Archive for the ‘Short Story’ category


January 14, 2011

This lady at work, she gave me a joint of weed to try, claimed she grew it herself, called it Purple Train Wreck. I saved it for the evening, planning to relax in my room, listen to music, read a book, practice the guitar. It burned real smooth, had a nice taste, but not much happening otherwise. Disappointed, I jumped in my jeep and headed for the bar.

Traffic was moving fast and furious, streets looked unfamiliar at night. The bar, when I finally found it, was noisy and crowded. People were giving me dirty looks. I started to cough, like I was coming down with something. I could feel it spreading throughout my body. I’m going to die, I thought. The immediacy of that possibility saturated my consciousness with anxieties. I needed a drink.

The bartender said he couldn’t serve me, said I was barred for starting a fight. You got the wrong guy, I told him, I don’t start fights. He said, look what you’re doing now, you’re starting an argument. No, I’m not starting an argument, I said, I’m just defending myself. He threatened to call the cops if I didn’t leave peacefully. I told him to kiss my ass. I didn’t realize the bouncer was standing behind me until he wrapped a beefy arm around neck, and said, we don’t kiss ass here, buddy. Then he grabbed me by the ass and threw me out the back door. I had to climb over a large pile of smelly garbage bags to get out of the narrow alleyway behind the bar.

When I reached the parking lot, I found several cars blocking my jeep but I certainly wasn’t going back inside the bar looking for help. I could either take a cab home or spend the evening on foot in the neighborhood waiting for the parking lot to clear. It was a warm night so I decided to walk down to the next bar just a few blocks away.

Streetlamps were dim and far apart. All the storefronts lining the narrow street were dark as far as I could see except for the occasional bar. The street itself had two lanes of busy traffic with a parking lane on each side filled to capacity. Yet I seemed to be the lone pedestrian on the sidewalk.

I had gone a block and a half when a man and a woman came running at me from out of the darkness of a storefront alcove. The man held an empty wine bottle in the air, and said: “I’m gonna bust your motherfucking head wide open.” And I thought, if he was going to do it, he would have done it, not tell me about it. I assumed he was bluffing. She screamed: “We want money.”

I would have given them money if they had asked me for it. I would have invited them to dinner and drinks at the bar. I found them attractive, somehow, I couldn’t say why. He looked like a taller, aging, emaciated Charles Manson without the swastika on his forehead and she looked like a strung out teenage runaway from a Hollywood casting call: too perfect. How did they get together, I wondered.

A police cruiser stopped in the street and flashed a bright spotlight in our direction. The couple departed as quickly as they had arrived.

“What are you doing out there?” a police officer demanded, his voice amplified and broadcast through a speaker mounted on top of the police cruiser alongside the flashing lights.

“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” I said: “I’m walking down the goddamned street. Why aren’t you chasing those muggers?”

“Get in the car,” the officer demanded: “Don’t make me come out there after you.”

They were holding up traffic. And, since I had done nothing for which I should fear being arrested, I climbed into the back seat. The doors locked with a loud thunk as the police cruiser began to slowly move up the street.

“Jesus! You’re reeking marijuana,” the officer in the driver’s seat said. The officer in the passenger seat turned, shinned his flashlight in my face, and said: “Don’t you know that’s against the law, sir? You look ripped. What have you been smoking?”

“Wait a minute,” I said: “I don’t get this. You’re letting those mugger get away but you’re hassling me for copping a buzz and walking down the street?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” the officer responded: “Nobody’s getting away with anything. We’re part of a dragnet operation in force tonight attempting to clean up this neighborhood. If you people would stop coming down here to cop your buzz, at the drug house and the whore house and the bar, and stop wandering the streets stoned out of your mind, that would make our job a whole lot easier.”

A voice deep inside my head told me to shut my mouth, these guys were just doing their job. I handed over my drivers license and showed several other pieces of ID from my wallet. As the officer entered my identification into their computer, a female dispatcher’s voice filled the cruiser’s interior with radio chatter. I had no idea what she was saying but the officers seemed concerned. After handing back my drivers license, the officer in the passenger seat, said: “We could hassle you, sir, if we wanted to, but we don’t. We’re not even going to search you this time. If there is a next time, we won’t be so forgiving. Go home. Stay out of trouble.” They dropped me where my jeep was parked. And then they hastily moved up the street through traffic with lights flashing and sirens wailing.

