The Mad Proet

The Last Stronghold (working short)

2009-10-07T08:40:00.003-05:00

The lights beamed through the trees of some forgotten grove. Len and his two daughters were on high alert. They had made it for 9 hours through the town of Fairmont and now squatted anxiously in a grove just 135 feet north of the Martin County Fairgrounds.

“I’m tired, daddy.” Coral whispered to him, “When are we going to rest?”

“Soon, honey.” he said stroking her sweaty hair, “Do you see the fairgrounds over there?”

She pulled back the branches of the birch tree they were crouched by. There ahead of them stood the high fence of the fairgrounds. High field lights lit up the area. She remembered going here every August with her family. Now, it was being patrolled by National Guardsmen and civilians with shotguns.

“Yes, I see it.” she answered in a melancholy voice that broke Len’s heart, “Is that where we’re going?”

“We’re going to try.” he answered scanning the surrounding area.

“Is mom going to be there?” Leigh, the oldest asked.

“I don’t know, honey. Hope so.”

“What if she’s not?” Leigh’s voice started to crack.

“We can worry about that when we get there, honey. Right now, we need to work on getting in there, okay?”

“Daddy!” Coral said out loud, “There’s one!!”

“Shhhhhh!” Len put his dirty hand over her mouth, “They’ll hear us.”

A wobbly figure came from the shadows and into the light of the field lights. Walking with some purpose, slowly limping its way toward the fence. It was hard to get a clear view of it from this far back, but they knew what it was.

Just then, gun fire erupted from one of the guardsmen and with efficient accuracy the figure’s head exploded after only two shots and it fell to the ground.

“Got it!” the shooter hollered to his cohorts.

Len shielded both his daughter’s eyes from the scene. They shuddered at the sound of gunfire.

“Are they done, daddy?” Leigh asked.

“Think so, babe.” He looked off to where the figure came from to see if any others came.

“Okay, kids.” he uncovered their eyes, “It’s time.”

They broke cover and ran into what used to be the grass parking lot. It was covered with mud from the previous rains.

Some of the guardsmen shouted at them as they trudged towards the gate.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Len shouted.

“Get down! Get Down!” the guardsmen were shouting.

Len looked behind him and off to the left came three of them. One was female and the other two were male. Half rotted and running impossibly on deteriorating sinews. Their eyes blank like all the rest and mouths caked with dried blood from their former feasts.

“Oh God!” Len pushed his daughters to move faster.

His foot got stuck in a mud puddle and he went down. His daughters stopped and looked back at him.

“Daddy!!!” they screamed in unison. Leigh tried to run back to him.

“Keep going!” he yelled at them, “Get to the fence!”

They stood in horror as the three figures came shambling rapidly towards them. Len got back up on his feet covered in mud and grass.

“Go, goddammit!” he yelled at them.

“Daddy!!” they yelled just as the female had closed in on him and knocked him down.

The stink was horrendous, pungent with decay. Her breath of sour meat and her skin rubbing against his own, dry and leathery; where he could sense the dead flesh under it. Like a fish trying to wriggle from beneath her. Her teeth kept snapping at his skin.

“Oh god! Oh God! Oh God!” he yelled at the top of his lungs trying to stave off those murderous hungry teeth shown through ragged lips.

The other two males came at him as well, he could hear their moans of new found food. Then shots rang out in the night air. Something was hit, and he was hoping it wasn’t one of his daughters as they screamed. Another shot and the shoulder of the female atop him blew apart and her arm came off. Maggots spilled into his face as he groaned in repulsion.

Another shot over the sounds of his daughters screams again. This one struck the center of the female’s head and her dead eyes rolled up into her skull and she fell forward onto him. He gagged with the smell.

He shifted onto his stomach as the female slid off to his side. He crawled hurriedly onto his feet when he saw that one of the males had been killed and was lying in front of him, the other was rushing up on him. He turned, hearing an oncoming hiss, and a bullet cut its way through the things eyeball, scattering the remains of its head behind it. His girls were at the fence being pulled into the other side as they screamed for him.

“Run daddy!!” they yelled, Len not knowing if there was another behind him. He had lost a shoe and the ground was too thick to run fast.

He heard two shots and then accompanying hisses past his head. A grunt behind him and then a thud as whatever it was hit the ground.Without breath he made it to the gate and collapsed into the arms of a stranger who was holding a 9mm. Leigh and Coral ran into his arms crying.

“Let’s get you three inside the hockey arena.” one of the men said

The three of them were given chemical showers as a precaution, and then given new clothing. There was a cache of new and used clothing from WalMart and the Salvation Army. Also stacked up along the bleachers inside were rations of food and medical supplies.

“Do you see mom anywhere?” Leigh asked.

He looked around at the people moving nervously about the hockey arena. He didn’t see her.

“No, but she could be helping somewhere else too, kiddo.”

He expected to see more people, but as it was in here, there were only about 36 that he counted. Perhaps there would be more in the other buildings.

A National Guardsman came up to him, holding out a .45 caliber pistol and an M-16. His daughter’s eyes widened as he took the weapons.

“You are to remain armed at all times.” he said, “You will be set up for sentry duty on a rotating shift. Until that time, you and your family are to remain inside this building unless instructed otherwise. Have you handled a firearm before?”

“Yes.” Len answered trying to absorb the situation.

“Very well, there are plenty of open cots available, and food is rationed out 3 times daily by the Salvation Army. Any questions?”

“Daddy, ask about mom!” Leigh insisted.

“I’m looking for my wife.” Len asked awkwardly, “Her name is Amy Emerson. She is a nurse at the hospital. I’ve lost contact with her when….when…well, when this all began.”

The young soldier looked grim, “We’ve mobilized everyone from the hospital here. Anyone from there or who has any medical emergency were issued to the 4-H building.”

“So she could be…”

“Sir?” the soldier added quietly, “There was a confrontation at the hospital. The hospital was overrun with these things. Not a lot of people…survived the skirmish…I can’t guarantee your wife is here with us.”

“Can I go over there and see if she’s there?”

“I’m afraid you’re not allowed to leave the building until your sentry duty comes up, I’m sorry. But we have to keep those not on duty inside, otherwise you could either get mistakenly shot, or killed by those things. Trying to keep you safe, sir, and you probably need your rest anyways.”

“I want to see mom!” Leigh whined.

“Me too!” Coral added.

“We need to rest right now, kids. We’ll try to find her in the morning, okay?” Len pleaded.

“Is mom dead?” Leigh asked. She was always the grim one.

“I don’t know, honey.” then he corrected himself, “No, I’m sure she’s fine. Probably helping over at the med center here. We’ll find her, okay?”

That didn’t appease her, but they both were exhausted from the day’s events and let him lead them to a cot. An old woman came over with a couple of brown bags filled with food.

“You look famished, honey.” she said to the kids, “Better eat something before you head off to sleep.”

“Thank you.” Len said and took the bags from her.

Inside there was PBJ sandwiches, bags of chips, and apples. They all three wolfed the food down and chased it with a carton of milk.

He tucked his daughters in to their cots and sat stroking their hair until they fell asleep.

“They’re angels.” the woman who handed them the food complimented.

“Hmm?” she shook him out of somewhere else, “Oh, thanks. Yes, they are…they look like their mother.”

“You from the Fairmont area?” she asked making small talk.

“No, not originally. We’re from Minneapolis. My wife took a job down here as a nurse up at the hospital. We’ve been here for about 8 years.”

“Name’s Ruth, Ruth Gaiman.” she held out a large calloused hand. She must have been a farmer, he guessed.

“Len Emmerson.” he shook it, “Nice to have met you.”

“What did you do, Len, before…all this happened?”

“Well….I was a writer. I used to write commercials for Mankato KEYC-TV. Guess I won’t be doing much of that now. And you?”

“Oh….I used to farm with my husband Neil.” she took on an expression of sorrow, “But he didn’t make it through this…this…scourge.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am, Len. I’m the one who had to put the bullet in him. If you don’t hit those suckers in the head…they keep coming.”

“I’m hoping my wife is over at the 4-H building helping with the med center there.”

“Well, Len, you’re in luck. I go on sentry duty in about 45 minutes. I’ll run over and check for you if you’d like. If I find her, I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“Oh, God, that would be wonderful!” he sighed with relief, “Wake me if I’m sleeping, but I’m fairly certain I’ll be awake most of the night.”

Surprisingly enough, he was wrong. He went right off to sleep after she had left him. It was dreamless and he only awoke once in awhile to check on the kids.

The next morning Len was awoken by Coral pulling at his shirt.

“Daddy, get up!” she ordered. She sounded excited about something, “Daddy, hurry, get up!!”

He opened his eyes and looked around trying to get his bearings and then focused on the set of blue and brown eyes that looked at him joyfully.

“They found mom!!” Leigh spouted, “She’s not here, but she is with an army guy about 5 miles from here! She’s okay, dad, she’s okay!”

The news woke him up immediately. He hugged his kids and kissed their heads. He then wondered what happened to Ruth.

“Have you guys seen Ruth?” he asked them.

“Who’s Ruth?” they asked still buried in his chest.

“The lady that gave us food last night, have you seen her?”

“No.” Leigh answered.

“Who told you about mom, then?”

“The army guy who gave you the guns. Can we eat now, daddy? I’m hungry.”

“Me too.” echoed Coral.

“Yep.” he stood up stiff but feeling well rested and famished, “C’mon, let’s go guys.”

He passed by the young soldier he was briefed by last night, “Excuse me, I heard you’ve found my wife?”

“Yessir.” the young man said, “Her and another infantry man are holed up right now down on Woodland Avenue. He contacted us by shortwave.”

“Will you be sending a rescue party to get them?”

The boy cleared his throat, “No, sir. I’m sorry. But if they’re to get here, they’ll have to do it on their own. We can’t risk any more personnel and there are just too many of those things out there to count. We have to keep this perimeter secure….It’s the last stronghold for miles.”

“But, that’s my wife out there…these children’s mother! How can we just sit here while there are survivors out there?”

“I understand, sir, I truly do. But I’m afraid those are orders. She’s in good hands, Mr. Emerson, Ronny was in Afghanistan with me; he’s a good soldier.”

Len wanted to take off to find her but he knew he couldn’t bring his girls with nor leave them behind. He’d have to figure something else out.

“Do you know where Ruth Gaiman is?” he asked the soldier, “She was on sentry duty last night about 2:30am?”

“Dead, sir.” the boy looked down.

“Dead? How can she be dead? I just talked to her last night?”

“We had a breach last night on the east perimeter. She was overtaken by about 4 of those things. By the time we dispatched them, she was far too gone to save.”

“Oh, my god.” he gasped, suddenly losing his appetite.

ver at the 4-H building helping with the med center there."n'mer, he guessed.

te led with food.

afe, sir, and you probably need

The kids ate their share of scrambled eggs and hash browns. He only played with his own food with thoughts of Amy in his head. He wanted to figure out a way to get to her without putting the kids in danger.

Another group of about 4 kids came over to their bleacher and asked if Coral and Leigh wanted to play. Len nodded at them and they went off reluctantly to play with them. He threw out their garbage into the trash can and walked over to the soldier he was talking to before.

“Is there any way I can talk to my wife?” he asked hopefully.

The young soldier looked around and then said, “Sure, come with me.”

He walked him back to what used to be the ice skate rental office. It was now set up as a command center for the hockey arena. A few soldiers sat in front of computer screens and ham radio equiptment.

“This is Len Emerson.” the soldier announced, “His wife is with Ronny down on Woodland Avenue. Have we heard anything from them recently?”

One of the other soldiers took off his headset, “Yeah, just spoke with him about 10 minutes ago.”

“Can I talk to her?” Len asked.

“Sure.” the soldier said and stood up offering him his headset, “N-zero-K-I-P, this is Martin County Base, come in, over.”

There was a long pause and then, “Martin County Base, this is N-zero-K-I-P, over.”

“We have Amy Emerson’s husband here and he’d like to speak with her if that’s possible, over?”

Len’s stomach fluttered with anticipation.

“Len?” it was her voice, and he immediately grabbed the mic.

“Amy!!” he shouted, “Oh my god, Amy, thank god you’re all right!”

“Lenny! How are the kids, are the kids all right?”

“Yes, they’re fine…scared, but fine! Are you okay, honey?”

“So far.” she coughed a bit into her microphone. It was a juicy cough that got him worried, “It’s been real tough, almost didn’t make it here.”

“What’s wrong? You sound sick?”

“I’m okay, honey. I was attacked at the hospital, I escaped in an ambulance when I tried to make it home. But everything is so crazy out here…I lost control of the ambulance and flipped it….This nice young man found me and we made it here. But, I’ve been bitten by a few of those things, making me feel really sick. I gave myself some morphine to keep the pain down.”

He panicked. He didn’t know what a bite from those things could do, but he was sure it couldn’t be good. If she was ill, Ronny the soldier wasn’t going to be able to mobilize her quick enough to get through any attack. They were going to have to stay where they are.

“Are the kids by you?” she asked.

“No, but I’ll get them.” he went out into the arena and found them playing a game of UNO.

“C’mon, guys, mom’s on the phone!” he lead them back cheery to the command post.

A Few Bumps with Big G

2009-10-02T23:36:00.004-05:00

A Few Bumps with Big G

by Brad Bodeker

“You wanted to see me?” said the Big G as he sat down beside him belly up at the bar.

Rodney looked over at him. The Big G wasn’t at all what he expected. Black curly hair slicked back with pomade. He had on a white dress shirt with a thin black tie, a pinstripe coat with matching pants.

The bartender came over, “What’ll you have, buddy?”

The Big G looked at the liquor selection, “I’ll take a Manhattan, no ice.”

So, the Big G drinks Manhattans? Rodney thinks to himself with a grin and then tells the bartender, “Top me off here, willya?”

The bartender hesitates, knowing how drunk Rodney Delaney is already, and then looks at the Big G.

“Double malt scotch, isn’t it, Mr. Delaney?” the Big G asks.

“Yep.” Rodney answers.

Big G nods and the bartender pours it full.

After his sip, Rodney looks over at Big G, “Are you really…I mean, are you…?”

“I am.” Big G confirms, “Now what is it you needed to talk to me about, Mr. Delaney?”

“Get the fuck out of here!” Rodney laughs, “You’re no more ‘the Big G’ than I’m St. Patrick! Get out…you frickin’ moke!”

The room gets quiet and the bartender tenses up. The Big G looks up at him and winks and everyone returns to business as usual.

“I really don’t have time for these games, Rodney.” the Big G looks at his watch, “I do have other appointments today.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do, you’re like Santa Claus, ain’t ya?”

“You have 30 seconds, Mr. Delaney, otherwise, I need to move on to my next appointment.”

The Big G raised his glass to his lips and Rodney watched the Manhattan drift into his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he had enough liquid courage to speak out to the Big G and say what was on his mind. Not everyone got an audience with the Big G, and he only had a few seconds left.

“Time’s up, Mr. Delaney.” the Big G said as he put his glass down on the bar, “Maybe next time I visit, you won’t beat around the bush with this sideways anger.”

As the Big G stood up from his barstool, Rodney Delaney grabbed him by his pinstriped suit coat.

“Hold on!” He shouted, his face red with rage and liquor, “You gave me 47 years of misery and then give me 30 seconds to talk about it? You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve!”

The Big G stopped as well as everyone else in the bar. A smile came to the corner of his lips and you could hear sighs of relief throughout.

He turned towards Rodney and sat back down. The bartender looked at him, the Big G nodded, and was poured another Manhattan. He pulled out a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. Blew out a plume of smoke and stared into Rodney’s face.

“47 years, Mr. Delaney?” he asked with that smile still caught on the corner of his mouth.

“Give or take!” he spat, “I’ve had nothing but hell and misery!”

“Mr. Delaney….Rodney….did you not have good parents?”

“Well….yes, they provided for me, but they used to fight sometimes! Sure, I had a nice home…we did family vacations…but my dad used to hit me and my mother all the time! He had a short fuse and sometimes I thought he would kill my mother! Then when mother found out he was cheating on her….fuck…she lost her mind! She just fucking lost it…and I was just a kid and I didn’t know what to do!”

“In a way, your dad taught you a valuable lesson.” the Big G said calmly.

“A lesson?” Rodney’s anger started to flow again, “How is beating the shit out of me and my mother teaching me a lesson? Spare the rod Spoil the Child? Is that your almighty wisdom?”

“He taught you how not to be a father and how not to be a husband.”

“Well….”

“Because you were a good father, and you were a good husband, weren’t you?”

“That’s the key word there, ain’t it?” anger and calm were playing on the seesaw of his heart, now hurt came to play, “I was a good father! I was a good hus-!”

A lump in his throat coagulated and he started to sob. After a bit, he wiped his eyes and drew his handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. He looked around at the bar and then bitterly at the Big G.

“You fucking bastard.” he said under his breath, “You fucking took them from me!”

“Why is it, Mr. Delaney, that whenever someone around here dies it’s my fault? Whenever something bad happens it is all pinned on me?”

“Because you’ve got your hands in everything!”

“Like people don’t have their own minds? Their own wills to go about and do things against my orders? You want me to rub out everyone that disobeys my direct orders?”

Rodney drank a small sip from his scotch.

“Why not?” he finally answered, “I would.”

“You’re not me, Mr. Delaney, you never could be. If I began to eliminate every single person because they didn’t obey me, there’d be bodies miles high. Because not everyone is perfect, are they? I couldn’t single out a single offender…it would have to be a zero tolerance effort. If that were the case, then I’d have to take you out as well, Rodney.”

Rodney shivered. Started to think that maybe he shouldn’t have called the Big G here. He could rub him out right here in front of everyone and nobody would bat an eyelash.

“What did I do to deserve this?” Rodney asked quietly, “I tried to be a good man. I tried to obey your orders…but I feel like I’ve been kicked in the face for it. Unnoticed.”

The Big G put his neatly manicured hand on his shoulder, “You didn’t ask for this. For any of this. Nobody ever does, Rodney. Things just happen, and you take what you learned from whatever past you came from and try to steer around it. That’s how it works.”

