She led us down the hallway.
    My grandmother asked, “You think I’m too dumb?”
    Nancy laughed. “Not at all. It was a stupid thing to say.” She turned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    “No offense taken. Next time I’ll wear a beret and carry a paintbrush.”
    “Here we are,” Nancy said outside Mom’s room. She smiled, picked lint off her white skirt and blew it off her finger, then leaned into my face. “I bet you’re excited to see your mother.”
    “We’re good now. You can go,” my grandmother said.
    When she had gone, I said, “I didn’t know you were an artist, Nanna.”
    “Don’t be silly, Aiden. That was blarney. Nancy Nurse is a bit too uppity for my taste.” She pushed me forward. “Go in. Your mother will be so happy to see you.”
    “Hi Mom,” I hurried to her bed, where she sat drawing in her sketchpad. She wore a green dress that accentuated her eyes.
    “I want to eat you up.” She kissed my face and hugged me tight. “I’ve missed you so much. There’s no one to talk to at this place.” She looked past me.
    “Aren’t you going to give me a kiss, Ma?”
    “You need to visit with Aiden. I have to use the ladies room. That will give you alone time.”
    “Ma, that’s not necessary.”
    “My taking a pee is necessary.”
    We all laughed.
    “Enjoy your visit. I’ll be back.”
    My mother asked about my favorite subjects in school, my grades, my teachers, and did I have a girlfriend.
    In a few minutes we heard loud voices in the hall. “I’m taking her home, Nancy Nurse. I have every right to. I’m her mother and I was appointed guardian by the court. So mind your business. Haven’t you got a bedpan to empty?”
    They entered the room.
    “Let me at least get in touch with the psychiatrist on call?”
    “That won’t be necessary. Nothing he says will change my mind. . . . Laura, pack up your things. You’re coming home.”
    “Please give me a few moments to collect the paperwork, Mrs. Mulroy. You need to sign her out A.M.A. That means against medical advice.”
    “I know what it means. I’m a nurse, too. And I’m familiar with the procedure. Do what you must. That will give us time to get organized.”
    My mother and I were already packing her suitcase.
    “I’m sorry for bringing you here,” my grandmother said to Mom. “You should be home with Aiden and me.”

    Nanna signed the necessary forms and we left. Before getting into the car, both my mother and I saw him. My grandfather was sitting on the grass beneath a tree. He smiled and waved to us. One star shone in the twilit sky.
    “Hurry up you slowpokes,” my grandmother said, then turned towards the tree. “What are you looking at?” She followed our gaze.
    “Hope,” my mother said, laying her arm over my shoulder and guiding me into the backseat before closing my door.
    When they were inside, I said, “How can you see hope?”
    My grandmother started the car and looked at my mother. “Hope is sitting right beside me.”
    Mom touched the back of my grandmother’s neck. The car moved forward.
    I opened my mother’s sketchbook, which she had placed in the back seat. A paper image of a painting fell out. She had begun copying it, using different shades of pencil. A blindfolded woman wearing a green gown sat atop a light brown globe, her head bent to the left as she played a lyre with a single string. In the background, one star shone in the gray-blue sky. Printed underneath the reproduction was “Hope, 1886, George Frederic Watts.”
    I thought of the chalice, the wine, and the revelation of God’s love. But mostly, I cherished hope.

    This story was originally published in The Writing Disorder Magazine.

Bio

    James Mulhern has published fiction in many literary journals and has received accolades. Three stories were selected for different anthologies of best short fiction. In 2013, he was chosen as a finalist for the Tuscany Prize in Catholic Fiction. In 2015, Mr. Mulhern was awarded a fully paid writing fellowship to Oxford University in the United Kingdom. That same year, a story was longlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He has received other awards. His writing (novel and short story collection) earned favorable critiques from Kirkus Reviews.

Reunion

    “A grammar school class reunion, you’re kidding, right?”
    I thought it was a joke. I hadn’t seen Carol Minor in thirty years. How did she get my cell? Then I remembered she was a cop more than likely retired by now. How many would show? Not after fifty years from grammar school.
    “No, after all you haven’t seen us in decades.”

    I stood at the door of the newly tuckpointed Chicago style bungalow on a windy November day with an expensive bottle of scotch and our class photo. I hit the bell. The door swung open and there stood Carol, full figured and elegantly dressed in a leather pants suit.
    “Hey Omar, how are you?” Her bright smile accompanied a bear hug. “It’s cold out there.” She pulled me out of the doorway. I smelled chicken frying.
    “Surprise.” I held out a bottle Scotch in a gift bag and our class photo. “Um, it smells good in here.”
    She grabbed my arm. “You need help?”
    “No. Me and this cane are quite a team.” She hung up my coat. I looked in the living room and it was immaculate. We went back to the kitchen and there was a slender woman in a maid’s uniform stacking chicken wings on a platter.
    “Am I early or what?”
    “No, right on time.” She opened the basement door and the sound of jazz hit me...Miles Davis...I felt better already. “After you,” she directed. I eased down the narrow stairway into a finished basement, bar and all. Several card tables were occupied by people I didn’t recognize.
    “Hey Omar,” several said in unison. We laughed.
    “Hello everybody.” They want back to their hands of whatever they played. Cautious not to interrupt card players and gamblers I shook hands with a few guys I recognized. Several were former cops, I got good hugs from the women who introduced themselves...Pamela, Beverly and Terry.
    “Remember me, I’m Jackie?”
    I didn’t, but I lied. “Now I do.” She guided me to the bar.
    “What you drinking?”
    “Water, with a twist of lemon.” That got a strange look from the bartender who looked like Carol. I sat the envelope with the class picture on the bar. “Guess what this is, Jackie.” Carol was on the other side of the room and I waved her over and opened it. “Our class photos.” I eased it out. “Don’t feel bad we all got older.” I laughed.
    “Man, look at that. Hey people look at this.” Carol held it up and several people came over.
    “I thought I’d need this to match names with faces.” I said. Glad I brought some life to the party. They continued to gathered around, ordered more drinks and the comments ranged from “I was beautiful to I look the same.” Not many guys showed, but Carol said a few others would be late. We sat with our heads tilted up at the TV watching the Sports Channel. The conversations shifted to what everyone wanted to know, “What have you been up to all these years.”
    Jimmy was still portly and laughed all the time. Chester, short and wide still coached high school football. Willy the player stilled chased skirts, never married and no kids. We had one thing in common, double chins and beer bellies, small to large.
    We continued to talk about our lives without be judgmental, insulting or intrusive. It was good. And, as we all know people are only going to tell you so much. That’s fine, who wants to be burdened with someone crying about their problems. My joy was short lived when I heard a familiar voice at the top of the stairs. I turned on my stool and saw a set of shapely legs hurrying down the steps. “Hey everybody.” Angel Certy said. Her grandiose entrance dampened my spirit, the enemy was here, but others welcomed her like royalty. The make-up, hair style, expensive blue pant suit looked great. Her skin tone remained the same and those curves turned to straightaways like the rest of her class mates., but there was a darkness about her. Over the decades I heard rumors she got involved with drugs. She did a double take when she saw me.
    And here we go!
    “Well hello, Omar Bernard.” She looked me up and down with a smirk. I heard giggles in the background.
    “Hello.” I headed for the chicken wings hoping she’d get the hint. She didn’t and followed.
    “You look well, filled out with a gut and still think you cute.”
    “Thanks, I think.” I stacked wings on a plate. “You play poker?”
    “Of course.”
    “There’s an open spot better hop on it.”
    She turned and headed toward the table. “We’ll talk later. Wait for me, gentlemen,” and pulled up a seat.
    Carol sat next to me. “You forgot your napkin,” and handed it to me. “I didn’t think she’d make it.” She started to giggle. “You should’ve seen the look on your face.”
    “Well, she still hates me after all these years.”
    “I doubt that, not after fifty years.”
    “I don’t and when she starts getting drunk and losing I’m gone.” I still enjoyed watching the expression and reactions of gamblers. Fascinating, the people who could least afford it put the most into it.
    An hour later Angel was losing and the alcohol wasn’t helping. She caught me grinning while she lost. Like many compulsives, she didn’t know when to stop. “So, Omar I heard you had addiction problems. I’m sorry...personal issue you were dealing with.”
    “Who hasn’t and where did that come from?” I was embarrassed and others looked uneasy.
    “And I heard you became quite the entrepreneur. Is this one of those the pot calling the kettle black things?” Silence, but that hate filled stare said it all.
    “Okay you two, let’s have peace and fun.” Carol interrupted. A few people don’t get the spirit of a reunion, it’s not to stir up the negatives of the past, but to see how everybody is doing. I regretted letting Angel piss me off....an attitude adjustment wouldn’t let her ruin the rest of my day. But, it was time to go.
    I said all my good-byes and rubbed Angel on the shoulder, a no hard feelings gesture maybe she would understand. She nodded, tossed in her cards. “Wait Omar, I’m leaving too.”
    Surprise!
    A couple of guys winked. I know what they thought.
    A senior citizen booty call.
    No way. Being a gentleman, I helped Angel with her fur coat and gave Carol a hug and complimented her hospitality. It was past six and my timing was perfect for the end of the evening rush hour. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell the wife how it went. I stepped out of the house and got smacked in the face with horizontal sleet. The fine kind that stung like hell. Angel was behind me. “Go ahead,” and I stepped to the side. “I got to bundle up I’m parked in the middle of the block.”
    “I’m down a few cars. What’d you think about the gathering?” She asked.
    “I had a good time, good to see everybody looking good.”
    “Me too, goodbye, Omar Bernard.” She hit her remote and trailed off to her Mercedes. I’ll never know why she hated me, but why think about the grammar school pranks? It didn’t change a thing.
    Several shots rang out...something hit me like a stab to the back. Did Angel shoot me or what? My face, the cold sidewalk and darkness became one.

    “Hey honey, are you going to wake up all the way this time or what? Through the haze I saw Cindy. She gave me a peck on the lips. “Wake up.” My lips parted.
    “Woke.” I whispered, but did she hear me?
    “Omar, Omar, your eyes are open,” she dabbed my lips with a wet tissue. “I thought you said something.”
    “I did.” This time it came out louder.
    “You woke honey...it’s about time.”
    About time, what did that mean? She left my line of sight. “Where did you go?” It felt funny to talk, my neck was stiff and my throat was scratchy. Strange. The next thing I knew a guy with a beard and onions on his breath shined a light in my face.
    “I told you, doctor.” Cindy said.
    “Can you hear me, Mr. Bernard?”
    “Yeah,” Ouch, I felt that, trying to speak to loud to soon. “Yeah, I hear you.” Now the big question, where am I and what happened?
    “Good to see you back, you been in a coma for a while, but I’ll leave for now and let your wife fill you in on other things. Oh, I forgot, I’m Dr. Abrams. Don’t strain too hard to do anything.” Cindy raised the bed slightly. Her pants fit perfect as usual and for her age she still had a few curves left.
    “Get these tubes out of me...please.”
    “They will, they took out the feeding tube yesterday. They said you were regaining consciousness.” Her smile warmed my heart, but I had questions and I was tired and sleepy. “What happened?” I must’ve fallen asleep mid-sentence. I scanned the hospital room, typical nothing extraordinary. The I.V.’s was gone except one. Cindy pulled back the curtain.
    “Welcome back sleeping beauty, feel better, stronger?” She kissed me and felt my genitals. “That tube is gone, good.”
    “What happened to me, where is this place, why did Angel shoot me?”
    “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. Things aren’t what they seem and don’t give me a hard time while I explain. Ask the doctors for the medical stuff. Ok?”
    I nodded.
    “First, Angel didn’t shoot you. She got shot three times and two of the bullets were through and throughs. One hit you in the back and bounced around on your insides. Second, you been in a coma for a couple of months and they don’t know why. As you know you aren’t paralyzed, but you’re going to rehab.”
    “Wait a minute, Cindy, who shot her? Was it a hit?”
     They aren’t saying. But, they did say she is married or was married to a shady character involved in all kinds of stuff so at first, they thought that was it. But, also some old guys were shooting dice in an abandoned garage down the alley. The usual happens with booze and gambling a sore loser gets pissed because they lost and wants a chance to win their money back, next you know, bang, bang. Either way nobody’s in custody, of course. Your friends have been asking about you especially Carol. She feels bad somebody almost gets killed at her reunion. I’m glad you’re alive and should fully recover. Now you can hit me with the questions.”
    I was hungry and eating anything would be a challenge. Why rack my brain trying to figure this crap out? Be thankful to be alive. And, for God’s sake don’t overwhelm Cindy with questions. Recovery is too important.

    I couldn’t wait to get out of the county hospital, so what if it was new with the best doctors in the country, it was driving me crazy. I became a crabby old guy, but I swore I wouldn’t be a pain at the rehab center; I’ll make friends and it’ll be spiritually and physically gratifying. That thought faded while I was being taken down the hall full of wheelchairs, walkers and food containers. It had to be lunchtime. Roast beef and a large strawberry shake would hit the spot. The stretcher slowed and we made a right down an empty hall. We stopped at the nurse’s station and they were instructed to go right to the private suites. That was unexpected, but a good thing, my snoring made enemies. They transferred me to a wheelchair and left. The place wasn’t bad at all. There was more than enough room for my chair. The small sofa and chairs passed the smell test. The TV was bigger than expected. I adjusted the blinds, sunlight was good for the spirit and with that I proceeded to exercise my legs. In three weeks, I planned on walking out of this place. I didn’t expect to be any better than before, but no worse.
    The first week at the Villa of Greenville Park proved to be better than the online review. The staff nurses and doctors were good to me. Period. Cindy approved, she dropped in all times of day, and if my wife approves that says a lot. The food was good, plenty of activities and prayers were helpful.
    Today started week two of using a cane and walker. I swore I’d do a complete walk, both sides, down every hall in the facility. After lunch, I’ll start. I flirted with nurses as I entered one of the newer renovated sections.
    That voice. I stopped. It couldn’t be, or could it?
    I rushed to the intersection, stopped and tuned in. Two rooms down I heard it again. A motorized wheelchair shot into the hall. “Excuse me I didn’t mean to cut you off.”
    Angel!
    It couldn’t be, but it was. Paralyzed from the waist down dressed in a long sleeve blue blouse and jeans with a White Sox ball cap cocked to the side.
    “Well if it isn’t, Omar Bernard. I heard you were here.” She pushed the joystick and backed up. “I’m blocking the aisle.”
    My good mood disappeared. “Hello, Angel.” I didn’t know what else to say and what good would it do tell her she probably got what she deserved. That would be too cruel.
    “Oh, Omar, for what it’s worth I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
    The smirk on her face said it all. “Sorry, my ass. Is that part of the twelve-step program for dealers or what?” I said, with all the sarcasm I could muster.
    Her eyes turned hate red. “I was trying to be nice.”
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    “Not going to either...I still don’t like you.”
    “That’s the real Angel, I hate phonies. Cool, stay in your part of the building that way we don’t have to be bothered with one another.” That won’t work, but her being here was one helluva incentive to a speedier recovery.
    Her chair shot forward and blocked me. “Go to hell, Omar.”
    “You first, Angel. Good bye.” I walked around her. I’ll never attend another reunion.