The parking lot had cleared. I jumped in my jeep, drove straight home, locked the door, sat in the dark, thinking: Why am I alive? Why here, alone in this old house, in this crumbling city? Where am I going in life? I’m too passive, too accepting, allowing things to just happen. I’m always looking backwards, trying to figure out what went wrong. I should be looking forward, getting ready for the future, with optimistic anticipation. When I closed my eyes, I felt myself floating weightlessly in a vast empty space. I saw a dim light on a far horizon coming closer, getting brighter. Then it hit me, like a train wreck.


Ann Hides Her Bush

November 4, 2010

Ann works in her autumn garden while her husband, Buddy, along with their son, Bud Junior, and his school chum, Mickey, are out in the now empty grain field playing ball games. And that’s how she likes it. She would rather see the men out there playing with their balls than hanging around the house fighting, which are the only two things they seem interested in doing, or watching others do.

Her garden provides her with a unique natural sanctuary. Lined with trees to the north, it’s rimmed all around with selected vines and bushy vegetation. Working alone, she builds a fire, burning dried twigs and branches in a crudely constructed rock pit. In a small kettle of boiling water, she steeps leaves freshly picked from a bush she keeps hidden in a protected area of the garden. She drinks the tea warm, sipping slowly, enjoying its sharp, bitter taste on her lips and tongue, mixing it with saliva before swallowing.

Her consciousness expands to include an immediate perception of eternal time and infinite space. Earth is alive and speaks to her of knowing. The material world transforms through stages into its ethereal essence until she is pure thought in a universal mind of cosmic consciousness.

When the men return hot and sweaty, she has their favorite beverage waiting. It’s a fermented mixture of grains from the field along with herbs and spices from her garden, made with pure water from the flowing well. Buddy’s a big man with a big thirst. Throwing back his head, he empties a large foamy mug with one long, pulsating gulp. The two younger men sip from their foamy mugs and laugh, shaking their head to acknowledge Buddy as the winner in that category of competition, if none other.

Ann drinks with the men before serving dinner but she prefers her beverage made from fermented grapes. On the kitchen table there’s a tossed salad of garden greens topped with an oil, vinegar, and herb dressing. There’s butter and cheese to go with fresh bread still hot from the over. And there’s a thick soup of mixed beans, turnips, onions, and sweet basil.

Deborah’s Dilemma

June 2, 2010

He was in the process of choking her to death when she did it, she claimed. My long time good buddy, she stabbed him, with a kitchen knife. He beat her one time too many and now he’s dead. End of story, right? Not quite. Federal marshals saw a man in flashy, bright colored cloths standing at the curb in front of her townhouse apartment on the afternoon a witness escaped from their custody with the help of a man fitting that description.

She lied to federal agents, said she knew nothing about a man in flashy, bright colored cloths. They couldn’t prove anything different so they let her go. Later in their investigation they uncovered evidence implicating the deceased, my good buddy, in the same domestic terror plot supposedly masterminded by Max Nitz. They called Deborah back in for further questioning. Again, she told them she knew nothing about it.

They put her under close surveillance and soon realized she supported herself by dealing cocaine to a wide circle of creative friends in the downtown and campus areas. Federal agents coerced her supplier into setting her up for a major bust. He told her she could make a nice chunk of cash quick and easy. She went for it.

I wondered if I would ever see her again. She would certainly be a different Deborah after everything she had already gone through and everything she was still going through. My heart ached for her, starting from the moment I learned she had been arrested for the bloody murder of my once good buddy. I never questioned her story, as presented in the news. I was afraid to make contact with her on my own while she was still under investigation for involvement with the terror group. But I waited at lunchtime in the park by the fountain everyday hoping she would contact me there. When they busted her for delivering three kilos of cocaine to undercover agents, I almost lost hope.

Then, one sunny day, during my lunch break in the park, as I stuffed my mouth with a messy frankfurter, I heard her voice saying: “That’s heartburn city, mister peaceful John.” I wondered if I might be imagining things. When I looked up, a woman wearing a large hat and dark sunglasses looked back.

