Quip's Corner - I Remember This Man

I remember this man, of carpenter trade, this man of whom you speak
With love of God in act and word, is this the man you seek?

I saw this man reach out a hand and caused the mute to talk
With mud to eyes, the blind found sight, and blessed, he, the lame to walk

I heard this man speak of a loving father, to whom he would obey
Devotion to the meek and widowed, for the children, he wept and prayed

I touched this man, his hem I grazed; but knew, he, and looked to see
My sins, forgiven, in faith unblemished, his command, rise and follow me

I felt this man, his words of teaching, pierced deep, my soul did burn
Hungered for, and with deep desire, to change, my heart did yearn

I cried for this man, his body scourged, denied, he was left alone
With perfect love, his calling complete, our father brought him home

I know this man, my savior and redeemer, whose life, to me, he gave
An example to all, the keys to heaven, through choice, my soul was saved

I remember this man, of carpenter trade, this man of whom you speak
With love of God in act and word, is this the man you seek?

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Quip's Corner - Hello, My Love!

Hello, my love, good morning
I’ve been watching you for a while
I waited till you opened your eyes,
‘Cause I needed to see your smile

I studied the contour of your lips
And watched you slowly breathe
I still don’t believe that a beauty like this
Could have chosen to be with me

I can see your warmth in evening’s sunset
And hear your whisper in the breeze.
I even love the funny face you make
When you are trying not to sneeze

I watch you kneel beside our children,
Softly teaching each one to pray
Helping them learn of their Heavenly Father
And how to converse both night and day

I hear your whispered words of comfort
See your desire to do your part
To soothe the pain of a hurting child
And to touch the lonely widow’s heart

Hello, my love, good morning
What can I do for you this week
Can I say something to make you happy,
Wash the dishes or clean the sink

Make a breakfast of all your favorites
Get the kids all off to school
Try to make you grin or laugh out loud
By acting like a fool

We may not have the newest things
That I’d like for you, my wife
But things don’t make a sleeping child smile
And are not what gauges life

What can I do to show my love,
Give back, for your life with me
I never knew, when you agreed,
What a blessed life that this would be

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Looking for volunteers

I have completed yet another rough draft of the Christmas story, "The First Tree of Christmas."  It is currently 73 double spaced pages long.  I didn't make any significant content changes.  I just helped the flow a little.

I am needing extra sets of eyes who would be willing to quickly read through it and give feed back as to things like, voicing, flow, content, spelling, other....

I would like to polish it up and begin submitting it to see if there is any interest out there in publishing it.

Just leave a comment on this post, if you are willing to proof it, and I will forward you a copy of the story.

Thanks!!
Aaron

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Funny Email - Truisms

Even when opportunity knocks, you still have to get up off your seat and open the door.

1. I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.
2. Nothing's worse than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.
3. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.
4. There is great need for a sarcasm font.
5. How are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?
6. Was learning cursive really necessary?
7. Map Quest really needs to start their directions on #5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.
8. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.
9. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.
10. Bad decisions make good stories.
11. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.
12. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.
13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page research paper that I swear I did not make any changes to.
14. "Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this - ever.
15. I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What did you do after I didn't answer?  Drop the phone and run away?
16. I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.
17. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.
18. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.
19. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lite than Kay.
20. I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option
21. Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the heck was going on when I first saw it.
22. I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.
23. The only time I look forward to a red light is when I'm trying to finish a text.
24. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.
25. How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear or understand a word they said?
26. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!
27. Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.
28. Is it just me or do high school kids get dumber & dumber every year?
29. There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.
30. As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists.
31. Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.
32. Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet my all everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time!

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Beginnings - Final Call

The curtains closed with a flurry of dark rich burgundy fabric and golden tassels, to a smattering of applause. The acting company had made a valiant run. Keeping the company together required money and E. Humphrey Baines had refused to supply any more. He had said as much in a heated closed-door meeting with the company director and manager, Herbert Stanton.

The door had flown open and shouting between the two men spilled out, unceremoniously, into the hallway leading from Stanton’s office, down a flight of stairs, through to the actor’s dressing rooms and finally to the stage.

From that moment forward, Mr. Baines, a man who stood 5’ 7” in his stocking feet and flattened the scale at 345 lbs, refused to put pen to paper on another check in support of the acting company. During the weekly meetings with the actors, Stanton never mentioned Baines nor did he ever reference the argument with the company beneficiary that was to change the lives and livelihoods of the actors who counted on the company to live.

He never mentioned to the actors that the theater had been losing money for more than a year and not simply from lack of box revenues. Someone had been skimming from the deposits and draining the company of financial resources until it had been driven to its knees.

Baines had accused Stanton of stealing and Stanton turned it right back on Baines declaring, “You have had as much access to the money as I have! You know the combination to the safe; you even have a key to my office! Who’s to say that you haven’t stolen the money yourself.... Tax evasion maybe?”

Baines’ cheeks flushed a bright crimson. He stammered and sputtered with anger and amazement. “You are accusing me of stealing from myself? You came to me on your knees, begging me to fund this dream of yours. I paid to restore your worn out old theater! I paid for everything! I made your dream a reality….and for what? A few years of mild success and then…last year you begin your quarterly attempts to squeeze more money from me. What am I to believe? Mark my words, Herbert, you will not see one more cent from me or your precious city endowment of which I…I pressed to get you. Not a penny!”

