Sweet Dreams

A Collection of Horror Stories

 

M. Scott Everard

 

 

 

 

 

This is a small collection of short stories along the horror genre that I’ve written over the years.  During my Navy days I used to write short stories to help pass the time while I was at sea.  Make sure you read them very late at night, with a drink, candlelight, no music, no noise, alone.  Then try to go to sleep.

Sweet Dreams.

                                      Scott

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

              Rats

         

 

          Dr. and Mrs. Thomas Jeffries had just tucked their three year old

          son into his comfortable bed for the night.  It had been a very long,        

          tiring and busy day for the entire family. Jimmy had been rubbing his eyes

          for the past ten minutes and

          this was one of those definitive indicators that bedtime had

          arrived.  Mom smiledto herself as she reached for the Winnie the Pooh

          lightswitch on the wall.  The light in Jimmy's room

          went out.  The only light in the room now came from the street

          lamp across the road.  It cast a yellow haze through the sheer

          curtains and into the small upstairs room.  The eerie light forced

          shadows upon the closet door, the kind of

          shadows that look like a man if you stare at them long enough.  Mom

          silently closed the bedroom door to his room and tiptoed away as she

          whispered for him to have sweet dreams.

          Scratch, scratch, scratchy, scratch.

          Scratch, scratch came the scratching sound of claws on a

          hardwood floor.

          It was coming from the direction of the closet.

          Sitting up in his bed, Jimmy noticed that the closet door was

          cracked open.    Jimmy allowed his three year old imagination to take

          control.

          Scratch, scratch, scratch.

          It sounded like an animal, maybe a monster, a monster with big

          ugly, yellow teeth, and a long black tongue that hissed and drooled

          venom.

          Goose bumps formed over Jimmy's entire body as he peeked a

          quick look around the edge of his single bed.

          A rat!

          The boy screamed, "Mommy, Daddy, Rats!  Rats!"

          As he screamed, he hastily jumped beneath the sanctuary of his

          covers. Trembling, he made sure that he was totally sealed beneath

          them as he continued to scream.

          Moments later the door to his room flew open.  The light came

          on, but the quivering child continued to shake with fright as his

          mother attempted to comfort him.

          "Jimmy, what is it sweetheart?"

          He heard the reassuring sound of his mother's soft voice and felt

          the comforting motion of her hand on his sweating hair.

          "Mommy!" he blurted aloud.  He poked his head from the

          magical refuge of his Ninja Turtle sheets.

          "Mom, Dad,  big rat in my room!  A giant!  Over there."  He

          pointed a trembling finger to the foot of his bed.  Mom attempted to

          calm him down as  Jimmy's father began a methodical search of the

          room.  He looked in all of the typical

          monster hiding places: under the bed, in the closet, and behind and

          under every piece of furniture in the room.

          No rats.

          "Son, you were having a nightmare.  You'll be alright now."

          They tucked him in bed once again, kissed him, and turned out the

          light.  They closed the door behind them as

          they left.  Jimmy was wide awake now and his heart was still

          pounding.  It seemed so real.  He pulled a sheet over his head just in

          case and kept his eyes and ears open.  He was still very tired and

          began to slip away into a light sleep.

          Scratch, scratch, scratchy scratch.

          Jimmy felt the tapping of little rat feet on his head.  He jumped

          up brushing the sheet aside with a furious flurry of arm movements.

          Two rats!

          "Two rats on my bed!" he screamed, beginning to panic.

          "Mom, Dad, Rats!  Rats!" screaming so loud that the veins on

          his neck puffed out and turned blue.   He shivered uncontrollably

          beneath his sheets.

          Again, the door to his room opened.   The light came on with a loud

          slap of his father's hand.

          "Son, you've got to stop this!  What is wrong with you?  Don't

          you realize that the night belongs to your mother and me?  This is the

          only time that we have to spend together alone!"

          "Rats, Daddy, Rats!" the boy whimpered.  His father gave a very

          quick, token search of the room and then shook his head in disgust.

          Extinguishing the light with another slap

          of frustration and anger, Jimmy's father stormed out of the room.

          Jimmy cried uncontrollably, pulling the sheets over his head.

          Scratch, scratch, scratch.

          Just then he felt something on his legs.  He grit his teeth and

          dared to look.  Rats!

          Rats everywhere!

          There were rats coming out of his closet by the dozens.  Rats of

          every shape, size, and color were scurrying around the room.  They

          were guided by tiny red eyes and dragged

          leathery tails. Some climbed the curtains and others jumped to

          the bed.  Two of the larger rats were fighting, another was trying to

          nibble at Jimmy's toes through the sheets.

          "Mommy, Daddy, PLEASE!!"

          Jimmy was hysterical with terror.

 

          Mommy and Daddy, although in the room next door to Jimmy's,

          ignored the desperate screams of their little boy.  They were far too

          busy to respond to Jimmy's father was kneeling in the closet of their

          master bedroom, the closet that shared a wall with

          Jimmy's closet.  There was a small rat-sized hole at the bottom

          of the closet wall.

          Standing behind him was Jimmy's mother.  The two adults were

          smiling a maniacle smile.  Beside the mother was a large rat filled

          cage.

          "Hand me another one, sweetheart." he said demonically.

          "Shall we whip him this time, darling?" she grinned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           THE UNFINISHED BEDROOM

 

 

             I was five.  My sister was eight.  We had just

          moved to Arlington, Texas  from Baton Rouge,

          Louisiana.  Our family was lined up across from

          the neighbors like we were about to play red

          rover red rover.  We were being introduced one

          by one.  Our houses were the only ones in the

          new subdivision.  We had a five -bedroom house,

          but the last bedroom was unfinished.  The front

          of the house looked like a picture directly out of

          a magazine. It was a two-story house with a large

          yard.  The two houses looked like castles in a

          wasteland.  The others lots were roped off, but

          civilization had yet to put its mark upon the soil.

          Growing up in the new house, I had a room to

          myself.  I was upstairs.

          Down the hall, at the top of the stairs, was my

          sisters' room.  At the end of the hall was

          the bathroom.  To the left was a door that led to

          my parents room.  Through that door and

          at the other end of their room was a door that

          remained locked.  It led to the unfinished

          bedroom.  I was afraid of that room.   As a child I

          was threatened, more than once, of being locked

          inside the unfinished bedroom.  My mother knew

          of my fear.  She used it to her advantage.

          Whenever I was naughty, I was threatened to be

          banished inside that room.   I had never been in

          that room.  From the outside you could see two

          windows in the front.  It had another window on

          the side.  At night, although I'm sure it was

          simply the imagination of childhood, I could

          swear that someone was peering down at me

          from one of those windows.  The windows had

          curtains on them.  But it was just a front,

          because I was told, the room was, afterall,

          unfinished.  Yet,  there were those times.

          Those times that make you want to turn around

          really quickly to catches someone staring

          at you.  Those times that you take a deep breath,

          brace yourself for the worst, and felt prepared for

          the horror of what you might see.  I never saw

          anything but the feeling was still there.  Was it

          the curtain that moved when I turned around?  I

          never knew.  Maybe I didn't want to know.  I

          lived in that house for almost twenty years and

          never knew.  When the house was put up for sale,

          the bedroom remained unfinished.  My family, my

          wife and three children, were on our way to

          Arlington to settle the affairs of my parents.  The

          house was the last of it.  My children were

          curious about the house that I had grown up in.  I

          was reluctant at first to bring the entire family,

          but my wife was adamant.  I had never told

          any one of my childhood fears of that house.

          Even though they were unfounded, the fears

          were real.  I had a very normal childhood.  I

          made good grades in catholic school.  I was

          an altar boy.  I played baseball with the best of

          them.  I was a pretty good kid.  My parents

          gave me the best of everything.

          When I graduated from high school, a military

          academy in South Texas,  I joined the

          service.  I never set foot in that house again.

          Until now.  "When are we gonna get there,

          Daddy?" my son whined.  "Leave your father

          alone.  He's trying to drive.  We're almost

          there."

            Just a few more miles."I drove the loaded down

          car across the railroad tracks, where I

          had played as a child, and then down the final

          street to the house.  Arlington had grown

          quite a bit since I had last been here.  The houses

          looked old.  Not as I had remembered.

          We took the final turn and a chill ran down my

          spine.  There it was.   The yard was in

          desperate need of care.  The paint was peeling

          from the front door.  One of the upstairs

          windows was shattered.  It was the window that

          had been in my room.  I parked the car

          along the street and stopped the engine.  I had a

          key to the house but from the condition

          of the structure I really didn't think that I would

          need it.  I walked to the front door

          forgetting about my family.  I was mesmerized.  I

          pushed the key into the lock and turned.

          I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped.

          "Huh?"

          "Honey, don't be so jumpy." my wife reassured

          me.

          I opened the door slowly.  To the left, inside on

          the wall, was a light switch.  One switch

          was for the outside light and the other was for the

          tiny foyer that I was now standing in.

          I gave them both a flick.  Nothing.

          "If I remember correctly, the breaker box is in the

          garage."

          I walked into the living room.  The hardwood

          floor was dusty and the entire room was

          like a musty catacomb.  I continued my pace

          through the living room and into the dining

          room.

          The air was no different.  I felt my way through

          the cobwebs and foul air until I came to

          the stairs.  Looking up I could remember the time

          that I fell down these very steps.  I

          climbed.