“It’s me,” she said: “I needed to see you. I hurt so much inside.” I stood to put my arms around her. But, she said: “No, not here. Let’s go somewhere.”

I called my supervisor and told her I needed the rest of the day off. Then I rented a car and we drove out of the city. She talked and cried while I steered the car along quiet country roads and listened. She still loved him, I realized, and I wanted to ask why he was choking her to death at the time she stabbed him. But I decided to wait and let her tell me that on her own terms.

At one point, she sat up, wiped the tears from her eyes, and silently stared out the window. I felt so relieved to see her stop crying, I refrained from saying anything, until we reached our destination, a small crafts oriented village with a good restaurant, about an hour’s drive from the city.

We parked the car and started walking. I suggested we sit outside on the restaurant’s back patio to enjoy the sunny afternoon. Deborah avoided eye contact as she quietly followed my lead. Business was light as usual for that time of day and we were able to occupy a table in a previously empty section, creating a quiet atmosphere in which to relax and converse. I attempted to brighten her somber mood with cheerful small talk about the menu and the location’s history. But I received no verbal response from her and she didn’t even look up until the waitress came over and asked for our order. Her mood had not diminish her appetite, however. She ate hardily and drank several glasses of wine.

While waiting for her to initiate a conversation, I quietly mused. She would never again be that sweet and innocent young woman I first met and fell in love with just a short time ago. I found that difficult to accept. And I realized it would be even more difficult for her. Yet, as I watched her eating, her silence seemed forced and calculated to me. And I began to entertain negative possibilities. What if it wasn’t self defense? What if she deliberately killed him? But why? And in such a bloody fashion, with a large kitchen knife?

Halfway through our second bottle of wine, she stopped eating, sat back in her chair, and said: “They want me to commit myself to a psycho clinic for therapy.”

“Who does?” I responded reflexively.

“My parents, their lawyer, and some doctor. I’m a victim in all of this, why can’t they just leave me alone? Even the cocaine thing is a phoney rap. I got set up with that deal. My regular people love the quality of my stuff, they love my price, and they love me. It shouldn’t even be illegal. Drug law makers and enforcers need a psycho clinic at least as much as I do, if not more, from the looks of things.”

“What can you do about it?”

“Run, change my name, and never look back. I didn’t ask for any of this. These events have their own momentum. Why should I continue to submit myself? I shouldn’t, and I won’t.”

“Run? To where?”

“I don’t know yet. I was hoping maybe you could help me with that. I need money.”

“Money? I haven’t got a whole lot of money but I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“I also need a place to stay. I’m living with my parents right now. I love them but, they’re driving me crazy with their platitudinous happy talk, their upbeat ignorance, dismissing all bad news, never assimilating or reflecting on anything they consider to be negative thinking. For them, the solution to every problem lies in a mere attitudinal shift. They believe I need therapy and counseling to adjust my attitude about sex and drugs and religion and everything else.”

“What legal charges are you facing?”

“That’s the clincher. My court date is coming up soon. I’ll get time for the cocaine. And I do not want to go to prison, not for any amount of time.”

“Living on the run isn’t easy.”

“Living in prison isn’t easy. I’ll take my chances on the run. They’re just getting started with the charges against me, John. They set me up with the drug bust just so they could hold me in prison until I’m desperate and will do anything to get out. Then I’ll tell them whatever they want to know about Max Nitz. And they feel certain it won’t take me long to become that desperate, once inside their woman’s prison.”

“What do you know about Max Nitz?”

“More than you do, obviously. What made you attack that federal marshal? Why did you help Liz get away from him? They really want you. They have questioned me for hours, trying to break me, hoping I would give you up to them.”

“I honestly don’t know why I did it. I had been thinking irrationally all morning. After I awoke from an intensely sexual dream, I put on these strange looking cloths made of flashy, bright colored fabrics. I had them hanging in my closet, but I was always afraid to wear them. You saw me, you know what I looked like.”

“I really liked what you were wearing. You looked great. And your outfit was so flashy, the federal marshal doesn’t remember much else about you.”

“If he looked directly into my face again, however, he might recognize me. He said he’d remember. And I’m certainly not interested in testing his memory.”

