Beginnings - The Elwood Dead End

The rain fell in waves across the dirty streets, washing the surface filth and decay into the overflowing sewers. Abandoned and condemned, the apartment buildings at the end of Elwood Avenue, named after the late Mayor Durwin C. Elwood, rose into the soggy night sky like tombstones. Elwood Avenue ended abruptly ten feet beyond the last empty building. A forty foot high cement wall, covered in the colors and images of street youth expression, hid the Fourteenth Street off ramp to the freeway, effectively cutting off any through traffic and creating the Elwood dead end.

Lightning cracked, exposing the choked and cluttered alleyways like a beam from a flash light. The doors of the condemned building, once sealed shut, now swung back and forth on rusty hinges, whining and moaning, as the wind and storm played catch.

Edward McClure, or “Eddie” to his regulars, owned a tiny grocery store on the corner of Elwood and Mathis, a block from the freeway and the Elwood dead end. Eddie stood five feet six inches tall and weighed Three hundred and forty one pounds on a good day. He rarely moved from behind the coffee stained checkout counter, which ran along the front window facing Mathis Boulevard. He gave orders and directed traffic from where he sat by swinging and pointing two pudgy fingers, holding a frayed cigar which looked like it had been stopped on.

With three to four days growth across his swollen and greasy jowls and neck, Eddie sat and watched life pass through the hazy, foggy windows of his store. He wore a yellowed tank top, stretched tightly across a bulging, hairy stomach which permanently creased where it rested across the inner edge of the counter. The tank top sat untucked but without reaching the top of Eddie’s stained and weathered blue jeans, which rode low across his hips and covered little in the back where they sat perched atop of a creaky metal bar stool behind the counter.

Eddie leaned back from the counter, against a rack of adult magazines, and ran his left hand through the few remaining strands of greasy hair that spread across the top of his head. He reached for the remote control, nestled in a basket of credit card receipts, flipped on the TV to the late eleven o’clock news and turned up the volume. The store had been empty since early evening and he was bored.

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Beginnings - Banker’s Hours

The concussion of the blast shook the tiny town of Hillbrow. The grayish blue of the early morning winter sky blossomed blood red. Flames shot skyward carrying chunks of brick, charred splintered wood and plumes of smoldering paper. The wispy fingerling morning clouds brightened and then disappeared behind the large black swirling ball of smoke and gas.
The ball rose and spread throughout the sky as if it were spread with a knife. Debris from the explosion began raining from the blackened sky, hitting the ground, denting hoods and smashing windshields of parked cars, littering the narrow asphalt streets and grass, covering the area with smoldering missiles.

Fire crackled and danced throughout the remains of the jagged black smoking fangs of foundation. Dust and tiny bits of unrecognizable material covered the grass around the rectangular mass of flame and smoldering cement. The First Bank of Hillbrow was gone. What remained looked like a huge nest for a mythical bird, as if a Phoenix would rise from the smoke and ashes to claim its perch. Sleepy people began slipping into the streets to see what had shaken them from their Sunday morning slumber.

Jack awoke with a start, as if he were falling in a dream and had awakened at the final moment before impact. He lay there in the same double bed that he had slept in as a child, head up, looking at the dimpled texture of the off-white ceiling. Stretching out with his toes, he yawned and rubbed an eye with his fingers.

Something had awakened him, physically shaken him from sleep. Normally, Jack could sleep through practically anything. He wondered what had dragged him from his sweet abyss. He closed his eyes again; hmmmm, still sleepy. He curled to one side and pulled the heavy comforter up across his shoulder.

“I would awake during the best dream I’ve had all month,” he mumbled. Working his head back into the pillow, he let his breathing slow and felt himself drift away again. Back to the dimly lit bar, she was still sitting on his lap. Her long curls were pulled away from her face and clipped behind her head. She was giggling at his witty remarks. How he had convinced her to come over to his table, he had no idea, didn’t care really. Dreams didn’t have to make sense, they were dreams after all, and this certainly wasn’t realistic for Jack.

He let his eyes drift down her body, from the tight cream colored, sleeveless cotton top, pausing briefly, down her stomach to equally tight pink shorts which displayed ample amounts of perfect thigh. His mind quivered, everything quivered. He could feel his toes clench and unclench in his shoes. What should he say to move this thing along, he wondered. Fortunately, dream time seemed easier to control, strange in a way.

