Diverging Points of View

I don’t understand what my woman wants. I should clarify, Cassie isn’t my woman in a possessive sense, but rather she is my companion. You need to understand that Cassie and I are more than roommates but less than boyfriend and girlfriend. I don’t know what she wants from our relationship, but as we stand here at home our lives intertwine in complex ways beyond my comprehension despite much thinking on my part dedicated to untwisting our mutual Gordian knot. When we started living together I had lofty goals, dreams of a spectacular career as an urban planner, the Robert Moses of the 27th century, but now my life is consumed by the need to make Cassie happy. I don’t know how to go about this though.

The first thing I noticed occur with Cassie around is our front door is locked at all times. This annoys me when I unlock the door only to find Cassie on the couch watching my television, a situation where the decision to leave the door unlocked is a perfectly cromulent one. Maddening as the locked door was I kept my mouth shut until the day I returned home to find Cassie sitting in the kitchen in a stupor, her blue eyes shifting in suspicion towards my noisy entry before relaxing at my sight. I asked, “What’s got you spooked?”

She said, “Nothing.”

I said, “Don’t give me that bunk; something happened, so spill it.”

Cassie gave me a tare that reached right to the base of my spine and gave it a good shake. A red aura matching her hair told me to tread with care lest I provoke the beast within. She said, “We had a visitor today, a stranger. He was a rather short man.”

I said, “And what else? Did he do something?”

Cassie rolled her eyes away from me and muttered, “I knew you wouldn’t understand; you’re useless.”

I said, “Help me understand then, give me the story from the beginning.”

We returned to earlier in the day when Cassie went about daily chores, cleaning the apartment in her liberal time off from working as “sanitary engineer” for an enterprising couple living on Manhattan’s East Side. A knock on our door shook Cassie from her work, and a second rap summoned her to the peep hole. In the hall stood the alleged Short Man wearing a dangerous gray polo with dastardly blue jeans while carrying his clipboard of doom. I asked Cassie what she did when presented by the awful sight of the stranger at the door.

She said, “I didn’t answer the man, and he went away.”

I asked Cassie if the mystery man said anything, and she told me he did, she said, “The man called out once saying he was with the Census Bureau. I didn’t know what to make of it.”

I said, “You could have made that he was a Census taker.”

Cassie grew sharp, “He could’ve been lying.”

I said, “And he could’ve been a stalker, just like the UPS man. Remember him, the guy in brown with a package underarm containing who knows what chasing you down the deserted street into our building and up the stairs right to our very door?”

Cassie interrupted, “James . . .”

I continued in spite, “The underhanded villain who delivered his package, quite possibly a bomb. But no, it was a book, a how-to on job searching that you ordered for me. I guess you were right, that man delivered only evil to our good home.”

Cassie refused to dignify me with a response, and I realized I went too far this time. A good tip-off was the temperature in the room which I swear to this day dropped a good twenty degrees. Here now my true fears manifest, Cassie Grozny staring me down into oblivion. This is the time to backpedal away from the precipice and head down more constructive paths, so I said, “Cassie I’m sorry. I don’t understand; you’re absolutely right. The world is a dangerous place sometimes and I downplay it. I just don’t want you to worry so much; it’s not healthy for either of us. I’ll be here next time anybody comes around our way.”

Two blue eyes still bore down on me, extracting more concessions lest I face the terrible wrath of a woman scorned. I said, “Hey look, I can see I’m being useless right now, so here I’ll cook and clean the dishes for the week. Okay?”

Cassie said, “Two weeks.”

I bit my tongue and said through gritted teeth, “Fine two weeks.”

Cassie nodded once and added, “Good, but don’t think you’re off the hook. You haven’t learned your lesson quite yet, but I show you. Don’t worry about it though; it’s bad for your health.”

Thus I was defeated in pitched battle. Cassie left me to stew alone in my loss, a prisoner of war with no recourse, what a rout. I’m young and stupid that’s for sure, but on the bright side there’s a lesson here for us all, namely the next time I’m in trouble with the Law here I need to sympathize, sympathize and redirect here ire towards a common enemy. There is still hope for me, as this failure is worth ten thousand victories in the wealth of knowledge gained. I only need to apply my learning to achieve my goal in life to make Cassie happy, that and buy a good present.

Shadow of a Man

My uncle’s decent into hell began one day in Hartford Hospital. Mom, my brother, and I all shoved ourselves into my old, gray Saturn for a trip to visit my uncle Bernie, and following a forty minute trip we ended up in a waiting room outside of the intensive care unit. I knew this would be a long wait so I brought a book to read, a little tome on Russian history, something to brighten up my gloomy day. Across from my family sat an elderly couple right at home with the waiting room’s retro futuristic charm, ghosts from the past dreaming of tomorrow. The old woman smiles and I return the gesture before losing myself in my book lest these strangers strike up a conversation with us.