“You’ve become somewhat of a hero to Max’s followers and anyone else, especially women, who might sympathize with Liz for not wanting to testify against her father. Max’s followers have also been seeking your identity. And I’m running from them, too. They think I know too much.”

My feelings for Deborah were vacillating. Part of me wanted to drop her like a hot potato. Her story presented more questions than it answered. Another part of me still wanted to fuck her, come hell or high water. But, knowing how she may have suffered to protect my identity, the greater part of my feelings for her cautiously reentered the domain of love. Too many questions remained unanswered, however, to feel unconditionally committed, and I said: “How come Max Nitz and his followers think you know too much?”

“Because I know everything about them, John. I grew up within the militia movement. My father was a leader in the central group from which Max’s group split and moved in a more militant direction. Although I never became a full time follower, I went to a lot of their meetings. That’s where I met your friend, Philip, your good buddy, as you say.”

“I had no idea Phil was involved in the militia movement.”

“Then you didn’t really know him. You may have known your boyhood friend, but you didn’t know the man he grew into. Because the militia movement meant more to him than anything, including me. And when they asked him to prove that, he almost choked me to death. I had to kill him or be killed by him. That’s a horrible choice to face. And what really hurt the most was knowing he loved them more than he loved me. That gave me the burst of energy I needed to reach for the knife and stab him while he was choking the life out me.”

“What kind of people are they, that they would ask him to do such a thing?”

“They’re the kind of people who might kill a son to prove their loyalty to a vengeful leader who they identified with and feared. They have an almost mystical identification with Max. And the federal government made him look even more important than he really is by arresting him. That has emboldened his followers. Max’s top lieutenants are increasingly being challenged by a new radical element within their ranks, to do something violent, to prove their loyalty, if nothing else.”

Deborah’s connection to the radical militia group and Max Nitz further complicated my ability to fully commit to her needs. Running from her parents and the federal agents would be difficult enough. But running from the psychopathic extremists she had just described would require a level of cunning and courage I had never before demanded of myself and I wasn’t sure I could do it.

“Oh my god, here comes Fritz,” Deborah cried out.

“Who’s Fritz?” I wondered aloud.

“He’s the last person I want to see right now. He’s Max’s brother, Fritz Nitz.”

I reflexively stood and turned to face him. He didn’t look anything like I had expected a psychopathic extremist to look. In fact, he looked normal to me as he cheerfully smiled, extended his hand, and said: “Hello, John. I’m Fritz.”

After shaking his hand, I said: “Have a seat, Fritz, let’s talk.” I felt confident in my own ability to cope with the present circumstances. Better now than later, I reasoned, hoping a confrontation with Fritz could eliminate Deborah’s need to run from them in the future.

She looked sincerely frightened, as she said: “How did you find me here?”

He replied: “We just recently moved our militia’s headquarters here, to this tradition laden village. You would know that, honey, if you stayed more in touch. When you’re finished eating, I’ll take you over there.”

“No thanks,” she said, snappishly.

“I insist,” he said, snapping back. Then, turning to me again, he said: “She can be delusional at times, have you noticed that? Or are you gullible enough to believe everything she tells you? Nobody I know asked Philip to prove his loyalty by killing her. She’s the only one who entertains that idea. Maybe it helps her justify what she did, to believe that, but it’s not true. And she needs to stop telling those kinds of lies to them government agents.”

“Why would Philip tell me that if it wasn’t true?” Deborah responded.

“If he told you something like that, he wasn’t referring to us. You must have misunderstood him. Or you’re just making it up. And maybe you don’t even know which one it is, yourself, anymore.”

“Leave her alone, Fritz,” I said: “She’s been through enough already. And she needs to get completely away from all of this, including you, the feds, her parents, and everyone else.”

“Except you, of course,” he replied, lightly punching me in the arm as he laughed.

“Yes, except me. Because I have no real involvement in any of this.”

“You helped Liz escape. Sounds like involvement to me. Them government agents might thinks so, too. I’m glad you did it. As is the rest of the group. We’d welcome you in with open arms. And face it, you have nowhere else to go.”

Deborah went to the ladies room and I asked Fritz what he thought about the circumstances surrounding Philip’s death; he said: “If Phil had picked a less attractive woman he might still be alive. He could get insanely jealous, lose his temper. And Deborah’s quite attractive. I’d like to fuck her, wouldn’t you? Or maybe you already have. Maybe it’s you Phil was jealous of. Maybe he was choking her because he found out she fucked you.”