“My Stella….” Rodney began to cry again, “…my baby Janey….”

“They’re with me now, Mr. Delaney, rest assured I’ll take good care of them.”

“That’s bullshit!” anger rose up so quickly from hurt, “I need them!!! What do you need them for?? Don’t you have plenty of people with you already?? Why did you have to take them from me?? You son-of-a-bitch!!”

With that, Rodney cocked his calloused fist back and released it into the Big G’s face. Big G landed on the floor and the bar patrons stood from their tables looking on in horror.

“I’ll kill you, you bastard!!” he landed a kick to the Big G’s ribs.

“You can’t kill me, Mr. Delaney.” the Big G spoke calmly. He did not attempt to fight back, nor did he attempt stop Rodney from his assault.

Rodney grabbed a nearby beer bottle and broke it on the lip of the bar and then started stabbing the Big G in the neck with the jagged edges.

Blood spurted out and a crimson stain bloomed on the neatly starched collar of the Big G’s white shirt.

“Get up!!” Rodney shouted, “Get up, you son-of-a-bitch!!! Fight me!!!”

The Big G only sat up. Dabbed his finger on his collar and assessed the blood on his fingertips.

“I’m not going to fight you, Rodney. Just let it out.”

Rodney grabbed him by his gored shirt collar and stood him up. He went forward with his forehead into the bridge of the Big G’s nose. Over and over again, after the first two his nose snapped and spurted blood from his nostrils. He cocked another haymaker and let it flow right into the jaw of the Big G. A couple teeth jettisoned from his mouth and his jaw looked unhinged.

He grabbed a barstool and pummeled the Big G over the head with it. The Big G went down. The barstool broke apart and Rodney found that all he had was a busted leg of it. He beat the Big G repeatedly with the leg over and over again. He was sobbing as he struck.

It was relentless, the others around only stood there with mouths agape waiting for some sort of retribution from the Big G. But the Big G only laid there still on the ground while being pummeled by this madman who couldn’t seem to stop the bludgeoning insanity that had let loose within him. He was crying out, cursing the air, spitting on the Big G.

Finally, he stopped. He collapsed onto the ground gasping for breath. His knuckles hurt, and his head throbbed. But most of all, guilt welled up inside of him like a wave of stomach flu.

“What have I done?” he finally sobered and realized what he was doing. “Oh shit, oh shit!”

He sat up and looked at the Big G who lay prostrate on the floor. Splinters of wood and glass around, on and in him. A large jagged laceration on his neck which blood was starting slow. Blood decorated his askew jaw as well and his neat clothing. The Big G’s skull was caved in part way from the right ear to the bridge of the nose.

“Oh shit!” he repeated poking the Big G’s body, “I’m sorry….I’m so sorry.”

He looked around and everyone tried to look away from his gaze. He was alone in this one, and he knew he was going to pay for what he had done.

“Somebody help me!” he yelled to the crowd. No answer came, “Help me, dammit!”

They all just started to walk slowly backwards, towards the door.

“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” he started to sob again, but it seemed like there was no tears left in him. His body started to cool from the layer of angered sweat that coated his body from a few moments ago.

Just then a hand landed on his own bruising throbbing knuckles.

“It’s okay, Mr. Delaney.” said a voice beside him. It was the Big G, “No harm, no foul.”

Rodney Delaney looked up and the Big G was restored whole again as if nothing had ever happened.

“What…..what the hell?”

“It’s out of your system now, Mr. Delaney.” the Big G stood up and helped Rodney to his feet.

“But I….I thought I killed you….you should be dead from what I did to you…this doesn’t….”

“I told you that you couldn’t kill me. I’m the Big G, afterall, I don’t go down easy.”

“But….”

“It was all necessary. To help you heal.”

“I need a drink.”

“That’s one thing you don’t need, Rodney. Not now. C’mon, lets go get some air, shall we?”

Rodney looked into the Big G’s eyes. Looking for something in there that said, step outside, Rodney, because I’m going to make a mess of you before I kill you.

But there was only kindness in those eyes that he couldn’t make out the color of. They both walked out of the bar together without looking back.

When they stepped outside into the fresh St. Paul air, Rodney felt clean again. In fact, there were no more blood spatters on his skin and clothing. That dirty caked sweat was gone and he felt as if he’d taken a nice hot shower. Even the booze induced intoxication was absent.

“I…I’m new again?” he asked the Big G.

“In a way. You’re still Rodney Flint Delaney, with the same life you had before we met, the same absences you had in your life, nothing’s changed on the outside.”

There was still an ache in his heart when he thought about his wife and his daughter. But it wasn’t a cold piercing stab, it was a warm hole in his heart. Even a tear flowed restlessly from his eye.

“You’re a good man, Rodney. It’s good to have a man like you in the family. There aren’t a lot of people like you around.”

“But in there…I….” he felt shame wash over him.

The Big G brushed it off, “We all fall, Rodney, happens to the best of us sometimes. I forgive you, so forgive yourself.”

With that, he produced a fedora that Rodney didn’t notice he had before and put it on top of his own head.

“I’m off to my next appointment, Mr. Delaney. If there isn’t anything else?”

Rodney looked up at the blue cloudless sky and then down at the Big G, “No. I don’t think so…..”

“Are you sure?”

“Well….can you tell Stella and Janey that…I love them and miss them?”

“They already know, Rodney, they can hear you and feel you. But I’ll remind them. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Delaney, tomorrow is another day.”

The Big G walked off into the crowd, disappearing into that ocean of people. Rodney stared at the spot he last saw him for about a half hour. Then he looked around, a small smile formed at the corner of his own mouth, and he walked home.

Lost (working novel)

2009-09-30T00:14:00.001-05:00

this story developed when i lived in Minneapolis. I was in rush hour traffic heading home from work. It was hot and miserable. one of the things i do is look at the cars around me and wonder what their story is. Then, something hit me: there's an abducted child somewhere on this freeway, stuffed in the back of some strange truck or van, and they'll never see their mother or father again...it was a horrible thought, and then my mind started working on this story...

Lost

Lost by Brad Bodeker

1

She was running late. It took forever for them to get ready in the morning. As always the damn snooze button lured her into another morning of sleeping in, so it was flying in and out of the bathroom then getting Natalie up and dressed and ready for school and another lame excuse to the boss as to why she was late. Another morning of fighting with her to get her hair brushed.

“Nat, stop it!” Barb was in no mood for this game.

“Don’t, you’re pulling my hair, mommy!” Natalie protested.

The brushed pulled at the snarls in her long brown hair. With each pull of her locks she’d whimper and pull away.

“Dammit, Nat, be still!”

“It hurts, mommy, it hurts!”

Barb looked into her daughter’s hurt blue eyes. They were so big and round and innocent. But just a hint of Natalie’s father. The bastard, wherever he is!

A touch of guilt tugged her heart, “I’m sorry, honey, but we’re going to be late.”

Natalie settled down a bit and sucked her thumb. Five years old and still sucking her thumb. Barb thought to herself, Poor girl, I wish I could give you a little more security.

Natalie’s father, which Barb considered nothing more than a sperm donor, left shortly after she was born. Had to find himself, he had told her, said he needed to find himself in Alaska. She had found out later from a friend of a friend that he found himself another girlfriend in Seattle. He sends a card once a year during the holidays for Natalie, but she never let’s Natalie know about it. Bastard.

With Nat’s hair done, it was time to fight to get her shoes on. It was game Natalie played since she was four. To Barb’s frustration, she would kick her legs so Barb couldn’t get them on. With one shoe on, Natalie would use her other foot to kick it off again.

The clock read 8:54 am. Yep, I’m late!

Barb got Nat into the car, and off they went to the school parking lot. The parents all lined up along the semi-circle. Moon Valley Elementary School’s principal, a Mr. Guttenhelm, always stood with the front door of the school open welcoming the kid’s into class as the day began.

“Good morning, kids!” he was accustomed to saying, “Ready for another good day.”

The children never answered him, but he would just smile complacently with that smile that would make Barb just a little nervous.

“Good morning, Ms. Winters, how are you and Natalie this morning?” he greeted.

“Fine, Mr. Guttenhelm, thank you.” Barb would say back.

“Good, good.” He gave her that look, the one privileged people give not-so-privileged people do. “Off to work?”

“Yes, and running late.”

She bent down and kissed Natalie on the cheek and hugged her, “Have a good day, honey, mom loves you.”

“Bye.” Nat said, she gripped Barb’s hand a little tighter.

“I’ve got to go, honey, mommy’s running late.”

“I know.” Natalie’s head was down, her blue eyes sad.

“Come on, Natalie,” Mr. Guttenhelm grabbed her other hand. “Mom will be back to pick you up before you know it. Shall I walk you to your class?”

Natalie didn’t answer. Barb felt guilty, I wish I didn’t have to go to work, Nat. I would much rather just spend the afternoon with you. But, I’ve got to make ends meet, so we can eat and live. I’m not getting help from the sperm donor!

Before Barb knew it, Natalie was going down the hall with Mr. Guttenhelm. She waved an unseen ‘good-bye’ to Natalie and went off to her car.

She took a deep drag on her first cigarette of the morning. It felt good. She only smokes when she’s away from Natalie, because the last time she lit up in front of her she never heard the end of it. All those anti-smoking lectures they were scaring kids with these days! But she always promised herself she’d quit. Someday.

She arrived at work a half-hour late. She slithered through the back hallway, and into the break room. She punched in and made it to her desk before her boss, Angie Bollinger, came in.

“What’s the story today, Barbera?” she asked leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed.

Barb sighed; a million and a half excuses went through her brain. The wet blanket of sarcasm dripped from Angie, and flashes of red ran through Barb’s face.

“No story today, Angie.” Barb answered. “I’m just running late.”

Barb thought about explaining what it’s like to try and get through a morning with a 5 year old, but decided it didn’t matter. Besides, Angie was a career woman. Not a mom. Nor, she had announced at a business luncheon, would she ever want the anchor of children to weight her down.

“You must get your priorities straight, Barb.” Angie explained, “You can’t just start whenever you want to.”

“I know that, and I’m sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.” Barb’s face was warm more with anger than embarrassment.

“There’s a lot of other people that can do your job, you know. People that are punctual.”

This bitch was trying to egg her on, give her an excuse to get fired.

“Don’t you depend on this job to raise your daughter?” She continued.

Barb’s fist clenched under her desk. Use my daughter in a sentence, bitch, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!

“Priorities, Barb,” she mercifully was turning away. “Priorities.”

Barb’s tongue came out as Angie went out of eyesight. She let out a big sigh and wished she could grab another smoke. The stack of work wasn’t as high as yesterday, but high enough to let her know she’d be working late.

At lunch, Barb called her friend, Jessica to pick Natalie up, as she would probably be here at work until 6. Jessica said she wouldn’t mind. Her own daughter was in a grade ahead of Natalie and she had to pick her up at the school anyways, and the two girls played well together.

So with that all set, Barbara continued the rest of her day as if nothing would go wrong. She never heard a peep from Angela again, and aggravation from the rest of the details from her job stayed at bay. After a pot of coffee and 5 cigarettes, her day was flawless. But whatever cruel god prevailed over her life, decided it was time to give her a reality check.

2.

“Mamma” Columbia lay awake most the night. She had trouble sleeping like most nights, but tonight was different. Perhaps it was the silence of the country, the way it was almost deafening at night. Or maybe the complete blackness of the night. Either, she thought she was used to; she had lived here most her life. There was something agonizing to be thought about in her mind, she just needed to be able to focus on it.

Her “boys” were in their room playing their video games. Shouting every once in awhile at dying their pixilated deaths and then ‘shushing’ each other, as they knew their “mother’s” wrath, if she was awakened by their shenanigans.

Mamma Columbia rubbed her rough calloused hands over her naked bloated body. Wandering her abdomen and then to her privates and up to her stomach again.

It’d be nice to have a child of mine own. She thought to herself. Why hath the Lord forsaken me with a barren womb?

A tear fell from the corner of her eye and into her ears. She sniffed a few times and then sighed, Be it Your will. Be it Your will, then bless me with a child.

And whether the voice was one fabricated from her own mind or an actual true supernatural voice, it was there. The voice was familiar from her childhood.

Is thou not happy with the children I’ve blessed thou with? It said to her, Doth thou become greedy with mine gifts?

She shuddered, No, Lord. No. You are right; I am blasphemous for even asking for such a thing.

Her god was silent for a while and Mamma Columbia began to whimper.

Thou hast shown great faith in Me. He finally spoke up. And I shall show you mercy. If ye seek, so then, shall ye find.

She sat up in bed, eyes wet but with the expression of joy on it.

On your knees, woman, and thank me for that which I will give to you!

Obediently, she knelt there naked in the dark, her hands in the air, her mouth in a perfect “O”, and she pleased her god the way she had been taught when she was a nine-year girl. And echoing in her mind was what her god said, “Seek and Ye shall find.”

Jessica waited in her Dodge caravan impatiently. She had left the stove on simmer and was hoping to be in and out of here with the kids and home for supper. But, as the ocean of little faces poured from the doors of Moon Valley Elementary, she looked for her own daughter Carrie and Barbara’s daughter Natalie.

Steve Miller came over the radio and she turned it up. She had been a huge fan of the Steve Miller Band since she was a teenager and more so since she had gone to their concert in Minneapolis last year. “The Joker” twanged from the speakers and she began to ease and sing along.

…really love your peaches wanna shake yo tree…She sang, her favorite part. She glanced towards the door that Carrie usually came out of. Just one kid after another, a few she recognized from birthday parties and all that other “mom” stuff. But no Carrie, no Natalie.

…I’m a Joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker…The crowd of kids spilling out of the school began to thin out. Jessica, sighing to herself, thinking the girls were probably running around the hallways and goofing around. A bit of anger flashed in her and she shut her van off and began to walk to the front doors of the school.

Mr. Guttenhelm, standing there smiling like he does in the morning, greets her with a handshake.

“Here to pick up Caroline, Mrs. Alberson?” he asks.

“Carrie.” She corrects, “And I’m also picking up Natalie Winters as well, have you seen them?”

“Earlier today, but not this afternoon.” He welcomed her into the school, “Come on, and let’s find them. I’m sure they’re just playing somewhere.”

“Hurry up, Natalie, mom’s going to be mad!” Carrie says to Nat who was in the stall of the girl’s bathroom.

“I know, I know!” she says a bit peeved.

“C’mon, Nat!” Carrie urges, “Everyone’s leaving!”

“Leave me alone!” Natalie says; it came out more like “Lee mee lone!”

The toilet flushed and Natalie came out holding her backpack and then washed her hands like her mom taught her to do. Germs, Natalie, mom would say, germs that will get you sick. So remember to always wash your hands after you go potty, okay?

Natalie suddenly got lonely for her mom. She felt it come on after she received the note from the office lady saying that she was to ride home with Carrie’s mom, Mrs. Alberson, because mommy was working late. Again.

Minutes after Jessica and Mr. Guttenhelm passed the girls lavatory, Carrie and Natalie walked out into the hallway and towards the front doors. Carrie spotted her mom’s van and they both ran out to it.

Carrie grabbed the handle of the side door and gave it a yank like she had since she can remember in her six-year-old memory. Her hand slipped off of it and smarted. She tried it again and it didn’t budge.

“What’s the matter?” Nat asked standing there with her thumb in her mouth.

“It’s locked.” Carrie stood there confused.

She looked in the front of the van on her tiptoes and couldn’t see anything. She tried those doors and they were locked as well.

“Now what, Carrie?” Nat asked not letting go of the thumb in her mouth.

Carrie looked around the parking lot and then said, “Maybe mom went inside to look for us. You did take forever in the bathroom.”

“I know!”

They both trotted back into the school, not noticing the old rusted blue van with road dust crusted to its fenders and quarter panels. It’s motor gurgling from the large hole in its exhaust pipe. Waiting.

Jessica and Mr. Guttenhelm paced the hallways of the kindergarten and 1st grade wing. They were empty except for a few teachers coming in and out of their classrooms. A janitor emptying the trashcan by the drinking fountain.

“Let me check with Carrie’s teacher.” Jessica said, “And you check with Natalie’s, okay?”

“Of course!” Mr. Guttenhelm answered. His expression was one of worry. Not so much for the girls being ‘missing’, but the reputation of the school would be at stake.

Jessica couldn’t find Ms. Ginnacci in her room, so she headed down to the teacher’s lounge. Mr. Guttenhelm found Mrs. Holmquist in her room cleaning up some construction paper off the carpet.

Mrs. Holmquist said that Carrie had come down to her room to pick up Natalie and they both left together.

Jessica found Ms. Ginnacci in the teacher’s lounge puffing her way through a Camel light. Ms. Ginnacci said that she excused Carrie early to walk over to Mrs. Holmquist’s class to pick up her friend. But she hadn’t seen them leave.

Natalie and Carrie couldn’t find Jessica anywhere in the building. They were just going to go down the hall where the teacher’s lounge was but got distracted when they saw the playground outside.

“Carrie?” Nat stared with wide eyes, “let’s go play on the swings!”

“No,” Carrie protested, “We have to find my mom!”

“Awww, c’mon, Carrie! Please?”

“Okay, just for a bit.”

“Okay, just a little bit.” Which came out “N’kay, jus a widdle bit.”

“This is serious, Mr. Guttenhelm!” Jessica was getting hysterical.

“Please, Mrs. Alberson,” he tried to calm the coming storm. “I’m sure they might be in the bathroom or something like that.”

“Fine!” she said, “You stay here and watch for them, I’m going to look in the all the bathrooms!”

Natalie’s giggle was contagious. Both of the girls laughing the way innocent children do. No cares in the world, just a goal to have fun. The autumn air was crisp but not bitter. The smell of the river hung in the air, but it was fall and the water smelled fresh, not rank like in July.

Natalie was the first to notice the woman walking towards the playground. She swung slower as the lady approached. Carrie was saying something to her, but she was concentrating on the lady. There was something Natalie did not trust about her, the way she walked or the way she was staring in her direction.

“Natalie?” Carrie shouted, “Hello, are you listening to me?”