After a brutal wait sitting next to my mother, a woman on the verge of a panic attack, the phone attached to the wall behind us rings, and Mom looks at me to answer it. I pick up the receiver and a bored nurse asks if she has the Smith family. I answer yes and she says, “You can come in to see Bernie now, you have fifteen minutes.”

Just outside of the waiting room the double steel doors blocking access to the intensive care ward unlock with a click and swing open. From the nurse on the phone to the automatic doors it’s nice to see the hospital’s cold efficiency on display. At least the last time I was here a doctor took the time to see me in person, but no more. Now we let the robots do all of the drudgery, especially the unsavory job of dealing with bereaved families. The three of us enter the ward, the nurse behind the main desk throwing us a dire look while directing us down the hall to the right in search of room 407. We catch Bernie’s doctor outside his room, she’s a young, blond woman wearing a white coat one size too large, and I figure it must be the smallest size coat the hospital has for employees.

Mom steps aside to speak with the doctor, pushing us towards Bernie’s room to say hi to our uncle. My brother and I shuffle into the room without saying a word, and now we are face to face with our good ol’ uncle. The man sleeps, his face bruised and tired despite a week’s rest; tubes run in and out of every orifice while the smell of body and cleaner mingle in the air. The only thought I have, the only words I say are to my brother, “God, Uncle Bernie’s old.”

My brother nods in silent agreement, so we sit with our unconscious uncle with nothing else to say. Mom, done talking with the doctor, enters the room and takes a seat by Bernie’s side, holding his hand. She says to her comatose brother, “Hi Bernie, I’m glad you’re okay. The doctor says you’re getting better every day, so I hope we can get you outta here in the next few weeks, get you back on your feet.”

The sight of my mother at the edge of a bed on the verge of tears, the smell of disinfectant, and the sound of busy nurses bustling in the hall drag up painful memories of my last visit to the hospital, so I excuse myself from the room. I try to get some air in the hall, but I’m still in the hospital, there’s no escape until Mom’s done with her visit. While I’m waiting I’m met with a familiar voice, “Hey Isaac you’re back! Must be nice not being the one in bed.”

I grumbled a half-hearted greeting to my Uncle Herby, a large man with a shitfaced grin glued to his face and a penchant to show up late to the party. He pats my back and wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I try in vain to slink away back into Bernie’s room, the lesser of two evils. Herby keeps talking, “It’s a shame all this had to happen to Bernie don’t ya think? We’ll never get real retribution from the bastard who ran over him.”

I say, “The police did catch the guy, at least that’s what I heard.”

Uncle Herby says, “Yeah, but he’s just some illegal driving with a fake license and no insurance. Where’s the justice in shipping back to Mexico without just compensation for our troubles?”

There’s nothing left for me to say, so a momentary silence drives my uncle into Bernie’s room. Alone I count down the minutes before nurses come to shoo us from the antiseptic white halls, but I’m cut off in the act when Mom storms out of the room, my brother in tow. She takes off down the hall and I follow behind two paces so as not to draw on Mom’s ire. Down through the maze of corridors and elevators we reach the light of day, passing through the glass double door sealing off this hell from the rest of the world.

Mom charges across the open field separating the hospital from the parking garage, my brother hanging off her with me bringing up the rear. Out of the corner of my eye I see my Aunt Betty sitting on a bench under an oak tree, she tries to get my mother’s attention to no avail. My aunt is older woman; she is loathe in admitting it, though today the fair weather prompted her to wear a yellow sun dress splashed in sunshine giving her a seasoned look. Unable to hail Mom Aunt Betty turns to me and calls. Not someone to be rude, I couldn’t ignore Aunt Betty, so I meandered over to her bench. My aunt doesn’t get up to greet me when I ask if she is here to see Bernie.

Aunt Betty says, “Yes I came to see him but I can’t bring myself to go into the hospital. Bernie’s always been so dirty and now that he’s in this place he’s so much worse. I don’t know how your mother brings herself to hold his hands, they’re so vile.”

I say, “That’s what happens when you work in a chemical factory for forty years. I’m sure Uncle Bernie would be happy to see you, Uncle Herb’s already in there.”

Aunt Betty says, “I know Herb’s in there, I drove with him. I’m not too worried about Bernie, he’s in a coma right now and you can bet he’ll be out of it in time for my Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I should have the grandkids visit Nana for Thanksgiving this year.”

I ask, “What do you need me for?”

Aunt Betty answers, “Oh yes, could you give this number to your mother, it’s for the physical therapist who helped your Uncle Kyle get back on his feet following his accident. Your mother’s been bugging me for it, not that she or Bernie could afford this man’s services.”

