The Traveler

“I never thought much about the man,” I recounted to my friend. “He was just there on the trail sometimes. Most times he wasn’t.”

“Yeah? So what? You saw a guy on the trail, and?” Janni wasn’t a very supportive friend, but you take what you can get sometimes. I’d just known them so long they sort of became my best friend by default.

“I don’t think you get it,” I replied a little exasperated, “I followed him.”

“Oh, so you were creeping on him?” Her expression was a little tongue in cheek, “that’s nice.”

“No!” I quickly asserted, “I don’t think you understand what I mean. I didn’t stalk him or anything, I just happened to be behind him when it happened. Riding at my own pace on my bike on one of those perfect days. You know the kind: sun out but cheating behind the clouds on a regular basis, mid seventies, light breeze, but not enough to make pushing into the wind a hassle. Anyhow…

“I knew it was him from a distance. He always wears the exact same outfit, always has his large white beard trimmed the same way. The wisps of white hair beneath his wide brimmed hat always carefully groomed into the same position.”

“Are you sure you weren’t stalking him?” Janni interjected.

“Absolutely NOT!” I held my eye contact with her a little longer than I normally would, it was slightly uncomfortable, but I needed to be sure that she was taking me seriously. This had done the trick she was taken aback. “It may not show on my face, but I’ve been gone a long time.”

“Long time? I was hanging out with you just last week.”

“I’ve been away for years, but time and aging work different there. I really wish I could explain it better to you. It was brilliant and a nightmare all at the same time. But that’s not the point. The point is the man.”

“Are you feeling okay?” She asked with concern showing deep in her face.

“Yes!” I screamed. I just needed to get this out. I need to get my point across. I didn’t know how long I had. I calmed myself and continued, “yes, I’m absolutely fine, but I’m sort on time and need to tell you about the man before I have to go back.”

“Go back? It doesn’t sound like you really want to.”

“I don’t,” I assured her, “but I don’t have a choice in the matter. They will be coming for me really soon. Listen, it’s all about that man. Everything is related to him, he is the center of this. I never should have gotten caught in his wake, but I did.”

“What do you want me to do?” She asked. I think I was finally getting through to her.

“I need you to…” They came. They plucked me from our reality before I could finish. I will always wonder how she reacted to that. I just hope she doesn’t try to follow me here. That would be the absolute worst thing she could do. But perhaps that was their plan all along, I’ll never know.

-V-

Arrival (Part 7)

Go to Part 1

“Beyond here, you’ll find the kitchen and the bathroom. Rent will be due on the first of every month and includes all the utilities… Green?” She poked me rather hard in the stomach with her cane.

“Yes?” I questioned, being brought back into the conversation rather abruptly. “Oh, I’ll just pay you cash now for the whole remainder of the lease, if you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” She said surprised. “I don’t mind getting a whole lot of cash all at once. Who would? I suspect I’ll be minding in a few months once I’ve spent it all, but now? It’d be just fine by me.”

I handed her an envelope with what Howard had told me would be the remainder of the lease. She snatched it, ripped it open, and started thumbing through the bills. This sort of behavior has never bothered me. It’s important to be sure you are not being swindled or short changed. Once satisfied that I had indeed given her the correct amount, She grinned ruefully.

“Well seems eveythin’s in order here. The keys to the place are on the nightstand in the bedroom. I left a note with my phone number on it. Call anytime day or night if you need anything. I suspect it’s hard showing up in a new city not knowing anyone. But you look a cunning type. I bet you’ll find your feet faster than you know it. I imagine you’ll want to get settled in and find some grub. I’d suggest the Verdé Mart just up the street in the Quarter. They make a wonderful Po-boy. Something to put some meat on your skinny bones.” She gave a wry smile at this last statement.

“Thank you so much Mrs. Flemming…”

“Johanna, dear.” She interjected.

“Sorry, Johanna. It’s been a pleasure.” I smiled.

“Oh, the pleasures all mine.” She said as she clutched the envelope. “Just make sure you don’t go round getting the police all up in here. I don’t like having to deal with them much.”

“I’ll be sure to keep my nose clean. Good day Johanna.”

“Good day Green.” She ambled out of the door and shut it gently behind herself.

I walked over to the door and bolted the lock. It was finally time to decompress. I deposited my bag on the table by the reading chair and slumped into it. This chair was brilliant. Whoever had crafted it was pure genius. Or perhaps it was the decades that people’s bodies had carved out the perfect feeling for sitting on a hot summer day to read or nap. I looked out the window by the chair, there was a blue house next door, but above that I could see the sky with a few lazy clouds hanging around. For one brief moment everything felt just right.

My bag slipped off the table and spewed onto the floor the four stories I had received at this point. I was sure before I left to set up a mail forward for the new ones, since whoever V was, they obviously weren’t getting them, or possibly would appreciate them the way that I was.

-V-

Arrival (Part 6)

Go to Part 1

You could see that perhaps she had been a very beautiful youth, but the years had not been kind to her at all. She was at least reasonably thin. Not overweight, but not winning any skinny contests either. She wore a simple pink dress with green paisleys, with a white knit shawl over it. She looked up from her hand on the door to me. I was immediately sucked into her eyes. They were a vibrant hazel, with patched of milky white here and there. It was like looking pictures of galaxies I had seen in science books many years ago.

“Who’re you?” She asked producing a gnarled cane from her side in a offensive pose.

“I’m Green, Sheldon Green. Howard set up the sublet for this place for me. I believe you are Mrs. Flemming?”