Natalie didn’t say anything back as this woman approached them. Carrie dropped off the monkey bars and clammed up.

“Hello, girls!” the lady greeted.

Both of them just sat there not really looking at her, just at the ground below her.

“It’s okay.” The lady assured, “You shouldn’t talk to strangers. But your mom is looking for you and she’s in the office waiting for you.”

Carrie looked up with her untrusting brown eyes at the lady. She hadn’t seen this lady working before in the office, but she really didn’t pay much attention to the big people of school except her teacher Ms. Ginacci.

The woman bent lightly and held out her hand.

“C’mon, girls,” her smile friendly as warm sunshine. “I’ll take you to your mom.”

Natalie looked to her older friend for direction. Carrie, kind of rocked herself side-to-side trying to decide whether to trust this big person.

“Natalie. Carrie. Come on, now, don’t keep your mom waiting.” The lady said.

Carrie’s eyes lit up when the lady said her’s and Natalie’s name. Maybe this lady did work in the office after all.

“Come on.” The lady said.

Carrie looked over at Natalie who was sucking her thumb again.

“It’s okay, Natalie.” Carrie said walking towards the lady, “Let’s go see my mom and we’ll go home.”

“That’s right, honey.” The lady said.

Natalie took Carrie’s hand and they walked with the lady from the playground.

Jessica, with Ms. Ginacci in tow, was going through the lavatories in the entire school, and peeking in separate classrooms.

“Maybe they’re on the playground?” Ms. Ginacci suggested.

“Which way?” Jessica asked.

Ms. Ginacci led her to the wing where the playground was close to. They walked by Mr. Guttenhelm who looked even more alarmed when he saw them coming down the hall without any children with them.

This is bad! He thought to himself, Really, really bad! The school board is going to eat me alive! The newspaper! That fucking rag is going to plaster this incident all over the fucking place!

“No luck?” he trembled.

“Do you see any kids with me?” Jessica said sarcastically.

“There’s no need to get hostile about this, Mrs. Alberson. I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.”

“We’re going to check the playground.” Ms. Ginacci said.

“Uh, all right, I’ll stay here in case they come by.”

“Good idea, Chuck.” Ms. Ginacci said with some sarcasm of her own.

Carrie wondered why they didn’t just go in through the doors by the playground. They were walking all the way around the school building towards the parking lot.

“I thought mom was in the office?” she asked the woman.

The woman just muttered under her breath. It sounded to Carrie like, Sick ‘n yee shell fine.

They rounded the corner where her mom’s van was parked. She thought maybe they were going to just wait for her mom there. Carrie looked at the woman and then at Natalie who was sucking hard on her thumb.

“It’s all right, Natalie.” Carrie trying to comfort her friend, “We’re going to wait for mom by the van.”

Natalie just kept sucking.

They got to her mom’s van and kept going. Carrie was very alarmed now.

“That’s my mom’s van, ma’am.” She stuttered staring at it as she walked by it.

The lady kept a steady grip on her hand and kept muttering, “Sicken yee shell fine.”

Carrie began to tug hard at her hand as they were gaining distance from her mom’s van.

“But that’s my mom’s van, lady!” she cried out.

Natalie felt her friend’s fear and began to cry, not letting go of Carrie’s hand as she was being tugged in the wrong direction.

“No!” Carrie yelled, “No! Mommy! Stop! Stop!”

Carrie’s struggles were unnoticed by the lady and she slipped up and both her and Natalie ended up falling to the asphalt of the parking lot. They scraped their knees and elbows and Natalie hit the side of her face on the ground leaving a nasty scrape. They both began to bellow out.

The side doors of the rusted blue van and a boy came out. His jeans were dirty as well as his t-shirt. His hair unkempt and long, and he looked to be about 10 years old. Natalie and Carrie got up at the same time; they were both frozen to the ground as this dirty-looking boy came towards them. The lady just smiled at them. Natalie hid behind Carrie and wept while Carrie just started shouting.

“Get away from us! Get away!!”

The boy had two thick gauze pads soaked with chloroform and he placed them over their faces. Natalie went out right away while Carrie kicked a bit and then went limp. The last thing she heard was, “Seek, and ye shall find! And I found me two, Praise God!”

The blue van was gone by about three minutes when Jessica, Ms. Ginacci, and Mr. Guttenhelm came out to her minivan. Sitting on the ground next to the passenger side door was two backpacks. One with Scooby-Doo on it and another with Barbie. Jessica’s heart sank and she thought she was going to puke.

“They must be around here…somewhere?” Mr. Guttenhelm spoke up.

“Would you just shut the fuck up for one minute?” Jessica barked and then started to sob.

Ms. Ginacci rubbed Jessica’s back and said, “Let’s go back in and call the cops.”

“No! No, we can’t just jump the gun on this ladies!” Mr. Guttenhelm sounded as if he was whimpering, “They have to be around here! Let’s just look some more before we call the police, hmmm?”

“Stop worrying about your reputation, Hank, and do something useful for once!” Ms. Ginacci snapped.

Her and Jessica went inside and phoned the Moon Valley Police Department.

3.

Barbara sat in Detective Gunner’s office shuddering from sobbing. She had received the call from Jessica and she just sat in shocked silence as Jessica went on with the story on the other end. She didn’t even hang up the phone as she grabbed her purse and headed straight for her car. The traffic was thick on this side of I-35; she took out her pack of Marlboro lights and began a regimen of chain smoking. Getting across the 169 interchange she had lit another cigarette and then saw she still had one going in the ashtray. She stubbed it out and began sobbing. She thought about getting out of her car and just running to the Moon Valley Police Department.

“Mrs. Winters? ” Detective Gunner said absently.

“Y..yes?” she slowly came out of her grief-stricken stupor.

The Detective gave a comforting grin, “I was wondering if you have a recent picture of Natalie we can use to put out?”

Barb looked around the office. Her guilt was a large wet blanket that hung on her and wouldn’t come off. She hadn’t pictured herself getting pregnant and then losing the father to some tramp in some other state. She didn’t find herself raising a daughter on her own, not being able to give her daughter the life she wanted. And now, here she was in some cop’s office, giving him a photo of her daughter who’s been….kidnapped? Lost? Missing? None of those words comforted her.

“Uh, Mrs. Winters?” the Detective spoke up again.

“What? Sorry.” She sniffed a few more times and then rummaged through her purse, “Yes, of course, I’m sure I’ve got one in my wallet somewhere.”

Jessica had finished her interview with the other detective and came into the office with her husband to talk to her.

“Barb, I’m so sorry!” she began sobbing, “I…wish I would’ve…God dammit!”

“It’s okay, Jessica.” She began crying again, “I just don’t understand how this all happened!”

The detective stood up, “We need as much information as you can give us. We’ve got officers looking around in the surrounding area now for your girls and we’ve broadcasted a missing child alert for both your girls.”

Barb produced last year’s photo she had done for Christmas. Natalie was sitting under a Christmas tree with a Santa hat on. She remembered that day almost perfectly. She trembles; I never thought I’d be giving this photo to a police officer to help find her. I never thought…

“Is this the most recent photo you have, Mrs. Winters?” the detective asked looking thoughtfully at it.

“I think I have one at home from her birthday this year.” She started sobbing again thinking that she may never have another birthday with her again.

“Anything recent would help a lot, Mrs. Winters. I…”

“Ms. Winters.” Barbara corrected.

“Sorry.” The cop’s face flushed a bit.

“Don’t be. I had better call her father. He probably doesn’t give a shit, but it’s his right to know, I guess.”

Detective Gunner thought for a moment and then said, “Ms. Winters, Natalie’s father didn’t put up a fight with custody did he?”

“Grant?” she laughed to herself, “He wasn’t even around when she was born. He was out drinking with his pals down at the Dogg House. Then we separated when Natalie was two.”

“Well,” Detective Gunner thought to himself how to carefully word this, “sometimes, when situations happen like they have, the other parent will have some sort of awakening and decide they want to be a parent, and when they feel that it’s hopeless they’ll get any parental rights after years of estrangement, they will go through some kind of extremes.

“Does the father still live in town?”

She was in the midst of contemplating the possibility, “No. He said he was moving to Alaska and ended up in Washington.”

“All right, it’s still a possibility we can’t rule out, although it doesn’t explain why Carrie was taken as well.”

“Unless he took her because she’d be a witness?” she grasped.

“Possibly.”

Jessica fidgeted with her hands while her husband rubbed her back.

“In the meantime, folks,” the Detective finished, “I would suggest you get together any ideas and photos that can help us find them.”

They all got up, shook hands and left.

“Barbara,” Jessica asked walking down the steps of the Moon Valley P.D. “Would you like to come over for coffee? Or a stiff drink?”

“No, thank you.” Barbara answered. “I should get a hold of Grant, and my mom’s coming up from Mankato.”

“If you need anything, Barb.”

“Same to you, Jess.”

“She what?!!” Grant’s voice bellowed over the line.

“She’s missing, Grant.” Barb said impatiently.

“Well, where the hell were you when this happened?”

“I was at work, Grant!” her anger trying to push it’s way up, but she didn’t want him to know how she was feeling. Never again, bastard!

There was an uncomfortable silence. Barb lit a cigarette, and exhaled loudly over the phone.

“Are you still smoking those fucking things?” he asked.

“I called to tell you about your daughter, Grant, not to discuss my habits.”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do about it way out here in Washington?”

Barb bit down on her cigarette butt and then took another drag.

“Well, I thought maybe you’d care! But, like always, you don’t! I don’t know why I even bothered calling you.”

“Maybe because you just miss me?”

“Oh, God, get over yourself already, Grant! I have!”

“Then why are you calling if you’re over me?” his voice on the other line smug and she could tell he had this shit-eating grin on his lips. This infuriated her even more.

“Good bye, Grant. Have a nice life thinking about yourself.”

“Wait a minute! That’s it?”

“What?”

“Well, I thought we could talk…or something.”

“No, I’m busy trying to find my daughter, not talk to some egotistical piece of shit like you. Good bye.”

She hung up the phone and had a small smile of victory on her face. She put out her cigarette and started going through Natalie’s things. She was trying to find some recent pictures for the police. She found one of her in a pink-checkered dress, standing behind a giant sheet cake with a purple dinosaur on it.

More tears came out of her eyes. Where are you, Nat? Please don’t be scared. Mommy won’t give up looking for you, sweet heart.

Fran, Barb’s mom, brought in a cup of coffee from the kitchen.

“How’d it go, honey?” she asked with some caution.

“How do you think, mom?” Barb answered without any aggression.

Fran paused. They had both been crying the entire evening. From putting together flyers with Natalie’s photo on it, and answering phone calls and making a few to relatives and friends.

“Well,” Fran started, “what do we do now?”

“I don’t know, mom. I won’t be able to sleep tonight, so I’ve got to do something constructive with my time.”

“Why don’t we go around and hang up our flyers?”

Barb took her first warm sip and agreed.

Jessica was already out doing what she could. Her husband took one vehicle and she took another. She had driven by the school about twelve times this evening. Passed the spot where she found their backpacks and slowed down and started to cry and would do her rounds again.

The police were out as well. She had seen them canvassing the area by the school with volunteers. The thought that her daughter may be dead tried to creep in but she blocked it out. Too soon. She thought to herself, Much too soon for something like that to happen. She’s still alive, I can feel it.

Steve Miller came on again, same song as before. She felt the tears well up again and she turned off the radio. She drove the city limits of Moon Valley in silence for what seemed like days. She would nod off from time to time, swerving off the road and then back on again as she snapped awake.

4.

Mamma Columbia sat on her porch that overlooked the Minnesota River basin. The night was quiet, and the small airport behind her property wasn’t flying any traffic in or out tonight. The crickets, sure they were in full sing, but other than that, peace. She could see the lights of Shakopee on her left, Chaska straight ahead, and the town of Moon Valley to the right. She knew that the police would be searching the area, but that didn’t concern her.

She did not live by man’s laws, she lived by the Lord’s. And He, after all, had given these two girls to her. “Seek and Ye Shall Find.” He had said, and that’s just what she did, and the Lord graced her with not one girl, but two. How the bounty of the Lord’s grace made her heart swell.

The girls would have to adjust, of course. They wouldn’t accept Mamma Columbia right away, but they would. Just like Bill and Cory did. Besides, these girls were younger and easier to mold. She checked her watch, a plastic $4 watch from Target, and hollered for her boys.

“Boys!” she bellowed, her voice gravelly from smoking Pall Malls. Her speech had a hint of slur due to dentures that didn’t fit well. “Boysh! You better go feed your shishters!”

The two boys ran down the narrow staircase and headed for the kitchen. They grabbed two mason jars filled with garden grown green beans and then started to the basement where the girls were kept.

“Boysh!” Mamma yelled from the porch, “C’mere firsht.”

They came obediently. Michael, was the oldest, he was 10 years old. Mamma had acquired him (praise God) in Edina at Southdale Mall. He was an infant then, and his unmindful parents, had been arguing during their Christmas shopping spree. God had blinded their sinful eyes from Mamma Columbia snatching him for her own. He was a good boy. Mindful of his manners, and obedient. He was Mamma’s archangel, protective and loyal.

Gabriel, the youngest, at 7 years, was Mamma’s baby. He was taken a few years ago when the Lord had decided that Michael needed a brother. He was at a daycare center in Minneapolis. The daycare aides hadn’t even noticed that Gabriel was gone until his foster parents came to pick him up at the end of the day. He was a little wilder than his “brother” Michael, but always looked to please his new mother.

“Thank you, boysh.” She slurred, “Are you excited to play with your new shishters?”

“Yes, mamma.” They agreed in chorus.

“They’re going to be scared at firsht, so be gentle with them. God has given them as your shishters so treat them as such, undershtand?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“Good boysh.” She patted each boy on their bottom, “Now go serve them supper.”

The root cellar was dark. The floor was a dirt floor, and crawling with all sorts of unseen bugs. Carrie shivered in the corner with Natalie sleeping peacefully next to her. She was afraid to move. The darkness was thick, even with her eyes adjusted they couldn’t see her own hands in front of her. She had gripped Natalie’s hand and hadn’t let go since she’d been awake.

u n me

2009-09-25T23:27:00.000-05:00

we live

in the morning mists

before the sun burns it away

we live in between

today and yesterday

we’re the faceless lovers

of vivid dreams

the words that never reach

the tip of the tongue

we’re the kiss

that’s cut short

we’re the back story

of a well written script

the scent of warm honey

hidden within a forest

the ebb of an ocean wave

drifting back out to sea

the mirage

on steaming tarmac

we live

in the lingering memory

of a beautiful dream…

The Ballad of Memphis (working)

2009-09-21T00:58:00.003-05:00

you ever sit on a plane and wonder...well, yeah, you know what i'm talking about...you wonder if this is going to be the moment that god or whoever it is out there calls your ticket. when you're up high in the sky with nothing but gravity and the hard packed earth below you...yeah, you wonder...with my imagination...this is what i came up with...this is why i don't sleep well on planes....