A cool wind blowing through the courtyard brought an end to our conversation. I took the piece of paper from my aunt and made my way back to my car. Upon arrival Mom asked where I was. I answer, “Talking with Aunt Betty, she was hanging around outside the hospital you know.”

Mom says, “I missed her then. I don’t want to talk to her anyway; she never did care for Bernie or any of the rest of us for that matter. Let’s go, I can’t stand to be around her or Herby for another second.”

The car ride home starts off in a fragile silence, the calm before the storm. I hand Mom the paper with the number of the physical therapist and she grabs it in a huff; I breathe a sigh of relief, my action didn’t spark the swirling winds of hate brewing in Mom. As I drove the urban decay of downtown Harford gave way to the bright, tree-lined boulevards of Connecticut’s suburban paradise, but the atmosphere in the car built up to a guaranteed explosion sure to blow us all to Hell and quite possibly back again. The look on Mon’s face degenerated from agitation to pure white rage as thoughts churned in her head. I valued every second of peace.

A single bump in the road was enough to spark Mom, a black stream of bile spewed forth from her mouth in an emotional release that nearly drowned my poor brother and I. Mom says, “This thing with Bernie, it’s just like what happen with grandma. Herby is trying to pull the plug again; he wants to kill your uncle.”

I say, “I don’t know about that Mom, I think Herb’s concerned about the cost of keeping Bernie in that hospital bed, a bit too much sure but since Bernie survived the accident Herb’s resigned to caring for Bernie in the most economic way possible.”

Mom says, “Herby doesn’t give a damn about Bernie. I need to keep everyone away from Bernie, those two back at the hospital are vultures circling around Bernie, waiting to pick his bones dry. Herby and Betty convinced the doctors to pull the plug on grandma, but they aren’t gonna get Bernie, I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s little I can do to quell Mom’s paranoia, so I just listen to her rant on the evils plaguing our family. My silence does me no good, it must make me suspicious as Mom asks, “You remember what happened to grandma, right?”

I say, “Grandma went to the doctor with leg pains; the doctor diagnosed her with sciatica, and Grandma pushed for surgery to fix it. She got sick on the operating table and she died two weeks later.”

Mom says, “This is your problem Isaac, you buy the lies Herby and Betty sell to you. The doctor did diagnose Grandma with sciatica, but she didn’t want the surgery. Betty convinced Grandma to go in for surgery and when she was sick in recovery Herby persuaded the doctors to pull the plug. I even blame the doctors some since Grandma didn’t have sciatica, she had a broken hip. This thing with Bernie is a little different, but it’s playing out much the same.”

It’s hard for me to believe the entirety of Mom’s story; her reality is colored too much by her history with her siblings. That’s not to say her points are devoid of truth, but Mom needs some time to calm down before I can really talk to her about Bernie. Getting home made me happy, relieved to seclude myself in my room. Such respite ion the hands of television, music, and video games never last long though, and this time is no exception as Mom from the living room calls me.

Sitting on our black leather couch, my brother and I watch Mom pace back and forth clutching our phone. Al our cat wanders in from parts unknown, drawn by curiosity and giving us his usual smug smile as he rolls about on the carpet, happy to have an audience. Mom takes her time in giving us her news, the analog clock ticking each moment that passes by perpetually five minutes into the future. Mom breaks her own quiet by saying, “It’s a done deal Bernie’s coming to live with us once he’s better.”

My brother says, “Are we gonna have to take care of him? Is he gonna be some kind of vegetable who’s diapers we have to change?”

I say, “Happily he’s the second time come to them, for they say an old man is twice child.”

Mom balks at me, “Isaac I don’t need your sass, and you’re not as witty as you think you are. Bernie’s taking the spare bedroom, and you don’t have to worry I’m taking care of him.”

At the end of the month Mom wheeled Uncle Bernie into the back bedroom for good. Sometimes I go back there to give him the lunch Mom made for him, and I see the man he’s now become. Bernie spent his whole life working with chemicals before going home to drink beer and watch television; one time he even had a girlfriend. Now he sits in his recliner staring off into space, the few comforts of his life taken from him, replaced with cold melancholy and boredom. His liver spotted hands shake, so he often drops the glasses of orange juice he requests, and at first it bothered him but now he leaves it alone, a mess for one of us others to clean. I drop Mom’s sandwich in front of Bernie and ask if he needs anything else to which the answer is always a curt no. Bernie’s sad eyes look off into space, his crusty blue bathrobe in dire need of a wash, but none of this is my problem and can be left for someone else to think about in their spare time. I steal away, back about my day.

Red Volkswagen

After many months, another story.

