"Tracy! Front and center!” the sergeant yelled. Late, Tracy dropped his gear and came to attention before the sergeant. The rest of the platoon stood in formation next to their bunker. “This isn’t a game Tracy, it’s a war. How many times do I have to tell you men that?” The sergeant looked at his men in feigned exasperation. They weren’t expected to respond.
“Damn it now that’s enough, fall in!” the sergeant concluded. Tracy retrieved his gear and joined his company next to the bunker as the sergeant turned to face them. “As you already know, tomorrow is the Vietnamese lunar holiday Tet. That means a cease-fire’s in effect. That does not mean, however, that you are permitted to become slackers. I want you ready to go on a moment’s notice. Any questions?” The sergeant looked at his men. They stared back vacantly. There were no questions. “Dismissed.” He turned and strode away toward the HQ building. The platoon headed back to their barracks where they spent most of their free time talking, playing cards, and writing letters.
Tracy never actually played cards with the men but was always present when they were being played. He would calmly sit with a far away look rarely talking unless asked a direct question. Despite his idiosyncrasies he was well liked for his strength, high degree of intelligence, and abilities as a survivalist and sniper. Yet there was something about him.
The only direct questions Tracy never answered, it seemed, were those about his past. After more than a few beers one day, several of the men asked the sergeant about this. He refused to answer at first but they pressed him and pressed him until he finally revealed what he knew. Tracy was from Texas. His parents had driven him and his two brothers into the desert when he was thirteen, kicked them out of the car with a week’s worth of supplies, and driven away never to be seen again. After the supplies ran out, the kids started walking. Almost a week later, Tracy stumbled onto a ranch house. He alone survived. The state of Texas declared him an orphan and made him a ward of the court until such time as a suitable home could be found. None ever was and Tracy lived in an orphanage until he turned eighteen. He then chose from one of the only four career opportunities available to him: Army, Air force, Navy, or Marines. Tracy chose the Army.
He completed Ranger school at the top of his class but convinced the Army to transfer him to a regular company instead. No one ever knew the exact reason for it and he never offered any explanation beyond that which was required. “And that,” the sergeant concluded, “is how Tracy came to be in our platoon.”
The platoon’s routine and Tracy’s future would have remained largely unchanged except for two things that occurred. The first was that, unbeknown to the American military forces, the North Vietnamese were about to break the Tet cease-fire and the second was that Tracy had been complaining of nightmares and acting a bit manic of late. So, the sergeant sent him to see a doctor who referred him to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist was concerned because up until that year, 1968, the neuropsychiatric disease rate in Vietnam remained roughly stable and parallel with that of the rest of the Army. But this year, the Army-wide rates had increased and the rates in Vietnam were skyrocketing. The psychiatrist decided to enroll Tracy in an experimental program designed to test the effects of a certain new drug. That was six weeks ago.
Now, the men were noticing even more changes in Tracy’s behavior. He was finally talking and seemed happier on the one hand, but on the other, seemed to be losing his sense of conscience. And Tracy just laughed when confronted about it. Additionally, he was spending most of his free time writing morbid poems about a dream world he claimed existed and studying a lot of Zen philosophy. He would just zone out and talk about fate in a way that scared the men. The sergeant made a decision to transfer Tracy to the rear where he could get the help he needed. Before he could act on his decision, however, all hell broke loose.
Explosions rocked the platoon awake. The breathless sergeant returned from HQ and informed the company that the Tet cease-fire had just been broken. The North Vietnamese had hit every major military target in Vietnam and the United States Embassy in Saigon had actually been overrun. The platoon fell in and left the camp heading north along a main road. Their orders were to support a company of Green Beret paratroopers currently defending an old French plantation several miles away.
A couple of miles later they heard the sound of a truck approaching and got in position. When it passed, they opened fire. The truck was hit and exploded. N.V.A. troops jumped from the burning vehicle and were cut down where they landed. The sergeant yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” after awhile and the attack ended. There were no survivors among the enemy. The platoon pushed northward. Helicopter gun ships flew over their heads on the way to action somewhere in front of them. There was no real battle line yet. Fighting was breaking out everywhere. The platoon was scared but resolute. Except for Tracy, that is, who appeared to be having the time of his life.
The road wound Eastward about 20 degrees until it bordered a small canal choked with sampans carrying refugees fleeing south. The explosions were much closer now. The platoon left the road and carefully made their way through a strip of jungle to the plantation.
Overhead, planes and helicopter gun ships released barrages into the jungle on the far side of the plantation opposite the platoon. Furious automatic fire exchanges were traded between North Vietnamese regulars and the Green Berets. One of the platoon members later remembered that Tracy was laughing as the platoon moved forward.
They made their way to a stone field wall and followed it to the plantation manor. The officer in charge ordered the platoon to assist a group of Green Beret soldiers in defending against attacks on the northwest wall. The platoon arrived just in time. The North Vietnamese were throwing everything they had at that section of the wall trying to break through and casualties were high. Within a short time the platoon fell to 70% strength. Tracy shot and dodged madly along the wall expertly taking out enemy soldiers.
The combined force fought commendably against the wave of NVA regulars. But finally the order came to retreat. The men fell back. Except for Tracy that is. He had acquired a shovel and was madly digging a hole behind a row of foliage next to the plantation manor. There was a hollow bamboo reed between his teeth and in the confusion he was left behind.
Several days later, two battalions of soldiers from division headquarters retook what was left of the plantation with the help of air support. Nothing of Tracy, save a freshly dug hole, a shovel, and a dirty hollow bamboo reed was ever found.
The Tet offensive officially ended and life returned to a routine of sorts. That is until the bodies of NVA and Viet Cong began appearing in the jungles north of the plantation. Not just a few either. There were a lot of dead bodies appearing.
At first Army intelligence thought they were simply enemy KIA from the initial battle. But as time went on and the discovery of fresh corpses continued, they abandoned that explanation. The other branches of the military disavowed any covert action in the area and that left the Army with only one option. They began sending in patrols to find an answer. But they found nothing except more bodies and angry NVA looking for revenge. Fierce fighting broke out whenever the opposing forces met.
Eventually the Army stopped sending out the patrols.
The NVA did too, but for very different reasons. They were mysteriously losing the patrols they sent out and many of the North Vietnamese soldiers now believed the twenty-mile section of jungle north of the plantation to be haunted and fearfully avoided it. The locals spoke respectfully of a tr¡ng danh tØ (a white ghost) that stalked the jungle at night animatedly killing his enemies. They said he laughed like a death angel. Only the sergeant and men from Tracy’s platoon knew the truth but it was so incredible that no one ever believed them.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Monday, June 1, 2009
Sold Down The River
The newly formed social club was irregular in Kentucky. It solicited members not only from the county’s genteel class but also from the area’s merchants, writers, military officers, and politicians. Sometimes guests from far away places like Europe, New England and the West accompanied their hosts to the club. A unique institution developed with a reputation that invited open discussions. The house rule was that a gentleman who lost his temper in the company of friends was no gentleman indeed.
The club itself was an affair. The main room contained a lavish bar with card tables and only the best furnishings. A piano player took requests most nights playing quietly while pretty hostesses sold expensive liquor and cigars.
And tonight was special. One of the club’s charter members had returned from an eight-year voyage and a party was being held in his honor. The man was wealthy, educated, and from a well-respected family. Mr. Stith was his name and he was, at the moment, engaging a fierce slave owner named Mr. Stone about the various implications and consequences that selling elderly and infirm slaves down the Mississippi river could have on one’s soul.
It was Mr. Stone’s fault really. He had gloated, in a matter of fact way, that he would be recouping a sum of money the next morning by selling a grouping of elderly and infirm slaves down the river, as was his custom each year. Mr. Stone had always made his position clear on such matters.
Not every member of the club agreed, however, and several looked away as he recounted sums of money made from such transactions. Yet it was understood that this was the South and their way of life inviolate. Occasional changes could be tolerated, such as the Yankee talk that Northerners brought with them, but it was inconceivable that any change could be allowed that altered the very present fact of the relation of superior white to inferior Negro. Everyone in the room clearly understood this, as had their fathers before them and this belief was the very cornerstone of the South at that time. So it was quite out of the ordinary when Mr. Stith suddenly turned and asked Mr. Stone in a friendly yet serious tone what defined him.
“Our southern selves define us Mr. Stith,” he replied, “We are respectable people with respectable institutions. The slave is our property and as such bound to serve us. When their usefulness is complete, we are entitled to profit by selling them wherever it is legal to do so.” Mr. Stone took a puff on his expensive cigar daring Mr. Stith to counter.
“I see. Well Mr. Stone as a gentleman I don’t refute our respectable institutions whatsoever, however, what I was asking is much more intimate. What defines you as a person? What makes you so different than the slave, who is also human, that you have no responsibility for the extreme pain you directly and indirectly inflict on his body and soul? Is it simply money and the good fortune of being born into your present circumstances that justifies your actions, decisions, and behavior?” Mr. Stone looked lost so Mr. Stith politely paused for a moment before continuing.
“Is it inconceivable to imagine, for just a moment, that both the educated and yes even the uneducated slave is a human being with a soul as precious in the eyes of our Maker as we ourselves! That skin color aside, it is the slave’s unfortunate circumstance that makes them different. Furthermore, isn’t it obvious that their institutions, while different in outward appearance, are very similar in the manner in which they bind the social and communal fabric of the people together?”
“Inconceivable!” muttered the men around the table. “You are mad Mr. Stith. Your travels have unbalanced you,” Mr. Stone said. “Perhaps,” Mr. Stith replied, “but I really don’t believe so.” Mr. Stone stopped puffing on his cigar and tossed down a brandy. “You forget yourself Mr. Stith. You are a slave owner too. The same as us,” he noted. The others nodded in agreement.