“No, I’ve never had sex with Deborah,” I said: “I’ve only known her for a short time and this is the most we’ve been together. But I understand what you’re saying. If you’re the jealous type, don’t pick such an attractive woman for a mate.”

I could see traces of white crystalline powder around both of Deborah’s nostrils when she returned from the ladies room. Her whole manner had changed. She sat up straight on the edge of her chair with an alert and determined expression on her face; and said: “I’ll stay with you in the militia community, Fritz, but I want John to stay living on the outside. We’re probably the only two who know he helped Liz escape.”

Fritz said: “A few others know about John, Deborah, but you are the one we worry. If you agree to stay with us and John cooperates on basic trust and security issues, it could go a long way towards calming people’s nerves.”

I said: “What trust and security issues?”

“We will respect your security needs, John, and we will trust you to do the same for us, and for Deborah. Them government agents ain’t stupid. When Deborah disappears, they’ll suspect us. We can cope with that. If you’re interested in seeing Deborah again, you’ll follow our instructions without deviation. You look like an intelligent guy, John. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“Yes, I understand what you’re saying, Fritz. Is that how you want it, Deborah?”

She looked agitated, perhaps already coming down from the cocaine toots and desiring more, as she said “None of this is happening the way I want it. I don’t know what else to do. I can deal with living in the militia community. I can’t handle going to prison. It might be a while before I see you again. But do as they tell you. And I’ll see you whenever.”

After Deborah’s departure with Fritz, I stayed sitting at the table on the restaurant’s back patio. My head was spinning from both the wine and the circumstance. I needed strong hot coffee before I tackled the long drive back to the city in a rented car by myself.

I returned the car to its downtown rental lot and rode the bus home. As I entered the house, I met my mother, along with her friend, heading out the door; and she said: “We’ll be gone for the weekend. Take care of yourself. There’s food in the refrigerator. Don’t forget church on Sunday.” She offered me her cheek to kiss, and said: “Love you.” Then she was gone.

With the house to myself, my imagination began to flow. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom knowing my dream girl would be there waiting for me. She never lets me down. Well, almost never. While Deborah’s dilemma still weighed heavily on my heart, I made a conscious effort to forget about the so called real world. With my imagination I could conceive of a world more to my liking. Although dealing with my dream girl did have its challenges. She wanted sex all the time. And sometime I just wanted to talk.


May 27, 2010

Childhood notions about existence, immortality, and happy endings still persist in my consciousness at twenty two. My councilor called me a late bloomer. I didn’t do well in high school until my senior year then I got all A’s. They said I had emotional problems in grade school. I didn’t know, or want to know, what they were talking about. And I wouldn’t take the pills they tried giving me. My father said if I wouldn’t take the pills I’d better straighten up or he’d beat it out of me. And he did. I eventually found ways to control myself and stay out of trouble. I don’t remember reading books, drawing pictures, or listening to music. All I remember are feelings, mostly negative. Fear dominated my motivational psychology.

An eleventh grade teacher changed my outlook. She motivated me to excel. One day she caught me looking at her ass and she kind of smiled when our eyes met. I thought, wow, she’s really kool. I started turning in my homework every day and reciting in class. She asked me to stay after one day and I got a hard on just being alone with her. She said she knew I could do better and she wanted me to try harder in all my other classes. Without her, I would never have been accepted into college.

My college grades weren’t bad. A’s in calculus, B’s in programming, but only a C in analytical physics, the most important class of all if I wanted to go to engineering school, and I did. The C wouldn’t do it. My lab work wasn’t good enough. Text book memorization wasn’t the problem. I knew the laws of physics, I could derive all the equations, and I understood the experiments. I just couldn’t apply it in the lab. I didn’t have enough patience to tinker around with tools. The lab instructor said I would never make it in engine school. My decision to drop out became easier after that.

Basic construction trade tools, including pick and shovel, suited my temperament better than the physics lab tools; and putting money in the bank every payday gave me a secure feeling of independence I had never had before. I didn’t know what I wanted to do next with my life but I was enjoying working outside everyday. I was into my body. I would go home after work and lift weights to get ready for my nude modeling job at the art class every evening on campus. I would always use cold water in the shower. Hot water relaxes your muscles. And I wanted mine to stay pumped up for the art class.