“Cari,” he stammered past dry lips and throat, hoping that he had remembered her name correctly. He paused, waiting and watching her face as it reflected orange and gold from the lights above the bar. The music was loud; she might not have heard him. Boy, he needed a drink about now. He licked his lips and spoke again. “Cari?”

“Yes,” she responded softly, the words almost lost in the sea of music and chatter from the rest of the bar. She leaned into him, putting her cotton candy colored lips to his ear. He could feel her body press against his chest. She has got to be able to feel my heart thumping, Jack thought. He turned and looked up into her eyes, those twinkling, mesmerizing, man crushing eyes.

“How about us getting out of here? We could go somewhere quiet and talk or something?” He knew that it sounded stupid, he was already embarrassed, how desperate could one sound!

She smiled coyly and slid more squarely into his lap. Nibbling at his ear, she whispered, “Let’s go!”

His body was numb with excitement. This was going to be a night to be documented in the history of Hillbrow. Jack reluctantly lifted Cari off his lap, helping those long legs to their feet. He rose from the wooden chair like a drunken sailor, intoxicated with anticipation.

BBBBBRRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG!!! BBBBBRRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG!!!

The phone on the desk of Jack’s studio apartment shattered the moment! Jack nearly fell out of bed, his face damp with perspiration. “Aurggggh,” Jack clamored for the phone, squinting around the room for it in his disorientation. Locating the enemy, Jack swore at it viciously!

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Beginnings - Twilight Surf

It was dusk when Harold left the bar. The sun, a deep orange, still warmed his face as it disappeared into the ocean, reminding him of the 103 degree afternoon of which he had escaped within the darkness of the air conditioned bar “The Black Oasis.”


Two dozen games of pool and eight bottles of beer later, he reemerged into life numb and tired. He stood in the swirling dust in front of the Black Oasis, watching the waves crash across the muted yellow sand of the empty beach across the street.

Harold then turned and staggered down the side alley between the bar and the back of an old, pay by the hour, motel called “The Sea Breeze.” As he walked, Harold fumbled in his pants pockets for his keys. He stopped at the rear corner of the buildings. The alley opened into an unmarked dirt parking area which had exits through both the alley from which Harold had staggered as well as along a dirt trail through the empty, weed choked lot behind the bar. The trail emptied out onto the next block adjacent to a squatty little hardware store with bars on the windows.

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Beginnings - Love You to Death

His mouth tasted like it was full of cotton, thick and dry. His throat felt constricted and sore as if he had swallowed a large rubber ball. Strange noises bounced around his brain, noises that he couldn’t place, causing him disorientation. Grayson slowly opened his eyes and immediately squinted from the bright glare of morning sun light. He, painfully, turned his head away from the light, his neck stiff. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the glare and the movement and color struggled back into hazy focus.


Grayson lay, partially covered by an overturned table, in piles of squished boxes, globs of greenish muck and other assorted garbage, in what appeared to be one end of an open air Asian fish and vegetable market. From the noises and movement near what appeared to be the entrance to the market, business was beginning. Shop owners began pulling back canvas tarp coverings and setting out the days offerings for display. The acute smell of old fish suddenly overwhelmed him. He gagged and his body shook, sending waves of pain throughout, revealing numerous other potential bruises or broken bones.

He stifled the gag reflex and attempted to assess his physical state. With what felt like a potential broken ankle as well as ribs and numerous bruising across the torso and legs, Grayson felt like he had been hit by a Mack truck. Instinctively, he felt that he needed to hide. Although he couldn’t remember what had happened to him or how he had come to be there, discarded and broken, in the trash of an Asian market, his brain was now working on overdrive, sending unfamiliar survival signals. His memory was a fog. His breathing was ragged and he had little strength but he responded to the urgent warnings of self preservation.

Customers had begun exploring the market place and were slowly approaching the area where Grayson lay pinned under the table. It would only be a matter of moments before he would be noticed. With some effort, he pushed himself backwards, freeing his legs of the table. He strained and pulled to turn himself around over the piles of trash until he faced the nearest booth. He then began army crawling on his elbows toward it.

The front display tables were draped in stained white cotton sheets which hung to within inches of the dirt floor. The display tables of this particular booth were stacked with 50lb bags of rice. Worming his body under the rice table, he shifted to his left side and wedged himself in and around additional boxes stored there. His body screamed from the movement.

With two swollen fingers, he reached forward and lifted the hem of the table drapery. A paved access road ran along the back of the market. Vender trucks were scattered in the dirt between the market and the road.

