Life's Bone

By the time Alonzo Del Bono arrived at the border town that morning, he felt, quite literally, that he was but a shadow of his former self. He stepped into a dark, dimly lit bar that stank like the breath of the drunken party the night before. He sat down at the bar alone, and stared down along it at the ashtrays, their contents spilling over onto the counter. He glanced at the ashtray next to him. A shallow bowl of crumpled white cigarette butts, painted with red lipstick.

"What'll it be?" the woman said, flicking an ash from her smoke into the bowl. Her fingernails matched her lipstick.
"I don't know." He said, glancing up at her.
"Of course, you don't, honey. That's why you are here." She walked away, and poured a double scotch, and sat it down in front of him. "Indecision kills, you know."she said, as she dropped a cube of ice into the glass, hesitated, and dropped another one in. Plunk.....Plunk.

"Eat, drink, and be merry, my friend, tomorrow has been cancelled." she said, sliding the glass to his tightly clenched fists which he was trying desperately to open. It seemed a struggle to pry his fingers free. They seemed tangled up into tight knots clinging desperately to each other. He watched as she rested her hands on his, her red nails drawing soothing circles around his fists. "Don't fret, dear," she said. "It's just rigor mortis, setting in." She patted his fists sympathetically. "Here. Maybe this will help." She lifted the glass to his lips and tilted it. He swallowed again and again. "Now, my dear, tell me." she said setting the empty glass down. "What happened to the rest of you? Do you remember?" He stared down at his long, dark, and crooked shadow on the bar room floor.
"You mean about the accident? Or the funeral?" He heard himself say.
"Tell me the whole story. Take your time, darling. We have all the time in the world." she replied.
"We do?" he said, looking up at her.
"Mmm hmmm," she said with a smile.

"Well", he began, "There's not that much to tell, really. But, I was on vacation. I just went away by myself, without much of a plan. I didn't tell anyone where I was going, because I was leaving without knowing. I wound up in a motel room near Padre Island. I had a severe hang-over from the night before. I think there might have been a woman with me during the night, unless it was just a drunken dream. I waded out into the water that morning in hopes of washing away a sickly desperate feeling I had. I didn't know about the rip tide until the undertow dragged me away. That's the last I remember, except for a very vague awareness of being buried, and the muted sounds of people mumbling."

He stared back down at his shadow on the floor, and then over to the large window by the door. The view was an intimidating jagged black profile of steep mountains backlit by a sky of red.
"So, where am I?" He asked. "Am I in hell?"
"No, darlin'," she said, nodding her head toward the window's view. "Hell is over there. On the other side of the mountains." He looked back at her.
"So, where am I, then?"

She smiled, and patted his clenched fists again.
"You are in Limbo, darlin'. Limbo, Texas. Right here with me at the Limbo Lounge. The only lounge in Limbo where a person can still get a good stiff drink, even if they are already dead." She picked up the glass from the counter. "One more for the road?' she said. He nodded, and stared back again to his long shadow on the floor, followed it to the window, and the view of the hot flickering sky beyond the mountains of hell. She plugged the jukebox and walked toward him. "Would you like a last dance, before you disappear?" She asked, as she wrapped her arms around his lifeless shadow.

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She had regular customers she kept on a schedule of Monday through Friday. She was a conscientious worker, and quite organized. You had to be, in order to be so many people over a five day stretch. Each client expected something different from her. If you weren't well organized, you would get them mixed up. It would be crazy, if it didn't pay so well. So, the calendar, was of a series of rituals, and transformations. Morphing from one day to the next, for the greater part of the week, into different people.

As the calendar now stood, on Mondays she was Nadine, a teen-aged vampire nymphomaniac, as so casted by one of her clients, a college kid. On Tuesdays, she was a virgin peasant girl named Katrina who meets an old man by the well, while fetching water. On Wednesdays, she was Twyla, the lesbian partner of a man who sincerely believed he, too, was a lesbian, trapped in a man's body. Thursdays were easy, he didn't even insist she have a certain name. He just wanted to watch tv, and be in control of the remote. And on Fridays, she was Sister Mary Josephina who chased a bad boy around his apartment, and spanked him at every opportunity with a wooden ruler.

But, on Saturdays and Sundays, she was just her self. A simple working girl who was going steady with her boyfriend. And that would be me.

It all started the day before. That's when Rusty took a young deer up at the top of the hilly pasture, right along the tree line. Dropped it with one shot. Down at the mouth of the hollow, a battered looking pick up truck slowly came to a stop in the middle of the creek. Two men, fetching buckets of water, washed down the carcass of the pig lying on the bed of the truck. Down at the hollow's end, chain saws growled amidst the staccato chops of a heavy axe. Three men carried the remains of a large iron gate and laid it down atop a bed of smoking red Hickory embers. Several stood by sipping on cold beers as they watched the pig slide from the up-turned wheelbarrow onto the hot iron gate. Over by the barn, and hanging by it's hind legs from a tree limb, the deer was being patiently skinned, gutted and dressed. Rusty dropped the wet, warm deer skin into an old wooden barrel of salt and alum, and poked it under the water with a stick.

They would pace about and watch the fire all night, swapping stories as they poked at the embers beneath the smoking pig. It was starting to smell like Thanksgiving as the sun slowly crept up the far side of the wooded hill, its first rays diffused by the hollow's dense fog. There was the distant sound of a cock crowing, and the very faint rain-like patter of dew drops wetting the forest floor. Two men lay asleep on the ground near the smoldering fire, while a third man slid two black iron kettles onto the grate. One held a ground hog, the other, a 'possum. Two young boys, down along the creek bank artfully skinned a dozen or more squirrels, and gutted them over the swiftly moving water. A young girl with a bucket full of apples, bent to place them all around the pig, pushing some under the browning carcass, and at the direction of her father, stuffing one into the pig's mouth.

Several women chattered around a smaller fire as they shucked ears of corn, and stirred the simmering pots. There were cranberries, pole beans flavored with pig fat, red potatoes with cloves of garlic, and a stew of cabbage and carrots. The little ones ran playfully around their mothers clutching handfuls of wild turkey feathers, and tickling one another.

The feast started around three in the afternoon, with the sun already dropping again into the treetops. Several dozen people milled about the fire, drawing their clothes tighter around them as they ate. A cold air seemed to slide down from the woods above, causing the embers to flicker and blush. Winter was coming soon. And it would be a hard winter, at that.

It wasn't until the mid 2500s that there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel. The several preceding centuries had led to waves of mass starvation and global depression. The ecological disasters had seemed to kaleidoscope out of control, and were multiplying at a devastating pace. The planet was becoming an increasingly hostile environment for our kind, as well as many other species that, one by one, were disappearing.
Explorations into outer space had finally evolved to a point where inter-galactic travel was possible. News came back from distant galaxies of other worlds, heretofore unknown. The search for another planetary habitat, had given rise to a mass hope that, out there somewhere, there was a place to start over. At last, came news of a planet that was teeming with an amazing variety of life forms. Many specimens were brought back for intensive scientific scrutiny. It was determined that these life forms were quite edible, and nutritious. The alien food was harvested in large quantities, and the frequent inter-galactic expeditions led later to a new supply of exotic foods around the planet. The first Thanksgiving was said to have been in the year, 2580. People everywhere gathered to give thanks for the bountiful harvest from the alien planet. Strange, but delicious food. There were slabs of meat that came from something called a cow, and another animal called a deer, and these things called humans were on the spit, as well. The people rejoiced, and gave thanks for the hope of soon moving to this new galaxy, this promising new world, a place far away, called Earth.

Apology first. I said I would post today, the conclusion of the story of Frank and Lisa. The last two days, I have been working up their story in my posts. But, now, I have changed my mind. I did finish the story. It falls into the category of ridiculous, but sweet. But, now I want to save it.

This brings me to my Announcement. I am trying to review a number of my stories, and edit, add to , and revise them. The goal is to publish a collection of short fictions by late January. It would be called SHORT STUFF and consist of 12 to 15 stories. I would try to publish it on-line through Lulu.com. (If any of you have experience with this, I'd like your tips.)

SHORT STUFF would be available for purchase as a paperback, (I will try to make it affordable) or as a collection you can download and read/print yourself. (Cheaper, but absent the pleasure of holding a bound paper text in your hands. ) My son, Sam, (some of you have perhaps seen his film posters,) will do the cover art and some other illustrations within the text. The collection would include 3 or 4 stories I have not presented on my blog site, or anywhere else. I hope you will consider getting a copy.