Change Of Heart

    At 10:00 AM exactly, my grandfather honked his horn. I grabbed my ‘New Orleans’ straw hat and ran out the kitchen door into the alley where he was waiting in his old van. The sweet honeysuckle along my back fence conflicted with the putrid smell of the sun-heated trashcans in the alley. The big, black van reminded me of a hearse, but I climbed in beside granddad every Saturday morning. It was my summer job.
    He was a vegetable salesman, and, he too wore an old, white Jazz straw hat that was de rigueur in New Orleans. And without the smell of Red Man chewing tobacco, he would not be the same person. Granddad lifted the sides of the van and then propped them open when he stopped on a street for business.
    I have always wanted to be like Granddad. He always has money in his pocket and has many friends. And I have never seen him in a suit and tie. He drinks beer and has a new girlfriend every week. What I would not give to be like him!
    My mother and father had always told me that he was a dangerous man. He drank too much and ran around with bad men. They told me I should get an education so I would not have to sell vegetables in the hot Texas summer. Or work on the dangerous off-shore drilling rigs. But, I thought about drinking, working on boats, and chasing girls. That’s exactly what I wanted to do.
    Galveston, Texas was hot in the summer, but being an island, the humid Gulf winds cooled us some. Most of the women wore sundresses, and the men mostly T-shirts. Our day comprised an exact route from which granddad seldom varied. We went first to the street behind the old, garish, Bishop’s House. The house was huge, painted a pale shade of pink, and it was a Galveston landmark since all the tourists had to pass it when entering the city.
    Granddad stopped, went to the street-side of the van and propped the side open. By the time he did this, a line of customers halfway down the street had formed. As usual, all were men. They wore baggy pants and the string-shoulder type of undershirt. Most were dark-skinned, and wore thongs on their tanned feet.
    “Hey, Slim! Bring that boy along to help you count your money, did ya?”
    ‘Slim’ was my granddad’s street name. He was 6'4" and weighed about 250 lbs. His name was Claude, but no one, and I mean no one, called him that.
    Granddad pulled a huge knife out of his back pocket and waved it at the guy.
    “Betsy here is the one who counts my money, boys! You only get one chance with her!”
    I thought that was so cool.
    The whole group howled. My granddad was as ornery and tough as they come, and they liked him.
    “Royce, what you want today? Light or dark?” Granddad asked.
    A wiry old guy, his face a dried-up riverbed, stepped up and croaked.
    “Two of the light ones, Slim. Same price?”
    “Yep. Boy pull that top drawer out and hand me two jars” Granddad said.
    I moved the yellow squash aside and pulled open the top of two hidden drawers. I extracted two small mason jars with a clear liquid in them.
    He snapped open a paper bag, put the two jars in the bottom and put a few vegetables on top.
    “Two-fifty, Royce.”
    The line diminished rapidly with me pulling the jars and granddad taking the money. We closed the side of the van and drove to our second spot. It was near West Beach and a block off the waterfront. The houses there were all white and built up off the ground due to the floods from hurricanes. Most of the windows had shutters, but these remained open during the summers. The little palm trees were bent slightly landward, away from the Gulf of Mexico just a few hundred feet away. It felt cooler, and the salt smell was strong. There were big clouds with anvil bottoms in contrast to the pale blue of the sky. There was another long line waiting for us.
    “Hey, Slim.”
    “Hey, Thump,” Granddad said to a huge man.
    “Vegetables lookin’ good today, man!” The man said at an attempt at humor.
    “You’re still the ugliest guy on the island though!” Said one of the other men in the line.
    They all laughed. However, the little guys all stepped back, one never knew how ole Thump would react. Today he laughed, too.
    Later, when there were still two or three men in the line, I saw them move away slowly. Like they were just passing by.
    “Get in the van, boy.”
    At no time did I question granddad, ask him ‘why’, sass him, or fail to respond immediately. It was to take your butt in your own hands to do so. I was in the van in about two seconds. I saw a black and white Galveston Police car come to a quiet stop beside granddad.
    “Afternoon, Ronnie.”
    “Hot, ain’t it, Slim?” Said the cop, fanning himself with his hat.
    Granddad nodded, then turned and spit tobacco juice.
    “How’s the criminal life, loser?” Said the younger cop at the wheel of the car.
    The other one gave him a quick, sharp look then turned to Granddad.
    “You got any a’ that dark stuff left?” The other cop said in a much friendlier tone.
    “You bet. How much you guys need?”
    “It’s towards the end of the shift. Anything you can spare would be great, Slim.”
    Granddad opened the lower of the two drawers and pulled out four of the mason jars. He snapped open a bag.
    “Don’t bother with the bag, old son that stuff won’t live to see the sunset!” The older cop laughed at the joke.
    Granddad handed them through the window, the cops opened the jars immediately and sipped. The danger here was thick, and even I could sense it. I saw Granddad’s right hand caress the knife in his back pocket several times during the encounter.
    “How much we owe you?”
    “One thin dime.” ‘
    “That way they cain’t say it was a gratuity, ya’ see.” The older one said to the younger.
    “Well, Slim, got the boy again this summer, huh?”
    “Yeah, he does the pulling for me. Grandson. It’s his summer job!” Granddad said sharing a chuckle with the policeman he seemed to know.
    “Gotta go, Ronnie. We’ll see you later.”
    “You bet. Make sure that boy learns to cook that stuff right! Would not do to have a bunch of rotgut on the street, you know.”
    Granddad smiled as they pulled away. The older cop waved.
    Granddad put the side down and got in behind the wheel.
    “Granddad, that scared me.”
    “Don’t worry, boy, those guys want it as much as the regulars, they just don’t like to pay for it. I don’t mind, and they pretty much stay away from me when I’m out selling my ‘vegetables’, you understand?”
    I nodded, but my heart was pounding.
    He put his big hand into his pocket, and as was his custom, flipped me a silver dollar. It was always the highlight of my day with Granddad. The heft of the silver dollar made me feel like I had a jewel or something special in my pocket. Sometimes I walked around with my hand in my pocket gripping the silver dollar.
    “Boy, Royce invited us to stop by on the way home this afternoon. I would not mind listening to a little Cajun music and drinking a little shine. How about you? The music, I mean. Not the shine.”
    I had never been invited to do this before. I was ecstatic.
    “Granddad, I’d really like to! I like Royce.”
    “Ok, but it would really piss off your mom and dad if they find out. Can you keep your mouth shut?”
    “Yessir.”
    “I ain’t worried so much about your dad, but, God Almighty have mercy on us both if your momma finds out! You know what I mean?”
    “Yes—Sir,” I said with understanding.

    We parked the van about a block from Royce’s house. When we got to the house, we went around back to an old barn. Granddad opened the big front door, and we entered.
    “Holy cow!” I said.
    Granddad grinned.
    Inside was a sawdust floor and several picnic tables scattered around with red and white checked vinyl tablecloths on them. At some sat men playing dominoes or just listening to the music from a large, beautiful old jukebox. Along one wall were several iceboxes.
    “One of those iceboxes is full of my corn liquor, boy,” Granddad said, pointing with a sausage size finger.
    I could not speak.
    From a table in the corner, Royce motioned for us to come over.
    “Hey, Royce.”
    “Hey, Slim. Sit down with us. Who’s your pal there?”
    Granddad looked at me.
    “Hi, Mr. Royce. Don’t you remember me? I’m his grandson. I work with him ever summer now. I saw you...“
    “I’m jus’ kiddin’ yew, son, I know who you are. Sit down with us. Slim let you sip the stuff?”
    I was confused, but just for a moment.
    “No, sir.”
    Royce acted surprisedly.
    “What! Slim, how’s this boy ever gonna grow up right!”
    “His momma would kick my....” He didn’t finish.
    As they talked, I could see men around me that looked dangerous. They had what momma called ‘jailhouse’ tattoos. Two stopped arm wrestling and stared at me. I was not sure what they were thinking, but something made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
    “Oh, hell. The boy’s here with friends. Let’s make a man out of him, huh? It’s only three o’clock; nobody’ll even know it happened. What do you say?”
    All the other guys looked at us and encouraged granddad.
    “Alright, let him try the clear stuff! Where’s it at Royce?”
    The next thing I knew, a jar of the clear liquid was set in front of me. I was nervous and happy all at once.
    As I brought the jar to my lips, I could smell nothing. But when the liquid hit my tongue, it was boiling hot, or so I thought. There was no way l could let this stuff go down my throat. Some of it dribbled out, some of it spewed out. The entire room broke out in screaming laughter. It mortified me.
    “Boy, don’t drink it like water!” Granddad said.
    “Watch me.”
    I watched him as he brought the jar to his mouth. First, he looked at the jar from several angles.
    “Lookin’ for floatin’ pieces, so’s I can get ‘em out.”
    Then he brought the jar to his lips, and gently licked the screw part of the glass.
    “Gets the drippin’s off, so’s it don’t drip down on your shirt.”
    Then he makes a big deal out of smelling the liquid.
    “Ahhhh. Then you smell the bouquet.”
    Well, this brought the house down. Even I got the joke now. And Granddad, smiling, sipped a small amount of the stuff.
    “Thanks, Granddad.”
    I started tasting the hot liquid. That’s the last thing I recall clearly.
    The sounds in the room became a whisper, like at Mass in a chapel with high ceilings. I could hear the noise but it didn’t quite reach my ears. The faces of all those around me morphed into replicas of a Dali painting. Melting faces with big round eyes. I lost all sense of touch. When I wrapped my fingers around the jar to have another sip, I had to use both hands to make sure I didn’t drip the precious liquid.
    The most unusual change, however, was my inability to speak English. My lips, tongue, and cheeks were completely numb.
    “Grahhhhh, mmy lppsss..”
    They looked at me as if I just stepped off a spaceship. Then they laughed so hard I think one of them fell off the bench.
    “Nna, wwhasss.”
    Granddad leaned over and wiped the drool off my chin and shirt.
    “Told you it was good stuff, boy.” I could not quite make out his face.
    I was beyond speech. I saw Granddad’s features change several times as I looked at him. And it seemed that my head was moving side to side, under its own control.
    “Royce, time to go. I better take the boy to the levee for some air before I take him home. Thanks for the invite, see you next Saturday, if not before.”
    Royce waved and nodded.
    Granddad took me by the arm. I could see it but I could not feel it, and I still had no speech.
    “Boy, what’s your head nodding back and forth like that for?”
    I could not answer.
    In the next instant, I was in the front seat of the van with my face in my lap.
    “Good God, boy, sit up before you break your back will you?”
    I knew he was talking to me, but the words were meaningless. Granddad was driving along the road to the East Levee with one big hand on the wheel and the other across my chest to hold me upright. I could see my arms jumping around like a rag dolls.
    We parked near the water at the levee. Granddad came around and helped me out of the seat.
    “Damn, son, your momma’s going to kill you. Right after she kills me.
    He took me to the sandy beach and took off my shoes. He put my feet in the water hoping it would help sober me up. I threw up. I threw up with such force it surprised Granddad. He splashed saltwater on my face, took my shirt off, rinsed it in the gulf, and laid it on a levee rock to dry. It was so hot it would dry in minutes. Then he walked me around the beach, and this seemed to help some. I was starting to get my speech back.
    “Granddad.”
    Pause.
    “Granddad.”
    “How you doing, stud?”
    “What. Happened.”
    “Had a sip or two, boy. You’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
    “Mom.”
    “Yeah, she’ll be really pissed if we don’t get you up and around.”
    “Mom.”
    “Ok. I have a plan. When we get to your house, I’ll carry you in, and we’ll tell your momma that you are sleeping. I’ll put you in your bed and get the heck outta there. What do you think?”
    All I could do was nod.
    When we got in the van, the smell of booze, vomit, sweat, and chewing tobacco made me feel like I was going to throw up again.

    Granddad parked the big van in the alley at the gate to our yard. As he carried me to the house, I could smell the putrid trashcans in contrast with the sweet honeysuckle.
    My senses were dulled, but after he put me in my bed, I could hear voices.
    “Boy worked hard today, and, brother was it hot. Just wore him out. Listen, I’d love to stay and talk, but got things I gotta do. Tell him to call me tomorrow.”
    That was the quickest exit Granddad had ever made.
    I vaguely remember someone checking on me in the night, but I don’t think I moved at all until the next morning. Mother leaned into the room.
    “C’mon, breakfast will be ready in two minutes.”
    God, that sounded terrible. Head hurts, and stomach’s cramping. But could not let her get wind of last night’s events. I washed my face, went downstairs, and sat at the table with her.
    “Momma, tell me again what you think I should be when I grow up.”

About David Ritchie

    David Ritchie is past Vice President of the Washington Poets’ Association, and past Board Member: Skagit River Poetry Festival. His poetry and fiction have been widely published in the U.S. and abroad, including: The University of Texas Press, Drexel University Press, Offshore (Albany University), Brock University, Adirondack Review, Palm Review, Concrete Wolf, Short Story, Paumanok Review, Piedmont Literary Review, and others.