Baines had wrenched open Stanton’s office door while yelling and abruptly, as if to punctuate the resolve in his final statement, slammed it shut, leaving Stanton to boil in his own juices. Baines stormed through the narrow hallway to the front foyer and out the set of double glass doors which was plastered in play bills.

Plays had continued for another six months. The actors watched as Stanton became more sullen and detached with each passing week. The director began retreating to his office during much of the rehearsals. His features became strained and pale. His tall, gaunt, 6’3” frame began to sag as he walked, as if from unseen pressures pressing on his shoulders. What little hair that sat atop of his head became even more sparse and unkept. He spoke with few people.

One by one, most of the promising actors jumped ship, looking for more stable work. The rest would talk and wonder aloud, uncertain of their futures. The end finally came. No fanfare or party, just a brief announcement from Stanton before last curtain call.

“Thank you all for your time and talents. Without you, we wouldn’t have lasted this long as a company. I have tried, as you may or may not be aware, to get new sponsorship for our theater since March when Mr. E. Humphrey Baines saw fit to abandon us. Unfortunately, he has incredible clout in the local arts community. Because of this, I have been unable to secure any new money. What I am trying to say is….this is going to be our last performance. I cannot see any way to keep it going. Please take your things when you leave tonight…… and thank you for everything. Your final check will be mailed to you within the week.”

With that, Stanton walked from the stage, past the bewildered silence, toward his office, alone, while the actors slowly scattered to complete their various pre-show responsibilities.

The theater was silent and dark. George Shafer, a tall, narrow hipped young man, mid twenties with short cropped brown hair, entered the side employee entrance. He wore a threadbare tan button down shirt, untucked and wrinkled, kaki cargo pants and slip-on leather loafers. George had had few prospects as an actor. Working at the theater represented his first real break into the professional acting world. Tonight, he felt melancholy and uncertain about where to go from here.

The announcement, made earlier that evening, hadn’t come as a total shock to anyone. There had been rumors flying around the company for weeks about the prospects of an impending closure. But George, with no other real future, wasn’t prepared for the reality of not having the theater and was shaken. This was probably why he had forgotten to return the keys.

Herbert Stanton had approached him, soon after he was hired, and asked him to do odd jobs on the days that the theater was dark, as well as the sweeping and cleaning of the theater after each performance. George needed the extra money and enjoyed being in the theater so he readily agreed. Stanton, soon after, gave him copies of keys to the side employee entrance and the rear janitorial closets. George had worked for just over a year before the theater company had collapsed.

Arriving home that evening, George emptied his pockets on top of the refrigerator and noticed the two gold keys attached to his key ring. He had forgotten to return them to Mr. Stanton that evening, before he had left. It had been the emotion of losing his job. He had begun chatting with some of the other actors about their prospects and where they would go. It hadn’t yet dawned on him there would be no more odd jobs to do.

George pushed open the heavy metal theater door while pulling the key from the lock. The door squeaked softly as it gave way. It was black, solely without illumination, in the hallway but for the thin stream thrown from the vapor lights of a street lamp, elongating George’s shadow before him. George stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him, slipping the keys into his pants pocket.

As the door closed, he found himself in complete darkness. The closest working light switch was thirty feet down the hall and around a corner. He started to inch his way forward, stretching one arm out in front and the other to the side. George let his fingers drag along the rough painted cinderblock texture of the wall to the corner. From experience, he knew that, from this point, the light switch was approximately four to six feet along the wall to his left.

He walked forward again, feeling for the switch with both hands. As he walked, his toe caught something solid, a mound on the floor, stretched across the hall. George tried to catch his balance, grabbing at the walls, as he fell forward over the invisible obstruction. He scrambled to his feet, frightened, holding his breath; he pressed his body against the wall. George could feel the light switch poking into the small of his back. He slipped his hand back and flipped on the track lights, illuminating the hallway.

Looking down at the floor, he stumbled back in horror. Stretched out along the hall in a stiff, unnatural position, lay E. Humphrey Baines. He was dressed in a frumpy black tuxedo, polished black wing tips, white shirt and black bow tie. Alive, he would have resembled a rather plump penguin. But E. Humphrey Baines was definitely dead. In the center of his rather wrinkled white dress shirt were two small matching black holes surrounded by a soaked circle of blood, like a bull’s eye.

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Beginnings - Awake, Sweet Baby

“You awake, Johnny?” Darci Sharp whispered into the darkness. “Johnny, I think I heard noises downstairs. Go check honey. Hey….. Johnny, please wake up!”


She wiggled an arm from under the cocoon of covers and felt around behind her, across the expanse of the king sized bed, for her husband. She felt rumpled sheets and a discarded pillow but no husband. She sat up with a start. Darci was suddenly fully awake.

“Johnny, where are you? She turned, threw the covers off and thrust both hands into the darkness, running them palms down in exaggerated circles across the far side of the bed, as if she were trying to smooth out a stubborn wrinkle in the sheets. Nothing!

“Johnny….. Johnny….”

Her whisper now was strained, cracked and beginning to rise. Fear increasing in the new mother as her imagination began conjuring up horrific images like staggered home movies through her mind. The noises… no husband… the baby! The thought struck her like a bolt of lightning, terror seized at her chest. She could not breath, her voice was gone.