In response to questions as to what happened to Frank and lisa after they bumped into one another, in The Momentary Drama (below), I will try to describe the things that happened afterward.

Of course, in bumping into each other, they both blubbered and sputtered their apologies simultaneously, all the while they each made silly attempts to brush off the other's jacket. They just kept brushing each other off with their hands, as they exchanged small talk about the neighborhood. She lived 3 blocks South of the old Roosevelt Hotel. He lived 3 blocks North.

Each day that followed, they kept looking for the other coming from the opposite direction. The first week or so of this, was like a courtship ritual that can only be compared to a National Geographic documentary on strange bird behavior. They would see one another, and as they approached, they would appear to be deliberately dodging one another, making big obvious detours around one another. Then as they passed, they would turn and walk backwards for a few steps, and look back at each other. On one such occasion, Frank backed into a parking meter. On another occasion, Lisa, walking backward, tripped over the curb, and fell back onto the hood of a parked car.

Since it soon became apparent that this would continue to happen day after day, and they were finding it more and more difficult to avoid each other, their relationship began to change. Now, it seems they began deliberately bumping into each other. It was like a game of 'chicken'. Of course, neither would give in, so they collided. Then, they went back to the brushing each other off ritual, while engaging in small talk. It seems their paths crossed, or collided, always at the same place, beneath the glittering round yellow bulbs of the Roosevelt Hotel's marquee. The doorman at the hotel, seeing this same thing happen over and over, began inviting his friends to come by and watch Frank and Lisa crash into each other every morning. Soon, there was a daily crowd of a dozen or more people standing around in front of the hotel, looking up and down the street for a sign of Lisa or Frank. Well, Lisa and Frank appeared every day like clockwork, and crashed into one another again and again beneath the bright lights of the marquee, and they would be loudly applauded by the on-lookers. They would then brush each other off excessively, as the crowd of spectators stood by watching, nodding their heads, and sipping their coffees to go.

I will finish this odd story of this odd couple tomorrow, and will post it on Mything Links.

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Well, basically, Frank lived alone. He had his habits. Rituals. He thought about women, but realized it would be a responsibility that could, in awhile, outweigh the pleasure. Lisa felt the same. She had her habits. Her rituals. She didn't know Frank, but, she too, thought it so complicated to try to live with someone else. So funny then, the way they passed each other every day along the sidewalk, on their way to wherever each was going. There were quick glances. Agonizing, when you think about it. Two people, each wanting the other, but too scared to think of the consequences. One day, they bumped into each other.

Let's call this episode, "Motorcycle Jacket Bible"

When dad was a teen-ager, that was well before the word 'teen-ager' existed, he and a school chum determined to escape the small coal mining town of West Virginia they had grown up in. They pooled their money and bought a motorcycle. They drew out a map of adventuring all the way to the West coast. They also had the ingenuity to place ads in several nationally distributed magazines saying they were two guys looking for adventure, and places to stay along the way. A couple of weeks later, there was a whole box of letters waiting for them at the post office. Letters from girls, mostly. Offering them a place to spend the night. So, they got to work fine tuning their motorcycle, and they bought some black leather motorcycle jackets. A week later their dream was gone. The motorcycle had caught fire and quickly became a lost cause. It was but a few weeks after that, that dad enlisted in the Coast Guard, and was assigned to New York harbor. So, he escaped Shrewsbury, after all. And lucky for me, I guess, since New York is where he met my mother.

A few weeks after he began doing his duty patrolling the harbor, he got a package from his mother. It was a large and bulky Bible. Old and worn. And it had been re-covered with a plain black leather backing she had made herself. She had made the cover for the Bible out of the back of the motorcycle jacket he had left behind. Somehow, I became the recipient of this book. It is on a shelf nearby. Sometimes, I take it down. Not to read, really, but just to ponder the history of people and things.

Reader Advisory: This story contains some descriptions of graphic violence.

It was a dark and chilly damp day. A day that suited the evil intentions of Rupert Plover. Just after the sun had set, and left the fields and forests to be erased from view by the darkening gray of night returning. That was when he did the deed. Gliding through the night like an owl in silent pursuit of it's victim. With one swift blow, he had freed himself from the tyranny of his mother-in-law forever.

Nothing much changed after that day. His life seemed simpler, and calmer, however. He did have one concern most recently though. An annoyance in his field of vision. A small black dot seemed to float about between himself and wherever he looked. He had rubbed his eyes repeatedly, but to no avail. He made an appointment with his eye doctor to see if the doctor could notice anything unusual in his eyes. The doctor examined him, and could find nothing. And oddly enough, he couldn't see the dot anymore, himself. He looked all around the room to see if it would re-appear. But no. It was gone.

The next morning, as he stood in front of the mirror, shaving, he stared into his own eyes. And suddenly, as though blackness was eclipsing blackness, the black dot emerged from the blackness of his pupils, and floated out into the whites of his eye balls. It had been hiding inside his pupils. And it was bigger now, about the same size as his pupils. Each day the blackness increased in his field of vision. Sometimes, it drifted by like a big black cloud that darkened everything around him, and then passed on from view into the corner of his eyes, only to slowly return. And sometimes, it came into view as a small dot again, but it appeared to be slowly moving toward him and getting slowly larger. As though driven by some powerful wind from a distant place. It soon loomed large, black and ominous over most everything he frantically searched out with his eyes. And then it would pass on, leaving him perspiring, and panicky. It felt now, like recurring moments of blindness.

The day when the blackness came to stay was the most frightening of all. It had obliterated all possibility of sight, it had completely blanketed all hope of ever seeing again. He felt his way to the kitchen sink and fumbled for the dishes in the water, and the washcloth. The only thing he could see now were his memories of seeing, and even these were fading like old photos in a picture album. He was listening to the chickens clucking, and pecking around in the tall grass out in the yard, when suddenly he heard the turning of the doorknob on the back door. And then the creaking of the hinges as it swung slowly open. "Who's there?" he called out into the blackness. "Who do you think it is, Rupert?" a voice spoke back. "N...no....n...n...no!" he stammered. "it can't be you. I killed you." he said. "Oh Rupert!" the voice said with a laugh. "I'm so flattered that you actually remembered!" He heard several steps across the wooden floor. "Let's see now," the voice said. There was the incredibly loud sound of the rattling of the pots and pans that hung from the iron rack over the stove. "I believe it was this one." the voice said. "The #9 black iron skillet. That's the one you used wasn't it, Rupert? A dandy! A real skull cracker. It sure scattered my brains all over the place, that's for sure. But, that was then and this is now. And I'm back in a new way, Rupert. And I am back forever, Rupert. I am back forever, because I sold my soul to the devil just for the chance to even the score with you, Rupert. And now, it's your turn to say goodbye."

The next morning, the local news station featured a breaking story about a local resident found dead in his house. First reports indicated it was a homicide. The victim's skull was crushed in, and a #9 black iron skillet was found on the kitchen floor near his body. There are no eye witnesses at this time, and no fingerprints were found on the skillet. A report from the coroner indicates the man actually died quite suddenly of a massive heart attack, and was, in all probability, already dead when the violent assault took place. The perpetrator, therefore, cannot be charged with homocide, but would, if caught, stand trial for abuse of a corpse. Of course, as you and I know by now, there is no chance in hell of that happening.

Some increasingly distant time ago, Annabelle Adams was living a hard and bitter life. A life seemingly devoid of hope and love. But that was so long ago now, she hardly remembers it anymore. At the age of 23, she left it all behind somehow. She escaped that past that held no future. It was scary, but she did it. All it took, it turned out, was a bus ticket, to find happiness. She was now 28, and lived in a rented room of a small country home, on the outskirts of a small town in Ohio. She had moved in with a family there 5 years earlier, Mr and Mrs Jenkins, and their daughter Jenny, who was now 8. They made her feel at home, and soon she felt like part of a family that was like none she had ever known before. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins were lovingly parental and protective of her. Always encouraging, and supportive. And Jenny seemed more and more like Annabelle's little sister. They played games together, and played out in the yard. And Annabelle would read Jenny stories at bedtime. She was quite happy there, and she liked her job at the old Market Cafe on the square in town. For some funny reason, life was fun now. She didn't have a worry in the world.

