Beginnings - The Devil

The Devil leaned back, put his feet up on his desk and laughed a hearty deep-throated laugh that echoed through the streets of Hell, which rumbled like thunder across barren sand, which shook the walls and rattled the souls of the minions of slaves under his control.


The devil lifted his eyes to heaven and swore in victory. He raised his voice in triumph, cursing and profaning his maker, touting superiority. His eyes burned with hatred, black soulless eyes stared upward, smoldering with pride and arrogance.

He gazed into the mirrors lining the walls of his office and admired his beauty. He was an exquisitely beautiful man, well dressed, well spoken and physically imposing. He could dominate or charm the hearts and souls of those he turned. He used every ounce of his beauty for the work and he was very good at the work.

He could twist and turn the soul of man like a rag to be discarded or make them jump and dance like a marionette on a stage. He had perfected the craft, he knew the souls of man and he knew their desires. He could navigate the dark recesses of their minds, stroking or punishing, tempting or consoling. He blinded them in any way they needed. He was without conscience. He ached for their misery, joyed in their sorrow, reaped ecstasy in their mourning and regret. He dabbled in hopelessness and pride. He was the Devil.

The worlds were turning. He could feel the anger, the sadness and the loneliness increase. He could see the tide of humanity swelling in concert with his will. He had trained his minions well and they worked tirelessly for him. The souls of his father would be under his control in the end, just as he had threatened and boasted when last he spoke with him. There was no doubt. But his father, this was not a thought that he dwelt upon. It made him uncomfortable.

Thoughts of his father made him angry and confused. These were the only times that he felt uncertain, as if not in control. His father, whom he hated, haunted his dreams. Even in their last meeting, when the devil was cast from his father’s presence, as he was spewing forth venom of hatred and loathing; he remembered his father’s eyes.

Those eyes, which had looked upon him since he was young, and whose eyes that he had wanted to please, and from whom he had yearned for approval. They did not look upon him, at last, in anger or disgust. His father’s eyes had been filled with love and sadness as he had banished his son. Tears had filled those eyes as the son turned to leave. The Devil would never be able to cause those eyes to show forth the same hatred that he, himself, felt inside. His father would always love his son.

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Quip's Corner - She told me

She told me once of dreams far off
Of pictures in mind’s distant gaze

She told me once of love and loss
Reduced to faded memories haze

She told me once of passion’s bloom
Left to wither under time’s trodden weight

She told me once of life consumed
The bitter residue of love and hate

She is silent now, her voice is gone
No one visits my mind’s empty room

She has left me now, the hours are long
It is lonely here in my personal tomb

The light is fading fast, the day is failing
And with it now, my sanity trailing

She told me once of dreams far off
I think now that she was going soft

Poof

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Quip's Corner - What Might Have Been

It doesn’t matter what they would say
Together we should have found a way
We let their words tear us apart
It was over before it could start

Then you, with him and me, with her
Certain now of no return
Laid aside, true love’s first bloom
Letting anger and strife consume

What did I ever think would be
Believing love between you and me
Years departed without your glance
Emptiness lacking first love’s enhance

Your picture found in discarded drawer
A familiar smile of promises sure
Thoughts in wonder of how you’ve been
Did memory of us find you again

Your face, now older, beauty undenied
Talk and laughter of time gone by
Our desire burns with love reborn
Deep regrets of lost moments torn

We plan for future, reshape the past
Assured that this time we’d last
But life, in irony, intervened
Collapse, an illness unforeseen

I watch as slowly, you drift away
Holding hands, a promise to stay
Yearning for our love again
I cry out for what might have been

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Beginnings - Night Wind

The wind, erupting from the putrid smelling pit, whipped across the creature’s forehead. He burped up boiled eggs and then pushed through the final cramps, feeling the baby lizard’s head crown from the folds of skin under his armpit. The Alabaster Queen will be so proud of the pending births. She would tell him as much, touting his name to the minions, before eating him at the sacrificial feast.
Pea green blood oozed from his three nostrils into the hair around the tiny oval mouth, filled with blunt yellowed teeth. He was close to completion and his body was giving the signals, telling him as much. The blood, the cramping, the high pitched whine shrieking through his mind indicated that the first of the brood was about to be delivered. He returned to his room to meditate and prepare.

The chanting could be felt as well as heard. Low drudgery, the crunch of bone colliding with bone, guttural groans, wrenching and twisting the very fabric of hell, filled the thick, stagnant, smoke saturated air. Screams of the chosen few cut through the creature’s concentration.

He needed focus. He retreated more deeply into the trance-like state, slumped heavily into the hollow, carved in the rock of the walls. He was hungry; the fever had sapped the creature’s strength. He needed something to satisfy the burning. He needed meat. He could smell charred meat from the various fires, burning throughout the valley. He opened one eye and glanced about furtively.

The twin suns were setting through the haze, hovering over the crimson red colored water. From where he sat, the creature watched the sickly yellow light fight through the smoke, in its final luminescence of the season. There would be no return of the suns in his lifetime. The world would be dark once more, just as had been prophesied by the ancients. The howls of the ceremonial priestesses grew stronger and more anxious in the growing gloom.

He was prepared. He rose, turned toward the wall and, leaning forward to place his head and hands on the floor; he lifted his feet, paused to balance and then continued upward, until his back and legs rested, upside down, against the rough rock. His body convulsed. It was prepared.

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My first attempt

My first attempt at lyrics for Clarke.  The working title is "The Wandering Man"

Stepped off the bus into this no name town
Dropped my bags in the dust as I looked around
No friendly faces looking back at me
What kinda fresh start is this gonna be?

Guitar on one knee, I start to play
No one in mind, I just sing to the day
Sun is shining and the birds are out
I get to the chorus and begin to shout.

Heaven help the wandering man
No one to care or to love
Heaven protect the wandering man
I need some aid from above.

Liftin’ my spirits up, the music flows
Hummin’ loud to the hoppers and toads
People notice and gather ‘round
They catch the rythmn, they like the sound.

Soon they are swaying in their seats
Sitting down around my feet
I giv’em my best one tooth grin
Encouragin’ all to stop and join in

Heaven help the wandering man
No one to care or to love
Heaven protect the wandering man
I need some aid from above.

The lights go out, the sun is down
No one left, is hanging ‘round
Another day, another song
No one stays for very long

Heaven help the wandering man
No one to care or to love
Heaven protect the wandering man
I need some aid from above.

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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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