Quixotic Stories

When It All Changed

2011-07-20T22:45:00.000-07:00

Kids’ stuff. That’s what everyone called comic books. For decades, they were mere escape stories printed on cheap paper sold to young children scared of the new urban landscape. It was a far cry from what Will Eisner envisioned due, in large part, to the efforts of the Senate Subcommittee on Juvenile Delinquency and Dr. Frederic Wertham in 1954. Shortly thereafter, the Comics Code Authority was formed as an attempt for the industry to police itself. As a result, genres such as horror, crime stories, and other pulp fiction disappeared from comic book shelves and according to Frank Miller, “the basic idea of ‘superheroes’ was made impossible by putting it in a world where it didn’t need any.”

Twenty five years ago, nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union seemed to be the only conclusion to the Cold War. Economic disparity ripped this country apart at the seams, favoring few and punishing the rest. With the emergence of crack cocaine, the stage was set for the U.S. to experience its highest crime rates in history. It seemed we needed superheroes once again. But in 1986 a new breed of comics refused to let us escape and instead held a mirror up to the gritty reality that we lived in. The door would be violently kicked open for subsequent writers to elevate this “kids’ stuff” to a true art form.

From 1966 to 1986 Adam West defined the caped crusader for a generation in the live action series, Super Friends, and the occasional Scooby Doo cameo. It was a fun version of Batman but it was a Batman without a past. In The Dark Knight Returns, Frank Miller not only reminded everyone what tragedy would spur on a young boy to strike fear in the heart of Gotham’s criminals, but what drove a 55-year-old Bruce Wayne to don the cape and cowl once more. With a few panels, no words, and barely any color, one of the most famous scenes in Miller’s masterpiece reminded the world what forever changed Bruce Wayne: the brutal death of his parents.

Frank Miller, a master of pacing, created a story that was akin to watching movies rather than reading comics. Thomas and Martha Wayne’s murders unfolded as if it were in slow motion. Shadows dominated the dramatic scenes displaying the influence that film noir had on Miller’s work. But it’s the hard hitting, wise cracking prose that tied everything together and would later become his signature style. The Dark Knight Returns would also be the first series that DC would publish on prestige format. The cover was heavier stock, the paper was literally shiny and new, and it would be a few pages longer than the average comic book. But most importantly, it told the story that Miller wanted to tell.

Not only does Miller pit the Dark Knight against authoritative figures but examines how a masked vigilante would affect the city he’s meant to protect. Wannabes followed in Batman’s footsteps, sometimes ending in violent death; an element that Christopher Nolan put in The Dark Knight. This negative attention is magnified a hundredfold by the media more interested in projecting opinions as opposed to delivering facts. Whether it was a gang called The Mutants, the police, or even Superman acting on behalf of the U.S. government nothing would stand in Batman’s way to bring order to his city. While The Dark Knight Returns resurrected the world’s greatest detective, Watchmen decidedly sought to deconstruct the genre all together.

In a world threatened by nuclear fallout, it only seemed logical to have heroes face the same problems we did. But Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons took it a step further and argued we would ultimately end up in the same place. All the characters of Watchmen were still, at their very core, human; all at once fragile and alone. Rorschach and the Comedian were sociopaths, Sally Jupiter was an exhibitionist, Dan and Laurie sought the approval of their parental figures, but all of them walked down the same self-destructive path. These adventurers set out to save the world, but they could barely save themselves.

At first glance, Watchmen is a simple mystery complete with colorful characters, red herrings, and a detective in a worn fedora. But the intricate plot served not just to keep the readers’ interest but fleshed out each character and the universe they lived in. Every word and image is filled with details that are only truly appreciated after multiple readings. The attention to detail on both Moore and Gibbons’ part is what helped create this world that is so different yet vaguely similar to ours. Not many comics, even to this day, can boast to have references from Bob Dylan and Carl Jung and still tie them all together to a single theme.

Alan Moore once said that “if you’re talking about superheroes, it’s very likely to be a meditation on power.” The most powerful character was Dr. Manhattan’s power won the Vietnam War in two months but drifted him further from his own humanity. The smartest man in the world, Ozymandias, sought to save the world by destroying it. Rorschach’s refusal to compromise “even in the face of Armageddon” solved the murder mystery but led to his demise.

With all the death and violence it would be easy to say it was a dark ending. But it does offer a glimmer of hope. It was a lowly intern named Seymour who (possibly) brought the truth to the world. Looking at the story as a whole, from Adrian’s grand scheme to the Tales of the Black Freighter to the very last panel of the novel it seems that, good or bad, the lesson lies in the fact that the fate of this world is “entirely in [our] hands.” Because superheroes dominated the landscape, it seemed there was little left to explore once Watchmen had thoroughly deconstructed the genre.

In stark contrast to The Dark Knight Returns and Watchmen, Maus was a personal story dealing with not only the struggle of a man to survive the ordeals of the Holocaust but an introspective look at Art Spiegelman’s relationship with his curmudgeon father, Vladek. Originally published as a short comic strip in 1972, Spiegelman would create a longer version of the story; Volume I of this version was published in 1986.

Alan Moore once referred to Art Spiegelman as “the single most important comic creator working within the field” and it is little wonder why. Despite working in only black and white, certain images seem to pop out and stay with you such as a road crossing in the shape of a swastika or people going insane on the train to Auschwitz. At first glance, the story seems to meander in every direction offering no real solution to hate. Vladek, even as a Holocaust survivor, still has racist tendencies. Even Spiegelman himself confesses, “It wasn’t to make the world a better place by explaining the Holocaust to anyone but to me.” By the end of the story, Art knows his father a great deal better and Vladek was even reunited with his wife, Anja. War can bruise and scar humanity but even if our future looks bleak we still have family and friends to lean on.

With the art form taking shape there were few avenues for new artists to burst onto the scene. The powerhouses that controlled much of the market were DC and Marvel, both of which were difficult to get one’s proverbial foot in. However, in 1986, a comic book store owner from Portland, Oregon named Mike Richardson decided to offer a new platform for amateur writers and artists to tell their stories. Dark Horse Comics was born. Ushering in new characters like Concrete, Usagi Yojimbo, The Goon, Hellboy, and the riffraff of Sin City, Dark Horse gave artists more creative freedom. Today, Dark Horse continues its legacy as one of the largest companies still accepting submissions from amateur writers and artists. Along with being the leading publisher of licensed comics, Dark Horse also publishes Star Wars and Buffy the Vampire Slayer stories to name a few.

There would be no war. The Berlin wall was torn down, Communism fell, and the threat of self destruction faded with the end of the decade. Comics were not responsible for ending that anguish and heartbreak but they did offer us a new perspective of our reality. It was heartbreak and as Will Eisner once said, “You can’t talk about heartbreak to a kid.” The Dark Knight Returns, Watchmen, and Maus told stories we could relate to. That is what true art should be able to do; to put up a mirror so that reality can make just a bit more sense. Nobody was able to predict what a banner year 1986 was going to be for comic books. Maybe it was tachyon interference. But one thing is for certain, twenty five years ago, comics grew up and they haven’t looked back since.

You Know Who You Are

2011-07-11T01:36:00.000-07:00

I'd like to think that there is only one person reading this at this very moment on this very day. You know who you are. This day is very important to you and you already know why. I'm sure that even if we were still speaking with each other, chances are that you still wouldn't be here reading these very words. So maybe this is more for my benefit than it is yours. But I don't see any other way of letting you know that I'm still here... That is, if I'm needed. Maybe it's naivete or narcissism on my part, or maybe I'm just too goddamned lonely to let it go but.

There's a small albeit vocal part of me that's yearning to do whatever is necessary to forget that part of my life. That part with you in it that's, all at once, frustrating and exhilarating and familiar and new. But who am I kidding? I meant every word when I said I'm a better person for knowing you. I have no idea why I was a part of your life. That still confuses the hell out of me. I never questioned it mainly out of fear of jinxing the good thing we had going.

Moments when we were on the exact same page were rare but I treasured each and every one of them. Even then, however, I knew and possibly even you knew that I would never exceed that number two spot. There would always be that one person's shadow that I would be trying to crawl out of and we both know whose enormous shadow that is. I couldn't help but notice that all my better qualities that you enjoyed reminded you of the owner of said shadow. I let it slip, but it killed me whenever you made the comparison.

On the off-chance that you're reading this, I hope you take it easy today. For the most part, I'm putting this out there, not really expecting that you'd stumble upon this. Not that it'll happen, but vous êtes plus que l'accueil pour me contacter si vous voulez parler. Autrement, j'espère que tout est bien. Au revoir et j'adore.

2010: Best. Year. Ever.

2011-03-19T03:41:00.000-07:00

“Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone,” Joni Mitchell once wrote. A quarter of this year has come and gone. And what better time to post a review of the best year that I have had in the 28-plus years I have been on this planet so far? Why is that, you ask? Let me count the ways. But I think it’s a good idea if I start at the beginning.

When the countdown reached zero, a cacophony of joyous screams and plastic horns welcomed 2010. The sky was instantly ablaze with fireworks. Greens and reds and purples and yellows streaked across the velvet sky leaving faint starburst imprints of smoke. The faint smell of gunpowder crept through the air. That’s one great way to start off the year: at the Happiest Place on Earth. Well, technically a couple of yards outside of it. Disneyland sold out much earlier than I thought it would so the family and I got into California Adventure, but on the upside got free day passes to Disneyland valid at anytime in 2010 (which we would later use to spend my Dad’s birthday). I’ll be honest; I had low expectations spending the New Year with family, but ended up having a blast. The booze and smoked turkey legs helped a tad.

When Jaaaaaaa met L. A.

I remember a few years ago, I felt down for no particular reason. It was just one of those bad days where I was tired of feeling so damned lonely. It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t go to sleep. Normally, I’d put on music until I felt better or started to feel drowsy but nothing was working the way it usually did. To remedy the situation I decided to bring on the big guns and was about to play some Beach Boys. Brian Wilson’s mastery of harmonies tends to calm me down, but I had the urge to hear something different. That was when I turned to YouTube to find covers of God Only Knows. It may seem shallow, but I clicked on the still with the cute blonde girl playing the ukulele. I mean, who wouldn’t? I found myself listening to all her covers and the few originals that she posted. What can I say? I was in love.

Her name is Julia Nunes and she’s gained a whole lot more recognition since then with a dedicated fan base. Being the nerd that I am, I decided to send her some fan love in the form of a comic strip, which she later featured on her cover of the Beatles’ All My Loving. Suffice it to say that should I ever need to put a smile on her face, I can always put one of Julia’s videos on. Fast-forward to January 14, 2011 where she would play a gig at The Echo in Echo Park. It’s a small venue where a seedy part of town meets a hipster part of town. She performed. We, the fans, were entertained. And there was mingling afterwards. When I told her who I was, she actually referred to me as “that guy.” Good times, indeed. She’s as sweet, nice, and cute in real life as she is on the computer monitor. I’d later see her again when she was back in L.A. for VidCon. And yes, it was just as awesome.

Don’t tell me what I can’t do!

I realize that I never gave myself closure as far as my LOST mission. The mission was a fail, but in no way would I consider it, in any way, a failure. I got two (technically one and a half) autographs from the show’s cast. The first was Jorge Garcia who was kind enough to lend his help in getting others to sign the poster. Of course it wouldn’t be characteristic of my life if it went on from there and ended the way it should have. I misread ONE word in the letter that Jorge sent back with my poster, which TOTALLY changed what he was trying to tell me. And like an idiot, I posted what I misinterpreted on the internet and was thusly grilled by not only the new protector of the island, but by a slew of random people as well. Those were not fun times. I posted an open apology to Jorge Garcia and while he never formally accepted said apology, his posts in which he gave me a deserved scolding were deleted. His other posts were left as is. That’s good enough for me.

The second autograph should only count as half since it wasn’t on the poster itself. When I saw that Harold Perrineau had a facebook account, I definitely had to add him. Did you know that he is as talented a singer as he is an actor? He’s not one of those performers that go on stage for the sole purpose of being the center of attention. He genuinely seems to be having fun up there and loves nothing more than to see the audience having a good time as well. How do I know this? Well, he performed at the Universal CityWalk and I went there to see him. I bought one of his CD’s, which he signed. It’s not exactly an autograph on the poster, but it’s an autograph nonetheless and that’s good enough for me.

I’ve got a dog. His name is Jack and though he wasn’t named after Dr. Shephard he does play a bit part in this mission. I walk him at around the same time, pretty much every day. And while I never grew the cojones to walk up to Sam Anderson and ask for his autograph, he does on occasion bump into Jack and me. It’s funny, you’d never associate a man who courteously smiles and greets a random guy walking his dog in the afternoon with an actor whose résumé is as long as Sam Anderson’s. So I didn’t get his autograph at all, but a friendly nod in my direction is good enough for me.

Now, I know the initial stage of my mission was to find four cast members and have them sign the poster. But at least I got to meet and/or interact with at least four. If you were keeping count I’ve mentioned one who signed my poster, one who signed a CD, and one who’s cordial to my dog and me. Well, it turns out fate stepped in (or was it Jacob?) and decided to get me to that magic number of four. I didn’t approach her as I thought it would be awkward to randomly approach a 14-year-old girl at Porto’s. I was there to get some lunch when Madeline Carroll bumped into me. That brings it up to four cast members, and that’s good enough for me.

I suppose it’s a sign of maturity or something like that when you learn to distinguish between settling and being content. I’m happy with what I was able to accomplish and actually managed to see some sort of potential in myself that I wouldn’t have otherwise have seen if I hadn’t started on this crazy mission in the first place. I could continue and talk about the polarizing (pun intended) finale of the show, but it wouldn’t do much to sway those who loved or hated it. I will say that I thought the sixth season, as a whole, was sadly the show’s most bland. But the last episode did bring closure to the characters and if only for that, I enjoyed it. As far as plot devices, I was never a big fan of the flash-sideways. For those who absolutely hated the finale, take solace in the fact that the obsession is finally over… for now.

Unconventional

I had made it an annual pilgrimage. San Diego Comic Con, which has changed its name to Comic Con International, is the mecca for any geek as me. But my financial situation had left me stranded at home instead of the sunny city of San Diego. I was determined to make my presence known and saw that I could submit a picture to the souvenir book. I saw that it was going to be Peanuts’ 60^th anniversary and I knew exactly what I wanted to draw. I drew it, colored it, touched it up on Photoshop and saw that it was DC’s 75^th anniversary too. I asked the editor what the word limit was and he said all articles had to be at least 1,000 words long. Perfect. With literally one minute to spare, I sent it off to cyberspace and hoped it had gotten to the editor’s inbox in time.

It would be some months before I would know if I made the cut or not. In fact, the editor told me that the only way I would definitively know if my stuff was put into the final product was when they send out the souvenir books after the convention. I’m not so good with patience so I did some snooping around and found out which of my friends was able to make it down to San Diego. To my surprise, they took both my picture and my article! Of all places to have my work published, I am extremely flattered to have it in the Comic Con Souvenir Book.

Some might say that that would be enough to be thankful for in the realm of comic book fandom and I, for one, would wholeheartedly agree. But apparently the gods of geekdom had other plans for me. Usually, I’ll make my own lunch so I could stay home and read or write (more on why that’s relevant later). But there was this one day, sometime between the end of Comic Con and whenever it was I got a copy of my souvenir books in the mail, where I decided to go out for lunch. I was in the mood for tacos so I went for tacos and I bumped into a Bruce Timm. Bruce Timm!!!! The man who brought Batman The Animated Series, Superman The Animated Series, Batman Beyond, Justice League, Justice League Unlimited, Batman Brave and the Bold, Tiny Toons, Freakazoid, and Animaniacs to television. And I’m not even mentioning all the animated films like Batman Mask of the Phantastm, Green Lantern First Flight, and Under the Red Hood. As far as being a fanboy goes, 2010 will be tough to beat.

Driven On By Some Demon

On January 27, 2010 J.D. Salinger died. I never knew him. I never met him. And in all honesty I don’t think I could say that I really, truly wanted to. I’ve read The Catcher in the Rye hundreds of times and when he died, I sat down and read it again in a single sitting. “What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.” You know you have a good story when your characters are still relatable even after 60 years. I’ve always been a bookworm, but The Catcher in the Rye is the first book that really affected me. It was the first novel that I put down and felt so connected and so alone at the same time. I had been writing stories and poems long before I read Catcher for the first time. But it wasn’t until I read that book that I realized why I wrote and who I was writing for. It was the first time I admitted to myself that I was writing solely for me and didn’t have to feel so guilty about it.

