Desperation

c 2012 Roger A Wilbanks

Desperation clouds his judgement with each peal of thunder. That frantic message written in the fog of the bathroom mirror pulled the pin. His mind exploded into shrapnel, and shredded his mind into jagged bloody strips. She was out there, waiting for him. All this time he has fought against his nature. All this time he has supressed this incindiary need to have her. To be with her. Gone. In the blink of an eye with the long faded message written in the fog on the bathroom mirror.

Come to me.

That was what it said. Three simple words that undermined every defense he had built over the years. Deep inside him, he understood tall this was pretense. He knew that he would run to her the instant she gave him permission. But this was different. Something about these three words seemed wrong. Out of place. Indecent. He could not say why. He just felt the sting of her loss. He knew his combattiveness was all an act. Those three words “Come to me.” were wrong and he knew it. She would never just say it. She was sly. She would hint at it, “How have you been?” she would ask. She would never just tell him what she wanted.

He saw her in danger somewhere. His immagination put her in every scenario in which he could rescue her. He always saved the day here in his mind. He was James fucking Dean and John fucking Wayne here amidst the shattered remains of the walls he had built against her return. She just never needed that kind of man, he remembered. She was always strong enough to simply walk away and never look back. Sometimes the beauties are insecure. Sometimes they need to be told how special they are. She didn't. Ever.

“Come to me.”

He rolled these three words over in his mind as he turned the key. The engine roared to life. It was more ready than he was to run to her. He flew past the people of the world on his way to her. The wisps and wraiths never registered to him as anything more than obstacles to avoid if applicable. He knew the way. He had driven it hundreds of time both in the real world and his own creation.

He was sweating. That was strange considering it was the beginning of fall. The air was comfortable and relaxed. The breezes that wiped their hands across the city shook the hands of the people rather than strangled them like Summer would. He wiped the sweat from his brow. It was really pouring down his face now. He looked at his hand as he took it from his forehead. It was shiny with sweat.

He saw her house. It punctuated the street. It grew larger and more detailed as he drew closer. He could see the door open. He thought that was odd. She was remarkably paranoid. This was not a sign he was expecting even were she leaving the door open for him. He leapt from the car as it skidded to a stop and landed on the sidewalk. He looked at her house and it glared back. It told him he was not welcome even though she had given permission. He defied this obstacle and began the walk to the door. He could see into the hallway, the grand staircase on the right, leading to the bedrooms upstairs. Her jacket draped over the bannister as always, a sign she was home. The light from the back door 's window bounced off the shined hardwood foor of the hallway, striking his face. He stepped onto that first step, the one that creaks. This was an old carpenter's trick. The house was built in a time when craft was king. Carpenters would build that first stair to squeak as a signal that company had arrived. It's announcement hard-wired into the house, it would reverberate through every room on the firast floor. She knew he was there as his weight pressed down on the stair.

He pushed open the door. The hallway dark save the light coming in from the back door window. The entire house was dark. The hair on the back of his neck tried to tell him. The raised bumps on his skin tingled their warning. He ignored all of them. He walked into the dark house and closed the door behind him, further darkening the hallway now lit by a single light from the back door. She would be upstairs. He knew this. His mind painted a picture of a candle lit room with a pink duvet covering her four poster bed. He put his hand on her jacket as he mounted the stairs. It was cold and wet from the rain. He ignored this also and bounded up the staircase without a sound.

He turned to the right to face the hallway that opened up to the Master bedroom. She was there, he knew it. All this time of pushing him aside was done. All the energy he spent insuring this woman never stepped into his life again was wasted. He stopped in his tracks and remembered. His mind played out scened from the movie of his life. He saw the time she cut his spark plug wires. He saw the time she set his dog on fire. He saw the time she paid someone to beat him up. He watched all these as if they were coming attractions. None were relevant to the main feature but all were somehow tied by genre. He squinted his eyes as he stood still, feet from her open bedroom doow. The amber glow of candle light danced on the floor in front of him through the crack. He remembered why he ran away the first time. He remembered the time she cut him. He felt the blood running down his arm as he stood there in disbelief. It warmed his arm and chilled his body. It dripped onto the floor and made sticky puddles. He couldn't move. He was frozen in place. He looked doen at his feet expecting to see a shadow of crimson.