Her boss at the cafe likes her, and thinks she is funny, and 'quirky', as he put it. And all the customers, too. One, in particular, is always winking at her, and flirting, and wanting to take her to a movie. Many would often ask about how Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins were, and about Jenny. She liked to talk about living with the Jenkins family. Even the mailman was friendly. He would stop and wave to her, and he'd ask all about how the family was doing too. And if she needed anything. Of course, she didn't. She had things here that she had never even dreamed of back then, in her dark and ugly past.

It was the perfect life for Annabelle. Except for one thing, I suppose. You see, Annabelle Adams lived in a run down and somewhat barren house outside of town. And she lived there all alone. The towns people all knew she was crazy, and had for some years now. It had become clear to them, the moment she had stepped off the bus at the station on the square, clutching her little brown suitcase. She was clearly a strange and peculiar young woman. But Annabelle Adams had something about her that they all liked. Something charming, and endearing. So, basically, they went along with her delusional stories, which were, after all, harmless, sweet, and childish imaginings. And she seemed so happy living with the Jenkins family who, of course, didn't really exist. So, why take that away from her? In fact, in conversation, people could sometimes be heard saying something like, "You know, I think I am going to move in with the Jenkins family, myself." Or, "I wish Mrs and Mr. Jenkins would adopt me too!"

The friendly mailman sat down at the counter in the Market Cafe. "Hi, Annabelle", he said. "I saw you and Jenny out playing on the swing set this morning in the front yard. Looked like you two were having lots of fun." "Yes," Annabelle beamed. "My little sister is so much fun!" she added, as she poured him a cup of coffee. "Tomorrow, I am going to take her to the zoo.!" Mrs. Anderson, a little old gray haired lady came in, and hobbled up to the counter. "Annabelle, sweetie?" she said. "I just baked this apple pie for you to take home to the family tonight." Annabelle's eyes lit up, as she looked down at the beautiful golden brown pie. "Oh, thank you so much, Mrs Anderson. They will be so happy and surprised." she said. "Well, they are such a sweet family, you know. And you are sweet too, Annabelle. I hope you all enjoy it." the old woman said, patting Annabelle on the hand.

Annabelle Adams walked across the grassy field toward her house, carrying her pie. A happy smile came across her face as a butterfly flew onto her dress and clung to it. "Hello, little butterfly." she whispered. "Would you like to meet my little sister, Jenny?"

.

I came across this wonderful sentence on Wickapedia:

THE buffalo FROM Buffalo WHO ARE buffaloed BY buffalo FROM Buffalo ALSO buffalo THE buffalo FROM Buffalo.

And shortened, and still grammatically correct:

Buffalo buffalo buffaloed by Buffalo buffalo, also buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

The Winter wind bites in different ways. It can turn a pretty young girl's cheeks a bright reddish pink. And it can kill. Emily sat by the fireside, her thick damp woolen socks so close to the flame as to make steam rise above her still frozen toes, Her face, a painfully stinging blush of skin regaining feeling Carl was lost back there somewhere behind her. They had gotten separated, literally blown apart by gale force winds and blinding snow nine hours ago. Her fingers seemed to be painfully throbbing like the very beating of her heart, as they slowly thawed. She stared at the fire. She had hard images in her head, as to what might be happening to him right now. She was a realist, and given she had made it to the cabin nine hours ago, the scenarios were dismal, if not black. She had a hard time letting her heart back in on her train of logic, but she did. And suddenly, the bitter scenarios she had been entertaining in such a calm rational way, hit her like a ton of bricks. She pulled her knees up close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She began to heave and sob, and bury her face between her knees. "How can I live if Carl dies? How? How? How?"

Carl lay face down in the snow. Curling into a ball and hugging his frozen clothes. He was still fighting the relentless winds that would rip his clothes off, if they could. He buried his face in his backpack, and thought about her. Wondered if she was still alive. He felt disoriented. There were no stars above him to tell him which way to go. There was only blinding snow. He pushed his hands up under his down coat, and tugged at the thick woolen sweater, and the wick shirt beneath that, and rubbed his fingers on his bare belly, until at last, there was least a feeling of pain. He stuck them up into his armpits and squeezed his arms around them. If there is pain, there is hope. Without hope you die. He nibbled on a piece of dry apricot, as he got to his knees. And then, slowly, slowly, slowly, he stood up . And took a step.

Emily thoroughly wet the knees of her pajama pants before drying her eyes and sniffing with a certain sense that she had gotten all that out of the way. She wiped her nose on her pajama pants and had a delirious and momentary laugh, thinking how as a little girl, her mother would scold her for that. She stood and went to the stove. She lit a fire, and boiled a pot of water. She thought about how nice it was to have feeling back in her fingers and toes, as she stretched to get two tea cups from the cabinet shelf. One for her, and one for him. She kept the pot of water simmering, as she sat at the wooden table and thoughtfully sipped her tea. On the one hand, Carl was dead already, and buried under drifting snow. On the other hand, he's always been resourceful. He had a certain instinct. He always did. " Carl right now is walking. Walking very slowly." she said, sipping her tea. "He will probably lose some fingers ad toes, but he will be here soon." She got up, and turned up the heat on the pot of water. She stared at the little bubbles coming up through the water from the bottom of the pan. "Carl, should be here any minute." she said softly.

Her wath tho pwetty, and her had a thpeecth impedimenth juth like me. When her tol' me her had lipthing lipth, I couldn'th rethith my thelf. I thweetly kithed her. I gafe her a big thmooch!

On the set:

Director: Ok, people listen up, we gotta lot of work to do. So, let's walk through the shots. OK, we're gonna open with the farmer taking the wife. This takes place on the bed, and we have to be discreet. We are looking at PG-13. So, soft warm fuzzy focus, some moans and movements under the blanket. No shots showing the nipples. Any questions, so far?

Cinematographer: Can we show her buttocks?

Director: No! Of course not! We'll release the director's uncut version later on DVD. So, film it all, we'll clean it up in the editing room. And save the good stuff for later. Ok, moving on. So the wife gets pregnant, and yada yada, she takes the child to see a nurse. The child takes the nurse, and leads her out to look at his cow, which he is selling. The nurse loves the cow, and decides to take it. This is where it gets a little twisted, because, the cow has taken a dog as her best friend, and they are inseparable. So, the nurse takes the cow, and the dog tags along. Questions?

Animal wrangler: Do you want a mature cow, a young cow, and what color?

Director: I think what we want for this part is a mature brown cow. And the dog should have a cute face, but, be sorta mangy looking too.

Wrangler: No problemo!

Director: Ok, now we get to the action scenes. It turns out that the nurse has a cat. And when the dog sees the cat, he is in hot pursuit. Let's have him chase her all over the place for about three minutes. Everybody with me?

Props guy: So, you want some lamps for them to knock over, and stuff like that?

Director: Yes, yes! Brilliant! So, the dog chases the cat, and corners it in the bathroom. The cat, makes a desperate leap into the bathtub, which is full of water. The dog, with his big paws up on the side of the tub, is growling and showing his teeth, as the kitty thrashes about helplessly in the water. He lunges. And just when you think he is about to do the coup d' gras, he gingerly picks wet kitty up by the neck, and sets her down on a towel. (He looks at the wrangler) Can you get the dog to try to wrap the towel around the wet cat?

Wrangler: No problemo!

Director: Swell, that will be a real tear jerker. There won't be a dry eye in the house. Ok, so it gets psychological here. The cat, feeling her position in the household is a bit threatened, needs to re-assert its importance. So she determines to catch a rat. So that's the cat's motivation, he said (looking at the wrangler, who nodded). So she baits the rat with a big chunk of cheese.

Props guy: What kind of cheese?

Director: It doesn't matter what kind. It just has to be big. Really big. A rat's wet dream.

Props guy: Gotcha!

Director: The rat is not able to get to the cheese fast enough! The cat pounces! We need close-ups here, lots of fast edits. Paws clawing and drawing blood! Rat teeth sinking into fur! Cat fangs! Finally, the cat takes the rat and carries it off.

Props guy: So, what happens to the cheese?

Director: I am coming to that. We close in on the cheese standing there, alone, in dead silence. We do a very slow zoom on the cheese, and then roll credits.

Cinematographer: I like it. I am thinking swiss cheese then. A big chunk of swiss cheese. We slowly zoom in on one of the holes in the cheese. A black hole that gets larger and larger until it fills the screen. Then the credits roll.

Director: Excellent. Yes, we go out with a mystery. The dark inner secret of the cheese. Leaving the audience to wonder how something like a cheese managed to survive. I can almost see the sequel. "The Cheese Stands Alone!" A vigilante kinda flick like those Clint Eastwood did! Ok, people, let's break for lunch.