She scrambled out of bed, groping for her robe which lay draped across the chair. Stepping on the hem of the robe as she swung it over her shoulders, she stumbled and fell. Her hands, caught in the folds of the robe, robbed her of any buffer from the fall. Her forehead squarely caught a smooth section of end post with a sharp smack. She crumbled and slid to the floor in a gasp of pain and a dull thud.

Struggling to her feet, she staggered, pushing through the open doorway. The blow to the forehead had dazed her. She fought to comprehend. She shook her head and a wave of nausea swept through her with force. She stopped in the hall and placed a hand against one wall to steady herself. Her head was throbbing and she could feel the sticky wetness of blood running down the side of her face.

Her hand was near the light switch so she instinctively flipped it on. As if electrocuted by bare wires, she retracted from the sudden brightness and the acute pain shooting through her brain to the base of her skull. The severe contrast caused her to make a pained squint. She continued down the hall in a drunken stagger. Suddenly her eyes focused and she gasped as air was forced from her lungs. The panic rose like a fever, shaking her faculties as she felt the loss of control creep in around her eyes.

The door to the baby’s nursery had been flung open. Two bright crimson trailing streaks of blood were smeared, at shoulder height, across the opposite door jam. Dark maroon drops trailed along the plush creamed carpet from the open doorway of the baby’s room, down the hall away from her.

She felt her legs go weak as if her strength had suddenly slipped out through her bare feet into the floor. She reached for the doorway and fell through as if it were a black hole swallowing up the light. She rushed for the crib, seized the rails with pale white knuckles. Peering in, the life blood sank from her face as her worse fears and nightmares were suddenly realized. Her baby was gone!

She turned, the walls spinning, nausea again rising in her throat. She held a trembling hand up to cover her mouth and staggered from the room. Frantic now, shaking uncontrollably, she tried to make sense of what was happening, what she should do. Where was her baby? Her body shuttered as she started to sob, her shoulders shaking uncontrolled. She gained a momentary flicker of resolve and turned again for her bedroom.

She rushed to Johnny’s bedside table. Where is Johnny? It was in her head. The question seemed to appear for a moment. There was something. She could not grasp the significance. She reached to make sense of it, to remember. The question was illusive and sunk beneath the waves of paranoia before she could retrieve it for examination.

The bottom drawer was flung open, pulled out of its tracks, contents scattering across the floor. The gun was there, black and cold, like death itself. Johnny had wanted her to learn to use it. He had asked her, pleaded with her to learn to shoot. It was for their protection, he chided. Well, what had it done to protect her baby….her baby? She snatched it from the floor, grasping it with both hands, as one would hold a steaming casserole dish, taken from the oven, up and away from her body.

Back in the hall, she descended the stairs towards the kitchen. Her nerves were at a fevered pitch, taunt and brittle. She was sobbing again, the tears blurring her vision. Where was the animal that had her baby? Was he still in the house? She would stop him. Where was Johnny? He should be here protecting the family. Where would he have gone? The thoughts were cluttered as if the drawers of her mind had been overturned, leaving the contents in a pile.

A thump! She swung her arms around wildly, pointing the gun out in front of her, like a stick, to block the evil from reaching her. Nothing but dark shadows were furniture once resided. The living room was empty. Her breathing was becoming shorter, more stunted, gasps, hyperventilating. The fear was creeping over her, numbing her limbs. The gun felt heavy in her hands. The evil could still be here. Who was she kidding? She could not do this. Where was Johnny? Where was her baby? Where was she?

She paused at the door to the kitchen, her emotions boiling over on themselves. She could no longer breathe. She leaned against the door, left slightly ajar, sobbing and fell through into the kitchen. As she staggered to catch her momentum, the world slowed. From the corner of her eye, she saw her baby lying on the kitchen table, a small blood soaked stain in the blanket wrapping her body. She was still falling, slowly, outside of herself. Over the baby’s body, leered the hulking evil, blood stains down his chest, a hand up, covering his mouth and nose.

A shriek of terror and rage escaped her lips as her hip slammed against the trash can, sending it sprawling. She was on her knees, looking down, fumbling with the gun that Johnny had kept for just these situations. The world was spinning slowly, the nausea was returning. With satisfaction, she grasped the rough handle and palmed the gun between her two fists. Her eyes rose from the floor in chorus with the muzzle. She started pulling the trigger, violently, even before her eyes were on the evil before her.

The gun bucked in her untrained hands, flame spouting forward, flinging bullets, shattering glass and splintering the faces of cabinets. Her eyes continued to climb above the noise in her outstretched hands. The evil creature had turned, arms raised in surprise. Her mind registered a shrill sound coming from the monster just before his body was turned and folded by the impact of the onslaught of bullets. As the evil was falling away towards the fridge and sink, hands flung to the sky, his shrill tone in her head transformed into intelligible words, words that she understood……”No…..Darci…..No!”

Silence hung heavily in her ears, like smoke swirling around her. It was sliced only by the sharp, shrill cries from the baby. Darci was transfixed upon the scene of chaos before her. She could not fully understand or make sense of things, like a puzzle with only some of the pieces. The walls were spinning and her head throbbed.

On the floor, like a rag thrown against the fridge, Johnny lay crumpled and dead, a blood pool forming an outline around his inert body. The blood across his chest was older, from a bloody nose while checking on a fussing baby. Clutched in one limp hand was a blood soaked paper towel.

Awake sweet baby!