The hair on the back of his neck, were it given voice, would have screamed. The goosebumps on his arm, were they able would have solidified into armor to protect him. But it was the little voice he heard from directly behind him that froze him and rendered these defenses worthless. “You came. I am glad.”

He almost didn't even feel the straight razor as she dragged it across his throat.

Bunker

by Roger A Wilbanks

Kyle pounded his fist into the same spot on the metal wall of the bunker. He did this often enough that, with time, he actually dented the metal, forming a fist shaped depression in the steel. He hit it just hard enough to feel it but not to break a bone. It was his way of dealing with the stress of being locked in this bio-sealed coffin for three years.

The other families in the bunker had their own ways of handling the stress. Some drank the gutter vodka distilled from extra potatoes. They would play pool, but the stress broke every cue stick. OK, not the stress, Carl broke them. Carl lived in the last room in the bunker. He hated being shut in as much as Kyle, he just didn't handle it as well. He got drunk. He broke things. Broken things here didn't get fixed. There was no “I'll go down the street and get a new one.” They were locked in this 27 room underground complex. There was no street to go down. They were buried alive.

The plague that drove them here was one nasty hombre. It killed 2 out of three people it touched in the first month. It's often said they were the lucky ones. The rest scrambled and clawed their way towards survival. They locked their doors. They taped their windows shut. They stayed away from everyone and closed the world out. The only thing they succeeded at was dying alone and shut in. The others burned the bodies. They dug deep pits and dropped steel tubes attached to airtight containers in the ground. They installed elaborate greenhouses that used actual sunlight to grow food 50 feet below the ground. They did all this and they hid. Those unhealthy enough to pass the test were left topside to die in the dead world. Only the healthy were allowed down.

It wasn't so bad at first. It was like camping out. They had electricity powered by solar, they cooked with a geothermic pipe sunk deep into the earth. Their air and water were filtered and scrubbed. They had a jukebox. They had all the stored food they would need to ride out the expected life cycle of the virus. 4 years. The only thing they didn't plan on taking down with them was patience.

Within the first year, 30 people committed suicide. They hid in a corner where there are no corners, out of sight just long enough to drink the bottle of poison or cut themselves where it couldn't be repaired and they dies. The bodies were dumped without ceremony topside for the vultures by some brave idiot protected in a bio-suit who stayed up just long enough to throw them down and scramble back into his hatch. His suit was burned, he was locked in a quarantine box with a rabbit for three days. The virus showed signs after 1, but the rabbit was a precaution in-case he was just a carrier.

Kyle was the idiot today. He had just tossed Shelia topside. She gave him no indication she was finished. They were together last week. 3 days ago, she ate a Brillo pad. The metal and the poison killed her in three hours, but she suffered. Kyle held her through the entire trip. When she went away, no one had to ask. He began putting on a suit.

He took his time with this one. He placed Shelia down beside a tree in the shade. He couldn't bury her. There were no tools. The best he could do was cover her and say a quick prayer. He mouthed the words. God had been dead to him for a while now, but he knew she would have appreciated it. He turned at movement in the distance. It was a person walking. He fought the instinct to dart down into the hole. There were survivors, people immune to the virus. In the early days of the plague, the government touted these people as the saviors of the human race. They were wrong. Their immunity was a one off. Their offspring died. They were just lucky. He saw this shadow on the horizon disappear into the trees and then hopped into the hole. As he tossed his suit into the incinerator and scrubbed himself, he wondered what that person out there felt. He always pictured himself a prisoner, trapped in a 27 room cell but that guy was free. He wondered what that freedom meant. He pictured that fella digging the earth and planting crops in soil that was warmed by the sun. He imagined him doing this bare chested and tan. He imagined sweating at the effort and wiping his brow with a rag shoved into his back pocket. He imagined taking a sip of cold water from a canteen. He imagined all of this for three days. With a healthy rabbit as his key, he reentered his prison, went to his room and began pounding on the wall again. He hit the same exact spot, just like he did last week.