While in the library picking out books about Ireland, in anticipation of going there soon. I came across an interesting book of anecdotal writings about life in small Irish villages a century or more ago. Interesting articles about the construction of field stone cottages with thatched roofs. About shepherds and their flocks, and about the spinning of wool, and the making of warm sweaters. The kinds of foods people grew, the kinds of meals they ate, and so on. Most fascinating was a story written about a mysterious series of events that took place in a small village in Northern Ireland, in the county of Donegal, in 1883.

The story centered on a text entitled "Mystery In Flames", a manuscript written long ago. There were no copies of it. The one and only hand-written and unsigned manuscript was simply passed about from one person to another, in the small village where the author had taken up quarters. And as it passed from one hand to another, it left a fiery trail behind it. While the manuscript was in the hands of one woman, she came home to find her kitchen on fire. And when it was passed on to her next door neighbor, he reported that later that night, the fire in his fireplace kept getting bigger and bigger, and hotter and hotter. So hot, in fact it melted the grate on which it burned, into a puddle of molten iron that sizzled and cracked the stones of the hearth. Another woman broke out in reddish rashes over 90% of her body. Another woman reported menstruating the entire time the book was in her possession, and it wasn't even that time of the month. A man reported burning his hand when he accidentally set it down on a hot bed of coals. And then, there was the farmer who said his cow was hit by lightning while he had the manuscript. And the woman who got a very severe sunburn, even though she hadn't been out of the house in days. Most tragically, a house burned completely to the ground. No one was killed or hurt, but the manuscript was reduced to a small pile of ashes, some of which went flying up into the smoky air. The villagers gathered around the smoldering ruins of the house talking quietly about the loss of the manuscript. And what a terrible loss it was. In the end, one by one, they each confessed they hadn't read the text. The author, whose name they never knew, had left town days ago and was never to be seen again. To this day, the unread, and never to be read "Mystery In Flames" is only known by the wake of strange events it left behind, in a small village in the Northern county of Donegal, in Ireland in 1883.

This is my very first video! On Steering Wheel Cam!! (Camera strapped to steering wheel.) Music, just happened to be on the radio at the time. WRVU was playing music from Mali, West Africa, but I never heard the names of the artists.

I have just written a story about a young woman who fell asleep for three years, and who sleep walked through all that time living what appeared to be a normal life. A therapist attempts to wake her up. You can read this story on my Mything Links site, if you like, by clicking on "To Sleep Perchance To Wake."

This post is only to say, it is a Work in Progress day for me, but coming soon: Two new stories, and some new wooden furniture I am beginning. Over and Out.

As if she wasn't sad and dejected enough already, she woke up to a chilly, wet, grey morning. She wrapped a sweater around herself, and shivered over a cup of coffee, and resolved that she must do something about the cold. She drove to the home improvement center, and wandered about up and down the aisles. In the building materials aisle, a big lumbering clerk approached her, and asked if she needed help. "Yes, I need a lot of help." she said flatly. "I am looking for insulation." "Well, over here," the man said, "we have what most of the contractors favor. It has an insulation value of R-19. It's quite effective." She looked at the large brown sheathed rolls of insulation. "I am looking for something in more of an affective line." she said. "Oh," said the man, "you want emotional insulation. That's over here. Now this is E-19, and, as you can see, it is sheathed in pink, 100% rag paper, and has red hearts and yellow butterflies printed on it, and is non allergenic." She smiled. "That's perfect. How much do you think I would need?" The man looked her up and down. "How tall are you?" "I'm 5' 4"" she replied. He took out a notepad and some paper and began scribbling. "I don't mean to be personal, ma'am, but what is your approximate weight?" "I'm approximately 122 lbs." she replied coldly. He scribbled some more. He mumbled out loud. "Ok, so, you got this times that..and minus this,...and then you have to consider depth. Ummm...I'd say you need between 12 to 14 feet." "Perfect." she said, pulling out her credit card. "I'd like to wear it home." "No problem, Ma'am." he said, "The changing room is down at the end of aisle 7."

It was the last train out of town, and I was lucky to catch it. I had packed in a hurry. As though, if I deliberated, I might change my mind. My next door neighbor said she would feed my cat while I was gone. My boss was pissed about my quitting without even a day's notice. But, it served him right, for not appreciating me more. My companion on the night train was a tiny old Asian woman. Her name was Suzuka. She had come from Tokyo to the states, some 30 years ago. She had apprenticed as a seamstress here. And now she designed clothes for women. Being an insomniac, I listened to it all. She had come from so far away to Manhattan. She had little money, but she made it there. It was hard at first, she sewed missing buttons back on, and repaired zippers at a dry cleaning place. One day, a guy named Bob Dylan came in. He asked that she sew a button on the back of his coat, that had no function at all. He was a funny guy. But he paid her well.

I hadn't a clue why I had jumped a train to the Southwest. Some kinda claustrophobia, perhaps. Pure escapism. The woman's stories were enchanting. She had come from an impoverished sector of Tokyo as a child, to America, and somehow had run into Bob Dylan! Her father died a gruesome death in the aftermath of Hiroshima's bombing. It was a lot to wrap my brain around. I had always had guilty feelings about those days, when my country laid so many to waste. But, then she returned to the subject of what she does now. She got this idea, to fashion clothing for men and women, and children, as well. What made it work, was that she caught onto the youthful energy of artists in the city. She would go to their gallery shows, and talk to them of their work. She would make them a proposition. I would give you a bolt of linen, you would paint on it. I would make it into clothing. I would split the money with you. She made a fortune in that psychedelic era. As to why she was riding a train in the middle of the night, to nowhere in particular? She was burnt out on the whole damn scene. She wanted to go to New Mexico, or Arizona, and just watch the sky roll by.

I am not sure why she wound up being my mentor. It was just something that happened. I lived with her, and apprenticed. I cooked her meals, and I prepared her sewing room. I watched her wither slowly away. I washed paint around on linens, and one day, she made a dress for herself out of that. It turned out to be the dress she was buried in.

I first saw him running down the middle of the road. He was pretty confused, I thought, to be wandering down the middle of a highway, with fast cars and trucks going by. A young hound, maybe a year or so old, and I could tell he would ultimately be a big boy. I turned my truck around, and picked him up. No collar, no tags. I took him home, and kept him for a couple of weeks. I named him Lucky, since, if I hadn't picked him up, he probably would have been flattened on the road in a short while, and then food for the buzzards. He was short-haired, chestnut brown with large white spots, and all muscle and big paws. He had a way of cocking his head and pointing his ears, and staring at me with big blackish brown eyes that seemed set so close together that he looked comically cross-eyed. When I first took him in, I had no idea how energetic and rambunctious he could be. I could not trust him to be in any room alone. If I did, I would find that he had chewed up a couch cushion, or turned the wooden leg of a chair into a splintery mess. He also ate like there was no tomorrow. He would clean out his bowl seemingly in a single gulp, then push it around with his nose or paws chasing it across the kitchen floor before settling down to simply gnaw at it endlessly. My dog, Life was 6 years old, and spayed, and she had her own issues regarding Lucky. She enjoyed romping around with him in the back yard, but had absolutely no interest in this horny youngster always trying to climb up onto her back. Oh me, What have I gotten myself into?!

At last, after running a 'free dog' ad in the paper that got little response, I resigned to taking him to a shelter. It was a hard drive to take. The whole time I was driving there, Lucky was licking eagerly on the passenger side window like it was delicious. The people at the shelter, are good at making connections between orphaned cats and dogs and people who might want them. They would study Lucky and his temperament, and whether he would respond to training. If that went well, he would be put up for adoption. If it did not go well, he would soon be euthanized. I didn't want to think about that possibility. The trainer who took him in, seemed mild-mannered, and a lover of animals. He felt he could probably work with Lucky, and that reassured me a little. He thought Lucky would make a good hunting dog. I still felt full of mixed emotions upon leaving. I looked over at the passenger window smeared with drying slobber. Good luck, Lucky. Maybe, you stand a chance.

Two weeks later, I went back to the shelter. Lucky was gone. They had, indeed, found a hunter interested in training him as a field dog. I felt relieved. Maybe Lucky had found his element. Maybe he's a squirrel dog now, or a bird dog. Happy hunting, Lucky!