the first half of the story
Mortal Zone

    This morning, it happened again; one of those occasional but strange visions I have been having in recent months. I was still in bed, asleep, when my ears picked up the sound of knocking. Then I heard it in a dream. In the dream I saw the image of a person’s hand knocking on the door of my she. The image was not quite clear in the way things are clear when perceived with the physical eyes. It was somewhat dreamlike, with a caliginous atmosphere. But it was clear enough in its own way that I could tell things about it. I had the impression, from what I saw, that it was an elderly man’s hand. But I wasn’t certain. The sleeve that clothed the hand was brownish and seemed of thick linen material. My distinct impression was that it was the sleeve of a dark brown coat.
    I also detected wetness on the hand and in the surrounding atmosphere; though it may have been the steady dropping sounds from outside that informed my ears and, thus, my brain that it was raining. In any case, it had rained most of the nights for the past few weeks.
    I opened my eyes drowsily and lay on the bed for some time, staring at the corner of the ceiling. The lamp was still on just as I had left it before I crashed onto the bed fully dressed the previous night. Taking out the watch from my pocket, I looked at the time and saw that it was nearly 5:30am. Then I turned my head to the direction of the door as the knocking persisted.
    “Who is it?” I called out.
    The person may not have heard me properly because of the rain. The person may have thought I said “come in” for the door then opened. Indeed I forgot that I had left the door unlocked the previous night after returning home tired and spent.
    The door opened wide and a clean-shaven elderly gentleman in a slightly soaked umber jacket stepped in. He removed his matching brown hat as he entered, revealing a head of receding grey hair. He apparently had no umbrella on his person. He was slightly below average height. He wore a light waistcoat under the jacket, a pair of matching trousers and dark travelling boots. He closed the door behind him after mumbling an apologetic greeting to me. I had risen to a sitting position on the bed and was staring at him dumbly.
    Of course, it had struck me the moment the door opened and he appeared at the doorway the confirmation of the vision I had prior to his entry. By this point I was no longer surprised, yet I still couldn’t help marveling with a slight awe at the reality of such phenomena.
    “Good morning, Mr. Seden,” he said as he put his hat on the small table near the center of the room.
    I did not recognize him at all and did not believe I had ever seen him. I wondered how he knew my name, and I still wasn’t sure what he was doing in my humble little house at this hour. My impression up to this point had been that he was simply stranded in the rain and needed somewhere for temporary refuge. But now it seemed that he actually came to see me specifically.
    I weakly put my legs down from the bed onto the plank-tiled floor. I still did not say anything. My eyes were focused on the man as I waited for him to explain himself.
    “I’m sorry to have woken you, sir. I didn’t realize you were sleeping,” he said.
    “Who are you?” I finally asked.
    “My name is Alex Ruther,” he replied. “Sorry about the wet floor; I didn’t expect it would rain while I was on my way.”
    “How do you know my name?”
    “It was given to me, written on this card.” As he said that, he put his hand into his coat pocket and brought out a small card. He then walked over to me saying, “Here it is.”
    I took it and looked at it, front and back. It was simply a plain white paper card, but on one side – the side I was shown – was written my name in a person’s cursive handwriting: “Adam Seden.” Astonishment flashed through me when I saw it. I glanced up at the man.
    “I was given the card as well as the name of this town,” he said. “I just arrived in the town a few hours ago and I asked people for a man of this name until someone told me where I could find you.”
    “And who gave you the card?” I said. “Who do I owe this visit to?”
    “Don’t you recognize the handwriting, sir?” he asked. He was standing about two feet in front of me and looking at me with a slightly puzzled expression.
    I looked at the name again and my eyes lingered curiously on the writing. The note said almost exactly the same thing as the one I had seen when I first came to this town a year ago. And for the first time in almost a year, I studied the handwriting again. It looked rather similar to my own writing style except that it was more neatly and elegantly written. But I still could not associate it with any particular person.
    Nonetheless, for some reason, I couldn’t help thinking about or seeing in the corner of my mind’s eye a sense - a very vague image - of a man...a tall man who seemed well-to-do and privileged, and of at most early middle age – around the same age as me. Of course, I could understand why I might get the impression that someone who would send another person like this man to come look for me was probably a well-off person; but it wasn’t clear to me why I thought it was a man, and a relatively young one for that matter. After all, the sender could just as easily be a woman.
    In the next moment, I received a much bigger surprise than I had had regarding any of these strange premonitions I’d been having recently. There was something uniquely different about this one that cast it in a totally different vein.
    Mr. Ruther spoke and said: “Sir, you are the one who gave me the card. It was you who sent me. You gave me the directions as to where I could find you – here in this town, Dova. This was before you went away about a year ago. You requested of me that if you did not return to your hometown of Addiha after a year had gone by, then I should come and look for you. You gave me this card after writing this strange name on it and said I should come to this town and ask around for a person of this name. You also instructed me that if and when I find you, I should wait to see if you will recognize me before saying anything about who I am or who you really are. You were clearly in a deeply disturbed psychological state at the time you gave me these instructions shortly before you left.”
    I gaped at him in complete shock at what he was saying. He seemed completely sincere for I could detect no sign of guile at all on his countenance.
    “Do you not recognize me, Mr. Halin?” he asked.
    “Mister what?” I said, still staring at him.
    “Halin, sir. Daniel Halin. That is your real name.”
    I slowly got up from the bed, speechless. I walked, almost staggeringly, to the table and sat down on a chair next to it. I reached for the cup on the table and poured myself some water from the jug and drank before setting it back down and wiping my face with my sweaty palm.
    I noticed that the time period this man had just mentioned corresponded to the starting point of my memory loss regarding my past. It was not an absolute blankness; I seemed to vaguely remember certain things or, rather, images here and there, particularly in the distant past of my early youth and childhood. These images were typically fleeting, hazy and lacking in meaning.
    I looked up at the man again. I still did not know or remember who he was, though I was beginning to feel that there was a vague familiarity about his face; but I knew that it could easily be a misimpression.
    “Please have a seat, sir, and tell me more,” I said, waving to the chair beside the table that was next to mine. “Explain what you mean by I am the one who sent you to look for myself.”
    He looked at me with a momentary hesitation and then walked over to the chair and proceeded to remove his wet coat and hang it on the back of it, leaving only his waistcoat and dress-shirt on. Then he drew the chair and sat down.
    “I’m afraid that all I have in the house at the moment is water and a few loaves of bread,” I said. “Perhaps you would care for some.”
    He raised his hand. “No I’m fine. I had a quick meal when I arrived here a few hours ago. And it was a hansom that brought me over to this region; so I didn’t have to walk long till I got to your house.”
    “If you can really call it a house,” I said with a wry smile. “More like a donkey’s shed. Anyway, Mr. Ruther, please tell more about what you were saying. I am all ears.”
    “It’s actually Dr. Alex Ruther, sir,” he said as he leaned slightly on the table.
    “So you are a doctor,” I said.
    “Yes,” he replied. “Of psychiatry, to be precise. You clearly don’t remember me, Mr. Halin, but I am – or was – your psychiatrist back in Addiha. I had been counseling you and giving you treatment for a condition you had been complaining about that had been bothering you long before your departure.”
    “What condition?”
    “You complained occasionally of migraine headaches and, more importantly, you regularly had what you told me were visions or dreams of strange things.”
    My eyes were fixed on him in a state of enthrallment, and it was clear to him from my facial expression that I wanted him to go on and elaborate.
    “You were having these visions,” he continued, “usually during the onset of sleep or just coming out of it. You also had a mild case of insomnia.”
    “Visions about what?” I asked. I wanted to see if his account would resonate with some of the experiences I had been having during the past year.
    “Typically,” he said, “you would see people, places or events that you hadn’t seen before and were unfamiliar with. But the strange thing about them was that you would often see yourself in these visions as being part of the scenario. But, even more strangely, there were certain occasions when your image in the vision would actually turn slightly and look straight at you as though he is suddenly aware of your presence. He is the only one who would look at you, and no one else in the scenario.”
    “And what would happen?” I asked.
    “Nothing really, according to what you told me,” he said. “After that, the vision would simply go away. Of course, hypnagogic and hypnopompic visions are not uncommon. But what seemed to distinguish these ones was the vividness with which you experienced them. You told me that they did not seem like dreams at all; that it was always as though you were actually there in physical form watching what was going on. Sometimes, you would be far off having a more distant and wider view of the scenario, and sometimes you would be much nearer. But the sense of realness would be the same.”
    I was silent for some time as I reflected on this. There was something about what he was saying about these visions that resonated with me in terms of my recent experiences. But it was still very misty and uncertain.
    I looked at him and asked: “So why did I leave this place, Addiha, where you say I was living?”
    “Yes I am getting to that,” he said. “But do you not remember anymore your home in Addiha? Have you no recollection of it whatsoever?”
    I stared into the distance for some moments in contemplation. Then I told him: “I do have some vague notions and images in my mind. But, as of yet, I cannot tell if they are really based on actual memories or if they are merely projections based on my own desires and imaginations.” I turned to him and said: “Tell me what the place is like.”
    “It’s a large estate in an exclusive suburban province,” he said. “You’ve lived as a very wealthy man for most of your adult life, due mostly to some shrewd business investments you made when you were younger. But you lived alone in your mansion with a few servants and a butler. You had no wife or children.”
    “But I was generally comfortable with my life there?”
    “As far as I could tell, yes you were for the most part. That was until a couple of months before your departure when you started having these troubling visions. Now I see that you have suffered a severe case of amnesia since your departure. I observed that you had occasional lapses of memory during the times I visited you at your mansion, but I had no idea that your condition would deteriorate to this extent upon your leaving. You were not in a fugue state at the time you left. But you evidently descended into it later. For that I bear some responsibility. It is all the more reason why I had an obligation to come here to look for you. In fact, I almost certainly would have done so on the day I discovered you had left if you had not stressed and warned me with utmost earnestness that I should not do that until after a year has passed by.”
    “So what is it that caused me to leave and abandon my life in Addiha?” I asked.
    “Sometime before you gave me this note,” he said, “not long before you left – you called me over to your home, and when I got there I found you in a deeply agitated emotional state. You then proceeded to tell me about a certain dream that you had a few nights before.
    “In this dream, you found yourself in an elegant chandelier-lighted hall watching a group of people sitting and feasting around a long banquet table. They appeared to have been gathered for a special evening occasion. You also saw yourself – your own image – dressed immaculately in a black dinner jacket and taking part in the feast.
    “Then you began to walk slowly leftwards along the side of the room until you stopped when you had almost reached the side of the table that your image was sitting at. Your eyes lingered on the image of yourself and watched him. Then, soon enough, as he was holding his wine glass, he slowly turned his eyes towards you and stared at you.
    “Then something very strange happened that had never occurred before in your previous such dreams. As you were staring at each other, you suddenly found yourself in exactly his position looking at the direction where you had been standing - at the floor near the far end of the table. It was as though you had suddenly swopped places. Now it was you – your conscious perspective – that was sitting at the table in the dinner jacket and holding the wine glass. But it was what you saw as you looked at your previous position where you had been standing that really terrified and disturbed you, and it was what sent you on this seemingly senseless abandonment and escape from your home and your life.”
    “What did I see?” I asked, leaning forward and gazing at him in rapt attention.
    “That’s the thing, sir,” he said. “You never told me what it was. I tried to get it out of you but you were so distraught by it that you couldn’t tell me. It was not long after that that you left Addiha.”
    I sat quietly for the next few minutes, thinking deeply, trying to see if I could in any way recall to my mind this vision he said I had, trying to figure out, at the very least, what it was I may have seen that disturbed me so much. By this point, I had no doubt that this man was being sincere and honest even though I still had no actual recollection either of him or the things he was telling me about – not even my old home or former life.
    “If I may ask, how far back does your memory go?” he said, breaking my thoughts. “When did you lose complete contact with your past life in your mind? Was it soon after you arrived here?”
    I reflected a little for some moments before answering. “It happened even before I got to this town. All I remember is finding myself wandering about this province on foot and vaguely heading towards Dova, which was nearest to where I was, feeling it was my only source of refuge. At that point I had no recollection of my past or who I was – not even my own name.”
    “And then what happened?”
    “When I got here, I drifted around aimlessly for some time. Then I managed to find a meager source of livelihood some days later. And, after spending a few nights sleeping outdoors in and around town, I found this old abandoned shed in this desolate wasteland which had been used long ago as a hay shed for a certain rancher.”
    “And you’ve been living here since then?”
     “Yes,” I answered. I paused in hesitation for a few moments, wondering whether to say something. Then I decided to go ahead and tell him.
    “But there was something very interesting I discovered on the first day I arrived at this town. I discovered it inside one of the pockets of my trousers. It was a small cut-out piece of paper upon which was written the name ‘Adam Seden’. And it was preceded by the words “use this name”. I had no idea who wrote it or how it got into my pocket. But I decided to go with it and adopt the name for myself and began using it. The paper went missing some time after I began living in this shed and I haven’t seen it since. But, as the weeks went by and I began writing, I discovered that my handwriting was exactly the same as the one on that paper, given how I remembered it. And, especially given what you’ve now told me, it seems obvious that I may have written it and put it into my pocket shortly before I left Addiha and forgot about it. Though I cannot imagine why I did so.”
    “And what about this one,” the doctor said, pointing at the card, “which you gave me some days before you left?”
    “That’s what I was coming to,” I said. “This is not my handwriting. It looks somewhat similar to mine, but it isn’t mine.”
    “Yes, I know that,” he replied thoughtfully. “I had been thinking about it. If you didn’t write it, then who did you get it from? Furthermore, why did you intend to come to this town in the first place? How did you even know about this rather obscure town of Dova? Do you have no recollection of the moment that you first had the intent to come here?”
    “No,” I said. “As I told you, I have no recollection of my life prior to my arriving here other than just some vague phantasms of the distant past.”
    After some moments of silence, I looked up at him and said: “Nevertheless, doctor, you have come to take me back home, I assume.”
    “Yes, basically,” he said. “I assume that is why you asked me to come and find you if you did not return after a year.”
    There was another brief silence as I stared at the table. Then I said: “Unfortunately I cannot leave. At least not now.”
    “Why not?”
    “I still have a commitment here. I have an obligation that I have to fulfill.”
    “May I ask what it is?”
    Again, I thought silently for some time. Then I finally spoke and said:
    “I lost a bet to a certain man about a year ago while gambling. It happened the day after I arrived in this town. Since I wasn’t able to pay the debt, I was forced to get into a secret deal with him.” I paused again for some time while he waited patiently.
    After a while, I glanced up and looked at the doctor carefully and said to him: “I do not yet have any remembrance of who you are, though there are subliminal intimations in my mind that I have known you personally before, and I also feel a strong resonance with what you say regarding my past. Furthermore, I can see that you are a honest man. That is why I have decided to trust you and to tell you what I am about to. But I want you to give me your word that you’ll keep it in the strictest confidence.
    Looking at me earnestly, he said: “Yes, Mr. Halin, I give you my word.”
    “Actually, I’d prefer that you call me Adam Seden in the meantime until I come to terms with my previous identity.”
    “Very well sir,” he said, nodding.
    I drank some water from the cup and then leaned forward, clasping it on the table in both hands. My vacant stare fixed toward the table, I continued:
    “The man that I lost this bet to turned out to have a little secret of his own. On the outside, he was just an ordinary and rather charming tradesman who made his living as a blacksmith. His face and clothes were usually greased with soot even when he was out gambling. He had a bountiful crop of hair but scanty and dirty teeth. He was loquacious and loved wine, tobacco and women. But, as I said, he had a little secret, and I got to know about it, to my own unfathomable inconvenience, when I lost that deal to him.”
    “If I may interrupt, Mr. Seden,” the doctor said, “how much money did you take with you when you left home? I ask this because I was of the impression, from what the servants told me, that you did not take much money along.”
    “Unless I had lost it somehow on my way here, then I believe you were right. I had very little money with me when I found myself on my strange journey, wandering towards this town.”
    He nodded wistfully. “That was what made me all the more concerned when I discovered a few days later that you had gone. Though I decided to respect your wishes and abide by your instructions.”
    “Even though I was clearly psychologically troubled?”
    “Yes, despite that. Normally, I would not have permitted such a thing nor respected such a request. But there was something very different about this situation, not to mention the fact that you were adamant and simply would not be relieved in any other way. Somehow, I sensed that it would be best to let you get away for a while and perhaps you might find what you needed to become a happy man again. I didn’t think you would become a danger to yourself or to others.”
    I couldn’t help smiling faintly at that. “I suppose I did turn out to be a danger in some sense,” I said softly. “Though it would depend on what ‘others’ refers to.”
    “What do you mean?”
    I was silent for some moments. At this point, I noticed that the sound of the rain had stopped and a bleak, almost eavesdropping, serenity ruled the atmosphere outside the shed.
    I continued: “I’m referring to the situation I found myself in with regards to this man I’m talking about. His name, by the way, is Shane Zelma. After I lost the bet and was unable to pay the sum, he offered me a way of paying it back by working for him for a period of time. It sounded perfectly reasonable, of course, so I accepted. Naturally, I expected that it would be to work at his shop as an assistant in some fashion.
    “So I went to his workshop at the agreed time the following day. I found him at his forge sitting in a chair nearby a large rusty trip hammer. He was casually stoking fire in a furnace by stirring the coal with a long poker and watching the yellow and bluish flames with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes while he chewed on a small stick. This was the first time I was seeing him without his hat and ragged coat. I stopped a couple of feet away and greeted him.
    “After acknowledging me and removing the chewing stick in his mouth, the first thing he said was: “You probably imagine that you are going to be working as a blacksmith apprentice or something like that.”
    “I looked at him surprised and said: “I honestly do not know what to imagine.”
    “He grinned and said: “Well that’s good, Mr. Seden; because I don’t need an apprentice. I’m more than capable of doing this work myself. Actually, I need you to do something else for me. It’s a very different type of job from just casting metal and gathering coal. But I suppose in a deeper and more spiritual sense it isn’t really that different.”
    “I just stared at him baffled, wondering what on earth he was talking about.
    ““I’ll show you what I mean,” he said, looking squarely at me. “But first, you must swear that you will never speak about it to a single soul.”
    “I thought about it for some moments. Then I said: “Alright, I swear.” And I meant it and haven’t told anyone since. But I do not feel obliged to keep that promise at this point.
    ““ well then. Come with me,” he said, setting the poker down and getting up.
    “With a feeling of intrigue and bewilderment, I followed him out of the room and down a dim flight of stairs until we reached an underground cellar that he had below the shop. As we went in, he switched on the light.
    “To my astonishment, I saw a room that was decked with several wooden tables, each of which had severed and mutilated bodies of dead animals lying on top of them. They came from both the wild and domesticated lot. I noticed that, except for the dogs, there was only one of each type of animal. For example, there was a hyena, a deer, a monkey, a cat, a pig and so on. On the other hand, there were three dogs in total.
    “I couldn’t tell how long they had been there. There was no foul smell coming from them as one would expect if they had been there for days, nor were there any flies around them. And there was very little blood on the tables despite the fact that their bodies were mutilated and dismembered. Yet somehow I didn’t get the impression that they had only recently been killed. They seemed to have been there for quite some time.
    “The man, Zelma, turned to me and said:
    ““Alright, Mr. Seden, your job is very simple. And, luckily for you, it’s the kind of job that will also keep you fed at the same time. So there isn’t a better job you could possibly ask for, especially given your situation.”
    ““What do you mean ‘my situation’?” I said to him. “You don’t know anything about me.”
    ““But I know a man who is down on his luck when I see one,” he replied. “Come on, there’s no need to pretend. Any fool could tell from the first sight of you that you have no money and no home. I figure that’s why you decided to get on the betting table and see if lady luck might smile upon you just this once. Well, sir, I can tell you that she has. You are in luck.”
    ““So what do you want me to do?” I said, taking a sideways glance at the carcasses in the room.
    ““It’s very simple,” he said. “I want you to help me in getting rid of these creatures...in the only acceptable way that they can be disposed of – by consumption. I want you to eat them, as much as you can each day. I can’t do it all by myself - at least as quickly as I would like to.”
    “As you can imagine, I realized that the man was very likely insane. Yet I wanted to understand the rationale for his behavior, if there was any. So I asked him: “Why don’t you cut them up completely and sell the meat? Or else why can’t you just bury them somewhere if you are so anxious to get rid of them? Why is it necessary that they should be eaten?”