“True. Very true,” Mr. Stith said evenly. “And as you know, my family places an emphasis on seeing their workers and slaves well fed and decently treated. Not just for their ability to produce and reproduce but also because they are human beings.” And the members knew it was true. The Stith plantation was a model one; the family wealthy and respected. Stiths held positions of importance in the state and several had a reputation as duelists not to be trifled with. All of which left those present at a loss how to respond. “Many of us do the same,” one finally offered
“Yes. However, many of you also sell these human beings down the river when they become injured or elderly, as does our friend Mr. Stone. Gentlemen, my conscience does not permit me to engage in the practice. Have you ever seen the camps you send them to? The truth should be respected.” The mood grew solemn.
The members were aware of the suffering and circumstances of those camps. Whips and clubs drove slaves with a reckless regard for life. If one of them stumbled and fell into a pit with his load the next would dump dirt on him and leave him there until he was eventually covered and forgotten. The bosses declared that a slave could kill another slave so long as he worked better than him, but for God’s sakes, he better not kill anybody who could work better than him. And there were worse things that happened in those camps: much worse. The members squirmed uncomfortably.
Mr. Stone broke the silence. “Nothing is the same to every person Mr. Stith, and I perceive that you do not really understand this,” he said. Unconsciously Mr. Stith played with his yet unlit cigar. “Understand what?” he replied, “That reality changes form to suit a man’s wishes. Not possible. Rather reality is truth and it is our perception of it that may or may not be skewed. I declare that the manner of discovery and accuracy of reality obtained, while imperfect, is more perfect in those who actually obtain it than in those who completely miss the mark.”
“Word games!” hollered Mr. Stone punctuating each word by hammering the table with his fist. He poured another brandy and began reciting all the arguments for Negro inferiority ending with “...and the good book says that they shall be hewers of wood and drawers of water forever!” Mr. Stith laughed.
“My Episcopalian education taught me to examine things to see if they are true Mr. Stone. I could never support such a misinterpretation of scripture for the sake of convenience. Perhaps a lesson contrasting Lazarus and the rich man might be more fitting for the purposes of our discussion. In any event, religious implications aside, have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things.”
The question roused Mr. Stone to his feet. He looked down at the still seated Mr. Stith. “The question, Mr. Stith, should be directed to you. Have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things?” The members sat spellbound.
Mr. Stith remained seated. “I cannot believe that kidnapping human beings, killing some and forcing the rest into a life of slavery, all the while reinventing and misinterpreting truth to justify such actions because they are economically profitable constitutes, in reality, the natural order of things. It’s more like an unnatural order of things which we have institutionalized because it is profitable and pleasing for us to do so.” Mr. Stone’s face turned red.
“In any event, I was alluding to a purely scientific argument. I was speculating that interfering with the cycle of life and the natural order of things to the extent that we have done here in the South might have consequences. It’s possible that we are pressing against the structure of reality so much that a correction of some sort will take place. Perhaps a war or political restructuring will change the South gentlemen. How and when this correction might take place I do not know. But I do believe we will be able to perceive it if it does. Furthermore, I can imagine that if stretched even beyond that condition by certain objects, a normalization process could take place resulting in an adjustment designed to negate the effect of those specific objects. We may or may not be able to perceive this and I can only imagine what form such an adjustment might take.”
Mr. Stone had heard enough. “Bah!” he replied, “this conversation has reached its conclusion. Fanciful conjecture on your part Mr. Stith.” He finished the last of the brandy, snuffed out his cigar and grabbed his coat. Pulling the slave contract from an inside pocket, he signed and dated it with great flourish in the presence of everyone in the room and then carefully replaced it and said goodnight. Mr. Stith and the others politely rose to their feet as he left. Climbing angrily into his coach he yelled at his attending slaves to take him home. When he arrived, he carefully set his coat aside and went to bed.
He was awakened the next morning by rays of sunlight that pierced through slits cut into the side of the Mississippi slave barge. He woke groggily and it took him a minute to realize that he was in leg irons amongst a row of slaves. He stared at his hands. They were black. In a panic he ripped off his tattered shirt. He was black. A black slave sold down the river. Dread overtook Mr. Stone as he struck his head against the side of the barge in a desperate attempt to wake up. But this was no dream. His involuntary scream brought an immediate and harsh beating from one of the pockmarked river bosses.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
The club itself was an affair. The main room contained a lavish bar with card tables and only the best furnishings. A piano player took requests most nights playing quietly while pretty hostesses sold expensive liquor and cigars.
And tonight was special. One of the club’s charter members had returned from an eight-year voyage and a party was being held in his honor. The man was wealthy, educated, and from a well-respected family. Mr. Stith was his name and he was, at the moment, engaging a fierce slave owner named Mr. Stone about the various implications and consequences that selling elderly and infirm slaves down the Mississippi river could have on one’s soul.
It was Mr. Stone’s fault really. He had gloated, in a matter of fact way, that he would be recouping a sum of money the next morning by selling a grouping of elderly and infirm slaves down the river, as was his custom each year. Mr. Stone had always made his position clear on such matters.
Not every member of the club agreed, however, and several looked away as he recounted sums of money made from such transactions. Yet it was understood that this was the South and their way of life inviolate. Occasional changes could be tolerated, such as the Yankee talk that Northerners brought with them, but it was inconceivable that any change could be allowed that altered the very present fact of the relation of superior white to inferior Negro. Everyone in the room clearly understood this, as had their fathers before them and this belief was the very cornerstone of the South at that time. So it was quite out of the ordinary when Mr. Stith suddenly turned and asked Mr. Stone in a friendly yet serious tone what defined him.
“Our southern selves define us Mr. Stith,” he replied, “We are respectable people with respectable institutions. The slave is our property and as such bound to serve us. When their usefulness is complete, we are entitled to profit by selling them wherever it is legal to do so.” Mr. Stone took a puff on his expensive cigar daring Mr. Stith to counter.
“I see. Well Mr. Stone as a gentleman I don’t refute our respectable institutions whatsoever, however, what I was asking is much more intimate. What defines you as a person? What makes you so different than the slave, who is also human, that you have no responsibility for the extreme pain you directly and indirectly inflict on his body and soul? Is it simply money and the good fortune of being born into your present circumstances that justifies your actions, decisions, and behavior?” Mr. Stone looked lost so Mr. Stith politely paused for a moment before continuing.
“Is it inconceivable to imagine, for just a moment, that both the educated and yes even the uneducated slave is a human being with a soul as precious in the eyes of our Maker as we ourselves! That skin color aside, it is the slave’s unfortunate circumstance that makes them different. Furthermore, isn’t it obvious that their institutions, while different in outward appearance, are very similar in the manner in which they bind the social and communal fabric of the people together?”
“Inconceivable!” muttered the men around the table. “You are mad Mr. Stith. Your travels have unbalanced you,” Mr. Stone said. “Perhaps,” Mr. Stith replied, “but I really don’t believe so.” Mr. Stone stopped puffing on his cigar and tossed down a brandy. “You forget yourself Mr. Stith. You are a slave owner too. The same as us,” he noted. The others nodded in agreement.
“True. Very true,” Mr. Stith said evenly. “And as you know, my family places an emphasis on seeing their workers and slaves well fed and decently treated. Not just for their ability to produce and reproduce but also because they are human beings.” And the members knew it was true. The Stith plantation was a model one; the family wealthy and respected. Stiths held positions of importance in the state and several had a reputation as duelists not to be trifled with. All of which left those present at a loss how to respond. “Many of us do the same,” one finally offered
“Yes. However, many of you also sell these human beings down the river when they become injured or elderly, as does our friend Mr. Stone. Gentlemen, my conscience does not permit me to engage in the practice. Have you ever seen the camps you send them to? The truth should be respected.” The mood grew solemn.
The members were aware of the suffering and circumstances of those camps. Whips and clubs drove slaves with a reckless regard for life. If one of them stumbled and fell into a pit with his load the next would dump dirt on him and leave him there until he was eventually covered and forgotten. The bosses declared that a slave could kill another slave so long as he worked better than him, but for God’s sakes, he better not kill anybody who could work better than him. And there were worse things that happened in those camps: much worse. The members squirmed uncomfortably.
Mr. Stone broke the silence. “Nothing is the same to every person Mr. Stith, and I perceive that you do not really understand this,” he said. Unconsciously Mr. Stith played with his yet unlit cigar. “Understand what?” he replied, “That reality changes form to suit a man’s wishes. Not possible. Rather reality is truth and it is our perception of it that may or may not be skewed. I declare that the manner of discovery and accuracy of reality obtained, while imperfect, is more perfect in those who actually obtain it than in those who completely miss the mark.”
“Word games!” hollered Mr. Stone punctuating each word by hammering the table with his fist. He poured another brandy and began reciting all the arguments for Negro inferiority ending with “...and the good book says that they shall be hewers of wood and drawers of water forever!” Mr. Stith laughed.
“My Episcopalian education taught me to examine things to see if they are true Mr. Stone. I could never support such a misinterpretation of scripture for the sake of convenience. Perhaps a lesson contrasting Lazarus and the rich man might be more fitting for the purposes of our discussion. In any event, religious implications aside, have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things.”
The question roused Mr. Stone to his feet. He looked down at the still seated Mr. Stith. “The question, Mr. Stith, should be directed to you. Have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things?” The members sat spellbound.
Mr. Stith remained seated. “I cannot believe that kidnapping human beings, killing some and forcing the rest into a life of slavery, all the while reinventing and misinterpreting truth to justify such actions because they are economically profitable constitutes, in reality, the natural order of things. It’s more like an unnatural order of things which we have institutionalized because it is profitable and pleasing for us to do so.” Mr. Stone’s face turned red.