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Beginnings - Paying the Tab

The bar had its regulars, most good places do. Tucked under a twelve story, all brick office complex that had seen far better years, in the middle of the downtown walking district of Harrisburg, “Crackers” served an eclectic mixture of white collar suits and college frats, with an undercurrent of darker scowl-faced regular working crowds. The bar consisted of red brick interior walls, cracked leather bar stools and booths with coffee brown wooden tables. A smoke induced haze lingered below the water stained panel ceiling, swirling around a lazily spinning wicker fan and two sets of bare bulb light fixtures emitting a sickly yellow glow against the bar’s welcome dimness and accompanying anonymity.


Julian Dooran had owned the bar since the late fifties. He had purchased it in partnership with old Johnny Ashcroft, a childhood friend. Johnny had been good with numbers and Julian liked people so it seemed natural for Johnny to do the books and for Julian to tend bar. This arrangement seemed to fit and the bar did well.

People rarely met Johnny, who preferred the privacy of his back office, his desk, his calculator and his cigars. He liked the office’s personal exit into the alley behind the building where he and his occasional guests could come and go in secrecy. Julian became a real bar keep in every sense of the word. He kept the pretzel bowls filled, the music moderate and the rough crowds out. He became friend and councilor to thousands of faces. He knew how to listen, when to talk and when to forget.

The bar had originally been called JJ’s Pub, for Julian and Johnny, so that neither one would receive top billing. They had felt good about the name and it stuck. They worked hard and put in long hours to make JJ’s a success.

Women drifted in and out of the boys lives like they did the bar, short stints with no commitment or permanence. There were no real regrets, their bar was their mistress and a very demanding one.

Johnny’s health began failing in the mid seventies. The bouts of chronic coughing became longer and harder and the nausea was commonplace. Johnny took to nibbling on Saltine crackers, from a stash in his bottom desk drawer, to ease his stomach. It didn’t help that he had put on weight over the years which caused constant back pain. Through it all, he managed to stumble in faithfully every morning before the bar opened, ritualistically chatting at the bar with Julian about sports and politics, of which they never agreed, before scooting back to his office to work on the ordering and the bills.

Cancer had taken over Johnny’s body long before Julian could convince him to see a doctor. The diagnosis was grim and the time left was short. Johnny was gone weeks after that first visit. Julian suffered silently over the loss of his friend and business partner, leaving Johnny’s office closed and practically untouched for weeks. The bar paid for a quiet funeral for a few close friends and Johnny’s only surviving relative, an older married sister who worked as a librarian in Chicago. The coffin was laid to rest in a local cemetery, along the back corner under a tree, just as Johnny would have wanted. And with that, Johnny was gone.

In June of Seventy Eight, nine months after Johnny’s death, Julian renamed the bar. It took him a week to come up with something suitable. He wanted something that would make him remember Johnny. After a weeks worth of thought, he realized that his mind kept returning to Johnny’s constant pestering for thosr saltine crackers. It had always made Julian laugh. Johnny would go through boxes at a time, making sandwiches of everything. Julian had joked that if the two partners had ever taken bonuses, Johnny would have wanted his to be in crackers, so “Crackers” it became.

Years following the name change were solitary of Mr. Julian Dooran. The bar became even more all encompassing. He had the back office remodeled to include a bed and private bathroom. He would sleep most weeknights at the bar, returning to his small apartment to do laundry and collect any mail.

The game had begun during those years of the early eighties. Wednesdays and Fridays were poker nights. After hours in the rear game room, across the thread barren green felt of a dilapidated pool table, four to six of Julian’s bar friends would play until morning, often losing hundreds of dollars to each other.

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Beginnings - Missing Hearts

He slowly and deliberately turned the last page of the book with one of the three remaining fingers on his right hand. Feasting upon the final few lines of text, he closed the book with a sigh, sandwiching it between his two palms. A good story was very satisfying. Sliding from the maroon leather recliner positioned next to a tall, narrow twin-paned window pressed between bookcases, Ruben began swinging the book back and forth, pinching it between thumb and forefinger.


With broad strides from his tall, bony frame, Ruben crossed the thick multicolored rugs covering the polished hardwood floors of his personal study. Returning the book to its place, Ruben looped a finger over the binding of a first addition “Moby Dick”, above his head on an upper shelf, and pulled outward slightly until it clicked. A low yet audible humming came from behind the bookshelves on the far wall. Slowly the shelves split in half lengthwise, one side sliding open smoothly, like an enormous walk-in freezer door. The darkness beyond revealed the top in a series of wooden steps leading downward into an abyss.