    “There was a dirty grin on his face as he spoke. “The problem, sir, is that there is no absolute guarantee that whoever buys the meat will actually eat it – the whole of it. And, as to your second question, I already answered it. They have to be eaten because it is the only acceptable way that they can be disposed of.”
    ““And why is that?” I asked.
    ““As a mark of honor and respect for them,” he said, grinning from side to side. “It’s a spiritual thing with me and it means a great deal to me.”
    ““You are clearly mad.” I said to him.
    “He laughed.
    ““In a sense I suppose I am,” he said. “I must have been mad to have gotten into this in the first place. Still, the fact of the matter is that you owe a debt to me. So you either find a way to pay me within the next five days or you simply do this job. It’s up to you. And if you do decide to do it, I trust that you will not try to cheat me by trying to clandestinely dispose of the meat in any way apart from what I have said. You seem to me to be a man of honor; therefore I’m sure you understand that if you accept the job, then you must do it according to my instructions.”
    “I could only wonder to myself why he was so desirous that I consume these creatures if it wasn’t really a matter of insanity. But of course, it was pointless to ask him. So instead I asked the other question that was on my mind.
    ““Where and how did you get these animals?”
    ““That is none of you business for now, mister,” he said. “But you will know in due time.”
    “So that was the situation I found myself in. I asked him if he could give me more time to make up the money if I found a job elsewhere, but he wouldn’t have it. I only had five days. So I told him I’ll think about it and I left his shop.
    “I spent the next four days trying to find some way of borrowing the money, without any success. And the only other few jobs I was able to find could only pay a tiny fraction of the money that I owed. So eventually I was forced to accept this strange job.
    “I soon discovered to my dismay that I was supposed to eat the flesh raw, along with the blood in them. I complained to him that it was unhealthy and that I could fall ill. In response, he assured me that it was safe. Of course, since he didn’t seem like much of an expert on science or medicine, I knew that his word on such matters meant little. Nevertheless, he had apparently been eating these poor creatures and nothing seemed to be wrong with him; he was as lively as could be.
    “I was increasingly struck by the fact that there was no stench or any sign of decay from any of these dead bodies despite them having been in there for so long and without much ventilation. I couldn’t understand how it was so. When I questioned him about it, he was coy and didn’t give me any real answer.
    “I noticed that the bodies of some of the animals had decreased significantly since the last time I was there. It might have seemed as though they were pretty much the only thing he ate. But somehow, I sensed it wasn’t the case and that he wasn’t the only person eating them; that there was probably at least one other person involved, if not more.
    “He gave me a demonstration of how to cut part of the flesh off with a knife before eating the severed part. According to him, each piece had to be consumed before another cut was made; in other words, each animal had to be consumed in an incremental fashion. I also noticed that there was very little bleeding as they were cut despite the fact that their flesh was rich in blood. It was something else that baffled me but which he wouldn’t give me the answer to.
    “Of course, I hardly need to tell you about the difficulties I encountered in chewing the raw hide of some of those animals. I typically had to spit out the fur and bones. But it was absolutely essential, he told me, that all edible parts be consumed.”
    The doctor leaned back in the chair with a puzzled look on his face.
    “What’s the matter?” I asked.
    “No I’m just wondering about something,” he said. Then he looked up and said. “That happened about a year ago, didn’t it?”
    “Of course.”
    “And have you being doing that job ever since?”
    “No,” I said.
    “But then what is this commitment that you say you have that prevents you from leaving?”
    I again went silent for some moments, wondering how to tell him. Then I looked up and eyed him carefully before saying: “It didn’t stop with animals. And even those animals themselves; there was more to them than you might think.”
    “I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, his brows contorted with bewilderment.
    “Come. Follow me. Let me show you something,” I said, getting up from my chair.
    I walked over to my sandals and put them on before going to the door. I was already wearing my dress shirt and undershirt from the previous day and thus had no need to put on anything else. Dr Ruther promptly rose up and put his coat on. Then he grabbed his hat. I then led him out of the house and locked the door.
    It was a gray early morning dawn that we met outside, with misty white clouds floating high above the moors and hilly grasslands far in front of us. The atmosphere was refreshingly cool and breezy. The ground was damp, and several tiny rills littered about the region. I led the doctor across the undulating wasteland in the northwest direction away from the main road. We passed the fragmented stone fences that had long ago delineated the ranch from the rest of the region until we got to the low hills that led towards the highland region of Dova where the small mountains and deep valleys were.
    We were both silent most of the time as we walked, and I could sense the doctor’s puzzlement and curiosity as to what exactly I was taking him to see as well as his reflections over the things I had earlier talked about. Meanwhile, I too brooded and tussled in my own thoughts.
    “Do you believe in free will, doctor?” I asked him suddenly at one point as we walked.
    “No, sir, I really don’t,” he replied. Then after a brief silence he continued: “I have come to regard us humans, as well as all the other species on our planet, as creatures of fate bound by the unpredictable machinations of nature.”
    “Well spoken,” I said after a moment or so. “I myself, for quite some time, had the same view and belief, perhaps largely because of the almost drone-like nature of the existence in which I have found myself since I came here. But I’m not sure about that anymore.”
    “Why is that?” he asked.
    “I’ll show you,” I merely replied, still keeping my eyes on the path. We didn’t talk again for the rest of the journey.
    We had crossed the long ridge that took us well out of the moors and past the steppes of southern Dova until we got to a steep hill that overlooked Farlane forest, a large woodland that ran eastwards and connected to a neighboring village in the region. When we reached the cliff-like pinnacle of the hill from which we could see the great length and breadth of the grassland beyond it, the forest at the right that it led out of, and the sprawling mountains far into the west, we stopped.
    “So what is it?” the doctor asked me as I was scanning the region and admiring the scenic view in front of us.
    “Just be patient,” I said. “Before long, you will see someone come out of that forest and walk along the plains towards the east. Then you will see what I am trying to show you.”
    We waited silently for several minutes. I could sense that my medical companion was beginning to think I may have gone insane, having almost lost hope that no one was actually coming. But his patience was eventually rewarded.
    Just a little more than ten minutes upon our arrival, we saw a movement at the right end of the field towards the forest that caused us to turn our heads in that direction. We then saw a young lady – a girl in her late teens – walking along a clear path in a region of low underbrush that led out of the forest. She was carrying in her hands, and resting against her left hip, a basket. She did not see us for we were too far for her to notice and she was clearly preoccupied and absorbed in her own youthful thoughts, her head turned towards the ground in front of her most of the time.
    “That girl,” I said to the doctor, “crosses that path almost every morning, like other people who commute daily from the village to work in the town. She is carrying fresh eggs in the basket to go sell them at the town market.”
    I was careful not to make any big movements lest I risk divulging our presence to her in any way. Dr Ruther waited for me to continue, and so I did as we both watched her.
    “What if I told you that I can tell you what that girl will do within a couple of seconds?”
    He turned to me. “What do you mean?”
    I glanced at him and then turned my gaze back to the girl who was still walking along somewhat carefreely across the field, completely unaware of us.
    “This is what I mean,” I said. “And I am using this merely as an example – a demonstration. Within a few seconds from now, that girl is going to raise her right hand and scratch her head, and then return it back to the basket she’s holding.”
    He gaped at me but didn’t say anything. He turned his eyes back to the girl and we both watched her. About five seconds later, she suddenly withdrew her right hand from the edge of the basket, letting her left one continue to hold it against her hip, and scratched the top of her head and then gave her hair a quick pat and rub before returning the hand to the edge of the basket.
    Dr Ruther turned to me. “How did you do that? Does she always make that action at exactly that spot every morning and, thus, you knew she’d do it again?”
    “Come on, doctor,” I said. “You know perfectly well that that’s absurd.”
    “Then how did you know she would do that?”
    I didn’t reply or say anything. I just stared at the field.
    He took his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead with it. He seemed to be getting literally hot under the collar despite the coolness of the morning breeze. Yet I could observe that there was still some skepticism in his mind, as one would expect of a scientific man. Thus, I chose to give him one more demonstration of what I was trying to show him.
    I waited for the girl to walk further down into the distance until we were safely out of her hearing range. Then I said to the him: “Do you see those two birds on that tree over there?” I pointed to a birch tree that was standing at the edge of the forest a good distance from where we were. There was a pair of starlings hopping and chirping on two of its branches.
    “Yes, I see them,” the doctor said.
    “You see the one at the top branch, above where the other one is?”
    “Yes?”
    “Within the next couple of seconds, it is going to fly off and do a U-turn in the air and then settle back down on the same branch.”
    “Really,” he replied incredulously with a hint of sarcasm. Nevertheless, he was too stunned by the claim to speak any further. Still sweating, he turned his eyes back to them and watched. I could tell his heart was beating heavily.
    For the next few seconds, both our eyes fixated upon that bird – mine more deeply fixated than his.
    Suddenly, without warning, the bird on the upper branch flapped its wings and took off. It made a gliding motion in the air as though it was flying off to the sky, but then it swerved smoothly towards the north, still maintaining its upward trajectory, and turned gracefully until it was flying in the same direction it had come. Meanwhile it was been followed by its companion who had taken off after it. Soon it landed right back on the branch it had previously been resting on while its companion joined it on the same branch a second later.
    “Let’s go,” the doctor said. “I can’t see anymore.”
    I nodded softly, seeing that he was deeply shaken, and we both turned and began our tense and silent walk back through the rugged highlands till we got back to my little house.
    The doctor sat back on the chair at the table and I got a second cup from a shelf and poured some water for him to drink before resuming my seat.
    “You see, doctor,” I said. “That is why I have come to reject the notion that there is no free will. If I could make that girl do what she did, then I believe so could she herself. And the same probably goes for that bird at least at a more rudimentary level.”
    He stared at me. “You made them do that?”
    “Of course,” I said. “How do you think I was able to know that they would do what they did? I can’t see into the future, can I?”
    “And how exactly did you make them do it?” he asked.
    “It goes back to what I was saying about my reason for having to remain here, at least for the time being,” I said. “As I mentioned before we left, the eating of raw flesh did not stop with animals; it later continued with human beings. People who had already died, mind you, mainly of natural causes.”
    “You ate corpses?” the doctor gasped at me in disbelief.
    “Yes, though not quite,” I said. “You see, after I had completed my work - if you can call it that – for that man, Shane Zelma, after the animals had been completely eaten, I was relieved of the debt and free to go. It was a very peculiar way to be relieved of such a large amount of debt, as you can imagine. But, of course, the truth was that I wasn’t really free.
    “You see, that unnatural diet later began to have a side effect on me that I did not in the least expect. It turned out to be a mental or psychological effect, while I had expected a physical one. What began to happen was that I would occasionally have sudden and momentary hallucinations or visions of animals, often in such a way that it would seem or feel as if I was an animal myself in the vision. These occasional visions occurred both during wake and sleep. During wake, they caused me to act in weird and sudden ways such that I - and other people who might be around me - found upsetting or embarrassing. This condition made it impossible for me to hold a regular job. As a result of this, I was forced eventually to go back and see Zelma.
    “I discovered, to my utmost horror, upon meeting him a few weeks later at his workshop, that it was now partially-eaten human bodies that were lying on the tables in the underground cellar and that those were the bodies I was to help him consume if I wanted to continue working for him. Of course, I questioned him as to how he got the bodies. I didn’t really think he had killed those people, especially since I recognized some of the bodies as people who had become deceased from natural causes and whose deaths had been announced in the papers.
    “He simply told me that they had been dug up from their graves and that it wasn’t my business to know any further. Just as with the animals, the corpses, strangely enough, showed no sign of decay despite having being dead for days.”
    “And you’ve been eating them ever since?” the doctor asked, gazing at me in amazement.
    “Only occasionally,” I said. “After I had gotten accustomed to the mental side effects of this gruesome diet, I was able to temper it until I no longer suffered it. Thus, I was no longer compelled to work anymore for this man.”
    “And yet you continued to eat his dead bodies?” the doctor asked.
    “As I said, only occasionally.”
    “Why?”
    “Just be patient, doctor,” I said. “I will tell you in due time.”
     “But what has all this necrophagy got to do with your being able to influence that girl and the bird to do what they did?”
    “First, let me tell you the reason why I cannot leave here at the moment,” I said, basically ignoring the question. I was not quite ready to let him into the secret yet; I still needed to feel absolutely assured that I could trust him before making such a revelation. “And since you are here,” I continued, “this is one way in which I feel you might be able to help me.”
    He leaned and listened.
    “The reason I cannot leave has nothing to do with my having to eat corpses or carrions. Nor is it because I am part of a group – or what you might even call a secret cult - that prevents me from going away and living elsewhere, as you are no doubt suspecting. Though it is true that I have essentially become part of such a group, it places no restriction whatsoever upon my freedom of movement or residency.
    “No, the reason I cannot leave is because I am currently involved in an important and lethal battle with a certain man, a battle that has been ongoing for the past five months –although it happens over a much larger scope of time within the realm in which the battle is fought. It is a battle that can only really take place upon these grounds; and, thus, I cannot leave. It is a battle that I must either win or die.”
    “What is the nature of this battle?” he asked. “And who is this man that you’re talking about?”
    “That is the strange thing about it,” I said. “I do not know exactly who he is for I have not actually met him in person. But he is the one that is behind the whole affair of the eating of the dead bodies. He is the founder and the head of this large group – this cult, if you may call it that. Zelma was merely operating on his behalf when he lured me into it a year ago.
    “Though they occasionally have meetings with him, neither Zelma nor any of the others have actually seen the man’s face for he always wears a mask when he meets with them. I, for one, have never attended any of these meetings because I am never informed when it takes place. Somehow, I suspect it’s probably because the man, whoever he is, doesn’t want me to see him for fear that I might recognize him in spite of his disguise.”
    “Yet he wants you to be a member of this cult of his?”
    “Yes. I still don’t know exactly what his reason is, but I have some suspicions. As for the battle, it takes place at night. It takes place during my sleep; in my dreams.”
    “You mean this man somehow visits you in your dreams and fights this battle with you?”
    “Yes,” I replied. After pausing for some time, I continued: “The battle itself is fought upon some kind of gigantic semi-invisible board made up of concentric and intersecting diamond-like rings. And in each of the corners and intersection points is a life.”
    “A life?”
    “Yes. The life of a person. But they are lives that have existed in the past, as far as I can tell. If future ones are actually included in it, then it means I always forget them whenever I wake up and only remember the past ones. To be clear, I have no recollections of the details of the past ones either other than just the basic fact that they were part of the game.
    “What happens in this battle is that each of us goes in and out of these intersection points – these lives - strategically in an effort to gain power over the other. The sequential order of these reincarnations are not linear as far as time is concerned, even though people tend to think of them that way. The movement is more akin to that of the pieces of a chessboard, but much more dynamic and less restricted. Once inside any particular point, each lives out the life of that point that he has entered. For example, I may enter one as a sculptor in 16^th century Spain while he may enter one as a merchant in 12^th century China. In doing so, we are both searching for something within the lives we enter and the entities we become that will give one of us a critical and decisive advantage over the other; an advantage that will effectively send the other completely out of existence.
    “What this decisive moment is, in as best as I can describe it, is the point at which one of us grasps the reality of the fact that his state of existence is itself a manifest fulfillment with respect to the state of existence of the other. To be clear, you must not think that things such as social status, age, intelligence or wealth are necessarily determining factors in terms of what shall give way to such realization. No, it has to do with things...or something...that is much deeper, more subtle, and, ultimately, more profound.”
    “But this is something that only happens in your dream,” the doctor said.
    “I don’t think it is merely a dream, Dr Ruther,” I replied, staring at the table reflectively. “I suspect it is as real as can be.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You will soon,” I assured him. I then remarked to him: “Part of the reason why I have believed you and taken you into my trust is because your account of what happened to me back in Addiha, of which I still have no recollection, seems to resonate with certain things that I began to learn about myself while I have been living in this town. In fact, I believe I was brought here for a reason. Despite the seemingly whimsical manner in which I came to this town, I don’t think I came here by accident.”
    I poured some more water from the jug into my cup and drank some of it, taking my time deliberately, before continuing.
    “Now, doctor,” I said. “Let me tell you something. You have no doubt heard about people - usually children - who are able – or at least claim to be able – to recall past lives that they have had, usually the preceding one. Well, regardless of the validity of those claims, I can tell you for a fact that there are such people, and they aren’t necessarily children. One reason why we rarely hear of them is because their recollections are usually so restricted, disjointed and vague that they simply can’t prove to other people that such claims are true even if they were to make them.”
    “Are you one of such people?” he asked me pointedly.
    “Yes,” I answered. “That is what I gradually came to learn about myself during my sojourn in this land. Thus, I suspect that those visions you talked about that I had when I was at Addiha must have been visions of my past lives. And each time I saw myself, it wasn’t actually my present body that I was looking at; rather it was the body that I had in that particular life. I must not have mentioned that detail to you because it is something that one tends not to take note of while having such a vision or dream. All you know at that point is that you are basically looking at yourself.
    “Now there is nothing particularly strange about anything I have just said. These are things that most people may have either heard of before or at least suspected. However, there is something that is very strange and remarkable that I want to reveal to you. And this is the crux of the whole matter. There is a certain person in this world – a man in this present incarnation - who has been reincarnating from one life to the other for more than a hundred thousand years, and each time he remembers all of his previous lives.”
    “He remembers every single one?”
    “Yes. Every single detail of each one, from its beginning to its end. And that person is this very man that I am talking about, the leader of this cult. Why it happens is a mystery, and I’m not even sure that he himself knows. Now, as you can imagine, he has amassed and acquired, in the course of this process, a great deal of knowledge, and what you might call wisdom, about the world and about human and animal nature. The most important and crucial piece of insight that he has gained that is relevant to our situation is a method by which to enable himself, given his ability to psychically access previous incarnations, to enter into the brain and the body of another living sentient being at least on a temporary basis.”
    “Really!”
    “Yes, you heard me right, doctor,” I said. “And it’s not just him, by the way. Anyone who is capable of mentally connecting with their former lives – in a true sense, of course, not in the sense of delusion or fantasy - is capable of doing it using the insight that he has gained and the technique he has developed.”
    “So that is how you were able to influence the actions of that girl and the bird from a distance the way you did?”
    “Yes, doctor, that’s correct.”
    “And, the whole time, the person – the host that owns the body- never feels or notices anything?”
    “Nothing at all,” I said. “It simply becomes a state of two consciousnesses residing momentarily in the same brain and, thus, body, at the same time, one ultimately having predominance over the other due to the double awareness it enjoys from being anchored to a brain in a different body. The local consciousness is none the wiser, even as its brain and body act according to the dictates of the alien consciousness, the whole time believing that it is all happening instinctively, almost of its own accord. In fact, sometimes the local consciousness even contributes to the action unwittingly. For example, you remember how the girl caressed her hair after scratching her head?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, it was actually her that did that, not me. But, overall, I still maintained enough control to return her hand back to the edge of the basket as I had guaranteed you she would do.”
    The doctor reflected on these revelations with agape countenance. Then he asked: “But what happens if it is something that goes squarely against the person’s principles or sense of self interest? Can the person still be influenced to act accordingly?”
    “It’s only a tad more complicated,” I replied. “But it is still nevertheless a fairly trivial matter to induce the brain into the state that would support the desired action. As a psychiatrist, you know yourself that a person’s psychological disposition is not as immutable and sacred as people tend to think.”
    He ruminated again for some time and then said: “So what is this method that this man discovered that enables him, and those of you that have this connection, to do this?”
    I looked up at him. “What do you think, doctor, based on the things I’ve being telling you?”
    He gazed at me incredulously. “By eating these dead bodies? That’s how you are doing it?”
    I said nothing for a while as I stared down at the table.
    “There is a certain clarification I have to make, doctor,” I said finally. “And, once again, I am telling you these things because I have committed to trusting you entirely. I appreciate the fact that you respected and cared about me enough to follow my wishes and come here to look for me. Thus, in the hope of repaying your kindness, I will hide nothing about this from you.”