You've done it. Here it is. This is the day. This is your day, Mr. Memphis Theodore Burroughs. You started out from humble beginings, selling magazine subscriptions, and then you designed tennis shoes that everyone wanted to wear. Pro athletes, movie stars, the public. You opened up your own clothing line and that soon opened up your own chain of stores. Then you began a record store, which turned into a music distributing company, Verocity Records. Every pop princess and Disney has-been sings for your label and the people buy them. You've monopolized downloaded media, and everyone, every-goddamned-one, downloads their music, video, books, ringtones from you! You moved on, you grew bigger, FiberDyne, Verocity Aerolines, and now this: Verocity Aeronauticals Star Plane. The Memphis Belle. The first airplane to break the stratosphere and orbit the earth.
Today, is her maiden flight. You've invited politicians, reporters, celebrities and of course your flavor of the week: Danica Hershey, your newest musical sensation discovery. Sure, she's 19 years your junior, but you're Memphis Burroughs. You've got more money than Trump and the prince of Burnai together. More moxie than Hugh Heffner. Tonight, you're going to fuck the shit out of her at over 100,000 feet above the Earths surface in your personal suite.
There is the usual ass kissing, the few nay sayers, but after the press conference and photos...The Memphis Belle is loaded up and awaiting clearance for take off on runway 17 of SeaTac airport. Her jets rumble, your passengers sip nervously on the cocktails and smile shyly at you. This is it. This is the moment. You are the man.
The tower calls out the clearance codes, the engine revs and the plane jerks. The g-force pulls you and the passengers into your soft memory foam seats.
You have a direct link to the cockpit. An earpiece. Within seconds the nose lifts and clouds race past. The Earth's gravity pulls at you and your guests. There is some nervous groans.
"No worries, folks." you announce over your personal speaker, "just as we explained in the briefing meetings, you'll experience a slight discomfort as gravity pulls at us, and your head may feel like it will explode...but rest assured...the crew will be leveling out the cabin pressure..."
The secondary boosters kick in and the Memphis rips through turbulence like a ginsu. You tap the button to the cockpit.
"Any problems, captain?" you whisper.
"No, sir." he answers obediantly, "all systems check okay, we should be breaking through the stratosphere in a few minutes."
"Excellent. You've done well, captain, much appreciated for the smooth flight."
And that was the wrong thing to say. You knew it was. In fact, after you said it, it felt bad in your mouth like diet soda. Because from that moment on, things went bad. Things went really bad.
It started when Kevin Newmann, yes, the action hero movie star, threw up into his cocktail glass. Then he unbuckled his seat belt and attempted to get up to use the bathroom. The idiot got up. The plane was doing mach 7 and about to break through the atmosphere into space and he got up out of his seat.
"I've got to puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu........!" was all that came out of his mouth as he was ripped out of his standing position and slammed through the back wall into the cabin area. He suffered several broken bones, a ruptured kidney, and many lacerations. His career was done. But that is entirely irrelavent.
Just before the Memphis Belle broke through the atmosphere there was a rumble from beneath the plane.
"Captain?" you call through your monitor, "Is everything okay? What was that?"
"Instruments are reading normal, sir." you notice a hint of nervousness in that voice, "No alarms and I just ran a systems check....doesn't seem to be anything..."
"What the hell was that noise that came from underneath us?" the direction your moment of glory is going is starting to piss you off.
"I can't be sure, sir."
"You can't be sure? What do you mean you can't be sure??"
You look up at Danica, she could care less. She's busy looking out the window watching the the earth in full view. The rest of your passengers however, are shaken. After Newman's exit, and the rumble of the undercarriage, they're not sure if they wanted to take a magic carpet ride with Mr. Memphis Burroughs.
"The captain will be leveling off and we'll be reaching orbital pattern in a few moments, folks." you announce, "As soon as we level off, we'll have a look at Mr. Newman's injuries. But please, do not attempt to get out of your seats until we've reached enertial dampening. The light will come on momentarily."
There is concern on some faces for the fallen actor. Some, these are rich people on board, afterall, and they didn't become that way by caring about people. There were just a few bleeding hearts here and there...and you yourself had done some philandering in your long rich career. The Humane Society, the children's cancer fund, hell you even shaved that beautiful mane of yours for St. Baldrick's the children's cancer fundraising event.
The bell goes off. Ding Dong (you wanted that Star Trek sound...the tooweeee-ooo...but they couldn't put it in) The seatbelt light shuts off.
"The seat belt light is now off." the captain speaks, "it is now safe to move about the cabin area. On behalf of Verocity Aerolines, Mr. Burroughs, and my crew, we'd like to thank you for joining us on our maiden flight through orbit. You may experience a slight queeziness as you'll experience the zero-gravity effect in the cabin. We do have gravitational stabilizers equipped in the cabin, but I thought it would be a treat to experience zero gravity. If there is any discomfort during your flight, please be sure to let our staff know."
You feel proud again. Incidents forgotten already. Even as famous Dr. Gregory Bohnstetter, head of cardiology at the Mayo Clinic, the guy who put in 3 stents in your own pulminary system, patched up Mr. Newman and made him as comfortable as he could with a few doses of morphine.
Everyone unbuckles and floats towards the port windows. The Earth glows filling every window. People 'oooo' and 'aahhh'. Some are having problems navigating their way through zero gravity.
"Folks," you begin your glory speech. "thank yew so much for joining me on this maiden flight. A few bumps and bruises are to be expected and ah pray that Mistuh Newman will recover from his injuries which ah will cover all expenses. In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, please enjoy yourselves. Mi casa es su casa."
There is the congradulatory handshakes, the shallow shoulder pats and kisses.
"You've opened a doorway, Mr. Burroughs." compliments a congressman from Texas, "You've opened the future to space flight for the average citizen."
"Thank you, Mr. Rice." you smile and reach into your breast pocket for your viagra pills.
You look over at Danica, who is staring in awe at the planetscape, this one's for her. You pop the blue pill into your mouth and walk over to her.
"Honey." you put your arm around her waist, "ah'm going up to the cockpit to personally congratulate my crew for a bit, would yew be a dear and meet me in our suite in say....15 minutes?"
"Sure, honey." she says, in her sweet young voice giving you that coy look that you know means, do what you want to me, just make me rich and famous.
You make your way to the cockpit. You press your finger on the keypad by the locked cabin door. A light reads your prints and the door hisses ajar. You open the door and walk into the cockpit which is lit up with the most hi-tech avionic equipment money can buy. Of course, you didn't have to buy any of it because you own FiberDyne that supplied the cable and fiberoptics, and you own Verocity Aeronauticals which provided the rest of the material.
"Captain," you pat him on the shoulder and then look around at the other 3 crew members,"Gentlemen. Ah can't thank y'all enough for a job well done. Congratulations to yew boys, now let's make sure yew git us all home safe and sound as well."

couples

2009-09-18T08:31:00.000-05:00

you don't love me
you're just used to me
this isn't at all
what i thought we were
going to be
cuddling in bed
the feeling is dead
"i love you"
only said in the head
good night kiss
what i miss
the passion and moaning
now it's come to this
dusty dry arid plain
nothing left but human stain
what was once
naked sore rugged love
now just rolling over
to sleep
good night, darling

the appointment...

2009-09-17T08:28:00.001-05:00

writing in minneapolis
the hub of midwestern culture
amongst the university students
some leaving home for the first time
some coming back for the last time
to be young
to be given that chance
no regrets
you're going somewhere
me
i'm sitting outside
next to a bronze statue
i have no idea what it means
writing in a black notebook
waiting for a urology appointment
drinking .95 cent gas station coffee
i've got regrets
and pissed away my chances
people pass me with caution
am i that dangerous looking?
do my thoughts seem that impure?
ah, fuck you anyways
i'm awaiting results
that i probably don't want to hear
a reality i don't want to face
writing in minneapolis....

Alpha Kingdom Book 1: Trouble in Aradi

2009-09-13T01:16:00.000-05:00

i had been asked several times, mostly by my kids, to write a childrens book. well, i could never swallow writing something cheesy and childlike, so i knew i would have to take a fantasy role on this. alpha kingdom is what took place. i started this one by the text book, i wrote out the characters, then i mapped out the land, then some of their languages and it got to be sort of Tolkienish...but don't worry, i could never reach his caliber, but i did an outline of this story and realized i've opened up a string of history about one kingdom reaching full circle...damn, hope i live long enough to finish this....

In the highest towers of Castle Eaven, the King looked out its window towards the north. On his right he could see the Open Country, to his left the Wisdom Mountains that shadowed over the Hill Country, and ahead of him where the River North flowed; the Olostic Gardens, beyond that, was the Sea of Nothing. The sky, in its brilliance, shimmered its radiant light across the land, for no night had ever befallen Aradi. Yet, in all the King’s infinite wisdom, he could tell there was a hue of purple building up in it.

The Wisdom Mountains looked a bit more ominous, their normal light green color getting darker. They loomed over Bigiddo Valley like giants ready to pounce. But he had heard no word of anything out of order from those provinces in Hill Country. The Chancellor of Billathor had just visited the palace last week in a meeting with his High Minister Atan Rey, and Atan had not reported anything out of the ordinary.

The King stroked his long white beard. A wrinkle formed on his troubled brow and he sighed. “Something is still not right.” he thought to himself. He had a connection with everything in Aradi, he was a part of it as it was a part of him.

“Your majesty?” a low voice came from behind.

“Ah, Minister Rey,” the King was happy to see his most trusted advisor. “I was just thinking of you.”

“Were you, my Lord?”

High Minister Atan Rey was probably the most beautiful of all the citizens of Aradi. He was one of the Firstbornes, one of the Eternals, and head of the King’s Gathering. He held the high honor of heading the Temple, and was the trusted advisor to the King. Whenever the citizens of Aradi needed advice of the King they came to the Temple and heard words spoken from the King , through Minister Rey. Atan was the wisest of all the subjects and answered only to the King himself.

“Atan,” the King began. “Something troubles me. I wonder if I might entrust you with the burden of listening to me.”

“But of course, Sire,” Atan Rey sat beside his king and placed his delicate hand on the King’s. “You need not fret over burdens, you are much too busy for that.”

“Atan, there is a disturbance here that I cannot put my finger on.”

“Sire?”

“The Presence, it feels different somehow. Usually, it flows and penetrates through everything, giving off its warmth to everyone here. But it feels…corrupted.”

“Your majesty, certainly you can’t mean…?”

“No, no. I do not mean that the Presence has turned itself against us, that is quite impossible. But there is something out there that is…tainting it. Do you know what I mean? Can’t you feel it yourself?”

“I’m afraid that I cannot, your Majesty. Surely if there was some…impurity within the Presence I would have noticed something at the Gathering. We all would have.”

“I suppose your right, dear friend. Perhaps I am being foolish then?”

“On the contrary, my Lord. If there is something behind this then mayhap you should hand this responsibility to someone else.”

“Yes, Atan, you are right. I shall have an investigation start immediately. I will need someone to travel amongst the citizens of Aradi and see if there is anything that they can detect.”

“I shall start on it immediately, my Lord.”

Atan Rey got up to leave and the King stopped him with his mighty voice.

“No, Atan, I should not need to bother you with such matters. I will find someone else.”

“But, Sire, if anyone can detect an anomaly in the Presence, surely it would be me. I am the High Minister of the Gathering. The people of Aradi look to me for spiritual guidance as you do, wouldn’t I be the prime…”

“I understand your reasoning, Atan.” the King interrupted. “But I’ve made up my mind. I will have Chael and Briel answer my call.”

“Chael and Briel? Pardon my insolence, but they are your soldiers. The people look at them with more contempt than anything else. I again beg you to reconsider this matter and make me your….”

“Atan, I have chosen Chael and Briel. If their investigations come up with anything, then I will have them bring what they’ve found to you. Agreed?”

“Agreed, your Highness. Please excuse me.”

Among the River North, just to the south of Mandragel, Lady Ankind sat dreamily on the banks. Her hair shimmering in the light, her gown glowing about her as it rest in the lush grass of the Olostic Gardens. Her delicate foot dipped into the cool water of the river, she was reading a scroll that had been written by Atan Rey. She did this every afternoon. It was her time to meditate and to let the Presence flow through her.

Just beyond a grove of Vera Trees, a watcher sat in hiding. He stood there in the shadows of his cover admiring the beauty whom sat before him. Her hair was a dark brown that matched her deep eyes. It flowed just past her shoulders in curls. Her eyes were always expressing happiness. Her full lips had a constant grin on them, that made her dimples express themselves on her rosy cheeks. This watcher’s heart agonized to be with her, but he was a soldier, not royalty at all.

He decided reluctantly to leave her to her reading. He crept out of his shadows and walked towards the Front Gate of the Gardens. His thoughts were only on Lady Ankind, until an Uribim interrupted his daydreams.

“Master Chael,” it was Taph, leader of his kind. The Uribim were small, like new borns at full growth. They had wings like humming birds. They were kindred with the faeries, but spent most of their days running messages to the people of Aradi.

Chael had jumped, “Taph! By the King, you’ve frightened me!”

“My apologies, sir.” Taph’s head bowed.

“No apologies needed, friend. What news do you bring me this hour?”

“The High Minister Atan Rey requests your presence at the Temple post haste. There is a mission of most importance he has for you.”

“Very well, Taph, and thank you.”

Taph looked towards the direction Chael had come from and then back at Chael with a grin, “She is beautiful, is she not Master Chael?”

“Mind your business, Taph.” Chael returned his grin.

“Very well, I’m off to find Briel, as he will be joining you on this mission.”

“I believe you’ll find him at the Drenton Temple or on the banks of Le’Anse Lake, I believe he was helping Priestess Lith with something there.”

Road Trip (completed)

2009-09-13T00:53:00.000-05:00

this is an early one. i drew a lot of my scary stories from vivid nightmares i'd had. here's one that still gets under my skin...

It was just another business trip. At least that’s what we told our wives. In reality it was a four-hour sales pitch in New Orleans and then a two-day party at the Mardi Gras. I felt a tad bit guilty telling my wife how I was dreading taking this trip with all the ass-kissing I had to do with Murray, my partner, but…a guys got to party, right?

We drove the trip as usual. We didn’t mind the traveling expenses because the company picked up the tab anyways. We worked for Fyberspace Network Systems, a growing fiber-optic company that was looking to expand its southern market. We were the spearhead of the project. I had them eating out of my hand on the phone the week before, so it wouldn’t take much to reel them in.

It was a long and tedious drive from Minnesota, but with us taking turns with the driving, it wasn’t so bad. We were like college kids on a road trip to spring break. I only hoped my liver could stand the abuse of the four day binge. Oh, the sacrifices I give for my company.

We checked in at our hotel and had a bite to eat at the outdoor café just a block over.

“What time is our meeting tomorrow?” I asked sipping a Long Island Tea.

“Uh,” Murray fumbled through his leather calendar. “It’s at 10am at the Hick’s center.”

“We better not hit it too hard tonight then.”

“It’s in the bag. We could do this deal blindfolded.”

“I’d almost like to see that. What do you want to do tonight?”

“Hell, man, I don’t know…let’s ask the guy at the front desk. I’ve never been to one of these things before.”

“Me neither.”

The waiter came by to take our order. We asked him what were the best places to go to during the Mardi Gras. He stared at us for a moment. I didn’t like his stare. I was thinking maybe he was gay or something but he told us about this one bar on the far side of town, and he was kind enough to draw us a map. He claimed it was a good place to get the feel of the south.

We got to “Dante’s Blues Saloon” at about a quarter to eight. It was some of the best blues I’ve heard, true blues. The singer up front sang it from his guts, an old black man with dirty clothes and a frayed fedora. His words lulled out from his cracked lips holding a cigarette in them. At any rate, I ordered my first pitcher of beer with the company credit card and the night started to rock.

Murray had danced a few songs with a couple of girls. I’m no Mr. Morals, but it seems almost like cheating on your wife. Especially the way he was dancing with the ladies. It looked like screwing with clothes on.

Well, it was about ten to midnight when I seen her. I feel guilty just staring at her, but her eyes. I tried to act like I was staring at something else, but it was damn near next to impossible. She had shoulder length brown hair, full lips, this cat suit thing (God bless the man who came up with spandex), and those eyes. My God, they trapped you, made you stare at them. That’s when I realized she was coming over to our table.

“Ya’ll don’t look local.” Her southern drawl, perfect.

“Uh, nope.” I wanted to shut up. I was going to sound stupid. I’ve been married too long to be smooth.

“We’re from Minnesota, honey.” Murray spoke up, “Have a seat.”

She sat down without taking her eyes off me.

“So ya down for the Mardi Gras then?”

“Uh, no.” I said trying to clear my throat, “We’ve got business down here.”

“Well, ain’t that nice. Ya’ll wanna dance?”

“No. No thanks, I’m married.”

“Sugah, I didn’t ask ya to sleep with me, I only asked ya to dance.”

“I don’t think my wife would appreciate…”

“Well, aren’t you a good ‘lil ‘ol Catholic boy.” She turned to Murray, “How ‘bout you, sugah? You married too?”

“Yep,” he grinned at me. “But I’m a Protestant.”

That bastard was out there bumping and grinding with her on the dance floor. She knew how to move too. I was feeling the guilt again so I went back to where the phones were and called my wife.

When I came back to our table she was gone but Murray was sitting there pouring a fresh pitcher. I glanced around to see if I could spot her, but there was no sign of her.

“Jeez La-weez, you are a dumb-ass!” He said as I sat down.

“What are you talking about?” I poured myself a glass.

“That chick really dug you, man. You let her get away with that ‘good little Christian boy’ act. I think that turned her on the most.”

“Murray, c’mon, I’m friggin’ married. Happily I might add.”

“Oh come off it! We’re far away from home. I love my Lynn, too, but hey…when in Rome.”

“Just drink your damn beer.”

The sale went through just as we had imagined. The suits on the executive floor of Fyberspace will be very pleased with our success. This was a multi-million dollar account and the commission was going to be heavenly.

We celebrated at this ritzy little Cajun joint off Bourbon Street. Our management told us to celebrate on the company. We went through three carafes of wine and I was feeling a good buzz when we left. Oh, the food was pretty good too.

“Well, where to now?” Murray asked.

“Let’s go back to that bar we were at.” I answered. I wanted to see her again.

“That place was kinda lame, I want to hit the strip. Lookit all those people.”

“Tell ya what, I’m gonna go get started at Dante’s, then I’ll meet you back here at 8:30?”

“Suit yourself, just don’t get yourself in any trouble.”

“I’m not going to see that woman, if that’s what your thinking.”

“What ever. See ya.”

I rolled the rum in my mouth like I did the lie I told Murray in my brain. The music at Dante’s was thumping. It seemed all a guy could hear was the bass drum. I pushed out a Kool from its pack, it seemed all they sold down here was soft packs, and held it tightly in my lip.

“Need a light, sugah?” her voice was behind me.

She put her hands over my eyes. “Guess who?”

I reluctantly pulled them off.

“Hey.” I said with my dumb-ass smile.

“Hey yourself.” She sat down. “Where’s your friend?”

“Uh…Murray went into town for the festival.”

“That boy was quite the dancer.”

“Yeah, so I noticed.”

She put her hand on mine and I looked into those damn eyes. Were they always this green? I could have sworn they were blu….

“Ya wanna show me what ya got?”

Her tongue ran across her upper row of teeth.

“Uh…no. I told you I’m married. I don’t…”

She gripped my hand tightly. “I don’t think you came out here by your lonesome just to sip on rum all night.”

I felt like a fly caught in a web. I dropped my gaze from her and concentrated on putting my cigarette out.

She got up and pulled on my arm.

“C’mon, sugah, I don’t bite.”

I knew that she did bite, and that those eyes had teeth.

I danced like an idiot out there. I think most men dance like idiots except for slow dancing. I tried to keep a distance from her. She grabbed my hips and thrust hers to mine. I stared up at the disco lights, thinking my wife could see me somewhere behind the colored filters. She slithered her arm around my neck and brought my head down so I’d be facing her. We moved in one writhing motion. For a moment I had forgotten my wife and was lost in her eyes.

The next morning I opened my eyes and tried to shake some of the cobwebs from my still half-drunken mind. My head yelled at me to knock it the hell off. I did notice that I was in a strange room. At first I thought maybe it was just because I wasn’t used to the hotel room, leave alone the fact that I didn’t remember how I got back.

Then I realized, I wasn’t in a hotel at all. I was in someone’s house. I was lying on a hide-a-way bed in someone else’s living room. I sat up quickly, my head still bitching the whole time. I winced in pain, so I turned my head slowly to gather my surroundings.

It was a tidy home. It was all pretty old but well kept up. It smelled a little dusty, but everything down here smelled a little dusty or damp. That’s right when a man walked in.

He was holding a TV tray filled with a bowl of Grape Nuts, half a grapefruit, toast with some orange marmalade, and a bloody Mary with a celery stick poking out the top of the glass.

“Good mornin’, Daniel.” He was a cheery cuss. He had salt and pepper curly hair with a mustache to match. He was medium build wearing a white terry cloth bathrobe with tufts of charcoal gray chest hair sticking out.