Four Ghosts

[This is the first section of this story I have written. The story itself is a horror story and looks (so far) like it will be a good one. I was literally shaking with anticipation as I wrote this during my lunch break yesterday, shooing away coworkers who only wanted to kill time and talk to me. "I have more important things to do right now." I said. Sometimes it sucks to know a writer.]

“Horseshit.”

“You may want to rephrase that, Lucas.” Ronnie cautioned.

“You sit there straight-faced and try to tell me that both you and your hippie mother talk to ghosts and they TALK BACK?”

“More or less. But everyone can talk to ghosts. They only talk back to the ones that want to hear them.”

“I want to hear them.”

“Um.” Ronnie looked at his mother who smiled and and nodded her permission. “Are you sure? This isn't a jar of peanut butter you're opening here. This door's a little harder to close .”

“Don't care. OKAY Ghost. I want to know what happened to Caroline's patient...”

“...That's too easy...” Ronnie laughed.

“...AND to increase the degree of difficulty,” Lucas continued, “I want you to tell me by fax, I want you to throw something, say it on the radio, the television and the telephone.”

Ronnie covered his eyes with his hand, shook his head and sighed.

The two stared at each other. Ronnie wore a look of knowing regret. Lucas wore a confident smile, convinced his new friend and his strange mother would soon be discredited.

Three minutes passed with no reaction from the ghost.

“You see? Nothing. Full of shit, just...” The lights flickered off and relit at a fraction of their intended brilliance. The television sparked to life with a late night used car salesman.

“I don't care what we gotta do....” the salesman screamed and the televiosion fell dark and silent just as fast as it came to life.

In the corner, a beaten up weather radio's dial lit with an eerie glow.
“This time we are GOING to MAKE them Listen!” the angry conservative radio host bellowed as the radio once more went dark and fell silent.

The fax machine sputtered and hissed as it began to disgorge a single piece of paper. As the sheet left the disconnected device, it bore only the picture of a bottle of poison, complete with the skull and crossbones.

Lucas took these events without trying to hide outward expression of the fear that now gripped him.

riiiiing. riiiiing. riiiiing.

“You going to get that, Luc?” Ronnie smiled.

Lucas picked up the phone, grasping the receiver as if it weighed fifty pounds and placed it to his ear as a voice that otherwise would have been mistaken as wind whistling through dark and wet treetops said, “M u r r r r d u u u u u r.........b u u t...n o t........b y.........h e r r r r r ….”

He dropped the phone, his face drained of all its previous signs of arrogance and composure.

“You forgot to throw something.” Ronnie said.

A rubber duck flung itself across the room, striking Lucas in the chest and falling to the floor. He looked as if he had just been hit in the chest at point blank range with buckshot.

“That one's always been a bit of a smartass.” Ronnie said. “Sorry.”

You're Special....WHY?

That's a very pointed question for me today. In the span of 24 hours I have been bombarded by mediocre people who have accesorized themselves special. Ordinary persons who through the magical addition of a thing have elevated themselves out of their own mediocrity.

It started yesterday with a picture of Chum Lee from that idiotic pawn shop show holding a bottle of Cristal. Through the addition of the contents of that tube of glass, a man who by all descriptive methods available to me is entirely beneath description becomes special. A man elevated to celebrity through nothing more than his own STUPIDITY can accessorize himself with an expensive bottle of booze and become....special.

It continues today as I walked past a Tanning shop. I looked at the counter and saw the different bottles of Tanning goo, some decorated like that bottle of Cristal and the thought hit me like a train. These idiots think they can accessorize themselves into uniqueness with THAT? Are we THAT ignorant of what actually Makes a person original these days that we think by the simple addition of something somoeone else tells us is cool makes is, by some magical osmosis, cool as well?

That was the straw that broke me. I do a LOT of things that make me special. I know others who do things that make them special. I have friends that are musicians, atheletes, business people...all creative and unique. They all DO something that makes them stand apart from you. THAT makes them special. But that isn't good enough for you. Your desire to live up to the bullshit fed you since your birth that because you are simply YOU that makes you by proxy....special forces your hand. You believe the lie that with the right thing, you become original.