“Oh! Well come on in deary. Yes, yes, I’m Mrs. Johanna Flemming.” The cane disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. “Can’t be too careful nowadays. Neighborhood ain’t what it used to be. Then again nothing is these days. Not even me. I wake up every morn with the aches in my bones so bad, I don’t much mind getting out of bed. But that’s age for you. And it’s been so hard since Jim passed these five years ago.” To this she clutched a locket around her neck and gave it a little kiss. “He left me alone and with all these properties to take car of. I ‘spose he left me something to keep busy with. Mr. Green you say?”

“Well most people just call me Green. No salutatories necessary for me.” To this she stopped and turned to me. Her eyes narrowed, and she examined me from head to toe. It felt like she was looking into my soul. Weighing each and every part of me. It was an uncomfortable few moments. Finally she smiled and continued into the house.

“Don’t know much about no salute-a-stories here. Nothing but good ole fashioned hospitality. If it’s Green you say, then Green it is. I think you’ll like it here. Most people do. It’s mostly quiet, and everyone generally keeps to themselves.”

I was barely listening to her. I was astounded by the architecture of the home. Vaulted ceilings, they had to be around sixteen feet high. Beautifully sculpted crown molding adorned the painted tin ceiling. There was a slight musty smell in the house, as if it had been lived in for a long time and barely ever got aired out. Hardwood floors beneath my feet creaked with each step. Light slowly filtered through the shuttered windows and dust slowly played in the beams of sunlight. In the corner was a cozy old armchair, threadbare. You could see that many a great story had been read in that chair. Next to it was a simple coffee table, the current newspaper sitting atop it, pristinely folded. I followed her back into the next room. This seemed to be the bedroom, there was a single bed with a nightstand next to it. Not much else to speak of, no wall hangings or anything.

-V-

Read Part 7

Arrival (Part 5)

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“When I used to skip school we would walk the river front, cause it’s shorter. It don’t seem it, but you walk that river front all the way to Canal street it’s shorter than going up St Claude or something. You know? And we played ball and everything. Almost every Monday in football season we’d skip and go downtown. Just a bunch of stupid asses, I guess that’s what we were, really. You know? But uh, that’s how it was, you know? Did I tell you when I was a kid, son, trust me. We grew up poor. I mean dirt poor. Seven cents streetcar fare and you got four transfers with it for the seven cents. And that’s a fact. It was sevens cents for many many many years. Man, I could tell you stories. You know? And you say, ‘old man, he’s lying,’ and I’m not lying. I don’t have no reason to lie. You know? It’s the truth. Sometimes I can’t believe it. I tell my kids, they laugh at me.

“Ah, here we are. 2400 block of Royal. That’ll be 50 dollars.”

The trip had been so entertaining; I decided to give this old man a 100 dollar note. He started to get some change out. “Keep it, you seem to be a good man.”

“You sure? I mean, I’ll take it, but you know?”

“Absolutely, It was worth a bit of good company.”

“Alright, well you enjoy the city. If you need any more rides you go ahead and call me up.” He said handing me a business card; I took it, got out and closed the door. He drove off slowly.

As I exited the car, the air hit me like a wall of dank misery. It was unseasonably hot, well for what I would consider the season. I was a born and raised northerner, where seasons were always mild, except for the few freak occurrences. Winters that were extra cold and snow filled, summers that were so hot you could cook an egg on the sidewalk. But here, it felt like it was hot all the time, hot and humid.

I looked around me for the first time. Really looked. This city was amazing. It was all falling apart and decaying, but every house had a decently new coat of amazing vibrant paint. Not the traditional house colors you’d see in any other suburb or city, with their drab browns, grays, whites, and the occasional powder blue, or light yellow. No, here every house was a mixture of colors that would excite you. Purple with bright yellow shudders, greens, pinks, reds, and every other color under the sun. It had a certain whimsical feeling about it.

I walked up to the address that Howard had given me and knocked on the door. I had no idea what to expect. I wasn’t sure or not if Howard had already left, and what arrangements he had made for my arrival. An aged black woman opened the door. She stood much shorter than me, but perhaps that was just her age, years of gravity and life pulling her down. Her face was a mass of lines that went in every direction.

-V-

Read Part 6

Hunted

Each breath passes my lips into a crystallized cloud of white steam. I’m breathing heavy. How long have I been leaning against this tree? I need to keep moving. My left arm is lifeless now, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding just above my elbow. I used a bit of my shirt I tore off at the waist to cover the wound and collect the blood. I can’t afford to leave a red-hot trail to follow.

The winter chill seems to be dulling my senses. But in a counterintuitive way I feel and hear every movement and moment around me. Is this what it’s like for most prey animals? I can’t spend too much time worrying about that now. I must focus on my next objective; I need a place to hide. I am way too exposed out here on this tree. Every second I spend considering my next move is a second lost to my pursuers.

I can hear the rush water up ahead. Where had I heard it before? It’s damn near impossible to track something down a river. Well perhaps not impossible, but at least it should buy me more time. Movement, I need to get moving. I pushed as hard as I could against the tree to be back on my feet. I think the blood loss is starting to get to me. My vision darkened a little and I could feel myself sway in the wind, but it was brief.

The adrenaline kicks in again. I know I’m leaving a massively easy trail to follow in the snow, but if I can get to the water I bet I can buy enough time to think. It’s close enough that I can hear it, so that’s good, but distances can get sketchy when you’re in this state. I just need to keep focusing on each step, one foot in front of the other. Simple movement. The rhythm takes over and I lose track of how long I’ve been stumbling.

A hidden branch or log in the snow catches my foot and I start rolling. All I see is white and blue as the keeps whipping me in the face with each rotation, down the slant of the forest floor. With a slap to the face the water comes rushing into my mouth. It’s an insanely painful and invigorating sensation. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I could possibly be colder until I was soaked through. But water! I had found the stream; freedom is still a possibility.