When you work retail you meet interesting people, and you don’t even need to go looking for them, they come to you. Some of these interesting folks are co-workers, people you can’t escape from with a smile and short apology when they demand a piece of you. I work as a stock boy at my local grocery store in a small town nestled in the folds of the Berkshire Hills, our little hamlet stuck in the year 1955, a situation granting me my own place in the Twilight Zone. Hell, I’m sure Rod Sterling will make a visit to my store one of these days.

One day a co-worker of mine who goes by the self-inflicted moniker “The Koon” decided to talk with me while I shelved baked goods. The Koon and I met a few months ago when he got hired to the meat department, introducing himself and his name with pomp and circumstance. At first I thought Koon joked with me, the man being as white as they come and one bed sheet away from dancing around a burning cross; I figured he was being ironic.

I gave the Koon too much credit, the man was dead serious. He wasn’t aware, as far as I could tell, of the meaning behind his chosen name, and neither I nor anyone else in the store had the heart or courage to enlighten the man. So here I was in the baked goods aisle with a gaunt, lanky figure wearing a white butcher’s coat two sizes too large. Blood stains covered his outfit complimenting the slow look in his face, missing teeth, and bulging eyes. Koon is a man straight out of Deliverance, now all he needs is a banjo.

Koon of all of my co-workers always took a front row seat in the parade of interesting people, being a rather sociable guy for a man of his breeding. You see the Koon was born of special stock, a descendant of intrepid settlers who left the relative safety of early colonial settlements to carve out a place for themselves in the wilderness of Appalachia. This vanguard of settlers labored to achieve the American Dream before there was even an America. Koon is the result of centuries of inbreeding, his ancestors insulated themselves from the halls of civilization, venturing west as men and sending back men like Koon as their legacy. Koon hob knobbed among the civilized folk of New England smug in his own superiority over the lesser races of men, in particular people soft from the creature comforts of modern life. This intrepid vanguard greeted me in his usual manner.

He said, “Hey Isaac, wanna see my meat?”

My concentration broken by the interruption, I looked up from my work to find Koon’s crotch inches from my head. I backed up and stood as far back from Koon as I could, responding, “Keep your junk out of my face Koon.”

Koon said, “Hey guy be cool, don’t go crazy. It’s a nice day today, good for a drive. I saw you coming to work driving that Saturn of yours . . .”

Here is a man obsessed with cars, and Koon does own more cars than he has teeth. I have to shut him down here and now lest he commits himself, or worse me to something we’ll both regret. I said, “For the last time Koon, I’m not selling you my car.”

Koon recoiled, “Hey, hey that’s not what I’m here about . . . but my offer is still on the table. No? Well you drive a nice car so I figure you got a smart opinion.”
I asked, “Where are you going with this Koon?”

He said, “I’m looking to buy a car from my friend Mike, a Volkswagen. Somebody like you knows about European cars right? I want you to go see the car with me, tell me what you think.”

Mike, a friend of Koon and a name I hoped never again for a long time. When the store hired Koon they also took on his friend Mike, and I was charged with showing Mike the ropes for work in the backroom. Much like Koon, Mike descended from the hills in search of opportunity, but where Koon wanted money to buy more cars Mike wanted a job to fuel another past time, one involving heroin. The friend wasn’t any junky though, this kid had a real drive, a professional addict.

Leading Mike around I soon learned the dedication Mike had to his craft. The kid went on break before me, a courtesy on my part I’m remiss to repeat since Mike didn’t return for over half an hour, forcing me to go on a manhunt to find my ward lest I get in trouble for his disappearance during my shift. I scoured every inch of the store and Mike just wasn’t there, leading me to search the surrounding property, and I found him behind the store dumpsters. There Mike was fresh in his dress shirt fished out of a Wal-Mart dumpster and a haircut reminiscent of Charles Manson, the kid’s eyes darting about paranoid as if in expectation of the impending race war, Helter Skelter.

Squatting in the store refuse with a needle in his arm Mike went about his business unaware I watched. Once he finished mike turned to me and said, “Hey Isaac what’re you doing here?”

I said, “I’m looking for you.”

He said, “Oh. Can you take my Saturday shift? I’m busy that day.”

I told Mike I’m already working Saturday and Mike just shrugged as he got up and returned to work. Needless to say I informed our manager of the show Mike put on behind the store and Mike, the smooth operator he is, slid out the door and never came back; he wasn’t missed except by Koon who to this day holds Mike’s quick release as a personal affront on the part of the management, but I digress. Koon wants to buy a car from his old friend and he wants me to give him consul, so I gave Koon my two cents, “Don’t do it Koon just let it go. If the car’s from Mike it isn’t worth doing business.”