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Quip's Corner - Obsessions

Like brackish pond scum, green and slimy
and cold mountain trees, prickly and piney

It gets your attention, consumes your mind
like a rattlesnake that attacks from behind

Tying your hands, it chokes and it binds
‘til the air is gone and your eyes have gone blind

The only escape left is to run and to hide
but when you look up, they will not have died

Directing your thoughts, controlling your actions
oppressing your will til’ it gets satisfaction

Obsessions can drive one to success, this is true
But when left unchecked, they’ll be the death of you.

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Beginnings - Seven Steps To Heaven

Jack slumped against the rough edge of the cold gray rock outcroppings that the locals had coined “Lover’s Leap” and let the cool evening sea breezes, coming off the bay, blow against his cheeks and through his hair. Far below him, in the growing darkness, the ocean rumbled and crashed, like the cymbals and base drum of a distant brass band. Lowering his eyes over the muddy edge, towards the water, he could still faintly see the waves punishing the jagged shoreline and the shimmer of the silvery mist coming off the spray.


Jack’s life wreaked of broken promises and unfulfilled dreams. School had become a career unto itself, stretching across the good part of a decade. The people, walking the halls of that hellish community college, grew younger and more naïve by the day. He had chosen a dozen majors over the years, accumulating sixty three unusable credits.

He had finally committed to Business Management about a year ago, frankly, because it would accept more of his acquired credits than anything else and, more truthfully, because the major seemed to have a handful of younger single women as evening teachers. There wasn’t much in the way of originality between them, they all seemed to shop at the same clothing stores for their teaching attire, but with form fitting business blouses and short skirts that tended to climb their thighs as they taught, there was more than sufficient motivation to continue the trek to class, evening after evening.

His day job mirrored his schooling. He had rubber balled it from one career path to the next, with short stints driving a delivery truck, trying his hand at fast food, grocery stores, office warehouses and even three months as a bank teller. Nothing completely paid the bills or gave him the fulfillment for which he imagined that he wanted.

At the moment, Jack was working at a hole-in-the-wall bike shop in an aged industrial part of town where he spent the majority of his time behind the shop, sitting on his butt, surrounded by old bikes in need of repair. The old guy had owned it for more than thirty years. During which time, the owner had developed a propensity for purchasing old broken bikes from the young kids in the surrounding neighborhoods for whom he felt sorry. This had led to a lot of tedious work for Jack and very little income for the shop. No one wanted to buy a fixed up old bike anymore.

Jack didn’t much care for how the shop profited. In fact, as long as the old guy kept paying him and the checks didn’t bounce, he cared for very little at all anymore. What was there really to care about anyway.

His family was a strange lot. He had two married sisters who alternately ignored or shunned him for presumably very righteous reasons. Two more self persecuted people, he had never met. His mother was an absolute trip. An overly emotional person by nature, she had nurtured the trait to the point of out and out paranoia. She overreacted to things in the spirit of a preadolescent, causing both of Jack’s brother-in-laws to walk on eggshells around her. His father was a serious, self righteous man whose opinion was the only opinion and subsequently unquestionable law. He had ruled the house with a downcast eye upon the subjects of his tiny kingdom, making comments and judgments as he saw fit, which was, curiously enough, the only trait shared by both parents.

It was dark now. Towering pines obscured any light that might have been visible from town. Lover’s Leap sat off the road about a hundred and fifty yards, down an obscure overgrown path through a thick mass of trees and brush. It had been the retreat of choice fifteen years ago in the hay day of high school but the occasional accident along its picturesque outlook, intentional or otherwise, had damped its appeal. The actual outcropping of rock, deemed “the leap,” rose slightly to a point and overlooked a rather treacherous section of coastline.

Jack had abandoned his lime green and rust colored VW bug near the edge of the highway and had pushed along the path, wandering out around the leap, along a narrow ledge, to the face of the cliff. Here, the wind had carved out a few feet of room where Jack would often retreat, to think and watch the sunsets.

It was getting colder and the wind was picking up, plucking at his thin jacket. Jack slid his legs up from over the edge and worked himself back until he stood up, using the undercut rock wall for leverage. The wind howled at him and helped him along the ledge as he inched his way back toward solid ground. The ground had disappeared in the darkness and he needed to feel with his toes for each subsequent step while clutching at the weeds and earth along the rocky face.

Jack looked up at the moon, fat and yellow, playing hide and seek behind black faceless clouds. Dread swept through him momentarily. He shook it off….. crazy…. then he fell.

The earth crumbled beneath his tennis shoes and he threw himself towards the cliff, grasping for anything that would save him. All he came away with were handfuls of muddy, soft dirt, clutched in between whitened knuckles. He teetered momentarily and eternally, then, as if in slow motion, he slipped into space. He tried to scream, to call out to someone, anyone, but nothing escaped his lips.

The wind rushed past, pulling at his clothes and hair. His mind slowed, as if detaching itself from the situation. His legs began to run, twitching in the air, accomplishing nothing. His mind focused on the revolutions, ignoring the increasing sounds of pounding surf. One, two three, he ran, grabbing at the night. He could feel the wetness of the mist against his cheeks. Five, six, seven….the impact was short and immediate. He heard but didn’t feel the bones crumble and splinter. His body folded and his forehead impacted the side of a wet and slim covered rock. There was a burst of color, light, a searing pain and then nothing, simply nothing. Jack’s limp and crumpled body slipped beneath the waves and slowly began to drift.