It was about five feet across and two feet deep, just enough to ensure that I would be totally immersed. Not a time to think about being wet. I need to get moving. I can hear the voices in the distance. How long did I stay at the tree? How slow was I moving? What are they saying?

Pushing myself up with my good arm hurts immensely. Snap! Suddenly everything is a burst of pain. All my limbs no longer take my orders. Time slows to a near halt as I slump forward, my face dropping back into the cool water. The pain dissipates relatively quickly now. As my vision fades in the base of the creek I can see red pooling in front of me.

-V-

Arrival (Part 4)

Go to Part 1

I got into the cab and looked out at the airport as we left.

“How long is this going to take? And what part of the city am I going to?” I pondered out loud.

“It’s ‘bout a thirty minute ride, and you’re going to a real nice part of the city. Bustled right up next to the Quarter. It’s right next to the Tremé. Ain’t it funny how cities work. One street like Saint Claude separates a decent neighborhood like the Bywater from a pit like the Tremé.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I tell you what, I’ve been in this city my whole life. And it’s poor over there, but they live better than a lot of poor people do, believe me. ‘Casue uh, I used to collect for the loan company years ago and I’ve been in some of those projects, man. The people, They just didn’t have nothing. Sometimes I wouldn’t try to collect, I’d leave them a dollar if I had it to buy something for their kids. It was that bad. I was born back…

“I’ve been doing this 40 years, so it’s been, quite a while back. In fact the projects is all torn down I think. But we had a bunch of projects here when I was a young man. But most of them were white back when I was a kid. Cause uh, New Orleans was probably 85 or 90 percent white. You know?”

As he droned on I found myself staring out the window at all the flat land with random trees sticking out. It was all so green and swamp like, but still felt very dry, as if it had once been a nasty swamp that the waters had receded from and left a lush green graveyard in its wake. It gave a sense quiet serenity.

“So yeah, it’s changed. That’s what I said. It changed, I mean, but everything’s changed. We had 150 million people, 130 million when I was born in 1929, now we got 300 and something million. So, You can see right there, where you got lots of changes.”

“Yeah, the world’s gotten a whole lot crazier.” I put in.

“It’s getting it, the populations killin’ us. We killing ourself environmentally really. And we do pretty good though, considering. I mean really, You know? I still eat good, I still can take a bath every day. Got a decent house to live in. Good job.”

“You sound like you got a pretty good mind on you,” I interjected.

“Well I got good common sense, son, I guess. You know? I think that means… I don’t have a college degree, I’m a high school graduate. But in my day that was good. You didn’t particular have the money to send you to college, you were lucky to go to high school. I was fortunate to do that.”

I found myself staring now at thousands of tombs, as far as one could see. I was so unaccustomed to seeing tombs and not grave markers. It was quite overwhelming. I had heard once that they had to practice this since the water level is so high in here, that if they buried someone six feet under, the next storm would see them coming back.

-V-

Read Part 5

Arrival (Part 3)

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The day my boss called me into his office to let me know I had been let go was such a blur. I was only partly there. The rest, well most, of me was walking through a forest in A’s most recent story. I had already decided that I didn’t have anything more left for me in this place, and figured it would be good to go try life in a completely different setting. And where better than America’s own largest port of sin, the crescent city, New Orleans.

I called the number listed at the bottom of the letter. Howard sounded very relieved to have anyone call. It seemed that he needed to be across the country with his estranged wife for reasons he would not disclose. He wouldn’t be able to afford keeping his apartment for the next three months to the end of the lease. He also wouldn’t be able to handle the large legal fees. Strangely, for all the things he was not, he was a man of his word. If he said he would pay someone, good deal or not, he would pay. It’s rare to find people like this nowadays. It seems most people just make promises and let them go.

I looked out the window at the quickly approaching tarmac. My muscles were tensing up as hard as they could. I closed my eyes and tried desperately to push all thoughts out of my head. I felt and heard the skidding sound of tires meeting runway. I was finally able to release the armrests and open my eyes. It seems so silly to get all worked up over something I have completely no control over. The plane will land or crash irrelevant of my actions, I’m pretty sure.

We had finally landed at Louis Armstrong Airport. The plane taxied into the terminal and I found my way to the cabstand. Most people would have found their way to the baggage claim, but I had no use for this futility. I sold everything I owned. I was on a one-way trip. The full extent of my possessions were the clothes on my back, and a small courier bag with all my money I had and the four manuscripts I had received at this point.

A very old man leaned up on his cab and stared at me intently. He wore a faded plaid short sleeve shirt of green and blue, had denim jeans that looked like they were recently pressed. When he realized that I was looking at him, he mouth crooked into a half smile. I walked up to him. “Need a ride?” he asked with a raspy voice.

“Certainly do.” I responded.

“Where to?”

“Say’s here I’m headed to the 2400 block of Royal Street in the… Marigny?”

“It’s pronounced Mary-knee, and I can get you there for a good price.”

“Sounds good.”

“Don’t look like you got any bags, what you in town for?”

“Searching for something.”

“Well I hope you find it.”

-V-

Read Part 4

Arrival (Part 2)

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The stewardess finally broke off her gaze. I was the victor of the staring, but little else was won. It seems my encounters with other people were more often than not becoming attritional. So much of my life had been spent being there for others, I was done trying to please people. I needed a way out and I found it, in an invitation from an old acquaintance.

Howard sent me a letter, who sends letters anymore?

In this letter it was related to me that he was in need of a sublet in New Orleans and every person he knew and tried had been a fruitless endeavor. The letter looked photocopied, so I assumed it had been sent to many people that were far cries from his close friends, it could even have been a scam. But at this point I was willing to follow any path open to me.