It's hogwash.

It's like that line from the Incredibles "If Everyone's Special....no one's special" I see this in shows like American Idol and shit of that calibler. Mediocre people are given a spotlight to show they are special. In teh end, by the simple addition of one after the other, any originality is drown out. Every one of us thinks they are born with a God Given right to be Unique and Original. None of us realize that there is a causal relationship to the actual speciality of a person. If you DO something unique...THAT makes you unique. You can't slather yourself with gold cream and double fist expensive alcohol yourself into Originality. When all the snowflakes are different and special, who really cares about snowflakes anymore. We are greedy for attention. The media has had that effect on us. I don't blame them, everyone's gotta make a buck. But for the LOVE of GOD, let this be your takeaway from this.

DO SOMETHING.

You are just another pile of wasted flesh until you do...no matter how much money you have or what color your tanning cream is.

It's Been A Year

Last year at this time, my earth shook.. My buildings were reduced to rubble. My world was rendered ghostly and desolate. My parents died last year, days before my Birthday and Thanksgiving. Both of them. Within days of each other. My father was dying from the Cancer that was consuming him, my mother wore herself to death caring for him. She died first, of a brain aneurysm, in my living room while I was in my garage. She lie on that cold wooden floor for close to 20 minutes before I found her. The doctors told me she died instantly and simply fell where she stood. My father passed on 3 days later, and while he was not told my mother was gone (and in no condition to comprehend that either) I have the feeling he knew and just said goodbye to us to be with her.
[Part of me likes to think that she was there getting a room ready for him and he was simply waiting for the cable to get turned on so he could watch the Texas Rangers in the World Series.]

This showed me that I am not as strong as I like to think I am. I was an emotional wreck. This much is true. And if you want the honest answer to the "How are you doing?" question, I still haven't recovered. I doubt I ever will. But I don't think I am supposed to. Not fully at any rate. I relied on the kindness of my friends then. They were my rock. No. That isn't 100% right. They were my anchor as the storm rocked my puny little boat with it's Olympian Fury. I will never be able to repay that kindness.

I wanted to say something at my parents funeral. I wanted to use my words to find the right way to encapsulate my parent's legacy before the many people at the funeral service but I was unable. I still have trouble putting into print what is in my head where they are concerned. How do you eulogize the two people who meant everything to you?

They were good people.

That is it. In an nutshell, that was the core of my parents. No one met them and disliked them. They had their flaws, just like we all do, but at the bare minimalistic core of their beings, they were good people. I like to think I have that same quality, that on some genetic level I have simply been gifted from birth with decency. My friends who know me will all tell you I have, but I know better. Being decent is a daily challenge. And they won that challenge more than they lost.

I still miss them. Every day. I don't talk about them...especially with people who I have to see on a daily basis. The hardest part of dealing with this event has been my friends' concern. I see how they have taken on my suffering like a cross for themselves and THAT....that is the thing that still wrenches my heart.

I have a lot to do now. I decided on the day that I put them into the dirt on that clear, cold day, with a sky so blue it touched me, that I would make our name known. They would live on through me. That's not as creepy as it sounds. It's called a legacy and mine has been stunted. I have devoted the last 10 years of my life taking care of my parents. Now I will devote the remaining days I have left to making sure that the world knows my name. Through THAT, they will achieve something they never did in life. I will give them something to be look on with pride and say from wherever they are now "THAT is my Son. Look at him go."

Monster Boss - Halloween 2011 Short Story

Monster Boss
2011 Halloween Short Story by Roger A Wilbanks

1
Howard Miller was the world's smartest idiot. He may have a high IQ, but by all measures his grasp on the day to day operations of the real world left many of the people in his life scratching their heads in amazement. He could talk for hours about science and history and often did, but the day he won the lottery, he quit his high paying job only to find that his winnings totaled one week's salary because he had only matched 4 numbers.