Cicelia Perry slowly opened her eyes and for a moment was afraid to move. She was covered in several layers of heavy blankets. The air smelled like the ocean, like fish. She realized a moment later, that she was completely naked beneath the scratchy woolen blankets. And she was uncertain where she was, or how she got there. She could hear the distant voices of men. There were coils of heavy rope on the wooden floor, and on the wall, a calendar with a picture of a woman in a skimpy bikini and she had on big yellow rubber boots, and was holding a fishing rod from which dangled a large fat silvery fish. She remembered she had been on a cruise ship. It was something she had planned well in advance. She had left behind a life that had been ruined by a cruel twist of fate, and the never-ending gossip that went round and round in circles in her hometown. How she had killed her husband. And why. Even after she had been acquitted by a jury, and declared innocent of any wrong-doing, they talked about the bloody knife. How she was found clutching it, and standing over her husband's dead body. They talked about how she had planned it. And how her husband was such a good man. And how he didn't have an enemy in the world. Except her. It was all lies. But they ruined any possibility of remaining in her home, or even in that town. She hadn't killed her husband, but she had thought about it more than once. She didn't know who did it, but they were likely evening a score. He was a man of questionable conscience. A person who used others, even betrayed them; had even betrayed her more than once.

She heard heavy steps coming down the stairs. A man in a wet black raincoat and black boots appeared over her. "Are you comin' around, missy?" he said, bending over to look at her, as she peered out from underneath the blankets. "Where am I?" she said in a timid voice. "Well, right now, you are safe and sound on 'My Lady's Dogger', that's my outrigger."he said, running his hand through his wet hair, as he took a seat on a wooden crate across from her. "What am I doing here? How did I get here? Where are my clothes?" "Well, young lady, yer mighty lucky to be alive. You musta fallen overboard, you got all tangled up in one of my nets. Were you on one of them cruise ships?" "Mm hmm'" she nodded. "Where are my clothes?" she said, looking around the dimly lit room. "We hung 'em up in the boiler room, that's where we hang a lot of our wet gear. It's hot in there. You sure gave us a scare. When we pulled you out, you was as blue as a Marlin. I thought you was dead, for sure. But Jimmy, my first mate, he worked on you, and, by golly, you came around, spitting up a gallon of sea water! Anyways, you've been down here under the wheel house, sleepin' it off for about four hours now. I'm gonna fix you up a nice hot ginger tea. You'll be feelin' better in no time." He got up and disappeared into the galley. Cecilia pulled the blankets up tight around her. Her desperate attempt to end her life had failed miserably.

He returned smiling, with a steaming cup of tea. "Ready to sit up?" he said. She sat up, pulling the blanket around her and took the cup in her hands. "What kind of fish do you catch?" she asked. He returned to his seat on the wooden crate. "Not fish, really. We trawl for shrimp. But, today it seems you were definitely the catch of the day. So what is your name, anyway?" "Cecilia," she said, sipping her tea. "But, everybody calls me Sissy." "Well, sissy, we are two days out, but once we get to port, I'll help you be on your way home again. My name is Johnny, but everybody calls me Cap'n. Where is your home anyway?" he asked. "I don't really want to talk about it. It is some little awful nowhere place in Mississippi. I don't wish to ever go back there again."

As the conversation continued, she finally told him about her husband's murder, and the trial. And she told him she hadn't fallen off the cruise ship. She had jumped. "Sissy" he said. "You've got more life to live, that's clear to me. You should be dead now, but you're not. Does that tell you something?" She nodded soberly. "Yes, it tells me something, but I'm not sure what."

Two days later, they made port in Veracruz along the Bay of Compeche on the coast of Mexico. Cap'n Johnny had a small house there, and she lived with him. He was a good man. She took some satisfaction in learning that the man who killed her husband had been caught. She had been vindicated, at last. But, she would never go back now. She had two little ones pulling on her dress. And sometimes, when she cradles them in her arms, she does feel the importance of the life she has yet to live. Feels it even more than ever before, and cries tears of knowing happiness. As for the people back in her hometown, the gossip is now about how they knew she was innocent all along. In a year or two, a few might realize their complicity in driving Sissy away. Of almost driving her to insanity, of almost leading her to the edge of death. Most, won't. In any case, Sissy doesn't care. Paradoxically, their cruelty ultimately led her to real love.

My sis got her armadillo purse in the mail yesterday! She had been the successful bidder for it on Ebay. She wanted it to replace one that I had bought for her years ago.

For fifteen year old Jeremy Morehead, the last day of school was no cause for celebration. He walked the dirt lane home slowly, holding hands with Amber. "Do you really have to, Jeremy?" she said. He nodded, as he kicked at a rock in the dirt. "Ain't got no choice, really. My daddy's all stove up. He can't do it no more. We ain't got no money, Amber, unless I do it." It was a scary thought to think of going deep down into the mountainside. All his young life, he had watched men like his father, succumb to the back-breaking toll of mining coal. It was a history of cave-ins, and black lung. People who went down and never came up. People the earth swallowed. There were at least a dozen makeshift crosses erected around the mine shaft. Many were adorned with plastic flowers and hand-scrawled messages. "We will always love you, Jimmy." "May the Lord bless and keep you." "Called home to God." Jeremy's first time to go down into that dark world was rapidly approaching. He had already signed on, and would begin working in but a week. "But, I don't want you to, Jeremy." Amber said, her eyes welling with tears about to fall. "I lost my daddy, an' I lost my uncle to that mine. I can't lose you too. I just can't." And with that her whole chest began to heave and she clutched her face. "I just can't!" she sobbed, as Jeremy took her into his arms, and swallowed all his own fears. "I'll be ok, Amber" he said caressing her hair and trying to lift her face to look at him. "It's jus' for a little while. Jus' 'til I can find us some way out."

Amber stood on the front porch with her mother. She drew her shawl around her shoulders as she felt the chill of the fog that once seemed so romantic, and now seemed like a bad dream. She could hardly see the men who came by, two or three at a time, carrying their helmets, and their black metal lunch boxes. But she could hear Jeremy. He was whistling "Mocking Bird Hill". "Tra la la, tweedly dee dee, Jeremy! "I love you!" she blurted out.

The next several days, Amber did her chores as expected. She fed the chickens. She milked the cow. She drew water from the well. She went down to the river and usually was able to catch a few catfish. Her daddy had taught her how to fish. She was strong, for a girl so young. But then, it was a world where there were only two choices. You get strong or you wither away. Well, there is that third possibility, that is not a choice really. You just die under a large slab of fallen coal. For the coal company, it was just one less pension to dole out.

Sunday was the only day Jeremy had off. The only day where he could actually feel the sun on him. He strolled up the hilly pasture with Amber, and they laid down together in the tall grass. She doted and fussed about his every scratch and bruise. He pretended it was nothing. But his whole body was aching. They laid there looking up as clouds rolled through the blue sky. They held each other and dreamed of places they would like to go. Amber wanted to see Niagra Falls. Jeremy wanted to wade out into the ocean. They opened up a cigar box that they shared, and counted their money. They had forty two dollars. Some of it, money Jeremy managed to save, some of it Amber had made at her produce stand in the front yard. "How far you figure that could get us, Jeremy?" Amber asked. "I don't know, maybe to the Carolinas. Or, over to Kentucky." Amber stood and hiked her faded summer dress and straddled his belly. "Let's do it then, Jeremy." she said, tickling his ribs. Jeremy wrestled playfully with her, and easily pinned her down in the grass and kissed her. "Let's get a little more cash first." he said. "Next week, then? she said pulling at his belt buckle as he pushed her dress up. "Maybe." he said.

Jeremy and Amber stood in line at the bus station. Amber's mother had cried when she told her she was going away with Jeremy. Jeremy's mother did, as well. Jeremy's father just said, "Can't say as I blame you." They bought two tickets to Lexington, Kentucky. After that, they had 21 dollars. It's not that far a ride from Shrewsbury, West Virginia to Lexington, Kentucky, but it would take all night just the same. The bus stopped, it seemed, in every small town along the way. Amber huddled against Jeremy in the dark. "What's in Lexington, Jeremy?" Amber mumbled sleepily. Jeremy wrapped his arm around her. "Lotsa horses. Pretty rolling hills. Little stores where you can buy pretty clothes. I can probably get a job grooming horses." "I like horses" she said, yawning. "Me, too." he replied nuzzling his head against hers. "I can make pies." she said. "Maybe I could sell pies." "You can make damn good pies, baby!" he said, running his fingers through her hair. "They woke up as the bus pulled into Lexington. "I'm scared, Jeremy." she said, clutching his hand as they stepped out onto the street. "Don't be scared, baby." he said, even though he was scared himself.