He placed the tray on the end table next to the couch.

“Uh…” I tried not to look at him and tried to remember last night. “Who the hell are you and where am I?”

“Had too much to drink, Danny?” He smiled at me.

She came down the stairs into the living room. Her hair was wet and she was drying it with a towel. She wasn’t wearing anything but a long sweatshirt.

“I see you’ve met my daddy.” She smiled at me like her father.

“Actually, Rachel,” Her dad looked at her. “I don’t think Dan had time to grasp the morning. How did ya sleep, hon?”

“Just fine, daddy.” She kissed his cheek and then sat down on the bed next to me.

I fell back onto my pillows.

“How the hell did I get here?” I asked looking up at the ceiling.

“I drove you, silly.” She giggled. “Boy, you must’ve had way too many.”

“Would you be so kind as to tell me what time it is?”

“Why sure.” She looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room, “It’s a quarter past nine in the morning.”

I let out a deep sigh. I should’ve called my wife. I told her I would call her every night I was down here. I was in deep but maybe Cheryl would understand. I began to wonder how Murray made out last night.

“Why don’t you eat your breakfast and Rachel and I will take you on a ‘lil tour of New Orleans.” Her father said, pronouncing New Orleans like ‘N-Awlins’.

“Really,” I forced my head off the pillow again. “I really should get back to my hotel.”

“Nonsense,” he insisted. “I’ve got some errands to run, and I can drop you off afterwards.”

Something about the way those two looked at each other really gave me the chills, but my foggy brain wouldn’t let me think straight.

“Oh, all right. What can it hurt?” I hesitantly asked. I knew full well I was heading for trouble with my wife later. But I couldn’t stop myself.

It turned out her old man is a real estate agent and a damn good one at that. He’s sold a lot of homes costing over $4 million along the gulf coast. He knew the city well and pointed out a lot of points of interest that most tourists don’t get to see.

We had pulled into this old neighborhood. The “Blue Bloods” he called them. On either side of the cobblestone street were tall gothic mansions. Weeping willows guarded each on like a giant spider. I was beginning to remember some of the Anne Rice novels I’d read as a teenager, and I could feel the presence of her characters all around me.

We pulled up to a curb in front of a huge church. It matched its haunting neighbors with its ancient tall looks and willow trees on all four corners of its lot.

“What’s this?” I asked.

Rachel’s father looked at me from the front seat then towards Rachel. She smiled at him, and then at me.

“I thought bein’ a Christian and all,” she drawled. “Ya might want to go to church.”

I digested what she said. I looked at her dad and then at her. They both stared back in anticipation. I looked out my window at the church again.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’d be just fine.”

They looked victorious at each other. I thought Cheryl would flip out if she heard that I went to church while on a business trip. Me, the guy she has to drag out of bed every Sunday morning at 8am, sometimes unsuccessfully. The guy who wouldn’t go to ‘Promise Keepers’ because it was opening fishing season, and it was more of a sin to skip that in Minnesota then a Christian men’s conference. Yes, she’d be proud.

“I hope nobody minds I’m not wearing a tie.” I said.

“Oh, don’t worry, sugah.” Rachel reassured. “We’re pretty casual on our dress code with visitors.”

We stepped out of the car, and I stared at the size of the church. It was as long as it was tall. There was something about the steeple that was missing. It gave me an uneasy feeling. I tried to brush it off, but became more uncomfortable as we got closer. It didn’t have a cross on top.

“Where is everybody, are we late?” I asked sheepishly.

“Just a ‘lil, but that’s okay.” She pulled on my arm.

I hesitated just enough to read the marble marker in front of the steps:

Church of Light

Luciferian Synod of Illumination

I tried to dismiss what I had just read, but there was an engraved etching of satan staring boldly towards heaven as if proud of his blasphemous ways.

“I…I can’t go in there.” I croaked.

Rachel’s father grabbed my arm.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said in a tone no longer friendly. “You’ve gone too far to back out now.”

“I will not go in there!” I tried to pull against his grip, but it was incredibly vice-like.

“You don’t have that choice anymore.”

He was dragging me up the steps towards tinted glass doors. I was trying to struggle, but my strength was starting to leave me.

“I’m a Christian!” I tried to shout but my voice was leaving me too.

Rachel grabbed my face. She dug her nails into my cheeks. Her eyes were on fire now. No longer green or blue. I looked fearfully into the endless depths of her pupils.

“Do Christians commit adultery?” she snarled at me. “C’mon fess up! Ya’ll a bunch of hypocrites?”

“Adultery?” I became confused. I only danced with her.

“Yes, adultery! Or don’t you remember last night?”

My mind began racing. It ached to remember a shred of anything from last night. I started feeling guilty. I wasn’t sure if I had slept with her or not.

As I stood there in utter disbelief, I was dragged into that hideous church. It was dark. The only light shined through the stained-glass windows portraying Satan as a god. They dragged me up a flight of stairs. I heard chanting all around me. It seemed to be getting closer.

“I don’t belong here!!” I shouted with what I had left.

I swung my arm and knocked Rachel’s father off balance, and he tumbled down a few stairs. Rachel jumped on my back locking her feet in front of me. I rolled down the stairs and broke her leg lock on me as we spilled out on the landing.

Two cloaked figures rushed me. They never said a word as they wrestled me into a corner. I was able to gouge one of them in the eye with my thumb, and he let go. The other held onto my calf as I crawled towards the tinted glass doors. I tried to kick at him, but he wouldn’t let go. I looked up and saw that Rachel and her father were coming after me. To my left more hooded figures were coming from behind a black curtain.

Fortunately the onrush was simultaneous and forced me through the glass doors. I had glass in my mouth, hair and some down my shirt.

“Danny!” Rachel screeched at me.

I took off immediately and tried to run down the front steps. It felt like running through a tar pit. I felt a hand claw at my back. I hit the cobblestone street and returned to normal speed again.

“We’ll get you, Danny!” Rachel hollered. “You can’t hide from us, we’re everywhere! You have my mark!”

I ran about six blocks. I haven’t done that since I was 13. I was in the market square hoping to get lost in the crowd. There were vendors selling everything from tie-dye clothing to hand-made jewelry. I noticed there were ouija boards hand-made from the very cypress trees grown in the swamps of Louisiana. At least the signs claimed so.

“Help you wit somethin’?” The clerk asked giving me the up and down.

“What?” I was a bit startled, “Uh, no. I’m just kinda looking around.”

“Just seen you lookin’ at dose crystal charms so intently for the last ten minutes. You wanna try it on?”

“Uh. No. Thank you, but I don’t think this is my kind of place.”

“You sure?” He pulled a string of costume pearls. “I’ve got some love beads?”

“No really, I…”

“C’mon, gumbo, it’s de Mardi Gras. You gotta at least own some love beads to give to the ladies.”

“All right.”

I unbuttoned the top three buttons of my dress shirt and took the beads from him. I was only trying to humor him until I saw he wanted $25 for them. I put them on despite the fact.

“How much?” I asked even though I knew.

He looked at me strangely. He was staring at my chest. His eyes got wide with a sort of fury. His face trembled, then his hands creaked into fists.

“You!” He shouted. “It’s you!”

I took the beads off me and looked down at my chest. There were five deep holes over the spot where my heart was. As if someone had punctured the area with their finger nails. I backed away from the merchant.

“It’s him, everyone! The chosen! He’s here!”

I took off out the door and ran. I didn’t want his friggin’ beads anyways. I knew were I was. Three blocks from my hotel so I sprinted. There were at least seven guys and a few women tailing me.

I ran into the lobby and up two flights of stairs. I began to remember why I was going to quit smoking every New Years Eve. They weren’t following me anymore, but I ran all the way to my room praying to God Murray was there.

I fidgeted with the room key. It was one of those damn magnetic card keys. I kept putting it into the slot upside down. I almost broke it in half on a few tries.

“Dan, what the hell?” Murray opened the door.

I was thankful he was there but pushed past him. I pulled my clothes from the closet and threw them on the bed.

“Bad night, man?” He asked looking a bit confused.

I went into the bathroom and started grabbing all my toiletries. I threw them into my small leather pack that my wife had given me for Christmas.

“Dan, what the hell are you doing?” Murray asked almost perturbed.

“We’re going, pack now!” I looked out the window nervously.

“Say what? I’m not going any…”

“Stay if you want. I’m going. Now! I’ll take a cab!”

“To Minnesota? Don’t talk stupid! Now calm down and tell me what’s going on!”

“No time! I’ll explain later!”

“All right.” He sighed and started packing.

We drove into the night without saying a word to each other. I don’t think I ever blinked, my eyes felt dry. I just stared straight at the windshield. I focused on the bugs hitting the window.

I smoked a pack all the way to St. Louis and was working halfway into my second by the time we hit the Iowa border.

“We’re stopping to eat.” Murray finally spoke up. “You’re going to tell me what happened back there.”

“No…I…”

“I’m buying you as many shots as you want until you talk.”

I swallowed and almost came to realizing I had been gripping the dashboard with both hands. I crushed out the cigarette I was choking down and blew out a long white cloud. My throat hurt.

“Okay, Murr.” I agreed quietly.

We stopped at this sports bar just off the I-35, I-80 interchange in Des Moines. It was called something like “Billy Ray’s” or “Billy Bob’s” or something like that. It smelled good in there. I was still a little out of it.

We ordered. I just ordered a salad to pick at and a beer, but Murray ordered me three fingers of Tequila. He said he thought I needed it, hah.

“So…what the hell happened?” He asked. He was genuinely concerned, I was thankful.

“That bitch tried to kill me.” I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I don’t think I could look anybody in the eyes ever again.

“Dude, I knew she was trouble, but kill you? Come on!”

“I’m not screwing around here, man! She was mixed up in this cult thing! Her and her dad were trying to sacrifice me, or something! Freaky-ass-shit!”

“Whoah, slow down. Devil worshipping? Sacrifice? Dad?”

“Look, I got away from them, went down to the market, and this guy points at my chest and says I’m him, him the chosen one!”

“The chosen one?”

“That bitch said I slept with her and committed adultery, and that she put some mark on me.”

“Some hot sex, eh, bud?”

“Would you be serious? I’ve got no recollection of sex with her! I’ve got this mark on my chest though.”

“Open up your shirt, Dan.”

I looked down as I pulled my shirt open halfway. There on my chest where her fingernails had dug into my flesh, was a red pentagram. Each of the holes connected with a scratch mark. There was a scab shaped like an upside down triangle.

Murray stood up. His eyes were wide. He began to tremble. I dropped the cigarette from my mouth. My eyes were also wide.

“You!” Murray shouted, “You believer in a false god!”

“No.” I whimpered. “Murray, what are you…”

“He’s here! The chosen one from the two-faced religion! The cross-hugging hypocrite! The betrayer!”

I slid out of the booth and tried to stand. Murray struck me and knocked me down.

“He is here among us! And I thought you were my best friend!”

I slid away from him and stood up. The customers were starting to gather around me and were chanting. They were cursing me. They were cursing God. I pushed my way into the lobby as they chanted, and Murray hurled cuss words and spat on me.

I slammed into the hostess who seated us, and we both fell. I got up and tried to help her up.

“Help me.” I pleaded. I felt like I was in an episode of ‘the Outer Limits’.

“There is no help for the chosen.” She scowled. “No help for the filth of His flock!”

I ran out of the truck stop and headed for the interstate on foot.

I ran to a rest area just outside of Williams, Iowa. I had run and walked a distance of 78 miles in the ditch. I didn’t want to be spotted. It had rained on and off for six hours. I was hoping to dry myself off and hopefully get a little rest before I started out again.

I used one of those hand dryers to dry myself. The warm air felt comforting on my cold wet face. I sneezed a few times. ‘Great’ I thought, ‘I’m catching frickin pneumonia’.

I looked into the mirror and examined the mark on my chest. I never saw this the morning I woke up in Rachel’s house. I washed my face to try to wake myself. The whole thing seemed so unreal. I didn’t want to believe everything that my brain was registering as reality. I couldn’t bring myself to it.

‘Maybe if I slept.’ I thought, ‘Maybe if I slept and woke up at daybreak and had a nice sink bath. Maybe then everything would make sense. Then I could just return to my normal little life and I promise, God that I’ll go to church every Sunday willingly. Next year, I’ll be the first in line to go to Promise Keepers.’

I went out into the lobby and saw the phones hanging on the wall. I searched my pockets for change. I came up with .45 cents and a wad of lint.

I’ll call Cheryl. She’ll come and get me. She’ll come and get me, and we can return home together and live happily ever after. Yeah, right! How the hell can I explain why I’m here in a rest area in Iowa? ‘Honey, I slept with some girl in a devil cult and now they all want to kill me. Can you come pick me up? Murray? Oh, he’s one of them too.’

I dropped the change into the slot and dialed collect. It was busy. I thought I might just take a little nap in the stall, and call later. I can tell her that Murray decided to stay, and I wanted to come home early because I missed her so much. So I hitched a ride. That would work, right?

I drifted into sleep.

“Hey. Hey, buddy?” a voice woke me out of the blackness.

“Huh?” I awoke with a jump, and my fist clenched. I was ready for them.

“Easy, buddy, you okay?” It was a trucker. He was a tad pudgy and on the later side of 50. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and Wrangler jeans. A Burrough’s Cartage, Inc. hat sat proper on his graying red hair.

“Yeah!” I tried to look mean. “Yeah, leave me be!”

“Just checking. I heard you crying out in your sleep. You need a ride somewhere?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Okay, I’m heading into Minneapolis if you’re looking for a ride.”

I gave in. I rode in his semi with one hand on the door handle and the other holding my shirt closed. He spoke once in awhile, but I just nodded my head not really listening to him. I just wanted to be home with Cheryl. I just wanted to be back with her in my safe little home. Everything will work itself out later.

He pulled off onto highway 62 in Richfield, MN. He went over to the shoulder and stopped his rig. It gasped as the air brakes engaged. He looked a little concerned at me, and I clutched the top of my shirt. He held out his hand.

“This is where I drop ya, bud.” He said with a smile, “The brass would fine me if I showed up with a rider and all, ya know.”

“Thanks.” I took his hand, and he gripped mine and shook it.

“This close enough for ya?”

“Yeah.” I opened my door.

“Well, good luck to ya. Take care of yourself.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

I walked three miles to a convenience store just off the highway. I walked in to use the payphone. I almost started to cry. I began to feel relief, and I felt safe. I was only five miles from home. I never wanted to hear my wife’s voice more in my life. Once I heard it I knew everything would be okay.

I got to the phone back by the bathroom. It smelled awful. I didn’t care. I dropped my change into the slot. There was no dial tone. There was nothing. I looked at the receiver and clicked the lever several times. Nothing. The damn thing wouldn’t even give me my change back.

I slammed the phone down and went up to the cash register. I waited behind two customers impatiently. They were paying for their purchases with a damn credit card! I began to wonder if people in a hurry felt the same way when I was paying with a credit card, especially when the clerk can’t operate the machine.

I finally got up to the register.

“I need to use your phone.” I said desperately, “It’s a local call.”

“There’s a pay phone in the back by the bathrooms.” The pimple-faced kid grinned at me.

“It ain’t working. Can I just use your phone up here?”

“Sorry, it’s against company policy for us to use the business phone for anything except business.”

“Look, it’s an emergency. I’ll just take a minute! It’s a local call for chrissakes!”

“There’s a warehouse just on the other side of the parking lot. They may have a phone.”

“Thanks, you’ll make employee of the month!” I would’ve argued with the punk in any other circumstance, but I hadn’t the energy. I walked out across the parking lot to this warehouse.

The lady at the front desk was pleasant. She greeted me with a smile and said I could use the phone in back. She guided me back down the hallway. She opened the last door that opened into the warehouse. It was dark in there except for the desk lamp that shined down on a black phone with an old rotary dial on it about fifty feet ahead of me.

I thought it was odd that she wouldn’t let me use the one up front on her desk, but I wasn’t in the mood to discuss company policy with her.

I dialed the number wrong twice. My fingers fumbled with the rotary. What kind of business uses a rotary phone anyways? I dialed a third time and got the first ring.

“Hello?” it was her voice. Oh, Cheryl. Sweet Cheryl. Her voice was so soft and warm. So safe. Sweet Cheryl.

“Honey?” I was starting to break down.

The phone went dead. Someone cut the line. I closed my eyes, and the chanting started again around me. Coming from the darkness, from the mustiness. It was all around me. I dropped the receiver.

A tear fell down my cheek.

“You can’t run.” A voice spoke from the unseen group of people. “We told you, we are everywhere!”

the empty cell (completed)

2009-09-13T00:40:00.000-05:00

i used to work in a jail, and some of the whack jobs we'd get in there would make your hair fall out from insanity. here is a concept based on an actual incident and inmate i dealt with on the night shift. of course his name is changed and the county is my own creation Moon Valley County. I've submitted this one around to some mags and contests, and it's seen the light of day only on one underground mag.

Brody came in as always with his thermos of coffee, a sandwich and a bag of corn chips in a plastic bag. In the other hand a paperback sci-fi novel, usually something from Ray Bradbury. His winter cap on and frost gathering on his mustache, he journeyed up the courthouse steps and then hung a sharp right into the Law Enforcement Center. He waved at the dispatcher as she buzzed him through to the jail office.

Jimmy Vaughn already had his jacket on and was ready to leave. The other jailer, Nellie Polk, was just coming in from the jail cells after handing out the nightly meds.

“What’s on for tonight?” Brody asked Jimmy.

“Same as always, nothin’.” Jimmy answers as he spits out his chewing tobacco into the office sink.

Brody studies the Photo Board. It displays pictures of the current inmates of the Moon Valley County jail, all 22 of them. He knows pretty much all the faces, most repeat offenders, probation violations or DWI’s. There is a new face on the board, but it’s blurry and a little distorted.

“Have a little problem with the MRAP machine?” Brody asked, the MRAP took full 360degree photos of its subject and downloaded them into a nation-wide database.

“Oh, that guy.” Jimmy rolls his eyes. “You want to try and photo him go for it, that guys a freak!”