Ruben slid Moby Dick back into place and stepped over to and through the bookshelves. A black panel of colored buttons and two small computer screens were recessed into the wall next to the stairs. One screen displayed a wide angle view of the study. Ruben glanced at the screen. He could see himself standing in the doorway of the open bookshelf. Ruben pressed a blue button located along the top of the panel. The humming sound returned, more pronounced within the stairwell, and the shelf slid back into place. As the door closed, a series of overhead lights flickered to life, lighting the stairs.

Ruben took the stairs two and three at a time, letting his three fingers slide down the polished wood of the narrow handrail bolted to the wall. The steps seemed to lead deep into the belly of Telston Manor. Ruben finally hit the bottom step and stopped abruptly. Touching a red button on a similar computer panel, the lights in the stairway faded to black. Ruben then pushed open the thick insulated metal door with a forearm and stepped into his playroom.

Rows of florescent lights illuminated the long egg-shaped room. With stark white walls and a light cream colored tile floor, the room held a cold, sterile quality. An expansive bare stainless steel table sat in the middle of the otherwise empty room, a solitary, malignant sentry guarding the hell that dwelt within.

“Is everyone awake?” Ruben called out, in an exaggerated sweet sing-song tone. Low moans began answering his call with a solitary sob piercing the moans.

“Let me go, please!” came a pleading yet terrified whisper.

Ruben’s laugh rolled and echoed around the room. “Just wait my darlings,” he cooed, “soon you will be free to fly away!” He was very pleased with himself and allowed a grin to spread across his gaunt features. How clever he could be with wordplay, too bad that it was wasted on these creatures. He strolled across the playroom to the first of a series of small open rectangular windows imbedded in the walls.

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Beginnings - And then there were none…

The candle light flickered and danced with the shadows across the walls of books and around the ghostly sheet covered arm chairs of the late Dr. Bekker’s study. The air in the room lay thick and musty.
Young Charlie Bass, backup forward for the Warner Heights high school galloping gophers, walked slowly across the bare hardwood floor toward the center of the room, holding the candle out away from his skinny 6’3” frame. His eyes darted back and forth apprehensively, his mouth curled in a grin of fearful excitement.

The old mansion was cold, a stark contrast to the bathwater warm August night outside. Charlie shivered beneath his short sleeved cotton tee shirt. With his free hand, he adjusted the blue KC Royals ball cap that sat perched atop his smooth bald head. Leaning down, he balanced the lit candle upright on the dusty hard wood floor. He then hustled back across the room to an open corner window from where he had found initial entrance, the candle light throwing his elongated shadow against the book shelves.

He reached the window and, with a few hard thumps of his open palm, began clearing away the few remaining boards that had sealed the window. Sticking his head out of the square hole in the side of the Bekker mansion, he looked out at the estate covered in mature oaks and maples. Looking down, he could see the four others huddle around the base of the ladder, chattering and giggling in the darkness.

“Hurry up, get in here! This is so wild.” Charlie hissed.

“So what’s it like in there Q-ball?” Andy shouted. “Have you seen Bekker’s ghost yet?”

“Shhhhhush! You are going to wake both the dead and the living if you don’t keep quiet Andy! Get everyone up here.”

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Glimpses - Love

Just four little letters, very common little letters.
In the name of love, diverse actions have been dedicated.
Hearts have been broken, wars have been fought and lives have been lost.

What power is possessed in this tiny little word that takes, creates and controls lives?
The ultimate search, the barometer for life’s success, blind confusion seeking a concept.
How can power to possess and control be so single, so sweet.
Mountains are moved under this unique directive.

Lands are transversed, seas are battled.
Life is given and life is sacrificed.
Most sought after, most longed for, life’s directed ambition
Often as fleeting as a whisper in the wind.

Given and taken as currency, traded and bartered as necessity dictates.
Conditional for some yet unconditional to others
Four little letters, L O V E.
A funny little word.