“In any event, I was alluding to a purely scientific argument. I was speculating that interfering with the cycle of life and the natural order of things to the extent that we have done here in the South might have consequences. It’s possible that we are pressing against the structure of reality so much that a correction of some sort will take place. Perhaps a war or political restructuring will change the South gentlemen. How and when this correction might take place I do not know. But I do believe we will be able to perceive it if it does. Furthermore, I can imagine that if stretched even beyond that condition by certain objects, a normalization process could take place resulting in an adjustment designed to negate the effect of those specific objects. We may or may not be able to perceive this and I can only imagine what form such an adjustment might take.”
Mr. Stone had heard enough. “Bah!” he replied, “this conversation has reached its conclusion. Fanciful conjecture on your part Mr. Stith.” He finished the last of the brandy, snuffed out his cigar and grabbed his coat. Pulling the slave contract from an inside pocket, he signed and dated it with great flourish in the presence of everyone in the room and then carefully replaced it and said goodnight. Mr. Stith and the others politely rose to their feet as he left. Climbing angrily into his coach he yelled at his attending slaves to take him home. When he arrived, he carefully set his coat aside and went to bed.
He was awakened the next morning by rays of sunlight that pierced through slits cut into the side of the Mississippi slave barge. He woke groggily and it took him a minute to realize that he was in leg irons amongst a row of slaves. He stared at his hands. They were black. In a panic he ripped off his tattered shirt. He was black. A black slave sold down the river. Dread overtook Mr. Stone as he struck his head against the side of the barge in a desperate attempt to wake up. But this was no dream. His involuntary scream brought an immediate and harsh beating from one of the pockmarked river bosses.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Wrecked Millionaire Models
Mary stirred her cup of tea carefully. Gently she laid the spoon back on the sterling silver tray and smiled at her guests. Perhaps she was a little stupid but at least she had never engaged in the jealous slander and gossip other people assume. She situated herself, a young lady whose reputation and integrity were intact. Her guests were currently engaged in a discussion on the virtues (or lack of them) concerning boarding schools.
“Mary dear,” Annette asked, “Would you have attended one?” Annette was the mother of Mary’s best friend Darla. She had married old money and spent much of her time redecorating homes and traveling. Mary replied that she did not prefer them. “Well they do serve a purpose,” Annette continued, “I mean after all when a family from a good neighborhood prospers and leaves to live elsewhere, those left behind question the motives behind the decision. Boarding schools allow the prosperous family to prepare the new generation for a better life while remaining true to their roots.” Mary nodded. Annette had a force of personality that discouraged people from disagreeing with her. Darla laughed winsomely, “Oh mother, you are always passionate.” That made Mary laugh and soon all five ladies were having a genial laugh at Annette’s expense.
Sue, a comely woman, pulled her chair closer to the small circle of friends. “Mary, your beauty is astounding. You are one of those few women whom the passage of time will leave unscathed.” The others purred in agreement. “You’ll be surrounded by suitors Mary,” Darla added. Mary felt flush. There was time enough for that.
Anastasia had been quietly knitting the entire time and held up her work for the others to examine. “So how am I doing?” she said. Annette carefully took the half finished vest. “It’s beautiful dear. I should think Mark will love this when you present it to him for his birthday next month.” The others laughed. Anastasia blushed.
“Oh to be young again,” Annette mused, “But like the preacher says in Ecclesiastics, there is a season for everything. A time to be born and a time to die, vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”
Sue politely cleared her throat. “I believe the writer was saying that when the situation appears hopeless hope can still be found.” Annette giggled. “Oh mother, you can be so melodramatic,” Darla said. Everyone laughed again.
Suddenly there was a knock. “Oh the door. Could someone be a dear and answer it?” Mary asked. “Certainly,” Sue said and rose to answer the door. She returned a moment later and sat back down. “Why nobody’s there.” A minute later the ladies fell into conversation again.
The psychiatrist stopped tapping on the glass. “Hard to believe that forty years ago she was a truly beautiful woman. A fashion model no less,” he said. The female nurse nodded as she peered at the aged ruined face of the female patient. “A stalker did that. It breaks your heart to see such things,” she replied, “and nobody’s visited her in years.” The doctor and nurse shook their heads, the pity evident as they continued with their rounds.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
“Mary dear,” Annette asked, “Would you have attended one?” Annette was the mother of Mary’s best friend Darla. She had married old money and spent much of her time redecorating homes and traveling. Mary replied that she did not prefer them. “Well they do serve a purpose,” Annette continued, “I mean after all when a family from a good neighborhood prospers and leaves to live elsewhere, those left behind question the motives behind the decision. Boarding schools allow the prosperous family to prepare the new generation for a better life while remaining true to their roots.” Mary nodded. Annette had a force of personality that discouraged people from disagreeing with her. Darla laughed winsomely, “Oh mother, you are always passionate.” That made Mary laugh and soon all five ladies were having a genial laugh at Annette’s expense.
Sue, a comely woman, pulled her chair closer to the small circle of friends. “Mary, your beauty is astounding. You are one of those few women whom the passage of time will leave unscathed.” The others purred in agreement. “You’ll be surrounded by suitors Mary,” Darla added. Mary felt flush. There was time enough for that.
Anastasia had been quietly knitting the entire time and held up her work for the others to examine. “So how am I doing?” she said. Annette carefully took the half finished vest. “It’s beautiful dear. I should think Mark will love this when you present it to him for his birthday next month.” The others laughed. Anastasia blushed.
“Oh to be young again,” Annette mused, “But like the preacher says in Ecclesiastics, there is a season for everything. A time to be born and a time to die, vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”
Sue politely cleared her throat. “I believe the writer was saying that when the situation appears hopeless hope can still be found.” Annette giggled. “Oh mother, you can be so melodramatic,” Darla said. Everyone laughed again.
Suddenly there was a knock. “Oh the door. Could someone be a dear and answer it?” Mary asked. “Certainly,” Sue said and rose to answer the door. She returned a moment later and sat back down. “Why nobody’s there.” A minute later the ladies fell into conversation again.
The psychiatrist stopped tapping on the glass. “Hard to believe that forty years ago she was a truly beautiful woman. A fashion model no less,” he said. The female nurse nodded as she peered at the aged ruined face of the female patient. “A stalker did that. It breaks your heart to see such things,” she replied, “and nobody’s visited her in years.” The doctor and nurse shook their heads, the pity evident as they continued with their rounds.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The Last Magic Show
‘Macabre’ the reviewers had written! The wizened old man shuffled across his antique dressing room in New York City, newspaper in hand. Why in his youth he had been the toast of the town and his magic celebrated. As a young man, he had studied with the great Harry Blackstone, Sr.. And though Houdini had passed away a year before his birth, he had also been a great influence nonetheless. This was before television, the Internet, and next generation technologies. In those days, he had been greatly celebrated and his arrival eagerly anticipated.
Now, after more than 30 years in retirement he had returned for three final performances and been laughed off the stage. Nothing was sacred anymore. Magicians with a fraction of his ability and experience had revealed the trades’ secrets decades ago. The audience didn’t understand or appreciate his classic magic show any longer. They wanted 21st century special effects. The old man looked down at his aged hands. His day had long passed. But to call his refined and well rehearsed performance macabre was irreverent.
He reached into an old travel case and rooted amongst his magic paraphernalia until he found what he was looking for. Holding the bottle to the light, he tried to peer through the black glass but saw nothing. The seal still appeared as fresh as the day he had received it. Across the front, in the Scottish Gaelic highland language, read simply ‘a temptation for your time of utmost need.’
His mind wandered back to that night. Exiting the stage with a thunderous applause so great it shook the hall, he had pushed his way past celebrities and reviewers seeking escape from their enthusiasm in the confines of his dressing room. It had been his greatest performance and as he began removing his makeup, he noticed an older gentleman sitting in the corner of his dressing room calmly staring at him.
“May I help you Sir?” he had asked somewhat shocked. The man smiled and informed him that he was Aleister Crowley. “You mean the great beast himself,” he had responded, involuntarily blushing as he said it.
Mr. Crowley had simply smiled again and responded, “the very one.” They had talked for a while until finally Aleister had carefully placed in his hands the bottle and told him it was good for one and one use only and to use choose the occasion carefully because the consequences could be simply “dreadful” as he put it. He then excused himself and left. The old man had suspected a practical joke of some kind but kept the bottle as a memento of their meeting. And now, almost forgotten after all these years, he held it again. He slipped the bottle into a pocket of his aged trench coat and headed for the stage.
When he arrived, the hall was filled to capacity. The derisive reviews of his first two performances were the talk of the town and had drawn a crowd. But the audience was not here to cheer him. They were here to mock him.
The hecklers began first. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he went through the sleight of hand portion of his performance. Though it was customary at this point to ask for a member of the audience to participate, he decided not to take the risk as the heckling turned to jeers. He performed a stage trick instead.
The taunting increased until one balding drunk in the front row finally stood and yelled “Hey you old relic! For your next trick why don’t you make yourself disappear!” The crowd rolled with laughter. It was too much for the old man.
Tears welled up in his eyes and he slipped out the bottle. He broke the seal and pulled out the glass stopper. Instantly the atmosphere around him changed as some unseen evil manifested. The air grew very cold and seemed electrified in some strange way. A malevolent presence encompassed the hall quieting the audience.