          At the top of the stairs I took a right.  It was the

          door to my old bedroom.  I opened the

          door and showed the room to my children.  They

          weren't impressed.  It was a large room,

          but it was in decay.  On the floor was broken

          glass and several rocks.  The closet was bare

          except for the rat droppings here and there.  They

          had gnawed a hole in the wall that led

          to the closet of my sisters room.

             I walked to the end of the hallway and opened

          the door to my parents' room.  There, at

          the other side, was the door to the unfinished

          bedroom.  An old fear stirred within me.

            "What's in there, Daddy?"

          I ignored the questions of my kids and walked to

          the locked door.  I tried the key but it

          didn't fit.  I tried the knob but it wouldn't budge.

          "Honey, you've got to open that before we sell

          the house."

          With that, I put both hands on the knob and

          slammed my shoulder into the door.  It gave

          way.  I was sweating profusely.

             I opened the broken door and was hit with a

          hideous odor.  It was worse than the rest

          of the house.  I pulled a lighter out of my pocket

          so that I could see.

             What I saw were the decayed remains of

          children.  The skeletal remains of children that

          had been bound and gagged were hanging from

          every rafter.  By one of the front windows

          there was a skeleton of a child, its hand still on

          the curtain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               What's Up Doc

 

 

             I really didn't mind cooking for myself.  It was

          just a pain in the neck, that's all.  But I

          reluctantly accepted the chore.  What choice did I

          have?  It was doing the dishes that actually got

          my goat. I never cared much for scraping food

          goo off of plates.  Once I had completed the task

          I headed for the refrigerator.  I grabbed a well

          deserved, cold Bud from the fridge.  I picked up

          some nuts from the cabinet and made a beeline

          for the couch.

          I snatched the remote control from beneath the

          seat cushion and searched the many channels that

          flew past my eyes.  I found the news station and

          settled back for some real world entertainment.  I

          casually leaned over to the coffee table and

          grabbed a handful of nuts.  I always thought that

          beer and nuts were a perfect marriage.

          CRAAACK!!

          Pain surged through my mouth like a needle.  I

          felt a chunk of 'something' in my mouth.

          "I hope it's part of the nut." I prayed.  I rolled it

          around in my mouth with my tongue until

          I could retrieve it with my fingers.

          "Damn!"

          It was a piece of tooth.

          "Dentist!"

          The word scared me.  But what choice did I

          have.

             I was up most of the night with severe pain.

          The time slowly crawled by as I waited for

          the dental clinic to open.  I called to make an

          appointment.  The receptionists  voice was

          typical of a dental office.  Nondescript.

          Businesslike.  More like a POW camp, actually.

          "Three o'clock okay, sir?"

          "Just fine." I said hesitantly.

          Hanging up the phone, I felt a sudden yellow

          streak climbing up my spine.  I truly hate

          dentists.

             I arrived about five minutes early, although I

          don't know why.  They always make you

          wait no matter what time you arrive.  I

          approached the little window and pushed a black

          button that was on the wall.  A buzzer sounded.

          The receptionist had her back to me.

          "I'm Michael May.  I have an appointment with

          Dr. Meyers for three.  Cracked tooth."

          "Have a seat." she stated clinically.  "I'll call you."

          I was the only person in the waiting room so I

          had my choice of uncomfortable chairs.  I

          sat next to the plastic palm tree and picked up a

          pile of magazines.  You know the ones.

          They were all outdated and all as boring as the

          drab paintings that hid the blemishes on the

          walls.

             The clinic was average in size.  It was used by

          three dentists that shared the same

          waiting room.  Each dentist had their own

          assistants.  If Dr. Meyers still had the same one

          that I remembered it would help to ease my

          nervousness. She was a knockout.  As I

          flipped through the pages of Dental Almanac the

          door leading to the dental torture

          chamber opened.

          "Mr. May please follow me."

          It wasn't the same woman that I remembered, but

          this one was cute too.  I followed her

          down the familiar hallway, smelling alcohol the

          entire way.  She led me into one of the

          vacant rooms and I reclined on the chair.  We

          went through all of the usual rituals.  She

          placed the embarrassing bib on me and took some

          x-rays.  Her smile never revealed more

          than her thin, red lips.  She was very

          professional.  "Relax, the dentist will be with you

          shortly.

          "Of course this gave me time to scan the room

          and to look at all of the barbaric objects

          that hung from the huge machine to my left.

          Drills of all shapes and sizes.  The infamous

          spit tank.  The spot light that hovered above my

          head.  I closed my eyes and attempted to

          determine why it is that mankind can devise smart

          bombs and missiles yet we can't get

          past drills and spit tanks.  Time passed and I

          opened my eyes to view the assistant once

          again.

          "Dr. Meyers was called away.  One of his

          colleagues can see you in about five minutes."

          Just as I was about to fall off to sleep I heard an

          unfamiliar voice.  I turned my head to

          speak and saw a dwarf of a man washing his

          hands in the sink.  He was standing on a step

          stool.  As he dried his hands he stepped down.  I

          estimated his height to be no more than

          three and a half feet.  This guy was a midget, a

          dwarf!  He pushed the stool with his

          clubbed foot over to the cabinet and stuck the

          x-rays up to the light.  I could see the

          cracked tooth very clearly.  The little doctor

          turned towards me.  He began to scale the

          side of my chair like a miniature mountain

          climber.  When he climbed up high enough he

          straddled my chest with his pudgy little legs

          dangling on either side of me.  I tried to

          object, to say something, anything, but the words

          wouldn't come.

          "Open Wide."

          The tiny man probed my mouth and prodded my

          gums as dentists love to do.  Suddenly

          I heard a familiar sound.  I could see the source

          of the distinctive noise.  Was this midget

          out of his mind?!?  I tried to move but found that

          my arms and legs were bound.  I was

          trapped.  I was helpless.  This maniac had his

          stubby finger on the trigger of a Black and

          Decker drill.  It had at least a half inch bit on it.

          It was coming for my mouth.  I waited

          for the excruciating pain.

             I woke up with a cold sweat dripping from my

          brow.  I looked at my watch.  It was two

          thirty.  The dentist!  I arrived in record time to be

          greeted by a lovely receptionist.

          "Mr. May  please have a seat.  Dr. Meyers won't

          be able to see you, but his colleague will

          be right with you."

          My eyes shifted from her soft brown eyes to her

          opening mouth.  Her lips were red and full.

          Her smile changed from a sweet, closed mouth

          smile to a grimacing display of white teeth

          that had a perfect half inch hole drilled in it--

          dead center.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        

 

                   The Exchange

         

 

 

            Bobby had always slept in the same bedroom as

          far back as he could remember.  His sister slept in

          the room next to his.  Her room was at the top of

          the stairs on the right.  Her window faced the

          street.  Bobbys'' room was opposite to hers, next

          to the bathroom.  He was ten, she was fourteen,

          and they were going to switch rooms.

             Bobbys' mother explained to him that his sister

          was at the age that demanded a little more

          privacy than a boy required.  She needed a room

          whose window didn't overlook the front yard.

          What his sister wanted, his sister got.  Bobby

          didn't care.  The two rooms were about the same

          size.  Besides, what good would it do to

          complain.  He'd simply get punished and have to

          switch anyway.  He quickly agreed and began to

          move his things out of his room.

             It didn't take as long as he had anticipated.

          Other than his clothes, toys, and baseball

          card collections, what else was there?  His sister,

          on the other hand, immediately found that not

          everything that she owned was going to fit in her

          new closet.  It was slightly smaller than her old

          one.  Of course, that meant that a few of her

          precious items would be left behind to clutter his

          new closet.  It wasn't really all that much.  A doll

          house that she hadn't used in years, a bizarre, two

          foot tall doll that was dressed in farmers

          coveralls, and an old Easy Bake Oven that had its

          cord missing.  Bobby couldn't understand why

          she had saved all of this junk, but it didn't matter.

          It was going to stay.  Mom said it was to remain

          in his closet and that was that.  Sister always got

          her way.

             Bobby finally got all of his stuff put away and

          had rearranged his furniture for the last

          time.  He was tired.  He couldn't close the closet

          door all of the way because of her things.

          But it didn't matter.  He knew that there was

          nothing that he could do about it.  It was

          late.

          He was tired.  He donned his pajamas and

          crawled under his covers.  The lights from the

          street lamp out front would take some getting

          used to.  Its beam forced eerie shadows on

          both the door to his new room and his partially

          open closet door.  He pulled the sheets

          over his head to block out the distraction of the

          light.  Soon he was sound asleep.

          "Bobby" whispered a voice.

          Bobby stirred.

          "Bobby"

          Bobby opened a tired eye and listened with a

          sleepy ear.

          "Bobby"

          Bobby sat up in his bed and tried to focus in the

          direction of the voice.  He saw nothing.

          He shook his head and punched at his pillow.

          "Bobby...over here."

          Bobby jerked his head toward the voice.  It was

          coming from the closet.  He shivered.  He

          turned on his lamp that sat on the bedside table.

          The darkness of the room vanished with a click.

          Bobby slowly walked to the hinged side of the

          closet door.  His heart was pounding like it had

          never pounded before.  Adrenaline was pumping.

          Bobby felt very light headed as he lightly touched

          the doorknob of the closet door.  He tightened

          his grip on the knob, took a deep breath, closed

          his eyes and flew open the door.  In Bobbys' mind

          he imagined demons and goblins and maniac

          circus midgets with tiny, bloody axes.  All

          waiting behind his closet door.  He opened his

          eyes.  His face was flush and covered with

          sweat.  He was saturated with fear.  He reached

          into the closet to pull the string that hung

          from the overhead light.  He gave it a quick tug.