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Glimpses - Childhood Lost

The breeze was cold against her skin. April is warmer than this, she thought. She sat in a light cotton blue and white spring dress that covered her knees only when she walked. The cement park bench was cool on the backs of her bare thighs. She had sat, seeming alone, for hours now, an empty park of green grass and mottled blue green spruce trees, a charcoal black asphalt jogging path passing under her feet and continuing into the trees. In front of her, across the jogging path, surrounded by grass, spread a wide sea of sand, untouched by human footprints, a lonely oasis with islands of swings and a tall silver slide.
Erica watched as the wind pushed the swings back and forth. She looked up into the gray, overcast sky of clouds, shuddered, and folded her arms more tightly around her stomach. She could feel the last grasp of winter in the air, tugging at her dress and blowing her long loosely curled chestnut locks across her face and into her eyes and mouth.

She glanced down at her wristwatch, a Christmas gift from her husband. He was a wonderful man who was probably worried about her and where she had wandered. It was getting late, 6:20 pm, dinner should have been made and on the table. Things to do, responsibilities of a wife and mother, yet Erica lingered.

She looked at the grass, the trees, her gaze pausing at the empty swings. A single tear formed in the corner of one eye. She hastily brushed it away, feeling the wetness on the back of her hand. Just stubborn memories of childhood, of swings, of sandcastles, of friendships, lost before they began. Why it still haunted her thoughts, she wondered. I am happy, I’m content, I love my family. This was a different type of loss, a hollowness of friendship gone. Her husband wouldn’t understand. But that was okay and she was okay.

Glancing again at the swings, watching them sway in the wind, Erica saw children appear, playing in the sand, running around the slide, chasing each other. She could see herself swinging, pushing herself higher and higher into the air, leaning back in the sun, fingers clenching the links of the chains with her legs outstretched. Reaching for the clouds with her feet, she would watch the world rush towards her, upside down, time and time again with the summer breezes blowing in her face.

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Glimpses - The Little Girl

There was a group of young children running and playing in the tall green grass of a mountain meadow. The sun shone brightly over the tops of the pine trees from a deep ocean blue morning sky. The girls giggled and squealed as the boys ran around teasing and tormenting them, each boy doing his best to impress the girls with his own perceived wit and charm.

One creative little boy loved to make up stories, poems and pictures to charm and entertain the rest of the group. One little girl, with her long curled locks of brown, was particularly quick to respond to the little boy’s quips. She was as intelligent as her smile was breathtaking. The two enjoyed matching wits and became friends.

Each day, the children met and played in the mountain meadow. Although there were arguments on occasion, all the children generally got along and enjoyed playing with each other. The beautiful little girl became more and more endearing to the little boy as they continued to play. Occasionally, some children would stop coming to the meadow and new children would come in their place, but there was always children playing, laughing and enjoying themselves.

One day, the little girl’s parents came to the meadow and told her that they would be moving to a wonderful place where she would get to play and where she would be happy for the rest of her life. She was excited to go but knew that she would miss her friends. The little boy was so happy for her. He had once lived where she was going and knew that she would be happy there.

He watched her go before turning to play with the other children, but he couldn’t help but notice that his heart hurt just a little bit. There was emptiness. He knew that he would miss that little girl’s wit and smile. Her friendship meant a lot to him. She meant a lot to him.

Time passed and fall arrived with its falling leaves and cool breezes. He still thought of her as he played and made up stories for the children of the meadow. He hoped that she was happy in her new home. She would always be special in the hearts of the children of the meadow and especially to a little boy who sat on a tree branch, way up on the top of the tallest tree, dreaming of far off places and special smiles.

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Beginnings - Whiskey Smooth

A moonless night sky rose above the tall spruce and cypress trees along the wooded path on which Daryl and Coot McGinnis dragged the body. They spoke in low voices, grumbling about not being able to see.

“I swear, why couldn’t we bring flash lights? Coot hissed. “ I durn near kilt myself, walkin into that tree back there!”

“I told you five times!” Daryl retorted. “Ol man Hutchins would have shot us already as sure as lookin at us if he knew that we was on his property.”

“He shoots first and never does ask yer name.” Coot agreed.

“He’s got dem eyes like a hawk. He’d see our lights and figure fer sure that he was bein attacked. He’s probly sittin in the dark on his porch right now, with that rifle across his knees. Crazy ol man! Been nuts ever since his boys was kilt holdin up that bank over in Casaw County.”

“So, shut up already or he’ll kill us both!” Daryl spit through clenched teeth.

“Jeeez, I was just askin.”

“Well, shut up, I’m tryin ta think. Anyway, the gully should be comin up and we can throw ol Henry in and get outa here.”