see the next issue of cc&d for the second half of the story Mortal Zone.

Wrongfully Dead

    While in downtown Providence last week I ran into Mickey and Trisha. Speaking gravely, Mickey told me a friend of ours had died and the funeral was the following day. Gary had been ill for some time, he said. Trisha nodded her agreement in a Xanex stupor, but this was truly a sad loss. Both Mickey and I were in contention over Gary’s age; his guess was 57 years, versus my more precise, 55 years on the planet. Gary could settle this, but he was dead at the time. Gary and I go way back; 35 years I’d known him. He was my patient at the hospital.
    We all planned to meet downtown the next day before the funeral. Gary deserved a suit jacket and tie and I wore that for him. I wiped the gray dust from my funeral/wedding shoes; 409 did the trick. They’d seen more funerals as of late than weddings. Fifty or so mourners showed up for the sendoff. I was happy he had made so many friends. Their wet tears of emotional distress, they dabbed on handkerchiefs and coat cuffs. Odd as it sounds, I was pleased to see that.
    St Mickey’s Cathedral downtowns smelled of incense, old priests, and perhaps, alter boy’s shame. The actor at the pulpit applauded Gary’s generosity and friendship for all who knew him well. Gary’s community work and years in the parish were commendable, but a sad day regardless. The actor stated that, at Fifty seven years old, Gary was much too young for blah- blah- blah. Wait a minute; 57 years? I wanted one last look at my ex-patient turned friend, but the wooden box was closed.
    I took the word of the priest that Gary was inside the casket. I guess I was wrong about his age. Mickey gave me a smart ass look, and nodded his head in triumph. I never knew Gary was so involved and capable of so much after leaving the psychiatric hospital. What I was reminded of was the day he lit himself on fire one afternoon after I turned my back for less than 4 minutes. I had lost sight of him. He was my responsibility that day on the criminally insane ward. He was suicidal at the time and meant it the hard way. The state let him go years later. I’d see him time to time downtown after work having a beer and playing Kino at the Dorrance Street Cafe. He knew me right off that first day, after so many years had passed, and bought me a beer whenever we met from then on. Now he’s deader than hell, in a box, on a table, In front of a dead man hanging on a cross.
    Another unknown; a female personage from the parsonage, stepped to the pulpit and went on about how much Gary would be missed by his children. “Children?” I thought out loud. I poked Mickey who was now nodding from xanex and his morning methadone fix. “What’s with the kids?” I whispered. “Yea, fffree of ‘em!” he mumbled. Mickey was having a tough time of it with the word three. ” No way!” I protested. The unknown lady up there at the pulpit said that the Palumbo family will be taking donations for the cancer society. I poked Mickey again.” Wake up.”
    Gary’s last name was Butler. “Who the hell are the Palumbo’s?” I whispered. “Gary’s family...where you been man?” was Mickey’s retort. He gave me the look of incredulity. It was a look that said- What are ya- stupid? “Wait, his last name’s Palumbo?” I questioned. “Ye-a-h-h-h – dude- quit talking, man. Dis is a fffunerool.” Mickey said it loud enough for both pews, front and back could hear. I think to myself, No way man- think I’m at the wrong damn funeral...
    I whispered once more to Mickey, who was again nodding. “Are you telling me I got dressed up in a monkey suit a size too small, polished my wingtips, drove my car all the way downtown, will probably have fucking parking ticket on my windshield, out 10 bucks for the church, all for nothing?” I relaxed for a second trying to digest all this then continued. “Most of all, my old lady’s isn’t gonna by any of this shit”. “Then finished with, “...all this preparation for someone else’s’ damned funeral!” I mumble.
    “What’d ya say- Huh?” Trisha xanex responded, droopy eyed. I reply to nobody in particular “I can’t believe this shit. I’m at the wrong fucking funeral!” Now came a smiling, slurring, and totally confused Trisha... her breakfast vodka hit me like the ugly truck. “What do ya mean wrong fluid?” I looked at her, shook my head, and smiled, replying, “Forget it.” I pulled back a bit and she winked at me. Trisha was a looker, but booze was staring to take it’s toll. Out of left field comes this thought of screwing Trisha right there in the Church on one of the church pews; maybe on the alter. I shook my head and focused, goose bumps covered my arms.
    There were finger foods afterward. I had some with hot coffee. Everyone who knew me laughed at my gross misunderstanding of who was really in the casket. Patty, my woman, of course didn’t believe it - She thought I went to these extremes just to cop a few beans for myself. Xanex, one of the forbidden fruits. ‘Forget me nots’ as we called them on the street. My woman, Patty, hated all drugs and booze. That’s because she was an addict in recovery; an addict in recovery, that is, who popped a 40mg of oxycontin three times a day, but under medical supervision... of course. That was cool with her, but I was forbidden to pop the top of a beer can. But she was a great piece of ass. That’s another story in itself.
    She did assume the worst and I didn’t argue. Figuring to cover all bases, she accused me with waving arms while foul shit poured from her mouth about going downtown strictly, for the other forbidden fruit; diesel (heroin to those not familiar with the term). Before leaving the church to find a ticket on my windshield, and figuring to be accused anyway, I let Mickey sell me six of Trisha’s xanex for twelve bucks. I passed on the dope offered by another mourner. The xanex made the nightmare at home more bearable.
    It was a trippy a day, as well, a weird ass and amusing story to pass on for years to come. Besides, every corpse can use another well dressed mourner...

Suicides Sometime Suffer Setbacks

    Jimmy scales the fence, reaches the top, and swings his legs over. A chilly breeze reddens his cheeks as he peers down at the cracked highway below. With one final big breath, he closes his eyes and slowly leans forward, but before gravity has a chance to take him, he’s unexpectedly yanked backward by the seat of his pants.
    Tumbling gracelessly down, his head bounces hard off the bridge’s concrete walkway, nearly knocking him unconscious. Through dizzied eyes, Jimmy squints to pull better focus on the young man now standing over him.
    “Easy buddy,” the man says with a soothing voice. “My name’s John... just lie still.”
    His face appears so innocent, almost angelic. Jimmy smiles, says “Shoulda let me go John,” then passes out cold.

    In the break room, John watches the fresh coffee brew when he receives a text that reads, “GET IN HERE NOW!!!” He peers quizzically at the screen and heads out, leaving his empty cup on the counter.
    As he makes his way through a maze of cubicles, he feels eyes on him... lots of eyes. Something compels him not to meet any of them, so he keeps his head down and quickens his pace.
    When he turns the corner, sees the Gestapo-like rifling of his personal effects and his computer being disconnected and confiscated, a fire ignites within. He hurriedly approaches, but is halted by a security officer who says nothing, just blocks his path with a hand to the chest.
    “Somebody wanna tell me what the hell is happening here?”
    As these words pass his lips, a hard, cold hand slaps him across the face. It connects solid with enough force to turn his head and leave a perfect five finger imprint on his cheek. The security guard now goes into protective mode, stands between John and the woman who just hit him.
    “Son of a bitch!” she screams with tears streaming from her eyes.
    Still a bit loopy from the shot he just took, John looks over the guard’s shoulder. When he sees his attacker, and that she’s fighting hard for the opportunity to continue her assault, he’s genuinely shocked. “Carolyn? What—”
    “Go to hell dirty ass pervert!” Carolyn continues her verbal onslaught before several other women take her in their arms and lead her away.
    “I see you got my text?”
    John doesn’t turn, keeps his eyes glued to the emotionally wrecked Carolyn as he rubs his red, swelling face.
    “Mike? Any idea why my oldest, dearest friend just hit me and called me a PERVERT!!!!!!!”
    The man standing behind him wears a half compassionate smile. “No clue. They came over, started going through your stuff—”
    Mike stops, does an about face, and takes off fast. When John turns around he sees the boss-man Gene heading his way. Confident in his innocence, he stands his ground.
    “Back to work everybody” Gene says loudly, but not in a yell. He then nods to the security guard who gently, but insistently leads John toward Gene’s office.
    Once inside, John watches as the security guard leaves and closes the door behind him. He looks to Gene who reads a document he holds gingerly. Once finished, he looks at John, slides the paper across his desk and lays an open pen on top.
    “What’s that?” John asks without even glancing at it.
    “The lawyers need you to acknowledge that your termination is based on wrongdoings discovered legally by us. You sign this, we go our separate ways and Carolyn doesn’t press charges.”
    John swallows heavy. He has so many things he wants to say but can’t for the life of him figure out where to begin.
    “Do it John. This goes public, your life is over.”
    Finally finding his words, John fights to keep his voice down. “What goes public?”
    The astonished look on Gene’s face makes John want to grab him by the scruff of the neck and pound his head on the desk. “What am I missing here Gene?”
    Gene holds his condemning gaze on John for another second, then swivels his computer monitor around and taps a key. John looks down and sees a video of Carolyn in the bathroom using the toilet. Then another, and another. Gene opens a new window and now John sees Carolyn working out in the office gym, then showering, then getting dressed. John is dumbfounded.
    “Want me to keep going? There’s lots more, and not just with her. We found all kinds of sick crap. Knives, guns, rope—”
    “And you think I did this?”
    Gene chuckles with condemnation. “Never woulda guessed you for an S&M freak.”
    “You say you got these from my computer. Do I look that stupid? And those videos of Carolyn. She’s my best friend, why on Earth—”
    “Never know what kinda crazy skeletons lurk in people’s closets.”
    John now begins to laugh. “You’ve known me more than ten years. Is it that easy for you to believe I’d do something like this?”
    “Don’t know, don’t care. Just sign the paper and get the hell out. Your stuff’ll be FedEx’d to your place along with your final paycheck.”
    John turns and walks to the door. Gene stands and points a finger. “You leave without signing this, you’re gonna have to deal with her and us!” John doesn’t hesitate, walks out and closes the door behind him as Gene’s demeanor goes manic.
    Waiting for the elevator, John massages his temples trying to alleviate the quickly increasing pain. Mike approaches, stands beside him.
    “Carolyn? Why’d you do it man?”
    John snaps, throws Mike against the still closed elevator doors, holds him tight with a forearm to the neck.
    “It was you, wasn’t it? You always had a thing for her, but since she didn’t want you, you had to make her pay, and decided to throw me under the bus as well.”
    Mike fights and breaks free.
    “You’re outta your mind bro! Good luck finding someone to back you now!”
    John watches Mike speed-walk away. When the elevator arrives, he climbs aboard and disappears.

    A few days later, John glares at a medium sized FedEx box poised with pride on his front porch. With arms full of grocery bags, he unlocks the door and uses his feet to maneuver the package inside.
    Lounging on the couch that night, John is drifting off to sleep. He grabs the TV remote, turns off the tube, and heads to bed. As he goes, his eye catches on the FedEx box he hasn’t touched since bringing it inside this morning. He walks over, picks it up and sets it on the kitchen table. After removing the tape that seals it, he digs his hands in and begins pulling out the contents.
    It’s mostly decorative paraphernalia that either rested on his desk or was fastened to his cubicle walls. His motion slows though when he finds a framed photo of Carolyn. He smiles, grabs his phone and dials. It rings and rings until finally he gets her voicemail... again. Quickly coming back to reality, he ends the call and slams the photo face down on the table. The glass shatters and the frame splits apart, partially exposing the white back side of the picture. John notices something written on it but the entirety can’t be seen. He dismantles the frame and brings the photo up to his eyes where he can now clearly see the letters RIP... and they’re etched in blood. As if it hurts his fingers to hold it, he quickly drops the picture, leaps to his feet, and races out the door.