Well, to make a long story short, they managed to get a room at a boarding house. It was tough, at first. They had to promise the first two weeks rent. Amber worked some of it off in the boarding house kitchen. And Jeremy swept the floors. But when you have been on the bottom, you know when you are on your way up. And Jeremy did get a job cleaning stables and grooming horses. He then went on to become a breeder of horses. He went on later to own three horses himself, and gives riding lessons now to children. As for Amber, there is a very sweet little place just off the town square, called "Amber's Pies And Stuff". One, called 'Grandma's Apple Pie' was very popular. So was 'Aunt Minnie's Pecan Molasses Cookies." They sent money home to Shrewsbury every week. And Jeremy came home each day, free of the black coal dust that once colored his body, and even if he did sometimes smell of manure, Amber didn't complain much. And Jeremy said nothing of the fact that Amber was getting more and more fleshy every day. After all, she was eating for two now.

A t-shirt for the Japanese film Hausu (House) directed by Kobayashi. The film, made in the 70's is currently or about to be distributed and 're-premiere' world-wide.

Well, by now you have gotten used to the fact that many of my little stories have involved somebody murdering somebody, or me, murdering somebody. So, I have written something 'mushy'. It is called "Against All Odds" and is posted on my Mything Links site. It is a 10 minute read , if you have the time and inclination. I am sure I will get back to murdering somebody else, in a short while, but here's a mushy one, in the meanwhile. Against All Odds.

The music was loud and raucous. She had to shout at him amidst the writhing bodies on the dance floor. "I CAN'T DANCE TO THIS!" she shouted. He shook his head, not hearing a word she said. "I CAN'T DANCE TO THIS!" she shouted louder. "OK!" he shouted back. "LET'S JUST MAKE FACES AT EACH OTHER!" he shouted. So they stood there, and she stuck out her tongue. He crossed his eyes. She pulled on her ears, and made them stick out, sucked her cheeks in, and made a fish lipped pucker with her lips. He stuck his finger in his ear and poked his tongue into his opposite cheek, making it look like he had stuck his finger completely through his head. She put her middle fingers into each side of her mouth, and stretched her lips out into a grotesque face. He stuck a finger up his nose. THAT'S SO GROSS!" she shouted above the music. They went to an all night greasy spoon and had breakfast at 2 AM. They sat in a booth, giggling, and feeding each other scrambled eggs and pancakes. They were the only ones in the joint. He plugged the jukebox. Nat King Cole. They got up and slow danced while the little old lady behind the counter, her grey hair tied into a bun, watched, getting teary eyed. "You kids are a match made in heaven." the old woman said, as they paid out. They both smiled and nodded at her, then turned and embraced right in front of her. A long embrace. A long kiss. "Oh, my!" the old woman said, remembering some time long ago. He reached out for her hand, and looked at the name tag on her blouse. "Come here, Dixie" he said. He plugged the jukebox again, Nat King Cole, again. The song was Mona Lisa. He danced her slowly around the aisle between the booths and the counter. He looked over at his girlfriend who was nodding, smiling, and swaying to the music. They finally went home, back to her place. Too tired to have sex. The old woman went home at the end of her shift, and went to bed. She fell asleep thinking of how nice it was to feel young again, if only for the length of a song.

I hope this is not depressing to anyone. Because, I don't mean it to be. It's just about a life lived. About the difference between being alive, and having a life. She will be 84 next week. We took care of her as long as we safely could. But, she is riddled with arthritis, has Parkinson's and Alzheimer's, and doesn't know at this point that she is in a nursing home. My sis and I take turns visiting her on alternating days. If we missed a day, she wouldn't know, since she has lost all sense of time. It is a thin line to walk every day. To try to keep your own life going forward, while watching someone else's go down. You have to be able to turn feeling off and on. It becomes it's own art.

Dr. Erik Von Schnell, renowned psychiatrist to the stars and celebrities from around the world, leaned forward on his desk and spoke into the intercom. "Nancy, send in my next client." Nancy looked over at the man sitting on the couch who had suddenly looked up at her. "Mr. Jacobson? Dr. Von Schnell will see you now." The man tossed his magazine aside, "Thank ya, darlin' thank ya ver' much." he said in a breathy voice and with a wink. "You can call me Elvis, darlin', ever' body else does." Nancy smiled. "OK, Elvis, the doctor will see you now." "Thank ya, Nancy darlin', thank ya ver' much."

Gerald Jacobson walked into his psychiatrist's office. Dr. Von Schnell smiled at him. "Well, Gerald, I see you have come in character today." "Aw, shucks, doc. I'm alwuhys in muh character, it's jus' sometimes, a man has to take cover, an' wear normal clothes, like ever'body else. I jus' felt like dressin' up today, an' bein' muhself, even if it does create some problems " Gerald took a seat in front of the doctor. "What kind of problems does it create for you, Gerald, when you dress like that?" the doctor asked, looking at his ridiculous attire. "Well, when I dress like this, the gals realize that I am Elvis, an' just won't leave me alone." "So, Gerald, let's go back to that night." the doctor said, leaning back in his chair. "That night you woke up believing you were Elvis." Gerald leaned forward in his chair. "See, here's the thing ya' gotta realize, doc. I didn't wake up jus'' believin' I was Elvis. Elvis came into my body. I could feel his very fingers clutchin' at my soul. He was grabbin' my soul by the collar. I was all shook up. It was that very night he died. Before that night I wasn't nothin' but a hound dog, jus' barkin' all the time. An' I wasn't even a very good one, at that. I aint' even never caught a rabbit, or nothin'. I just kinda admired him, you know. I wish I had though." "You wish you had ...what?" the doctor said. "I wish I coulda caught him a rabbit before he kicked off, you know. He really liked rabbits, you know."

Dr Von Schnell got up from his chair and paced slowly around the room, his hand caressing his chin, and then his forehead, as though lost in thought. "So, is it frustrating to think that you never caught a rabbit for Elvis?" "Well, it used to be." Gerald said, "But now I make sure to catch a rabbit ever' year, an' I drive over to Memphis, an' I put it on his grave on his birthday. He appreciates it too, since nex' day when I go there, the rabbit is gone." "OK, look, Gerald, what is the main thing that is really bothering you right now? Can you get in touch with those feelings?" Doctor Von Schnell said, sitting wearily down in his chair. "Well, it's mostly about my girlfriend, I guess." "What about her?" the doctor asked. "I don' know, it's kinda hard to describe. She jus' wants me to be her teddy bear, an' to love her all tender, an' that kinda thing." "And so, you find that difficult?" the doctor asked. "No, that's pretty easy," he said patting his bulging belly, "I'm gettin' to look like a teddy bear more and more. An' I do love her tender, cuz mos' the time I'm real tired. But, that's the problem doc." he said. "What's the problem Gerald?" the doctor said, leaning forward in his chair. "Well, on the outside I feel like a teddy bear, but on the inside, I feel like a blob of...no, blob's not the word...no, ummm... a chunk, that's it...a chunk of...no, chunk's not it..." "A hunk, maybe?" the doctor said. "Yes, that's it. I feel like a hunk...a hunk a' burning love." The doctor nodded, with a certain wise look on his face. "OK, Gerald, I'm going refill your Viagra scrip for you." "You're the greatest, doc! When I go back to Vegas, I'm gonna dedicate a song to you." "You've never been to Vegas, Gerald." the doctor said. "I'm afraid our time is up for today. In our next session, I would like to discuss with you this practice you say you have of throwing your sweaty neck scarves out to girls in the audience." "Sure thing, doc. An', can you refill them other pills too?" The doctor nodded, as Gerald walked toward the door.

"Nancy, can you come in here please, and take notation? " the doctor said into the intercom. "Yes sir, I'll be right there." Nancy took a seat and crossed her legs. She flipped open her notepad, and looked patiently up at Dr. Von Schnell. "Nancy, what is that around your neck?" "Oh, this scarf?" she said, caressing it with her fingers. "Elvis gave it to me." . He watched as Nancy picked up one end of the scarf and caressed her face with it. "He's just such a big teddy bear." she said dreamily. Dr. Von Schnell suddenly began banging his head down on his desk. Bang! Bang! Bang! "Doctor? What's wrong?" Nancy said in a startled voice. "Nothing, Nancy" Bang! Bang! Bang! "Nothing at all." Bang! Bang! Bang!.....................................