It was this action that brought him to the office of Dr. Heinrich Fuller. Dr Fuller moved to Cockrell Hill only recently and his presence in this sleepy town had yet to make its full impact. To many he was a mystery. None could recall ever seeing him. They only noticed that one day the 2-story Art Deco office building on the corner of Franklin and Jefferson was vacant and the next it was open for business. Almost. No one was entirely sure what business Dr Fuller was engaged in. He never saw patients and the only sign of life in his office was the ever present Howard Miller as he bustled to and fro taking care of the daily operations. The whispers began immediately, gaining strength with a spate of mysterious disappearances among the town's homeless population. The whispers grew louder as strange markings appeared on the trees surrounding the tiny city within the woods.

This past summer had been the hottest one the residents of Cockrell Hill could remember. No one was free of its oppressive smothering. Even Mr Cain, the town's eldest, could recall the Montonauk river ever running so low through the city. Ancient masonry, hidden by 2 centuries of flowing water was now visible, marking the location of bridges built by the town's previous masters. Autumn began its slow trot towards the town atop a rust-colored pony, and everyone could look at the horizon and feel a sense of relief seeing him getting larger upon the horizon. Summer wasn't quite done with them yet, however. Just as the thermometers began their reluctant crawl south, he gave them one more week of sweat-covered bodies and fever dreams to remember him by.

Howard opened the parlor door to Dr Fuller's office on Monday. A plate of unfinished greyish meat that comprised the remains of Doctor's dinner lay in front of the door that led to the upstairs office. This reminded Howard of the meals his grandmother would make herself and as the Doctor was almost as old as she was, Howard assumed their culinary tastes similar.

The fan was broken again. He swept the night's debris out onto the sidewalk as he did each day prior. He never gave any thought to where this clutter came from. Small pieces of white-flecked shell and sand were spread out across the floor along with dust Howard assumed had fallen from the ceiling. This office was almost 100 years old and had been vacant for the last 50 years, standing watch on the corner with the thousand yard stare that only forgotten buildings can manage. He swatted the flies away from his face as he did his daily cleaning. This hot flash had brought them to the people once again. The invitingly repulsive odor of a bloated corpse was on the morning's air. The Sheriff would no doubt have to make the trip to the trickling riverbed to see which animal was the latest claimed by the drought-like conditions. Howard ignored the smell as others sitting outside speculated what animal could cause this type of odor. Clay Harrison, the town Barber, guessed it must be a stray pack mule wandered down from the mountain campsites. Arnold Cobblepot, Attorney at Law, argued it was the missing heifer from Old Lady Wilke's dairy farm. Howard knew what it was and sniffed his derision at these guesses, completing his sweeping before the sun had fully scaled the trees. He closed the door to the office and opened the arched window that set atop the door frame. Each window within the arch swiveled to allow air to flow freely into the building. Howard returned to his desk and began to address the paperwork left for him by Dr Fuller.

The Dr ordered a lot of medical supplies. There were at least 14 pages of items ranging from simple test tubes from California to sophisticated micro measurement devices from Europe. Howard filed the letters and prepared the day's mail with the supply requests, including Dr Fuller's premade checks within each manilla envelope. This task completed, Howard poured himself another cup of coffee. As he stirred in his powdered creamer, he noticed that worms had appeared under the table his coffee station was set upon. These worms were white and stringy and less than an inch long. They resembled phlegm more than earthworms. Howard assumed these were brought to the surface from whatever malignant growth that spawned them by the heat and swept them up. He returned to his coffee and saw that his sugar bowl has been moved from the corner of the table. It had 4 round, inch-wide whitish smudges in a vertical line along one side. Howard picked up his sugar bowl and wiped it clean, only now noticing the seashell piece in his sugar bowl. It was larger than the ones he swept up every day but clearly made of the same material. He dumped the sugar and refilled it from the sealed bag below.