Koon said, “Nah I gotta at least see the car, so let’s go after work.”

I said, “Wait, wait, you want me to go see the car? No, that’s stupid. You can go make that decision on your own, you have my opinion.”

Koon pleaded, “Come on guy you can’t just decide like that, you gotta make an effort, buying a car ain’t a light matter. All I need is a second set of eyes.”

This did not bode well for me, or for anyone else involved for that matter. At the end of my shift I found myself in the passenger seat of a 1989 Ford F-350 with a rusting frame, stripped upholstery and the smell of dead chickens filling the cabin. Koon drove homeward and my eyes wandered about, settling on an old M1-Garand stored on a rack hanging on the back of the truck cabin. Koon noticed my interest saying, “Yep, that was Pappy’s gun, killed a ton of Nazis with it.”

I thought on what Koon said, imagining an army of rednecks and hillbillies washing over Western Europe, and I wondered what the Europeans thought . . . the devastation we country bumpkins wrought on their well ordered world, an inbred Armageddon. We passed into the back woods part of town, driving by what I thought to be landfills and scrap yards, areas filled with piles of garbage and broken cars, but it dawned on me these dumps belong to people, constituting their front yards.

We came to a stop in front of a lawn relatively clean compared to the rest, a beat up red Volkswagen in the driveway. The house is run down, a den of rats festering in a rotting neighborhood. We exited the truck and the sound of slamming doors drew Mike out of his home, and the guy had bags under his eyes, sunken cheekbones, and needle scars all along his arms. Mike completed his look with a yellow stained wife beater and boxer shorts, no need for pants in this exchange, and Koon greeted his old friend with pleasantries as I waited far off to the side near the truck.

Soon everyone got down to the business of selling the red Volkswagen, a delicate and well practiced dance among the hill folk. Mike showed the both of us around the car, Loon the buyer and me the witness judging this particular offering. I suppose I should be honored to participate in this cultural institution, but I feel uncomfortable and a little afraid. We get a tour of the entire car, the weather damaged exterior and empty interior, everything from the upholstery to the electronics stripped from the vehicle. Mike and Koon swung around front of the car for the all important check under the hood, the part that could make or break a deal. The two made a production of lifting up the hood and underneath was . . . nothing.

The car had no radiator, no battery and alternator, not even an engine. The entire engine block gone I inquired as to where it went and Mike said, “Oh, hey I had to have some work done so I had it taken out, but the car’s still good.”

I turned to Koon, “I don’t know much about cars Koon but I do know this car is shit. It’d cost too much to fix no matter what Mike’s charging. How much is he asking?”

Koon said, “He only wants eight hundred for the car. Eight hundred! Don’t look at it like it is but how it’ll become. I’ve owned cars kinda like this before, so I can fix ‘er up good.”

I gave Koon my last word, “You can’t fix this pile Koon, it’s beyond you, and anyone else besides.”

Koon ogled the car, “I’m gonna buy it.”

With nothing left to say, Koon produced eight hundred dollars cash on the spot, paying Mike for the car. It struck me that Koon had eight hundred cash on him, rendering the entire exercise a pointless endeavor. Having played my part in this song and dance I hopped back into the truck as Koon hitched the Volkswagen to the back, and with everything set we took off again I making the comment, “You know you just handed eight hundred dollars to a heroin addict.”

Koon shook his head, “Don’t worry Mike told me he was clean.”

I said, “The heroin addict said he’s clean . . . right. He’s going to kill himself.”

Koon asked how and I answered, “With however much heroin eight hundred dollars can buy.”

The rest of the night went by quiet, and the day after next I showed up for work ready to take on the hordes of shoppers. I picked up a newspaper for break and flipped through, a name in the obituaries catching my eye. Koon’s good friend Mike up and died the day before, the cause of death not given. Koon showed the proper amount of devastation at losing a close friend, and I didn’t have anything good to say about the turn of events so I kept to myself.

Go Tell the Spartans

I kind of lifted this story from Herodotus, I don't think he'll mind.

Banished from our home of Samos, those survivors of Attica’s aggression turned to Sparta for help, hunger eating away at our bodies and exhaustion at our souls. We set out for the city and my brother, the one chosen to present our cause to the Spartans, prepared a speech to sway them to our cause and provide us aid. Though hard, the Spartans are fellow Greek and our trusted allies, and I have faith they will not abandon us or ignore our plight. Sparta holds sanctuary for us all, and we shall yet have justice for the wrongs committed against us.

Upon our arrival the Spartans greeted us, ushering us into their amphitheatre with no fanfare. The Spartans gathered to hear us speak as was custom, and my brother stood forward to oblige. The sullen eyes of these hundreds of Spartans scared me more than any force Athens sent against us, and I felt a chill climb up my back. My brother must have felt the same, his whole body wanting to shake but he keeping it to his left hand hidden behind his back, and as such he launched into his speech with courage and conviction.