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Beginnings - Night Pools

The evenings have been cool and clear. The mountain air is chilled as it blows down the canyons and spreads across the surface of the lake. The lake is calm but for tiny rippled waves which blur the reflection of a three quarter moon in its glassy surface. The mountain’s nocturnal predators are about. The soft rustle of leaves and the occasional cry reveal their presence and their prowling of the surrounding dense forests of pine and juniper.

Roger Hamilton Holt sat in the darkness of the rough hewn log balcony and watched the bats and the occasional night hawk flutter and swoop from the sky against the backdrop of bright celestial stars to skim silently over the water. This was his lake. He owned it and ten miles stretching out from its shores in every direction. Roger smiled and brought a drink to his lips. The view at night of his kingdom always calmed his nerves. Of course, the alcohol was a significant aid.

Roger set the drink aside and looked at his watch. With a touch, it illuminated green. 11:51 PM, time to make the call. He rose from his reclined position, gathered the robe around him and looped the drawstrings in a loose knot around a firm and deftly toned stomach. He pulled open the glass doors between the balcony and the bedroom suite and stepped through.
“Angela…..Lights!” He commanded firmly. Bright recessed lighting clicked on with an unintelligible hum. He squinted in the stark contrast.

“Soft” He commanded again. The lights dimmed obediently. He stalked into the closet, loosened the robe and let it fall to the floor.

He wore nothing beneath the robe. Standing in front of a wall length mirror, he admired the smooth curves and subtle symmetry of the tight muscles around his shoulders, thighs and chest, the taunt quiver of his lower legs and butt. His stomach rippled to narrow but solid hips. His head was completed shaved and glistened in the soft back light.

He pulled long black silk boxers from a drawer and stepped into them. Returning to the main bed chamber, he spoke again.

“Angela…Videophone!”

A small section of the wall was displaced by an ebony colored video screen. A sultry female voice whispered.

“Who would you like to call?”

“Gibson...at the club!” He barked.

“Thank you, one moment.” Seconds later, the screen came alive.

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Beginnings - The Dead Never Squeal

“Are you sure she knows what she’s talking about? I mean, it just seems so cut and dry, you know…so pat. Is she even sure that there are only two of um?” Robert Flannigan twitched nervously on the hard backed wooden stool.

“Look!” Robert leaned inward, placing a forearm on the table and talking with the other.
“I ain’t saying anything about you, Boss! I was just wondering… you know…..wondering.”

“Rest assured, my friend,” Luther Stoffer began, “I have the utmost confidence in Julia’s judgment. She has always been a very alert little girl.”

Luther shifted his position in the tobacco brown leather reclining chair and then sat forward, his face becoming illuminated in the light of the single bulb hanging loosely over the small round table. Looking directly at Robert, Luther spoke quietly,

“And Robert, you must know that I wouldn’t act strictly on one source of information. Her stuff checks out.”

“Ok, you know that wasn’t questioning you, Boss. I wouldn’t be doin that.”

“Yes, Robert, you always look out for me.” Robert nodded anxiously, his head bobbing as if to reassure Luther, that this was correct.

Luther continued, “Now go get things in order. It has to be done tomorrow night!”

Robert stood and nodded again, “Of course, Boss, I’ll make all of the arrangements. With that, Robert backed into the shadows, turned, slunk to the door and was gone.

The room was small, dark and smelled of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. The table sat in the center, a total of three, square, hard backed wooden stools placed loosely around it. Luther’s leather recliner was shoved back into a far corner, obscured in shadow, away from the pool of light over the table. The rest of the room was empty.

On the table, maps and building plans were spread open. A red pencil lay nearby. A ripped piece of notebook paper with handwritten directives was cast carelessly across the pile.

After Robert was gone, Luther Stoffer sat back, put the palms of his hands together, and touched his bottom lip with his index fingers. He could taste victory, the destruction. Let them suffer for what they have done to me, he thought, smiling.

Luther Stoffer felt that he had been born on the streets. His parents were factory workers. His mother sewed the clothes for a dress manufacture and his father butchered pigs. Luther’s mother had gone into labor with him in front of the large sewing machines and was carried to an apartment of a mid-wife, down the street, known to one of the workers.

She gave birth to Luther David Stoffer at 9:12 PM, October 12th, 1939. Three hours later, she was gone. She died, from what had been described to Luther, years later, after an exhaustive inquiry, as excessive bleeding and complications. Luther hadn’t accepted the explanation then and it still festered within him.

His father had arrived after the boy was born but in time to watch his wife pass. In shock, He sat on the bed next his wife’s inert body, held his newborn son and wept.

Luther’s father never recovered from the loss of his wife, his spirit was broken without her. He tried gamely to work and provide for his new son, having wives of coworkers take turns watching Luther. But by the time the boy was four years old, Luther’s father had begun drinking heavily. Luther was dragged from bar to bar, spending his earliest years watching his father vomit in alleyways and beg for money from friends and strangers. Luther was often fed by friendly barmaids and waitresses with sad eyes and sympathetic smiles.

Luther’s father died while stumbling from a bar. His broken heart gave out on the stone steps while Luther knelt beside him, holding and stroking is father’s hand, tears running down Luther’s face.