Brody motions to the photo board with his thumb, “Do you want to tell me which one of these boys in here aren’t?”

“True enough. But there’s something about Quidam that I don’t like. Something going on behind them eyes of his.”

Nellie rolled her eyes at Jimmy and gave Brody a smile.

Brody returned it and attached his radio to his duty belt and fetched the cell keys from their respective hook. They were large and cumbersome, but after Brody’s fifteen years here, he didn’t notice.

“Gonna make a check.” He hit the button that released the door going out into the jail. “Is anybody out on work release?”

“Nope,” Nellie answered. “They should all be here.”

Jimmy left and said ‘good night’ as Brody stepped out into the jail cells.

All the inmates were either playing cards or watching wrestling on TV. Brody never understood how inmates got seventy-three channels of cable while he watched two snowy local channels at home. Some waved at him, bitched about the evening meals and some he took a minute or two to converse with. When he came to the last cell that was holding their new inmate, Quidam, he stopped.

The air was different, cold and dry. He stepped down the catwalk behind the cell’s wall and peeked in through the two-way mirror at Quidam. He was writing on the walls with a nub of a pencil. The writing was too small for him to read from here, but Brody thought he better put an end to it. He came around the front of the cell where there were bars that separated the inmate from the jailer.

“What are you doing?” Brody asked with some intimidation in his voice.

“I…I’m trying to figure out the pathway.” Quidam answered without looking up.

“Pathway? Mr. Quidam, I’m not exactly sure what you me…”

“The pathway. I’m almost there. Please, hush.”

“You’re going to have to stop writing on county property. If you need paper I can get you paper, but you cannot write on county property.”

Quidam didn’t stop. He wrote with a fury, stopping only a few times to ponder a thought and then returned to his work. Brody noticed the guy’s lips were chapped and cracked. He was constantly licking them with a dry tongue. Brody went around to the backside of the man’s cell to where the door was.

“Mr. Quidam,” he hollered. “I’m coming into your cell. I need you to stand up with your back to the wall facing me!”

There was no answer. He turned the heavy key in the door lock and pulled the door open. Quidam was crouched on the floor, writing with fervor. Brody spoke into his shoulder microphone for Nellie to come and assist and then walked in all the way to where Quidam was crouched, being careful to make sure the door didn’t lock.

“Do you have a problem following orders, Mr. Quidam?” Brody was getting agitated. The walls, table and floor were decorated with this madman’s writing.

“May 24th.” Quidam spoke, “May 24th, 1984.”

“What?”

“May 24th, 1984. That was the day that God lifted the veil from my eyes and showed me the Eight Disciplines.”

“The ‘Eight Disciplines’, right. Do they include grafitti?”

“You don’t understand. You couldn’t understand. Of course how could you? You are below the comprehension of such infinite conjecture. You are part of an ill-governed machine put together to oppress the free thinkers, the ones who contemplate the reason for existence. But I, sir, I have mastered the Eight Disciplines. I am far beyond anything even the most scholastic of men. They have been blinding our children, they’ve put the veil on all of us, but I lifted it. Thanks, be to GOD!”

“What are these Eight Disciplines, if I may so boldly ask?” Brody’s face was flushed with anger, but he kept sarcasm around to cap it.

“You don’t want your eyes opened. Besides there isn’t anytime! Now go away, I’m about to find a Ninth Discipline that God Himself knew nothing about.”

“All right, Quidam, I don’t know what kinda drugs your freakin’ out on but I’m taking your pencil and locking you down until you straighten out.”

Quidam almost growled at Brody when he bent over to take the pencil. Then, without warning, Quidam leaped at him and bit into his shoulder. Nellie and two Sheriff’s Deputies were coming down the hall at that moment and hurried when they heard the commotion. They pulled Quidam off and they all hauled him off to the isolation cell.

The isolation cell, commonly called the “Quiet Room”; consisted of a mattress, four metal loops to handcuff the inmate down in case he tried to harm himself, and a hole to piss in. A camera sat up in the ceiling so they could keep an eye on him.

The mid-shift ended at 10 o’clock and Nellie had left. Brody sat alone at the controls of the security office, nursing his bruised shoulder. Since the evening’s incident, Quidam was shouting out Bible verses and demanding that Brody repent. This went on and on until about midnight.

“I can still find it.” Quidam’s last words were, and then there was silence.

Brody turned up the microphone that was patched into the isolation cell. He only heard whispering. On the monitor, Quidam was writing something on the wall with what looked like his finger.

“The bastard cut his finger somehow and is writing in his own blood!” he thought to himself.

He hit the button on the microphone, “Mr. Quidam, if you’ve harmed yourself in any way in there, I will have to 4-point you down.”

Quidam only started to write faster and faster. Within minutes the entire south wall was covered in blood. He was starting to write another page on the west wall.

“Damn it!” Brody spat. He stood up and punched the button to go into the jail area again. He grabbed some bandages from the first aid kit and then some latex gloves.

As he approached the isolation cell he sat silently with his ear to the door. Only whispers from Quidam could be made out. Brody opened the food port in the middle of the door and peeked his head in.

Quidam was squatting there with a mad stare in his eyes. There was blood around his mouth and the stump of his index finger. He had chewed off the tip and spit it on the floor.

“I’ve found it.” Quidam grinned victoriously at Brody, “The Ninth Discipline, it’s all right here.”

Brody threw open the door and stopped just short of the entrance. The blood on the walls had congregated into a giant crimson splatter. It was bubbling and things were moving within it.

“We’re going to meet God.” Quidam cheered.

The blood started to spurt. It flecked the front of Brody’s brown uniform, and doused Quidam’s orange jumpsuit. Brody thought he heard something gargling within the splatter on the wall. He pulled on Quidam’s sleeve.

“Don’t take me away, I’m going to meet God!” he protested.

Dark clots sprung out and some rested on Brody’s badge. He fell into the hallway on his back. The door stood ajar with his legs in the way. He heard someone rattling at the office door trying to get out into hallway to assist him.

Brody tried to get up and slipped on the blood pooling on the floor. His third try was successful. The door to isolation slammed shut and he heard something roar from within. He slipped again trying to make it to the security office door. The officers saw the wideness of Brody’s eyes as he pounded on the door. He saw that one of the officers was trying to punch the button to release the door lock while the other was trying the fail-safe key.

“Open up!” Brody yelled, “Open up, for the love of God!!”

“I found it!!” yelled Quidam from the cell. “I’ve found the Ninth Discipline, Lord!! Have mercy on meeeeeeeeeeee!”

With that, Brody heard the roar again and then heard something crack. Quidam’s bones perhaps, he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to get in the office where there was a gun.

Sudden silence emanated from the cell once more with a lake of blood coming from under the door. There was a mewling sound and then a loud thump that shook the heavy metal door. Panic was renewed in Brody and some of the other inmates started to holler with a few choice words. Another thump and the door started to bend.

“Open up this door, and do it NOW!” Brody screamed.

The door to isolation was hit again and came off the hinges. The door landed on the ground. He heard the thing in isolation move towards the entrance, which was only eight feet from where Brody stood. It’s feet splashing around in the dark puddle beneath it.

“Slide your gun through the drawer!” Brody motioned to the drawer that slides from the security office into the hallway.

He reached into it and pulled out a 9mm. He cocked it back and waited for it to come. It howled inside the cell.

“If this is God, then I’m quitting church!” he thought to himself.

But nothing came. It was quiet. Only the drip of Quidam’s blood came from isolation.

“Brody?” the officer called from the security office.

Brody waved his hand at them and walked over to the cell cautiously. The door had lain there on the floor with what looked like claw marks and more blood. He swung his head into the cell quickly and then, back out. He pivoted his whole self to the entrance with the gun drawn.

It was empty. All the blood was draining into the piss hole like rain into a storm sewer. There was no sign of Quidam except for the raw stub of finger he had chewed off.

The security door swung open and about nine police and deputies flooded into the hall.

“You okay, Brody?” one officer asked.

“No.” he whispered, “I don’t think I’ll ever be okay.”

irrelevant

2009-09-13T00:13:00.000-05:00

i was dealing with the reality of cancer and some of the emotions one goes through when faced with this disease is crippling. i dealt with it the only way i knew how. i wrote about it. this is another unfinished peice that i plan on coming back to when my emotional state can handle it and i can grasp and research a little more...

1.

Everything remains irrelevant.

Perhaps rephrasing such a statement would be a little more poignant, but in the end, that’s everything the following pages represent. Irrelevancy.

The tumor is at stage 4. not necessarily a popular number when viewing trivial polls of every ones favorite numbers, or favorite foods, and the like. But when a doctor tells you this, your mind stops and focuses on trivial things.
“it’s at a stage four, Mr. Dunn.” The doctor stated, “and with this kind of cancer, it doesn’t fare well on the treatment end.”

Where does a mind go at this point?

It floats. Like a case of shock, you think of every cigarette you ever smoked, every whiskey you ever drank, every joint and chemical you ingested in your earlier years. Then begins the regrets. The women you hurt, the children you scolded, the chances you passed up. Pretty soon, they gang up on you like a crowded room and you’re the talk of the party.

When you finally snap yourself back to your doctors appointment he’s finished everything he needed to say. He asks you if you have any questions and you have myriad questions that could last longer than your $30 co-pay.

But you don’t voice them. Because they haven’t taken form yet. They will when you get home. When you tell the wife and she barrages you with well formed questions, the ones you should have asked. The only thing you know at this point is that your PSA is high and that you’re going in for blood work and a CT scan this and next week.

But to you, that’s fairly pointless. The doctor said “with this kind of cancer, it doesn’t fare well on the treatment end.” Didn’t he? So really, what’s the point?

The two children you brought into this world. That’s the point. But for a selfish moment, you can only think of you. That large pool of mud with a sign posted: Mr. Dunn's Pity Pool, awaits you. Do you dare wallow there? You test it with your bare toe.

So the first call goes to your mom. You were a mamas boy and sometimes, when things are really bad, she’s the only one you can think to tell. At least, be the first in line in a series of calls. She deserves that much.

“Hello, son.” She says with that ‘finally, a call from my son’ voice.

“Hey, ma.” Then silence because you’re trying to figure out how to say it without crying and upsetting her.

“What’s up?” she probes.

“I….” and after that first word, the tears start to drip and you choke on them, “…I have some bad news, ma.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I…uh…well, I have cancer. Pancreatic, in fact.”

Then it’s silence on her end.

“Mom?”

“Can I call you back, son?” you know she’s on the cusp of tears and when mama cries, it’s like Niagara Falls.

“Uh…yeah, okay. You okay, mom?”

A loud wail is cut off by her receiver hanging up.

You let out a sigh as you hang up on your end.

“How did she take it?” your wife asks.

“Not good….not good. She hung up….think she’s crying.”

“I told you it was a bad idea to call her.” She starts, “she doesn’t need to deal with this when she’s dealing with her own health problems. What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know!” you shout, “I guess I’m just one big fuck up!”

You walk outside and shake a cigarette out of it’s pack. You think twice about lighting it up because this is probably what got you in trouble in the first place. But your lighter works faster then your mind does and you inhale. Breathe out. And you dial another number.

“Hello?” it’s your dad.

“Hey, pop.”

“Oh…hey, how are you doing?”

“Not good. Not good at all.”

“What’s wrong now?”

“Just got back from the doctor…..he said I have cancer.”

“Prostate or….?”

“Nope, pancreatic.”

“….because prostate is 100% treatable if they catch it early enough.”

“No, it’s pancreatic. I’ve got stage four.”

“You know I had prostate cancer, and it was a simple operation and it never came back…so…”

“Well, it’s not prostate, it’s pancreatic. The really bad kind.”

Then it’s his turn at silence.

“Is it treatable?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, but the doctor said that at this stage….well…it’s a bit irrelevant.”

“So when do you go in for treatment?”

“Well, I have a series of tests I need to take and lab work.”

“Did you tell your mom?”

“Yeah. She didn’t take it very well.”

Silence again, and then finally, “So other than that, how are things going?”

“I don’t know, dad. I’m not really thinking about anything else other than that. I…I really think I should just skip the treatment and finish out without all the

The Shine Journal: Featured

2009-09-12T01:46:00.000-05:00

Thank you so much to Pamela Tyree-Griffith for her faith in me and pulling some strings. She was kind enough to feature me in her online magazine.

She featured a work of mine called "Blood is the Rose of Mysterious Union".

Please check out her online magazine The Shine Journal, she's featured some great talent on there and I'm humbled and honoured to be a part of that. Thanks again, Pam.

the second line

2009-09-12T01:37:00.000-05:00

i spent a week in new orleans, louissiana. i could live off the culture down there. it's a hotbed of inspiration. this story is the second i've written based in the area. this story takes place based on an old legend regarding a ghostly "second line"...if you don't know what a second line is, it's those parades you see all over nawlins either following a wedding party or a funeral. this story is based on legend. it's still a work in progress, so please check back....

The Second Line by Brad Bodeker

1

The hurt is tremendous. It seems he had been crying so long that he doesn’t remember when his eyes weren’t wet. How long had he been sitting here in this hotel room? Staring into some dead dark corner hoping to see….what? Her ghost? She wasn’t dead, just their relationship was.

Here he sat. The Bourbon. On the busiest street in New Orleans and he sat inside his room running through old memories and killing himself with tequila and his 4th pack of cigarettes. His friends had offered him to come along with them as they were headed off to the street below to check out the band playing next door and perhaps score upon some hapless drunken “chicks”.

How long had it been? Why ask? He knew every minute detail of their failed relationship and he just couldn’t hang it up. She had already moved on. Moved on actually before the relationship “officially” ended. Is that where the bitterness is? Maybe? Why not go down with the boys and ravage the streets with drunken heinous carnal acts? This is the city to do it in. Vegas has got nothing on New Orleans. And who did he have to answer to anyways?

He staggered himself up from his overstuffed chair. Wobbled and then took a large gulp from his Jose Cuervo bottle.

“I’m goin’ out wit tha boys!” he said to the empty room.

And with a few steps to gain his balance, he went through his bedroom door, and down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the wet streets of Rue Bourbon.

2

That was Gerry’s last memory of last night. Stepping out into the ocean of drunken zombies and losing himself to the current of drunken splendor.

Now, here he sat. Back at his hotel with a piece of broken bottle puncturing his wrists. A new batch of tears had flooded his cheeks. He had no recollection of how he ended up here, only the realization that he was here, attempting to cut his own wrists with this shard of green Heineken bottle glass and he was crying again on the balcony overlooking that lonesome street of strangers.

“The fuck you doing?” it was Kevin who walked out onto the balcony finding Gerry in a semi-stupor dripping blood from a rip in his wrists, “the fuck are you doing??? Oh, god oh Jesus!!”

“Let me go, kev.” Was what he whispered, “just let me go…”

In reality, the cuts were not severe enough to “let him go”. They were cut just above the vein, and because Gerry had been drinking so much, the veins were sunk in deeper into his arm and did not cause a threat of Gerry checking out this morning.

“somebody fuckin help me!” Kevin yelled into the hotel room from the balcony, “somebody!!!”

The boys came. There was 3 of them plus Gerry and Kevin. They scooped up their friend and tied off his wounds with a couple of hand towels. They called a cab and rushed him off to the hospital.

3

“you realize I’ll have to report this?” the ER doctor said to Phil whom sat in the ER with Gerry while the rest of them stayed back at the hotel and partied.

“What for?” Phil asked.

“It’s a suicide attempt.” The doctor replied, “I’m bound by the law to report something like this.”

“What would happen?”

“Well…your friend would have to go to at least a week’s evaluation under suicide watch upstairs. Then, depending on what the psych docs figure out…he may have to stay for awhile longer…but”

“Well, I don’t think he was trying to commit suicide.” Phil interrupted.

“Scuse me, son?”

“Naw, we were all just a little drunk and were messing around and…and..uh, Ger just kinda…well, I threw the beer bottle towards him…and…uh….it broke you see…”

“…and I imagine the bottle then made an almost perfect straight line cut up his wrists?”

“um….yep.” Phil looked at Gerry whom was just staring off into some other life. His eyes were stained red with tears.

“your friend looks pretty distraught.” The doctor mentioned.

“yeah, well, his girlfriend just broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Give us a few more days here and we’ll cheer him up.”

“I think your friend needs a little more help than more alcohol and loose women.” The doctor stared gravely at Phil, “he’s in a deep depression right now. I really don’t think I’d feel comfortable discharging him from the ER.”

Phil looked the doctor in his eyes, “He doesn’t have insurance, doc , and knowing my pal here, your hospital ain’t going to see a cent of his when they bill him…he’ll be fine…he just needs his friends.”

love and insanity: a memoir of dysfunctional proportions

2009-09-12T00:14:00.000-05:00

i have been writing a memoir on my mother's life called "a womans lot", during that time i did a few scribblings on some of my own life. this is the result of those scribblings. who knows...maybe this will see print some day...who should i piss off first? hmmmm.....