I had met Howard on a business trip to New Hampshire seven or eight years ago. Back when I had a steady job that forced me to maintain a regular schedule. Back when life seemed so much simpler. I would wake up, take my morning shower, get clothed, and drive to work. Stare at a computer screen for nine hours. Have a boss periodically come in and tell me to stop working on whatever I was working on and focus on a different project. This would happen two to three times a day. I gave up on even trying to finish anything.

My only reprieve would be the random trips to weird small towns across the country and my lunch hour. I coveted my lunch hour. I never actually ate lunch, or breakfast for that matter, I would only eat a massive dinner each night. My lunch hour was reserved for my one escape from this world.

It started about two months ago; I would receive a package in the mail every few weeks with a random short story. Each elegantly hand written, with a letter attached, the first one I ever received read as follows:

Dear V,

I hope all is well. I know we left it on bad terms, but I decided I would send you stories until the day we can meet again and resolve all the baggage between us. I miss you so much. Please be safe. You know how to find me; I wait for you every day.

-A.

On my lunch breaks I would go down by the river with the most current manuscript and get lost in the artistry painted by A. Whomever they were, they knew how to masterfully build a universe inside your head that was beautiful, sad, wonderful, crazy, clean, dirty, anything, nothing, and everything. You could feel the hope and sadness of A in each and every phrase, each and every story. I found myself only living to get the next manuscript. If one didn’t come before I had finished the newest one, I would go back and select one at random to reread.

-V-

Read Part 3

Arrival (Part 1)

The stewardess tapped me on the shoulder bringing me to a state of wakefulness. Bleary eyed I looked up to her. She was an older woman, late forties if I had to wager a guess. The years had not been too kind to her and one could see her time in customer service had permanently removed what may have been a wonderful smile. Her nearly gray blue eyes offset her muted brown hair, which looked like it had been dyed more than once recently. It was cut into a bob that did nothing to frame her face. I shifted my focus to her hands. They had a sense of aged life I could never understand. These hands looked like they had cut boulders. Plainly they had seen more life and misery than I ever would with my entire body. Scars ran up and down the tough skin pulled tight across her bulging veins and bird like bones. “Sir, we are about to land. I need you to bring your seatback up.”

I narrowed my eyes and found myself fixedly locked into her eyes; an unspoken battle of wills was raging. I’ve never understood the point of moving the back of the chair three inches forward for the safety of landing. I personally believe it is a sociological experiment some jackass devised to see if people would never question how a slight change in comfort would allow the plane to land better. A pilot once told me it was designed to allow people to get out of the plane quicker in case the plane had an emergency. The only emergency I can think of on final approach is a crash landing, and well, in that case. Who cares? We are probably all dead anyways. But since I didn’t really want to delay the landing of the plane on my account, I complied with her request and set the seat back. I gave her a little smile and was met with an icy cold stare. Perhaps it’s impossible to reach some people.

The smell of the recycled air on the plane was beginning to bother me. I shifted uneasily in the chair. Flight itself has never really bothered me nearly as much as the takeoffs and landings, with the latter being much more tortuous to me. I believe most people feel a sense of relief on final approach as their current leg of their journey is coming to a safe conclusion. For me, it is fraught with all the possible ways the pilot, a simple human like me, could smash the plane into the ground. The plane buffeted. I gripped the armrests with lightning reflexes. A sheaf of papers nearly fell out of my lap.

I have no idea why these thoughts always came to my head. Thousands of airplanes have landed so many times safely. But I guess it was a trend that has been part of my entire existence, to question and try and find fault in anything and everything around me. I’ve been trying to amputate this part of my personality for ages, but it always seems to stick to me.

-V-

Read Part 2

Ferryman Gregg - Line Up

There is a land where the dead convene to ‘live’ out the rest of their days, but to get there they must first cross the place in between. The landscape here is barren and flat with reds and yellows as far as the eye can see. Snaking through the middle of this land the river gives the only passage through. The Styx lies in a region of the universe between the land of the living and the land of the dead.

If one were to look at the clouds near the entrance one would notice a very opulent and tacky sign that reads, “Welcome to Hades!” Below this sign there is a rocky outcrop with a long series of stairs that lead to a velvet rope by the rivers edge. And if one were to look really closely they would see that the stairs and the pathway was queued fully up with souls of all types and sizes.

“I want some candy!” One of the souls bursts out looking longingly at a random candy machine along the path. The candy bar machine is in a small cove with two other machines, one selling Charon Soda and the other selling Hades Hot Fries.

“Yeah, so do I, but they always rip you off in these situations. I bet it costs a lot of dough for just a simple candy bar.” Another soul replied back also staring at the vending machines nearby.

“Nun’t un, says right here: ‘One Coin’.” A third soul piped in and pointed to the sign with his tail like tendril.

“What should I get?” The first soul asked after slithering up to the machine and using one of his arm-nubs to put a coin into the machine.

“It’s all bad for you anyways, so what does it matter?” The second soul replied.

“I guess I could try this one,” the first soul said as he used his tail to push a button. A candy bar floated out of the machine and into the souls left nub. He looks at it and starts gnawing on it.

“So… How is it?” The third soul questioned.

“Eh… So-so…” The first soul replied in muffled tones.

“Heh, figures.” The third soul said knowingly, “Which candy bar did you pick?”

“Yeah it kind of does. I’m not sure, I think it was a Cerberus Choco-Lotto.”

“Wow with a name like that you’d think it would taste amazing.” A random soul added into the conversation.

“Yeah, pretty much how advertising works, the crappier the product the better the name.”

“So uh, that candy bar cost one coin, eh?”