          The entire closet was immediately

          flooded with illumination.  He jumped back.

          Nothing out of the ordinary.  His clothes

          were hung just as he had left them.  His shoes

          were right where he had put them.  The

          dollhouse, doll, and oven were still intact.

          "Bobby"

          The doll.

          It couldn't be!  Bobby slammed the door to the

          closet.  He pushed his chest of drawers in

          front of it.  He ran downstairs.  Bobby sat on the

          couch and shivered.

          "It couldn't be!" he thought to himself over and

          over again.  Bobby didn't move from his

          seat on the couch for the entire night.

          "It couldn't be!"

             Morning was a long time coming for Bobby.

          But it finally came to Bobbys' delight.  He

          tiptoed up the stairs to his new room hoping to

          keep from waking his parents.  That's all

          he needed was to upset them.  He entered his

          room cautiously and saw that furniture was

          still in front of the closet door.  He pulled it away

          slowly.  His shaking hand grasped the

          knob and opened the door.  Nothing had

          changed.  Everything was as it was.  He squatted

          down on his hands and knees and gave the two

          foot doll a thorough inspection.  Nothing.

          Nothing seemed odd.  He gave it a hard thump

          on the head just as his dad had always

          done to him.  He laughed hysterically.  It was a

          dream.  It was just a bad dream.  He sighed in

          relief.

          "Bobby."  Bobby turned his head in horror.

          The doll.

          "Bobby."

          Its lips had moved.  Bobby had seen it.

          "Wh what ddo you wwwant?" Bobby quivered.

          "Bobby... I want to be like you."

          "Like mmme?" Bobby stuttered.

          "Just for a day or two.  I want to be you."

          "You mean switch places?"

          "Yes, Bobby.  Only you can do it.  Just for a day

          or so."

          Bobby began to calm down, although he didn't

          know why.  He thought for a moment.

          "Just for a day or two?"

          "Just for a day or two.  I've got to know what it's

          like.  All you have to do is close your

          eyes, move your head up and down like you're

          saying yes, and wish for it."

          Bobby wondered what it would be like to be a

          doll for a day or two.  He pondered the

          idea.

          He closed his eyes and wondered. "Please Bobby.

          Just for a day."

          Bobby shook his head 'yes' and wished for it.

          Suddenly he found himself in the closet looking

          out.

          Such a strange feeling.  The doll, now a boy,

          looked just like Bobby.  He had done it.  He

          had really done it.

          The new boy stretched his arms and snickered.

          "It's great to be alive!" the new boy shouted as he

          bent his knees and rolled his head in

          circles.

          "I'll never switch back!" he sneered at Bobby.

          "You stupid kid."

          A tear welled up in Bobbys' glass eyes.

          The new boy pushed the closet door closed as far

          as it would go and shoved the chest of

          drawers in front of it.  Opening he drawers he

          found some clothes and began to dress.

          "Bobby!" It was Bobbys' mother.  Her voice was

          angry.

          "Bobby!  Get down here right this minute!"  She

          was screaming like a banshee.  The new

          kid clambered down the stairs to the awaiting

          mother.

          "Bobby!  You didn't do anything that your father

          told you to do!  You're lazy!"  She

          backhanded him hard across the face.  Blood

          trickled down his chin from the fresh cut in

          his lip.

          He gagged at his first taste of blood.  He cringed

          at the first feel of pain.

          "Your father will take care of you.  You're so

          useless!"

          His eyes swelled with tears as they began to flow.

          "Stop that crying you little baby or I'll give you

          something to cry about."

          She slapped him again forming a new cut on his

          lip.  Bobbys' father came in from the

          garage.

          "What has that little thug done now?" he

          grumbled.

          "He didn't do a thing that he was told to do

          yesterday.  You handle it.  I'm sick of that

          little brat."

          The father unbuckled his belt and whipped it from

          out of the loops in one quick swooping

          motion.  He was very good at this.  He had lots

          of practice.

          "When" he whipped his legs.

          "Are" he whipped his buttocks.

          "You" he whipped his back.

          "Going to learn?" he whipped his back again.

          Welts and cuts appeared all over the boys body.

          "Go to your room.  No lunch or dinner for you."

          As he staggered off the father slung the belt

          across his back one last time before he

          struggled up the stairs towards the room.  The

          new boy limped and whimpered up the

          steps.  His body was swelling fast.  His lip was

          fat,  seething with pain and drenched with

          blood.

             Once within the confines of Bobbys' room he

          quickly pushed the chest of drawers away

          from the closet door.  He dropped to his knees,

          sobbing loudly.

          "Shutup!" a scream came from downstairs.  "I

          don't want to hear another damn sound!"

          "Bobby!" the new boy whispered and shook the

          doll.  "We've got to switch back.  I'm no

          good at being a boy.  I don't know how to act."

          The doll didn't react.

          "Bobby! the new boy shook the doll.  "I didn't

          really mean when I said I'd never switch

          back."

          "Don't make me come up there!"  came a

          masculine voice from the foot of the stairs.

          "Look.  All you have to do is wish for it while I

          close my eyes and you shake your head

          'yes'.  Are you ready Bobby?  Are you ready?"

          He shook the Bobby doll again and again.

          Loud footsteps could be heard coming up the

          stairs.

          The Bobby doll looked at the new boy with a

          huge grin on his painted face as his head

          slowly-- oh so slowly nodded 'NO'.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

              THE EARS HAVE IT

 

 

 

            "But Daaady !! Why can't I have my ears

          pierced ?", my whining daughter said sadly.

          "Because it's barbaric and I won't have a daughter

          of mine walking around like she just

          stepped out from the pages of a National

          Geographic."

          "But Daaaaady !"

          "That's enough !  I'll not discuss it any further."

             My daughter has wanted her ears pierced for

          years.  I simply never cared for young girls

          to walk around with holes in their earlobes.  The

          next thing that she would want was her

          hair painted orange and half of her head shaved

          like the punkers in the shopping mall.  No

          way!  Her mother had tried to convince me on

          many an occasion to allow her to have it

          done, but I refused.  Maybe I was being too

          strict, but it was the way that I felt.   It was

          three weeks until Christmas and my wife and I

          were at the mall doing our typical last

          minute Christmas shopping.  The crowds were

          unreal at this time of year.  People were

          everywhere.  There was scarcely enough room to

          move.  We stopped in one of the small

          gift shops that sells everything from posters to

          t-shirts.  I noticed the stool at the entrance.

          A sign behind the stool read "Free gold stud with

          ears pierced.  $5.00".  I grimaced at the

          thought.  I tried to avoid it on the way out, but

          my wife made a point to walk slowly by it.

          "Let's let her get her ears pierced for Christmas.",

          she said.

          "It's barbaric.", I proclaimed.  " She'll look like

          one of those natives in the South American

          jungles."

          "Stop worrying about her.", she responded.  "

          She's mature enough and responsible

          enough."  I thought about it and decided it was of

          no use.

          "Fine.  But I won't be held responsible when her

          punk friends talk her into spiking her

          hair."

          "You're just an old 'fuddy-duddy'", she

          whispered, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

             We arrived home and when she came

          downstairs, her mother gave her the 'good news'.

          She smiled a smile that melted my heart.  I guess

          it meant quite alot to her.  Maybe she

          was growing up after all.  I guess I have been an

          old fuddy-duddy.  Sure, she's a mature

          young woman that simply wants to be stylish.

          What harm could piercing her ears do?

             It was early morning and the wife and kid were

          cooking breakfast for the household.  I

          reminded myself of how fast she was growing up.

          Yep, she was a very mature young

          woman.  She asked me for the car keys so she

          could head to the gift shop at the mall for

          her 'present'.  I handed them over to her and she

          kissed me and took off.  The grass

          needed mowing and the pool needed cleaning so I

          gobbled down my breakfast and

          changed into some old clothes.  About an hour

          had gone by and I was just about finished

          with the  yard.  I shut the lawnmower off and

          headed for the shade.  I deserved a break.

          As I lay on my hammock, I slowly drifted off to

          sleep.

             I was in the jungles of South America.  There

          was a village nearby.  I could hear the

          sounds of sticks beating hollowed logs.  It

          sounded like a festival of sorts.  I slowly and

          quietly advanced to take a peek through the

          vines.  There, in the midst of the tribal

          celebration, was my daughter.  She had a bone in

          her nose, a huge plate in her bottom lip,

          rings around her neck that made it stretch to

          about ten inches.

             I awoke from the nightmare.  What a ridiculous

          dream!  I felt foolish.  Just then I heard

          the car pull into the driveway.

          "She's back", I thought to myself.  I stood up and

          turned toward the back porch.

             "Honey, I went ahead and had mine done too.

          It's something that I always wanted as a

          child.  I hope you don't mind." my spouse said.

          There was my darling, mature, responsible

          daughter, with her mother.  They had bones

          in their noses, huge plates in their bottom lips,

          rings around their necks that made them

          stretch to about ten inches, and, oh yes, their ears

          were pierced.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Praise the Lord and Pass the Hat

 

             The night was a cool breezy one.  There were a

          few clouds overhead lazily dancing past

          the large tent.  People were still flocking into the

          tent.  A few were still parking their cars

          on the dirt lot.  The sounds of organ music could

          be heard from the far reaches of the lot.