    John tries opening Carolyn’s front door and finds it unlocked. Not good. He enters with caution and regrets the fact he didn’t think to bring some sort of weapon. It’s pitch black inside so he waits for his eyes to adjust, then moves slowly across the floor. He wants to call her name but just as he’s about to, he realizes that’ll potentially place an even bigger target on his back. As he takes his next step, he hears a ruckus on the second floor and freezes. Listening close, he detects a muffled, high-pitched cry. It’s Carolyn. With gritted teeth and clinched fists, he puts his own safety second and bolts for the stairs.
    At the top of the landing, John waits, checks his immediate surroundings and holds his breath. The second he hears Carolyn cry again, he heads for her bedroom and carefully opens the door. What he sees both frightens and amazes him.
    Rope. So much rope attached to hooks and swivels on the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. It’s like a giant spider web but with absolutely no symmetry. No beginning, no end. This must have taken days to assemble. But who... and why? Another squeal from Carolyn breaks John’s marvel. All furniture has been removed from the room except a single chair, fastened to the floor, in which she sits. She’s tied up so tight she can barely move, her eyes and mouth are obscured by multiple layers of cloth.
    “It’s John. I’m getting you outta here.”
    As soon as she hears his voice she convulses in a vain attempt to free herself. She speaks words, but because of the gag, John can’t understand them. Stepping inside the room, his ankle passes through an invisible laser beam that triggers a mechanical click. The rope begins moving slowly, like a conveyor belt in a candy factory. John looks at Carolyn, sees a noose around her neck... and it’s tightening. He tries stopping the rope’s motion with his hands but there’s no way. Abandoning that strategy, he begins making his way through the web to Carolyn. When he gets closer, he sees a knife sticking out of the wooden floor next to her feet. Given the intelligence of whoever set this up, John’s certain it must be a trap. He stands motionless trying to figure it out, but the longer he takes the tighter Carolyn’s noose pulls. Running out of time, he makes the call and goes for it.
    Snatching up the knife, he attempts to cut the rope around Carolyn’s neck, but it’s so tight. When he finally works the blade between the twine and her skin, she flinches hard.
    “Stay still!”
    Twisting the sharp metal, he slowly moves it back and forth and starts making headway. The more he makes, the faster he goes, and the harder Carolyn shakes. At long last, he severs the final thread, and like a wound up rubber band, the rope snaps free, begins quickly extricating itself from all points in the room. He pulls off her blindfold then moves behind the chair to cut free her gag. John begins slicing the material but soon finds it impossible to penetrate. Looking closer, he sees it’s been reinforced with thick metal wire. He tosses the knife and goes to work on the knot with his fingers. She continues to shimmy and shake with all her might, making John’s work that much more difficult.
    “Carolyn stop!” John demands.
    But she won’t. Figuring she’s in a state of panic or shock or both, he does his best to work around it.
    When the last of the rope releases from this contraption, another mechanical click is heard, and Carolyn’s frantic movements suddenly cease. John comes around the front of the chair, looks at her face and sees an expression of resignation. Before he has the chance to question it, a strategically positioned knife attached to a weighted, pendulum-like pole swings down fast. John hears the sharp blade whistle past his ear and then watches in horror as it plunges deep into Carolyn’s right eye. It penetrates with such force that the blade slices through her brain and the back of her skull, finally piercing the chair’s wooden headrest with a moist thud. John watches in helpless awe as the life drains from Carolyn’s twitching corpse.

    Down the stairs John comes, his mind awash with conflicting, sorrowful, angry thoughts. Call the cops? That would be the logical thing to do, but given the accusations at work, and the fact that his fingerprints are all over the place upstairs, he’d surely be sent away for life... or worse. Run? Only guilty people run. His mind is so muddled. He wants to cry, he wants to sleep, but most of all he wants to find whoever did this and ask them why. As he takes the next step, his foot catches on a length of wire tightly stretched from rail to rail. He tries cushioning the fall with his arms, but when his head collides with an ornate metal baluster at the bottom of the stairwell, everything goes black.

    John comes to, but before he can fully clear the cobwebs, a voice from behind startles him.
    “You like spaghetti westerns?”
    John attempts to turn his head but can’t. He tries moving his hands, body, and feet. He’s tied up tight.
    And then the noose around his neck begins to constrict.
    John starts to panic, to scream... and then it stops. He breathes fast and heavy as a man casually steps before him, pulls up a chair, and sits with a smug smile.
    “Spaghetti westerns. Clint Eastwood? Good, bad... ugly?”
    John hears nothing the man just said, works hard to place his vaguely familiar face. And after a few seconds, he finally does.
    “Jimmy?”
     “Told you... shoulda let me go.”
    Jimmy pulls a knife, frees John’s feet and body.
    “Stand on the chair please?”
    John sits still... defiant. Jimmy doesn’t ask again, yanks hard on the rope that tightens his noose. His hands still tied behind him, and having only one other alternative, John grudgingly climbs up onto the seat of the chair.
    “In the end, Blondie shoots Angel Eyes, and he and Tuco find the gold. But Blondie, being the rebel he is, forces Tuco to stand atop a creaky wooden cross with a noose around his neck.”
    “Why?” asks John.
    Jimmy looks at him funny. “Blondie and Tuco hated each other!”
    “Why’re you doing this?!? Why’d you kill Carolyn? I saved your life!”
    Jimmy stands on his chair, and with a smile, puts his face right in front of John’s. “Had you assessed the situation properly and not rushed in like a hero, she’d still be alive. So technically... you killed Carolyn.” John starts to interject, but Jimmy doesn’t let him, brings the knife up and presses the blade tight against his throat. “Saved my life? Yeah... you did.” His eyes lower, as if in shame. They then return fast to meet John’s. “But who asked you to?”
    When Jimmy sees John doesn’t have an answer, his smile returns and he hops off the chair. He grabs hold of the rope and gently pulls. As the noose tightens further, John fights and scrambles to keep his feet on something... ANYTHING solid. When they reach the top of the seat’s backrest, Jimmy stops pulling and ties the rope to a bracket on the wall.
    “So Blondie takes off, leaving Tuco to die. But just when you think it’s over, he rides back into frame, pulls his rifle up, and shoots the rope. Tuco lives.”
    Jimmy heads to the front door. “Wish I could tell you that’s what’s gonna happen here, but it was just a movie.” He opens the door, looks back to John, “Besides, I don’t have a gun. Sorry.” With a genuine look of compassion, Jimmy leaves and closes the door softly behind him.
    Though John’s toes stand solid on top of the chair, his lips are pursed and his breathing is labored. He tries desperately to free his hands, but even the tiniest move he makes jeopardizes his stability. Seeing the writing on the wall, but refusing to concede, John stands as still as he can and simply waits to die.

    Mary-Anne and Kayla run side by side at a brisk pace. Their faces show fatigue, but it’s clear from their fit physiques both are simply waiting for that second wind to kick in.
    Then Mary-Anne hits the brakes hard. Kayla looks back with a victorious smile, but when she sees Mary-Anne’s concerned visage, she stops fast. “You OK?”
    She says nothing, just points. Kayla follows her finger, sees a man climbing the safety fence on the bridge up ahead. Without thinking, she breaks into a sprint and makes her way onto the bridge, keeping a close eye on the man’s progress. As he reaches the top of the fence, Kayla turns it up a notch, and just before the man begins to fall, Kayla leaps, wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him off the fence. Both hit the walkway hard, a breathless Kayla laying on top of the man.
    When Mary-Anne runs up, she helps Kayla to her feet and hugs her with admiration. Kayla then kneels down and carefully rolls the man onto his back.
    It’s Jimmy.
    “Stay calm, you’re alright. My name’s Kayla, I’m a paramedic.
    He looks into her eyes and smiles.
    “Shoulda let me go Kayla.”

About Matthew Saeman

    Matthew Saeman lives in San Diego with his dog, two cats, two frogs, and an eight year old daughter. His work is available in the Bewildering Stories Webzine and forthcoming in Supermoon Press’s YARNSWOGGLE: Anthology of Short Fiction by Emerging Authors.

Uriel Fox and the Honesty Pledge

    The six hundred residents of Liberty Valley cherished their prosperity and peace. Isolated from the negative influences of the larger cities, they worked hard together and solved their own problems. Not surprisingly, they believed their need for formal law enforcement to be somewhat frivolous and even wasteful. Because of these beliefs, only two officers patrolled the village streets and adjacent countryside. These common sense officers only rarely arrested anyone and seldom found any criminal suspects to interrogate. Not surprisingly, this independent society relied on no elaborate organizations to control them, and it remained a deeply held truth that Liberty Valley would flourish for years to come. Nevertheless, one perilous autumn, the town faced a challenge that would eventually overwhelm their faith and break their spirit.
    The crisis began one dark and thundery evening, when the two Liberty Valley officers decided to drive through a storm, to investigate a washed out bridge twenty miles from town. As they approached their destination, their patrol car began to slide off the dangerous street, and then plunged over the failing bridge. Finally, it crashed into the rushing creek below. The violent impact killed both officers instantly, and the current knocked their patrol car about two miles downstream.
    Initially, the citizens of Liberty Valley had no idea their officers had been killed in a horrific accident. Since the mangled patrol car and its occupants had been buried in mud, no one could identify the crash site. However, when the residents finally believed that the officers had met with some terrible fate, they decided to look for them more aggressively. After a number of search parties had been dispatched, the volunteers searched for clues for weeks, until they finally gave up exhausted and disappointed.
    Since the location of the patrol car and status of the officers now clearly remained in doubt, the mayor, Mr. Joshua Jenkins, suggested that until the officers returned, the Honor System should be implemented. This system of self-monitoring would apply to all regulations and laws of the village. “People of Liberty Valley,” he began, as he shouted to the crowd standing outside his office. “We’ve all been friends, neighbors and coworkers for many years. I believe our Honor System can help carry us through this crisis, so I propose that we all pitch in and make this situation work.”
    The enthusiastic crowd seemed generally pleased with the mayor’s suggestion. But one woman, Natalie Systin, seemed far less supportive. “Mayor Jenkins,” she complained. “Do you really think everyone will simply obey the law, if it’s not enforced?”
    Before the mayor could reply, Mr. Evans, the grocery store owner, interrupted, “I can handle my own problems. I don’t need some busy-body telling me how to run my own business. Don’t we believe we can all take care of ourselves?”
    After a loud cheer from the crowd, the short debate was over. Liberty Valley understood it could definitely handle its own affairs, and this belief soon filled the town with a sense of pride. With only minimal contact with the outside world, Liberty Valley didn’t require any restrictive laws or self-appointed informers to supervise them.
    At first, the Honor System functioned smoothly without any serious problems. Citizens seemed to mind their own business, and they ignored the normal behavior of others. However, before long, some of the young people of Liberty Valley began misbehaving because they knew they wouldn’t be punished. For example, they began stealing from Mr. Evans’s store and then they denied it. When Mr. Evans approached their parents, they chose to defend their children. As the weeks passed, the younger children became bolder, and even teachers faced constant classroom rule violations.
    Worse yet, it soon became apparent that the adults were acting even more aggressively. For example, drivers ignored street lights and road signs which soon led to numerous accidents. These collisions often included angry accusations, as each driver proclaimed his innocence. People also spent much more time in the local pub participating in drunken bar fights. Since there were no drinking laws, many people often remained drunk for much of the time. As it became generally clear that no laws would be enforced, the citizens of Liberty Valley knew there would also be no punishment, so they quickly sank into the abyss of selfishness and corruption. Finally, when one driver shot and killed another one over a disputed parking space, it became clear that the village had stumbled into the dark.
    Meanwhile, several miles from Liberty Valley, Uriel Fox had wandered into the exact same creek where the officers’ squad car had been submerged. Initially, Uriel intended to take a drink and quench his thirst, but almost immediately, he noticed the wreck and the remains of the officers. He could tell they’d been dead for months.
    He also recognized one of the officer’s badges that was sunk deep in the mud. He decided to take it with him in case he needed proof of the accident, and so he could describe the situation to the residents in the next town. With the badge as evidence, Uriel strongly believed that any explanation he might provide would be supported by his find. After he had walked around the wreckage, he hastily hiked toward the nearest town.
    When Uriel walked into Liberty Valley, it became obvious that the town was caught up in some terrible crisis. All the stop lights on the main streets looked damaged and the street signs seemed to be badly bent. Cars were abandoned everywhere, and they all had smashed windows or flat tires. Overall, the whole town resembled a junk yard.
    But the most distressing thing about Liberty Valley appeared to be the peculiar behavior of the citizens on the street. They hurried past Uriel like frightened children afraid to even speak or glance up at him. Everyone in town appeared to be hurried and alarmed. Fear seemed to haunt them at every moment, and even the children completely ignored the town around them.
    Finally, Uriel decided to approach the mayor in order to get an explanation for all the turmoil he was witnessing. He didn’t know if he could ease the crisis, but he wanted to try. When he arrived at the Mayor’s office, Uriel knocked enthusiastically and called out, “Hello, Mr. Mayor!”
    After knocking repeatedly, the mayor finally answered the door, but his voice betrayed his fear. “You can’t come in here! Take your complaints to somebody else! Get away from my office or I’ll call my staff!”
    Uriel immediately realized the mayor felt overwhelmed. “I’d just like to talk to you. I have a sheriff’s badge with me.”
    “Why didn’t you say so?” The mayor shouted as he opened the door. “I knew you’d come! What are you going to do about this mess?”
    Uriel understood that his next response could be exceedingly important, so he produced the badge from inside his wallet. Then he waited cautiously for the mayor’s response. When the mayor recognized that the badge looked genuine, he gave a sigh of relief and asked Uriel if he meant to take control of the town.
    “No, I’m..,” Uriel stuttered, but then fell silent. He somehow apprehended that the emergency in Liberty Valley had now become at least as dangerous as the mayor seemed to believe. Uriel intuitively realized he could either take charge of the situation or be victimized by it. Although Uriel knew there could be serious consequences for impersonating a police officer, he believed the danger in the town demanded immediate action. “Yes,” Uriel replied, breaking out of his reverie. “I’m here to straighten things out. Now, give me a complete account of what’s been going on.”
    The mayor, now more relaxed than he’d been in months, talked about the missing officers, the Honor System and the resulting chaos. Then he stated, “The people of Liberty Valley are frightened and have lost all hope. A gang of criminals has formed who humiliate and terrorize our citizens knowing that the residents seem too afraid to defend themselves. The children feel even more traumatized by all the violence. I believe that as the crisis escalates, the threats of the wicked will soon become vicious attacks.”
    Uriel truly believed the mayor’s ominous account, so when he left him, Uriel was determined to do something about the unfolding disaster. He located the former police officers’ tiny office and started to plan his strategy. A short time later, a number of citizens began arriving at the office door describing their many troubles and fears. While Uriel patiently listened to their deepest concerns, it became obvious their complaints mostly involved the group of troublemakers that the mayor had discussed. These bullies threatened their homes, and paralyzed their village. Parents were afraid to allow their children to attend school, and even farmers were reluctant to work in their fields.
    After several hours, Uriel had finally heard enough and tried to reassure the villagers that stood crowded around him. “I understand your concerns, and I fully intend to reestablish law and order. The first thing I’m going to do is cancel the Honor System for the good of all. As of today, the Honor System has been officially rescinded. From now on, the laws will be strictly enforced so that peace can be restored in our town. All of you go home. Thanks for coming in. I’m on the job now, so things will be better.”
    Despite his confident assurances, Uriel had no idea if things would indeed be better. Although he now knew the problem, the solution seemed far from obvious. Nevertheless, it did seem clear that the gang of bullies who had become so brazen represented the most significant crisis to address. He knew warning them would do no good, but at least he might be able to discern why they were acting so cruelly, so he could determine how dangerous their threats might actually be.
    With this strategy in mind, Uriel began wandering through town trusting that the troublemakers would probably seek him out. As he headed past the retail shops, it wasn’t long before the gang of thugs approached him from behind a pub.
    One gang member named Damon, who appeared to be the leader, stepped in front of Uriel. His eyes appeared cold and his stare was menacing. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
    “Yes,” Uriel replied. “ I’m the new police officer in town. My name is Uriel Fox.”
    “Well, I think you’ll find we don’t need any law enforcement around here,” Damon quipped.
    While several other gang members snickered at Damon’s remark, Uriel replied, “Right, the Honor System! I suppose you don’t want any laws enforced in Liberty Valley.”
    Damon then threatened Uriel more directly. “It would be best for you to stay out of our way. We have a set order here, and you’d be smart to leave us alone.”
    “Good to know,” Uriel answered. “But I know for sure the Honor System didn’t work, so I’ll be watching over the town from now on. You might want to get used to me being here.”
    “That I doubt,” Damon answered with hatred in his voice. “I seriously don’t believe we’ll get used to you.”
    As Damon left the street, Uriel felt certain that the gang leader had gone to find more allies, so he could spread the news that their gang had a new problem. Yet, Uriel knew that Damon and his gang were obviously the biggest single threat to the town, and he felt certain they should be stopped. Moreover, Uriel refused to be intimidated by ruthless and arrogant men.
    However, before Uriel attempted to face Damon’s gang again, he quietly walked around town. He wanted to observe and evaluate the degree to which the Honor System had been successfully replaced with a system of justice for Liberty Valley. Before long, he discovered that most people obeyed the laws once again because they realized the laws would be enforced. As soon as they believed there would be consequences for illegal activities, most citizens did the right thing. In addition, some even volunteered to clean up the streets and move the damaged cars. They also ended the stealing and vandalism. Residents even began to control their anger and made sincere attempts to cooperate with their fellow citizens
    However, the town’s new sense of responsibility was soon challenged by Damon and his gang who returned to Liberty Valley, drunk and disorderly. In desperation, the people of the town turned to officer Uriel to protect them and restore order. Uriel now stood alone against the criminal gang. He faced them valiantly while the rest of the town watched without the strength to come to Uriel’s defense. By the time the bullies sped down the street on their bikes, Uriel was truly frightened.
    Nevertheless, now Uriel felt certain the town was salvageable, so he came up with a plan. He decided to employ an ancient spell which could remove the threat of the town’s tormentors for good. This magical trance, however, could be performed only after the criminals had fallen asleep, so it couldn’t be practiced everywhere. Only when the troublemakers were totally unaware of their outside world, could Uriel’s spell transform their narcissistic dreams into horrifying nightmares. Ideally, their horror would be so complete it could possibly alter their behavior.
    Since Uriel knew where the gang slept in the woods at night, he allowed them to make trouble unchallenged during the day. Then, at twilight, he grabbed a case of expensive liquor that he had stashed at the store, and then he quickly departed for the woods. When he found Damon and the gang, he humbly announced, “Damon, you guys are too powerful for me, so I’m leaving town. Let’s have a drink before I go. No hard feelings?”
    Damon, believing his victory was authentic answered, “Sure. We can have a farewell drink with you!”
    Uriel joined in as the gang members began guzzling the expensive alcohol that Uriel had deceptively offered as a farewell gift. After several hours, when the festivities had ended and everyone had passed out, Uriel invoked his secret chant. Almost immediately, the drunken tyrants began rolling around and yelling in intense fear. Their once peaceful dreams were now slowly invaded by nightmares. Within a few minutes, the sound of agony and terror could be heard throughout the forest. Uriel allowed the gang to experience these horrors for a long time until he felt certain that his chant had penetrated deep into the recesses of their minds.
    Miraculously, by the time Damon and his gang woke up, their minds were utterly changed. Instead of being cruel, they acted respectfully. Instead of expressing threats, they uttered apologies. When they all returned to town, Damon and his followers all exhibited humility and kindness. The amazed villagers gradually accepted them especially because of their new attitudes of cooperation and selfless service. They even offered to work with the town cleanup crews. Because of Uriel’s secret abilities, the community of Liberty Valley was redeemed overnight. Now that the town understood the true purpose of the law, the community was given a second chance.
    Ordinarily, this might have been the end of the story; however, that very day two authentic police officers drove into town. They had been part of a state search party that did eventually find the dead Liberty Valley officers. Naturally, everyone was stunned to learn about the dead officers and the condition in which the wreckage was discovered. But even as they discussed the situation, one officer noticed that Uriel possessed one of the badges missing from the crash.
    “May I see that badge?” The officer asked suspiciously.
    Uriel handed the badge to the officer and said, “I found it by the wreck. I thought I could use it to offer some help, if it were needed.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. But no matter what you thought, impersonating a servant of the law is a felony.”
    Uriel thought for a time, then looking around, he noticed the people of Liberty Valley were already staring at him with obvious contempt. He felt certain their gratitude would quickly fade if he stayed on. Since the town’s rigid citizens would probably conclude that he broke the law himself, how could he ever be believed or trusted again?
    As Uriel stood in the crowd, alone and disappointed, a menacing rain storm began flooding the streets. Within a few minutes, the residents in town were all racing for home. Uriel quietly slipped past them all and headed straight for the highway. He realized the citizens of Liberty Valley wouldn’t remember how he rescued them in their hour of need. In fact, they might even arrest him.