Farms, not Arms! "All farmers of the world share the unique privilege and the daunting responsibility of making sure everyone is fed and the land is protected to feed the future generations. War, and the enormous waste of resources spent in preparing for it, threaten our work. We come from different political, religious and social backgrounds but share a common concern that this great country of ours, founded by small farmers and craftsmen, return to the spirit and ideals on which we were founded. We strive for a world that reduces the risk of war by eliminating its causes poverty, injustice and religious intolerance. We call for all countries to stop misappropriating their resources on war and to focus rather on fighting hunger, disease and protecting our environment and our farmland."

The above quote is from farmsnotarms.org

The map the guy at the bar had drawn for him on a paper napkin, was labyrinthian. There were many turns and forks, and dirt roads that had no names. It would be a two hour drive taking him deeper and deeper into the wooded mountainous outbacks. Little notes and arrows drawn onto the map identified landmarks to keep an eye out for. A rusty old bridge. A stone chimney still standing among the charred remains of a house. An abandoned gas station. At one point driving across a shallow stream, he was supposed to turn up-stream and drive through the water for 3/4 of a mile. At that point, he would see the old woman's shack off a ways through the trees.

The old woman was not a fortune teller, per say, but was said to often have an uncanny sense of the near future. He had heard talk of her in the little town where he had taken a room above the pub, and was quite interested in meeting her. He was writing an expose of sorts., for a magazine. It was about fortune teller scams and psychic shysters. As he pushed through the dense undergrowth winding back through the trees, he could hear the clucking of chickens. He was supposed to ask her if she had any eggs. He saw her hobbling around in front of her shack tossing handfuls of grain out onto the dirt. The chickens milled everywhere around her feet pecking at the ground. She was making clucking noises herself. "Hello." he called. She looked his way and gave a small nod. It seemed the closer he came to her, the smaller and smaller she appeared to be. She squinted her eyes and shaded them with her hand as she tilted her head back to look up at him. Her skin seemed shrunken tight to the bones of her chin and jaws, and was dark and leathery, criss-crossed with wrinkles, and dotted with purple blemishes. Her eyes seemed sunken deep back into her eye sockets. "I was wondering if you have any eggs for me?" he said. She nodded and turned and hobbled back to her shack, stopping at her door to turn and look at him.. She gestured for him to follow her in. It was a dark and dimly lit room smelling of ashes from the crude rock fireplace.

She sat wearily down on her couch with a low aching groan, and motioned for him to take the chair. The low table between them was cluttered with oddities. He made quick mental notes as he looked at the array. The dried claw of a chicken, and some chicken feathers. A tooth. Little bottles of oil. One was called Omega Oil. Another was labeled Wizard Oil. There was a larger jar filled with a yellow powder; it had a hand-scrawled label that said 'sulfur'.


"Why do you come for these eggs?", she said in a high pitched raspy voice. "I would like to know something of my future." he replied. "And, what would you like to know?" she rasped. "Anything. Anything at all that you can tell me that might lie ahead." he said. She reached for a round tin pan on the table in front of her, and then picked out a brown speckled egg from the bowl next to it. He watched intently as she cracked the egg into the pan, and then swished it about in a circle the way a prospector might swish a pan of pebbles and creek water around, looking for gold. At last she sat the pan down on her lap, and stuck her finger into the broken egg mix. It dangled wet and slimy looking as she raised her finger to her nose and sniffed it. Then she rubbed her finger on her lips. She grimaced, as she smacked her lips several times. "It is bitter." she said. "The egg is bitter? What does that mean?" he asked. She shook her head. "No, it is not the egg. It is your future." "What? What will be bitter?" he asked nervously. She didn't answer. She dipped her finger down into the pan again, and repeated the ritual. "For me, as well." she said. "Bitter." "Why?" he asked. "Why is it bitter?" She picked another egg out of the bowl and cracked it into the pan, and stirred it with her finger slowly, and for what seemed a long time. Outside he could hear the chickens clucking, and scratching the dirt. There was the distant drone of a small plane in the air somewhere. She wiped her finger on her dress and just sat there staring down into the pan. "Do you see anything? What do you see?" he asked nervously. The sound of the plane was getting louder. A rooster standing in the doorway startled him with its sudden crowing., and it sent a shiver up his spine. She shook her bowed head and closed her eyes, and he was beginning to think she was falling asleep. "What do you see?" he repeated. The plane must be nearly overhead, quite loud and flying low. Then, quite abruptly, she lifted her head and stared at him with a wild look on her face. "Neither of us will leave this place alive." she hissed. He felt a chill come over him and stood to leave, just as there was a loud crushing, crashing sound, and the roof of the shack was blown apart by the nose of a single engine Cessna.

The local paper the next day showed photos of the scene. There were four people aboard the small plane that crashed into the forest south of town. They all died instantly. The plane had torn apart the humble home of an elderly woman widely known to be a seer. The woman too, was found dead. A sixth body, a male, has yet to be identified.

I looked at my watch, I would be on the air in two minutes. I was quite excited that the DJ at the radio station had called me and wanted to do a live interview. This will definitely help to advertise my business, even though I have more customers than I can handle lately. If it gets any better, I will have to hire on some part-time help. 3...2...1...and we are on the air.

DJ: Today we are delighted to have with us the distinguished Dr. Jackson Turner. Good morning, Dr. Turner.

Me: Good morning, Phil, happy to be here.

DJ: I guess one of the first questions our listeners might ask is how you came onto this fascinating enterprise?

Me: Well, it just came to me one day while I was taking a shower. I mean, how many times haven't we heard someone say that
they had a dream the previous night, but couldn't remember anything about it?

DJ: Happens to me all the time. So you figured out a way to find the dreams that people lost?

Me: For a fee, yes.

DJ: Actually, I had a dream last night that I can't recall. Do you think you could find it for me?

Me: Probably, yes. However you might not want me to tell you about it here, live...on the air. It might be quite embarrassing
for you.

DJ: We are going to take calls now. Dr. Turner has agreed to find a lost dream for our first three callers, free of charge. Go
ahead caller, you are on the air.

Caller: Hi, my name is -

DJ: It might be better not to tell us your name caller, for reasons Dr. Turner has already alluded to, it could save you from
potential embarrassment.

Caller: Oh! Ok, then. I had a dream about three nights ago that I can't remember anything about. Can you help me?

Me: In that you are not present with me in my office caller, I would like you to put your hand on the radio you are listening to,
And close your eyes. Are you doing that now?

Caller: What? I can't hear you, Doctor Turner.

Me: Is your hand covering the speaker, by any chance?

Caller: Oh, silly me! How about now? I can hear you, can you hear me?

Me: Yes, that's fine. And your dream is currently beginning to drift into my mind. Yes, it's coming. I see cream puffs.
Cream puffs, and chocolate eclairs.....

Caller: Oh My God! That's awesome. Is there more?

Me: Yes. You are in your house and walking all around. There are cream puffs and chocolate eclairs everywhere. On the
furniture, on the walls and ceiling, even on the floor. You are walking barefoot over them, excited by how squishy they
are between your toes. You fall down and are thrashing all about in cream puffs and eclairs. That's the point at which
you woke up.

Caller: Oh, that is so amazing. You are not going to believe this, but I am actually sitting here, eating a box of cream puffs
right now!

DJ: Well, there you go, caller, you have now found your lost dream, and are actually living it! Next caller?

Caller: I am whispering to disguise my voice, if that's alright?

DJ: That's fine, caller. Just whisper a little louder.

Caller: I have my hand on the radio. What did I dream last night?

Me: Ok, it's coming to me. Yes, it is dark......and you are.......you are.....Oh My God! Caller, I strongly recommend you seek
immediate professional help if you are having dreams like this.

Caller: It happens every night. I can't tell if they are dreams or they are real.

Me: Uhhhh....Did ypu have anything to do with the body that was found in the park this morning?

Caller: "Click!"

DJ: Uh. Oh. He hung up. We have time for one last caller. Hello caller, you are on the air.

Caller: I'm so excited. Ok, my hand is on the radio.

Me: This could be a bit embarrassing. Are you sure you want to know?

Caller: Yes, yes...please tell me! I am talking in a squeaky voice so people won't know who I am.