It didn’t matter what interview I looked up, what book I read, or who I asked, it seemed that there are only two steps to becoming a writer; the first being to read and the second being to write. I set out to read at least one short story a day and write a short story a week for an entire year. Not only did I accomplish this, but I’d even read some extra stories. And that doesn’t include the other novels and graphic novels that I read that year. Everything from the supernatural to horror to science fiction to character studies and one-act plays filled my repertoire. I made it a point to find stories that I’ve never heard of and I’ll admit that there were some that I didn’t like. But I slowly learned that that was the entire point. If I only read stories that I knew I would enjoy, how would I know what was out there? I broadened my palette in the hopes getting a better idea of what kind of writer I wanted to be. And what better way to broaden one’s palette than to have an adventurous appetite?

When I first started writing stories on a weekly basis, I found my ideas for stories in notes I had made from years ago, from vivid memories that refused to fade with time, and from other stories that I enjoyed as a child. But as time progressed, I found it easier (sometimes frighteningly so) to dig into my subconscious and fish out characters that practically write themselves. As the year progressed it got harder to put the pen to paper, so to speak. For one, it’s a daunting task to write a short story a week for 52 straight weeks. But the stories started to delve into more personal situations that even I couldn’t fully understand yet. After writing and posting 53 stories, I was exhausted in every sense of the word.

I don’t quite consider myself a legitimate writer until something I write gets published in a literary magazine. Believe me, I’ve been trying. For the past few weeks I’ve been sending out manuscripts but what makes it difficult is the limited number of magazines that take unsolicited scripts from amateur writers such as me. I believe I’ve sent out just under 30 stories so far, and have received only 4 rejection letters. While I can’t, as of yet, call myself a writer after all those short stories, at the very least I can say that I ended 2010 knowing myself just a bit better.

The Inexhaustible Charm

I suppose it was inevitable. I had been putting off this subject until now, even debating whether I should write about her at all. I won’t put her name up here, but I did, in fact, meet a girl; a very special girl. She’s beautiful, charming, sweet, strong, had a mind of her own, and a fun personality. In other words, there’s nothing about her that says she’d be attracted to a guy like me. And yet she was. Every time the phone rang, the butterflies would stir and I would be hoping, praying that it was her on the other end. We would talk for hours about nothing, hanging up only so we would have an excuse to call each other again.

On paper, she would have never given me the time of day. Every other girl that I’ve been out with, I’ve had to put on some sort of show, play some part, and ultimately I think that’s why those relationships failed. I vowed to be myself with the next girl I liked but I was afraid that doing so would give this girl good enough reason to leave me on the spot. Oddly, she still liked me. I was my strange, oddball self and she still liked me, even thought I was cute for thinking she wouldn’t.

I’m not accustomed to people doing things for me. In my own eyes, I’m nothing special but she begged to differ. She wanted to move closer to me, get to know me even better, even speculated that we’d have a serious relationship going on. I didn’t understand why she liked me so much, I still don’t. The pessimist in me nearly drove me to paranoia thinking that there had to be a reason why a girl like her would find a guy like me attractive. But she liked me for me.

I’d like to tell you that we’re together and we lived happily ever after but life hardly ever turns out that way for anyone. Let’s just say stuff got in the way. If I had my way, believe me, we’d still be talking to each other, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life is that I could literally go crazy if I don’t learn to let go. I’d give anything, really, to hear her voice again. I never wanted it to end and a part of me secretly hopes that she’s reading this so she knows. But if it wasn’t meant to be, I can only hope that, wherever she is, she’s happy.

I Get By…

I’ve gone on and on about the people I’ve met and the things I’ve accomplished and everything that’s happened to me in 2010. It’s been an eventful year and while I still struggle as a victim in this broken economy, I ended last year with a smile; something I don’t think I’ve ever done on a New Year’s Eve. But despite all the blessings that I have been fortunate to have been bestowed upon me, it’s hardly the reason why I would call 2010 the best year ever.

Tennessee Williams, the playwright, once said, “Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose.” It’s hard to believe that it will be two years this June since I’ve graduated from college… again. The old adage is that time flies while you’re having fun, and while I did have a blast last year the reason I can’t believe that two years has passed is the company I keep. I still keep in touch with the same people that I got my degree with. That’s never really happened before. I graduate grade school and no one ever gave me a call. After high school, I never really heard from anyone again until I joined facebook. Even after getting my first degree, I never heard from those classmates again. But I suppose the company I keep now is different.

I never liked telling people about my birthday. I’ll throw it in conversation if it comes up, but I’ve always hated it when someone would bring up an upcoming birthday to vie for their friends’ attention. As a result I’ve never really had too many people come up and greet me when the day came. I didn’t mind too much, though I have to admit that there was a period in high school where it would’ve been nice to have gotten a surprise at my locker. So imagine my shock when my sister and my friends planned a surprise party for me. My love for mysteries coupled with the fact that my mom’s a horrible liar, led me to deduce the goings-on just mere hours before arriving to the party. But the sentiment was greatly appreciated to a degree that no one can truly understand.

The End

So that about sums up my best year ever. I’m sure there were some unfortunate instances, some snafus that put me in a bad mood, but obviously not bad enough for me to remember at all. Maybe that’s the trick to having a good year. There are the good times and the bad times, but in the end life is just a series of moments that you can either enjoy or learn from. I’m not going to pretend to know why things went right. But I definitely enjoyed the ride. I’m sure it’s not the last good year I’m going to have, but I’ve got tell you that it’s going to be tough one to top.

A Playlist for Civil Engineers

2011-02-24T01:19:00.000-08:00

One of the largest dilemmas that I've faced recently is the difficulty of reconciling my creative side with my analytic side. I'm a writer... but I'm also a civil engineer. It's hard to be creative with scientific reports (God knows I've tried) and it's even harder to make a page turner out of a spreadsheet. In fact, the only connection I could make was that it's difficult to find work in either field.

The best way I could do go about relating both sides of me is to create a playlist of music that I hope everyone will enjoy. I came up with 21 songs (plus a bonus track dedicated to my peeps) listed below in no particular order. If you've got suggestions, feel free to add them in the comments.

When the Levee Breaks by Kansas Joe McCoy and Memphis Minnie was written in 1929 about the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927. This is one of the few songs that actually relate to civil engineering, and it's still pertinent today after the disaster in New Orleans. Many people forget that it wasn't Hurricane Katrina that flooded the city, but levee failure. The song has been covered by dozens if not hundreds of artists including Bob Dylan. And was popularized in 1971 by Led Zeppelin in Led Zeppelin IV.

Build a Bridge by The Redwalls is a great tune. Sure, they're singing about metaphorical infrastructure but who would be opposed to a song about bringing people together? I'm sure AT&T wouldn't, especially since they used this in one of the commercials a few years back.

Skyscrapers by OK Go is markedly different from their treadmill-choreographed-Rube-Goldberg-machine-internet-video meme singles that flung them into the chaos of mainstream, but it's a great song and worth a listen.

Skyscraper by Bad Religion continues the structural engineering theme and I prefer this acoustic version to the studio version.

Build Me Up Buttercup by The Foundations has absolutely nothing to do with civil engineering whatsoever but it does sound like it should. After all it has "Build Me Up" in the title and is written by a band called The Foundations! B.O.B even samples the tune in his song Don't Break My Heart. This song deserves to be on this playlist, and instead of the original band, I'm posting this cover by the adorably charming Julia Nunes who I'm kinda crushin' on.

I'm Gonna Be an Engineer by Peggy Seeger (sister of Bob Seeger) is a song that isn't so much about someone wanting to get into this profession as it is a song about Women's Lib. But it did shine light on the type of hurdles that gender inequality created. And thanks to folk singers like the Seegers, I had the privilege of studying and working side by side with some lovely lady civil engineers. While Pete Seeger does a version of this folk song, it seems only right to have the original writer sing it especially since it's from the point of view of a female being told that she couldn't be an engineer.

Song for the Civil Engineer by David Dondero is an obscure song that I read about on another engineer's blog. Apparently, David Dondero is played a lot on NPR. From the sound of it, NPR plays his music as frequently as mainstream radio plays crappy pop songs. It has that bittersweet acoustic guitar that you're likely to hear at the beginning or end of an independent film. I couldn't find any videos of Mr. Dondero but thankfully Yahoo! Music has the song right here. Just don't forget to click the tab on the lower left hand corner of the page.

Crossroad Blues by Robert Johnson is one of the greatest blues songs ever and laid the groundwork for rock and roll. Sure, it's a bit of a reach saying that this song reminds me of transportation engineering, but it's a fantastic song that has been covered over and over again. The most famous version being that of Cream. It even inspired the legend about Robert Johnson selling his soul to the devil to become a great guitar player at "the crossroads," which inspired an episode of Supernatural.

Elevation by U2 gained popularity when it was attached to the soundtrack to Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Other than the fact that "elevation" is a term that is frequently used in drafting and surveying, there is no other reason to put this song on a list about civil engineering. I think it's a good song, not U2's best, but a worth a listen nonetheless.

Floods by Pantera. Aside from the fact that this list has been devoid of heavy metal, civil engineers also handle drainage problems. It's funny to think that non-engineers don't give a second thought as to how rainwater manages to find its way to the gutters and eventually the catch basins. Maybe, everyone assumes that things just work out for the best. Sorry to disappoint, but flood control is an engineer's doing.

Rain by The Beatles. Personally, I don't think any playlist is complete without mention of The Beatles, this song being the B-side to Paperback Writer. Sure, it rounds out the hydrology theme I started with Pantera and shows off how eclectic my taste in music is, but it also has the music video that started all music videos. I'm going to have to agree with George Harrison: They invented MTV.

Steel and Glass by John Lennon. Ironically this comes from Lennon's album, "Walls and Bridges," which also is a civil engineering reference. In 1973, John, George, and Ringo found out that Allen Klein was skimming money from them and this was John's response. One of the lyrics is a bit harsh, poking at the fact that Klein's mother died at childbirth. But that's Lennon for you. He's definitely not one for censorship.

Can't Truss It by Public Enemy. From one iconoclast to another, this song really has no reference to the profession at all. But I think a little wordplay with the word "trust" so it sounds like "truss" is enough to earn it a spot on this playlist. Besides, who wouldn't want to fight the power with Flava Flav?

Concrete Angel by Martina McBride. A country song about child abuse is a bit heavy for this list, but it's a good song. Besides, not only does it fulfill the requirement of referencing a material that all CE's are familiar with, but it's poetic if you think (like an engineer) about it. What other material would be best suited for the song's main character than one that can take a lot of pressure but is liable to snap under too much tension without any help? See what I did there?

We Built This City by Starship. If it wasn't such a cheesy 80's pop song performed by a shadow of a great 70's psychedelic band it would have been a perfect anthem for civil engineers. Yes, we built this city. And that city. And every city. Suck it.

Building A Wall by Pet Shop Boys. Even though they're an 80's electric band, this song was released in 2009 on the Yes album. There's already a metaphorical bridge on this list; why not throw in a song with a metaphorical wall? There's also a reference to The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and possible a reference to Hadrian's Wall though it's connection to Gaul wouldn't make much sense. But then again, this isn't about my historian side.

Steadier Footing by Death Cab for Cutie. If you want a slow, somber song with falsetto vocals, I think Death Cab is the way to go. So, they're not exactly talking about the kind of footing that civil engineers design, but if Can't Truss It can make the list, then this can make it too.

The Weight by The Band. How could you not mention a playlist dedicated to all my fellow civil engineers without taking The Weight into consideration. Get it? And the funny thing is that this is the second song on this playlist that was on a phone company commercial. You can just imagine columns singing the refrain to beams and girders called Annie (or is it Fanny?). There are lots of great covers of this song by Weezer, The Last Waltz, The Edge, Jimmy Page, and Jack White, and even the actor Jensen Ackles.

All Shook Up by Elvis Presley. Well, bless my soul. What's wrong with me? I've gone this long without putting the King on the list! I've also gone pretty far without any reference to seismic design despite living out in California. For shame!

I Feel the Earth Move by Carole King. Gone are the days of great singer/songwriters being the norm in the mainstream music. Did I put this on the list as a reference to soils engineering or seismic design? Who knows? That's the fun.

Shake, Rattle, and Roll by Big Joe Turner was popularized by Bill Haley & His Comets in 1954 and covered again in 1956 by Elvis Presley. Turner's was the most raw version, Haley's the most polished, and Elvis' version... Well, it's Elvis. Need I say more?

That about concludes my playlist. If you've got any you'd like to add, go right ahead and leave them in the comments section. To be honest, I never thought I'd get more than five songs but then it just snowballed into the amalgam of music that would otherwise would never have been lumped together. And as promised, there is one more song to add. You might scratch your head wondering what, if anything, the song has to do with civil engineering. I'd tell you, but it wouldn't be much of an inside joke. Just take my word for it that it's a tip of the hat to some engineers I know.

The Moment

2011-01-30T19:50:00.000-08:00

The only thing grayer than the concrete was the sky. I was waging a bet with myself on who would make it to the ground first, the sunlight or the rain. I walked into the coffee shop, my eyelids straining to get out of my pupils’ way. My arm propped up the rest of my body against the wooden counter. I took a black coffee and closed my eyes until they called my name. The warmth of the heater kissed my skin and nearly convinced me that there was a reason to smile that day. But it wasn’t enough.

The scarf I had on was starting to itch. I took it off and let the air get to my clammy skin. I wanted to put my head down and sleep and forget about the day that had yet to happen and regret the day that had just finished. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was destiny. Or maybe I was in the right place in the right time. But as I turned my head my eyes caught a smile. It drew the rest of my face toward the lovely face it belonged to. Her eyes were hidden behind the brim of a wool cap.

I looked away just as quickly as I had spotted her. There was no way she was looking at me. Before I could give it another thought, they called my name. My coffee was ready. I shot up and took the warm paper cup in my hand. I walked toward the door and heard the jingle of the bells as I swung it open. Again, maybe it was fate, maybe it was destiny, but I turned my head back and caught the prettiest eyes from beneath that wool cap looking at me. She just as quickly turned away and smiled into her magazine. I smiled to myself.

There was no reason to forget tomorrow or regret yesterday. All of that melted away with the smoke from my coffee drifting towards the clouds. There was only this moment, and a smile that made me cherish it.

New Year's Kiss

2010-12-24T03:29:00.000-08:00

The house was full again and Crystal couldn’t contain her excitement. She was allowed to stay up all night tonight and wasn’t exactly sure why. Mars slept soundly in his bed and Crystal petted him gently on the head. He opened one eye before slowly shutting it again falling effortlessly into a sound sleep. They young girl looked at the dining table and marveled and the line of bubbles floating in perfect lines towards the surface of the golden liquid.

She wanted a taste of it and her Grandpa Ray took her on his knee and gently lifted to the glass flute to her lips. The bubbles tickled her nose, which she enjoyed. But her delicate, young palate was not exactly ready for alcohol. Attempting to be nice, she tried to curl the corner of her lips into a smile without having to swallow the champagne but only managed to dribble her tiny mouthful onto Grandpa Ray’s lap. She apologized profusely but her Grandpa assured her that no apologies were necessary as he chuckled at the young child.

“Is it Christmas again already?” Crystal asked innocently.

“No, child,” Grandpa Ray answered laughing heartily, “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Do we get presents?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then what do we do on New Year’s Eve?”

“We stay up until midnight and celebrate the end of this year and the beginning of next year.”

“How?”

“By being with the people we love most,” Grandpa Ray replied. He saw that her curiosity had yet to be sated. “We also count down the last seconds of the old year and when the New Year is finally here, we give a big kiss to someone we love.”

“Okay, baby,” Crystal’s father interrupted. “Grandpa Ray has to go to bed.”

“But he’ll miss the New Year!” Crystal pleaded.

“It’s okay, sweetie. I’ve seen plenty,” Grandpa Ray said as he got out of his chair and leaned over to kiss his granddaughter on her forehead. He winked at her and smiled as he went quietly into his bedroom.

“Good night, Dad. I’ll wake you up in time for the game tomorrow,” Crystal father said, “Crystal, let’s go find some of your friends.”

Crystal walked by her father’s side around the house with the ulterior motive of finding someone to kiss. A few of her friends from school were loitering around clinging tightly to their dad’s pant leg or mom’s skirt. Some were nibbling away at the array of snacks arranged on the dining table. And the others were asleep on the couch.