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Beginnings - Elephant Hills

**** Disclaimer - There is one swear word in the following text. ****

The brakes hissed on the large Mack diesel. Slowly, the dust settled around the tires. The truck had come to rest in the far corner of a field of dirt and gravel, used as an extended parking area adjacent to a nondescript truck stop and gas station. The driving lights went dark and a tired looking dirty man stumbled down from the cab. Hitting the ground, he swung around, in practiced motion, slapped the driver’s side door of the monstrosity closed, with a thud, and hitched up the straps of his stained overalls, which hung like an empty gunny sack over his narrow and gaunt frame.


Jack Shannon had been on the road for most of his adult life. As he hobbled gradually towards yet another in a long history of grease pit restaurants and convenience stores, he slid the beaten KC Royals baseball cap from his head and ran his fingers through the few remaining sweaty strands of graying hair. He was mentally exhausted and sore from the millions of miles behind him.

Fourteen times, Harrisburg Trucking Lines Driver of the Year, Jack had crisscrossed the country more times then he would want to count. Always getting the shipment delivered, his “on time” rating was impeccable. He had always prided himself on consistency and exactness. If it was needed in Minnesota by Friday at two, he was in Minnesota on Friday morning, no questions.

The long hours staring out at the road from behind the wheel, division strips beating at the headlights in hypnotic repetition. His life blurred from truck stop to truck stop, papers to sign, pick ups and deliveries. Thousands of faces with names he could not recall at shipping docks of only vague familiarity. Jack was about done and he knew it.

He had no family to speak of except an old bitter ex-wife, whom he hated, living in a world of cheap plastic pink flamingos in Palm Beach Florida and one adult daughter, a nurse in a clinic in Richmond Virginia, who refused to take his occasional phone calls.

Holidays were usually spent on the road or dawdling in dark corner booths playing with toothpicks at greasy spoons being served by numberless bored, faceless waitresses.

Jack looked back at his rig, sadly, the best friend that he’d known. In the sickly yellow light from the random electrical pole, his maroon colored truck appeared black and featureless, like a huge shadow. He pushed through the smudged double glass doors, into the bright florescent lights of the cramped convenience store. It consisted of three narrow rows of assorted products, from cold cereal to engine oil, in small overpriced travel sizes.

A dumpy middle aged woman with thinning, shoulder length, red grey hair, pulled back with fuzzy green hair clips, slouched over a chipped orange formica counter top next to a single point-of-sale machine. She held a smoldering Salem cigarette casually between two fingers as if it was always there, and thumbed through a three month old copy of Glamour.

Her face looked older than her age, as if it were holding too many bitter memories. It was wrinkled and aged, like a dried peach pit spit out along the highway. She wore a pair of lady’s wrangler jeans, which appeared to be a size too small, and a dark pink tee shirt with a picture of a bull dog sitting in the back of a convertible Cadillac. The shirt was tucked tightly into the jeans and read in faded black letters, “One Tough Bitch.”

She nodded in acknowledgement at Jack as he entered the store before returning to her magazine.

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Beginnings - Highway 49

It was a lonely silent stretch of road, miles from human existence. Six lanes of sun baked asphalt, divided in the middle by a shallow depression of dirt and weeds. The road was crowded on the east by sharp red rock cliffs and protrusions guarded by lazy diamond back rattlers sunning themselves on the numerous outcroppings.

The west side of Highway 49 stretched out onto a wasteland of pale cream colored sand in hills that rolled like an ocean of death. The sparse vegetation along the barren wind-scorned landscape remained brown and withered, hugging the ground for protection from the heat of the searing gusts.

It was here that time seemed to be ignored, change to the landscape only occurring through the erosion of the wind and the sun’s extreme temperatures. It was the devil’s playground, hot and cold, death was life and life was death. Only the strong and cunning creatures survived. I was neither of those.

I awoke slowly, stiffly, vague to a foggy world of pain, pain from every joint and muscle, pain from scraps and cuts along my arms and face, pain from a badly sprained and swollen ankle and four cracked ribs, pain from being thrown from the back of a speeding truck in the dead of night, as the temperature tickled the upper thirties.

Sand clogged my nose and throat, covering my mat of blood soaked hair. My hands were underneath the weight of my prone body and I struggled to pull them free. Despite jarring shocks of pain sent through my system, I shivered uncontrollably.

They had left me in jeans, old Nike jam tennis shoes and a torn and blood soaked blue Cowboys tee shirt. The chilling temperatures overnight had left my toes and ears numb.

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Beginnings - A Dream only Death can bring.

The moon sunk low against the dark horizon, a creamy sliver hanging just above the top peaks of the mountains. Its weak glimmer drifted through an upper bedroom window of a new two-story brick and stucco suburban home. The moon light reflected off a small framed picture of a proud father holding a smiling infant on a faded red swing. The picture hung shoulder high on a wall of beige wallpaper with dancing teddy bears and colorful balloons.


The nursery was modestly furnished. A light oak crib stood against one wall, the bedding matching the teddy bear theme. Next to the crib sat a matching oak changing table. A padded glider rocker hugged the corner of the room opposite the door.

The crib was empty. The side facing the room was in its lowered position. The sheets were wrinkled and mussed. A small flannel blanket had been tossed aside and hung limply over one end. The tiny light from the small white baby monitor, facing the crib from the window sill, glowed red, its switch in the “on” position. The window stood open, screen gone. The drawn curtains, pushed to the sides, billowed inward in relative silence from the warm August breezes.