Slowly at first a plume of smoke rose from the bottle. The color was of the blackest night the old man had ever seen. For a moment he was tempted to stop it with his hand but a sixth sense restrained him from such a foolish act. The plume of smoke formed into a large black cloud and floated over the audience. A woman screamed and tried to escape through an emergency exit. The unseen force held all avenues of escape shut. She sobbed and sank to the ground. Dread gripped the audience and they remained in their seats. The old man looked at the cloud. There was really no rational explanation for it.
Without warning a bolt of energy burst from the cloud and struck him. The audience groaned. He stumbled around the stage for a moment then regained his composure. He walked to the center of the stage and surveyed the crowd. As he looked into their faces he became aware that he now knew everything about them. Everything. His feelings of failure and despair vanished.
The crowd recoiled in fear as the old man chuckled and strode to the edge of the stage. Yes the worm had certainly turned. He spoke loud enough so that everyone could hear him. “And now ladies and gentlemen, for my next act I will read your minds.”
Walking from one end of the stage to the other, he began pointing out people and revealing their most shocking secrets. The lies, infidelities, and twisted acts were exposed for all to see. This took awhile. Once while revealing a peculiar secret of the balding drunken man who had jeered him earlier, he was almost assaulted. The man’s face had turned bright red. He jumped up, yelled, and attempted to climb onto the stage. Instantly a bolt of energy shot forth from the black cloud and punched a neat cylindrical hole right in the middle of the man’s chest. He collapsed backwards lifelessly his head making a sick sound as it struck the floor.
The old man paused but then continued on until every dirty secret had been revealed. When finished he said simply, “That concludes tonight’s performance ladies and gentlemen,” bowed, slipped the empty bottle back into his pocket, and left via a back exit. He never returned for his equipment and was never seen again. The black cloud floated around the room crackling with energy and scaring everyone for about an hour before finally dissipating. Only then did the crowd rush the exits. One thing was certain, no one present for the old man’s last magic show was ever the same.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Now, after more than 30 years in retirement he had returned for three final performances and been laughed off the stage. Nothing was sacred anymore. Magicians with a fraction of his ability and experience had revealed the trades’ secrets decades ago. The audience didn’t understand or appreciate his classic magic show any longer. They wanted 21st century special effects. The old man looked down at his aged hands. His day had long passed. But to call his refined and well rehearsed performance macabre was irreverent.
He reached into an old travel case and rooted amongst his magic paraphernalia until he found what he was looking for. Holding the bottle to the light, he tried to peer through the black glass but saw nothing. The seal still appeared as fresh as the day he had received it. Across the front, in the Scottish Gaelic highland language, read simply ‘a temptation for your time of utmost need.’
His mind wandered back to that night. Exiting the stage with a thunderous applause so great it shook the hall, he had pushed his way past celebrities and reviewers seeking escape from their enthusiasm in the confines of his dressing room. It had been his greatest performance and as he began removing his makeup, he noticed an older gentleman sitting in the corner of his dressing room calmly staring at him.
“May I help you Sir?” he had asked somewhat shocked. The man smiled and informed him that he was Aleister Crowley. “You mean the great beast himself,” he had responded, involuntarily blushing as he said it.
Mr. Crowley had simply smiled again and responded, “the very one.” They had talked for a while until finally Aleister had carefully placed in his hands the bottle and told him it was good for one and one use only and to use choose the occasion carefully because the consequences could be simply “dreadful” as he put it. He then excused himself and left. The old man had suspected a practical joke of some kind but kept the bottle as a memento of their meeting. And now, almost forgotten after all these years, he held it again. He slipped the bottle into a pocket of his aged trench coat and headed for the stage.
When he arrived, the hall was filled to capacity. The derisive reviews of his first two performances were the talk of the town and had drawn a crowd. But the audience was not here to cheer him. They were here to mock him.
The hecklers began first. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he went through the sleight of hand portion of his performance. Though it was customary at this point to ask for a member of the audience to participate, he decided not to take the risk as the heckling turned to jeers. He performed a stage trick instead.
The taunting increased until one balding drunk in the front row finally stood and yelled “Hey you old relic! For your next trick why don’t you make yourself disappear!” The crowd rolled with laughter. It was too much for the old man.
Tears welled up in his eyes and he slipped out the bottle. He broke the seal and pulled out the glass stopper. Instantly the atmosphere around him changed as some unseen evil manifested. The air grew very cold and seemed electrified in some strange way. A malevolent presence encompassed the hall quieting the audience.
Slowly at first a plume of smoke rose from the bottle. The color was of the blackest night the old man had ever seen. For a moment he was tempted to stop it with his hand but a sixth sense restrained him from such a foolish act. The plume of smoke formed into a large black cloud and floated over the audience. A woman screamed and tried to escape through an emergency exit. The unseen force held all avenues of escape shut. She sobbed and sank to the ground. Dread gripped the audience and they remained in their seats. The old man looked at the cloud. There was really no rational explanation for it.
Without warning a bolt of energy burst from the cloud and struck him. The audience groaned. He stumbled around the stage for a moment then regained his composure. He walked to the center of the stage and surveyed the crowd. As he looked into their faces he became aware that he now knew everything about them. Everything. His feelings of failure and despair vanished.
The crowd recoiled in fear as the old man chuckled and strode to the edge of the stage. Yes the worm had certainly turned. He spoke loud enough so that everyone could hear him. “And now ladies and gentlemen, for my next act I will read your minds.”
Walking from one end of the stage to the other, he began pointing out people and revealing their most shocking secrets. The lies, infidelities, and twisted acts were exposed for all to see. This took awhile. Once while revealing a peculiar secret of the balding drunken man who had jeered him earlier, he was almost assaulted. The man’s face had turned bright red. He jumped up, yelled, and attempted to climb onto the stage. Instantly a bolt of energy shot forth from the black cloud and punched a neat cylindrical hole right in the middle of the man’s chest. He collapsed backwards lifelessly his head making a sick sound as it struck the floor.
The old man paused but then continued on until every dirty secret had been revealed. When finished he said simply, “That concludes tonight’s performance ladies and gentlemen,” bowed, slipped the empty bottle back into his pocket, and left via a back exit. He never returned for his equipment and was never seen again. The black cloud floated around the room crackling with energy and scaring everyone for about an hour before finally dissipating. Only then did the crowd rush the exits. One thing was certain, no one present for the old man’s last magic show was ever the same.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Party People
Brad woke suddenly. The recurring nightmares had haunted his childhood. After all these years, they troubled him again. He reached for one of the towels next to his bed and wiped away the perspiration. For some reason his thoughts turned to his late great-grandfather. He had been a professional magician, a real one, very different from the Vegas-style entertainers of today. Self-assured, the old man’s presence had always comforted him. Unfortunately he hadn’t been heard from in years and most thought him dead. Brad lie back on the sheets and remembered the strange twinkle his great-grandfather’s eyes held.
The doctors in the next room went through a lengthy series of safety procedures. First they put on surgical scrubs followed by several pairs of latex gloves closed and taped securely at the wrists. Over this went a self-contained suit fitted with a facemask. Plugged into the side of the suit was a tightly coiled air pipe attached to a backpack unit. Only then did they open the outer door to the isolation room and cautiously enter.
Brad turned on the hospital bed as they approached. It was hard to move in his weakened condition. “Good morning Brad,” the doctor nearest him spoke, “Dr. Anderson and I are going to take some readings this morning if that’s ok with you.” Brad waved them closer. He was used to the daily routine. The doctors went to work. Had it only been three weeks since the party? Three weeks… unbelievable, he thought. That fateful day…
It had all started well enough. An early riser, Brad enjoyed a light breakfast on his sun deck. Spring was perfect this year and he determined to make the most of it. So afterwards, he went for a walk. His neighborhood was typical of the newer upper middle class homes around the country. Stately homes with well kept lawns lined by short fences amply surrounded by shrubs and flowers. But for some reason, sidewalks were hard to find. Brad did not know if the lack of sidewalks was deliberately planned to discourage people who couldn’t afford to live in these neighborhoods from entering them, but suspected it was so. In any event, he walked across the lawns of his neighbors where necessary.
Whistling while he went, Brad soon found himself tromping across the lawn of the Thompkins estate. Mrs. Thompkins was a fifty-something busy body known for her active involvement in various local social organizations. Upon sighting Brad, her Terrier tore across the lawn barking wildly.
Looking down at the little Terrier, Brad leaned on the four-foot picket fence and laughed. He never understood why old ladies like these little lap dogs. Their high-pitched barks aside, they certainly weren’t a deterrent. He turned to resume his walk when, all of a sudden, the Terrier leapt high in the air, bit him decisively on the arm and hung on for dear life. Brad cursed with pain as his arm spasmed. He grabbed the dog by its throat and forced it to release. Involuntarily, almost blindly, he flung the animal into the fence so hard that he accidentally killed it.
Then Brad took off his cashmere sweater and used it to apply pressure to his arm. He stood there dumbly examining the dog’s lifeless body. It was dead all right. That’s when he heard the scream. Mrs. Thompkins apparently had seen some portion of the struggle through her kitchen window and was shrieking hysterically while calling the police. Brad sat down on the curb and waited for them to arrive. It was going to be a long day.
Strangely, that evening had started well too. It was Fiona’s 28th birthday and they were having a party for her. Fiona was the wife of Gerald Sherrel a wealthy attorney, author, speaker, and their neighbor. The couple was wildly popular among the community’s social elite. These parties were social in nature and thrown for personal reasons, but they had serious business facets. People used these occasions and the guest lists were carefully prepared.