“Daryl, ya really think that they aint gonna find the body here?” Coot whined.

“No one’s goin to be back in here except Hutchins wont probly wander back this far until spring. Aint no one goin to find him atoll. Well excepten maybe the wolves!” Daryl chuckled.

Coot and Daryl at an opening in the trees, where the ground fell away on one side into a deep gully choked with trees and accumulated dry brush. The gully measured approximately fifty yards across and ran for about a quarter of a mile along the path that they were on.

Daryl dropped the right leg of the man that they were dragging and walked around him, reaching for the arms that had been trailing behind the dead man. Together, Daryl and Coot lifted the body and began swinging it back and forth out over the edge to build momentum. At the height of the third swing, they let go with a grunt and listened. The body disappeared into space before landing and tumbling down the slope accompanied by the sounds of thrashing brush and the snapping of tree limbs.

“Now lets git outa here Daryl, I’m freezing!” Coot complained.

“Yea, let git.” Daryl agreed with a satisfied nod.

They quickly shuffled back up the trail, towards their truck and past the cabin-style home of Grit Hutchins. They stumbled along the trail in the darkness, being unfamiliar with the area at night. When they reached the trees surrounding Hutchin’s place they left the trail behind and took a wide slow birth, wandering through the woods, feeling their way from tree to tree.

“That is my foot, hey get off my foot!” Daryl hissed, pushing Coot backwards into a stunted pine. Coot stumbled back and slid to the ground.

“Hey….I just couldn’t see ya…. Hey man.. help me up. I think…oh..man..I sat in something!”

“Get up and quit whining. Let’s get out of these hear woods, quick!” Daryl commanded under his breath, looking back over his shoulder.

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Beginnings - An Empty Window

Life faded to black for Mr. Harold T. Moffit. Looking up at the peeling, water stained ceiling of his rented rats-nest apartment, he felt the choked and oppressing clutter of folders, papers, filing cabinets and unfulfilled dreams scattered all around him as he lay there on his back, not moving from where he landed after tripping and falling over his own feet. He hadn’t bothered to catch himself as he fell and smacked the dirty wood floor of the apartment bedroom with his forehead.

A deafening silence rang in Moffit’s ears, pounding in his brain, thrusting the last ounce of sanity screaming from his lips. Moffit watched the sun rise and fall on the white textureless wall opposite his small smudged and cracked bedroom window, which sat partially open, inviting the night, the darkness and all of its evils to enter and absorb.

Moffit stared blankly at the open window, willing it to close, to shut him in, to protect him from the world. But even the window taunted him, defied him and sat silently open.

Moffit’s mind slowly, painfully began to wander; meandering back and forth through memories of happiness’s long lost and forgotten. Children in tiny white tennis shoes played in the sand, slipping down slides into his waiting arms. He held them close, kissing their cheeks and foreheads, watching them play and learn. A woman of breathtaking beauty smiled just for him. Her touch on his arm always sent chills. Her soft silky voice soothed his tired soul.

All gone, reality splashed ice water in Moffit’s face. His mind snapped back into fuzzy focus, a dreary, blurry stark white room. A cold breeze was blowing through the open window. There was a realization of warm wet tears, dripping from the sides of his head to his ears, where they remained trapped in the outer folds, tiny pools of heartache. Moffit released a sigh, soft and long. His body relaxed, fingers loose and limp. A crumpled yellow telegram slipped from his fingers to the floor where it laid, words to the ceiling.

It read, “….Dear Mr. Moffit, We regret to inform you that there has been an accident. Tragically, your wife and children have been killed. We send our condolences and our regret for having informed you in this manner but as you have no phone ………….”

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Beginnings - Lightning from Heaven

Heaven sat cross-legged on the floor of her closet. Her long brown loosely cured hair hung in a relaxed ponytail across one shoulder. She wore an old, frayed and torn oversize gray sweat shirt with “Kiss Me!!!” written in bold crimson letters over tight slate blue jeans. Her bare feet, with toenails painted dark blue, tapped to Motley Crue throbbing from an enormous stereo which covered most of the surface area of an oak dresser in the corner of the expansive bedroom.

Heaven leaned back against the wall of the closet and dropped another page of the letter that she was reading into a pile of papers being created on the oatmeal colored carpet beside her. She giggled as her eyes absorbed each word of the final page.