Gary Timm was sipping a cup full of punch in the den. Crystal wasn’t sure if she was ready to kiss a boy, but Grandpa Ray said it was what people did on New Year’s Eve. She checked her dress and dusted herself off and fixed her hair and slowly walked towards the unsuspecting boy. Crystal was a precocious young tyke but was unsure whether she could say she loved Gary. There were hints of a schoolgirl crush; nothing that lasted beyond the playground however. But she just had to have someone to kiss by the stroke of midnight.

Just then Gary’s mother took Gary’s hand and walked him towards Crystal’s mother. Gary’s father was putting on his overcoat and talked with Crystal’s father before they shook hands.

“Thank you for having us but we promised my husband’s brother we would be over at their house for the countdown,” Gary’s mom said to Crystal’s, “Say goodbye to your friends, Gary.” Gary said goodbye to Crystal and the other children and her only hope at a New Year’s kiss went out the door.

A lot of time had passed as Crystal carefully watched the ticking clock on the mantle over the fireplace. As each minute passed, another friend would pass out on the living room sofa, later tucked in by their respective parents. Eventually, Crystal was the last one standing. Her mother passed by to check up on all the other children.

“Mommy,” Crystal asked, “How much longer until midnight?”

“I can’t believe you’re still up,” her mother answered, “It’s just five more minutes, sweetie. Are you sure you don’t want to go to sleep? It’s way past your bedtime.”

“I’m sure,” she answered. She got off the sofa and walked one more time around the house hoping to find someone to share her first kiss of the New Year; of her life, actually. She looked at all her friends sleeping on the large couch and then she looked once more at the clock on the mantle.

There was a muffled click behind Grandpa Ray’s bedroom door and light streamed from the space beneath it. Crystal, curious as always, walked over to the door and placed her small delicate hand on the knob. With the other hand, she gently wrapped on the door. Footsteps dragged on the carpet towards the door and the knob was turned. When it opened, Grandpa Ray stood there in his robe and smiled at his granddaughter.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he asked.

“This is it, everybody! One more minute!” Crystal heard her father shout.

“Ah,” Grandpa Ray said, “It looks like I got up just in time. Did you find someone to kiss at midnight?” Crystal looked over to her friends and showed Grandpa Ray that all her options have been exhausted. Disappointed she hugged his leg and buried her sweet face into his lap.

“10 – 9 – 8!” the adults yelled.

“I just wanted to my first New Year’s kiss to be special,” Crystal said with tears in her eyes.

“7 – 6 – 5!” the crowd continued.

“If you love the person you kiss, then it will be special, honey,” Grandpa Ray said as he carried Crystal in his arms.

“4 – 3 – 2 – 1!!!” everyone shouted.

Crystal grabbed Grandpa Ray by his ears and pulled his wrinkled, smiling face towards hers and pecked him lightly on the nose. He returned the favor with a kiss on her cheek as he smiled at his granddaughter.

“Happy New Year, honey,” he said.

“You’re right, Grandpa Ray,” she said, “That was really special. Happy New Year!” And with that she threw her arms around her neck and embraced him tightly, falling asleep almost immediately after laying her head on his shoulder.

Gift Wrapped

2010-12-24T03:28:00.000-08:00

Tucked away from the nice crowded streets of the city, away from the bright lights of the frosted windows of storefronts that warmed the noses and cheeks of last minute shoppers, in the darkest and narrowest of the city’s alleys is where the formerly employed James Bailey currently finds himself. The voices of street carolers reverberated coldly against the unfeeling brick and concrete of the alleyway just barely reaching the ears of the alley’s inhabitants.

Mr. Bailey was asked to empty the contents of his desk just three days before Thanksgiving. Five years of loyalty and memories that accumulated on his desk were to somehow find room in a small cardboard box. Reading the newspaper didn’t make him feel any better. He still felt alone no matter how much of the state had been victimized by the crashing economy. As the weeks passed, his usual optimism melted away and cynicism was quick to take its place. It was not until he finally took off his wedding band for the first time in seven years that he only saw the emptiness in glasses of water. Shortly after, he was kicked out of his one bedroom apartment.

Now, here he stood with a box of his office trinkets, a duffle full of clothes, and a face hiding behind the most unkempt five o’clock shadow he has had since his college days. Bailey gritted his teeth together hoping the grinding sounds would keep his mind off his world falling apart from around him. Merry Christmas indeed, he thought to himself muttering a “humbug” in sardonic fashion.

Opposite of the dumpster was a woman just a few years older than James huddled closely to two small mounds of clothes that seemed to breathe. A man who smelled of garbage water happily strutted into the alley and smiled at Bailey.

“Pardon me, sir,” the man nodded to Bailey, “Merry Christmas!”

“Yeah, sure,” was all Bailey could respond. He saw that the man was hiding something behind his back. Bailey was hoping, praying to God that it wasn’t a weapon of some sort. But the man just passed by and walked towards the woman and the mounds of clothes wriggled to life. Two children, a young girl and a younger little boy, got to their feet and smiled large smiles across their smudged faces. They ran to meet the man with what looked like a wad of newspaper behind his back.

“Daddy!” the two children shouted as they ran to embrace their father.

“Honey, what are you hiding?” the woman asked.

“Hiding?” he asked, playfully feigning ignorance, “What should I be hiding, sweetheart? It’s Christmas! I would never hide anything. Especially--,” he took the newspaper from behind him and presented it to his children, “Your Christmas presents!”

The children laughed and carried the wad of newspaper to their mother. “Can we open it now?” Their mother looked at their father and eyed him with pseudo-suspicion as if ask, what could you have possibly gotten them? He furrowed his eyebrows as to respond, let them open it and find out.

“It’s your present, children,” the mother responded and couldn’t help but smile, “Go right ahead.”

The two little ones tore into it with the ferocity of a rabid panther digging into newly pounced prey. Shreds of newspaper exploded in a flurry over their eager young heads. The little one lifted it high into the air and it was welcomed into the coziness of the alley with an awestruck sigh from the children. Bailey’s curiosity was aroused and leaned his head over to get a better look at what it was the father got his family.

“What could he possibly have gotten them to warrant such a reaction from those kids?” Bailey thought to himself. “I could swear that’s nothing but a dirty, old blanket.” He listened carefully hoping to decipher what was going on. To be in this particular alley, it would have to be something more than a hand me down blanket.

“It’s—It’s—,” the little boy squinted at the gift, “It’s a cape!” He wrapped it over his shoulders and tied the corners running in a small circle around each member of his family. “All I have to do is put it on and all of a sudden I have the strength of one hundred men and can fly all over the world.” Breathing heavily from his short flight, his smile widened from ear to ear as he embraced his father. The young girl untied the blanket from her brother’s shoulders.

“A dress!” she exclaimed, “Daddy! It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever had! Thank you so much!” She draped it in front of her and twirled around letting the cloth fly outwards as if it were the long skirt of an elegant ball gown. She danced with the blanket in hand, her gentle smile and sparkling eyes glowing with each turn and sway she made, the music still playing in her head when she wrapped her arms around her father.

The patriarch of the family curled the corner of his lips, letting his eyes shine on his wife who slowly smiled with him. “What do you see, love?” he asked his wife. She looked at him lovingly and before she could answer the little boy let out a sneeze that echoed throughout the entire alley. She took the raggedy old blanket and wrapped it around the children hugging them tightly as she looked back at their father.

“I see the perfect Christmas gift,” she said to him. “I love you,” Bailey could see her mouth the words to her husband. The scene warmed James Bailey’s heart and he got to his feet and walked towards the warm street. The carolers had made their way around the corner and they approached him smiling with lit candles in hand singing, seemingly just for him.

The family slowly emerged out of the alleyway and watched as the carolers merrily sang their merry tunes. The two children began to sing along with them before their eyelids slowly and heavily closed shut. The mother took them to their corner and tucked them in tightly together and watched them sleep sweetly. The father looked at James and smiled cordially.

“Merry Christmas,” the man greeted James.

“Merry Christmas,” James responded. When the carolers passed the alley, the smiles on everyone’s faces warmed them the rest of the night. James took a seat next to his meager possessions and shut his eyes, still smiling.

The Santa Pact

2010-12-24T03:26:00.000-08:00

The house smelled of peppermint and pine with the sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies subtly, softly, slowly but surely wafting in from the warm oven. On the stovetop, mother prepped the ingredients for hot chocolate later on just before sending everyone off to bed. Lights of all colors flickered on the walls from the Christmas tree, just a few presents sprinkled about the base. Pine needles were scattered about in the empty spots, the hardwood slightly sticky from the tree sap.

Father was on the front porch juggling a string of lights as he cautiously climbed the short step ladder to adorn the trimmings of the house. The sound of the large colored bulbs tinkled dully against one another. When one refused to light, he would replace with a whole new bulb being careful not to repeat the pattern of colors in line.

Meanwhile, the extremely precocious eight-year-old child, Billy Ditko, sat in between the tree and the fireplace which had died down to a lazy pile of ash and desperately glowing embers. There was enough warmth to entice him to lie down right there on the floor and take a nap, but he had, as he called it, very important work to do before going to sleep.

With a sharpened pencil in hand he laid the clean sheet of paper on the floor and began to write the following letter:

Dear Santa,

I know that you have already received my wish list for this year several weeks ago, and I hope that this will not be misconstrued as a vain attempt to test the limits of your “nice” list. I, as much as anybody else, do greatly enjoy not being on the “naughty” list. But I digress. This letter is in regards to an incident that happened at school just before the winter break in which a bully (who shall remain unnamed since it is likely that he is already in your aforementioned “naughty” list) aimed to manipulate me into thinking that you, Santa Claus, do not exist.

Being of scientific mind, I aim to definitively and empirically prove to myself that you indeed do exist. Your part is minimal and requires only your signature below. I fully intend to keep the results of this experiment to myself and thus call this letter “The Santa Pact.” While it would be nice to meet you in person, your autograph will suffice in proving that my faith in you is not all in vain. Thank you.

Signed,

Billy Ditko

I, Santa Claus, do hereby proclaim myself as an entity in exisitence:

Signed:

Dated:

“Billy!” mother called, “The hot chocolate will be ready in a few minutes. Will you let your dad know?”

“Yes, mother!” Billy shouted back. He hastily folded the letter and stuffed it inside his Christmas stocking and carefully hung it back on the mantle before running outside to call his father.

As the Ditko family finished up their hot cocoas, mother prepared some fresh cookies for Santa. She placed them on a small plate along with a tall, cold glass of milk by the fireplace. Billy helped and even suggested putting the cookies on the coffee table so that Santa would not accidentally knock them over onto the floor on his way in the house.

The next day Billy, still in his pajamas, ran to the living room and saw that the glass of milk was half gone, and the plate of cookies half empty. The presence of presents underneath the tree was noticeably fuller including a large box with Billy’s name written on the side of it. Mother and father came out of the master bedroom and watched their son’s excited face, his eyes glowing with wonder. It never gets old to watch, even after eight years.

Instead of running to the large box or half eaten plate of cookies or even to the window hoping to get a glimpse of flying reindeers pulling a sleigh, mother and father saw Billy walk over to his stocking on the mantle. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and a look of disappointment draped over his innocent face.

“Honey,” mother called gently, “What is that?”

“It’s an experiment,” Billy replied, “I wanted to prove to myself, scientifically, that Santa exists so I asked him to sign this pact I wrote up last night… It’s blank.”

“Did you know that was there?” Mother asked father.

“I had no idea,” father whispered back.

“I deliberately didn’t tell you two about it,” Billy said, “No offense, mom and dad, but I didn’t want you to pass of some cheap forgery just so I would still believe in Santa Claus. This could only mean one thing.”

“Billy,” father approached the young boy. He tried to hide the worry from his eye, “I guess I have something I have to confess.”

“How could I be so stupid?” Billy asked, frustrated.

“You’re not stupid, sweetie,” mother commented.

“It was my fault for not giving Santa enough time to read this pact ahead of time!”

“I’m not following, Billy,” mother said.

“I even asked to move the cookies out of the way. Of course!” Billy shouted.

“Are you okay, son?” father asked.

“It all makes so much sense now!” Billy smiled and laughed. “Look at all these presents. And look at the cookies; he didn’t have enough time to finish them all! He needs the cookies for the sugar content. That’s what keeps him up all night! He’s so busy trying to get everyone their presents that he didn’t have enough time to see my letter! It’s pretty self-centered of me to think that he would make time to partake in this pact. If he had, some poor little boy or girl on the other side of the world may not have gotten their presents on time! That’s why he didn’t sign!”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out, son,” father said, “Next time you better let me handle the postal transactions to the North Pole, okay?” Father smiled and took one of Billy’s presents and handed it to him. The child was about to tear into the carefully wrapped package before stopping himself.

“Gee, I hope this little stunt doesn’t get me on the ‘naughty’ list for next year,” Billy said. “It was all in the name of science. Do you think Santa will understand, dad?”

“I’m sure he will, son.”

“Am I still a good kid, mom?”

“The best,” mother corrected, “Merry Christmas, baby.”

Season of Giving

2010-12-24T03:25:00.000-08:00

Mars bent forward leaning all his weight on his hind legs using his front paws to swipe unsuccessfully at his head. He didn’t like it when people tried to put human clothes on him especially hats and especially on days like this when there were others in the house. The youngest one saw him struggling and took it off for him. She was always his favorite. Mars leapt into the child’s arms and licked her hands and rosy cheeks and was reciprocated with giggles as his tail wagged uncontrollably back and forth.

“Crystal!” the mother’s voice yelled, “I told you not to play with Mars when you have your nice dress on. Now you have dog hair all over it!”

“Sorry, mommy,” Crystal answered, “He doesn’t like the hat so I took it off.”

Crystal’s mother continued to scold her as Mars pranced out of the bedroom noticing the peculiar abundance of lights in the house. Not only were all the lights on, but there were candles of different shapes and sizes all lit. Odd shadows danced on the walls as the small flames flickered and danced. There were lights outside climbing up the sides of the house blinking in festive rhythm. For some reason that Mars could not explain, there was also a tree inside. And it too was covered in more lights.

The small pup tiptoed and maneuvered his way around the crowd of strangers to the tree and took in the smell of pines. Boxes wrapped in paper and bags that smelled of fruitcake were strewn about the bottom. He used a box to prop himself closer to the lower boughs of the indoor pine tree. He couldn’t explain exactly there is a tree inside but then again he really didn’t care. Mars sniffed around for just the perfect spot and he finally found it. He stared intently at the very branch and lifted his hind leg.

“Mars!” the booming voice of the father shouted. He picked the dog up and carried him into his bed in the bedroom hallway. Dejected, he lied down with eyes wide open and listened for his favorite one to approach. His eyelids were all but closed when he heard Crystal’s voice.

“Daddy,” she implored, “It’s the season of giving.”

“Honey, I don’t have time for this,” her father responded, “Mars’ causing a lot of trouble; I had to put him on a time out.” His attention turned to one of their guests as his voice trailed off. Crystal’s footsteps approached Mars’ bed. She knelt by him and rubbed the top of his head gently. The doorbell rang and Mars bolted out of bed and barked at the front door.

Crystal ran after him and picked him up as her father answered the door. Her mother gave her a stern look and an even sterner one to Mars. Having had that look thrown in her direction was a regular occurrence in that house, Christmas party or not. Once she felt the stare of her mother’s eye she put Mars back on the floor and meticulously dusted off all the dog hair on her ruffled velvet dress.

Their newly arrived guests were the Thompsons whose oldest daughter was Crystal’s best friend from school. The two giggled and exchanged pleasantries before running to Crystal’s bedroom where, through the night, she had amassed a pile of smuggled cookies. They skipped to the bedroom and left Mars alone sitting on the cold tile of the foyer.

“What’s all this ‘season of giving’ business?” he thought to himself. He looked at all the strangers laughing and talking and possibly getting inebriated. He tilted his head in curiosity as he watched a couple dance, their glasses miraculously fused with to their hands. To Mars, the season of giving seemed like a hassle for a bunch of people he didn’t know.

Mars’ glistening pink nostrils began to flare out as if his entire snout were palpitating. His tongue slapped against the cold tip of the nose and he sniffed harder and faster. Suddenly the smell became more apparent and lent itself a direction to its source. Mars sniffed more intently, his focus so hardened he was leaning towards the kitchen door and nearly fell against the wall.