Which was why Brad now wondered if everything that had happened in the past three weeks was some divine judgment against them. After all, almost the entire social elite of their community had been in attendance. But no, he decided that couldn’t be. Collectively they were good people with most involved in some charity or other. And exclusion was necessary to create safe environments where people could feel comfortable. Still, Brad knew that most of them were emotionally removed from those outside their social circles. And there had been disturbing incidents like the fire three years ago at the Myers estate. Mrs. Meyers had immediately rushed to rescue an expensive painting before sounding the alarm. Her decision to rescue the painting first resulted in the unfortunate death of their maid. Brad felt a cold shiver creep up his back as he remembered Mrs. Meyer’s justifications. Yet, the party had been quite a gala and the handpicked guests mulling about talking, socializing, eating catered delicacies and drinking imported Champaign.
Only in hindsight, was it odd that nobody noticed the stranger. Brad first spotted him by the caterer with a huge plate of food. He was heavy and wore polyester clothes that could have come from a thrift store. His hair was combed to the side in a feeble attempt to cover a large balding spot. Brad wondered what the man was doing there but said nothing. The stranger, however, caught him looking and immediately walked over. He precariously balanced the huge plate of food with one hand and brought the other up for a handshake. Brad glimpsed a strange rash on the man’s arm but his social conditioning was so ingrained to avoid a direct offense that he automatically shook hands. The man grinned displaying a case of gingivitis. Brad excused himself and walked away.
Later in the evening, Brad started thinking about the man and the strange rash. Panicky, he spent considerable time in the bathroom washing and rewashing his hands with antibacterial soap until he was sure there was no way he could be affected by whatever condition the stranger had. Brad then mingled the rest of the evening talking about business and current events as usual.
Frequently he would spot the obnoxious individual approach people with the constantly refilled plate of food and shake hands with them. It was like a compulsion with him. The look of revulsion on their faces was always evident yet they always shook the stranger’s hand. More than once he felt compelled to warn the guests but fear restrained him. Not fear of the stranger, but fear of embarrassing himself. The stranger could be one of the well-heeled guest’s uncles or perhaps he was the black sheep so to speak. Brad was no different than anyone else at the party that evening. Not one of them was going to risk losing face with so many important people in attendance. Their world was carefully built and Brad, like the others, continued to merely observe the stranger.
Finally, around 10pm the stranger simply left. Brad breathed a sigh of relief. It turned out that no one had known him. One thing was sure; the stranger wouldn’t be able to stay the next time. Brad was confident now the stranger would be asked to leave if he ever appeared again. That was how it worked.
The night ended on a seemingly good note and everyone left at the appropriate hour. Brad went home and slept soundly. The next morning he enjoyed a normal day at the office and then another good night’s sleep. That, however, was the last good night sleep he would ever have. The recurring childhood nightmares began the next evening.
And the day after that, he was horrified to discover that the body of the strange uninvited guest had been found behind a gas station near the Sherrel estate. The local newspaper reported that the stranger, a pet storeowner vacationing in the area succumbed to some deadly variation of a virus. The authorities moved in destroying everything and isolating everyone associated with the body.
Apparently, the virus was not contagious until its later stages and the only people affected were those at the party. The authorities found small bite marks on him and believed an animal host was responsible for transferring the virus. Since there was no cure, they were isolated. Within three weeks, all were dead. All, that is, except Brad who was very close to dead. He looked at the rash, which now covered 50% of his body. Sobbing, he wondered what had become of his great-grandfather.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
The doctors in the next room went through a lengthy series of safety procedures. First they put on surgical scrubs followed by several pairs of latex gloves closed and taped securely at the wrists. Over this went a self-contained suit fitted with a facemask. Plugged into the side of the suit was a tightly coiled air pipe attached to a backpack unit. Only then did they open the outer door to the isolation room and cautiously enter.
Brad turned on the hospital bed as they approached. It was hard to move in his weakened condition. “Good morning Brad,” the doctor nearest him spoke, “Dr. Anderson and I are going to take some readings this morning if that’s ok with you.” Brad waved them closer. He was used to the daily routine. The doctors went to work. Had it only been three weeks since the party? Three weeks… unbelievable, he thought. That fateful day…
It had all started well enough. An early riser, Brad enjoyed a light breakfast on his sun deck. Spring was perfect this year and he determined to make the most of it. So afterwards, he went for a walk. His neighborhood was typical of the newer upper middle class homes around the country. Stately homes with well kept lawns lined by short fences amply surrounded by shrubs and flowers. But for some reason, sidewalks were hard to find. Brad did not know if the lack of sidewalks was deliberately planned to discourage people who couldn’t afford to live in these neighborhoods from entering them, but suspected it was so. In any event, he walked across the lawns of his neighbors where necessary.
Whistling while he went, Brad soon found himself tromping across the lawn of the Thompkins estate. Mrs. Thompkins was a fifty-something busy body known for her active involvement in various local social organizations. Upon sighting Brad, her Terrier tore across the lawn barking wildly.
Looking down at the little Terrier, Brad leaned on the four-foot picket fence and laughed. He never understood why old ladies like these little lap dogs. Their high-pitched barks aside, they certainly weren’t a deterrent. He turned to resume his walk when, all of a sudden, the Terrier leapt high in the air, bit him decisively on the arm and hung on for dear life. Brad cursed with pain as his arm spasmed. He grabbed the dog by its throat and forced it to release. Involuntarily, almost blindly, he flung the animal into the fence so hard that he accidentally killed it.
Then Brad took off his cashmere sweater and used it to apply pressure to his arm. He stood there dumbly examining the dog’s lifeless body. It was dead all right. That’s when he heard the scream. Mrs. Thompkins apparently had seen some portion of the struggle through her kitchen window and was shrieking hysterically while calling the police. Brad sat down on the curb and waited for them to arrive. It was going to be a long day.
Strangely, that evening had started well too. It was Fiona’s 28th birthday and they were having a party for her. Fiona was the wife of Gerald Sherrel a wealthy attorney, author, speaker, and their neighbor. The couple was wildly popular among the community’s social elite. These parties were social in nature and thrown for personal reasons, but they had serious business facets. People used these occasions and the guest lists were carefully prepared.
Which was why Brad now wondered if everything that had happened in the past three weeks was some divine judgment against them. After all, almost the entire social elite of their community had been in attendance. But no, he decided that couldn’t be. Collectively they were good people with most involved in some charity or other. And exclusion was necessary to create safe environments where people could feel comfortable. Still, Brad knew that most of them were emotionally removed from those outside their social circles. And there had been disturbing incidents like the fire three years ago at the Myers estate. Mrs. Meyers had immediately rushed to rescue an expensive painting before sounding the alarm. Her decision to rescue the painting first resulted in the unfortunate death of their maid. Brad felt a cold shiver creep up his back as he remembered Mrs. Meyer’s justifications. Yet, the party had been quite a gala and the handpicked guests mulling about talking, socializing, eating catered delicacies and drinking imported Champaign.
Only in hindsight, was it odd that nobody noticed the stranger. Brad first spotted him by the caterer with a huge plate of food. He was heavy and wore polyester clothes that could have come from a thrift store. His hair was combed to the side in a feeble attempt to cover a large balding spot. Brad wondered what the man was doing there but said nothing. The stranger, however, caught him looking and immediately walked over. He precariously balanced the huge plate of food with one hand and brought the other up for a handshake. Brad glimpsed a strange rash on the man’s arm but his social conditioning was so ingrained to avoid a direct offense that he automatically shook hands. The man grinned displaying a case of gingivitis. Brad excused himself and walked away.
Later in the evening, Brad started thinking about the man and the strange rash. Panicky, he spent considerable time in the bathroom washing and rewashing his hands with antibacterial soap until he was sure there was no way he could be affected by whatever condition the stranger had. Brad then mingled the rest of the evening talking about business and current events as usual.
Frequently he would spot the obnoxious individual approach people with the constantly refilled plate of food and shake hands with them. It was like a compulsion with him. The look of revulsion on their faces was always evident yet they always shook the stranger’s hand. More than once he felt compelled to warn the guests but fear restrained him. Not fear of the stranger, but fear of embarrassing himself. The stranger could be one of the well-heeled guest’s uncles or perhaps he was the black sheep so to speak. Brad was no different than anyone else at the party that evening. Not one of them was going to risk losing face with so many important people in attendance. Their world was carefully built and Brad, like the others, continued to merely observe the stranger.
Finally, around 10pm the stranger simply left. Brad breathed a sigh of relief. It turned out that no one had known him. One thing was sure; the stranger wouldn’t be able to stay the next time. Brad was confident now the stranger would be asked to leave if he ever appeared again. That was how it worked.
The night ended on a seemingly good note and everyone left at the appropriate hour. Brad went home and slept soundly. The next morning he enjoyed a normal day at the office and then another good night’s sleep. That, however, was the last good night sleep he would ever have. The recurring childhood nightmares began the next evening.
And the day after that, he was horrified to discover that the body of the strange uninvited guest had been found behind a gas station near the Sherrel estate. The local newspaper reported that the stranger, a pet storeowner vacationing in the area succumbed to some deadly variation of a virus. The authorities moved in destroying everything and isolating everyone associated with the body.
Apparently, the virus was not contagious until its later stages and the only people affected were those at the party. The authorities found small bite marks on him and believed an animal host was responsible for transferring the virus. Since there was no cure, they were isolated. Within three weeks, all were dead. All, that is, except Brad who was very close to dead. He looked at the rash, which now covered 50% of his body. Sobbing, he wondered what had become of his great-grandfather.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, June 1, 2007
My Crime Years
The argument raged in Spanish for over an hour. It ended with the dying old woman beating on his chest with her frail fists. “No Angel no!” she cried bitterly, “I shall have this thing. Give me my final wish: my death wish!” Angel hesitated and then slowly shook his head indicating that he understood.