Love and insanity: a memoir

1.
So that’s me, the guy in the gurney being slammed through a myriad of swinging doors. Outside its October, and unusually warm and clear. Inside it’s the Omaha Methodist hospital Emergency room. I stare blearily above me as the fluorescents race past. The guy above my head is the one who sat with me in the ambulance who kept a check on my vitals and kept asking me my name and address and who the president of the United States was. My friend, Mindy is at a fast walk beside me on the right with a worried look on her face. She’s pretty in a tomboyish way, a great writer, and an even better guitar player. She’s dressed up tonight in her best 80’s rocker bitch attire because she was on a date this evening with her future ex-husband. To my left is the attending nurse. Peroxide blonde, worn out in her mid-fifties, her lined face, pear-shape, keeping pace with the gurney; she was conversing with the guy above my head and the other paramedic whom I couldn’t see at my feet.
“Finnley!” was all I could really concentrate on. It was Mindy holding my hand which seemed like such a foreign part of my own universe. “Finnley, please be okay!”
I was numb, and wish I could have felt something like guilt. Because she was my friend. She was the one that found me. Her and her boyfriend Jason, who was somewhere back there in the lobby or somewhere talking to the Douglas County sheriff’s department about this whacked out psycho bastard that his girlfriend knows. I’m sure the vocabulary coming out of that mullet-headed specimen of man was something like:
“Fuck yeah, dude….”
“I was like, whoa…”
“I don’t know, man…”
“Farm out, cop dude, that’s all can say, man, farm fuckin out…”
Ah, but that’s a world away now. I was heading to my final destination. Operating room number 7. Funny, because 7 is my favorite number. Funny how the universe is, isn’t it? I was greeted by two others in white scrubs, female and much younger than the attending nurse.
The room was white and before my eyes could adjust to its sterility, they had moved my carcass from the gurney to the operation table. The overhead lamp beamed into my bloodshot eyes and I could feel its heat. Perhaps, I was just having a day mare at the beach?
The back of the table hummed and the next thing I knew I was sitting up. I couldn’t see Mindy anymore. A tray table slid in front of me with a baby blue bowl on it, and two giant toothpaste tubes. Were they going to brush my teeth? How nice, and they even strapped a bib on me. If this was a dream, and I was really lying on a beach near the Pacific Ocean, then I was in some weird dental office. Maybe I really should see a shrink?
“Mr. Newkirk,” the attending nurse asked. “Can you hear me?”
I nodded. Everyone sounded like they were in a barrel.
“Mr. Newkirk, we’re going to need to pump your stomach.”
I shook my head.
“We’re going to need to get all those sleeping pills out of your system.”
One of the younger nurses came into view with a long tube about ¾ of an inch in diameter.
“This is going to be uncomfortable and you’ll want to vomit when the tube hits the back of your throat.” She droned on, “That’s your body’s natural reaction, but we’re going to need to get every pill we can.”
“No.” I managed to squeak out.
“Now, just relax, Mr. Newkirk.” She approached me with the tube.
“No!” I growled through grit teeth, “Why can’t you fuckers just let me die?”
“Mr. Newkirk,” she put some sort of gel around the tip of the tube. “Just relax and it will be over quicker than you think.”
“Fuck that!” I grabbed her hand.
“Let me go!” she said sternly.
“Get that fuckin thing out of my face!” my lips tightened and I turned my face away from her.
“I think we’re going to need to strap him.” She mentioned to the paramedics.
If this was a movie, they would be paramedic #1 and paramedic #2. They would be played by some upstart actors whom would either become the next Brad Pitt or vanish into celluloid obscurity. Either way, the bastards slid a padded strap across my upper arms and torso and strapped it tight.
The nurse attempted again and I grabbed the lower part of her smock and bunched it up in my fist.
My hands were then put into padded cuffs in front of me and then strapped down to the sides of the table.
“Now you need to cooperate, Mr. Newkirk!” she yelled.
I still wouldn’t comply.
She looked up at one of the other nurses, “Can you have Larry come in here?”
Larry? I shouted in my head, Who’s this mysterious Larry that gets a ‘named’ part in my movie?? Who the fuck was this guy?
Larry was this brick house that was probably red headed but was shaved bald. He walked behind me and then put a padded strap around my head and tightened it down on my forehead. Then he came around to the right side of me and squeezed my cheeks together so my lips would pooch out.
The tube went in, and just as it hit the back of my throat, I bit down on it.
“Let it go!” the attending nurse shouted.
I growled my indifference to her through clenched teeth.
She pulled on the tube and I would release it until it eventually tore in my mouth and I was hoping the inertia would send her reeling into a metal table or something. But she had those flat pancake feet in those white doc martens and she only jerked back slightly.
She snipped the end of the tube that was ragged with teeth marks and reapplied the lubricating gel on the new tip.
“Get his mouth open!” she ordered Larry.
Larry, though he got a part in this movie with a name he didn’t get a speaking part. That was my only revenge I could get at him. He crushed my cheeks again until I had to open my mouth, and as I did the tube slid in.
So this is what it’s like for a woman who gives a man head? Oh my, God!!
The tube made its way into my throat. Larry was holding my jaw open by my chin. I swear to god that nurse enjoyed every inch that she put in me.
Then the vomit came. It was clear at first; I could smell the mix of scotch and bile as I watched it careen down the tube like a water slide. There were the pills I had taken, one by one like roller coaster cars.
The bottle of pills I took was over-the-counter. Easy to swallow caplets. They spilled into the little blue tray and I thought at this rate they would need a new tray. I was right. A new tray took the old one’s place.
I could feel that damn tube inside of me. It was a dirty feeling of violation. Soon, everything looked blurry through the tears multiplying in my eyes.
When I was able to blink them clear, the attending nurse had one of those toothpaste tubes. She was filling a giant syringe with some kind of black paste. No tube of Crest I had ever seen before.
When the vomit stopped, and I was just dry heaving, she inserted the syringe full of obsidian paste into the open end of the stomach tube. She pressed on the plunger and I watch this black snake crawl up into my mouth and down my throat. Another gag, and then a warm sensation as I passed out into the black.

2.
When my eyes flicked open there was beeping all around. There was an IV tube in my hand and it seemed I was enclosed in this room with all these noisy machines.
Bing! Pop! Bing! Chirp!
The IV was attached to a clear bag hanging on a metal stand. I had to use the bathroom. My throat and my stomach ached.
“Ah, good, you’re up, Mr. Newkirk!” came a voice from beyond the machines.
I jumped as I was getting off the bed.
“The fuck am I?” I mumbled. My throat was dry and sore.
“Aksarben Methodist Hospital. Intensive care unit.” The voice answered. ‘aksarben’ is the clever way Nebraskans name things. It’s Nebraska backwards.
I tried to focus in on the voice without any success, “Who are you?”
“Dr. Reynolds.” He stepped forward into the green glow of the machines monitoring my every movement. He was medium height. Balding with the obligatory 70’s mustache. Wool suit coat. Thick glasses.
“Are you my doctor then?”
“I’m the resident psychiatrist.” He said, “You’ll be staying with us for awhile in six north.”
“Six north? What’s that?”
“The psychiatric ward of the hospital.”
“The nut hut?”
“If that’s what you want to call it. It’s a locked unit. You’ll be spending a week in eval to determine if you’re a safety risk and then you may be moved to the unlocked unit.”
“No. You see, I can’t even afford the ambulance ride over here, leave alone a hospital stay…”
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Mr. Newkirk. You’ve attempted suicide, by law you need to at least be evaluated and then after that we can talk about some kind of treatment.”
“Fuck this! I didn’t call your guys to come and save me…I wanted out! Now you’re going to make me stay in some locked nut hut against my will and make me pay for it with no job on the outside? Fuck that!”
I began pulling the IV tubes and wires they had pasted on me.
“Where’s my fuckin pants?”
“Mr. Newkirk.” Dr. Reynolds said firmly, “You are staying with us. If you leave I’ll have to call the sheriff to come and pick you up.”
I found my pants. Put them on and slipped on my shirt and shoes and looked at the good doctor.
“Then you better call him, I’m walkin out.” I walked past him.
I made it to the front doors before security came. They were these ex-jocks in maroon suit coats and ties. Three followed me out the door. I ran as soon as my feet hit the outside sidewalk. They ran at me until I got to the end of the drive and then I headed into the ditch. They stopped following and they were out of sight.
I walked about 2 miles, with the hospital getting smaller in the distance behind me. I walked through a Jewish cemetery and the Douglas county sheriff’s deputy met me at the opposite gate.
I turned back into the cemetery.
“Stop where you are, Mr. Newkirk.” The deputy called from the P.A. in his squad car.
I kept walking away from him. I heard his car door shut.
“Don’t make me chase you.” He stated, “Let’s do this the easy way, c’mon.”
I was tired, and my throat was killing me. I felt like I was walking in my sleep and so I just sat down.
He came up and handcuffed me and put me respectfully into the back of his squad car. The seat was plastic and the divider between us pushed into my knees.
“2460.” His call number into the microphone of his police radio.
“2460, go ahead.” Dispatch called back.
“Suspect in custody, en route to the hospital.”
“10-4, 2460.”
The squad pulled out of the cemetery. I looked back melancholy, wishing that I was already buried. Of course, not here, the Jews wouldn’t allow it…but somewhere, underground, feeding the worms.
“You the suicide kid we dealt with earlier?” the deputy asked me.
I nodded at him through the rear view.
“Nothing worth killin yourself over, man.” He stated, “I don’t care if it’s a woman, a dog or your pick up truck. Nothing worth ending your life over. It’s a big world, buddy, live in it.”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t want philosophy from some jar head cop. I just wanted sleep.
We pulled into the ER entrance of the hospital. The deputy guided me inside to the open arms of the hospital security. From there we hit the elevators and made our way up to six north.
A young nurse greeted us on the 6th floor. She was pretty with long curly brown hair.
“Had a rough morning already, Mr. Newkirk?” she smiled at me and touched my shoulder.
I committed to just a nod of my head.
“I’ll take him from here, guys.” She dismissed the two thugs escorting me.
She buzzed the double locked doors ahead of us with a magnetic card, and they swung open. There were plenty of people scuffling about in their morning dazes. Some looked at me with crazed curiosity. Others smiled and tried to comfort me.
“Right in here, Mr. Newkirk.” She motioned me into room number 232. It was empty with two beds in it. Someone else obviously lived here too because their stuff was all over the other bed and nightstand.
The nurse motioned me to the chair on my side of the room which was by the window. The sun was about 9am in the sky. A slight mist hovered close to the ground. I sat looking out the window.
“Your room mate is at morning group.” She said getting out some paperwork out of a folder, “you look tired, are you tired?”
I nodded again.
“Well, we need to go through some paperwork and then we’ll let you rest, okay?”
I nodded again.
The paperwork was your typical question and answer variety. Name, address, birthday, social security, place of work, medical history, blah blah blahh….
When the last form was filled out she smiled at me. It was a comforting smile that made you glad that you were there.
“Let’s hope this becomes a safe place for you, Finley.” She said, “It was nice to have met you.”
My eyes filled up and I broke out the tears. I sobbed embarrassingly in front of her. She rubbed my back quickly and told me I could rest.
I lay back on my mattress and stared at the sun beaming through my window. I thought back to how I got here and last night’s events and eventually, sleep found me.

3.
From the other side of the curtain, Jim Morrison’s “Moonlight Drive” thrummed from an acoustic guitar. The voice was sorrowful, and not Jimbo’s, but it was good music coming to you live from room 232, bed 2.
“…and the city sleeps to hide…” the voice drawled out.
“Hey.” I said through my course throat.
The music stopped. Sitting in bed 2 was a man in his 30’s. Sandy blonde hair, handle bar mustache, faded plaid shirt, blue jeans and hospital slippers. A set of blue eyes looked at me from behind coke-bottle glasses. Those eyes, told the story of something painful and something was missing.
“Uh…” I paused, what do you say to a fellow mental patient? “I didn’t mean for you to stop…that was good…Jimmy Morrison is one of my favorites.”
He picked up where he left off, “…let’s swim out tonight, love, it’s our turn to try….”
I picked up the verse with him and we finished out the song feeling every lyric. When the song was done he slipped the pick into the top three strings and held out his hand.
“Glenn.” He introduced himself, “Glenn Hershey, like the…like the…like the cuh-candy bar.”
I shook his hand. A firm hand shake of hidden strength. I wasn’t sure if he actually had a stammer or if he just was nervous, or both.
“Finley Newkirk.” I said back.
“Do you…do you…pluh-play?” he stammered.
“Yeah.” I answered back, “not as well as you though. But I play around on the gat a bit.”
“Would you…would you…pluh-play suh-suh-something for muh-me?”
He handed me his guitar. I took it wondering what I would play. A list of songs went through my head that I would know without error. That’s the thing between guitarists; you never want to embarrass yourselves in front of another.
“Um….” I took the pick he just had in his mouth hesitantly, “let me see….how about some Wilson Pickett?”
I played Mustang Sally. I always played it in C; everyone else plays the damn thing in A, but godammit it’s in C!! It was tough to get it out of my vocal chords. Rough and gravelly, but it actually added to the song. He clapped and tapped his foot as I sang it out.
“…you been runnin’ all ovah town, now….think you bettah put yo flat feet on the ground now….”
“Mr. Newkirk?” Another nurse interrupts me.
I stop and Glenn seems irritated. He blinks almost uncontrollably when he’s irritated. I watched him for a bit and then looked at the nurse.
“Have you filled out your dinner menu?” she asked.
“Uh…no. I didn’t know I was suppose to.” I answered.
“Well, if you want to eat you’ll need to.”
“Doesn’t he guh-get to guh-guh-guh-go down to the cuh-hafateria with the rest of uh uh us?” Glenn spoke up.
“He’s in eval right now, Glenn, so he needs to remain on the unit. Please fill out your menu, Mr. Newkirk, and then we need to visit with Dr. Reynolds.”
The menu was pretty bland, and after having the ER nurse digging around in my guts with a plastic tube, I didn’t feel much like putting anything back down there. Hell, I was pooping charcoal briquettes since the procedure. That black shit was liquid charcoal they used to coat your stomach. I thought I could maybe grill out if I dried out the toilet nuggets in the window sill. I chose to eat some broccoli cheese soup tonight!
“All right, Glenn.” I said finishing my menu and handing it to the nurse, “I will hang with you later then…nice to meet you.”
“Nuh-nuh-nice to meet you tuh-too, Finley.” His smile came back and he returned his guitar to its case.
The nurse and I left the room and headed down the hall towards Dr. Reynolds’s office. This is the first time I had consciously walked outside my room. There were gigglers, droolers, criers, and all sorts of fucking whack jobs around me. I suddenly felt scared and didn’t think I belonged in a place like this.
“You two seem to have found something in common?” the nurse commented.
“What?” I was busy watching the people around me. They were like insects buzzing around me.
“Music.” She said, “You two seem to have talent alike. Maybe down the road you two could give us all a show?””Uh…I don’t think I’ll be here that long.”
“We’ll see.” She said with a goddamn smirk I felt like smacking off her face.
She knocked on the doctor’s door.
“Come in.” Dr. Reynolds said from the other side.
In we went. She handed him a file and left me there. The office consisted of a desk, dark brown with mahogany, a few plants decorated the room, prints of paintings and of course the obligatory diploma and degree framed giving the good old doc the right to pick my brain apart. There was a cheap yellow love seat that sat adjacent to the desk and a large overstuffed leather chair that sat across from the love seat.
“Love Seat”. That’s a funny term for a two-seated couch. I don’t think that I’ve ever made love on a “love seat” before, and it doesn’t look comfortable enough to make out on.
“Have a seat, Mr. Newkirk.” Dr. Reynolds motioned to the love seat as he came around from his desk with my folder and a brand new yellow legal pad.
“Legal Pad”. Why the hell they called these things “legal pads” was beyond me. Were they the official writing pad of lawyers across the globe? If one were to write on anything else, would it be considered “illegal”? God, my mind wanders.
I sat on the luxurious love seat, not sure whether to cross my legs, set them flat, or splay them out and lie on the love seat. I chose to set them flat. For now.
“Do you prefer to be called ‘Finley’?” he asked, “Or do you feel more comfortable being called ‘Mr. Newkirk’ by me?”
I looked over at his name plate, “do you feel comfortable being called….’Dennis’? Or should I keep calling you ‘Dr. Reynolds’? Or Doc?”
He scribbles in his pad. “I see you are quite good with sarcasm.”
“Thank you.” I faked a smile, “Doc.”
He scribble again, “You’re quite welcome, Mr. Newkirk.”
“Call me, Fin.” I leaned back and put my arm along the back of the love seat and crossed my legs, “Everyone does.”
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
Right away with the stumper.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders, “I guess my throat is really sore and my stomach is a little queasy.”
“That’s normal after having your stomach pumped. But how do you feel emotionally?”
I reflected on that a bit. Thought about the entire evening before and right away I wanted to crawl back into my bed and sleep again.
“Numb.” I said, “I feel numb.”
More scribbling.
“Why don’t you start with why you’re here, Fin, what brings you here to the psychiatric ward of Aksarben Methodist?”
My feet went flat on the ground again. I let out a sigh.
“I guess….I guess because I tried to kill myself.”
“Why don’t you try talking about that?”
I coughed a few times. I really wanted a cigarette. But I clear my throat when I get nervous.
“I don’t know. I…took a bottle of sleeping pills and chased it down with some scotch.”
“Is this the first time you’ve attempted suicide?”
My memory went back. Racing through my head like a movie. I didn’t want to look at all of that crap I’ve tried to block out of my past.
“No.” I answered in a mumble, “No, there were three or four other times.”
“Can you tell me about those times?”
I cleared my throat again. “The first time was when I was about 17. My dad and I got into a fight. Pretty violent one. So I parked my car in the 3-car garage, closed up the windows and the doors and started the engine.”
He scribbled madly into his notepad…excuse me, LEGAL note pad.
“And why wasn’t that successful?”
Again, the movie picked up in my head, “My little sister came into the garage and knocked on the car door window.”
A few jots this time, “And what happened after that?”
I thought for a moment, “I took her out for ice cream at the local Dairy Queen.”
“Did she know what you were doing?”
“No….she just knew I was sad. Me and the little sister had a….a link. We just knew how each other were feeling.”
He wrote for a few minutes and then stopped. Crossed his legs and smiled at me.
“Can you tell me….can you tell me what made things so bad that evening that you felt you needed to kill yourself?”