He leapt up to his feet and let his palpitating nostrils lead him towards the savory smells. It led him deep into the kitchen, dodging more and more walking feet. One set of large feet forced into a pair of shoes that are too small for them terminating a pair of swollen ankles stopped in front of him on the way to the source. Mars looked up to see a painted face smiling frighteningly down at him. Whoever this was, she was swooping in one of her large pasty hands, presumably to pet the young pup. But Mars doesn’t care much for strangers and ducked down slowly away from her hands, inching away.

“Aw, the poor thing is shy,” the painted voice cackled. Mars also hated being called shy and scoffed as he walked away and got back to his scent trail.

It led him towards the oven. The warmth seemed to welcome him. The smell further enticed him. He slowly put one paw in front of the other and was cut off by Crystal’s mother who seemed not to notice Mars’ presence in the kitchen. He could hear the sizzling and bubbling of the fat underneath the turkey’s crispy golden brown skin. The aroma of the savory herbs filled the air. The sweet scent of various spices perfumed the air. Pies sitting innocently on the windowsill cooled quietly, their innards gelling into a sweet thick filling.

Mother took the large turkey to the dining room and placed it at the head of the dining table out of Mars’ sight. He stretched his neck upward as far as he could hoping to see the turkey again, but to no avail. Leaning back, the young dog got on his hind legs and hopped towards the table, and still could not see the titillating roasted bird. Rather than wasting any more energy on a lost cause, the little pup slithered underneath the table and sat quietly.

Sitting on top of the upright piano, the cat yawned pausing only to stare hungrily at the turkey on top of the dining table. The strange lady with the large ankles and pasty hands approached the cat and gave the cat some unseen treat. The cat ate it up hungrily and licked its chops meticulously. Almost teasingly so, the feline stared at Mars with loathsome self-righteousness in her eyes as if she were winking at the lonely pup sitting quietly underneath the dining table.

His claws softly click-clacked on the hardwood floor as he crawled out from his hiding place, weaving around the wooden chairs. The smell of the fireplace began to swell and warm the entire house. It drew him close to the hearth and he encircled a spot before lying down on it. His behind was being toasted nicely by the roaring fire. Mars then let out a quiet sigh as his big brown eyes darted back and forth at the strangers in the house in their funny sweaters. His stomach grumbled a low grumble that only his puppy ears could hear but he closed his eyes.

“If I can’t eat,” he thought to himself, “At least I can sleep.” But before he could settle he could her footsteps hurriedly scurrying towards him. Immediately, he thought it was someone come to throw him back into the bedroom hallway. But it was Crystal, his favorite one. She held something in her hands. It was a small handful of turkey meat. She waved it in front of his mouth and he gobbled it down with much gusto. He licked along the sides of his mouth and all over her hands, thanking her for the tiny feast. “So this,” Mars thought, “is the season of giving!”

The Decision

2010-12-24T03:24:00.000-08:00

“Has she made her decision yet?” the voice asked through the buzzing filter of the cellular phone.

“No,” he answered, “She told me to meet her and she hasn’t come yet.” His eyes were itchy from the wind. The corners were tender and slightly puffed, it stung whenever he blinked. He sniffled quite loudly into the phone.

“Are you okay, Rick?” his sister on the phone asked.

“I’m fine,” he responded, “My allergies are killing me right now is all.”

“All right, come over to my place tonight. Let me know what happened.”

“Okay,” he answered and pushed the “end” button. He looked out into the distance, noticing the clouds gracefully gliding across the bright blue sky. The phone was cradled in his palm as he fiddled around with the buttons. He got to his feet feeling uncomfortable sitting on the planter this whole time. He walked in a small circle and for a moment or two just stared at the music store down the street.

It was in that store that he bought his first vinyl record for her. He hadn’t listened to much music, hadn’t paid attention to the nuances of rhythm and melody and harmony until he met Christy. She brought that into his world and now he can’t turn on the radio without hearing the pieces come together, sometimes brilliantly and sometimes chaotically. He knew what she liked just after a few weeks of listening to music with her in her bedroom. And she knew him even better. They would hold hands walking down the very same street talking about movies that nobody else ever saw and music that had gone out of style twenty years before either of them were born.

His eyes closed as the winds started to pick up, forcing his hands deep into his own coat pocket. When they opened again he looked down the street. He strained his eyes to look deeper than his limited sight would allow. Then he swung his head to the other side and strained his eyes again. She hadn’t arrived yet. But then again she wasn’t due for another- he looked at the clock on his cell phone and thrust it back into his pocket- she wasn’t due for another half hour or so. Then he would know her decision. He turned around sharply and looked through the sliding glass doors of the bowling alley he stood in front of. There was an arcade with old games beeping away begging for your quarters in the far corner.

All he could remember before they met was that he was lonely and sometimes alone. And the only place where he could distract himself would be in front of the electronic blue buzzing of the arcade games. He would sit on the tall bar stool with the worn leather and chewed rubber foam cushion exposed on the side like a crusted wound. At the time he needed the stool to reach the screen and see, but now he would only use the stool when his legs were tired, when he was tired. He hadn’t put many coins into any of those machines since he had first met her. Looking back on their time together seemed like eternities ago, but it was in fact just a few months earlier.

They didn’t meet in school or the gym or some café but in the hospital. She was aspiring to go into some prestigious medical school. He didn’t know which one; he didn’t care at the time. But she was a volunteer at the hospital. There were other volunteers but the majority of them were perfectly content with the title that they could neatly put on their résumés. She was different. She wanted to help people and couldn’t wait to go through ten more years of school to do it. And he loved her for that. He wasn’t a volunteer, but he was a regular. It was the third time that year that he was in the hospital, but only the first time that he had seen her.

He was confused about her at first. Intimidated and paranoid he wondered why she visited him every day. What had he done to deserve such a privilege? His only visitors were his parents and sister and most of the time they were angry and crying. There was other family around but it would have been for appearances’ sake only. Name was the only thing that made them family. So he asked that no one else told where he was.

A genuine smile was a welcome change but it looked odd to him coming from a complete stranger let alone a pretty girl. All he knew was that he enjoyed it when her smile was directed towards him. It wouldn’t be the first time he felt selfish about something but the first time he felt happy about it.

“That’s a great book you’re reading there,” she said. The lilt in her voice was sweet and soft and warmed him like a song that he heard for the first time and it would be the first time every time she spoke. He was unsure how to respond so he clutched the book in his hand. The burgundy cover was worn as thin as the yellowed pages in between.

“I know. It’s not the first time I’ve read it,” he kept looking at the book cover, secretly wanting to thrust his gaze into her eyes. “I can relate to the character in the book. It’s sad that that’s the case, I know.”

“Well,” she said. Her voice raised his eyebrows. She was contradicting him in a way that he had wished somebody had years ago. “It’s not necessarily a sad thing. I mean, sure, the main character is in a dark place throughout the entire novel. But in the end, he’s still alive, isn’t he? After all, he is smart and strong and tender and loyal. He sees the rest of the world crumbling around him, but he’s still around to tell the story. That’s always good news, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” he actually agreed but never thought about it before. It wouldn’t be the first time that her perspective on something would be the freshest to his eyes. He wanted to smile but didn’t know if it would scare her, but his eyes smiled and she smiled back at him. Finally, the corners of his mouth tightened into a smile. He was unsure whether she saw but by the time she left he was sleepy and he didn’t care as much. He closed his eyes and let his lips part ever so subtly, the corners still gently curled upwards.

When he got out of the hospital he never expected to see or hear from her again. That was just the way people became involved in his life and he had grown accustomed to the pattern. But she was insistent on breaking that pattern by calling him every night to talk about nothing and ask him how his day was. He wasn’t used to the attention and confessed his suspicions to her which led to their first fight. She called the following night even though he felt he didn’t deserve it. His half empty glasses were starting to appear half full.

She fell for him before he fell for her and they soon became a package deal; you couldn’t find one without the other close behind. The muscles in his cheeks grew sore having been used more than usual when she was around. Talking and laughing and having memories to write about were what the following months were filled with. Some months later, Christy’s applications to medical schools warranted responses with thick envelopes in the mail.

Secondary applications (not to mention the fees), invitations to interviews, and visits to various campuses separated them for days at a time but he was happy for her. He would tell himself that he truly was. Whenever she would come from some cross country trip to some Ivy League school they found each other like magnets. Neither the past nor the future existed when she curled up in his arms. Words were hardly spoken for the first half hour that she would return but none were necessary. There was only one school that she really wanted to go to and one day a response arrived.

He was with her when the envelope was dropped in the mail slot. She held his hand tightly as she took the letter into her hand and opened it. The sound of the paper ripping was deafening even more so with the unfolding of the letter. Their eyes shivered as they read the words to themselves. He smiled and laughed and told her how proud of her she was. Her eyes kept looking at the paper in disbelief or disappointment, he couldn’t tell. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and gently kissed her on the cheek but her arms wrapped around him loosely. He realized she would have to move away for the next ten years if she were to accept the school’s offer.

“Meet me tomorrow,” she told him, “at three o’clock. I’ll tell you then.”

“Where?” he asked.

“You know where.”

His fingertips and nose and cheeks tingled in the warmth of the bowling alley. It caused him to shiver as he walked towards the arcade in the far corner. He looked at the games and saw some new ones and some of the same old ones. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a dollar and let it get sucked into the change machine. The quarters jingled into the collection bowl and he scooped it into his hands. His fingers smelled of metal and he shook the coins into his coat pocket.

He hated himself for not wanting her to go. This was her dream and what right did he have to get in the way of it? But he couldn’t stand the solitude again, not after realizing that things could be better. He gulped down a lump in his throat. His hands were cold, his face was hot, and he felt the beckoning of the electronic blue buzz just mere feet from him. Like reuniting with an old friend, he sat down on the dilapidated stool.

“You must remember this,” the speakers outside the bowling alley started to hum an old song. It was one of her favorites. It was supposed to make her happy but now there was only utter desolation following the temporary high the song was intended for.

The monotone “bing-bong!” followed the whooshing of the bowling alley’s sliding doors and he knew that it was her. He tried desperately to keep his eyes on the blinking screen in front of him as he let a quarter drop into the slot. He had never let a game slip by him. But he heard his name being softly spoken in that delicate lilt that never fails to make him just a bit warm inside. He knew her decision before she even said anything. He let the stool fall to the ground as he stood on his feet and walked towards her. He let her speak with his arms wrapped tightly around her and hers wrapped tightly around him. It didn’t matter what was going to happen, he thought, she’s here with me now.

Three Blocks

2010-11-25T17:35:00.000-08:00

Mr. Brenneman ran for the first two blocks when he first spotted it. Running down women, children and at one point a nun, he looked behind at the sky to make sure that there weren’t more. He slowed down and cautiously walked the third block thinking, “This is no way to handle this.” The park was across the street and he spotted an empty bench standing solemnly just outside the reach of the skyscrapers’ long shadows.

Brenneman took a deep breath and loosened his hundred dollar silk tie sliding it off his collar while unbuttoning the top three buttons of his dress shirt. He took a seat on the bench and closed his eyes feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. His fingers reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out the cigarette box. Turning it over, he gently tapped the box on the back of his hand. The filter felt soft between his teeth as he pulled a cigarette out. He sucked the fire from the lighter down the length of the cigarette and held it deep in his lungs.

His lower jaw hung slack but he pursed his lips tightly around the filter so no one would notice. His left hand shivered ever so slightly as he tucked the lighter back into his pocket. Brenneman took his right arm and lifted it to his forehead wiping at phantom beads of perspiration. He slowed his breathing and gulped down slowly taking in the sun.

“A smoke never tasted so sweet,” he muttered under his breath. He spotted two more snipers on two different rooftops as he puffed the last puff of smoke through his yellowed teeth. A pink cloud burst in front of him just as he thought, “They must be gentlemen, to let me have one last smoke.” Mr. Brenneman didn’t feel the bullet as it plowed straight through him.

Quest

2010-11-25T14:50:00.002-08:00

Dear Terry,

Please don’t blame yourself for my running away. I’ve just gone on a small quest to find true magic out in this depressed little world of ours. Once I find some “Hocus Pocus” I’ll be sure to get back. I am confident that my excursion will take no more than a few hours so I hope to see you and everyone by supper time. Here’s to hoping I have a grand adventure!

Always,

Perry Alonso

P.S. I know you’ll do just great here!

“I don’t believe this!” Terry Lucas exclaimed when he found the letter. “It’s my first day!” The curtain flapped in the breeze blowing in through the open window. Terry jumped to it and stuck his head out hoping he would find Mr. Alonso wandering outside. But today, he would have no such luck.

Dashing outside the room, he searches every room up and down the hall but there was no sign of the patient anywhere. Terry stormed to the dining room and saw that it was empty and smelled of the previous night’s “Salisbury steak surprise,” the surprise being that there was no actual steak involved. The orderly’s hurried feet shuffled him off to the opposite wing of the retirement home just beyond the nurses’ station. There were several vending machines where residents tend to bump into each other and lose themselves in conversation.

“He’s not here either,” Terry thought to himself. “Even if he was, I’m sure that one of the nurses would have seen him passing by. But I can’t let them know that I lost someone on my first day of the job!”

They young man jogged calmly passed the nurses’ station. When he was out of sight he bulleted back to Mr. Alonso’s room hoping he would have returned, but the room was still empty. Terry took out the letter and sat on the old man’s bed. He read the letter over and over again hoping to find some sort of clue to the retiree’s whereabouts.

“Why is ‘hocus pocus’ in quotations?” he asked himself. “A clue perhaps?” Just then, bells echoed outside. Terry got to his feet and walked towards the window. As he stuck his head out, he saw that the bells were coming from the church next door. It was then he realized one of the origins of the phrase “hocus pocus.”

During the dark ages, peasants would attend mass even though the entire service was performed in Latin, a language only the nobility could afford to learn. When the priest blessed the bread he would utter the phrase “This is my Body” in Latin, or “Hoc est Corpus Meum.” Because the peasants and farmers had no idea what this phrase meant they just assumed the phrase “Hoc est Corpus” was some sort of way to conjure up magic. Centuries of mispronunciations would result in “hocus pocus.”

Terry sat quietly in the pew realizing too late that the ringing of the bells meant that a service had just begun. His eyes scanned up and down every head that bowed in reverence to the ceremonious singing. He had hoped to find Perry but instead found a pair of green eyes looking suspiciously back at him. He sneaked outside hoping to escape those eyes but they were close behind. A tap on the shoulder startled him. He turned around and found a woman, about his age, with short red hair and green eyes smiling softly at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just saw you were wearing that uniform. Are you a nurse from the retirement home?”

“An orderly, actually,” he responded, nervous.

“My father is actually staying at that house, and I was wondering how he’s doing?”

“I’m sure he’s doing fine, miss. We take good care of our residents.” Except the ones that run away, Terry thought to himself.

“Actually, I was thinking that you might know him,” her voice was low and sweet. “His name is Perry Alonso.”

“Yeah, I know Perry,” the orderly was suddenly covered in sweat.

“My, you’re sweating awfully profusely,” she commented, “Did my father take off again?”

“I’m sorry?”

“My father,” she laughed, “He runs away all the time. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“I took my eyes off of him for one second and the next thing I know is he’s gone! I’m so sorry! I’m going to lose my job over this, I know it!”

“Relax, what’s your name?”

“Terry. Terry Lucas.”

“I’m Laura,” she comforted him, “You go back and tell the nurses. I’ll come with you. Don’t worry; I’m sure you’re good at what you do. I’ll vouch that you were just trying to make sure he’s safe. You go ahead and let the nurses know that my father’s on the loose again. In the meantime I’ll go home. Sometimes he just likes to visit unannounced.”

Terry walked, shoulders slumped, back to the retirement home anticipating a scolding from the nurses. Instead, he was bombarded with uproarious laughter.

“We should have let you in on it,” one nurse commented.

“But this way was much funnier,” another added.

“We’re not usually ones for hazing,” yet another informed, “but this is a pretty good way to start off your first day! Don’t worry, son. He always turns up when he says he will. Ah, look, here comes his daughter now. Hi, Laura! Your father’s at it again!”

“Hello, Eve,” she responded. “Please don’t get mad at Terry, here.”

“Mad? We were just having a little fun with the new guy.”

“Actually, I’m starting to get a little worried. I checked out all his usual haunts: my house, his old apartment, the bar down the street, the hardware store. He isn’t in any one of them!”

“Terry,” the nurse turned to the new orderly, “Did Mr. Alonso say anything to you? Did he leave any clue as to where he was headed?”