After my encounter with Professor Purcell, I thought seriously about going back to school as a drama major, and I asked Doreen about it while helping her move some heavy industrial sewing machines to her studio and living quarters on the top floor of an old four story warehouse building near campus. She said: “If you want to teach and publish and have credentials, for a myriad number of reason, then yes, you should return to school. Maybe not right away but don’t wait too long. Meanwhile, think about this. I’m opening a small stage downtown. You could get your start there. Work your way up. I can’t pay much but the experience would be priceless, if you’re really interested in learning the theater.”

I looked into her searching, big brown eyes, and said: “Does a bear shit in the woods?” And immediately wished I hadn’t.

“That means yes, I take it,” she said, her face expressing both amusement and surprise.

We had never really talked much from the beginning when our paths first started crossing on open mic nights at the bar near campus. I didn’t know who she was but she stood out in the crowd. Beautiful, angelic face, fine body, stylish dresser. She was always at the center of the hippest crowd, it seemed to me, and I found myself daydreaming about her while at work. I started hanging around campus just to watch her from a distance, getting closer with each encounter. And then one day, in the campus coffee shop, she acknowledged me with a long stare concluding with a quizzical smile, leaving me with the feeling we had talked. And she acknowledged me regularly thereafter.

Why did she ask me to help her? Why not someone from the university? She wanted a worker, someone who could get the job done. I had no reason to believe it was anything more than that; and I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to make a good impression. After my first comment, I decided I had better allow her to do most of the talking.

“Come over here,” she said, turning on the overhanging light above one of the three large cutting tables in her sewing area. “Here, feel,” she said, indicating one of the many bolts of fabric stacked on the table: “Look at these colors.” As I felt the fabrics and gestured my approval, she watched intently, and then said: “Silks and satins and lace. Black, white, and scarlet red. Trimmed in silver and gold. Dresses, capes, hats, and gloves. They want it all delivered by the end of the week. I’ve got materials and equipment. I’ve got sewers coming in on Monday morning. And I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do between now and then to have everything ready so they can just step in and start sewing.”

I would have walked through burning coals to be with Doreen. Spending the weekend helping her set up the cutting and sewing operation was like going to heaven without even dying. I began to understand were our similarities resided. We were both at a crossroads. She knew where she was going from there. I did not. But I’d happily be her handyman.

Lucifer Rising

May 3, 2010

perfect and beautiful once
now transformed demonically
hellish eternity awaits
for sinning unforgivably

Before time and the physical universe came into being, the once perfect and beautiful Cherubim, Lucifer, had already been banished from Heaven for the unforgivable sin of questioning God’s judgement. Leading up to his banishment, Lucifer had infected many other angels with his thinking and they were likewise banished. They were horrified to find themselves arriving in Hell where they were transformed into demonic beings. Lucifer became Satan.

Why did God create the physical universe and place humanity within it? Satan couldn’t figure that one out. When God decided to banish lost human souls to Hell, it became unbearable there for Satan. God was still punishing him, he concluded, and he spent more time on Earth than in Hell.

Satan became attracted to humankind and the other demonic angels attempted to confine his activites on Earth. Pitman Grumpt, a lonely old man, unknowingly gave Satan a safe place to hide. While attempting to use an ancient Egyptian magical spell to protect his land from developers, Pitman conjured Satan’s presence in the physical form of a dung bug, a scarab beetle. Satan was delighted. He could remain there undetected indefinitely, if careful.

Pitman knew Satan’s material manifistation as Mr. Beetlebug, who became his friend and began to help him save his present land and regain the other land his family once owned in the area.

Nell Shea opened the door for Satan to enter Earth’s world as a human, he became Marlowe, Christopher Marlowe. Through Nell he met Klaus and became deeply involved in human affairs by expanding Klaus’ knowledge of science.

Klaus became a world authority on science and technology. Therefore, when he warned the world of a pending collision with a massive shooting star traveling from the center of the galaxy outward, the major powers followed his lead. They transfered military spending and other resources to preventive and security measures under Klaus’ supervision. A unified global effort to avert the collision transformed human society, eliminating violence, poverty, hunger, and ignorance in the process.