Me: OK, then. You are in your bedroom with the door closed. You go to the window and draw the blinds closed. Now you are
opening a drawer. You take out women's undergarments and put them on. And a wig. A blonde wig. Now you are in the
closet and putting on a dress. But, you don't like it because you think it makes your butt look fat. You find another dress
and put it on. You look in the mirror and smile. You like looking like a woman. It makes you happy. You start singing "I'm so pretty.....
I'm so pretty, and witty, and gay."

DJ: Ae you, in fact, gay, caller?

Caller: No, I just like wearing women's clothing.

DJ: Do you wear women's clothing a lot?

Caller: Yes, I dress like a woman every day. I don't see anything wrong with it. After all, I am a woman, you know.

DJ: Well, that's about all the time we have for today. I want to think Dr. Turner, Finder of Lost Dreams for being our special
guest today.

Me: Thank you, Phil. It was my pleasure. And Phil, about that dream you had last night?

Phil: Yes?

Me: Naughty! Very naughty!

At first I imagined her off in the distance. She looked very small. If I took my forefinger and thumb to my eye to gauge her size, I would say she was about an inch tall, appeared to be wearing jeans, and had blonde hair. So, I tried to imagine her closer. Now she was only about a block away. I could clearly see that she had sunglasses on. She had a red and white checked shirt on. And high heels. Now, she was but half a block away. I think she has freckles. I imagined her even closer. She wasn't even wearing a shirt at all! She had gotten her torso painted by some airbrush guy, I guess, since it still looked like a red and white checked shirt. It's either that, or a very custom fit, right down to the nipples. Uh oh, she's walking right toward me. Her shirt had been painted on to look like her shirt tails had been tied into a knot below her rib cage. And she had freckles on her belly too! I straightened up in the seat of my pick-up and pretended to be talking on my cell phone. Oh, my god! She is walking right toward me. I rolled up the window. I started gesturing with my hand and talking really loud. "Yes, yes! Move the diamonds now, they are closing in on us!" Oh, my God! She is right here at the side of my truck. She is bending down, and peering through the window at me. What to do? What to do?! I kinda waved at her, and continued with my phony phone rap. "Yes, move the gold, too! What's wrong with you, you idiot?!! Didn't I just tell you someone is hot on our tail?" My subterfuge wasn't working. She was rapping on my window, and gesturing for me to crank the window down. I gave her the 'wait just a sec' sign with my hand. "Look, asshole", I shouted into the phone, "Just do it!!" At last, I resigned to her banging on my window, and rolled it down. "I'm sorry officer", I said, "was I speeding?" She stuck her head in the window. What a face! Oh, my God, I didn't mean to imagine her so close that I could smell some kind of candy on her breath! I felt her fingers on the back of my neck. "Bobby, are you OK?" she said. I nodded. "You have been fantasizing again, haven't you?" I nodded again. "You bad boy!" she said, getting into the truck. We drove home. "Do you like my new jeans?" she said. "I had them painted onto my legs." I looked, and nodded, and hit a telephone pole. The last thing I remembered before passing out, was the sound of a hubcap spinning dizzily on the asphalt. The first thing I saw upon awakening, was her on top of me in my hospital room. "Easy, baby, go easy on me, my leg is in traction", I groaned. "Oh, Bobby, I love it, when you talk like you're injured. It brings out the nurse in me."

When Edward Nelson walked into the department store, he had no idea that he would leave completely transformed. He had an important job interview the next day, and was desperately in need of a new crisp looking suit. He found just what he was looking for, and went into the changing room to try it on. He stared in the mirror, and smiled. "Wow! I really clean up good!" he said, delighted with his new appearance. "It actually makes my hair look darker!" He turned this way and that, admiring himself. "I look taller, and even my nose looks straighter. It doesn't look broken anymore. Amazing!" He liked his new look so much, he decided to buy the suit, and wear it home. In paying out, he fumbled in his pockets for his wallet, not remembering it was in the clothes he had taken off, and that the clerk had just bagged for him. But, oddly enough, there was a wallet in the vest pocket of his new suit coat. He took it out and opened it. It was stuffed with cash, and an I.D. that had his picture on it, but the name was Chester Roberts. He pulled out some large bills, and laid them on the counter. Although he appeared calm, his mind was racing. "What the hell is going on here?" he thought, as he walked out of the store. He crossed the street over to the park and sat down on the bench. He took out the wallet for closer examination. It was definitely his picture, except the hair was darker, and the nose wasn't broken. He pulled out a couple of credit cards. And then, a business card. "Holy cow!", he said, "I deal in commercial real estate. So, actually, I don't need a job. I already have one." He returned to the photo I.D. He lived at 1320 Alexandria Lane. He drove slowly up to the house. "Wow! I live in a really nice house." he said, as he pulled up into the driveway. The front door opened and an attractive woman stepped out. "Chester?", she said, as he got out of the car, "where's the Mercedes?" "Oh, the Mercedes. I put it in the shop. This is just a loaner, honey." he said, glancing back at his Ford sedan. She wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him. "Wow!", he thought to himself, "my wife has really nice lips." She took his hand, and he followed her into the house. "Chester, you are so funny sometimes. You never call me honey. You always call me sugar bumps." "I know. sugar bumps." he said. "I was just checking to see if you were paying attention."

That night, after sex with sugar bumps, he was lying there, thinking about the day's events. He didn't know exactly how this occurred. but, so far, he liked it. Sometime in the middle of the night, he woke up to sugar bumps nudging him in the ribs. "Chester, wake up. I heard a noise. Go check on the children." "OK, sugar bumps," he said, staggering out of bed. Suddenly, his mouth dropped open in surprise. " Oh my god! I have children!" He peeked into their rooms. A girl and a boy. They seemed sound asleep, but he walked over to their beds to look at them. They looked so cute, and a little bit like him. "But, I am not ready for children", he thought to himself as he returned to bed. "They are ok, sugar bumps." he said. The next morning, he decided to called in sick at the real estate office. " I must have a good position there", he thought to himself, since, they were so sorry, and offered to bring him some chicken soup, and so on. He finished his coffee, and kissed sugar bumps goodbye. He drove back to the department store thinking that perhaps, he should return the suit. Sugar bumps was nice, but...children? "I'm not ready to settle down" he said to himself.

He told the clerk that the suit wasn't really working for him. He went into the changing room and put his old clothes back on, then checked his wallet. Sure enough, he was back to being Edward Nelson. He smiled at himself in the mirror and examined his broken nose, He strolled over to the sporting goods section and picked out some jeans, and a flannel shirt. A down vest. A fly fishing rod, a rifle with a scope, and a backpack. He asked a clerk if he could try these on, and walked back to the same changing room. He put on the clothes, and looked at himself. His nose was still broken, but he now had a nice moustache. He rummaged through the backpack, and found a plane ticket to Alaska and reservations at a lodge. It seems his name was now James Thornton. He bought the outfit and the gear and drove over to a cafe for lunch. "Hi, Jimmy, I've been missing you, sweetie", the girl behind the counter said, with a seductive smile. He returned her smile as he took a seat and glanced at the name tag on her blouse. Linda. Evidently, he was Linda's boyfriend now.. "I've been missing you too, honeybunch", he said to her. Honeybunch?" she laughed. She leaned forward and kissed him. "I love you, Jimmy boy", she said. "I love you too, ummm, sweetie pie. Listen", he said looking up at her, "Do you want to go to Alaska with me?" She blinked a couple of times. "I'd go anywhere with you, Jimmy." she said. "OK, look, take off that apron, and come with me."
"Jimmy, you are so crazy!", she said, as he led her back to the department store. "I know", he replied, "Pick out some clothes, and go into that room over there, and try them on." Chloe, as she then became, and he adventured Alaska for about a year and a half. They talked about getting married, but never quite got around to it. One bitter winter night, they decided they had had enough of Alaska, and even each other. They decided to call it quits. They traveled back to where it had all begun. "So, what are you going to do now? Go back to the cafe?" "I don't know" she said, What about you?" "I think I am going back to the department store." "Me, too." she said, with a mischievous smile. They went back to the department store and the changing room. He bought a ridiculous red speedo, and she bought a very skimpy yellow bikini. They currently live in the south of France. His name now, is Alex Anderson. His girlfriend, who was Linda and then Chloe, is now Kimberly. They just bought tickets back to the states, however. They kinda had the same idea at the same time, that they would like to be somebody else, go to some other place. Try on some scuba gear, and maybe see the barrier reefs off Australia. So who knows how this story ends? I will say, that if you live in Sydney, and recently observed new neighbors on the block, and their names are Ajax and Anita Erikkson,, they're only passing through.