We all sat around the dinner table. It was me, my sister Melissa, Mom, Dad and my friend Troy who sat on the opposite side of the table from me. Don’t even remember what we were eating, but probably fried chicken. It seemed we always had fried chicken.
I was in an aftercare program from a drug treatment program I graduated from. I had been off the stuff for 3 months: Marijuana, speed, LSD, mushrooms, etc. Troy was a friend from treatment, and he was over helping me with some homework. This guy was living proof that you can’t judge a book by its cover. He looked like Vince Neil from Motley Crue, but the guy was a brainiac. He was deep into philosophy, especially Kant, and he loved Beethoven. We used to go cruising and the guy would have Beethoven’s 9th blaring out of his speakers. For toppers, he would smoke his cigs, (usually menthols) from one of those long cigarette holders. He was an odd bastard.
I asked my mom if I could go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting tonight after dinner. She said that I was spending too much time at my N.A. meetings and that I needed to spend more time at home.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Came out of my mouth, “Sticking around this dysfunctional playground is the reason I used drugs in the first place.”
“Well,” came my mother’s answer, “too bad, you’re staying home.”
“What a bunch of sh--!” I wasn’t able to finish the last of that sentence. I was cut off by my dad’s fist that shot out of nowhere and knocked me off my chair.
I laid there, blood coming out of my nose, and stars in my eyes. The chair on it’s back with me stunned on it’s lap.
“Mr. Newkirk!” Troy interjected, “I don’t think that….”
I heard my dad, “I think you better head on home!”
Then his face came into view and he was kneeling on my shoulders with both his fists clenched on either side of him.
“Now apologize to your mother!” he screamed in my face.
“No!” I shouted back at him.
Another rabbit punch to my already bleeding nose.
“Say-you’re-sorry!”
“She’s the one being--!”
Another punch, this time to my cheek.
“Say you’re fucking sorry!”
Troy interjected one more time.
“Mr. Newkirk!” he was behind my dad somewhere, “If you don’t stop this I’ll call the…”
My dad turned around, “If you don’t get your ass out of my house I’ll give you some of the same!”
Troy left. I couldn’t blame him. Dad can be pretty intimidating when his Irish was up.
“I’m going to tell you again!” he returned his undivided attention to me again, “Apologize to your mother!”
Mom sat there with a smile on her face as she ate her fucking chicken.
“I’m sorry.” I mumbled.
Dad grabbed a large potted plant and dumped the entire contents on me.
“Speak up! I don’t think she heard you!”
“I’M FUCKING SORRY!!” I yelled with dirt in my mouth.
“Say it like you mean it!!”
“I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry.”
Dad got off me, “Now go clean yourself up.”
I got up and saw my sister sitting there with her head down and her bottom lip out. Mom ignored me and dad returned to his place at the table.
I walked down the hall and into the bathroom. In the mirror was a mess. Somewhere behind all the blood and mud was me. I started washing my face and then announced to whoever was listening that they could fucking eat me.
I walked out of the bathroom and took off out the front door. I got behind the wheel of my Monte Carlo and pulled it into the 3rd garage stall. I got out and closed all the windows and doors in the garage. I turned the radio and popped in a Pink Floyd tape. The Final Cut I think it was. Their best album in my opinion. Should have been titled: Songs To Kill Yourself To. Because that’s what the words were to me. Checking out. That final cut. Fini. Done. Kaput.
Shortly after the second song, when I was getting really really tired…Melissa knocked on my window. Her face was full of snot and tears.
I freaked because I didn’t want her affected by the fumes. I shut the engine off and got out escorting her to the door.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“Are you okay?” she sniffed and hugged me.
I sighed, “Yeah, I’m okay, I was just listening to some music, now stop crying.”
“Does it hurt?” she looked at my face.
She was seven years old. How crazy it was for a seven year old to be asking those kinds of questions.
“Wanna go for some ice cream?” I changed the subject, one of my specialties.
She stared at me with concern, as if she were my older sister and not my younger.
“Okay.” She answered, “I’ll go tell mom and dad we’re going.”
“Fuck them!” I spat.
“I’ll be right back.”

The doc went on a writing frenzy, you’d think he was writing a book. I thought at one point he was going to rip the pages of his legal pad.
Eventually, the fervor ended.
“So….” Dr. Reynolds paused, “did your friend Troy call the police?”
“No. He told the Aftercare counselor instead.” I answered, still lingering somewhere in the past.
The good doctor checked his watch and then the clock on the wall behind me. Funny how they do that. Put the wall clock behind you like you don’t know their clock watching.
“Am I wasting your time, doc?” I asked defensively.
“No, Fin.” He looked at me apologetically and then wrote my reaction in his notebook. The notebook, I’ll have to admit, was starting to piss me off.
“I have a full schedule today, and I only allotted an hour for each patient I need to see today. Now….what happened with your counselor?”

Steve Jenkins was the Aftercare counselor. He was in his late 30’s. An ex-druggie himself so I had a bit more respect for him than the other text-book counselors who thought they knew jack about being chemically dependent. I also respected Steve because he didn’t bullshit around. He was straight on with you.
The next day when I went to Aftercare, all bruised up and swollen, Steve asked the group who needed to take time besides me.
“What?” I asked surprised.
“You’re taking time to talk today in group.” He smiled at me.
“But I don’t have anything to share today.”
He looked over at Troy and then back at me, “You need to share with us what happened at dinner last night.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I know you’d rather not, but this is group. This is where you share what’s going on with your transitions on the outside, and I think your support system here in Aftercare, needs to hear this.”
So I told them what happened. And after group, Steve informed me that there would be a meeting with my dad within the hour.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me???” I yelled.
“No.” he said without reservation, “I asked him to come in today at 3.”
“Why??”
“Because it’s not okay what he did to you.”
“Well, I’m not saying a word. Don’t you realize he’s going to fucking kill me if we talk about this in a meeting?”
“It’ll be okay, Finley. Trust me on this.”
So the meeting comes. We’re in this cramped office. Steve, dad and myself. Dad is in his defensive stance: legs crossed, foot shaking, and chewing on his nails. He breathes through his nose and his face turns red.
“Do you know why I’ve called you in today, Mr. Newkirk?” Steve opens.
His foot shook nervously. He looks over at me and then at Steve, “You said it was something to do with Finley.”
“Yep.” Steve agrees, “Finley has already told me his version of the story of what happened last night, now why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Dad immediately starts yelling. Amazingly, Steve just keeps his relaxed pose in his office chair. Dad’s version of what happened is the same as mine, except he’s shouting his side.
“And do you think this behavior is appropriate, Mr. Newkirk?” Steve asks.
“Well, no!” Dad answers and looks right at me, “That’s why I had to discipline him!”
“I was actually talking about your behavior, Mr. Newkirk. Do you think it was appropriate how you reacted to your son’s actions?”
“Well….” The breathing through his nose got heavier, “The boy is 17! He thinks he’s man enough to use big words like that at the dinner table and talk to his mother like that, than he ought to be man enough to defend himself!”
“I’m not excusing Finley for how he acted last night. But, Mr. Newkirk…” Steve kept his cool, “punching your son in the face…repeatedly…dumping a plant on him….”
“Well, if you think you’d be a better fucking father than you raise him!!!” dad interrupted.
“Mr. Newkirk….” Steve still steady, “…Finley is my client. As his counselor I am bound by law to protect him if I see there is signs of danger to his well being….and…looking at his face…hearing both your stories…right now I don’t think home is the safest place for him. Do you agree?”
My dad stood up. Here it comes. He’s going to punch Steve out and then come after me. I just know it.
“Look here, fucker!” dad pointed into Steve’s face, “I’m not going to sit here and listen to your psychological bullshit about my parenting skills. If Fin opens his mouth like that, than he should expect what’s coming to him! Now I’m taking my son out of here and signing him out of this program!”
“Sit down, Mr. Newkirk.” Steve said firmly, “You are free to leave, but you are not taking Finley with you. Presently, in your state of mind, I don’t think it would be safe for him to return home. I’m going to make some arrangements for him to go to a foster home until you’ve completed some anger management classes. Now, you can agree to this, and we can proceed immediately….or….you can disagree with this and I will recommend this to the courts and we can have an injunction written?”
Dad got up and walked out. For 30 days, I lived at Troy’s house. It was the most peaceful 30 days of my life.

“Well,” Dr. Reynolds closes my file with the legal pad in it, “it seems we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“Meaning,” I started getting upset, “I’m staying here longer than expected?”
“No. Not what I mean at all. We or some other psychiatrist or psychologist could help you through this on the outside if you make it through eval. But I think this is a good place to stop.”
He got up and set my file on his desk and took a swig of his coffee, “Are you adjusting well to your room and your room mate?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I said getting up. This is the thing about shrinks I hate. You spend an hour pouring your heart out to them and then after your time is up, they shut off the concern and you’re just another number again.
“Great!” he said, “I’ll set you up for morning group tomorrow….and let’s see…perhaps we’ll get you into O.T.”
“O.T.?” I asked. These therapy types got off on their freakin’ treatment slang. O.T., K.P., Eval, Chem. Dep, ADHD, ADD, ADA, blah de freakin’ blah! Retard Rhetoric is what I call it.
“Occupational Therapy.” He answers, “Sometimes it’s good to keep your mind going on other things besides the problems you’re dealing with.”
“How do I make a phone call?” I asked.
He paused for a moment, as if it was a question he didn’t want to answer.
“I’m afraid while you’re in eval, you won’t be allowed to make any phone calls. We can contact family members for you to let them know you’re okay….”
“How do you know I’m okay? 24 hours ago I was drinking a snooze cocktail…if I’m ‘okay’, shouldn’t I be sent home?”
“Mr. Newkirk,” so it’s back to formalities now, “by ‘okay’ I mean that you’re alive. Our session went very well today and you seem to be coping well with being in a locked unit. This is what is meant by ‘okay’. Do you have any other questions?”
He looked up at the clock and then at me again.
“Yeah,” I spoke up. “can we smoke in here? I’m dyin’ for a cig.”

4.
We could. My roomie Glenn showed me to the smoking lounge. It was a skinny hallway that connected the psych unit with the chemical dependency unit. We shared the smoke room. A long table sat against the wall with 4 chairs and one large ash tray.

evil

2009-09-12T00:03:00.000-05:00

this is a work in progress. my first love, horror fiction. i've rewritten this prologue seven times until i was happy with it. hopefully, you will be too so far. i'll be updating this as it spills out of my head so please check back frequently.

Prologue
It was cold. Harriet opened her eyes and could see her breath in the moonlit air. The fire in the coal stove had gone out, and judging by the snore of her parent’s room through the paper thin walls, her father wasn’t getting out of bed to put more coal in.
She thought maybe she could take the cold. She did put on the extra quilt her grandmother made her two Christmases ago, but tonight, everything seemed paper-thin. She tucked her face under the covers and tried to warm the cold spot on her nose, breathing heavy to heat the bed, hoping to drift off.
But the cold had bit down into her bones and she tossed and turned. She’d sigh in frustration until she finally sat up. She sniffed the snot escaping her nose and swung her feet over the edge of her bed. Her bare toes searching for her slippers, catching the handmade rug and then catching the worn rabbit fur corner of her left slipper.
She slipped out of bed wrapping the quilt around her and grabbed her lantern on her nightstand. She shuffled out into the hallway to the living room and grabbed the box of wooden matches sitting on top of the cabinet her mother put the “good china” in. She struck a match against the box and savored the sharp smell of sulfur as it hissed the matchstick alive. She lit her lantern and tried to focus on her newly lit surroundings.
She found the coal bucket and made her way out the back kitchen door onto the back porch. Below her, the coal pile sat with a tarpaulin over it to keep the dew off it. She grunted as the first load in her shovel gave and she poured the black stones into her pail.
She looked around at the cold Minnesota night. The stars above twinkled back at her and the moon was hiding somewhere in the eastern sky. Her breath heavy in the frosty air, she scanned the farm yard. All the animals were asleep in their homes, and everything stood still. She shivered and put in her last scoop. She picked up her lantern and then her bucket and walked back up the old wooden steps onto the porch. They creaked against her weight.
Before she grabbed the screen door she heard a noise. It sounded like a whisper from far off. She stopped and turned towards the dooryard. Everything sat quietly as it was before. She figured it was the breeze pushing on one of the barn windows, or gate.
She returned to the door and then it came again. This time louder and it seemed like a hiss instead of a whisper. She almost dropped the coal this time as its sound made a chill run up her spine.
“Hello?” she whispered back.
Nothing answered.
She turned suddenly towards the barn again. She was squinting at something she just couldn’t make out. When her eyes finally focused she dropped her bucket and almost lost her grip on the lantern. There was a shape out there by the front of the barn. A dark shape that at first seemed like a shadow cast by a blowing tree, but it was darker than any shadow she’d ever seen.
She glanced back at the screen door, thinking of waking up her dad. He would just think me ridiculous, she thought.
She was going to ignore it. She had made up her mind that it was probably nothing and that all would be forgotten in the morning. But the animals became restless. The old mule kicked at its pen and the goats began to bleat.
She dropped her bucket of coal and picked up the pitchfork leaning against the porch railing and slowly walked towards the barn. Whether it was fear or the cold dry air, her mouth felt like a desert, her tongue scraping around in her mouth like a piece of sandpaper.
The animals were getting more and more restless. There was definitely something there, or someone.
With the lantern in one hand and the pitchfork in the other, she made her way into the dark recesses of the tall old barn. Immediately the scent of animal waste and fur filled her nostrils.
She hung the lantern on a pole in the middle of the barn. She made a circle with the pitchfork in hand, waiting to gore anything that would come at her from the dark. The flame from the lantern danced shadows around the stalls.
On the third stall on her left the gate swung slowly closed just as she caught sight of it.
“Who’s there?” she trembled. The cold was making her shiver and she wished she would have woken her father.
There was no answer. Slowly and cautiously, she walked to the stall with pitchfork taking the lead.
“Come outta there!” she was trying to sound angry, “Come out, or I’ll run you through with this pitchfork!”
Still nothing, and she began to think herself silly. Perhaps it was just a coyote, or a stray dog, wandering onto the farm.
She pulled the door to the stall open with her pitchfork. There was too much darkness in there for her to tell what was in there. She padded back to the pole and grabbed her lantern and returned with adrenaline running through her.
The stuttering light from the lantern lit upon something lurching in the corner. She gasped and dropped the lantern, fixing onto the pitchfork with both hands and moving backwards.
“Don’t.” came a voice from within the returned blackness, “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to harm you.”
She was breathing heavy now, and thought of screaming so that her father would hear and come running.
Something in the blackness picked up her lantern and relit it. Her eyes got bigger as she saw the sight before her.

Fairmont Sentinel Article

2009-09-11T23:58:00.001-05:00

The good people at the local paper interviewed me about my first book reflect shuns in a broken mirror. you can read the article here.

story written by sentinel staff writer christine rupp and the photo is courtesy of chip pearson sentinel photographer.

another shard of glass

2009-09-11T23:44:00.000-05:00

It's Done!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I've finished my second book of poetry and will be submitting it to my publisher within the next month.
this volume of ranting and raving is something a little different. The poems have the same character, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, but i think it's a bit more mature than "reflect shuns". Also new, is some meanderings with reality and philosophical garbage. This one is called "another shard of glass".
I will keep you all updated as the new book progresses.
namaste!!

excerpt from "another shard of glass":

stroke of 12
opened my eyes
to forbidden things
delved into the black
murky depths
of disparity
like a protagonist
in a lovecraft mythos
survived
the lifting of masques
the stroke of midnite
adulthood
when we realize the santas
eat the easter bunnies
and clip the wings of tooth fairies
realities rough surface
leaving abrasions on my skin
turning me callous
obstacles and dreams
become unreachable
tenderness a commodity
that one can’t afford
parents lied
teachers, preachers
falsely guided me
to unrealistic goals
set me up to fail
like god did to adam and eve
since time began
its midnite
unmasque

~excerpt from "another shard of glass" by brad bodeker

Reflect Shuns in a Broken Mirror

2009-09-11T01:07:00.000-05:00

reflect shuns in a broken mirror. my first book of poetry has been unleashed upon the unsuspecting community of earth. it's available online across the globe, here are a few of them:

Linkity links:
Japan
http://www.amazon.co.jp/Reflect-Broken-Mirror-Bradley-Bodeker/dp/1607034298
Globally:
http://www.alibris.com/booksearch?qwork=11284698&matches=5&author=Bodeker%2C+Bradley+L&browse=1&cm_sp=works*listing*title
http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/SearchResults?an=Bradley+L.+Bodeker&sts=t&x=44&y=11
Italy:
http://www.liberiauniveritaria.it/reflect-shuns-broken-mirror-bradley/book/9781607034292
UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Reflect-Broken-Mirror-Bradley-Bodeker/dp/1607034298
http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/browse/book/isbn/9781607034292
Australia:
http://www.booktopia.com.au/reflect-shuns-in-a-broken-mirror/prod9781607034292.html
India:
http://www.flipkart.com/reflect-shuns-broken-mirror-bradley/1607034298-11-x3faz1ge
http://www.infibeam.com/Books/info/bradley-l-bodeker/reflect-shuns-broken-mirror/9781607034292.html
Portugal:
http://www.wook.pt/authors/detail/id/704074
USA:
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Reflect-Shuns-In-A-Broken-Mirror/Bradley-L-Bodeker/e/9781607034292/?itm=1
http://www.amazon.com/Reflect-Broken-Mirror-Bradley-Bodeker/dp/1607034298/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1242938168&sr=8-1
http://www.iyares.com/books/d/?id=1607034298&q=Reflect+Shuns+in+a+Broken+Mirror
http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayproducts.asp?Search=Yes
http://www.booksamillion.com/product/9781607034292?id=4429385339444
Reviews:
http://www.reviewscout.com/1607034298

I am currently shopping for book reviewers, so if you're interested in reviewing the book contact me here.

here is an excerpt from the back cover:

Within the shards of the broken mirror we all share when we examine everything thatas happened within our lives, what is reflected back? Does our image teach us anything? Does it open our eyes? Or does it shun us for our failures? Within is a gathering of images reflected back from my own mirror. What life has taught me about love, life, religion, parenting, teenage angst and young adult lust. Itas not your typical poetry. Some call it a combination of poetry and prose and label it aproetry.a Itas not nice. There are no rainbows or unicorns found here. The words within bite. Sometimes they draw blood, sometimes they draw tears, rarely do they bring smiles. So step back, take a gaze, and tell me what you see.

I've received the first royalty check from PublishAmerica and I've already spent it all, two white russians, two packs of smokes, and money for my daughter. so if you're so inclined...please buy my book, i'm hungry and niccin' out!!!