A Serious Flaw in the Communication of our Ob-Gyn M. D.s

    Amanda Rosaleigh Blake is an unusually attractive forty-five year old professor who taught at Oberlin College, a small progressive school in a city of the same name in Ohio. Small and progressive are characters which appeal to Amanda’s political perspective. In the area where she lives some of the television channels regularly ran public service ads aimed at educating women, especially young ones, about the nature of the malady known as Endometriosis. This abnormality involves the uterus and surrounding areas. Some of the Endometrial of which the uterus largely consists gets into the surrounding areas often causing severe lower belly pains and cramping.
    When Amanda saw these ads she was appalled that the ignorance concerning this condition was still so wide spread in 2017. She had good reasons for her feelings. Twenty years ago when she was twenty five she was diagnosed with a mild case of the condition. Several events were happening in her life which led to her having insight into this painful condition and its possible effective treatments. For a short time she suffered some pain with it, but she was taking birth control pills. These helped mitigate the pain so that it never got out of hand.
    The Ob-Gyn Doctor who diagnosed her condition also told her she would probably have a hard time getting pregnant due to the condition. Later she tentatively concluded that he had lied to her. She did not really want to get pregnant at the time, and did not know if she would ever want to have a child. When she told the doctor about her feelings regarding pregnancy and child birth, he seemed to take it personally. He expressed irritation that she felt in this way. That being the case she thought maybe he stretched the truth on her ability to get pregnant in hopes of tricking her into it. He never stopped to imagine that she that was so strongly against pregnancy and having a child that she would not hesitate to have an abortion. He would, no doubt be truly shocked that she could abort a fetus without any feelings of guilt or regret.
    Amanda had just finished three years of teaching high school social studies in the public schools of Marion and Broward Counties, Florida. She was getting ready to begin her studies to get her doctorate at the University of Florida. She already had a master’s degree in history which she obtained during the time she was teaching in the public schools. She would pursue a doctorate in the social and philosophical foundations of educations with the intention of being a college professor in the foundations of education. These foundations, i. e., psychological, social, cultural, philosophical, and historical, were treated as a unit in most teacher education institutions.
    There were parallel events happening in the personal dimensions of Amanda’s life which strongly contributed to her becoming familiar with Endometriosis. First, she was quite dissatisfied with the monogamous relationship she had with her first and soon to be ex-husband, Jason Peters. This first manifested itself by some rather extensive cheating with other men. Since, she could never live with dishonesty for very long she soon told Jason of these events. This information shook him badly. He was angry and hurt. He prevailed upon her to cease these infidelities. However, she was unrelenting regarding her right to have them, and on her insistence of their need for an open relationship.
    Their acquaintance with a graduate school couple from Louisiana, Eric and Paula Landreneau, helped this process along. Quite independently of each other Eric and Amanda and Paula and Jason developed erotic feelings for each other, which led to the open expression of these sexual desires. Amanda and Eric fell deeply in love with each other with an intense physical attraction. Jason and Paula also had deep feelings for each other, but their natures were not as intense as Amanda’s and Eric’s. This unfortunately opened the door for some ugly jealousy on the part of the their relationship as overly sexual and lacking in other aspects. This was by no means true, but it disturbed the mutual relationship among the four of them, and left none of them unscathed.
    Prior to this a month and a half after they began relating erotically, Amanda became pregnant. At this time she became convinced that without a doubt the Ob-Gyn who had diagnosed her Endometriosis also lied to her about the relative lack of ease with which she could become pregnant. The interaction among the four surrounding this are worth relating as they are quite revealing of some of the aspects of the characters involved. When Amanda found out about the pregnancy she immediately made preparations to have an abortion. When Amanda told Paula about out the situation the latter expressed profound relief that Amanda was going to have an abortion. She feared that if Amanda had the child Eric would want to be part of its life and that would tie them together for several years. As will be seen she badly misjudged her husband’s current values. She told Paula the morning of the Thursday before she was to have the abortion on Friday. Eric came over that night so she could tell him. When she did so, he expressed a huge sigh of relief.
    “He commented, “Whew! What a relief. I was afraid you were going to tell me you didn’t want to make love with me anymore.”
    “Good grief, Eric! You should know better than that. I know you can feel how strong my feelings are for you.”
    “I think I do, but sometimes I wonder if it’s only my feelings.”
    “Oh man! That’s just crazy. They are quite obvious, lover.”
    “Okay, I’ll try to stop being so insecure, beautiful Amanda.”
    “Good,” she smiled. “That will please me no end.”
    When she went to her Ob-Gyn to be checked out after the abortion, he made an important discovery concerning her Endometriosis.
    “Do you know what, Amanda?” He asked excitedly. “On the side on which you got pregnant, your Endometrioses is cured! That means that we can cure the rest of it on the other side by having you take birth control pills every day for a year. That simulates pregnancy by suppressing your periods for that year by the end of which you will be fully cured.”
    “Wow. I’m thrilled,” Amanda said. “Now that we know a cure for it, we need to spread that knowledge around.” Amanda felt they had made a real breakthrough for a good many Endometriosis sufferers. The doctor agreed with her suggestion, but he must not have followed through. Here they were in 2017 still struggling with the problem. Amanda made up her mind that she would personally try to spread the information regarding the successful treatment of Endometriosis. She began writing to the editor of her local paper and spread out in all directions from Columbus, Georgia where she live. She expanded east to Atlanta; to Nashville in the north; to Montgomery in the west; to Gainesville, Florida in the south. She knew this was all to the good. However, it did not in any way compare with a doctor or doctors writing to his professional medical journals. She was a philosopher. She had no authority regarding medical matters.
    However, perhaps if she wrote widely enough, some M. D.s would pick up on her efforts. Then maybe they would carry the efforts further. That way it would be spread around in all directions. The problem would be solved along with the added suffering and the waste of money.

The Agony and Anguish of AirTravel Etiquette

    Etiquette: The forms, manners, and ceremonies established by convention as acceptable or required in social relations, in a profession or in official life.