“Yeah, why do you ask?” the soul replied nearly done with his candy bar.

“Um, isn’t that how much it costs to get across this river?”

“Yeah and?” The soul finished the sweet at this point.

“How many coins did you bring with you?”

“Oh,” the soul finally realized the folly of his choice, “um, I guess I’ll have to try and figure something out at the dock.” Worried about all the terrible ways this could end up for him.

-V-

Gorta Mor (Part 6)

Go to Part 1

“And I suppose you think you can do something about it?” Gorta Mor said as he hefted himself up to twice the height of anyone else in the field.

“There are many ways we could stop you! Firstly we could restrain you.” Darbish started. Gorta Mor just smiled as the skies grew a little darker and the wind began to pick up.

“Then we will make you go back and replace every potato you destroyed.” A small cloud appeared above them and the breeze started to have little gusts.

“And then we will make you apologize to each and every person in Ireland personally.” Darbish was finding it harder to continue with the distracting and changing conditions around him, but he carried on as the small cloud expanded and the air bordered on a gale.

“Next, we will…” With each word shouted from Darbish’s mouth the conditions worsened ten fold, he tried to endure, “make… you…” He couldn’t keep on, the weather developed into insane bursts of thunder and lightning cracked in the near distance. No words would be heard over this tempest. So Darbish gave in and stopped his monolog.

With his last word uttered the world quickly returned to just as it was before. Gorta Mor launched into a hearty laugh. He took a deep breath and exhaled on the brothers. The blast of air knocked the brothers back, it was sickening and cloying. They both fell to the ground gasping for fresh air.

“Nothing you said had any affect puny man. There isn’t crumb diddly you can do to stop me. In fact, for your insolence I think I will take this girl as a payment. You have wasted enough of my time, now be gone with you!” Gorta Mor then picked up Jenny and moved off into the distance cursing the potatoes as he went.

The brothers, defeated, ambled down the road they came, kicking stones and thinking to themselves how weak they truly were. Shamus spotted a strange building in the distance; it was like no other the brothers had ever seen before. It had the word ‘Pub’ on its signage along with an etching of a yellowish stein and a frothy head spilling over it.

“What do you suppose that is?” Shamus asked Darbish.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen a shop called a ‘Pub’ before, it looks like they sell drinks. It must be some kind of eatery.”

“Shall we?”

“I don’t see why not, its not like we have anything better to do. Why couldn’t we do anything to help her?”

“Darbish, he had way more power than we will ever understand. I don’t think we ever stood a chance.”

“Perhaps, but I’m sure there’s a way to beat him, I just wish we knew what it was.” Darbish was pounding his fist in his hand as he said this. They looked at each other for a few moments and silently agreed that there was nothing they could have done. Heads hung low they entered the pub.

-V-

Read Part 7

Heart of Revenge (Part 4)

Go to Part 1

The other side of the elevator doors did not hold a pleasant sight for me. Two burly men with fully automatic assault rifles trained on my head and body. They sort of looked like twins, heavily muscled and very well armed twins. I figured I’d try a little humor to lighten this tense moment.

“So, uh, Tweedledee and Tweedledum any idea where the rattle is?” I smiled as best as anyone could knowing that they could be littered with a large array of bullets at any moment. They gave each other a look that inspired a little more fear in me than I’m usually used to.

“You got a lot of balls.” The one that I’d like to think of as Tweedledee said to me.

“Well you know, what’s the point in have extras if you’re not willing to show them off every once in a while.” I wasn’t dead yet, so I figured I’d continue trying my luck at the wisecrack game.

“We could just off him you know.” Tweedledum piped in. This was not going to work in my favor if he was making the decisions for them. Although I was getting the feeling that these guys only had enough brains between the two of them for one person.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” I asked, buying time, “I mean wouldn’t you have to clean up the mess, or at least explain why there is a mess to your boss?”

“He does have a point,” Tweedledum muttered, “I mean I don’t want to have to do the cleaning, and I always have to do the cleaning. Why’s it you never do the cleaning?”

“Because, the boss likes me better you dolt.” Tweedledee answered back. I was seeing my in here, I just had to play them off each other a little.

“Hey, Tweedledum, you could just let me out of here a little so I can do my delivery and be on my way. Plus you know it would be you making the decisions, we both know you’re the smarter one anyways.”

“You know he does have a good point,” I could see that I was making some headway here, “plus the boss didn’t say nothing about offing him.”

“Would you just shut up?” Tweedledee threw back at him, “I know the boss didn’t say nothing, but this is the only fun we ever get to have, no one ever tries to raid the lair. It just get’s so boring around here.” I spied my way out of the situation.

“Okay guys, you’ve had your fun. Supposing it’s time to let me out and on my way? I’m real sure the boss wants this package toot sweet.” The last idiom must have caused their brains to work overtime; I don’t think these guys ever got out.

“Uh, yeah okay.” With the flip of a hidden switch I was released. I rubbed at my wrist, which was surprisingly unharmed in the grips of the elevator trap. “You’ll want to go straight down the hall, it’s the big red door at the end. Can’t miss it.”

“And I can’t say I’ll miss you guys either, thanks much.” I skirted them as quickly as I could and made my way down the hall.

-V-

Music Rant

From the journal of Keegan Valentine dated March 20th, 2007:

A new day, time for new changes. I woke up this morning to find that my girlfriend had snuck out in the middle of the night. I tried calling her, but there is no response. I’m getting the strong suspicion that we are over, but it was kind of already headed that way. She introduced me to her parents and well, lets just say they didn’t take to kindly to me. To be fair I didn’t really make it easy for them. I’m tired of all the bourgeois older people trying to tell the younger generation how to live. We all have our own paths and mine doesn’t fall into any of the old categories. But I know for a fact I’m happy. I can support myself and want for very little else. Why do older people feel the need to insist that my life choices are wrong, or not getting me anywhere?