“Spartans, we humbly thank you for taking us into your city and showing us the hospitality one shows their neighbors. A city as powerful as yours must receive countless requests and demands from friends and enemies alike, yet you take time to listen to us poor Samians and for this we cannot be thankful enough. As you all know our two peoples stood by one another as allies, ready to fight for one another when the need arose. Today we do not fight for our city or honor but for our very lives, and we beg you to stand by us in this time of need.”

My brother paused a moment to gauge his audience, the sense of boredom and impatience reflected in hundreds of glazed eyes and voiced in a symphony of coughs and sneezes, this feeling of melancholy concentrated onto the point where my brother stands. He breathed deep and prepared to break the poor Spartan mood.

“History is filled with the good deeds and valor of Spartans, not the least of which is her aid to our defense against our common Athenian foes. We struggle to meet your greatness and return what is given to us, but one day we can return the favor. Continue to stand by us, we remain loyal to you. Listen to our story so that you may know our hardships and better understand what needs to be done.”

My brother continued, recounting a tale of valor and woe, of Athens’s unprovoked attack upon us and their merciless destruction of our island and its beautiful city. He told the Spartans of death and misfortune, how children wander among the corpses of their parents and how the smell of fire and burning flesh follows us even to this peaceful city, Sparta. Not even those who sought shelter in sacred temples were spared, so depraved was the attack upon us. My people wept at the portrait my brother painted, the memories of war still fresh, and many of us still shaking in fear, jumping at shadows from the horrors we suffered. But the gods saw fit to spare us, and they shall see fit to watch Athens burn by Sparta’s hand, so my brother told them. The Spartans can understand this plight; they can share our pain and help us to rebuild all that was lost.

The speech my brother gave came to an end. There was no applause, not so much as a sound from the Spartans, and though nothing was said much was communicated. My people despaired at our failure to secure the help of the Spartans while our hunger and pain bit deeper with the thought we would have to leave the city empty handed. My brother on the verge of tears turned to me and said, “We’re lost. What hope do we have if the Spartans do nothing?”

Just then one of the Spartans stood and addressed us, he said, “We forgot the first half of your speech, and we could make nothing of the remainder.”

All of us Samians were dumbfounded, and it was then I alone realized our mistake, the folly of forgetting the nature and customs of our hosts. A new tinge of hope filled me with warmth and excited every fiber of my being, pushing me forward to speak. I took from under my tunic an empty bag meant to carry the aid to receive from Sparta and gave my own speech, one suitable to Spartan ears. Thrusting the bag forward towards the audience I said, “The bag wants flour.”

The standing Spartan looked at me and smiled, he said, “You needn’t have said ‘the bag’ but you’ll have aid.”

Outwardly we remained stoic in the faces of our wonderful allies and friends the Spartans, but in our hearts we rejoiced. We ate and drank well that night.

Look on My Works Ye Mighty, and Despair

I've finally gotten around to writing once more, and this is the first of three stories I have. The other two will be up soon.

My empire crumbles before my very eyes and I sit buried alive in the tomb among the ruins of my glorious capital, my very own city. I never imagined my enemies would ever defeat my armies one by one, breach the sanctity of my city, and leave me to die the pitiful death of an animal. My enemies compared me to Hitler, Stalin and the like, though they never lasted long they laugh at me from the ashes.

My uniform, metals, titles, and honors count for nothing! Can a name buy victory? The loyalty of my men led only to treachery and the strength of my arms yielded only defeat. The battles went my way when the fighting was fair, but my enemy grew cunning and pulled my rightful victory from under my feet, from within my own country. My own people abandon me and bow down to foreign masters, I see to it those unfortunate enough to survive rot in a barren wasteland unfit for even the vilest forms of life.

The great buildings I made collapse into ruin, blasted by fire from the sky, and my people die in droves, burnt and crushed and beaten and shot. The smell of fire and death consumes my country. Good, the flesh of my people burns to nothing and leaves no feast of victory for the foreign vultures devouring my lands. They speak of freedom and democracy, but such words are lies. I lived only the truth and am destroyed for it, though they cannot be rid of me forever. I rose before and shall rise again to rule over the hearts and souls of men until the end of days. I will return.

Creature from the Hundred Acre Wood

It's been awhile since I last posted. I should get on writing more. Here's a little story inspired by this drawing:



This picture is the perfect combination of sad and grotesque; it puts a smile on my face every time I see it.