“He left this letter,” Terry took out the letter. “But I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

The nurse scanned the letter quickly, her lips quivering as she read the letter to herself. She handed it over to Laura whose worried eyes carefully scanned every character on the paper.

“I know it says he’ll be home by supper,” Laura said, worry in her voice. “But it’s not usually like him to take off without letting anyone know exactly where he’s headed. It’s my fault, I know it!”

“Honey, you can’t blame yourself,” the nurse comforted, “I’ve already called the police and sent them a picture. All we can do now is sit here and wait.” The nurse went back to her station and returned her attention to the other residents of the home

“You don’t understand,” Laura retorted. “I was angry with him last week. I- I…”

“What is it?” Terry asked.

“He forgot that today is Bobby’s, my brother’s, birthday,” she replied.

“Your father is at that age--” Terry started to say.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Laura interrupted. “Today was supposed to be his thirtieth birthday. But he died in a car crash when he was seven. I was barely three years old at the time, but I know it’s been rough on him. He never misses it, but this year he seemed to deliberately forget it. It’s as if it were some secret that he was keeping from me.”

Laura began to weep quietly to herself making a vain attempt to hide her crying. But Terry saw and reacted by reaching over and handing her the tissue box on the counter of the nurses’ station. She delicately dabbed at the corners of her eyes and sniffled to herself. Just then a little boy walked by holding a cupcake with a candle stuck on top of it. A calloused, wrinkled hand sat tenderly on the boy’s head. The hand was attached to an elderly man who smiled anxiously as he took out a lighter and lit the small candle.

“Happy birthday, Billy,” the old man said.

“Thanks grandpa!” the boy answered.

“Now make a wish and blow out the candle,” the grandfather chuckled. The little boy took a deep breath and blew with all his might. The flame went out for only a fraction of a second and came back dancing on the wick of the thin wax candle. The old man laughed heartily as did little Billy.

“That’s it!” Terry exclaimed. “Your father said he was looking for some ‘Hocus Pocus.’ When I was a little boy my uncle used to take me to this magic shop downtown. They sold all these magic tricks, books on how to do card tricks, rubber chickens, and novelty prank toys. And the best brand of trick candles like the one on that little boy’s cupcake is--”

“Hocus Pocus candles!” Laura jumped up in excitement. “That’s got to be it! I know exactly where that store is. They’ve been open forever! Come on, Terry! Two pairs of eyes are better than one!”

Laura sped her car downtown and fortunately found a parking spot just in front of the store. The two spilled out of the car and ran into the store. The glass door was heavy and rang a rusty old bell as it swung open. An older man, not Perry, stood behind the counter.

“Welcome to Hocus Pocus! I’m Jim. Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Actually, yes,” Terry approached the counter and took out a picture of Perry that he got from one of the nurses. “I’m looking for this man. Has he been in here today?”

“You just missed him,” Jim answered as he looked at the picture. “I just saw him get on the bus about five minutes before you got here. He came in for some candles and cake. I told him we don’t have cake here anymore. I have no idea where he’s headed.”

Laura walked up and down the aisles half-listening to Terry talk to Jim at the counter. She looked at all the magic decks of cards, rubber chickens, whoopee cushions, and books on the history of magic. Her eyes wandered to the wall which was plastered floor-to-ceiling with pictures. The newer pictures, close to the front door, were those of local celebrities who bought gifts for their children and nephews and nieces. As Laura walked towards the counter, she could see that the pictures got older and older as indicated by the fashion and haircuts of those in the photos. One photo made her freeze.

The boy in the picture looked about five years old, wore a striped collared shirt and a decorative pointed hat. He was on all fours climbing on top of a table. The small pink cheeks were puffed, lips pursed, eyes focused on the five candles on the large cake as the young boy tried to blow them out. A man’s hand held the boy back as if the child were going to dive face first into the cake. Laura’s eyes glided up the man’s hand to his arms and finally to his rugged face.

“Dad?” Laura didn’t know she had said it aloud.

“Did you say something, Laura?” asked Terry.

“Excuse me,” Laura took the picture off the wall and walked towards the counter, “Was this photograph taken here?”

“Why, yes!” Jim answered.

“I didn’t know you held birthday parties here,” Terry mentioned.

“Oh yeah,” Jim answered. “We would have magicians perform, we provided the cake and the decorations. But we couldn’t compete with the other places once the new millennium rolled around. People just aren’t into magic as they used to be.”

“Some people are,” Terry added.

“This is my brother,” Laura showed the two of them, “And that’s my father. I’m sorry. But is it all right if I keep this picture?” Jim smiled at her and nodded. “Come on, Terry.”

“Where are we going?”

“My dad said he’d be back once he found some ‘Hocus Pocus.’ He already bought some candles from the store so he’s bound to get back to the retirement home any time now.”

The car sped back to the retirement home and as they walked back to Perry’s room, Laura looked lovingly at the picture. Terry ran down the hallway into Mr. Alonso’s room. It was empty. The curtain was still flapping at the breeze.

“He’s not here,” Terry shouted at Laura from the room. Laura’s eyes lit up and looked beyond Terry, just down the hall.

“Of course I’m not there. I was in the cafeteria getting this cake ready,” Perry walked slowly behind Terry carrying a large cake with lighted candles arranged on top. He walked into his room, Laura followed and Terry was close behind.

“Make a wish, Laura,” the old man said, smiling. Laura bent over to blow out the candles and laughed boisterously when they refused to go out.

“This is for you, Dad,” Laura said as she handed her father the framed picture.

“I love it. It’s perfect.” Perry hugged his daughter and playfully punched Terry’s arm. The smiling, wrinkled face looked at the new orderly. With gravel in his voice, he smiled at Terry and said, “I told you that you’d do just great here!”

So It Goes

2010-11-25T14:50:00.001-08:00

The damp soil packed deep into Clay Thompson’s ears. Tasting of moss and earthworms, the dirt fought its way into his mouth. He tried to scream but only managed to get more dirt crammed down his esophagus. Tears created mud. It seeped into the corners of his eyes at a snail’s pace invading his sinuses. Grit and pebbles were matted deep into his thick hair. Still he fought, still he climbed, still he clawed his way out of the earth.

The fingertips of his right hand finally broke to the surface. The air above was still and cold chilling him to his very core. He got both arms above the ground and pulled up on himself. His head pushed into the frigid atmosphere. He was blinded by the pale blue moonlight as he yanked his feet from deep under the ground. Mud spewed from his mouth as vomited the earth that had dug its way into his stomach.

Looking around he realized the hole from which he sprung was undisturbed; it was somehow already closed. He knew he was dead, that he was merely a specter of himself. Though the earth he stood upon seemed untouched, more unsettling was the lack of a headstone. Whoever had buried him out in the wilderness did not want him to be found.

Though crisp and fresh, the air was so cold stabbing him in the lungs as he taught himself how to breathe again. The scent of pine and mud danced on the gentle breeze and soothed the knots in his stomach. His head hurt badly and there was tightness in his heart that he had not felt when he was alive but the smell of the trees calmed him. Suddenly, the scent of flowers subtly touched his nose.

“That’s odd,” he thought, “to find the smell of flowers in the dead of night like this, especially on a night so cold.”

The smell grew stronger and drew Clay towards the east into the dens thicket away from the harsh light of the moon. The leaves and pine needles crunched under his feet as he followed the scent of the flowers towards some unknown destination. He searched around him and saw no flowers and wondered where the smell could be coming from.

“Surely all the flowers would be closed up,” he whispered.

He stopped suddenly when the smell was at its strongest and as quickly as it appeared, the scent of the flowers melted away into the cold air. It brought him to a lonely tree whose bark was brittle but strong. The tree looked familiar. He walked towards it, the roots raising the ground it grew on in small mounds. Walking around, he could see that others have found this lonely tree before having carved their initials into the trunk. One marking stood out. It read, “Clay + Rose” and voices suddenly echoed around him as if a memory had sprung to life.

Rose was his wife’s name. He suddenly remembered sitting at the tree, just days prior. His wife was in his hands laying her head on his chest. They talked of yesterdays and nothings that mattered only to them at only that moment. He seemed to be living this memory and yet seemed apart from it. His ghost recollecting the good times of yesterday, but why? The ground gently rumbled but he wasn’t scared. His focus honed in on the carving. There was something different about it; something he hadn’t remembered. Trembling, his outstretched fingers slowly approached the aged bark of the lonely tree. There was a large knot that didn’t seem to be there naturally. As he touched it, his body and mind vibrated violently. The memory was changing.

Wearing the same dress, Rose stood away from the tree, away from her husband. She was weeping. There was great sadness and anger in her voice. He was confused then and he still was confused watching it the second time around. He thought he heard another set of footsteps, but no. His priority is his crying wife who stood just a few yards from the tree, his hands still upon it. Without warning it felt as if a searing hot rod had struck him cleanly through his fragile skull. He thought he heard a faint pop, but the pain radiated throughout his entire body before he could deduce what it was. He screamed in excruciating pain and the memories stopped instantly as he dropped to his knees. Just a bird or two scuttled about at his yelling. Only the lonely tree, the moonlight, and his ghostly self remained.

Alone with nothing but the cold, his hands still upon the carving, he realized that the tree had been shot. It was not a knothole in the tree; a bullet had left that scar. He precariously caressed the hole and felt fresh sap seeping out of. It was wet and the inside was still warm and still smelled weakly of gunpowder. The emotions of that memory came flooding back to his mind, but the facts of what truly happened refused to present themselves wholly. Despondent, his heart sank feeling as if Rose had left him. Of course! She wept because she did not love him anymore.

“Perhaps,” he thought to himself, “she left me. I couldn’t bear to live anymore if that were the case. I must’ve shot myself.” He paused, sure that that was why he was left to wander the woods cold and alone.

“Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,” he muttered. “At least I still remember my Shakespeare.” He paused and looked back at the tree. “But that can’t be! How could I have taken my own life and buried myself in an unmarked grave?”

Giggles emanated and echoed southeast of the lonely tree. The gurgling of a brook grew louder as he walked towards the happy sounds of laughter. The yeasty smell of bread warmed the still air and led him to a narrow creek that cut through forest floor. Surrounded by small saplings, the smell of bread and soon wine filled the air. The giggles grew into boisterous laughter. Warmth drew Mr. Thompson to a flat spot on the northern bank.

He sat down and felt the warmth of the sun on the ground and yet moonlight ruled the evening. Darkness all around and yet it was as if God had allowed a singular beam cut through the thick treetops to shine on this particular spot. Curious, he reached both his hands into the warm ground around him, but he did not feel the earth. A thick cloth, in the tradition of any picnic blanket, was there instead. It was another memory, more vague yet happier than the last.

Once again Rose was there lying down beside him in her delicate red summer dress. Butterflies fluttered about her as if she were an actual rose. The young couple fed each other bread and drank wine and could only feel each others’ touch, hear each others’ voices. He leaned in for a kiss and felt her lips, soft and warm, press up against his. Their fingertips found each other, then their palms. This was the last night we made love, he remembered. He could still feel the silkiness of her long brown hair. The smell of her perfume was the smell of summer flowers. Her warmth stayed with him, haunted him. Again, he thought he heard another set of footsteps but it seems that love had deafened his ears as well as blinded him.

The forest began to spin dizzyingly around Clay Thompson. The earth opened but did not swallow him. Instead, he remained suspended in air as the universe swirled into a chaotic cyclone all around. Suddenly, he saw the memories one more time. As he held his wife in lustful embrace by the brook he saw a strange figure off in the distance. When the world stopped twirling around him, his feet touched the ground and he walked towards the mysterious stranger hiding behind tall pines. As they made love the stranger lurked in the shadows, his face unrecognizable.

Suddenly this ghost was back to the lonely tree. He witnessed his hands on the tree, his wife yards away weeping. This memory was somehow clearer to him now. She wore the same red dress. It must have been the same day. All the smells were stronger, the colors more vibrant, the sounds echoed throughout the wilderness. Again he saw the stranger hiding in the shadows. He walked toward the vision of his wife and listened to the words that fell from her mouth.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice wavering.

“Why are you crying,” the ghost echoed. Suddenly the footsteps became more apparent. The stranger crawled from the veil of shadows and pulled out a gun. The pop that Clay Thompson remembered exploded out of the nozzle of the gun in the stranger’s hand. This specter approached the assassin. The scene seemed to freeze at the spirit’s own will. The murderer had a face and the victim desired to know it and know it well. The forest fell apart as the ghost of Clay Thompson screamed upon laying his eyes on man who took his life.

“Richard?” he sighed as the breath escaped his lungs. He could not believe his own brother would do such a thing. In the distance, another scenario played out. Clay could see it was Richard burying him hastily in the earth that his ghost struggled to get out of. To no avail, Clay yelled at his lifeless corpse being stuffed into the broken earth. His own voice shook as it escaped his throat. He felt his body dissolve into the air, marbling like smoke birthed from a flame snuffed out in the wind.

“A local couple was found dead in their house early this morning,” the news would report two days later. “There were no signs of forced entry. Local police were baffled to discover that though it appeared they were shot in the head, no bullets were found at the scene of the crime and none of the neighbors reported hearing any gunshots or seeing anything unusual during the alleged time of death. To add insult to injury, the young woman was pregnant. DNA tests show that the male victim was the father. The bodies were discovered when the female’s parents came over to surprise their daughter who had apparently just spoken to them just mere hours before.”

By the next day, the police were able to put together the pieces of the story and a local hiker stumbled onto Clay Thompson’s makeshift grave. While news of Rose’s affair and resulting pregnancy spread quickly throughout the neighborhood, there was never a complete explanation as to how Richard and Rose were murdered. However, everyone was somehow sure that Clay would finally rest in peace.

The Will

2010-11-25T14:49:00.001-08:00

“He must have the will of Job,” she whispered.

“That’s the patience of Job, dear,” he whispered back.

It was a lovely ceremony with all the trimmings of a royal wedding scaled to fit the confines of the small neighborhood church. The groom had no family, but the bride was the reigning matriarch of hers. Naturally, the emptiness of the groom’s side fortuitously provided more elbow room for the crowded bride’s side. He was a man of forty with jet black hair with the exception for the silver strands bleeding through the temples. His chin was strong and sprinkled with a hint of masculine stubble. His blushing bride was the center of attention, smiling that so wide the corners of her mouth kissed the tips of her earlobes.

“Did they not think I would hear them?” Tom asked; his hands flung into the air. “Their whispers echoed throughout the whole church. They might as well have yelled their insults out loud. At least it wouldn’t have been cowardly!”

“Calm down, Mr. Finn,” the lawyer consoled. “I understand your upset, but--”

“And that wasn’t the end of it!” Tom continued. “I’m sure they censored themselves being inside a church and all. But the whispers and rumors just continued during the reception. Otherwise it was a perfect day, and everything went without a hitch. But I mean the nerve of some people!”

“I’m not here to question your motives,” the lawyer continued, “I’m simply here to--”

“I mean to question our love,” Tom continued to interrupt, “Now that- THAT crosses a line! That crosses THE line!”

“I understand your upset,” the lawyer’s voice calmed Tom. “But we have business to attend to. So if you could please describe to me your relationship with--”

“I love her. No matter what anybody says, the love we shared was a powerful connection that most people never get a taste of. Maybe the people at the wedding were jealous of that. I don’t know. Maybe all the whispers of people throughout the marriage were hung up with their own shallow and narrow-minded definition of beauty that they couldn’t see that I couldn’t bear to be without her.”

Tom sat back down and controlled his breath. He buried his head in his hands and massaged his temples as he leaned back in his chair. The lawyer stood up and walked towards the water cooler and got a cup for Tom. He handed it to his client who thanked him.

“Continue, Mr. Finn,” the lawyer took a seat.

“No one else saw it but she was beautiful; the most beautiful creature ever to be conceived by God. Her hair was like no one else’s. Sure, she’s a tad older than I am but the thin hair flowed in silver strands to her delicate shoulders. It would be easier to run a comb or brush through one’s hair but to carry the dignity that she did with her coif sprouting in all directions is no easy feat.

“Her skin was like dry, yellowed parchment that had been left in the sun after having been soaked in kerosene for years before. Some patches on her body looked as if it had been burned. It’s an acquired taste, I assure you. Her nose looked to be broken in three separate places but still I love her. I continue to love her today as much if not more than the day I met her, and that love will continue to grow for years to come.

“One eye was discolored and the other was legally blind but I could look in either and tell her how I felt every night with a smile on my face. Her lips were as dry and crumbly as gravel but I longed to kiss them every night. What few teeth she had were crooked but added personality to a smile that would melt the heart of the abominable snowman.