Normally a passive woman who watched television by day and slept all night, his mother had been sick with cancer for years. Her time was short and he had never seen her this intense before. “Swear it to me Angel,” she demanded in a hoarse whisper, “swear it to me on your life!” “Si Mama,” Angel replied, “I swear it to you on my life.” He turned away. His mother had her last wish. The old woman lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Angel was pissed as he stepped out the front door of the cheap flat and started down the street.
The mid-day sun blazed off the pavement as he scanned the rows of project tenement housing that seemed to stretch on forever. The dumpy buildings rose like canyons and covered several city blocks. The stench just hung in the air and was so bad that the police rarely came into this neighborhood. When they did, it took them so long time to arrive that the crime was done and the suspects long gone. It had always been that way.
He stopped to catch his look in a tinted window. “Damn!” he thought. Angel was proud of his good looks and muscular physique. Only nineteen, he had been through more conflict than most people see in a lifetime. He ran his hand over his clothing and squinted up at the noonday sun.
Spinning suddenly he saw some wannabe leaning against an SUV staring at him. It was common on the weekends for guys who had grown up in these projects and moved off to better neighborhoods to return and visit whatever family remained. It amused Angel that these guys liked to pretend they were bad when they returned in their new automobiles. Hell, most of them had practically lived in their apartments like scared prisoners until they finished their education or joined the military. Either way they were soft and not any real threat.
He flexed and stared directly at the intruder. Usually this was enough to send most people packing fast but this guy either left a long time ago or was just way too stupid because he actually said, “What’s your problem?” Angel never hesitated. He instantly attacked the guy beating him down into the gutter. He didn’t even bother to pull his blade. The guy tried to fight back but was forced into submission. It ended quickly with the intruder begging for mercy. Angel laughed. He robbed him of his cash, and let him go. It wasn’t worth the trouble. The guy loped off holding his beaten face. Angel quickly pulled the stereo from the SUV and fenced it around the corner.
He felt better after that but worry gnawed him. He had to figure out how to keep his word to his mother and perform one genuine act of kindness that very day. The thought made Angel uncomfortable but he owed her. She would die in peace and afterwards he would be free to do whatever he wanted. Grinning, Angel walked out of the projects and onto the boulevard. Moving through city streets filled with people, he spotted a bus bench and stopped to give the matter some thought. After a while his eyes came to rest on a building across the street.
The Department of Motor Vehicles was located in a bad area but it hadn’t always been so. Pat remembered how quiet it had been when he came to work here twenty years ago. Eventually, however, the middle-class moved and property values dropped. Pat had moved too and like many of his neighbors made the commute to work each day. It was what it was. Seriously though, he thought, the projects aside there were still a lot of good family people here. Most worked for a living and the kids played outside during the day.
Pat was college educated but his degree was in liberal arts. Today’s economy dictated he might as well be a college dropout for all the good it would do him outside of government work. No matter, he had simple tastes and enjoyed the respect the community afforded him for teaching the mostly Spanish-speaking housewives and young people how to drive. He would have been hard pressed to find the same happiness in a well to do area. After signing a form, he motioned for the next person in line. Angel stepped up.
“Yes may I help you?” Pat asked. A vague uneasy feeling like a black cloud came over him. “I need a drivers license,” Angel said flatly. “Certainly but first you have to complete a written driver’s test.” Pat felt intuitively that this young man shouldn’t even have a driver’s license but the law was the law so he offered Angel a test booklet and pencil. Angel knew he couldn’t pass the written test. His driving experience was limited to joyriding and an occasional carjacking. He debated for a minute about stabbing Pat with the pencil and running into the street but decided against it. He needed the driver’s license to show his mother. This was something tangible and would impress her. Then he would be off the hook. He snatched the test from Pat’s hand and went to the testing area.
He doodled for a while before noticing the person next to him. It was Miguel. Miguel was one of those studious apartment prisoners that lived in the projects. He knew the score. No way he was going to cross Angel. Angel whispered quietly in a menacingly manner to Miguel for a minute and then exchanged his blank test for Miguel’s completed one. He penciled in his name and got the keys to Miguel’s Nova in the process. He took the test triumphantly back to Pat who graded it and gave him a passing score.
Now it was time for the driving test. Pat motioned him to the drivers test area and hooked the driver safety sign to the top of the vehicle. Angel nonchalantly unlocked the doors and got in. He played it cool until they were out of the parking lot. Then he turned on the radio and twisted the dial to a local rap station. Pat’s uneasy feeling grew as he reminded Angel to keep his eyes on the road.
“You asking me or telling me?” Angel asked suddenly. “I must ask you to drive safely or return. You have made one unsafe lane change already, tailgated, and are going eight miles over the speed limit. Additionally, you are playing the radio excessively loud.” Pat felt the uneasy feeling peak as he finished.
Angel made a hard sharp right into an abandoned alley and slammed on the brakes bringing the car to an abrupt stop. “You want a black eye!” he screamed. Pat jerked as if an alarm had just gone off. Angel punched him in the face. Pat’s mind filled with brilliant colors and his ears rang from the blow. Pat opened the door and tried to make a run for it. Livid now, Angel leapt out of the car and sprinted toward him. Pat only got a few yards before being rammed to the ground with a body slam. Assuming the fetal position, he covered his head with his arms. It dawned on him that only his wits could help him survive.
“You stay put! Don’t you move one muscle of your fat ass!” Angel yelled as he ripped the driver safety sign off the roof of the car and threw it against a wall. Pat didn’t move. “You put that there to make me look stupid didn’t you?” Pat didn’t say a word. Angel opened the passenger door and motioned for him to get back in the car. Pat climbed in and within a short time they were out of the alley and heading south on the freeway.
“You think I’m stupid? You think you’re better than me?” Angel yelled. Pat shook his head no. “Yeah now you don’t but you thought you were damn smart a few minutes ago didn’t you?” Angel whipped out his butterfly knife and pointed it menacingly at Pat. “Don’t you try nothing you got that: nothing!” Pat nodded that he understood. The knife disappeared back into Angel’s back pocket.
They drove for a while; rap music blaring from the speakers. Pat looked out the passenger window at the passing manufacturing showrooms and tried to think of a way out. He was scared.
Finally Angel exited the freeway and drove through some abandoned buildings before coming to a stop on a pile of cracked asphalt in a vacant parking lot. Across the street were three Latinos sitting in front of a decrepit bar in a run down low rider. Angel flashed a sign. Their response seemed to satisfy him so he led Pat out of the car, over the sleeping body of a bum, and into the bar.
The place was decrepit. A row of cracked vinyl bar stools sat positioned in front of a foul smelling bar. The dim light revealed two thread worn pool tables in the middle of a room that was vacant except for a mean looking bartender and an old man nursing a beer. Angel led Pat to a booth against the wall and yelled for the bartender to bring over a couple of boilermakers, which he did. Pat paid.
“Drink up,” Angel said after another round. Pat hadn’t touched his drinks and very respectfully explained that he didn’t drink alcohol. Angel did the unexpected. He simply shrugged and downed Pat’s drinks. “Figures” was all he said. Then he ordered yet another round and began rambling about things that Pat couldn’t attribute any meaning to. After awhile, Angel got to the point.
“Here’s how its gonna be” he finally said. “I’m going to drive us back and you’re going to give me my driver’s license. If you don’t, you’re dead. It’s that simple. If I’m in prison for this one of mine is going to kill you. That will happen. There’s only one way out of this for you. You’re going to give me the license.” Angel cocked his head and waited for Pat’s reaction. “I understand,” Pat replied. Angel made him repeat it several times until he was sure that Pat meant it.
Cruising on the freeway heading back, an intoxicated Angel was having problems keeping the car in one lane. Pat dared not say a word. By chance, a patrol car appeared from behind and flashed them. Angel cursed as he pulled over and slowed to a stop. “One word or signal and you’re dead,” he hissed. Pat knew it was no bluff.
The police officer exited his squad car and walked quickly to the driver side window. “May I see some registration and identification?” he asked. Angel started in with an explanation. He got the once over. The police officer wasn’t impressed. “Sir, could you step away from the vehicle for me please?” he said. Angel was able to start the car and floor it in one easy motion. He left the officer in a cloud of burning rubber.
Quickly he brought the car up to over a hundred miles an hour and recklessly weaved between two cars. Pat covered his eyes. A short time later a helicopter appeared overhead. Pat dared to look and saw several police cars enter the freeway and position themselves about 100 yards behind them. Angel screamed curses and floored it narrowly avoiding an officer attempting to deploy a spike strip.
After twenty more danger filled minutes, a squad car sped up closing the distance between them, pointed a gun at the rear tires and shot them out. Angel lost control of the vehicle, which spun in circles at 80 miles an hour barely missing a motorcycle rider. The Nova caught a guardrail and flipped end over end. Angel was thrown from the car and in what was later termed a “freak accident,” impaled on a guard post as he landed. Pat had been wearing his seat belt and stayed in the car. The passenger side air bag saved his life.
The police rushed to free Pat from the wreckage marveling that he had no serious injuries. Pat looked over at the dying Angel. Spittle and blood ran down the side of his mouth a sign of massive internal damage. “Too late mama! It’s too late...” he gasped as some unseen terror took hold of him. Screaming a piercing wail Angel tried to sit up one last time but his body shuddered and grew still. It was over. Pat shook like a leaf as the police escorted him away from the scene. He was a very lucky man.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Normally a passive woman who watched television by day and slept all night, his mother had been sick with cancer for years. Her time was short and he had never seen her this intense before. “Swear it to me Angel,” she demanded in a hoarse whisper, “swear it to me on your life!” “Si Mama,” Angel replied, “I swear it to you on my life.” He turned away. His mother had her last wish. The old woman lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Angel was pissed as he stepped out the front door of the cheap flat and started down the street.