Enough of that, I wanted to put down some thoughts I’ve been noticing about the local music scene, and people in general. It’s sad that recently people seem to be hiding away in their homes and don’t go out to be sociable like they used to. You can watch the old movies, or read old books. People were social creatures, they went out and talked and enjoyed life. Now it seems everyone is hiding away and watching TV in the safety of their homes. Bet recently it’s really hit me in the area of music.

I have noticed that people in general don’t seem to care about music like they used to. It’s not about rights to songs and listening to them all cooped up in your room feeling like no one understands you. Music is there for people to connect. To share feelings that have no words to express them. It’s supposed to be an aggregate facilitating a coming together of minds and bodies. Sure musicians like to be paid for playing music. How do you think they are able to continue doing so? Most musicians I know work one or two jobs and then find time to be creative and write songs that inspires us all.

I understand we all are not made of money and can’t be expected to shell out five to ten dollars every night. But trust me if more people did go out you would find all kinds of groups of musicians that are very talented and worth listening to. I guess the biggest thing that needs to happen is people need to go out more and interact with other people face to face. Find new bands make this city something worth being in. Make it a cultural center. A place where people from all over the country say, “wow, did you know that the local music scene is kicking?” It would help us all, musicians and non-musicians alike. If we have an awesome scene, more bands you do want to see will come as well as the cream of the crop from around the country. I’d like to really have something going for this city other than the normal what have yous that every other city has.

People need to connect. And they need to start doing it soon, before it’s too late and we are all stuck inside our homes afraid of every sound that happens outside.

-V-

Gorta Mor (Part 5)

Go to Part 1

Jenny watched as the brothers sped down the road away from her. She thought that at least following these guys would keep her mind off her starving children. So she followed them down the road.

“Wait up!” She called after them. The both stopped dead in their tracks and once she was with them they set off at a steady pace. After a few hours of travelling the trio find a field that is only half ruined. Feeling that they might be able to glean something from this sight they all rush into the field.

“What do you suppose is causing the blight?” Shamus asked.

“Only half of this field is gone, perhaps we will find out.” Darbish answered.

Bent over in the middle of the field they could see a demon talking to the potatoes. He seemed to have lost control of his mental faculties and is damning each potato individually. As he put his curse upon each potato, it would wither away and die. The three travelers all feel the horror at once.

“What are you doing?” Yelled Darbish at the demon.

“What am I doing?” The demon turned away from his work and gave an appraising glance at the travelers. “I’m fixing a problem. Ireland used to be a wonderful and lush land to live in. The animals thrived, the plants blossomed and bloomed plentifully, the sun shone down on the land and in return it smiled back at the sun. This expanse used to be astonishing and remarkable. All my brethren loved to spend time here. Then one day, the despicable and detestable humans came along. They tore at the loam. They ripped at Erin’s heart. They forced more spuds, taters, and tubers into her and made her use her life force to sustain them.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t do any of that.” Shamus said dismissively.

“You!” The demon seemed enraged at this interruption, “You absolutely did do this, you and all of your kind. I can hear her weeping at night. I feel her pain as you plough and pull and till.”

“We are just like any other animal here,” Jenny threw in, “we all deserve the right to live off of the land. Who are you to tell us otherwise?”

“Who am I? You ask,” the demon seemed to take Jenny in for the first time. He sat a moment and pondered if it was even worth his time to convey his name to the filth that had become his enemy. “I am Gorta Mor. I look after Erin and protect her from the likes of you. I will destroy the consumption that you have created in her, and happily take you with it.”

“I’m afraid we can’t let you do that Mor.” Darbish forcefully explained to the demon. This caused Gorta Mor to sneer at the misuse of his name. “We need these crops to survive, we will not die like this. We will endure and carry on, and you won’t be able to stop us.”

-V-

Read Part 6

Confused Feelings

From the journal of Adrian Baldovin dated April 5th, 2010:

Today I woke up and I think it’s finally starting to fade. If you take too long to decide I have to basically turn it off. I’ll respond, but I think I’m done being active… I just need to get through next weekend. If no flame kicks off, then I think it is time to let the embers go out and not bother stoking or blowing on the fire anymore. I’m in such a weird place right now.

I could really teeter either way, if she stopped being cold and just showed me that she actually wants more, I’d go that way. If not, I’m more than likely going to just see her less and less until we don’t really talk. The funny thing is, with life and experience, we start to see these patterns earlier and know when they are coming and how to deal with them.

I mean it’ll still hurt, but at least I know one day it won’t hurt so bad. And as always, I get sucked back in a little. I don’t think she respects her mother all that much, but she informed me that her mother yelled at her for the five minutes claiming that her and I should be together. I don’t know what that means. I just don’t know.

I have no plans to see her, and it feels kind of weird, we usually have a time set up to see each other every day. It’s almost like being lost.

And then I teeter back and forth. Complete willingness to let go, and a diminishing desire to make things work. Who knows, in one week, all might be forgiven or gone. I don’t know if I really care all that much anymore.

I’m going to go back to looking to hang out with random people again. It’s much more fun than trying to deal with this shit. I am really getting tired of every television show I watch coming back to the same situations that I’m currently experiencing. It’s as if the universe won’t let me get away from thinking about it.

I doubt she does nearly this much thinking on it. I wonder who all has put a bug in her ear about me. I know where most of my friends sit. They all think that this is an exercise in futility. I just keep holding on. I saw a glimpse of what could have been. I need to really let go.