“Her fingers felt as if sandpaper had worn down to gritty circular pads but it warmed me as it touched my arm. The scent was distinctly hers. Her voice was a low gentle grumble much like the purr of a cat but to me might as well be the singing of angels. After all, it’s her voice I long to hear when I get to Heaven. I know it sounds crazy, but I love her that much.”

“There’s no need to explain, Mr. Finn,” the lawyer assured.

“We’ve had hard times as well. I was warned by numerous members of her family. Most notably her daughter, Diana, told me of her not-so-sweet disposition. Granted, she was cranky but who doesn’t have their personality quirks? Maybe on occasion she would yell at me and throw blunt objects at my head but, hey, every relationship has its ups and downs, do they not?

“I’m not here to discuss whether or not she was wrong but we may have had a disagreement on how to take care of the neighbor’s cat. But you have to understand, that flea infested feline would moan and cry at all hours of the evening. It drove everyone crazy. Not that I’m condoning what she did. I don’t care how annoying a cat is being, none of them deserve to have a burning burlap sack tied to their tail. But I do see why she did it, what drove her to it.”

“I see,” the lawyer’s eyes widened, not sure whether to show disgust or shock.

“Without giving the details,” Tom continued, “Our honeymoon was incredible. The wedding night was… It was magical. She looked beautiful in the bath that night as the water beaded off her leathery skin. Her two front teeth glimmered in the shine of the moonlight. There was a sparkle in her colored eye and she stared deep into my eyes with her working one. A tingle shot down my spine, her toes curled, and we fell into each other’s arms in the throes of passion that night.”

“That’s very,” the lawyer searched for the words, “sweet. Again, my condolences for your loss, Mr. Finn. I’m sure all this is very hard for you but I’m glad you made time to come down to my office.”

“I do miss Gloria very much, thank you.”

“It certainly sounds like you were in love. You must have had quite the iron will to put up with her faults. It seems as if she had quite a few.”

“Will had nothing to do with it, counselor. Love was all it was, and all it ever had to be. I never had much use for anything else. People make it sound like I had to put up with a nuisance, but it was genuine love, I assure you.”

“That’s very noble of you, Mr. Finn,” the lawyer pulled out a small stack of papers from the desk. “How was your income when she was alive? Were you well to do? Did you struggle?”

“We had our dry moments and our high moments, but overall we got by.”

“Any children?”

“No,” Tom chuckled. “She hated children and besides, she was much too old.”

“But you did, indeed, consummate the marriage.”

“Of course,” Tom answered, confused. “Why do you ask? I don’t understand.”

“It seems Gloria kept a secret nest egg away in the bank since you two were engaged and let it grow to healthy size. These papers are her will and they stipulate that if I could prove that you were truly in love with her and that you consummated the relationship without ulterior motive, then everything she owned, including that nest egg would be yours.”

“Well she always was the resourceful one. We didn’t own much. But exactly how large did this nest egg grow?”

“Her savings come to a bountiful $3.5 million dollars, and that’s not including the land properties she owns which consequently are yours as well. She didn’t want you to know about her wealth. Gloria confided in me that it had been the bane of her existence and she wanted to find true love before she died. Obviously, she found that in you, Mr. Finn.”

“Wahoo!” Tom yelled as he jumped out of his chair and clicked his heels in joy. “I deserve this! I deserve this after putting up with that horrible old miser all these years!”

The two paused and stared each other in awkward silence before Tom took his cup of water and drank it all in one gulp. He set the paper cup down on the desk and his eyes darted all about the office in nervous shame. The lawyer offered another cup to which Tom declined.

“I only met with her the one time when she came and had me draw up the papers on this will a few years ago,” the lawyer explained. “She’s just as you had described her, Mr. Finn, to a tee and then some. I don’t know if it’s the will or the love that made you stay with her all that time, but as far as I’m concerned you definitely deserve that money.”

The two shook hands and departed to their separate ways. They never bumped into each other again after that meeting. However there have been rumors of a man who had come into some money recently who hopped from country to country courting haggardly looking women. He taught young men that one’s love truly conquers all but it is one’s will that truly pays off.

The Perfect Hit

2010-11-25T14:48:00.001-08:00

Metal scraped as the door latch slid carefully into place. The brass knob at the end of the chain latch whizzed into place as the links swung carelessly back and forth. Dead bolt was turned. Another lock and yet another latch clicked the door shut. And for good measure, Dan Mockridge pushed the sofa in front of the door. There was only one window facing the open street and he avoided it at all costs, ducking beneath it to get to the tall dresser besides it. He pushed it, crawling on his hands and knees, so it covered the view of his apartment from outside.

Mr. Mockridge is a tall man and very lean. His legs are like springs which have grown slack over the years. Hair fell from his head as lifeless and wiry as his bony fingers. His nose is his most prominent feature and it’s no surprise as to why since, before the incident, he had grown accustomed to pointing it upwards at others. It’s unsure where this habit developed though theories are divided into two schools of thought. Physics would demand that the sheer size of the nasal protrusion he calls a nose that his head should be tilted back. But the more likely reason is that he had moved to Park Row via some high horse and had grown accustomed to the habit. This was an unadvisable personality trait to maintain in the neighborhood that he lived in.

When witnessing a robbery in progress he did not hesitate to call the cops and give the exact whereabouts of the perpetrator in question not to mention take full credit for the arrest in the local news. One might ask, “If Dan’s neighborhood is a haven for career criminals, why didn’t the alleged offender make any effort to conceal their identity?” The area that politicians and realtors currently call Park Row is a region of the city where the governing power does not wear a badge. A steady helping of fear keeps its inhabitants in line. Should any foolish person overstep those bounds, said person would immediately be made an example of.

Three hours after the arrest, a threatening note slid stealthily underneath the door of his dilapidated apartment that simply read, “Retribution’s a bitch!” At first, Mr. Mockridge paid no attention to it. In fact, he was quite impressed that the context and spelling of “Retribution” were both correct. When he walked down the street to the corner grocery store, he was met with hard looks and whispers by his neighbors. The farther he travelled from home the more threatening the stares and less inhibited the people were about brandishing their otherwise concealed weapons. Even a small boy looked at him and motioned to cut his throat. He barely reached the corner before he was drenched in sweat and turned around to run back to his one bedroom apartment.

With the windows and doors all boarded up, Dan cowered in the shadows scurrying across the floor as close to the ground as possible to get from room to room. His heart would forget to beat at the sound of a creaking floor. Footsteps outside in the hall sent shivers rippling up and down his spine. God help him should a car outside backfire. A rat scuttled within the walls, scratching the wood with its tiny paws, its fur rubbing against the interior drywall. The lack of good insulation just caused the ruckus to echo throughout the apartment. The rodent made a single sudden move that sent Mockridge leaping into the air and clinging to the light fixture. Perhaps the rat sensed one of its own in the vicinity. He hesitantly touched ground and slinked towards the phone.

“Yes, police?” his breath shuttered between his chattering teeth. “Someone is going to kill me. I just gave you a hardened criminal and now my life is in danger! Please, send someone right away!”

A truck rumbled past his apartment building and shook the structure to its foundations. Mockridge prayed that it was an earthquake come to kill him before some thug did the job. “If I am going to die before my time, I’d rather die a gentleman’s death rather than that at the hands of a common street hoodlum.” Even in the face of death he found a way to turn his nose up at the residents of Park Row. A heavy rapping at the door wasn’t enough to entice Dan to come out from underneath the bed.

“Who is it?” he yelled at the door standing proudly behind the sofa.

“Police, Mr. Mockridge!” the voice answered, “My name’s Officer Frank Boles. You called for us?”

“Yes,” Mockridge scrambled to his feet. “Can you get me out of this wretched town safely?”

“Yes, sir but we’re going to have to bring you in to the station to file some paper work.”

“That’s fine. I can stand to sign a few papers if you just get me out of this poor excuse for a neighborhood.” He shoved the sofa away and, one by one, clicked all the locks and safety latches open. The door squeaked as swung open to reveal two large men in dark blue uniforms standing impatiently looking into the apartment.

“This is my partner,” Boles introduced, “Officer Michael Wuertz.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Mockridge answered as he gathered himself and walked out of the apartment. “My, my; that was quite a quick response.”

“We happened to be in the neighborhood when we got the call,” Boles explained.

“How fortunate for me,” Mockridge commented, “And how unfortunate for you. Why would anybody want to be in this area? It’s absolutely dreadful.”

“Frank and I grew up here,” Wuertz’s grumbled with venom in his voice, “So If I was you, I’d best lay off the gutter talk until we get to the station.”

“’If I were you,’ Officer Wuertz,” Mockridge corrected. “Growing up in this awful place is no excuse for atrocious grammar.”

“What was that?” Wuertz nearly lunged at Mockridge. Boles held him back.

“Mr. Mockridge, we’re here to help you,” Boles attempted to quell the situation, “But you’re going to have to cooperate and do everything we tell you to do. With an attitude like that you’re an easy target. I know it’s a rough neighborhood but if you go around talking like that to everyone it’s no wonder you’ve become the perfect hit.”

“The perfect hit?” Mockridge asked.

“The boy you pinched was somebody’s younger brother,” Wuertz explained. “You put him in jail and until they fix to get him out, they put a bounty on your head. They want to make an example out of you. This neighborhood won’t stand for rats, not even hoity-toity ones like you.”

All three men walked out into the street. Mockridge made sure he was always within the shadow of Officer Boles and within grunting distance of Officer Wuertz. The cops walked with their broad shoulders up and above the cowering brow of Dan Mockridge. Wuertz approached the squad car and opened the door for Mockridge who slid into the rear seat nervously. Boles sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared quietly.

“Do you mind if we make a quick stop before we get to the station?” Boles asked Mockridge. “If it’s any consolation, it’s not in Park Row.”

“Very well,” Mockridge answered looking cautiously out the rear window.

They drove to an empty lot shrouded in the shadows of skyscrapers that have long been abandoned by the people that once inhabited it. Once, the great edifices stood proudly in the sunlight as symbols of the economic powerhouse that was once the city’s reputation. Now, they crumble in the shadows of larger buildings; its concrete exterior seemed to cry with rust.

“Will we be long?” Mockridge asked.

“Not at all,” Boles answered.

“By the way,” Mockridge asked, “What was the name of the tyke, that scoundrel that I locked up? I hope they give him several years.”

“After what he did, he may get 3 to 5,” Wuertz answered.

“Splendid!” Mockridge answered. “And what was his name?”

“His name is Joseph,” Wuertz responded.

“Joseph. Did he have a last name?” Mockridge demanded to know for some reason.

“His name,” Officer Boles replied, “Was Joseph Francis Boles.”

As soon as the name leapt from Officer Boles’ lips, Mockridge turned in shock and saw not two officers or the dilapidated high rise around them. All he saw were the barrels of two 9mm handguns staring him right in the face. He didn’t hear anything after the brilliant white flash exploded a pink cloud where is head used to be. It smelled of gunpowder and bitter rust. Black red bits and fat gray chunks of brain matter created a collage against the rear window sprinkled with fractures of skull. After that day, the air in Park Row was much clearer especially without the nose of Dan Mockridge taking up all that space anymore.

Macabre, Part 4 of 4: Endgame

2010-10-31T14:26:00.000-07:00

Click to here read "Part 1: Haunted"

Click to here read "Part 2: Guardian"

Click here to read "Part 3: Revelations"

Chapter 1- Act of Contrition

“We’re going to need the tears of a penitent cambion,” Edmund announced. “There’s a spell that might help us out as far as getting rid of the fallen angels that might be there. Asmodeus may have found his way back by now. I’ve got all I need, I just need those tears.”

“And how the hell are we supposed to get that?” John asked as he drove the pickup truck en route to St. Barnabas’ Catholic Church.

“Will my tears work?” Helen asked, laughing quietly to herself. “I’ve been crying all night. One more time won’t hurt.”

“I beg to differ,” John smiled at Helen who smiled back. “But seriously, Ed, how are we supposed to get that? Do we pull out your nose hairs or something?”

“Pull over right here,” Edmund instructed. John drove the truck to the side of the road alongside a chain link fence. Edmund got out of the car and continued to talk as he took out a rosary and a small bottle of holy water. “Pulling out my nose hairs or getting my sister to cry again would give us tears of a cambion. We need the tears of a penitent one.”

“What are you doing?” Helen asked as Edmund climbed over the fence. She was surprised to see him skillfully avoid the barbed wire.

“And how do we make you penitent? I’m mainly asking because I have no idea what that word means.” John added.

“I’m going to the town’s water supply and turning it into a holy water supply. And in order to get penitent tears, one of us would have to cry during a confession.” Edmund ran off and John looked at him knowing what was to be confessed. When Edmund returned John took him aside.

“Is it true?” John asked.

“What are you talking about?” Edmund was in a hurry to get to the church.

“Abe’s last journal entry was in Enochian. It says you killed my brother.”

“John,” Edmund hesitated. “Yes, I did. And I know there’s no way you can forgive me but--”Edmund’s sentence was punctuated with John’s quick right hook.

“Just tell me that Asmodeus thing already took control when it happened!”

“Ed! John!” Helen ran to pull John away from Edmund who was laid out on the ground.

“I’m not going to make any excuses. I committed a horrible act over something petty, I know.” Edmund replied.

“What’s going on?” Helen asked.

“Tell her!” John demanded. “Tell her!”

“Helen,” Edmund started slowly, “I—I killed Paul. Abe and I were on a stakeout for something that was after Paul and--” Her body froze and her eyes stared straight through her brother got to his knees. He looked at her and wanted to explain his action but knew there was no reason to. Edmund felt the sting of her hand as she slapped him across the cheek. He didn’t fight it as she threw punch after punch, her eyes filling with tears. With little effort, John wraps his arms around Helen and pulls her off.

“We better get going,” John pointed out. The entire drive to the church was as silent as the night sky.

Chapter 2- Fire and Water

When they arrived, they gathered behind some tall shrubs just down the street from the church. There were a dozen people walking about the structure. Edmund reached into Abe’s satchel and handed John the bottle of chrism. He handed Helen a rosary and she avoided eye contact as best she could and made sure that he knew it.

“Those cars look familiar,” Helen mentioned.

“They were the neighbors’ cars,” John realized.

“And I’m guessing that those guards are the neighbor’s, or at least demons disguised as them.” Edmund thoughtfully scanned the premises. “If that’s the case then Reuben is definitely here and so are the angels. Fortunately, low level demons can’t enter hallowed ground.”

“So how do we get rid of them?” John asked.

“I can exorcise them if we get them to stay still,” Edmund said. “Since I blessed the town’s water supply the sprinkler system can take care of that. I just need a way to get them on that lawn and I can sneak around and turn on the water works.”

“I’ll go lure them to the grass and you two get those sprinklers on,” Helen suggested.

“No, Helen,” Edmund said. “I’ve never used anyone as bait, and I’m definitely not going to make an exception this time around.”

“I’m with Ed on this one,” John commented.

“I appreciate the concern,” Helen replied, “But I can take care of myself. Besides, they need me alive, don’t they?”

“They need your blood,” Edmund retorted, “I never said they needed you alive.”

“That’s my baby in there,” Helen answered sternly, “And I’m willing to risk it. Now go as soon as you have the chance.” Before her brother can convince her to do otherwise Helen ran to the lawn screaming to the demon guards.

“I can take care of it by myself, John. Go after her,” Edmund took a deep breath. John walked behind Helen quietly being careful not to be seen.

“Hey! I’m over here!” Helen yelled. All the demon possessed neighbors approached her as she slowly lured them to the grass. However, she did not realize that there were three more slowly inching behind her. They screamed in pain as John leapt into plain sight throwing about the holy oil. “Ed! Now! Do it now!”

The sprinklers sputtered and the demons looked about in confusion and before they could realize it was a trap they were caught in the mist of holy water. The water sprayed up and over and side to side instantly sizzling and smoking once it touched a demon’s skin. Edmund ran from behind the church reading an incantation from a book in Abe’s satchel. John and Helen ran to Edmund’s side as the demons writhed in pain dripping wet, smoke rising from their unholy skin until they fell to their knees. They screamed and threw their eyes upwards as their sockets and mouths collectively glowed and emitted black flames. The crowd fell to the ground in unison. Helen ran around back to turn off the sprinkler system. Edmund approached the formerly possessed neighbors and felt for any signs of life.