The mid-day sun blazed off the pavement as he scanned the rows of project tenement housing that seemed to stretch on forever. The dumpy buildings rose like canyons and covered several city blocks. The stench just hung in the air and was so bad that the police rarely came into this neighborhood. When they did, it took them so long time to arrive that the crime was done and the suspects long gone. It had always been that way.
He stopped to catch his look in a tinted window. “Damn!” he thought. Angel was proud of his good looks and muscular physique. Only nineteen, he had been through more conflict than most people see in a lifetime. He ran his hand over his clothing and squinted up at the noonday sun.
Spinning suddenly he saw some wannabe leaning against an SUV staring at him. It was common on the weekends for guys who had grown up in these projects and moved off to better neighborhoods to return and visit whatever family remained. It amused Angel that these guys liked to pretend they were bad when they returned in their new automobiles. Hell, most of them had practically lived in their apartments like scared prisoners until they finished their education or joined the military. Either way they were soft and not any real threat.
He flexed and stared directly at the intruder. Usually this was enough to send most people packing fast but this guy either left a long time ago or was just way too stupid because he actually said, “What’s your problem?” Angel never hesitated. He instantly attacked the guy beating him down into the gutter. He didn’t even bother to pull his blade. The guy tried to fight back but was forced into submission. It ended quickly with the intruder begging for mercy. Angel laughed. He robbed him of his cash, and let him go. It wasn’t worth the trouble. The guy loped off holding his beaten face. Angel quickly pulled the stereo from the SUV and fenced it around the corner.
He felt better after that but worry gnawed him. He had to figure out how to keep his word to his mother and perform one genuine act of kindness that very day. The thought made Angel uncomfortable but he owed her. She would die in peace and afterwards he would be free to do whatever he wanted. Grinning, Angel walked out of the projects and onto the boulevard. Moving through city streets filled with people, he spotted a bus bench and stopped to give the matter some thought. After a while his eyes came to rest on a building across the street.
The Department of Motor Vehicles was located in a bad area but it hadn’t always been so. Pat remembered how quiet it had been when he came to work here twenty years ago. Eventually, however, the middle-class moved and property values dropped. Pat had moved too and like many of his neighbors made the commute to work each day. It was what it was. Seriously though, he thought, the projects aside there were still a lot of good family people here. Most worked for a living and the kids played outside during the day.
Pat was college educated but his degree was in liberal arts. Today’s economy dictated he might as well be a college dropout for all the good it would do him outside of government work. No matter, he had simple tastes and enjoyed the respect the community afforded him for teaching the mostly Spanish-speaking housewives and young people how to drive. He would have been hard pressed to find the same happiness in a well to do area. After signing a form, he motioned for the next person in line. Angel stepped up.
“Yes may I help you?” Pat asked. A vague uneasy feeling like a black cloud came over him. “I need a drivers license,” Angel said flatly. “Certainly but first you have to complete a written driver’s test.” Pat felt intuitively that this young man shouldn’t even have a driver’s license but the law was the law so he offered Angel a test booklet and pencil. Angel knew he couldn’t pass the written test. His driving experience was limited to joyriding and an occasional carjacking. He debated for a minute about stabbing Pat with the pencil and running into the street but decided against it. He needed the driver’s license to show his mother. This was something tangible and would impress her. Then he would be off the hook. He snatched the test from Pat’s hand and went to the testing area.
He doodled for a while before noticing the person next to him. It was Miguel. Miguel was one of those studious apartment prisoners that lived in the projects. He knew the score. No way he was going to cross Angel. Angel whispered quietly in a menacingly manner to Miguel for a minute and then exchanged his blank test for Miguel’s completed one. He penciled in his name and got the keys to Miguel’s Nova in the process. He took the test triumphantly back to Pat who graded it and gave him a passing score.
Now it was time for the driving test. Pat motioned him to the drivers test area and hooked the driver safety sign to the top of the vehicle. Angel nonchalantly unlocked the doors and got in. He played it cool until they were out of the parking lot. Then he turned on the radio and twisted the dial to a local rap station. Pat’s uneasy feeling grew as he reminded Angel to keep his eyes on the road.
“You asking me or telling me?” Angel asked suddenly. “I must ask you to drive safely or return. You have made one unsafe lane change already, tailgated, and are going eight miles over the speed limit. Additionally, you are playing the radio excessively loud.” Pat felt the uneasy feeling peak as he finished.
Angel made a hard sharp right into an abandoned alley and slammed on the brakes bringing the car to an abrupt stop. “You want a black eye!” he screamed. Pat jerked as if an alarm had just gone off. Angel punched him in the face. Pat’s mind filled with brilliant colors and his ears rang from the blow. Pat opened the door and tried to make a run for it. Livid now, Angel leapt out of the car and sprinted toward him. Pat only got a few yards before being rammed to the ground with a body slam. Assuming the fetal position, he covered his head with his arms. It dawned on him that only his wits could help him survive.
“You stay put! Don’t you move one muscle of your fat ass!” Angel yelled as he ripped the driver safety sign off the roof of the car and threw it against a wall. Pat didn’t move. “You put that there to make me look stupid didn’t you?” Pat didn’t say a word. Angel opened the passenger door and motioned for him to get back in the car. Pat climbed in and within a short time they were out of the alley and heading south on the freeway.
“You think I’m stupid? You think you’re better than me?” Angel yelled. Pat shook his head no. “Yeah now you don’t but you thought you were damn smart a few minutes ago didn’t you?” Angel whipped out his butterfly knife and pointed it menacingly at Pat. “Don’t you try nothing you got that: nothing!” Pat nodded that he understood. The knife disappeared back into Angel’s back pocket.
They drove for a while; rap music blaring from the speakers. Pat looked out the passenger window at the passing manufacturing showrooms and tried to think of a way out. He was scared.
Finally Angel exited the freeway and drove through some abandoned buildings before coming to a stop on a pile of cracked asphalt in a vacant parking lot. Across the street were three Latinos sitting in front of a decrepit bar in a run down low rider. Angel flashed a sign. Their response seemed to satisfy him so he led Pat out of the car, over the sleeping body of a bum, and into the bar.
The place was decrepit. A row of cracked vinyl bar stools sat positioned in front of a foul smelling bar. The dim light revealed two thread worn pool tables in the middle of a room that was vacant except for a mean looking bartender and an old man nursing a beer. Angel led Pat to a booth against the wall and yelled for the bartender to bring over a couple of boilermakers, which he did. Pat paid.
“Drink up,” Angel said after another round. Pat hadn’t touched his drinks and very respectfully explained that he didn’t drink alcohol. Angel did the unexpected. He simply shrugged and downed Pat’s drinks. “Figures” was all he said. Then he ordered yet another round and began rambling about things that Pat couldn’t attribute any meaning to. After awhile, Angel got to the point.
“Here’s how its gonna be” he finally said. “I’m going to drive us back and you’re going to give me my driver’s license. If you don’t, you’re dead. It’s that simple. If I’m in prison for this one of mine is going to kill you. That will happen. There’s only one way out of this for you. You’re going to give me the license.” Angel cocked his head and waited for Pat’s reaction. “I understand,” Pat replied. Angel made him repeat it several times until he was sure that Pat meant it.
Cruising on the freeway heading back, an intoxicated Angel was having problems keeping the car in one lane. Pat dared not say a word. By chance, a patrol car appeared from behind and flashed them. Angel cursed as he pulled over and slowed to a stop. “One word or signal and you’re dead,” he hissed. Pat knew it was no bluff.
The police officer exited his squad car and walked quickly to the driver side window. “May I see some registration and identification?” he asked. Angel started in with an explanation. He got the once over. The police officer wasn’t impressed. “Sir, could you step away from the vehicle for me please?” he said. Angel was able to start the car and floor it in one easy motion. He left the officer in a cloud of burning rubber.
Quickly he brought the car up to over a hundred miles an hour and recklessly weaved between two cars. Pat covered his eyes. A short time later a helicopter appeared overhead. Pat dared to look and saw several police cars enter the freeway and position themselves about 100 yards behind them. Angel screamed curses and floored it narrowly avoiding an officer attempting to deploy a spike strip.
After twenty more danger filled minutes, a squad car sped up closing the distance between them, pointed a gun at the rear tires and shot them out. Angel lost control of the vehicle, which spun in circles at 80 miles an hour barely missing a motorcycle rider. The Nova caught a guardrail and flipped end over end. Angel was thrown from the car and in what was later termed a “freak accident,” impaled on a guard post as he landed. Pat had been wearing his seat belt and stayed in the car. The passenger side air bag saved his life.
The police rushed to free Pat from the wreckage marveling that he had no serious injuries. Pat looked over at the dying Angel. Spittle and blood ran down the side of his mouth a sign of massive internal damage. “Too late mama! It’s too late...” he gasped as some unseen terror took hold of him. Screaming a piercing wail Angel tried to sit up one last time but his body shuddered and grew still. It was over. Pat shook like a leaf as the police escorted him away from the scene. He was a very lucky man.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, January 1, 2007
Mad and Ness
How I came to be in those dark woods on that moonlit night I have no idea. Two things I do remember, however, was that I was lost and it was cold. The dirt path in front of me was rugged and the forest towered on both sides leaving me with the impression that creatures not quite right inhabited these woods.
I pushed on until the path widened and broke free of the forest. By the light of the moon I could see a quaint two story wood and field stone cottage in the middle of a meadow. Light streamed from the downstairs windows and as I approached so did the sound of conversation. The path ended at a solid oak door that was both inviting and intimidating. I knocked deliberately.