Hanging out with Yvonne yesterday would have given me some seriously needed perspective. It’ll happen next week anyways. I need to not think about what’s going on anymore. I need to let go. I need to be myself. I need to figure out where I want to be, and be there. I need to stop needing things. I need to quit trying to figure out what I need.

I think I really just need to read a book and escape what all is going on in my life. I like having it to give me one more non-girl related thing to think about in my life. But that so seldom works. Oh well. We all move on I suppose.

-V-

Fumpsy (Part 2)

Go to Part 1

“My name is Gromus, and yes a badger is not normally found around these parts.” Gromus said, as he sidled to the left. “I have been travelling for days now in search of a particular healer.”

“A healer?”

“Yes, you see I was wounded in the great battle to the north, and I am in need of repair.”

Fumpsy looked hard at the dejected badger, and found that he was gripping haughtily at is side. The fur was matted and covered in dried blood, mixed with remnants of mud as a poultice. Fumpsy examined the rest of the beast, Gromus was at least twice the size of Fumpsy, and his fur was a drab gray. It looked, however, that he used to have a bountiful dark shimmering coat once. His eyes were a blued-gray that hinted at a creature who had seen many indelible acts, most likely dubious in nature. Gromus' brow furrowed as he noticed that Fumpsy was intently studying him.

“You look as if you’ve never seen a badger.” Gromus stated.

“Well…” Fumpsy replied, “I have, but never up close. To tell the truth, only in pictures that my father used to show me before the great famine.”

“Great famine?” Gromus inquired.

“Yes, about five years ago, the soil stopped giving decent fruit, and the streams and lakes became poisoned with disease. Margus, the sage owl, explained to us that the lands were unhappy, something was creating a division within her breast.”

“Five years you say?”

“About five, yes. It was after the first year that my father passed. I was disheartened, but I have a family to take care of, so I had to be strong. We have survived on what we can find, but sometimes that almost isn't enough.”

“What name do you go by, young hare?” Gromus questioned.

“I am Fumpsy. I’m a simple rabbit.”

“Well, Fumpsy if you help me out, perhaps I can find it in me, to help you. You have no idea what I can do for you, but just know this; my word is as good as any real thing you'll ever find anywhere. What do you say?”

The hare considered the question. The badger could be a great asset to him, Gromus was strong and large, and at the very least he could be intimidating if the situation ever called for it. But why should he trust him? Fumpsy was unsure. He felt that perhaps it would be in his best interests to ally with the badger, what was the worst that could happen?

“Gromus, I think we can be allies. What is it you need for me to do?”

“I heard you mention a sage owl… Margus?” Gromus said with a raised eyebrow. “Would it be possible to fetch him? I have a feeling he will know exactly how to patch me up.”

“Yes, I can certainly do that! I know exactly were he is at this time of day. I’ll be right back.” Fumpsy turned and hopped off into the forest heading towards Margus’ home.

-V-

Gorta Mor (Part 4)

Go to Part 1

Jenny had just been walking through the field looking at the devastation that had been wrought upon it; all of her crops were dead or dying. The tears welled up in her eyes as she considered what this meant for her family, without food her children would starve. While considering this she saw what looked to be a viable plant and rushed over to it for further inspection. But when she got close enough she saw that the potato has been exposed to the sunlight and turned green, thus making it poisonous. She looked up to the sky and screamed for guidance, or anything really that will get her through this impending doom. She found herself hunched over with her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

When the McDerbin brothers got closer to the field, Jenny looked up tears in her eyes and gave a solemn nod to the two passers. Darbish does a double take, and Shamus is left with his mouth gaping open. Jenny was the picture of beauty. She has long curly flowing red hair to the small of her back. Her eyes reflect the pale blue of the skies above. And to say she was shapely would have been an understatement; her form was reserved for goddesses. She was what every woman wished they looked like, and the brothers both saw and felt it right away.

“Hello, My name is Darbish, and this is my less distinguished younger brother, Shamus.” Darbish quickly said before his brother could speak.

“Ah yes, as my geriatric brother has already said, my name is Shamus. I would do anything for you, just name it, and it’s yours.” Shamus said as he stepped in front of his brother.

“My name is Jenny,” she replied wiping tears from her eyes. The antics of the brothers seemed to lighten her mood for a moment. “You’ll have to forgive me. You see the farm my family owns is being destroyed by this famine, and I don’t know what to do. I have children to feed, and my husband is long since passed.”

This news elated the brothers. Jenny was single! Sure she had some kids, but weren’t they both just discussing how a family might be nice. And one that’s already started is a quick and easy place to start.

Jenny started to figure out what was going on, it had been so long since she had anyone vying for her affections. When her husband had died she became very introverted in that respect and only took care of her children and her farm. Romantic endeavors were not something even considered.

“I tell you what. My children mean the world to me, and I can see that you both are very nice and kind men. I’ll happily marry the man who can end this blight and assure me that my and our future children will never go hungry.”  She said thoughtfully.

The brothers looked at each other, then at Jenny, and once again back at each other. A smile grew on their faces as the both in unison turned back to Jenny and simultaneously said, “You got it!” They both then rushed off down the road tripping over each other to be slightly in the lead.

-V-

Read Part 5

After the Show

After thanking the audience a final time for their show of appreciation. We exit the stage with our gear and do our regular self-deprecation session that the common show-goers never see. Each of us replays the entire show back in our own head, we pick apart each and every note we played, and we question our every action. Did it work? Was I late on the last refrain? Why was there lackluster applause after that song? The best we can hope for is genuine love of our craft. But as artists we can never be completely satisfied with it. I felt if I ever had the feeling of completeness with my music it would be time to move onto something else. That little bit of longing and missing piece is what I strive for, knowing in the back of my head it is not possible to reach. A labor of love if you will.