             "You must repent-uh.  You must get rid of

          your evil ways-uh.  You must seek Jeeesus.

          You must be born again-uh.  You must support

          this ministry before it's too late-uh."

             Reverend Michael held the crowd spellbound

          with his hypnotic voice.  Every inflection

          of the voice, every bead of sweat, every tear was

          timed perfectly.  The audience was

          mesmerized by this experienced snake oil man.

          He wore a white, three piece suit.  It was

          tailored perfectly to fit his suntanned body.  His

          manicured fingers tugged casually at his

          fashionably loosened tie as he paced back and

          forth on the small wooden stage.  His left

          hand held an open Bible as his right hand left his

          tie and pointed an accusing finger to

          each and every sinner that listened intently to his

          fevered words.

          "You are all sinners-uh.  You must repent your

          sins-uh.  Amen and amen.  Hallelujah." he

          proclaimed with a southern drawl.

          Eyes were closed and open hands were held in

          the air.  Their hands swayed in a rhythmic

          motion as if in concert with an angelic choir.

          Strange languages resembling the ramblings

          of babes filled the dimly lit tent.  Reverend

          Michael nodded his head to two of his

          assistants, then gave a smiling nod to a young,

          busty woman sitting behind a Yamaha

          organ.  She began to play 'How Great Thou Art'

          as the two men readied themselves to

          pass large, felt lined baskets.  The multitudes

          sang loudly as each and every hand

          dropped cash, change, or checks into the baskets

          as they made their way around the

          revival tent.

          "You have given your faith seed-uh.  He's healing

          you now-uh."

          He began to pace the stage furiously from one

          side to the other.

          "There is someone here with a financial problem.

          Be healed-uh!"

          He slapped his hands together matter-of-factly as

          if he had just backhanded the devil

          himself.

          "There is someone out there with a back

          problem.  Jeeesus wants to heal you.  Be

          healed-uh."

          He repeated his ritual slapping of his hands.

          "Glory hallelujah.  Amen and amen."

          He had the people in a religious fury.

          The crowd waved their hands to the heavens and

          shouted amens to the smiling Reverend

          Michael.  The organ played a €tune that

          indicated that the evenings services were now

          winding down.  Michael left the stage and

          disappeared behind the backdrop curtain.

          "How much tonight ?" inquired the flim flam

          reverend to one of his aides.

          "About seven hundred." his answer came.

          "Not bad for a slow night in a hick town, eh?"

          His assistants grinned at the thought.

          "Tomorrow night I want to do the healed cripple

          routine.  That always brings in the big

          bucks."

          "Yeah, not a problem." his husky goon

          responded.  "By the way, did you notice that

          same reporter in the crowd?"

          "I saw him.  And I'm not worried about him

          either.  He almost ruined us with his

          prostitute story, but he's got nothing on us.  He

          can't touch me."

          "I don't know.  I don't think we should

          antagonize him, Michael.  He's got alot of friends

          in high places."

          "Maybe so.  But, I have a friend in the highest of

          places.  I have Jeeesus on my side-uh!"

          They all laughed.  They divided the nights money.

             It was a new day, a new night, another chance

          to pass the basket.  The organ was

          playing joyful music as a new crowd poured into

          the tent.  There were young, old, blind,

          crippled, and curious.  Mothers were dragging

          their misbehaving sons by the ears to empty

          chairs.  Wives were toting their complaining

          husbands by their arms and leading them to

          awaiting seats.  All were being herded into the

          tent to be seated in the metal chairs that

          were lined in rows.  The smell of perfume

          sickened the air.  Tonight was miracle night.

          Reverend Michael was on his way to save souls,

          heal the sick, and send everyone to

          heaven in a hand basket.  As the last available

          space was consumed by a middle aged

          man the music got louder and livelier.  There

          wasn't a seat left in the tent.  Standing space

          was critical.  Anticipation swept the tent.  The

          moment had arrived.  The music grew

          louder.  "Jeeesus!"

          The crowd stood.  Hearts were beating faster and

          faster.  Hands rose into the air.

          "Everybody say Jeeesus-uh!"

          The audience responded with an excited and

          exaggerated 'Jesus'!  Michael paced the

          stage like a man possessed.

          "I said Jeesus!  That's right Jeesus knows-uh that

          you are a sinner!"

          He pointed his finger randomly into the crowd.

          The faces got serious.  Michaels face got

          serious as well.  He had spotted the reporter in

          the back of the tent.

          "You must repent-uh."

          He continued to pace.  He raised his left arm that

          held the Bible clenched tightly within his

          hand.

          "You must be healed-uh!"

          Sweat trickled down his brow.  Tears formed in

          his eyes.

          "I feel a need for a special healing tonight.  Come

          forward to be healed."

          One of the burly assistants pushed out a

          wheelchair that seated another husky man.

          "I need your special blessing Reverend Michael.

          I am a sinner! the 'crippled' man cried.

          "Do you believe-uh?"

          "I believe!"

          "Do you repent-uh"

          "Yes!  Yes! I repent!"

          "Then be healed-uh!"

          Michael slapped the forehead of the wheelchair

          bound man with his open palms.  The

          mans head jerked back with the force of the

          contact.

          "I feel the presence of Jeesus in the room!"

          Michael shouted to the crowd.

          "Arise and walk with the Lord and sin no more.

          Amen and hallelujah."

          Michael reached out his free hand to the man and

          helped him to his feet.  The man rose

          clumsily to his feet.

          "I can feel my legs!  I can stand!  I can walk!"

          The healed gentleman began to dance on the

          stage as tears welled in his eyes.  The

          organ played a resounding chorus of 'How Great

          Thou Art' as if on cue.  The people

          began to sing and sway to the music as the man

          was led through the backdrop curtain by

          the large assistant.  Michael ceremoniously

          picked up the wheelchair and threw it to the

          side of the stage.

          "Be gone Satan!"

          "We will now take prayer requests.  Repent your

          sins and speak out for your special

          healing.."

          "Michael!."

          A voice screamed from the rear of the tent.  The

          crowd turned towards the voice.  The

          noise diminished just a bit.

          "Michael, how do you plead to the many charges

          of criminal misconduct?  There is ample

          evidence.

          It was the 'reporter'.

          The crowd got absolutely still.  All eyes were

          timesharing between Michael and the

          reporter.

          "It's all in the book, Michael.  We keep track of

          these things you know."

          Michael tugged nervously at his tie and

          swallowed real hard.  He realized who he was up

          against.

          He thought for moment then he smiled a smug

          smile.

          "LET HE WHO IS WITHOUT SIN CAST THE

          FIRST STONE!" he shouted with a grin.

          He raised his Bible high into the air.  He pointed

          his accusing finger toward the reporter.

          A circle began to form around someone in the

          back of the tent.  People began to push and

          shove to make room.  Men and women stood on

          their chairs to see the commotion.  Blind

          men began to see for the first time.  Children that

          had withered hands were astonished to

          see perfectly healthy digits.  Old women that had

          barely stumbled into the tent could now

          climb upon their chairs to see the circle forming

          around a man.  Michael saw it.  A man

          next to the reporter.

          He was just a man.  About thirty-two or

          thirty-three.  He sported shoulder length, brown

          hair.  A full beard, olive skin, simple white robe

          and dusty sandals.  He bore scars on his

          hands and on his feet.  He had a rock in his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           Nobody's Home

 

          Ehhhh! Ehhhhhhhhh!

          The annoying buzzer echoed throughout the

          dimly lit, dingy apartment.

          Silence.

          Ehhhhh! Ehhh, Ehhhh, Ehhhhhhhhhh.  Knock.

          Knock. Knock.

          "There's nobody home!" came an antagonized,

          drunken scream from the living room.

          Knock! Knock! Knock! Ehhhhhhh! Seymore

          Brickman slammed his half empty beer can

          hard onto the cigarette burned coffee table and

          stormed to the front door of his small,

          smelly, slum.  He unlocked the deadbolt and

          slowly opened the heavy front door.

          "What?"

          Seymore was obviously annoyed as he peeped a

          bloodshot eye through the crack that was

          made when he opened the door, still keeping the

          security chain locked.  The chain was

          stretched to its limit.  Outside on the front porch

          he could see a middle-aged man wearing

          a faded green shirt that was soaked with sweat at

          the armpits.  His striped tie contrasted

          sharply with his wrinkled brown, checkered

          trousers.  His shoes were well scuffed and in

          dire need of repair or replacement.  At his sides

          he dangled two large cases that were

          neatly stenciled with the words, "Fuller Brushes".

          "Don't need no brushes!"

          "Sir, if I could have but a moment of your

          valuable time I'd . . . "

          Seymore interrupted.

          "Don't need no damn brushes!"

          "Sir, my name is Steve Wilson . . . "

          Slam!

          The loosened "No Peddlers" sign vibrated with

          the force of the slammed door.

          Seymore ignored the pleas of the salesman and

          returned to the relative comfort of his

          cluttered living room.

          "Don't need no brushes."  Seymore mumbled to

          himself as he settled himself back into his

          torn, stained recliner.  He reached for his beer

          with one hand and the evening paper with

          the other.  After guzzling the remainder of his

          liquid dinner he opened the paper and came

          across the obituaries.  He casually reviewed the

          names and noticed a familiar one, Samuel

          Duncan.

          "That pesky paper kid!" Seymore thought aloud.

          Sammy Duncan had tried repeatedly to get

          Seymore to subscribe to his newspaper, but

          to no avail.