Coffee in hand, Howard was officially done with his duties for the day. He never saw Dr Fuller during the daytime. When he was hired, he remembered the Dr interviewed him at dusk and was late in doing so. Howard chalked that up to the man's busy schedule and accepted the job that was offered. The pay wasn't close to what he was making as when he was an electrical engineer in the City, but at least now he could walk to work rather than commute 2 hours a day. For that alone, he was grateful. Howard sensed the commotion in the street long before he heard it. The Sheriff's pickup raced past his window with people following the dust cloud kicked up . Howard assumed they had found the body of the cow. As they prepared to assign blame for the ignorant animal's demise, Howard remained in his chair and sipped his coffee. He opened up the crossword puzzle from today's newspaper and began his daily ritual. Clay Harrison ran past his window and stopped. He looked in at Howard, oblivious to the ruckus. He made a curious, pained expression and continued along to the Sheriff's office. Howard greeted this look with a derisive shrug and correctly answered “Gallop” as a 6 letter word for “faster than a trot”. He wrote it in ink.

The commotion had gained a welcome drop in volume as the townsfolk gathered at the Sheriff's office, 3 blocks away from Dr Fuller's office. Howard wrote the word “Frangible”, completing the puzzle's request for a 9 letter word for “Easily Broken...on purpose” He heard a thump from upstairs. It sounded like something soft and wet falling from a great height. He heard this noise from time to time. Dr Fuller had once explained that he had several experiments ongoing on upstairs that involved caged animals. Howard accepted that one had simply fallen within its cage and wrote “Decline” as a a 7 letter reply to “...of the Roman Empire” The unmistakable sound of dragging filled the small downstairs office from the room above, but Howard was prevented from fashioning an explanation for this odd noise by the face of Clay Harrison again in his window. This time the curious glare was replaced by roiling anger. Clay looked away from the office and screamed “He's here!” As he turned his eyes back to Howard, other townsfolk appeared in the 8 foot long window frame including Arnold Cobblepot, Sheriff Talbot and even Ernie Hutton, the town mechanic. All of them were looking at Howard.


2

Howard pointed at himself and said “Me?”, unsure of the question he was answering. Sheriff Talbot nodded his yes and pointed at the sidewalk outside the office with an unmistakable “Now!” motion.
Howard put his pen down and took a sip of his coffee. He looked at the door that opened to the upstairs office and saw that it was securely locked. He went outside.

Arnold began the inquisition.
“What the hell is your boss doing up there? This is the 6th cattle mutilation this summer.”

“What are you talking about?” Howard answered.

“There hasn't been so much as a cow coming down with a case of Hoof and Mouth in generations. Your boss moves in with his science experiments and every week now we find the remains of some animal out in the woods.” the lawyer demanded.

“And what makes you take the deductive leap and say that Dr Fuller is the cause of this? Because he's new?” Howard looked every person in the mob in the eye as he asked this. “You see the remains of some cow that fell in with a bad wolf and come running to ME saying 'Your Doctor is a Monster!' Seriously?” Howard laughed. The crowd began to lose it's venomous edge.

Clay Harrison would buy none of this. “Look. We all know how much smarter than us you think you are, but nothing strange like this happened before THAT freak arrived. None of us have ever seen the man. The only way we even know he's here is the lights that he turns on at night while he's working. He might not be a monster but he sure is fucking weird!”

The mob found their voice again and roused their agreement.

“So he's Dracula, now?” Howard laughed. “He only comes out at night and shreds cattle? Are you people listening to yourselves?” Howard was laughing now. “Does that make Earl a wolf-man because he works the night shift at the brewery? I never see HIM during the daytime. Hey Earl. Do you even HAVE a shadow? This is laughable. If you want to figure out what is killing these animals, I suggest you bring in a game warden and not an exorcist!” Howard turned on his heel and stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him. The mob, exhausted of their anger like a snuffed candle, dispersed without a sound. Only Sheriff Talbot remained. He wasn't looking at Howard though. He was looking at the 2nd floor window directly above them and wondering if he had really seen what he thought he had just seen.


3

The hours fell through the glass like grains of sand as the workday drew to a close. Signs in the shop windows along Franklin and Main streets began to reflect this change as they flipped from OPEN to CLOSED. Lights ignited in the windows that dotted this busy street in defiance to the lazy shawl darkness pulled across the town. Howard turned the desk lamp on as he began his end of day cleaning. His closing sweep produced more bits of sand and seashell pieces as well as dust from the geriatric building's rafters. Howard's focus was drawn to the abrupt blink of light that appeared at the base of the door leading upstairs. “The Boss is here,” he thought. No sooner had this occured to him he was startled by a rap on the window outside. The Sheriff was standing outside the office and pointed to the ground in front of him, again signaling to Howard “Now.” Howard looked down and sighed. He leaned the broom against the doorway that led upstairs and walked outside. The heat from the day was still attached to everything, leeching strength and comfort from everyone.