Amanda opened her eyes with a start. She lay on her side, her cheek buried in a pillow. The sheets were drawn up around her shoulders. She felt a shiver start from her neck and run down her spine to her toes. Michael always kept the house so cold with the air conditioner running all the time. Had that been what had awakened her? She pulled the sheets more tightly around her body and turned to face Michael’s soft snores. She closed her eyes again and tried to relax. It was then that the dream came back to her mind. She gasped for air. Her fists clenched and she sat up, her movements pulling the sheets off of Michael’s body, exposing him.

“Michael, where is the baby?” She stammered.

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Beginnings - Shadows of the Night

“Sam….. Sam!” Victoria spit into the darkness with a hoarse throaty whisper. She stepped tentatively through the front door onto the large Spanish tile entryway, acutely aware of the click made by her high heels on the ceramic squares.

Sam was Victoria’s chocolate and cream cocker spaniel. The dog had access to the house and subsequently to the back yard through a petite doggy door fashioned into the back wall of the kitchen next to an expansive set of glassed French doors opening onto a latticed covered patio

Her house was dark, cold, foreboding. Shouldn’t she have left a few lights on throughout the home? She could have sworn? She thought back to earlier that evening. In the flurry to get ready, excited for the prospect of shaking the stresses of work away on the dance floor with the girls from the office, had she planned ahead? Searching her thoughts, she remembered that the TV had been on, the local news, a breaking report of some consequence. A dull memory surfaced slowly. A feeling that had touched her while she had been on her knees, digging through the closet. Nothing more than an awareness that she would be late and that she should leave some bright areas of the house. Now, standing in the doorway, backlit by moonlight, she peered through the shroud of darkness blanketing her carefully decorated interior, wondering.

A chill brushed her spine, causing a shiver and an involuntary shrug of the shoulders. Could it simply be the result of the cool evening breezes blowing through the open door, up her skirt and across her bare back or was it a feeling of something far more sinister? Could it be a sense of pending danger, a palpable evil whose frequency could only be perceived by the workings of an inner unconscious tuner of basic preservation. As she paused, her body clenched as her mind began conjuring up devils and ghouls, murderers and rapists, all hidden in the shadows, salivating with the anticipation of the attack.

At the same instant, she shook her head self-consciously and let out a nervous yet embarrassed giggle. Ridiculous! She was acting like a child… afraid of the dark. This is what comes from living alone with an overactive imagination, she scolded herself.

She turned, closed and bolted the door and flipped on the hall lights from a wall panel. Slipping off her shoes, she cradled them over an arm and padded down the hall in stocking feet to the stairs. She paused to toss her keys into the decorative Mexican terra cotta bowl on a side wall table before climbing the stairs to her bed room.

The end of a long day with nothing required of her over a potentially lazy weekend. Maybe a bike ride up the coast with Sam. Sam would love the exercise. Where was that cute little mutt! She made a mental note to feed him and take out the trash from the kitchen before settling into bed.

Behind her, in the front sitting room, still in a pool of darkness, a large shadow slipped from behind the piano, unnoticed, and crossed the room to follow. As if it were breadcrumbs, left to mark the way through the woods, large crimson drops of blood fell from the blade of a dirty kitchen carving knife, clutched in a scarred and equally dirty fist, to the plush ivory carpet and were quickly absorbed.

The shadow paused at the line where the light from the hall began and listened, his breathing was slow, controlled. He could still taste the greasy hamburger from dinner. He liked the lingering taste of the onions as well as the metallic smell of the fresh, sticky blood covering his fingers, like an old wet copper penny. He slowly lifted a wet forefinger to his nose. Ummmmmm. He then stuck out his tongue and dramatically wiped his finger clean, leaving scarlet stains along his lower lip. Ummmmm.

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Quip's Corner - FFMI

FFMI

Fabulous Faux Memories Incorporated

The sticky juice of melted popsicle, dripping from the cheeks of a child, sweet cotton candy and icy snow cones sold from nearby booths.

Pop, pop, pop…cap gun wars begin amongst the groups of smiling families camped like little islands along the street.

The sun is rising brightly over the treetops, quickly warming faces and clothing. Distant music is heard from local marching bands.

People seem to sway and lean towards the street in hopes of seeing little Willy playing the tuba or Sally, the flute, in bright colored costumes with feathers and bells.

The street is alive with laughing and chattering, children sitting on dad’s shoulders, pointing at the horses and clowns.

Young girls in tight dresses with royalty sashes, teetering, trying to maintain grace and a plastic smile while perfecting mannequin waves to the crowds.

Bobby, holding a red and white striped box of buttered popcorn, spills it, semi-unintentionally on the head of his little sister, who, with hands in the air, immediately yells for her mother.

Her mother is behind the crowds, in the shade of a huge maple tree, feeding and bouncing the baby, whose morning nap is being missed.

Dad continually looks at his watch, plotting and planning the ultimate route to the park for the picnic lunch, while avoiding the traffic as well as considering the feasibility of sneaking away to sample the potato salad in the trunk of the car.

Celebrating memories Like these (of life, of America and of family) can be yours for only four payments of $39.95. Sorry, no COD’s accepted.

So call (1-900-No Life) and receive the memories the YOU think that you deserve!!!