    Americans like to travel. Air travel is a favorite means. Still there are people who would prefer a root canal without an anesthetic to avoid flying. Accordingly the specter of air travel etiquette will not be of interest to them.
    Years ago air lines provided a snack, non-alcoholic beverage, a meager tasteless sandwich, a movie as a part of air fare. Alcoholic beverages were relatively inexpensive. “Exact folding money please. We don’t accept change.” Presently we’re blessed with a non-alcoholic beverage and a snack. The latter may consist of a tiny bag of salty nuts or one of mini pretzels left over from a previous flight graciously offered to increase our thirst. Our own iPads provide movies. Depending on the airline and Wi-Fi some movies are accessible.
    Air line operandi has run afoul of the public prompting congress to do something about it. Among complaints is historic seat shrinkage. If you have 25 rows of seats and reduce seat pitch (Don’t you just love the jargon for reducing seat size?) by 2" per row, you’ve freed up 50" circa 4.0' (48") yielding room for another row on both sides of the plane. Based on measurements from different air lines seat pitch varies 28" to 41". Moreover seat width ranges generously from 17.8" to 18.25". Better watch seconds on dessert.
    Again depending on the air line measurements are on the stingy size for economy class compared to business and first class. Check the leg room on your next flight. All I know is that my legs fall asleep or get cramps. When I rise they go snap, crackle and pop. Flight attendants recommend you get up occasionally to stretch your legs and walk around the cabin coincidentally discouraging you from clogging up the aisle.
    Upon landing your plane may join a coven of other planes stymied on the tarmac anxiously looking for an open gate. Meanwhile from the back of the plane you’re grinding your teeth waiting to deplane to make a connecting flight. Air lines aren’t responsible for delayed or cancelled flights due to inclement weather. However, they must assume responsibility for missing personnel and equipment failure. Better safe than sorry. Regardless these conditions do not make for a carefree flight.
    Air fare varies considerably among airlines and days of the week. Weekend flights are generally more expensive than Tuesdays-Thursdays. Holiday flights you’re really held hostage and avoid Fridays before a holiday. Airlines recommend that if you schedule several months ahead of time you’ll generally save some money, but that’s not always very convenient for short term needs. When fuel costs increase air fare predictably increases. But when fuel costs fall air fare doesn’t decrease as much as it originally increased.
    Prior to 9/11 boarding was much more casual, relaxed and swift. An occasional request to open a suitcase. Now we’re all suspects or persons of interest. All carry on bags are ruthlessly subject to x-ray inspection. Passengers must also pass muster as we individually enter the security booth. One time I failed to correctly place my feet on the printed floor imprint. Before you could say anti-disestablishmentarianism Security corralled me and had me raise my arms. I was groped. “Hey there be careful,” I almost said aloud. But that might’ve caused more trouble. Handcuffed and frog marched to a water bed as a suspected malcontent. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could choose your groper. Personally I’d prefer a female groper. I’m 85 years old. Haven’t been in the starting line up for some time. At least I didn’t have to remove my shoes. Good thing. If I had to I’d probably miss my flight putting my shoes on again. These administrations produce slow humongous lines. Prior to 9/11 you could arrive an hour or more early depending on your home distance to your airport. Now it would be at least two hours or more from the same distance.
    To appease the public’s malaise about boarding difficulties the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) was established. You can obtain a TSA pre-check costing $85 for five years. You gotta love that TV ad when you can just slap an identity card over a sensor at the airport and everything goes smoothly. Anyway your TSA membership provides a separate expedited security line. You retain your shoes (See groping), belts, buckles, whistles and light jackets. Preferential seating. Early boarding for people with nut allergies. Don’t know what that’s all about because their cheesy snack may contain nuts as earlier described.
    “Oh miss! Miss! This gentlemen’s face has swollen up. He’s shaking all over.
    His breathing’s labored. Thought I should bring it to your attention. Might be the nuts.”
    “He’s nuts?
    “No. No. It might have been the nuts in the snack.”
    “Why didn’t you stop him from eating the snack?”
    “Well. I’m not exactly his designated care giver. We haven’t talked to one another since we took off. Not familiar with his medical profile. Apparently he didn’t feel comfortable sharing his allergy to nuts with me.”
    “Oh sir. I don’t think you should eat the snack with nuts. Can you imagine his response from a complete stranger?”
    “It’s certainly not our responsibility to monitor over a 100 passengers for a nut allergy,” she indignantly responded.
    “If he goes south this airline’s in deep bandini and you’ll be out of a job.”
    “Why did you wait so long to inform me?’
    “Earlier witnessed by many people I was groped in the security booth. I’ve just regained my balance and composure.”
    A foreign passenger plane was momentarily grounded after a spontaneous passenger uprising. Two tons of the notorious tropical fruit Durian was on the plane. The scent of tropical fruits in general and Durian in particular can be overwhelming. Not such a good idea to fly passengers with such an offensive cargo
    While air lines should continue to improve their performance, after boarding you’re at the tender mercy of the service personnel. The latter can certainly influence air travel etiquette. Steward and stewardess have been replaced by flight attendants. Obvious gender has been removed from the previous terms. In the future when you entertain guests for dinner, it won’t be long until the word police replace host and hostess with dinner donors.
    Flight attendants have provided tips (directives) for passenger behavior. Dress appropriately not as a slob. Shower before a flight. That’s rather personal if you ask me.
    Do not pack a smelly snack or meal. Sometimes enough to gag a maggot. Abstain from having too many shots. Refrain from pushing or kicking the seat in front of you. I’ve seen too many kids do this and their parents never say anything. Wonder how they’d react if they were on the receiving end. Don’t recline your seat if the passenger behind you is using their tray. Discourage shoe removal and never, never go barefoot. Don’t want to introduce some unknown biota requiring The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to identify a new mutant fungus.
    And then there’s the eternal problem for middle seat armrest etiquette. Hey. This is an important consideration on a long flight. Does the middle seat occupant automatically get both arm rests? Depending on which side of the plane you’re occupying is the aisle occupant entitled to a middle seat arm rest? The same challenge faces the occupant of the window seat. But of course the middle seat occupant would then have no arm rests. Before taking off do you discuss this significant issue with the middle seat occupant? My solution’s very pragmatic. If I’m a middle seat occupant, as soon as I’m seated and buckled up, I immediately claim both arm rests relieving the aisle and window seat occupants of the responsibility to deal with this knotty problem.
    To continue flight attendants’ tips. When the seat belt light is on. Don’t get up. When the planes ready to take off, turn off all the electronic devices you have on. I’m rather hawkish about this. Commonly give people around me the stink eye if they don’t comply. Don’t want to crash because some nerd’s in the middle of God knows what kind of loopy program or video. Oh yeah. Report any kid wandering aimlessly around to the nearest attendant. They should give a ticket or citation to any parent or adult with free-lancing children. Depending on how many tickets they receive in a given period of time, charge them more air fare for their next flight. That’ll get their attention. If adjacent passengers are using ear plugs, they don’t want to talk to you. Fine. Their loss if they don’t want to communicate with me.
    A few other examples of flight attendant etiquette. Two off duty pilots demanded first class seating when the cabin was sold out. Two passengers volunteered to move to business class. Flight was delayed two hours and passengers were held hostage until two passengers were bumped off. Great marketing example.
    Attendants really enjoy rising to the occasion kicking off celebrities who spark air line drama. Celebrity names are withheld to protect the innocent (namely me) from law suits but these are real examples.
    In one instance the flight attendant refused to let a celebrity enter the loo. Maybe the plane was lifting off. Landing. Experiencing considerable turbulence. Air lines don’t want people wandering around, they could get hurt. The above passenger then attempted to pee into a bottle but some urine got on the floor leaving it for some one else to clean up. When you gotta go. You gotta go.
    One woman found out her luggage wasn’t on the plane. Refused to get off when the plane landed. Allegedly spit and kicked officers as she was dragged off the plane. Several celebrities have been refused boarding due to a combination of drugs and alcohol.
    Celebrities always claim prescription medication is responsible for their unruly behavior. Police found so called prescription medication (Ecstasy) in one woman’s bag.
    One man was removed from a plane intoxicated and vomiting in the plane’s galley and loo. That must’ve been a sight. “How did you passengers enjoy your flight?”
    Darned if he didn’t attempt to re-board only to be escorted off a second time.
    One celebrity dullard attempted to travel with an unlicensed gun in his luggage. How did he think he could get it through Security? Will not support one of his movies again. These are the same people who spontaneously give us political advice.
    While the outlandish behavior of so called celebrities is not new, surprising or unexpected and is policed by flight attendants and Security; just plain folks like us are capable of more than holding our own violating norms of etiquette. It begins almost immediately at the departure gate.
    After announcing boarding for the elderly, women with small children, people requiring help (wheel chairs, walkers) and first class (Doesn’t that kind of rub you the wrong way but they paid for it), passengers in Zone 1 are called for boarding. Almost as one all the remaining zones ignoring the announcers call get up and head for the gate causing a significant traffic jam. “Hey! The plane’s going to leave without them if they don’t get in line right now.” If you’re in Zones 2-7, it’s not your zone yet. So people mill around like cattle attempting to align themselves into their designated zone.
    Depending on the airline and their outrageous scheme to charge you for extra bags, (this wasn’t done years ago folks) passengers in Zone 1 file in and begin to compete for overhead bins. Here you encounter genetic pack rats wearing 17 layers of clothes to spare packing, personal travel pillow (Not My Pillow), a blanket, 4 different types of tablets and i-Pads, book, Kindle and a dozen snacks. Attempts to cram oversize and odd shaped bags normally restricted to the luggage compartment into the overhead bins are stymied causing additional back ups.
    With assigned seats (which is not always honored) the whole boarding process should be reversed. Zone 7 passengers should board first followed by 6-5 ... assuming seats at the tail end of the plane. Does it really make sense to board passengers first backing up all the other passengers? After another inordinate wait in line I was prompted to point this out to a flight attendant. After all. Zones 1-7 would deplane in that order.
    Simple solution. No lost advantage to Zones 1–6. The attendant produced a weak smile informing me that in case I hadn’t noticed, this wasn’t exactly the best time to pursue my recommendation. Further she was a little busy boarding the passengers. Maybe I could take the time to fill out a Suggestion for Improving Flight Card before I deplaned. When I persisted promoting the obvious advantage of my logical recommendation, her manner and tone markedly changed. She firmly told me what I could do with my recommendation indicating a place where the sun don’t shine.
    “Did she actually say that to me,” I thought. “Well! I’ll never fly this airline again,” I said aloud.
    “Can’t happen too soon ,” she replied. We can hardly wait. Can I get that in writing?”
    “What’s your name? I’m going to report you for unprofessional behavior.”
    “Rudeabacker. Rita Rudeabacker.”
    “How’s that again? Do you spell Rudeabacker with two c’s and two k’s?” As she raced away to help a tiny lady valiantly struggling to store a 250 pound bag in an overhead bin, I’m unsure whether she heard me. Her name tag wasn’t that long. Maybe she wasn’t being truthful.
    Some airlines have zones but no assigned seats. The latter are selected preferentially by the passengers. Rather like the historic Oklahoma land rush (Land grab if you ask me.) of the Sooners. It gets kind of crazy with people zipping all over to get a window seat or an aisle one.
    On one flight a woman produced a plastic training potty. Yeah. You know where this is going. During mid flight she placed the potty in the aisle and just as vigorously deposited a bare bottomed child on the potty in preparation to do his duty. Astonished attendants momentarily hypnotized by this frightful scene finally and rightfully rushed to her to take her son to an unoccupied loo. Her reported reply was: “I don’t give a s - -t.” But her son sure did. This memorable and unforgettable panorama produced a mixed response.
    “Argh!” One man responded. “How could he miss the potty. He’s sitting right on it. I’m sure not going to clean it up.”
    “Come on now. Give the lady a break.”
    “Give us all a break,” another man opined. “Do we have to pay extra for this extraordinary flight experience? Some kind of surcharge. Guys at the office won’t believe this. I may never fly again.”
    “Potty training’s difficult ,” a lady offered. Bet some of you guys never helped with this.”
    “If Clint hadn’t said it first. This made my day,” another man added.
    “One small step for the child. One giant step for the parents,” a sympathetic woman offered.
    “Who needs Wi-Fi or an iPad to witness weird behavior,” another guy voiced.
    “Would you prefer the child did it on the floor?” another passenger challenged. And so it went.
    As an elderly man I can relate to the above child’s rite of passage. Challenged by TB (tiny bladder) I head for the aisle seat closest to the loo. No crawling over innocent passengers to get to the growler. Worse is getting stuck behind the beverage-snack cart. Panic. Silent screams. I should bring a potty for the next party I attend, anxiously waiting for the loo’s occupant finishing a reefer or stuffing God knows what up their nose. A plastic potty bowl decorated with NFL logos and insignia would certainly be an attention getter. Why even my guys would like one. Would help to break the ice on banal conversation. Haven’t shared this with my wife yet. Probably best if I don’t. It’s always easier to mend things rather than obtaining permission.
    Hey. If N. Korea’s Kim Jong Un transports a porta potty aboard his official airplane, I can justify a mini version. Oh. You didn’t know about his porta-potty? When he travels (which is rare because he’s afraid some one else might assume command) his plane carries a porta-potty. Seems his metabolites might indicate his health which could be used to N. Korea’s disadvantage with its enemies which is practically everybody. Lot of deep thinking going on here that we can’t fully appreciate because we’re not as paranoid as this guy is.
    Can you top this? I’ll certainly try. During a flight from Amsterdam to Vienna two woman passengers complained to a flight attendant that a male passenger sitting close by was excessively flatulent producing enough gas to fly the legendary Zepplin Hindenburg. They didn’t care if the man was doing this as a vulgar joke or the product of an upset stomach. It was making them sick. At first the flight attendant thought the women had to be exaggerating. However, to appease them she dutifully investigated this unusual complaint. As she approached the person of interest the man’s emanations, odor and noise were indeed drawing attention from other passengers. What to do. She informed the senior flight attendant who after an inspection of her own agreed with her colleague. With some trepidation she sought permission to enter the cock pit and informed the Captain about this emerging problem. Since rank has its privileges the latter quickly and conveniently delegated his co-pilot to investigate this unsavory situation. Much too every one’s surprise the plane made an unscheduled landing vin Frankfurt. Not withstanding Ibsen’s play the man was duly escorted from the plane designated as an enemy of the people.
    The man vehemently denied his condition was a joke. He allowed that on occasion he incurred chronic dyspepsia. He threatened to sue the airline for this uncalled for response to a natural process, for his flight fare and emotional scaring from such public humiliation. When asked by an air line representative what he would’ve done in such a situation. The man responded: “Easy. Have me sit in one of the loos until the condition passed.” The representative was nonplussed by such a simple solution realizing that an unscheduled landing was entirely unnecessary costing the air line many passenger delays. The suit was handled out of court.
    It’s been well documented that pets can exert a soothing effect on people reducing their anxiety and unrest. As mentioned at the outset flying can produce increasing anxiety on prospective passengers. As a result a whole industry of emotional support animals or therapy pets has emerged to address this problem. While this industry has its strong supporters, some practices may produce etiquette problems.
    Emotional support animals are not always congenial passengers. Opponents assert that there has been rampant abuse of claiming a need for support animals in air travel which has negatively impacted passengers.
    While dogs and cats are the most popular pets for flights, other animals have been applied to this service. Still some people just flat out don’t like pets. Fine. Stay away from people who have them. Some people are allergic to dog and cat dander. This condition may range from annoying to down right serious. Avoid them whenever. Don’t go to a friend’s house if they have pets. Some people have had some unpleasant experience with dog attacks and bites and cat scratches. Stay away from them. This takes only one experience. This notion recalls a scene from a Peter Sellers Inspector Clouseau movie. Inspector approaches a man with a dog.
    “Does your dog bite?” Clouseau asks.
    Man: “No.” Clouseau bends to pet the dog. Rapidly pulls his hand back exaggeratingly counting his fingers.
     “I thought you said your dog doesn’t bite.”
    “Zat is not my dog.”
    On a recent flight a dog bit a young boy. Parents produced an uproar. Going to pursue the dog’s owner for bringing such a vicious animal on a plane. The airline for supporting the foolish practice. The flight attendants for their lack of attention. Nevertheless passengers who had witnessed the scene claimed the boy was teasing and pestering the dog. Parents predictably and indignantly maintained their (perfect) son would never treat an animal that way. Truth is stranger than fiction.
    In another incident a woman was escorted off the plane. She’d noted in her reservation that she would be traveling with an emotional support animal. Unfortunately she didn’t specify it was a squirrel. Can you imagine the hysteria on the plane with a fuzzy tailed rat, okay rodent scurrying around under seats, jumping into the laps of innocent bystanders. The air line did not consider a squirrel a comfort companion. At least they got that one right. The woman sued the air line for discriminating against rodents. That’s a new one. If you’re planning a trip leave your beaver or capybara at home. Yes. They’re both rodents. Rather large ones to be sure.
    Some air ports have ambassador pets or therapy animals accessible for passengers to play with before boarding. One air port actually offered baby alligators to play that role. I’m not making this up. Look mom and dad if you sign off on this it’s your hospital bill. Gators and crocs have some of the strongest crushing jaws in the animal kingdom. At what size does a baby gator achieve this level?
    Have a friend who has a pet python or so he claims. When he travels with the snake wrapped partially around his body and neck, it’s a great attention getter. But it hasn’t helped his love life meeting chicks. One woman tried to board with a peacock.
    For God’s sake make other arrangements for your pets when you fly. No pigs, rabbits deodorized skunks, lizards, armadillos what ever. Come on folks give us a break. Air travel’s challenging enough. Didn’t sign up for the Noah’s Ark Tour.
    Even with a dog or cat you might experience a memorable incident. One man was surprised when he stepped on and sat in dog feces, left behind by an ill service dog.
    Air line apologized for the incident. Wouldn’t be enough for me. Almost as stingy as a hardy hand shake. How about refunding air fare? New suit? Cleaning bill? And of course we can’t let ourselves off the hook so easily. The celebrity described earlier who unsuccessfully attempted to pee in a bottle causing a nasty mess.
    After this brief exposé identifying breaches in air travel etiquette be careful out there. Bon Voyage.

The Luckiest Things That Ever Happened To Me

Story 1

A Clergy Member Tried to Sexually Abuse Me

    Some people call me a hero.
    Some say I was brave
    Some have asked me where I got the strength to tell my sexual abuser, the principal of my high school, member of the clergy and soon-to-be priest, to “F...Off” if he touched me.
    I wasn’t any of those things.
    I was just a scared kid, listening to his gut.
    Listening to Sacco’s words

    Five years earlier, when I was eleven, I was institutionalized with tuberculosis. A disease that for decades had kept millions of adults and children across the globe, and in the U.S., in sanitariums for decades.
    By 1963 all the childrens’ sanitariums had been shuttered.
    The doctors didn’t know what to do with a freckled-faced red-headed kid who was losing weight to quickly, suddenly spitting up blood, passing out and coughing all over his family, so they threw me in Zambarano Memorial Hospital on Wallum Lake in Pascoag, R.I.—one of the remaining TB sanitariums on the East Coast, which had once housed thousands of patients.
    By the time the doctors decided to throw me in Zambarano there were only seventeen adults remaining hospitalized with the disease. Some of those adults had been living in their 3' by 5' cubicles for as long as 45 years.
    And like five years later when a clergy member tried to sexually assault me, resulting in my becoming homeless, being thrown in the sanitarium to fend for myself was the best thing that ever happened to me.
    God watches over us in strange ways, and this was his way of telling an eleven-year-old kid, “You need to be strong bud”.
    Sacco was one of the adult patients in the sanitarium who showed me that inner strength.
    A tall Italian man of 45, Sacco was the baby on the ward, having only been there five years.
    With a booming Italian accent that no one challenged, he taught me to bluff in poker, when to draw in gin and when to use the word ‘Fuck’.
    The first time I used it in the sanitarium I got a powerful shot to the shoulder from Sacco.
    Even though I’d heard the other sixteen men and women use profanity, Sacco never did.
    So along with that punch (which gave me a nice purple bruise) came these words.
    “Kid, never, ever use that word in public. It’s a very powerful word. Use it only on special occasions, and never, ever use it against an adult”.

    So when principal Albert Morrell told me to stand up from the chair he’d ordered me to sit in fifteen minutes earlier, I did. What I didn’t do was unzip my pants, like he also ordered me to.
    It was my second trip to his office as my new guidance counselor.
    This session started out much like the first one two days earlier, with him not asking me a lot about my grades or about my ambitions for college, but focusing on if I liked girls. If I had a girlfriend. If I had any problems “down there”.
    While I was literally ‘saved by the bell’ during my first visit, this time it was to early in the class period to be saved by the change in classes.
    So when he told me to unzipper my pants so he could see for himself, I stood there. Frozen. Not knowing what to do as he got up from behind his desk, walked toward me, reaching to unzipper my trousers himself.
    It was at that moment I thought of Sacco.
    All I could think of was this was a special occasion and regardless of the age of this man reaching for my dick, something told me, he was not someone I would define as an adult. The word ‘pedophile’ wasn’t yet in the public consciousness.
    My image of an adult had become more “Saccoish”.
    So remembering his words five years earlier, in a very shaky voice, I just blurted it out.
    “Touch me and I’ll break your Fuckin hands.” As I ran out the office door, down the stairs to my homeroom.
    Some people say I was brave or strong.
    Looking back, that was so far from the truth.
    I was surviving.
    Something Sacco taught me so many years earlier.

    The next morning principal Morrell called me from my homeroom, telling me I was expelled.
    Although he didn’t say it, had I let him satisfy his pedophilia urges, I just may have graduated two years later with some sort of scholarship offer, gone on to heights unknown.
    But then again, I wouldn’t be the man I am today—realizing how lucky I was to have had that experience.