“I don't know what your boss is doing. I don't care. I know he's been the one doing this cattle thing and I want you to relay one thing for me. Stop. Now. This isn't the place for him to pull this crap. I won't allow it.”

“Sheriff, I expect this kind of nonsense from the people who live here. They have nothing else to talk about. Life in this little place never changes. Anytime something new happens, they get out their pitchforks and torches. But you? I expected you to be above this.” Howard shook his head and leaned against the building. Sheriff Talbot looked back to the window again. The light was on now and he was certain that if he looked long enough he would see it again. He returned his gaze back to Howard.

“Cut the bullshit, Miller. You and I both know what is going on here and I'm the guy standing here telling you right now that I won’t allow it. Tell your boss “Tonight is your last night here.” Tell him I said he is no longer welcome here. Tell him that he has this one last chance to pack his shit and slip out just as fast as he slipped in. if he's still here in the morning there's gonna be hell to pay.” This caught Howard's attention. He had known this man for 30 years and never heard him say anything so abrupt leave his mouth. That was part of the reason he was the town sheriff. He never went too far along with any one emotion. His rule was one of deja vu; every day like the one before. To hear him threaten Dr Fuller shook Howard from the derisive stare he had affixed to Sheriff Talbot. “What the hell are you talking about, Sheriff?”

“I have been on the phone all day since finding that corpse. I told the folk here it was Old Lady Wilke's cow. I lied. It was Cliff. I found him in a clearing marked off with those symbols we've been seeing around town. I know Fuller did this. I talked to the Sheriffs in 4 other towns along the river. The stories were all the same. Strange man moves in, people disappear, everything boils to a head as the clergy get involved and the office he was holed up in goes up in blazes and the local person hired to mind the store meets a gory end. Did you know there are exorcists prowling the woods RIGHT NOW looking for your boss? He's very popular among their kind. Something like a trophy. I'll bet he's been on the run for a while now. “ The blood began to drain from Howard's face as he began seeing the logic in the Sheriff's words.

He had seen this all unfold before him and convinced himself that there was nothing to fear. He smelled the rotten meat every morning, knowing he'd not left anything out. He realized those weren't seashells he had swept up. They were scales. His mind turned back to the incident with his coffee station this morning. Those marks were hand prints. The good Doctor had been putting something in his coffee since he started working there. Howard vomited and fell to the sidewalk. “I should have seen this all along...” he whispered.

“Howard, don't take this the wrong way, but you're an idiot. You wouldn't have seen this if your boss had unfurled his leather wings in front of you while he was chomping down on Old Man Higgins. You may be the smartest person in this town, but when it comes to seeing the tree right in front of you, you can't get past the forest. But I want you to tell him “Move along” This is his last warning. If he's not gone by this time tomorrow (he raised his voice so that the shape now behind the curtain of the second story window could easily hear) this town will be crawling with priests looking for some place to sprinkle their holy water and shove their crucifixes.”

Howard got up and wiped the spew from his face. “I'm not going back in there. He's all yours.” He turned on his heel and ran into the night.

Sheriff Talbot took a step back and looked at the 2nd story window with the light on. “I know you heard me. I don't make idle threats. I have already made the necessary phone calls. These people will be here tomorrow.” The shape in the window pulled back the curtain and locked eyes with the sheriff who looked much different now. His eyes glowed like red coals and an issue of smoke bellowed forth from them as he glared into the upstairs window and said “The last thing this town needs is another monster.”

A Year and a Day

While the time is off a bit, hear me out.

It's been a year since my father fell while walking down the hall. He was having trouble breathing and eating. He was recovering from throat cancer, but how do you recover from that? His throat had been scorched raw...his teeth removed and his saliva glands incinerated. He survived the cancer but I would never call the life he was forced to live recovered. It was survival.