“He is so sweet!” She whispered. With a broad smile, she dropped the last page to the floor, closed here eyes and sighed. Heaven’s heart was light. He loved her. He finally said as much in his letter. She knew that her parents had been wrong about him. They didn’t know him at all. They didn’t know how sweet he was. How he treated her like a woman instead of a little girl.

Her parents would never understand him or their love. They just made judgments. They condemned him for his clothes, his language and the lack of a job or sufficient education. They told her that he was no good and that she was worth more. She had turned sixteen, three months earlier and her parents had dared to threaten to take away her drivers license if she saw him again. He was right about her parents. He had always been right. They didn’t love her like he did. They didn’t care about her happiness.

Her parents were intoxicated with self righteousness when they found out about his arrest. They had known that it would happen sooner or later. Trash, he was filth, a subhuman individual. They had smiled at each other smugly and looked down at her with those “see, we knew best” eyes. She had screamed at them then, the first time that she had dared to raise her voice, to that degree, to her parents. They, of course, blamed her actions and attitudes on his influence. He was gone and they knew that Heaven would see how right they were. Because, of course, they were right!

Michael promised in his letter, which he had written from the county jail and sent to her friend Julia, that they would be together. He said that he missed her. She hung on his every word. He finally wrote that he loved her. She read the words over and over again. Electricity pulsed through her. She knew that this was the real thing. This was love!

She pulled herself to her feet and searched for socks in the pile of washed and folded clothes which had been placed on the floor outside her bedroom door. She didn’t have much time. Michael wanted her to be ready to go with him.

“It’s the only way that we can be together.” He would whisper.

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Beginnings - Toil and Trouble

A mountain of bare stone, but for the occasional small withered pine tree, rose from the most remote section of the forest. With jagged lonely peaks jutting outwardly into the low hanging shroud of gray clouds, the mountain stood erect, a thin veil of mist and smoke swirled, concealing the evil within its granite interior. A vague dirt path, clogged with weeds, cut back and forth, climbing the mountain’s rocky face, around large stone protrusions and along narrow, wind swept ledges, pressed against the soaring vertical cliffs.

The opening to the cave was narrow and hidden in the belly of a rock-choked crease within a clearing along the mountain’s south slope. Through the cave’s entrance, a passage, carved of wind and water, cut into the mountain’s flesh for twenty five feet until opening into an expansive cavern. The room was roughly circular in shape with the ceiling rising in places to sixty feet above the sand strewn floor. Natural vent holes dotted the ceiling, allowing shallow beams of sunlight to cut through and brighten the dark expanse within. The black rock of the cavern walls remained shrouded in shadow. It was chipped and rough but dull with dust.

The floor of the cavern was clear but for loose boulders of varying size and shape, like enormous marbles, scattered throughout. A small, vaguely square alter of mud and small stones rose from its center. The smoothed top of the alter was concave, sloping towards the middle and charred black from the flame and heat of many fires built upon its surface.

Pressed against the far wall, lay piles of matted straw along with two blankets, tattered and stained. The bones of small animals were scattered in little piles in the sand, next to the straw. A woman lay asleep on her side in the makeshift straw bed. She snored softly, her hands clutching and cradling an old leather sack. She wore a long black dress, torn and frayed along the hem. The sleeves had been cut near the shoulder, exposing short withered bony arms with hands and fingers that looked like the talons of a hawk. Her face was pale and sunken into her skull. She had high cheek bones and her nose was long and pointed sharply, curving slightly downward at the tip. Her hair was grey, cut to approximately shoulder length, with subtle white streaks. It was tangled and unkept.

Although the woman slept, one eyelid had not fully closed. Her eye beneath was dull and mottled but for its center which burned a deep amber. The eye twitched and roamed the cavern with each snore as if watching for movement.

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4th of July

We had a fun day today!  I was allowed to cook Brazilian beans and rice and grill hot dogs and chicken!  We had fireworks in the street and completed it with a massive fire cracker explosion!

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Thursday

I've had stomach pains the last few days.  My mind likes to jump to dramatic conclusions and determine that it is the onset of cancer.  I hope that I am just being dramatic.  I just don't feel all that well.

Recently, I feel like I am just existing, that I move from day to day as if I am numb.  I wonder if this is normal.  I think that it stems from a lack of satisfaction and sense of instability at work. I am not enjoying or feeling productive. I know that the lack of productivity is a key component to these feelings.  I am much more alive when I am engaged in a project.  I do feel tremendous pressure that I am not sufficiently providing for my family, both financially and emotionally. 

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