“All of them seem to be okay,” Edmund commented.

“Where’s Helen,” John asked.

“I think she’s the one who turned the water off,” Edmund said as he walked towards the back of the church. He saw nobody there.

“Father Summers!” a familiar booming voice shouted, “How pleasant of you to join us! And just in time for the ceremony!” It was someone very closely resembling Abe, but someone else entirely different who held a knife to Helen’s throat.

“Let her go, Leviathan!” Edmund shouted back.

“I must say, Father Summers,” Leviathan answered, “I’m quite impressed at your deductive reasoning skills, especially without the aid of Father O’Quinn here.”

“It’s okay, Helen. We’re going to get you and Reuben out of here,” John yelled. Leviathan looked at him as if he were an irritating pest.

“Ah, the angelic novice,” Leviathan finally responded. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a new angel? I’ve got to say I’m not all that impressed. But then again, I have switched teams since the last time I met one of your kind. Come on in, let me get a good look at you; you too, Father Summers. I’d hate for you fellows to miss all the fun. Well, come on! I don’t bite! Okay, sometimes I do but you know what I mean. Move it along.”

Edmund looked at John as if to tell him, “What other choice do we have?” The nervous duo slowly approached the doorway as Leviathan walked Helen into the church. The doors slammed behind them. Leviathan gestured to the front pew and invited them to take a seat while. Helen was being tied to the leg of the altar. Leviathan walked towards the sacristy entrance and walked out holding Reuben who was fast asleep.

“Should we do something?” John asked. “He didn’t tie us up or anything.”

“Did it ever occur to you, John, that I might have back up?”

The door to the crying room squeaked as swayed open. Two sets of footsteps filed out with a clicking on the cold linoleum floor. It echoed throughout the church as the mysterious figures moved from the shadows into the dim light of the flickering candles. John and Edmund nearly fell from their seats as they saw who it was.

“That’s impossible!” John muttered. Edmund didn’t say a single word. Helen wanted to scream but could barely gather enough breath to do so and nearly fainted.

“Dad?” Edmund finally said.

“Paul?” John and Helen said.

Chapter 3- Ceremony and Ritual

“Now we can begin!” Leviathan exclaims, using Abe’s deep throaty voice to echo through the empty church. “Gentlemen, if you please.”

“Do you have any idea how far Upper Egypt is from here?” It was Paul’s voice but Edmund knew it had to be Asmodeus who stood in front of John with his hand extended. The possessed Peter Summers did the same to Edmund. Both clenched their hands into fists. John and Edmund felt an unseen force gripping them tightly and lifting them straight into the air.

“I’m going to assume that that’s Berith defiling my dad’s likeness,” Edmund said as he reached into his pocket. He had taken the ingredients of the spell, all but his own tears, and stuffed them into the small nylon bag. As he pretended to struggle he ground up the herbs into the bit of holy oil and water he kept with him at all times.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Summers,” Berith answered. “Otherwise, I’d have to kill you this very moment.”

“You know,” Leviathan smiled as he put Reuben on the altar, “I’m sure you know about this ‘baptismal’ ceremony. But The Order of the Third Sphere tends to foul up on the details. And as you know, my supervisor is all about the details.”

“Technically,” John interrupted, “Isn’t he in the details?”

“Very good, Mr. Wesson,” Leviathan smiled like a snake, “It’s nice to know you still have you wit. The most important factor is the infant cambion. Its full power is incumbent on keeping its original sin intact. Hence, that is why we wanted you, Edmund, before you were baptized. So, first, I must check if Reuben is our star quarterback or simply a benchwarmer.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Asmodeus asked, scorned.

“Of course I trust you, brother,” Leviathan responded, fully focused on inspecting Reuben. “But if you recall, Father O’Quinn has a way of spoiling our plans. Posing as that hospital chaplain to baptize Edmund before we could get him was very clever. And who could have expected him to try and exorcise Elizabeth Summers while she was in childbirth.”

“At least that succubus I sent killed her as it left her body,” Asmodeus added.

“Alas, that meant we had to wait years for another addition to the bloodline,” Leviathan appeared frustrated with Asmodeus. “But that’s all under the bridge. There, it looks like this child is clean… Well, technically unclean. Tell me, Father Summers, do you know why I have, of all my brothers, these particular angels with us here?”

“Your specialty is heresy so naturally you’d like to take the future antichrist under your wing. He had to be conceived, which explains Asmodeus sending the lust demons after my friends and family. I can’t quite follow why Berith is here.” Edmund answered.

“Well, I’m sure that you think I simply have to bathe the cambion in his mother’s blood. The truth is I have to kill him. He has to drown in his mother’s blood so he can be resurrected as the antichrist at which point he can start his training. Oh and by the way, in case you had any plans to stop us…,” Leviathan takes out a large knife and stabs himself in the gut.

“No!” Edmund shouted.

“Now even if you manage to exorcise us out of our bodies, all your loved ones will still be dead.”

“John,” Edmund thought, “John I know you can hear me. Angels can read thoughts, John. Can you hear me? Just nod if you can.” John, nervous, nodded.

“I’ve got the spell mixed up in my pocket,” Edmund continued. “Once I whisper the incantation a wind will surround the building shattering the windows and blowing the doors open. It should be enough of a diversion for them to drop us. You go after the angels, I’ll get my sister and nephew out of here. Then I have to burn this nylon bag in my pocket in holy fire. Any candle in here should do.”

“I can’t take them all by myself. I don’t even know what abilities I have or if I have anymore than what we’ve seen!” John sent his thoughts to Edmund.

“Listen to me, all those things you did back at the house; the holy fire, healing Helen, sending Asmodeus away. Those are things that only and Archangel can do out of instinct. I don’t know which one you’re tethered to, but you should be able to handle at least two of these guys. I’ll do what I can to distract Leviathan.”

“I think we should warn Helen so she doesn’t get hurt,” John tried to contact Helen telepathically. “Helen, listen to me--” Leviathan turns his head sharply at John.

“John, don’t!” Edmund shouted.

“Are you up to something, John? Telepathic warnings?” Leviathan stopped the ceremony. “Did you think I’d be stupid enough to let my guard down around the cambion’s mother? Please. Brothers, do with them what you will.”

John and Edmund’s bones began to crack under the pressure being applied on them by Berith and Asmodeus. Edmund clenched his fists and ground his teeth whispering the incantation under his breath. A deafening rumble approached the church from above and surrounded it, engulfing it and violently shattering the stained glass windows. The angels fall to their knees. John and Edmund were released from the angels’ grips and fell to the floor like the rainbow confetti of glass shards. The doors swung wide open, a strong breeze blowing in from all sides of the church. Edmund runs to the altar as he picks up Reuben and kneels down to untie Helen. He gives the baby to his sister and helps them up.

“Take the baby and get out of here as fast as you can!” Edmund yelled. John was being pinned down by both Asmodeus and Berith. Frustrated, John let out an awful scream. Unknowingly, his mouth and eyes glowed with white hot fire. Two spheres of brilliant light shot out of his eyes and pinned Berith and Asmodeus to the walls. Leviathan grasped Edmund with the unseen grip, concentrating its force around the young priest’s neck. Floating through the window were Helen and Reuben, Leviathan guiding them back down to the altar in his hands.

“That’s quite enough!” Leviathan shouted angrily. “John, let them go or Edmund, here, dies.” Reluctantly, John lets the two angels go.

“I’ll take the priest, Leviathan.” Asmodeus offered. “Ed, you looked unkempt. When I was in charge, at least I tried to look my best when we left the house.” Edmund started to chuckle. Leviathan relit the candles that had been blown out.

“What’s so funny, Summers?” Berith asked.

“Don’t you need a piece of a soul to resurrect that body?” Edmund asked.

“What of it?” Asmodeus angrily muttered.

“Dad? Paul? If you can hear me, I know I hurt you both. And it was selfish of me to do so. I mean look at how everything turned out. I’m sorry,” Edmund couldn’t hold back the tears, “I was angry at you and I hope you can forgive me. Please God forgive me.”

“It’s useless, priest,” Berith chuckled. “There’s not enough soul for them to actually hear you.”

“I just figured, if the world’s ending and I’m going to die,” Edmund replied, “I might as well go with a clean slate, you know?” Edmund reached into his pocket and took the nylon bag out, concealing it in his palm.

“What’s going on?” Leviathan demanded.

“I think Summers has given up,” Asmodeus answered. “He’s crying. It’s pathetic: the last tears of a guilty conscience.” Leviathan paused. Edmund wiped his tears with the nylon bag and inched his way to the candles. Edmund discreetly dropped the bag into the glass container and watched the contents burn a gentle green flame.

“Or the tears of a penitent cambion!” Leviathan realized. “The candles! Stop him!” The church began to shake and all angels, John included, were thrown into the air as if suspended on chains.

“Helen! Run!” Edmund shouted. Helen took Reuben and darted outside. Edmund knew the spell would only last for a few seconds and hoped Helen made it to the truck. The suspended angels fell to the ground. Asmodeus immediately transports outside and cuts Helen off before reaching the truck. Leviathan grabs John by the throat and lifts him into the air. Berith swiftly drives a large knife through Edmund’s back. Father Summers falls to his knees and then face down on the church’s linoleum floor.

“No!” The word struggled to climb out of John’s throat through Leviathan’s strong grip.

“It’s a shame,” Leviathan mentioned. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight.” John reached over and a flood of information came into his troubled mind. He laid his right hand on Leviathan’s forehead and forced the choking hand to let go. He whispered some words in Enochian and with a violent whoosh, Leviathan was exorcised from Father O’Quinn’s lifeless body.

Berith took out his knife and attempted to strike down at John from behind but John quickly turned around and sent him flying to the opposite wall with a mere thought. Berith quickly swooped in towards John and the two struggled in epic hand to hand combat. Meanwhile, Asmodeus dusted himself off and raised his hands about to strike Helen.

“We don’t need you alive; just your blood,” Asmodeus growled. A skinny but strong hand held Asmodeus’ wrist and turned him around. The stranger’s other hand landed on Asmodeus’ forehead. A familiar voice muttered an Enochian phrase instantly exorcising Asmodeus back to perdition. Paul’s body crumbles to dust.

“Thank you,” Helen says breathing hard, “Thank you, Edmund.”

“I’m not Edmund,” he responded without turning around to look at her. He disappeared, melting into white smoke as he walked away. He appeared in the church and saw John struggling with Berith and grabbed the last fallen angel from behind. John rolled away from underneath them and jumped to his feet laying his right hand on Berith’s forehead finally expelling him from Peter Summers’ body. Just as Paul Wesson crumbled, Peter’s body turned to ash and fell in a gray cloud in the middle of the church.

“Hello, John,” the one who appeared as Edmund said. “Do you remember me?”

“I do,” John responded. “I like the new look. It’s been a long time, Raphael.”

Chapter 4- Resolution

Abe had a simple funeral and few were in attendance. There was no grand ceremony or extravagant dressings for the coffin. Only a few friends surrounded the lonely grave, but Father O’Quinn wouldn’t have it any other way. John, now a fully fledged angel upon his reunion with Raphael, stood silently besides Helen and Reuben. Raphael stood behind them all still as posing Edmund.

“What happens now, John?” Helen asked.

“His name is longer John,” Raphael explains. “Since becoming one of the Heavenly Hosts, we have dubbed him with a new moniker. He is Lazarus.”

“I know, Raphael,” Helen replied, “It’s just easier this way. It’s hard to accept that he’s technically dead.”

“I understand,” Raphael said.

“I wish I knew what was next, Helen,” John responded. “I really do. But I suppose that’s a good thing that we don’t know. I guess now we just live our lives. But what I don’t understand is why I still have John’s memories. I still feel human.”

“Actually, John,” Raphael said. “I have arranged for you to stay here on earth. You’ve been given a new assignment. I guess you can say that you’re my replacement.”

“What do you mean?” Helen asked as Reuben fidgeted in her arms. “What’s his new assignment?”

“You,” Raphael answered as he patted Reuben on the head. “He has been sanctioned to be your family’s guardian angel. I’ve arranged for him to keep John’s memories. I thought it would be easier to assimilate that way.”

“Oh, my God,” Helen smiled. “That’s amazing! Thank you so much! And here I thought I was going to lose someone else.”

“Well, it looks like you’re stuck with me,” John joked.

“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to leave you now,” Raphael said, “but there is one last thing I have to do. Take care of yourselves. John, I’ll be checking in on you from time to time.” Raphael fell to his knees as his eyes glowed brilliantly. The light went out and he started to cough violently.

“Raphael,” Helen asked, “are you okay?”

John stared intently at him; he was on all fours, exhausted and breathing hard. There was something different about his appearance to John.

“Wait,” John said. “You’re not Raphael anymore. Who are you?”

“Hey guys. It’s me, Ed,” he responded.

“Raphael brought you back?” Helen asked.

“No,” John said.

“I’m here to say goodbye,” Edmund looked at Abe’s grave and choke up. “Dad and I are spending a whole lot more time together, Helen. And Paul checks in on you and Reuben a lot. We all are actually. Mom’s there too. I just wanted to let you know that you’re going to want to take extra care of the little one now that it’s just you and Lazarus here.”

Edmund walked over and said a prayer over Abe’s grave. “We’re expecting him soon.” Helen smiles and hugs Edmund.

“I’m glad you’ve found peace, Edmund,” Helen said.

“I couldn’t be happier,” Edmund said still looking at Abe’s grave.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“Goodbye, sis. And I know you still haven’t forgive me, but--”

“Ed, stop. It’ll take time, but I’ll get there eventually.”

“Goodbye.”

Lazarus wrapped his arm around Helen who held Reuben tightly to protect him from the sharp cold of the gray autumn afternoon. They walked to the pickup truck and discussed the usual things a family would discuss on the way home. For the first time in just over a year, they smiled at each other and knew what it meant to be content and happy.

Macabre, Part 3 of 4: Revelations

2010-10-31T14:25:00.001-07:00

Click to here read "Part 1: Haunted"

Click to here read "Part 2: Guardian"

Chapter 1- Genesis

Peter Summers, C. E. O. of Summers Defense Technology, had no knowledge of any apocalyptic prophesies. When he befriended the District Attorney, he could not control the fact that his children would befriend his own children. By the time his daughter was old enough to start a family of her own, he was already dead and no idea she would ask her childhood friend, the D.A.’s son, to be her first child’s godfather. That godfather had political aspirations and in the not too distant future he will rise to become the President of the United States.

Had Peter Summers known any apocalyptic prophesies he would have known that the antichrist would be raised in a position of power. Should his daughter and son-in-law be killed, custody of their child would go to the only godparent and soon to be leader of the free world. Unfortunately, no one told Peter Summers that this was possible and expediting the occurrence were the minions of Hell. The only people who can stop it from happening are a young priest, a worried mother, and a neophyte angel huddled in an empty house.

Peter’s wife, Elizabeth Summers, died while she was giving birth to Helen. The complications of childbirth are sometimes beyond a doctor’s control but Peter needed peace of mind. As luck would have it the same hospital chaplain present when Edmund was born, Father Abraham O’Quinn, was present. Peter grabbed him by the arm and asked him to pray over Elizabeth. The gravelly voiced priest laid his hands on Elizabeth’s head and uttered an incantation in Latin. Unbeknownst to Peter, Elizabeth was infected with a virus. The virus was not biological in origin but demonic and Abe attempted to exorcise it from her body. He did so successfully before any major damage was done to the baby. Elizabeth, however, was a casualty in this battle between good and evil.

Typically, the actual demon being exorcised cannot be seen by the naked human eye. But Abe saw a young two-year-old Edmund stood with his mouth agape in the doorway. The child’s eyes were wide with trauma, swimming in tears, staring at the space above the lifeless body of his mother. The piercing hum of the EKG brought in the nurses and doctors. Peter held Elizabeth’s hand tightly as a nurse wheeled the infant Helen away. Abe dove towards the door and took Edmund to the hallway.

“That’s no place for a little boy to be,” Abe said to him. There was no response. “Did you see something, boy? Answer me, Edmund.” The boy nodded in the affirmative, unable to cry. While the doctors and nurses did all they could it was too late for Elizabeth Summers. Abe offered to help console the family in their time of need; a clever ruse to observe Edmund’s abilities.

Days grew into months, and months into years. Each test that Abe administered just further proved that Edmund was gifted in the way of spell casting. However, the priest realized the potential of connecting this family with apocalyptic prophesy and vowed to protect them. Edmund had taken a liking to Abe who took the boy under his wing. Abe trained him to hone his skills and took him on regular hunting trips in which the game was not deer but demons.