Satan earned God’s forgiveness for his part. He was risen back up to Heaven and restored to his original perfection and beauty as God’s favorite Cherubim, Lucifer. God’s only purpose in creating humanity and the physical universe, as it turns out, was to give Lucifer this opportunity for redemption.

the end of time
rhyme and reason
a new beginning

Dust in the Wind

April 25, 2010

Bombs fell from the sky, devestated the city, leaving rubble everywhere. With an enemy patrol close behind me, I searched for a place to hide before sunrise. An opening to a stairwell, concealed by fallen timbers and bricks, led down into the basement of what had once been an apartment house. In the pitch black darkness, I heard someone’s breathing. “Don’t shout,” I pleaded.

She recoiled when I touched her and started to scream. I held her face firmly against the side of my hooded parka and whispered in her ear: “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Dressed in underclothing, she shivered uncontrolably in the cold night air. I opened my full length parka and pulled her inside. She immediately passed out. Her breathing remaind labored for a while and then she seemed to relax and fall sleep. Our breathing rhythms syncronized and then I fell asleep.

The sound of voices awakened me, enemy voices, just outside the rubble covered basement. Shafts of daylight penetrated the darkness, partially illuminating the stairwell. I held my breath while silently praying. The woman inside the parka with me shifted her position against my body but she didn’t awaken.

I hadn’t been with a woman in years and I couldn’t resist looking at the her almost naked body in the dim light once the enemy voices fadded in the distance. My eyes traveled to her legs and back up again. Her eyes opened and looked directly into mine. Our lips came together as we mutually embraced. Her soft moist tongue entered my mouth and my penis instantly hardened. It wasn’t the right time or place but I had already passed the point of no return. When I immediately started to climax my first instinct was to pull out but she said held on.

I had been seperated from my unit for several days. Staying there wasn’t the right thing to do necessarily, but, without updated information, I had no idea of where to go next. When we finally stopped fucking, I began to explore the basement. It appeared to have been a completely furnished, one bedroom apartment before being dammage during the aerial bombardment.

Her bedroom had been demolished and was inaccessable at first. We cleared a path to gain access to her cloths. The kitchen cupboards contained canned and packaged foods, about enough to last a week or two. The refregerator still contained some edible fruits and vegetables along with rotting meat and spoiling dairy products. Herbs and spices lined a shelf by the powerless electric stove. Finding water would be a problem, forcing us to look around outside.

While waiting for her to get dressed, I opened a can of chicken noodle soup. She came from her bedroom wearing a rugged military style outfit including boots and cap, her blond hair, blue eyes, and red lips complemented by black leather. Before I could say anything, bombs came raining down from the sky again and the world exploded around us.

I awoke days later in a military hospital barely clinging to life, in and out of consciousness. I couldn’t communicate for weeks. Was she alive? That’s all I really wanted to know. When I could finally speak, no one knew anything about her.

After the war, I walked through the rebuilt city, not knowing exactly where she had lived, yet hoping for a miracle. What had the war accomplished? If I could find her again that would be accomplishment enough to have justified the war, to me.

Lover Come Back

April 21, 2010

“Hey, I write in my free time, with free software. I publish on a free blog site. And you want me to charge people to read it? In my dreams.”

“Free time? All you have is free time. And all you do is sit up there in your room alone, writing or staring at the computer screen, with your mind somewhere else. We don’t have a relationship anymore. And I’m leaving you, good-by.” 

I stood speechless, in a state of disbelief, as she walked out the door. Why did she do it? Things aren’t that bad, are they?

Yes, I spend a lot of my time alone: reading, studying, thinking, dreaming, wandering around in my imagination. But I’m not really alone. I’m in an eternal space where I sense the presence of an inspirational spirit, a Muse. She can’t be jealous of that, can she?

Now that she’s gone, I can’t get her out of my mind. Her scent is everwhere. I want to reach out and touch her. I can feel her breast brushing against my face, her firm nipples leading the way to my lips. Why do I think of that? There must be a reason. I wan’t her back.

Isn’t it strange how life works, especially intimate relationships. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. I received a double whammy. When my lover left me, my muse followed her out the door.