          "Didn't need no stinkin' paper" he growled,

          "Don't need no stinkin' paperboy."  He threw

          the paper into a cluttered corner of the room.

          Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

          It was morning.

          "Avon calling" announced a cheerful, feminine

          voice.

          Seymore stirred in his chair.

          "Huh?"

          He stretched like a bear waking from a winter of

          hibernation.

          Ehhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ehhhhhhhhhhhh!

          "Hello in there."

          The sing song sound of the voice forced a

          belching response from Seymore.

          "There's nobody home!" he screeched.

          "Yoo Hoo!"

          Seymore leaped from his position and headed for

          the door.

          He jerked the door open leaving the chainlock

          intact.

          "Whatcha want lady?"

          A short, plump woman stood outside the door

          wearing a blue, floral print denim dress.

          Her stocky build stress tested the fabric of her

          dress.  Her blonde hair was neatly brushed

          and ended on her shoulders.

          "Good morning, sir.  My name is Sally

          Wainwright . . . "

          "Don't need no Avon." he interrupted.

          Slam!

          Seymore dragged himself back to the chair and

          grabbed the remote control.  His brain was

          pulsating with hangover pains.  Pushing a few

          buttons energized the television console

          and tuned in the local news.

          "Also in our news this morning, Stephen Wilson,

          a local door-to-door salesman, was

          found dead this morning,  apparently at the hands

          of thieves.  His wallet and empty

          samples case were found near his mutilated body.

          Police have no suspects.  At the top of

          our news, troops in the gulf region . . . "

          Seymore shivered at the thought.  He

          immediately installed another security chain for

          his

          door.

          Click.

          The room fell silent as the television obeyed the

          remote control.

          "Ain't safe no more.  Guess it's jes as well.  Didn't

          need no brushes.  Don't need no brush

          salesman."  Seymore mumbled as he tested the

          new lock.

          Seymore stumbled to the refrigerator kicking

          debris out of the way as he staggered from

          side to side.

          "Ahhh, king of beers." he sighed as he rubbed his

          whiskered face and scratched his

          buttocks through his soiled trousers.

          Seymore laughed to himself as he grabbed a six

          pack of beer out of the cooler. He made

          his way back to his chair and began sucking down

          beers as fast as he could open them.

          He passed out in a stupor still holding a freshly

          opened can.

          Ehhhhhhhhhhh!

          Nothing.

          Ehhhhhhhhhhhh! Ehhhhhhhhhhhhh!  Knock.

          Knock.

          "Huh, what?"

          Seymore stirred and released an involuntary fart.

          Knock.  Knock.

          "There's nobody home!"

          Ehhhhhhhh! Ehhh, Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

          Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

          Seymore crushed his beer can forcing warm foam

          to spring out of the top like a geyser. He

          walked to the door and opened it to the length of

          the chains.

          "What!" he screamed, quickly realizing that his

          head was pounding.

          "Hello there, sir, I'm Richard Doltan.  If I may,

          I'd like to introduce you to some exciting

          encyclopedias."

          "Let me introduce you to my door!"

          Slam!

          Seymore tried to focus on the clock that hung on

          the foyer wall.  It suggested that it was

          evening.  He grabbed some chips and another six

          pack and set himself down for the

          evening news.

          "This story just in . . .  a woman's nude, mutilated

          body was found this afternoon by

          children playing in a drainage ditch off of

          Interstate 10.  The woman has not yet been

          identified, however an empty Avon samples case

          was found near the body."

          Click.

          Seymore felt a chill run down his spine.

          Burp!

          "Jes ain't safe no more."

          Seymore tugged at his damp crotch.

          "Oh well . . .  Didn't need no Avon.  Don't need

          no Avon lady.  Guess I'll have to put up

          another lock one of these days.  Jes ain't safe no

          more."

          Seymore shook his head in disgust and continued

          to drink himself to sleep.

          Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

          Seymore awoke to the sound of his frontdoor

          buzzer.

          "Go away!  There's nobody home!"

          Knock!  Knock!

          Seymore wiped the slobber from his chin with his

          shirt sleeve and shuffled to the door.

          "What now!"

          "Have you heard the word of the Lord?" probed

          a well dressed young man.

          The youngster was holding an open Bible.

          "Don't need no Bible."

          Slam!

          Seymore stumbled to his kitchen for some Fritos

          and beer.  Easing himself back slowly

          into his chair, he switched on the remote.

          "An encyclopedia salesman was found murdered

          moments ago.  His throat had been cut

          along with several other mutilations.  Police are

          currently saying that the motive appears

          to be robbery . . . "

          "Scary world. Jes ain't safe no more.  Jes as well .

          . .   Don't need no books.  Don't need

          no book salesman."

          Seymore looked around his cluttered room.  He

          smiled drunkenly as he eyed the bloody

          stack of rolled up newspapers, hundreds of

          brushes, bloodstained samples of perfume

          boxes, forty-eight volumes of World Book

          Encyclopedias, and twenty-three gore stained

          Bibles that were strewn about the room.

          Burp.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

              Meat is Meat

         

 

 

             The nights were bitter cold at this time of year

          and the north Texas wind was

          unforgiving to those without proper shelter.  The

          icy streets didn't keep the late

          Christmas shoppers at home, nor did it keep the

          street people hidden away.  Every

          steam vent in the downtown district had

          cardboard condos built beside them.  Every

          flop house was full.  Frank and Joe were headed

          toward their home, the dog and cat

          graveyard.

                Joe had been homeless for quite awhile now.

          It had been at least six years since

          he sat behind his oak desk beneath his University

          of Texas diploma.  He was making

          six figures for a large computer firm before the

          drinking started.  Drinking led to

          ferocious fights with his wife, which led to more

          drinking, which led to a divorce, which

          led to his firing, which led to the cemetery.  His

          shack in the woods near the cemetery

          kept the rain and wind off of him and as long as

          he kept fresh meat on his skewer, he

          was content.

             Frank wasn't quite as content as Joe.  Frank

          lost his family as well, but his divorce

          wasn't the result of alcohol or drug abuse.  His

          problem was a like many other

          homeless; schizophrenia.  His mental disorder

          was never to be diagnosed.  Frank was

          doomed to be looked upon as a common

          drunkard that was too lazy to get a job.

             Frank's job at the moment was to keep the fire

          going and he had performed his job

          admirably.  He had a beautiful fire that radiated

          its heat in a four foot radius.  Joe had

          left to go walking into the woods by the

          cemetery.  He had promised Frank a feast.

          Frank heard footsteps coming from the direction

          of the cemetery path. He squinted his

          aging eyes and focused on the crooked figure of

          Joe.  He was carrying something in

          each hand.

          Meat.

          "Isn't that the finest, plumpest feline you've ever

          seen?"

          Joe tossed two dead, skinned cats into the fire.

          Each animal had a coat hanger

          fashioned through it like a shish-ka-bob.  Frank's

          mouth dropped open, showing shock

          and surprise.

          "What the hell, Frank?  We're not cannibals!

          These animals were

          buried just yesterday.  The ice kept 'em fresh for

          us."

          "You don't really expect me to eat this do you?"

          Frank questioned.

          "Meat is meat.  Now shutup and eat." Joe told his

          homeless friend.

          Frank considered the advantages of a free meal

          and gave in to his painful hunger.

             Frank woke up in a better mood than he had

          been in for a long while.  He woke up

          warm, dry, and without hunger pains.  Joe and

          Frank spent the day in town gathering

          odds and ends for their  shack in the woods.

          They picked up fresh water from the park

          and found discarded cans of food  from behind

          the local supermarket.  They were lucky

          and found some potatoes and celery in a cafe

          dumpster for their nightly feast.  After a

          day of scrounging, they headed back to their

          home in the forest.  It was time to go

          digging.

 

             It was nightfall when Frank and Joe finally

          arrived at the cemetery with their makeshift

          shovels.  Joe was going to show Frank all of the

          finer techniques of grave robbing.  Joe

          pointed out all of the older graves so Frank

          wouldn't be tempted to dig up the bad ones.

          They came to a newer one.

          "Eureka!  Fresh dirt!" Frank hollered into the

          night.

          "This must be a Doberman or a St. Bernard!  Will

          ya look at the size of that grave?"

          Frank and Joe remained stunned at the sight until

          Joe's stomach growled.  They both

          laughed and set out to work with their spades.

          As they dug the loose dirt it soon

          became apparent that this wasn't the grave of a

          Doberman or a St. Bernard.  It was the

          grave of a woman.  The two men pulled the nude

          body of the woman from the shallow

          grave.  Joe put his fingers to the woman's neck

          searching for a pulse but it was obvious

          that she had been dead for some time.

          "We got us a killer runnin' round."  Frank

          chocked out.

          "We better just put her back in the ground and

          forget we ever saw it."

          "Don't ya think we should tell somebody?"

          "And then lose our home?  No way!  I'm sure the

          guy that did this is long gone by now."

          The two men threw the last of the dirt on the

          buried woman and took the short path

          back to the shack.  Frank started his usual heart

          warming fire while Joe searched for

          fresh animal graves.  Joe returned with a small

          piece of meat.

          "Nothin' much, huh?"

          "Just this gerbil."

          Frank dangled what appeared to be a freshly

          skinned hunk of meat from his crooked

          fingers.  Joe cooked the tiny morsel and shared

          the tidbit with his friend.

          "Hey! This is some sweet meat!  Whatdya say it

          was?"