Pure and simple.

We, my brother and I, watched the man we grew up loving, fearing and respecting erode in front of our eyes. Piece by piece were removed from this man as payment for the life he chose to lead. The cigarettes and the alcohol you currently enjoy are adding up right now. I promise you this. I've seen the payment they demand upclose and in person. I'm not about to sit on a soapbox and decry the dangers of excess. You keep on smoking and drinking, as will I. Just understand the nature of your transaction. You are exchanging the now for tomorrow. You are enacting the free will that makes us intrinsically human and for that, I can't fault you. Just as I couldn't bring myself to tell my father, several years removed from cancer treatment to stop smoking and drinking.

He would have told me to mind my own goddamn business had I brought it up, and he would have been right in doing so. Still, it is a source of regret on my part that I wasn't more emphatic in my protest.

On Aug 31 of last year...after he had fallen several times and was having trouble even breathing, he agreed to go to the hospital. The doctor at the VA Emergency Room told me and my mother that my father would be dead in a week. He thought he was being optimistic in this prediction. He honestly didn't think my father would last the night.

I told his doctor what every son believes in his heart. "You don't know my father. He is a fighter." He laughed the safe amusement of a doctor who knows better. But I was sincere. My father WAS a fighter. After they drained his lung of the fluid build up and replenished his fluids (His inability to swallow for weeks had limited his eating and drinking. He was dehydrated and malnourished) the fighter emerged. My father, whom this doctor of medicine had honestly thought would be dead in days was healthy and ready to go home. Until the test results returned. My fathers cancer had returned and in a more aggressive form than before. It was incurable...inoperable and they again told me and my family that my father would be dead in a week.

"You don't know my dad." I said again. This time they were right. The cancer took a little longer than a week. It took 3 months to be precise...but it claimed my father. The stress of staying by his bedside for these months also claimed my mother, only days before he passed. I thanked the doctors at the VA for their exemplary service and care and buried both my parents days after my birthday.

This marked the end of my life as I knew it. I struggle to find the words to describe how this affcted me. A year ago today, I was hot, I was tired, but I was whole...I was happy. Times were tough but I knew I would make it through because of my family. The future was a window I watched play out life's daily performance while I sat comfortably distanced.

Nine months ago, I discovered the meaning of the word numb. I have been without feeling since that day. It is as if a piece of my soul was buried alongside my parents in that cemetary. I have smiled since then. I have cried as well. I have been visited by my parents almost nightly in my dreams. Sometimes these are plesant and provide me with a sense of peace. Other times... Well other times they simply aren't. In the last 9 months I would guess that I have seen my parents die at least 200 times in my dreams and I fear that is an optimistic number.

I wake at 3am with the same feeling of despair smothering me as I felt when the doctor at Methodist Hospital told me my mother was dead. My body is usually soaked in my own sweat. It is not a feeling I have shared with anyone. But I know what it is and I know why I write this now. I share this with you anonymous people now as a catharsis. I will continue to dream of my parents. I will continue to revulse in horror at my memory of performing CPR on my already dead mother and I will continue to see with utter clarity in my mind's eye the withered body of my father as we said goodbye. I will also know that their spirits were gone from those lifeless bodies and the pain they endured without complaint whisked away by the embrace of Old Man Death. I don't hate Old Man Death, mind you. his is a necessary task. Without his service, suffering and pain would be the norm.

But as much as I miss my parents and want them back, I understand. I get it. Time has softened the blow a bit. The dreams still come with regularity. They will for some time to come. I can live with this. It's the alternative that would hurt more. My father continuing to suffer. My mother continuing to wear herself to the bone standing her vigil. That's what I find unacceptable. That's what the lesson of the last year has taught me.

If you had said to me a year and a day ago that my parents would both still be alive today, I would have taken that as a good thing. But having seen what I have...having endured what I have...How could that be a good thing? Today is the first day in this entire time that I can say without feeling in the least bit bad about it that I am happy that my parents are gone. I can say this because their pain ended. The next step in their lives began. THIS...I envy. I can't wait to see them again and ask them how things have been. I bet they have some pretty damned awesome stories to tell.