Deep in an old forest lives a bear hidden in a cave. This bear’s den sits in a disenchanted place, carved out of a knoll covered in weeds and knotted trees. Light rarely reaches this place, touching the mouth of the den a few precious times when the wind blows holes in the mat of leaves blanketing the area. Inside the den the bear lays on a bed of moss regardless of the season, never leaving the dank confines of its home.

The bear is old, its fur yellowed from age. Its breathing is heavy and labored. The yellow body of the bear is a gelatinous mass, its stubby arms and legs useless for any meaningful movement, yet it manages to grab at a pot of honey and shovel its face full of the stuff. The honey drips around its mouth and onto the bear’s red shirt, a gift from a little boy who once loved the bear but is now long gone. The shirt is ragged and torn, stretched thin by the bear’s girth. The bear keeps it out of habit.

Sleepy sounds seep into the den from outside, the summer heat unable to find its way down into the twisted cave concealing the bear. The bear keeps its jar of honey close, the only comfort left while buried underground. Honey, once the great love in the bear’s life, is now compulsion. There is no joy left in the bear’s eyes, and the luster has left the black beads set deep in his face. All that’s left in those eyes is the dull embers of a tired life waiting to drink the one nectar the bear has yet to taste, the sweet mercy of death. Sleep comes easy to the creature.

In Service to No One

It's been awhile since I last updated, but the last two months of summer destroyed what little creative essence I have. Forty hour weeks at the Country Grocer working on renovations will do that to anyone. Getting back to school motivated me to write more stories. Here's the latest.

A young boy sat in a dark and cramped room, decay leaving the place more of a cave forgotten and left to time. The boy found it looking for escape from a dank, humid hall, as the darkness seemed cool and inviting. The reality though was continued oppressive humidity, but the boy stayed regardless. He jumped at the sound of a voice flat and mechanic yet comfortingly female.

“Hello, what are you doing here little boy?”

After slipping around for a moment the boy sputters, “Who’s that? Are you one of them?”

“Me one of them, no I’m not trying to bring you back. I’m no one in particular, but you James are someone we consider quite special.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been watching this place for some time, and you interest us. I can help you get what you want; I can help you escape.”

James felt around the broken room, running his hands along the walls and rubble, feeling the fuzzy carpet of moss and fungus accompanied by the sick smell of stagnant water. The mechanic voice chuckles at the boy, causing him to stumble and fall down. He cries out in pain.

The voice speaks, “Be careful, this building is condemned for a reason, so what do you say? I’ll help you so long as you do what I say.”

James winced and sat down, “I don’t trust you.”

“No? What are you here for then? What do you want?”

“I . . . don’t know. I can remember anything; everything’s fuzzy in my head. All I know is my gut hurts at the sight of the men in white coats, so I run. They never come here, so here I am.”

“They’ll find you soon, so will you follow me? If you want to I’ll be waiting outside the gates.”

“I don’t know . . . I . . .”

Footsteps echo through the empty halls of the dilapidated building, and James stops breathing. He asks the voice to help, but gets no answer. The room’s doors fall open and a flood of light washes over the room. James scrambles towards the remaining pockets of darkness in the back of the room but is scooped up by white washed orderlies. The boy kicks and screams for help, the sounds carrying through the old halls.

A few years later. . .

I don’t know where I am or why I’m here, but I do know I want to escape. But there is no escape, you’re always on the run from something, and I’m no different. I got my start running back in the facility where I grew up, and none of us who lived there knew of anything beyond the walls and fences of the compound. That place was our entire world, but that changed for me.

Portions of my day were spent in a drug induced haze, but even so I remembered enough of what the administrators did to me during my blackouts that I knew enough to run when they came for me. I came across someone willing to help me while I was hiding one day, and they came back repeatedly since. I still pray that they are real; I know they’re not a hallucination. They told me about the outside world, so now I have somewhere to run to, the only problem was how. For that I was on my own.

Every day after classes I walked through the same hall on the outer edge of the education center and staffed with only one guard. I thought about bolting out through a service door located down the hall and whenever the thought came up so did the question, why? Why do I want to get away so much? Invariably I’d see a guard scowl at me or one of the white suits look down at me and I had my answer, so after lifting a couple beers from the faculty lounge I forgot my worries and worked up the gumption to finally escape.

Health exams were coming up again which was an announcement that hit below the gut; health exams meant hours of lost time and strange wounds. Announcements blared over the PA commanding us students to report to the medical wing at our designated times, and mine was that evening. I wouldn’t be there.

The guards get lazy around us students because if we cause trouble a push of a button has implants in our bodies shut down select parts of our nervous system, leaving any unruly student paralyzed on the floor. Complacency breeds danger though, and the guard next to the service entrance to the education center never saw what was coming his way until too late.