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Quip's Corner - From the Files of Field Reporter, Arthur Rupert Joopleseat:

The last time lightning struck the tiny town of Sleepy Sin, both residents were seen running south through the sage brush, one after the other. The one behind, because he was, frankly, on fire, chasing the other, because she had seen fit to use the only town water bucket as a potted plant stand.

The tiny general store has burnt to the ground, leaving an oval of charred ash as the only memory of its passing. Last I saw, the town saloon, across the street, was still burning. Well, you know what they say, “If your caught living in Sin, you’ll probably burn!”

Sin apparently has had a few new residents move in recently. With floral cotton curtains across the windows and flower gardens out front, one can only assume that the new Sinners are of the feminine persuasion (which thrills this reporter to no end.) In fact, I believe that I can see a rather full figured white lace brassiere fluttering and drying in the breeze, like an erotic flag of surrender, across a clothes line, which is attached from the side of the only house in Sin to the town well (minus one bucket.)

I have come to believe that the women of Sin certainly know the area but aren’t looking for much male companionship. Because, over the last few weeks, from my somewhat itchy perch in this overgrown pine tree, I have seen countless men walk into town. They go straight up to the house (with what I can only describe as a thirsty look on their faces) and knock on the door. They will make some sort of request, statement or question and be abruptly sent looking for whatever they requested in, what I have been able to determine must be another town over the hill to the south west. I come to this conclusion because I am usually able to make out a distinctly feminine voice, coming from the door, shouting firmly and clearly, “Go straight to Hell!”

I have made a note in my records to make a day trip to go see this Hell and what must be an enormous male population residing there. I must then also assume that, from my observations, once you have Sinned, you normally go directly to Hell.


Post note: This is the last report on record as being filed by Arthur. Follow up notes indicate that he was discovered, delirious and suffering from heat stroke, wandering a desert in the south west, mumbling incoherently. We can only assume, from piecing together his incomprehensible babble, that he thought that his predicament was shear hell, or something along those lines. It is still somewhat unclear.

As a final memorandum to poor Arthur Rupert Joopleseat, we have received the odd random note here at the home office, scribbled fairly illegibly on torn scraps of lacy white material, indicating, if these can be indeed attributed to Mr. Joopleseat, that he apparently is being nursed back to health somewhere. The information is sketchy, just something about being able to see an overgrown pine tree from his bed, through windows with floral cotton curtains.

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Quip's Corner - Ode to the Fisherman

You roll out of bed about three
Your pole, tackle and clothes on a chair
You leave the light off but then you can’t see
You throw on a hat to cover your hair

Load the car, go pick up the buddy
You wait cus’ he’s saying goodbye to the wife
You tell him “make sure your shoes are not muddy”
You both shout “Boy, this is the life!”

It’s still dark when you get to the lake
Fingers go numb when you open the door
You struggle and fumble to hook on the bait
And bet your buddy who’ll be first to reach the shore

Set your tackle aside, you cast your line out
And find a stick to prop up the pole
Just when you sit to relax, your buddy gives a shout
You jump up but he says that he was just cold

You smack him upside the head for scaring away the fish
You have to reel in and replace your bait
Just a nibble on the line would be your ultimate wish
You find a rock, sit down and WAIT!

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Odds and Ends

The basement is at the stage of odds and ends....  A mirror, toilet paper holder and hand towel holder for the bathroom....  Coverings for the three holes in the walls where the main water shut off valve and two sewer drain clean out valves are located... replacement windows for the two broken windows in the boys bedroom and family room....

The boys have now been moved into their new room.  I spent Monday installing a closet kit of shelves and pole hangers for the boys new closet.  I was fairly proud of myself.  It came out ok.  I keep walking into their closet, turning on the light and admiring my work.  This must indicate that I don't do many things worth admiring.  I keep reliving my victories.  Which also explains why I don't look closely at the closet door....not my best effort.

The cold storage is being relieved of all the toys and other storage items that have been stuffed in their for the past eight months.  Most have now been placed in the closet under the stairs.  All the board games, kids games and family dvds have been relocated down to the other closet in the basement.  This closet currently has no door or other covering.  The games are on full display in a colorful stacked rainbow.  A few other items collected through the years are in stacks in various corners, waiting their assignments for relocation.  The rest is just empty spaces, a sea of carpet and long blank walls.  It has quickly become a race track and a gymnastics mat.

The two older girls are now in their new rooms, after each room was cleaned out with walls puttied and paint touch up.  The youngest was to be introduced to her own room last night.  I pulled the crib out of the garage but could not find the corresponding bolts.  I drove to Walmart late last night to buy the required bolts, light bulbs and a baby monitor.  I was delayed in returning home because I was caught up looking at flat screen tvs in the electronics department.  I found my dream tv but it was $1,300.00 and 55 inches. 

I returned home after 10:00pm to discover that the bolts I purchased were a half inch too long.  SO, I had to squeeze the baby's temporary bed back into our room and set it up again.  I get to do one of my very favorite things in life today!!! (insert sarcasm here) I get to return something to the store.  I need to exchange the bolts.  Arghgh.

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Funny Email - Failures

This is from an email I received detailing funny failures.  Here are three of the pictures that I can post and not worry about my children seeing.

Thats great I think everyone should have both a DRAEM and a DERAM!  Too many people just have DREAMS these days.

Life is tough.  It is even tougher if you're stupid!

I think this is why Winn Dixie went out of business.

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