          "Gerbil, I think.  Pretty good stuff, huh?"

          Frank and Joe built up the fire and fell asleep,

          thankful for their meal.  They arose to

          the smell of a smoldering fire.  It was a cold

          morning so Frank gathered more wood and

          rekindled the fire.  Frank followed the path for his

          morning constitutional.

          "Joe! Come here!"

          Frank sounded as though he had seen a ghost.

          Joe dropped his logs and ran as fast

          as he could down the path toward the cemetery.

          Another fresh grave.  Just like the girl's.

          "Ya know we gotta dig, don't ya?  I mean, this

          could be a German Shepherd or a

          Dalmatian or something.  It doesn't have to be a

          human, ya know."

          "I'm pretty hungry.  Let's dig."

          Frank trotted back to the shack and grabbed the

          shovels and they began to dig.  This

          one was partially clothed but her body was badly

          beaten.  She was about the same age

          as the first.  Frank and Joe stood and stared at the

          sight not knowing how to react.

          Frank broke the silence with a prayer as he began

          to cover the girl up with dirt.

          "We gotta tell somebody.  We just gotta tell."

          Frank repeated over and over again.

          "Frank, if we tell anyone about this we'll end up

          living in sewers like you used to do.  No

          thanks mister.  We got it made here and no

          bogeyman serial killer is gonna screw it up

          for me."

          Frank nodded in a hesitant agreement.

          Frank and Joe walked to town and gathered their

          usual items minus the vegetables.

          The streets were empty today and it was

          unusually cold this morning.  They shivered as

          they walked through the streets, only stopping

          momentarily to chat with chums by the

          steam vents and fire barrels.

          No food today.  They would have to rely on the

          cemetery.

             Darkness came as quickly as the morning had

          and both men found themselves with

          hunger pains.  They searched the cemetery for

          fresh animal graves and found none.

          They walked slowly down the path to their shack.

          They stopped abruptly.

          Another grave.

          Frank and Joe looked at one another with blank

          stares on their scraggly faces.

          "Let's go to the shack and discuss this, whatdya

          say Frank?"

          "We need to do something, Joe."

          Frank and Joe returned to their camp and started

          a fire.  They nervously discussed

          their predicament as hunger twisted in their

          bellies like cork screws.

          They were starved.

          "I think we should set a trap for him, Joe."

          "No! No! No! What would we do with him once

          we caught him?" Joe replied impatiently.

          "Well, I'm gonna catch him." Frank mumbled

          under his breath.

          "What was that?" Joe asked matter of factly.

          Joe made himself a nest in his corner of the shack

          and fell into what appeared to be a

          deep sleep.  Frank quietly stepped out and took

          the narrow path toward the cemetery.

          "I'm gonna catch this guy." Frank stated

          repeatedly.

          Frank climbed a tree that overlooked the

          graveyard.  He carried with him a large,

          club-sized, tree branch.  The forest sounds were

          all around him as he waited as quietly as

          he could.

          He waited, grew tired, and fell asleep.

          Snap.

          Step.

          Crackle.

          Footsteps.

          It was footsteps that woke Frank from his sleep.

          He was cold as he rubbed his tired

          eyes and strained to make out the shadow of a

          man; a man that was dragging

          something behind him.

          "The killer!" Frank thought to himself, almost

          falling out of the tree.  He grasped the

          club tighter and tighter with both hands

          anchoring himself between the branches with

          his legs and feet.  Frank's heart beat faster.  The

          shadow drew closer.

          Closer still.

          Frank perched himself for the jump.  The shadow

          became a face, a familiar face.  It was

          Joe!  Joe was dragging the nude body of a

          woman behind him.  He began to dig.

          Every so often he would stop to wipe his brow

          and look in all directions, then continue

          to dig a shallow grave.  Once dug, Joe slid the

          body into the freshly dug hole.  Before

          he started to cover the girl with sod, he took the

          left hand of the girl and spread the

          fingers out like a fan.  With a quick chop of the

          shovel he drove the sharp edge across

          the second knuckle of her fingers.  He picked up

          the mangled index finger and dusted it

          off.  He examined it closely then put it in his

          mouth and slowly began to suck on it.  He

          then put the entire digit in his mouth and chewed.

          "Ummmm," Joe smiled, "such a culinary delight."

          Joe slowly stroked his beard.  Frank

          felt his stomach tighten.  He felt sick.  As the

          urge to vomit overpowered him he fell

          from the tree.  Joe smiled at Frank as he picked

          his teeth with the girl's finger nail.

          "Fraaaank.  Meat is meat!  Now shutup and eat."

          Frank ran off into the woods.

             Frank later considered the advantages of a free

          meal and gave in to his painful

          hunger.  He continued to toss wood on the fire.

          Even though he was too full to eat

          another bite, there was no reason to freeze to

          death.  The fire was perfect.  The

          inedible remains of Joe were stacked in the corner

          of the shack.  Frank propped his

          feet up on a stump, picked his teeth with a

          splinter, smiled at the pile of Joe's bones,

          and said, "Meat is meat."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                Smoke?

 

 

          "You can't smoke here, sweetheart." she said eyeing the

          cigarette dangling from her husbands lips, "This is a non-smoking

          area."  He snarled and threw the butt on the floor

          then angrily stomped it out.

          "I wish you would give up that nasty habit.  It smells up your

          clothes, the house, and it makes everyone sick."

          "I know, I know, and it makes my breath smell like an ashtray."

          he stated sarcastically.

          Grumbling,  he called to the waitress for the check.

          Upon arriving at home he sat on his favorite chair and reached

          for his top pocket, pulling out a cigarette.  He put it to his mouth

          and fumbled for his lighter.

          "Daaaady,  Mommy doesn't want you to smoke in here.  She

          says that they're yuckie."

          his three year old whined.  He hissed at his daughter and lit the

          stogie up anyway.

          Moments later his wife entered the room sniffing the smoke

          ridden air like a bloodhound.

          "Darling, you know that my parents are coming over at any

          minute now and you know how they despise the odor of cigarette smoke.

          I wish you would quit that filthy habit

          once and for all."  He growled and crushed out the filtered

          Marlboro in the spotless, unused ashtray.

          The doorbell chimed.

          "Finally!" he thought.  "The sooner they get here, the sooner

          they can get the hell out!"

          "I'll get it!" the little girl screamed at the top of her tiny

          lungs.

          She opened the door using both hands on the doorknob.

          "It's Grandpa and Grandma." she yelled.  They gave her a giant

          hug and a huge sloppy kiss.  She continued out the door to play.  The

          man of the house walked over to the foyer and extended his hand to his

          father-in-law and they gave each other a very cold

          handshake.  He then leaned down to kiss his mother-in-law.

          "You still haven't quit that awful smoking, have you George?"

          she said with her wrinkled face. "My nose doesn't lie."

          "Why don't I just take an axe to that damn nose of yours?"

          George thought to himself.

          "No, but I'm trying very hard." he lied outloud.

          "Well, you should think of your family every once in a while."

          "I should think about burying your ass alive in the backyard,

          bitch!", he chuckled

          silently to himself.   His mother-in-law lived in a house that

          reminded him of a museum.

          Everything had to be perfect for this witch.  Everything had its

          place.  Nothing was ever good enough for this hellhound.  He had been

          listening to her complain about his smoking vice for the past seven

          years.

          "Where's your wife ?" she said with a smirk on her lips.

          "She's on her way down.  She's upstairs putting the last minute

          touches to her mask, I mean face."  George grinned to himself.  They

          all settled in the living room.  George excused himself as politely as

          he could, although he really didn't give a damn.

          He headed for the bathroom.  Once inside, he closed the door,

          put a towel at the bottom of it, and cracked the window about an inch.

          He put the toilet seat down and relaxed.  Reaching into his top

          pocket, he extracted a bent, previously lit cigarette.  Helit it.

          "AAAhhhhh!"

          Smoke filled the tiny room.  He waved the air with his hand to

          disperse the vapors.

          "Damn, I feel like a kid sneaking a smoke in here." he thought to

          himself angrily.

          "This is ridiculous.  This is outrageous!  This is my god damn

          house!"  The more he thought about it the angrier he got.  The angrier

          he got the more he thought about it.

          His face was turning as red as the cherry on his cigarette. He

          took deeper and deeper

          drags on his smoke.

 

 

             The county sheriff deputies responded to the neighbors phone

          call swiftly.  Loud noises had been heard next door at the Raleigh

          residence.  The speeding squad car came screeching to a halt in front

          of the house.  The police approached the home with

          extreme caution, shotguns at the ready position.  Nothing could

          be heard from inside of the house.  The younger officer slowly checked

          the door and found it unlocked.  At the count of three he kicked open

          the door, pointed his shotgun inward, and the two policeman rushed

          into the house.  Bodies were scattered on the floor of the living

          room.

          The words "Smoking Area" were hand-smeared on the wall with

          blood.  George was seated with his back to the front door, feet

          propped on the coffee table.  He turned his head,  smiled, with

          smoking revolver in hand, cigarette dangling from his lips, satisfied

          look on his face,  and said, "Got a light?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               The Suicide Man

         

 

 

 

 

             Fred was a miserable little man  standing approximately four

          foot and a measly ten inches in height.  He had bright red, almost

          orange, thinning hair. He was covered with ugly, cancerous looking

          freckles from head to toe, mostly head.