“It’s open!” voices cried in unison. I pushed the door open and walked into an entryway. Directly in front of me was a long winding staircase that reached upward to the second story I presumed for it was too dark to see where it ended. To my far right was a kitchen and in between a living room with a couple the like of which I had never seen before seated on a Victorian couch staring directly at me. They motioned for me to close the door and enter so I complied and took a seat directly across from them in an old rocker next to the fireplace.
The woman was waif with the bluest eyes and whitest hair. Pale, slender, and dressed black from head to foot, it was as if she had just returned from a wake. The man, who was obviously her husband, looked very different. He was a strong man with big hands and a face that looked almost violently mean yet hid a crafty smile.
The man spoke first. “Always coming and going, we’ll die of a draft,” he stated somewhat somberly. “Forgive me,” I replied, “To my recollection I have never seen this place before and am quite lost. While I appreciate your hospitality might I inquire as to my hosts identity?”
The woman answered next. “Of course dear,” she said leaning forward to pat my hand in a gesture of feigned empathy, “This is Mad and I am Ness. We are the Starks.” “He knows that already,” the man snapped, “don’t you ever tire of reminding him.” I raised my eyebrows. “Your room is upstairs,” Ness added pointing toward the entryway stairs. After suffering several more minutes of Mad’s glare, I decided to leave the living room.
Following the entryway to the stairs I stared up into the blackness and felt suddenly alone and fearful. What was that? Was it the stress of my current predicament and the strange discussion I had just engaged in or was that actually the sound of something shuffling ominously above me. A cold shiver ran down my back. I stepped back into the light and called to the Starks, “Is anyone up there?” “No dear” Ness replied, “just you.” “He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Mad muttered. Stepping back to the stairs and not wanting to offend my new hosts any further, I stood there quietly for a long time before summoning the courage to continue.
Once my eyes acclimated to the dark, I took the stairs one at a time and made my way to the top. There, I surveyed the upstairs. Several doors were locked save one. I turned the knob and pushed the door open. The moonlight streaming in through the bedroom window made it easy to see a dresser and stool in a corner of the room. I entered and saw a simple bed in the middle of the room with a wooden chest at its foot. On the bed were the remains of some poor unfortunate.
As plain as day it was and fear gripped me as I moved in for a closer inspection. The skeleton appeared fresh and completely intact with not so much as a speck of dust evident. My stomach tightened as I contemplated the situation. Obviously the Starks were aware that a skeleton was lying in one of their guest rooms and were not bothered in the slightest. Furthermore, they had offered me the use of the room for the night. This was not good.
Somewhat timidly I bent down and opened the chest searching for some manner of identification. I was at a loss for words at what I found. All of my personal belongings were present in the chest. My clothes were neatly folded on top and underneath were my tools and other assorted items that I carried when traveling. None of this made sense and it was at this moment that I looked up. Looking directly at me was the skeleton now seated on the bed rather than lying lifelessly on it.
I grabbed my chest in an attempt to still my heart as I stumbled to my feet and stepped back. The skeleton appeared to be enjoying my reaction and laughed eerily as it got to its feet. I could not believe my eyes.
“You’re standing,” I finally managed. My face felt like lead. “Yes I am,” the skeleton replied seriously, “and I want my body back.” “Your body?” I questioned, “Who are you?” The skeleton rose to its full stature and fixed its hollow eyes on me as it spoke these words, “I am you!”
Horror overcame me and I heard hysterical laughing from the Starks who had made their way to the bedroom doorway. “Give him his body back sweetie,” Ness said menacingly. In a twinkle of an eye, I grabbed the stool and smashed out the window. Leaping into the moonlit meadow I ran for the woods saving to look back only once. It was then that I saw the skeleton climb through the broken window, drop to the ground and begin its pursuit.
I reached the woods and tried to escape by running randomly through the forest. Soon, however, the forest hemmed me in, the trees arching strangely allowing only one possible course. I followed the pattern for some time until the great towering trees relented and I found myself on a familiar dirt path. The wind rose moaning and whistling and it grew colder still.
I grew dreadfully afraid and pushed on through the darkness. Then I heard footsteps in the distance and ran even faster. Once I glimpsed the awful creature and felt a sort of paralysis one only feels when face to face with such horrors. I ran for what seemed like an hour. I ran until my lungs felt as if they were on fire and I believed I could not take another step.
Finally, breathing heavily I crawled into a tangle of bushes. I lay on my side in the moist dirt looking frantically for some sign of the skeleton.
A long time passed without incident and I began to think perhaps I had indeed escaped. I closed my eyes, rolled onto my back and breathed a sigh of relief. To my horror, I felt something hard yet supple and warm brush against my cheek. I opened my eyes and came face to face with the skeleton lying next to me. “We are one again,” were the last words and the last thing I remember as the skeleton ripped open my chest.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
I pushed on until the path widened and broke free of the forest. By the light of the moon I could see a quaint two story wood and field stone cottage in the middle of a meadow. Light streamed from the downstairs windows and as I approached so did the sound of conversation. The path ended at a solid oak door that was both inviting and intimidating. I knocked deliberately.
“It’s open!” voices cried in unison. I pushed the door open and walked into an entryway. Directly in front of me was a long winding staircase that reached upward to the second story I presumed for it was too dark to see where it ended. To my far right was a kitchen and in between a living room with a couple the like of which I had never seen before seated on a Victorian couch staring directly at me. They motioned for me to close the door and enter so I complied and took a seat directly across from them in an old rocker next to the fireplace.
The woman was waif with the bluest eyes and whitest hair. Pale, slender, and dressed black from head to foot, it was as if she had just returned from a wake. The man, who was obviously her husband, looked very different. He was a strong man with big hands and a face that looked almost violently mean yet hid a crafty smile.
The man spoke first. “Always coming and going, we’ll die of a draft,” he stated somewhat somberly. “Forgive me,” I replied, “To my recollection I have never seen this place before and am quite lost. While I appreciate your hospitality might I inquire as to my hosts identity?”
The woman answered next. “Of course dear,” she said leaning forward to pat my hand in a gesture of feigned empathy, “This is Mad and I am Ness. We are the Starks.” “He knows that already,” the man snapped, “don’t you ever tire of reminding him.” I raised my eyebrows. “Your room is upstairs,” Ness added pointing toward the entryway stairs. After suffering several more minutes of Mad’s glare, I decided to leave the living room.
Following the entryway to the stairs I stared up into the blackness and felt suddenly alone and fearful. What was that? Was it the stress of my current predicament and the strange discussion I had just engaged in or was that actually the sound of something shuffling ominously above me. A cold shiver ran down my back. I stepped back into the light and called to the Starks, “Is anyone up there?” “No dear” Ness replied, “just you.” “He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Mad muttered. Stepping back to the stairs and not wanting to offend my new hosts any further, I stood there quietly for a long time before summoning the courage to continue.
Once my eyes acclimated to the dark, I took the stairs one at a time and made my way to the top. There, I surveyed the upstairs. Several doors were locked save one. I turned the knob and pushed the door open. The moonlight streaming in through the bedroom window made it easy to see a dresser and stool in a corner of the room. I entered and saw a simple bed in the middle of the room with a wooden chest at its foot. On the bed were the remains of some poor unfortunate.
As plain as day it was and fear gripped me as I moved in for a closer inspection. The skeleton appeared fresh and completely intact with not so much as a speck of dust evident. My stomach tightened as I contemplated the situation. Obviously the Starks were aware that a skeleton was lying in one of their guest rooms and were not bothered in the slightest. Furthermore, they had offered me the use of the room for the night. This was not good.
Somewhat timidly I bent down and opened the chest searching for some manner of identification. I was at a loss for words at what I found. All of my personal belongings were present in the chest. My clothes were neatly folded on top and underneath were my tools and other assorted items that I carried when traveling. None of this made sense and it was at this moment that I looked up. Looking directly at me was the skeleton now seated on the bed rather than lying lifelessly on it.
I grabbed my chest in an attempt to still my heart as I stumbled to my feet and stepped back. The skeleton appeared to be enjoying my reaction and laughed eerily as it got to its feet. I could not believe my eyes.
“You’re standing,” I finally managed. My face felt like lead. “Yes I am,” the skeleton replied seriously, “and I want my body back.” “Your body?” I questioned, “Who are you?” The skeleton rose to its full stature and fixed its hollow eyes on me as it spoke these words, “I am you!”
Horror overcame me and I heard hysterical laughing from the Starks who had made their way to the bedroom doorway. “Give him his body back sweetie,” Ness said menacingly. In a twinkle of an eye, I grabbed the stool and smashed out the window. Leaping into the moonlit meadow I ran for the woods saving to look back only once. It was then that I saw the skeleton climb through the broken window, drop to the ground and begin its pursuit.
I reached the woods and tried to escape by running randomly through the forest. Soon, however, the forest hemmed me in, the trees arching strangely allowing only one possible course. I followed the pattern for some time until the great towering trees relented and I found myself on a familiar dirt path. The wind rose moaning and whistling and it grew colder still.
I grew dreadfully afraid and pushed on through the darkness. Then I heard footsteps in the distance and ran even faster. Once I glimpsed the awful creature and felt a sort of paralysis one only feels when face to face with such horrors. I ran for what seemed like an hour. I ran until my lungs felt as if they were on fire and I believed I could not take another step.
Finally, breathing heavily I crawled into a tangle of bushes. I lay on my side in the moist dirt looking frantically for some sign of the skeleton.
A long time passed without incident and I began to think perhaps I had indeed escaped. I closed my eyes, rolled onto my back and breathed a sigh of relief. To my horror, I felt something hard yet supple and warm brush against my cheek. I opened my eyes and came face to face with the skeleton lying next to me. “We are one again,” were the last words and the last thing I remember as the skeleton ripped open my chest.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
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