Years later on a warm spring day, Peter Summers died of a cardiac arrest. In the will, he stipulated that Summers Defense Technologies to be run by the board as he felt his children would not want to run the family business. There were two large sums of money that was assumed to go to his two children. One went to Helen, and the other went to Helen’s fiancé, Paul. Edmund was inconsolable and would not listen to Abe who reasoned that this was Peter’s way of accepting his son joining the clergy. The bitter Edmund ran out of the lawyer’s office, his eyes red and wet with tears.

Chapter 2- Ordo Sphaerae Tertius

“I almost forgot that you wanted to be a priest at one time, Ed,” Helen added as she looked slowly around the room. Her breath was shallow as she saw John shuffling the pages of the book and Edmund arranging whatever it was he was arranging. The sounds of rustling paper, the crackling fire, even the subtle fall of drizzling water on the street became deafening to her.

“Can we, please, stop!?! Please!”Helen finally screamed. John and Edmund stood still staring at each other in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” Edmund asked.

“How can any of this be happening? This is impossible!” Helen looked at the others as if they were total strangers. “Why are you not freaked out by any of this, Ed? This doesn’t make any sense!” Edmund sighed knowing that certain secrets had to be revealed.

“I actually finished my training to be a priest, Helen,” Edmund finally said. “It was supposed to be kept under covers. I was supposed to be Abe’s replacement.”

“That doesn’t actually answer anything, Ed,” John commented. Edmund gestured to Abe’s journal.

“All of this goes way back to even before I was born. I was being trained as a member of the Order of the Third Sphere. That’s what Ordo Sphaerae Tertius, the brand on that notebook, means. It’s Latin; a reference to the hierarchy of angels. Legend has it that an Angel started the order so no one’s actually sure how much the papacy knows of our existence. We have been around for centuries. It’s a secret society; a sub-sect of the Vatican and we specialize on the macabre, performing exorcisms and hunting demons and the like.

“Abe was on a hunting mission when he first met dad. He posed as the hospital chaplain and informally baptized me in the nursery to avoid some sort of kidnapping. It was demons, he found out later. Apparently, it was crucial that they take me, particularly not baptized. I’m still not exactly sure why.”

“I don’t believe this,” Helen said.

“I wish I could tell you I’m lying,” Edmund answered, “I really do. I wish I could take all this back and change it to the way things were before. I’m so sorry about Reuben, about Paul, and Abe.”

“Ed, that wasn’t your fault,” Helen tried to comfort him. John refused to let emotion bleed through to his rugged face.

Chapter 3- Edmund the Pharisee

The only luxury of becoming a member of The Order of the Third Sphere was the anonymity. Edmund and Abe travelled to every corner of the globe without appearing to be traditional clergymen. Their last mission together found them in Barbados to follow and closely watch the newlyweds, Paul and Helen. It had been delegated amongst the two priests that young Edmund would be the one to follow the honeymooners, unnoticed of course. Meanwhile, Abe was to keep a watch for any indication of demonic activity. The older priest already had suspicions that an incubus set its eyes on possessing Paul.

The clear sky glowed in the sun baked warmth of the beach for all but one hour when clouds ominously gathered over the Wesson’s hotel. Lightning shot in all directions and a fierce downpour ensued before instantaneously clearing up again. The happy tourists, including Paul and Helen, looked up at the sky laughing at nature’s oddities. Their clothes stuck to them, wet with rainwater and sweat. Abe and Edmund looked at each other sternly, the only two faces in the area without smiles on them.

“Strange weather,” Edmund joked.

“Whatever is here, it isn’t very subtle,” Abe responded.

“It’s definitely coming for Paul and Helen. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a weather omen localize itself like that. I wonder why that is.”

“One possibility is that the incubus that’s after Paul is getting cocky,” Abe chuckled, “as if it’s ever that simple.”

“Or we’re ever that lucky. What’s another explanation?”

“Worst case scenario is that it was marking the hotel with that freak lightning storm of an omen.”

“Why would a sex demon do that?”

“Maybe it’s calling for backup and flagging where their big target is.”

“Perfect,” Edmund sighed in frustration.

Each night Edmund would sit in the stairwell just outside the door that led to the floor leading to the honeymoon suite as Abe patrolled the lobby. He was armed with holy water, a book of exorcism rituals, and other blessed charms ready to use them at a moment’s notice should an incubus be in the same building let alone the same floor. For the first two days nothing happened. It was completely quiet save for the few parties being thrown in the hotel that echoed through the cavernous concrete and steel stairwell. But the air was more humid than usual and somehow the stairs were colder on the third night.

The otherwise dimly lit stairway was bathed in a brilliant light that stirred uneasiness in Edmund more so than fear. An eerie black glow seemed to outline a winged man standing directly in front of Edmund who clutched his bottle of holy water tightly.

“You’ll find that that is of no use to me here,” the voice said. Still Edmund refused to listen and threw some holy water at the mysterious being. There was no affect.

“I’m dreaming?” Edmund asked. “But that means you’re an angel. Who are you?”

“Think about it Father Summers. You’re here hunting demons of the flesh. You know I’m an angel. I think you can figure it out for yourself.”

“Asmodeus? Why are you here? You leave my sister and her husband alone!”

“I’m afraid you’re too late,” Asmodeus answered. “You’ve been asleep for almost an hour now. I’ve already infected Paul.”

“You’re going to kill me!”

“I’m not going to kill you. You might prove useful to me in the future.”

“You’re pretty naïve if you think I’m just going to hand over my body as your vessel!”

“You priests, especially the ones in that silly little Order of the Third Sphere with your bottles of holy water. You think you know what we’re all about. You dedicate yourselves to a God who doesn’t care enough to show up in your time of need.”

“Shut up! I’m going to figure out a way to wake up!” Edmund ran to the door but it was locked.

“You’ve dedicated your life to upholding the laws of the Church. Ever since you were a small child you obediently followed all the rules, never stirred the pot for your selfish gains, even trained with Father O’Quinn to become a demon hunter to protect your little sister. I was like you once. And I was cast out of paradise much like you were cut from your father’s love just like you were cut from his will. It hurts. I understand.”

Edmund leapt down the flight of stairs to the next floor and swung the door open. Instead of a hallway of more hotel rooms, he was in his father’s office. He took a seat in the chair almost by instinct. The leather seat in front of him turned around to reveal his father sitting in it. Tears were in Edmund’s eyes.

“You’re a disappointment, son,” Peter’s voice boomed and echoed, “It’s one thing to be a priest. I can forgive you for robbing me of a grandson bearing the proud Summers name, but… You’re telling me you see ghosts and demons.”

“Dad,” Edmund choked on his words. The words echoed from true memories and took shape in this nightmare that Asmodeus had created. Suddenly Edmund was in a straight jacket. “I trusted you, Dad. I trusted you with my secret abilities and this is how you repay a good son? Your only son?”

The jacket grew tighter and tighter. Edmund couldn’t breathe and began to struggle in his chair. He fell to the floor which crumbled beneath him and fell away into an infinite abyss. As he fell he saw his father hugging Paul and faintly heard his father say, “I’ve always wanted a son like you.” Edmund awoke with a jolt and found himself tucked into the corner of the stairwell, still clutching tightly to his bottle of holy water.

Abe took a seat in the lobby assuring himself that it was too late in the night for anything to make their move. Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, a screeching siren wailed outside and grew louder with each passing second finally stopping in front of the main entrance. Two paramedics filed out of the van, the lights blinking intense reds and whites across Abe’s concerned face. As they ran to the front desk, Edmund came out of the stairway entrance and sat down besides Abe.

“Why aren’t you at your post, son?” Abe asked. The paramedics rushed a gurney up the stairway.

“Something happened.”

“What is it? Was it the incubus?”

“Yes.”

“Did you stop it?”

“I was too late, Abe.”

“I thought you said you stopped it.”

“It won’t hurt anyone anymore. There was something else up there. It was something we never anticipated.”

“So there was something big coming?”

“Asmodeus.”

“An angel? How did you get rid of it?”

“It put me to sleep and that’s when it got to Paul,” Edmund’s breath shivered past his lips.

“Did you exorcise it? Is that how you took care of it?” Abe asked sternly, “Answer me, son.”

“You did the exact same thing to my mother and even that wasn’t enough.”

“How did you take care of Paul, son?” Abe’s eyebrows furrowed a worried wrinkle on his forehead. The elevator doors opened and the paramedics wheeled out the gurney carrying a body. Nobody could see who it was. Helen’s uncontrollable weeping can be heard echoing in the elevator following the paramedics. Abe could feel a chill strike down the length of his spine as he turned towards Edmund.

“Did I ever tell you exactly what happened when I told my father about my abilities? He wanted to have me committed. It ripped my heart out when he said I was a political liability to the family name. You were right, I should have just told him I wanted to be a priest and leave it at that.”

“Son, is this about the will? Are you still angry about that?”

“Did you know he was actually proud of me when I told him I wanted to go into the priesthood? But I had to be greedy and tell him everything and now I’m paying for it.”

“We spent a whole day talking about the vows and the process to becoming a priest. He decided to leave you out of his will because he felt it would interfere with your vow of poverty.”

“Please, Abe!” Edmund said firmly. “Don’t defend him, not anymore. I was the good son and I got screwed over. I get that. I just don’t understand how or why he saw Paul as more of a son than me; his own flesh and blood.”

“Edmund, just have a drink and calm down,” Abe gave him some water. Edmund sipped but didn’t react to the holy water so he wasn’t possessed himself. “Obviously, you went through a lot just now. Walk me through, son. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I need some air, Abe. It’s the point of no return, and I just need some fresh air,” Edmund stood straight up and walked outside, out of sight of Abe’s wise old eyes. Edmund leaned against the wall in an alley and began to cry.

“Looks like you didn’t even need me,” Asmodeus said startling the young priest.

“Leave me alone.”

“I’ll do you one better. I can make you disappear from the face of the earth. No one will be able to find you no matter what charms or spells the old man digs up.”

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want, Father Summers,” Asmodeus grinned.

“Okay,” Edmund whispered in his quaking breath, “okay.”

Chapter 4- Hidden Talents

“I have to start on this,” Edmund was distant when he took out a board with strange symbols written all over it. Along with the board there was piece of wood crudely carved into the shape of a heart. He laid it out in front of him and took out the leaves in the small nylon bag and arranged them neatly in a row as if he were preparing to bring together some strange recipe. Helen and John watched in wonderment and awe as Edmund seemed to be moving purely on instinct.

“John, if you please,” Edmund said without missing a beat, “Could you keep looking through that journal? I never know how much information this particular method is going to give me. Abe will most likely have new information in there since I’ve last seen it.”

“Sure,” John opened the book, “By the way, I saw notes up on Abe’s wall. One of them had Asmodeus’ name on it along with two others: Leviathan and Berith.”

“Angels,” Edmund answered succinctly, “Fallen angels like Lucifer; each with their own specialties. Leviathan was a seraph who spreads heresies and Berith, a cherub, drives people to commit homicides. Asmodeus, also a seraph, specialized in lust and all do their jobs expertly in the name of corrupting as many innocent souls as possible. If Abe is right about those suspects, and he usually is, then we’ve got one hell of a battle ahead of us.”

“I have a question,” John said as his eyes quickly scanned the notebook, “What’s a cambion? You mentioned it, kept saying that’s what Reuben was, when you were possessed.”

“Well, since you asked,” Edmund paused, “I’m a cambion and so is Helen and in all likelihood, she passed that genetic curse to Reuben. It is a hybrid human and demon, more specifically, a sex demon which happens to be a specialty of Asmodeus. It’s the result of a human woman and an incubus or a human man and a succubus.”

“Paul was an incubus?” Helen asked.

“Abe found out he may have been infected in some way by Asmodeus on the genetic level so Paul would have no idea if he was. But we also know that Asmodeus infected mom’s DNA as well. So Reuben is technically half human and half… whatever a succubus and incubus make. But it’s also possible that he’s just a very powerful cambion.”

“And what does that mean?” John asked.

“Nothing good,” Edmund replied. “Helen can you get me a piece of paper and a pen? It’s funny. All cambions have special abilities. Mine was a penchant for spells and witchcraft, much like Merlin who was also a cambion by the way. But we never found out what Helen’s gift was.” She ran and got the items for her brother trying to pretend her premonition dreams didn’t count as a gift. Edmund took the bottle of water that was in the satchel and sprinkles them on the other items.

“This is a talking board,” Edmund explained, “It works a lot like a Ouija board but a whole lot more effective. This heart shaped slab is a planchette and will literally spell out something, hopefully useful. If random spirits are watching what’s going on, then they may offer some information. John, are you done with that holy fire?”

“By all means, Ed,” John answered as if Edmund were asking to finish his leftovers. Edmund whispered an incantation in some foreign or dead tongue and one by one threw the leaves into the fire. Slowly, the fire consumed them and it created thin white ribbons of smoke dragging orange sparks up the chimney. When all leaves were burnt to ash, Edmund closed his eyes and whispered something to the planchette.

“Get out of the way of the fireplace,” Edmund instructed and they followed. The house began to shake, engulfed by a wind that seemed to isolate itself around the house and none other on the street. The gales grew into a concentrated torrent that charged straight down the chimney blowing the fire out. Wind seemed to hover over the talking board and take control of the planchette which shook violently before darting back and forth on the board. John and Helen were frightened but Edmund was writing down something, keeping track of which characters the heart shaped slap landed. Suddenly the wind calmed and the house was no longer shaking.

“What did it say?” John asked, excited and nervous.

“’Baptized in blood,’” Edmund responded blankly, “Unfortunately, I have no idea what that means.”

“Actually, I think there’s something in here about a sanguine christening ritual but it involves end-of- the-world type stuff. It mentions serpents and beasts, a false prophet, and--”

“The antichrist?” Edmund responded as a question but knew it was the answer. “Abe had been doing research on it the last time I saw him. All of those things are most likely going to be derived from cambions. Go ahead and read it.”

“It says, ‘Original sin is wiped when baptized in holy water and/or chrism (holy oil), but is bolstered when the person is bathed in the blood of their mother. The ritual must be performed on hallowed ground. For it to be fully effective, the ungodly act must be committed by three important beings that specialize in wantonness, bloodlust, and the ritual itself.’ That’s some pretty gruesome stuff.”

“It would explain why Abe suspects those three angels though. This stuff is right up their alley. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Leviathan might be the one possessing Abe now that I think about it. I guess that’s why those demons wanted me and it explains why Abe’s baptism scared them off. Unfortunately, ‘hallowed ground’ can mean anything from a church to a synagogue to a cemetery.” Edmund responded deep in thought.

“I might have an answer,” Helen spoke up, “I didn’t want to say anything when I was younger because everyone would think I was crazy. But I have dreams.”

“Did you have one about the location?” Edmund asked.

“Just before John put that stuff in my eyes I was out cold and I remember dreaming about a church. All of us were just outside a small church with a small steeple, but there was no name. At least, I don’t remember it.” Helen gripped her blouse tightly; nervous and relieved that she was not crazy.

“That’s okay,” Edmund reassured her, “Was there anything off putting about the dream?”

“John took out a bible and started writing in it. I think you, Ed, were in a tree. It looked like an olive tree but I could be wrong. And I was holding some sort of staff. Does that mean anything?”

“If John is becoming an angel, then writing in the bible would mean—Matthew!”

“What?” John was confused.

“Each writer of the four gospels is attributed with a symbol. Saint Matthew’s symbol is the angel. So the vision of you writing in the bible means the church we’re looking for might have to do with the Gospel of Saint Matthew. The olive tree is a bit perplexing. It could mean anything. Unless… of course! Helen’s staff was probably a pilgrim’s staff! And then there’s the olive branch and the Gospel of Matthew!”

“Care to fill us in, Ed?” John asked, still confused.

“John, I need you to look up any churches in the area named after Saint Barnabas! The staff, olive branch and Gospel of Matthew are all attributes of Saint Barnabas! That’s the church where we need to be! They will have taken Reuben there. I know it!”

“How do you know they’re still in the area?” John asked as he took out his cell phone.

“Because they still need Helen and they wouldn’t risk being trapped by someone else in The Order by going somewhere on the other side of the planet.”

“Got it!” John exclaimed as he held out the results displayed on his cell phone. “The only Saint Barnabas church within fifty miles of here is over on Donner Street. What’s the plan?”

Click to read here "Part 4: Haunted"