          His teeth were bucked slightly  which caused him to speak with a

          slobbery lisp, spitting as he spoke.  His voice was an annoying,

          squeaky rasp.  His wife of fourteen years had left him, now seeing a

          handsome merchant marine.  Fred had been fired from his job.

          His daughter was shacking up with a known crack dealing, neo-nazi

          skinhead.  His dog had the mange.  The only thing that he received out

          of his bitter divorce was the dog.  He had just checked the mail

          and discovered an eviction notice.  It seemed that his lease

          clearly stated "No Pets".

             Fred was at the end of his rope.  There wasn't a soul alive

          That cared if he lived or died.

          He had decided that it was time to end it.  Life had been cruel to

          him and he was going to control at least one aspect of it.  He could

          do it.  He would do it.

             Fred dressed himself in his tattered, faded denims.  They were

          much too long for him as evidenced by the fraying hem that dragged on

          the floor.  He squirmed into his polo shirt that had the pocket ripped

          out.  He donned his two year old, scuffed up hush puppies.  He

          was a man with a mission.  He wet down his carrot top head and

          ran a gap filled comb through it.  It wouldn't cooperate.  He didn't

          care.  He smiled at himself in his toothpaste smudged mirror.  He was

          set.  He waddled into his living room and began searching

          through yesterdays paper for the classified section.  He scanned

          carefully, eventually finding the section that he was looking for.

          "Ah, here we go." Fred mumbled to himself, unconsciously

          spraying spit on the newspaper.

          He ran his stubby finger down the page while his eyes peered

          intently at each and every ad.

 

          FOR SALE  USED

          357 MAGNUM W/BOX OF RNDS

          AS IS $100. OBO

          CALL DEXTER 421-8856

          BETWEEN 8-5

 

          Fred circled the ad and brought it with him to the small kitchen

          of his matchbox efficiency apartment.  As he placed a pot of water on

          to boil, he picked up his phone, listened apprehensively for a dial

          tone, and pushed the numbers that stared at him from the circled

          ad.

          "Hello? Donally residence" stated a childs' voice matter of

          factly.

          "Is your father home?"

          Just a sec, mister."

          "Yeah.  Dexter Donally here."

 

 

          "Uh, Mr. Donally. I, uh, I'm calling about your gun that you

          have for sale in the paper. It is still for sale, isn't it?"

          "Yep, sure is.  Wife wants it out of the house.  Got little ones.

          Can't say I don't agree with her.  Why, just the other day I was

          reading about a gun accident..."

          "I believe,"Fred interrupted, "it was one hundred dollars."

          "Yep, that's about right. Comes with a box of rounds and a gun

          bag."

          "I'll take it.  I mean I'll buy it." Fred squeaked like a boy just

          reaching puberty.

          Dexter gave Fred his address and assured him that the

          paperwork would be completely legal.  Fred couldn't have cared less.

          Fred arrived at the designated time, handed Dexter his cash,

          signed a few papers, and walked away a gun owner.  Just like that.

          "This will be easier than I thought."

          Fred stuffed his purchase into the small backpack that he had

          brought for this purpose and caught bus 59A  for his apartment

          building.  While on the bus, Fred had decided that there

          would be no note.  His reasons were obvious.  Who gave a damn

          about him?  Forty five minutes later he arrived at his apartment

          complex.  Out of habit, he checked his mail.

          There was one envelope.  It was a notice from the bank,

          informing him that they intended to repossess his car.  Fred laughed. 

          His car had been stolen two weeks ago.  He had no

          insurance.  He couldn't afford it after his DUI conviction.  He

          tossed the letter over his shoulder and entered his ragtag apartment.

          He sat on his ripped bean bag chair and pulled the weapon from the

          bag.  Unzipping the gun bag he carefully loaded one round.

          His hands were trembling, his heart pounding like the percussion

          section of the Philharmonic.  He pointed the gun, first at his mouth. 

          He changed his mind,  He then pointed it at his chest.  Again, he

          reconsidered.  At last he settled on his temple.  With

          sweaty palms, he slowly squeezed the trigger.

 

          BOOM!

          Smoke filled the room.

          There was ringing in his ears.

          "How can there be a ringing in my ears? I should be dead!" he

          subconsciously thought to himself.

          "Am I dead?"

          He felt his head.  No holes.  Only blood, lots of it, and what was

          left of his right ear.  Fred had blown his right ear completely off.

          He feinted.

          Fred woke up in what appeared to be a hospital room.

          A police officer was on one side of him and a doctor was on the

          other.  He felt his head and found a large bandage where his ear used

          to be.

          "You're mighty lucky to be alive." the doctor quipped.

          "You need to be more careful while cleaning your gun." added

          the policeman.

          "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ticket you for discharging a

          firearm within the city limits.

          You simply must be more careful."

          Fred sank back into his bed, pondering on where he'd get the

          money for the ambulance ride, the hospital stay, and the fine.

          "There's got to be a better way." he thought to himself.

          "Perhaps a rope." he wondered.

 

 

           Fred was wheeled out of the hospital, his deaf ears throbbing to

          the beat of the wheelchair's warped front left wheel.   He was

          dutifully carted to the front door and

          deposited on the sidewalk in one piece, minus one ear, fifty

          percent deaf in the other.  He was even more miserable and twice as

          determined to end his pathetic life.

          "A rope."  He considered his earlier thoughts.

          Fred walked along the street eyeing the many doctors offices

          surrounding the hospital.

          Then he saw it.  It was about three blocks down and on the

          right.  Just what he was looking for, a hardware store.  He picked up

          his pace as  his short, squatty legs came to a full trot.

          Crossing the street he arrived at his destination.  He entered the

          store and strode up and down the aisles.  No rope to be found.

          "Perhaps a dog chain."  he murmured to himself.

          He quickly dismissed the idea.  He continued through the store.

          "Ahh. Here we go."

          Fred picked up a coil of clothesline.

          "This is perfect."

          Fred read the label.

          "One hundred feet should do it."

          He held the line tightly and paraded to the checkout stand.

          "Will this be all, sir?"

          "Huh?" Fred questioned, turning a deaf ear.

          The young boy at the cash register gave Fred a strange look and

          rang up his purchase.

          "Have a nice day, sir."

          "Huh?" Fred repeated.

          He tucked his package under his pudgy arm and plotted his

          course for home.

          "How can I do this?" he pondered.

          Fred surveyed his shanty town apartment looking up and down

          intently.  The gears in his mind were turning overtime as it hit him.

          An idea.  Fred meticulously tied one end of the line to his small

          refrigerator.  He pushed it to the dirt smeared window that faced the

          alley beside his apartment building and  tied the other end to his

          neck.

          He was very careful with his knots.

          "Don't want any slip ups here." he smiled as he gazed down

          three stories below.  Fred opened his window and took a deep breath.

          This was it.

          He dove.

          CRASH!

          Fred forgot that the line was one hundred feet in length.

          The excess slack allowed him to perform an exquisite gainer into

          a dumpster rendering him unconscious.  An hour later Fred came around

          and surveyed his surroundings.  He was engulfed by coffee grounds,

          fish heads, moldy bread, and various unrecognizable

          concoctions of equally revolting muck.  Fred immediately

          vomited.  He untied the line from his neck and attempted to free

          himself from his putrid

          prison.  He couldn't move.  He had no feeling in his legs.   Spittle

          mixed with vomit and eggshell dampened his whimpers

          for help.  A passing vagrant heard his moans and investigated.

          "Help me... please.  I can't move my legs." Fred whispered.

          "Yer sure ya can't move mister?"

          "I'm quite sure.  I can't feel my legs."

          The hobo helped.  He helped himself to Freds' hushpuppies.  He

          left with a satisfied grin on his unshaven face.  Fred passed out.

          "You really must be careful when hanging your clothesline." the

          nurse instructed him.

          "You could have been killed, you know."

          Both of Fred's legs were in casts, as well as his left arm.  Tears

          formed in his left eye.  His right eye was heavily patched.

          "Are you in pain?"

          Fred attempted to speak but the swelling was too much for him.

          The nurse made a call on the intercom for more drugs.

          "That's it!" he thought to himself.  "Drugs!  Why didn't I think

          Of that before?"

          Fred was released after another expensive stay in the hospital.

          His left arm had healed for the most part but his legs, he was

          informed, would be crippled for life.  He walked

          with crutches and would be destined to do so until the day he

          died.  He hoped that would be soon.

          On his bus ride home Fred caught sight of an advertisement.

          "Troubled?  Depressed?  Don't despair!! call 257-1134" the sign

          stated.

          Fred made a mental note of the number.

          After hobbling into his hovel, Fred reached for his phone to dial

          the number.  No dial tone.

          He grabbed his crutches and set off to the phone booth in the

          corridor.  He dialed the number.  It was a psychotherapist office.  He

          made an appointment for the same day.

          He hoped he would be able to get a prescription so he could

          overdose on it.

          He caught the crosstown bus and limped off at the office stop.

          Upon entering, he was seated by a buxom, blonde haired woman.  She was

          nice.  It was a comfortable office.

          The plant life was real and the magazines were of current issue.

          He was alone in the waiting room.  He was thankful for that.  He was

          called by the vivacious receptionist and was led through a door into

          another room.  The upholstery was all brown leather.  The

          woman offered him coffee or tea.  He declined and continued to

          stare at her perfect legs as she left the room.  Fred, for a moment,

          was excited.  That was a feeling that Fred hadn't

          felt in a long, long time.  Moments later, an elderly, distinguished

          man entered the room, interrupting his fantasies of the receptionist.