I chose to slump down near the service door and wait for the guard to make his patrol. He came walking quickly, unwilling to linger in one area too long. Upon seeing me he asked what I was doing and not getting an answer told me to get up and move on back to my dorm room. I failed to comply so he warned me not to make him call for backup, and continued no reaction led him to lean over and grab my arm. I took hold of him with the same arm he grabbed me with and jabbed a needle of painkiller I found lying around the medical ward into his stomach. Lucky for me the medicine put him out before he could react and my heart jumped into my throat in excitement upon realization of my success.

Moving quickly I got through the door using the guard’s ID card and jogged across the compound quad, finding the front entrance. I decided to hide out of sight near the gates, making use of the shrubbery as cover. I learned that day that I’m allergic to whatever the hell grew in those bushes, a runny nose and itchy eyes plagued me as I held back a sneeze. The smell of pollen tightened my throat making it hard to breathe, and I even thought of just giving up and going back to the facility, but I quickly forgot those thoughts.

A shot of fear went up my back at hearing a group of guards stop by the gate. I tried to bite back the fear, but why am I afraid? What have they done to me that made me so scared? They’re not the nicest people but I can’t remember. It hurts more to not remember. Trying to keep still made my shaking worse and my allergies all the harder to control, but I went unnoticed. The doors swung open and the guards watched as a truck pulled up from behind the medical wing. The truck paused and the guards surrounded it, going through the usual spot check. I waited until the guards were sufficiently distracted to sneak out of the bushes and run towards the gate. The moment I passed through the gate the alarm sounded so all the guards turned around and saw me running.

I didn’t stop, hoping the guards were too far away to do anything to me. Walled in on each side, the drive stretched on for about half a mile while my heart sunk at the sight. I swore and ran as fast as I could, reassuring myself the guards were out of range, but they weren’t. I felt my legs give out on me, turn to jello as I plowed forward, breaking my fall with my hands and settling on my side, arms burning in pain.

I closed my eyes and refused to watch as the guards lifted me up and carried me back towards the gate. Something wasn’t right though, the guards stopped and talked urgently among themselves, so I looked up to see the gates sealed shut. Nothing the guards did and no one they called could budge the doors while from behind came a familiar voice, one both mechanical and female. The voice told us no one was going anywhere.

Eyes turned up to one of the drive walls and there stood a girl, she looked young but I didn’t get a good look at her face. The guards all collapsed unconscious at once, leaving me alone with my strange benefactor.

She said, “I told you I’d wait outside the gates.”

I asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m no one. Sorry, but you’ve got to be asleep for the next part of the trip. Don’t worry, you’ve made it.”

I slipped away only coming to sometime later on the outside. My benefactor told me I was on my own, leaving me down some dark alley in an unknown city with two hundred fifty dollars and an ID card. Why was I abandoned? I can’t remember what I ran away from and I don’t know where I’ll run. I don’t feel like I’ve truly escaped, and on the inside I at least had friends to help me cope, now I am alone. I need to do something besides run away. It’s my turn to do the chasing; I’ll search for the truth.

A few hours later . . .

“Did we get a good look at her?”

“No sir, the suspect’s face was obscured, by what we don’t know. She overrode our security systems, and we still can’t figure out how she did it or why she chose to help Subject 312 escape or how she knew he’d be outside the gates at that particular moment in time.”

A scientist dressed in a white lab coat watches the security footage of the escape incident. The dark room hides his gaunt figure, his voice portraying a fuller person. He says, "She probably had an in with our security system for awhile now, and I don't think she knew when he'd be outside. Check the security feeds for the main drive for the past six months for different times of the day."

Another figure bent over a work console digs through the video files and pulls up the footage requested. On the main screen in front of the two men flickers the drive, devoid of life, quiet and empty. The man at the console cycles through each day, each week for some time before the scientist tells him to stop. The security official looks back at the scientist.

The scientist, pointing to the south wall of the drive showing on screen says, "Look, the culprit makes herself less visible to our cameras, but we can still see her. This shadow on the wall shouldn't be there, also the area around the shadow is fuzzy, and the camera isn't damaged. This pattern of interference repeats during many of the times cross-referenced, too many different times to be coincidence. Who's casting the shadow, creating that interference?"

"The culprit?"

"I think so. That shadow and white noise shows up on every single day you played through, so she's been here every day for the past six months, possibly longer. She's been waiting for him this entire time. I wonder if she ever made contact."

The scientist's eyes defocus as he thinks, and the security official fidgets uncomfortably. The scientist says, “We can track the subject though, retrieving him is top priority.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we’ve lost him completely. We’re in the dark.”

“Go through the records for every one of our facilities and look for other escapees. We’ll find our culprit there. I’ll work on getting the subject back.”

The scientist exits the room as the sound of the air conditioning blasts.