          The doctor casually introduced himself.  Fred felt better already.

          "Hello.  I am Dr. Lamdoid.  Together, we  are going to feel better

          about ourselves."

          Fred and the doctor talked for what seemed to be hours.  The

          doctor was filled in on every detail of Fred's pitiful life.  The

          doctor counseled Fred and added words of encouragement.

          By the time the session was at a close Fred felt better about

          himself.  He was more

          confident.  The doctor didn't give him any drugs.  Fred didn't

          need any.

          Yes!  He could do it!  He would pick himself up by his own

          bootstraps and begin a new life.

          It was possible.  He was sure of it.  He realized that now.  He

          was a changed man. He felt great!

          Fred gimped out of the office refreshed.  He now saw the world

          through new eyes.

          He stepped to cross the street.

 

          HONK! HONK!!

          CRASH!

          SCREECH!!!

          The driver of the car turned in horror to see her ex-husband’s

          lifeless in the middle of the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Untitled

         

 

              Peter and Sarah were busy putting on their pajamas as the

          doorbell rang.

          "I'll get it, honey.  Hopefully it's Lucy."

          Don Stephenson answered the door as he put the finishing

          touches to his tie.

          "Hi Lucy.  The kids are getting dressed for bed.  They've had

          their baths, the number's next to the phone, and the refrigerator's

          all yours."

          "And hello to you too." said the wrinkled, aged face of the

          babysitter.  Lucy had watched the kids for the Stephensons once

          before.  Although the kids didn't seem to

          like her much, she was the only one available at the last minute.

 

          "Oh, hi Lucy."   Sandra Stephenson completed her trip down the

          stairs and gave her husband a sexy smile and a wink.

          "Ready to go big boy?" she said in her best imitation of Mae

          West.

          "With you?  Anywhere madame."  He bowed at the waist

          bringing his right arm across his midsection in a mock display of

          chivalry.

          "You two characters enjoy your evening and don't worry about a

          thing."

          "We'll be at St. Michael's for a little while, then at Luginos

          Restaurant with Monsignor Burgetti.  Both numbers are by the phone."

          "I already told her babe.  Let's get out of here."

          "I didn't know you was Cath'lic.  Is Stephenson one of them

          Cath'lic names?" Lucy puckered her lip as Don and Sandra looked at

          each other, then back at Lucy.

          "I guess I never thought about it.  Is there such a thing?"

          Don pondered it for a quick moment then raised his hand in a

          wave, not giving the question serious consideration.

          "See ya at around ten to ten-thirty."

          The door closed and Lucy turned to the stairs mumbling to

          herself.

          Yes sir there's such a thing.  Evil is what it's called.  Evil is

          what it is.  Got that damn

          anti-Christ in Rome over there crusadin' around the world tryin'

          to spread the devil's word.  Yes sir, there's such a thing mister

          Catholic, statue worshiper.

          Lucy thought to herself  all the way up the stairs toward the

          children's rooms spilling venomous anti-Catholicism the entire route.

          "You kids in bed yet?  Come here 'fore ya go ta sleep.  I wanna

          talk at you younguns first."

          Peter walked out of the steamy bathroom wearing his shrunken

          GI Joe pajamas, still drying his damp hair with a faded beach towel.

          "In here children!"

          Lucy pointed the way to Sarah's room with a crooked, arthritic

          finger.  Sarah was  already in her bed beneath the pink, ruffled

          canopy.

          "Sit!" she said demandingly.  Lucy sat on a rocking chair after

          removing three stuffed animals and placing them on the bed next to

          Sarah.  Her face looked stern and cold as she gathered her thoughts.

          "What school you young-uns go to?"

          "St. Michael's."

          Lucy's face bore a painful grimace as she shook her head slowly

          from side to side.

          "Spreadin' evilness to the young-uns."

          "What Miss Lucy?"  Peter heard her clearly, but didn't

          understand the context of the statement.

          "You kids know what they're puttin' in yer little heads over

          there?  It's devil worshipin'.

          That's what it is."

          Her voice got louder.

          "It's evilness! They're brainwashin' you kids to worship them

          pagan statues.  Why, I bet both of you have lit one of them devil,

          voodoo candles, haven't ya?"  Peter began to squirm uncontrollably

          where he was seated on the edge of the bed.  His faith had never

          been attacked.  Sarah pulled the covers up a little closer to her

          chin and gave her brother a concerned look.

          "Evilness and ungodliness I tell ya!"  Lucy sounded like a

          Hellfire and brimstone, revival-tent preacher that had just been

          confronted by the devil himself.

          "Yer both goin' to hell and that's all there is to it if'n you

          Keep worshipin' in that pagan temple of yers." She spoke fast and

          furiously, raising her right hand in the air as if God

          Himself had sent her to redeem the two fallen angels that sat

          before her.  Peter had slowly crawled next to his sister and both

          cowered in fear from the words of their sitter.

          "Ya gotta say a prayer of forgiveness with me if ya wanna be

          saved like me."  Lucy pulled the covers off of Sarah and motioned to

          the two frightened children to stand next to her.

          "Here.  Kneel here next to me and pray with me 'fore it's too

          late."

          The terrified children obeyed and knelt beside the old woman.

          "Lord?" she began.  The children looked at each other hoping

          for guidance.  "Say it with me, child!" Lucy screamed as if lightning

          were about to strike the room if the prayer wasn't recited on time.

          "Lord" they repeated hesitantly.

          "Fergive me.  I'm a terrible sinner."

          The children followed her speech with trembling voices.

          "Forgive me.  I'm a terrible sinner."

          "Fergive me and my pagan ways."

          Tears flowed.

          "Forgive me and my pagan ways."

          "And if'n I die 'cept ma soul in yer glorious house."

          "And if I die accept my soul in your glorious house."

          "Now git in yer beds and hope God heard yer damn Cath'lic

          prayer.  Go to sleep!"

          Peter scrambled to his room and shivered beneath his sheets.

          Lucy turned out Sarah's

          light and closed her door.  Sarah cried herself to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Last Dance

 

   He had been the captain of his Annapolis football team and at the top of his graduating class.  She was his cheerleader, now his fiancé.   It would be an elaborate wedding with all of the traditional military wedding trimmings.  Since graduating, Bill “The Mack Truck” Mackenzie had become a Naval Officer; a SEAL.  His bride-to-be, Susan, completed her graduate studies while Mac completed his BUDS training in Coronado, California.  He was a Lieutenant now and was waiting for his orders following his honeymoon.  All of his BUDS team embers were there.  All of his instructors were there as well. As the final words were spoken to conclude the wedding, his shipmates lined up, with swords drawn, as Mac and Susan walked arm in arm beneath them to begin the festivities at the reception.

  At the reception, the music began to play ‘their’ song.  Mac approached his new bride and asked for their first dance as man and wife.  As Mac and Susan strolled to the dance floor, a courier approached the SEA team commander and handed him a sealed, brown envelope.  The flap was sealed and stamped “Secret EYES ONLY.”  The commander nodded to the courier after signing for the message.  The Captain approached the microphone on the stage and interrupted orchestra.  “Excuse me folks, but I’ve got a bit of news.  We are at war.  Iran has launched chemical and nuclear weapons at Haifa, Israel and Israel has retaliated by destroying Tehran.  I need all men to report immediately to their respective team leaders.  Mac, I’m sorry, but that goes for you as well.  You’ll have to save your first dance for your return.  The ballroom noise was filled with the sound of shuffling chairs and feet as each officer and enlisted man hurried out.  Mac kissed his new bride and followed his skipper.

   A month had passed and Susan had no idea where Mac was or what he was going through.  She didn’t know if he was safe, scared, hurt, or missing her.  The doorbell rang and she received her answer.  Two young officers were at the door with somber looks on their faces.  “Madam, we regret to inform you that Lt. William Mackenzie was killed in action on the 26th of June by enemy fire.”  The man handed her the official documents.  She collapsed.

   Mac’s remains were transported to Arlington National Cemetery for burial with full military honors.  Mac had saved his entire team, met their objectives, and died a warrior’s death.  She was presented his Medal of Honor.   Susan was consoled by all who attended the service on that Arlington hillside.  As the chaplain spoke of his heroics, Susan noticed a man walking towards her, wearing a full dress uniform, with the Medal of Honor around his neck.  No one but Susan seemed to notice him as he walked closer toward her.  As he got closer Susan’s face lit up.  A huge smile beamed across her face as she recognized the man.  It was Mac.

“I’ve come for our dance; our first dance.”

Although no one but Susan could see her beloved Mac, Susan danced with the apparition, as friend and family watched with bewilderment.

Taps played.

Susan danced.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                I Took a Long Walk

 

          I took a long walk where I played as a child

            in the woods where the children still haunt.

          The oak tree and rope swing have gone with the years

            like these little ones nobody wants.

 

 

          I followed the path by the creek where we played

            to the clearing where high weeds would grow.

          Time has been cruel to the stones strewn about

            like these little ones nobody knows.

 

 

          No names had been given, only numbers engraved

            in this pitiful place they call home.

          The forest reclaimed all that man left behind

            like these little ones left all alone.

 

 

          What has become of those young girls who lived

            by the creek in the woods?  No one knows.

          Do they remember?  Do they care?  Do they weep

            like these little ones nobody chose?

 

 

          I took a long walk where I played as a child

            and I wonder if heaven above

          Finds a place for those left in the ground with no name

            like these little ones nobody loved.