After a while all these shows start running into each other. Some have highlights that stick out in your mind, but for the most part they all seem to be one long journey. You start questioning if you are even getting better at playing music, writing new songs, being able to convey feeling across the gap that is created by the floor monitors in front of you. The notes and chords all seem to be the same patterns over and over again. Is it really anything new?

I polish my bass guitar with the rag a good friend gave to me once after a particularly good show. The sweat and dust around the frets always bothers me. I find it best to focus on small things one has control over or else you will easily become overwhelmed with the massiveness of what cannot be controlled. After I get my guitar cleaned up and put away in its hard case I walk out into the front of house and look around. It’s my time to feed on the audience directly. I’m not going to lie; it feels good to have people congratulate you, even if you know they are lying. But all too often what one expected and what one gets differ greatly. The adoration and applause received on stage is melted and you become a no name face again. I can’t describe it fully. Not that anyone owes me anything, I mean they probably already paid their tax to be here and they applauded after each song, why should they have to keep on praising what I just did.

Dejected I sidle up to the bar and order a beer. At least that will never fail me after a performance. Usually cold and always accepting, I’m sure I have a friend at the bottom of the bottle if I look hard enough, I’ll find them. And hey, if I don’t find them, I usually don’t care too much after searching a while. The next day can suck, but with a little more searching even that can be rectified.

-V-

Repeating Night

I sat backstage with an unlighted cigarette pressed between my lips. Lighter in hand, I was just about to strike the flint. Bob stumbled in, guitar in hand, and looked at me, “Looks like it’s going to be a good show out there. I think there are fifty people out there.”

I’ve never once had stage fright. I have always felt completely natural in front of people’s searching eyes. Playing music incites a certain state of calm over me. A feeling that can hardly be described directly. Indirectly, it has in the past been able to make me feel completely well, even in the throws of the flu, clearing my sinuses while I play, only to have them get clogged up again as soon as the magic has faded minutes after the last note is played. It’s almost a religious experience, if I knew what that feels like, I can only assume. I looked back at him, set down the cigarette and lighter and responded, “Let’s get to it then!”

Walking out on stage never feels the same, every room; every person in the room makes it feel slightly different. Move one person from the back of the house to the front and the entire evening could be changed. Whether or not people cheer as you walk up to your guitar on stage, or it’s a sea of silence. I’ve found the best thing to do is to ignore the audience and play the music for oneself.

Can this really be done? Honestly in a word, no, not for a second. We, the musicians feed off of the crowd. And likewise, the audience steals our verve on stage. It’s like two vampires sucking at each other, but more aimed at amplifying each other’s enjoyment of the evening. Not so much taking from each other, but more giving to each other. I honestly feel sorry for people too afraid to get on stage and pass this energy back and forth.

Luckily this stage has the lights turned bright on us. I like to imagine that there are hundreds to thousands of people in the audience here just to enjoy the music I created with my friends. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t really matter much to me. I just wish as many people as possible could enjoy it. I look over to Bob, then to Joe to assure that everyone is ready, and started playing the opening line to our first song. Each note carefully plotted to reach out and get people moving.

The remainder of the show is a blur of random stage communication, highs, lows, missed notes, happy mistakes, and every once in a while a new way of playing learned on the spot. I could describe the experience as being similar to being on a dissociative drug of some sort. You are there totally in control of what is happening on stage, but at the same time you’re not really there, kind of in a higher place watching it from a completely different vantage point. The strangest part is that you will never know what it’s like on the other side of the monitors. I’ve had brilliant shows on stage where everything up there is mixed like a dream and I can feel my own bass notes vibrating through my body, and the vocals edge on the divine, only later to find that the house mix blew and people come up to me telling me they have seen better.

-V-

Fumpsy (Part 1)

On a cold and nippy night, Fumpsy the bunny went out telling his wife that he was going to forage for nuts and berries. She looked hard at him, then at their three starving children.

“Fumpsy, you are the best, you know just what to do, and when. You come back now, soon as your precious legs can carry you.” His wife said to him. Fumpsy nodded, and with that hopped off.

The wind blew hard on Fumpsy's neck as he hopped down the forest trail. He tried his best not to think about those poor little hares he left behind, and the terrible hunger that was growing inside of him. Snow started to fall from the heavens on him, and the only thing he could think was, oh great, now I have to worry about freezing to death. Luckily the snow was light, and not coming down too fast, so he continued on his journey.

The trees began to thin around him. He came upon a bridge running over a river. The river was known as the Furrfer, but most of the animals in the forest called it the privy (mainly due to bears that used it for, well they just used it, and we can leave it at that).

At this point Fumpsy had no problems with the river, he was thirsty, the kind of thirst that surpasses ones dignity or even their sense of hygiene. He started taking in the water in large gulps. The water was exceptional, well to a truly dehydrated being, any form of libation would be.

Suddenly there was a large crash behind him. Fumpsy spun around to find a shaking mound of leaves in front of him. He wasn't quite sure what could be going on. Then he heard a malignant groan come from the pile. He darted behind the closest tree. Again the moan came. Fumpsy sat shivering behind the tree. The pile of leaves began to lift and grow.

“Please don't hurt me,” Fumpsy screamed.

“Urrrggg...” could be heard from the mound as it continued to grow. It was already twice the size of Fumpsy.

“What do you want from me,” Fumpsy managed to croak out before the sun was eclipsed from his vision by the leaves, which were beginning to fall off like a stream cascading down a waterfall. The creature turned towards him, and took a step in his direction.

Fumpsy had no idea what to do. He thought to himself, he could either run like hell for his life, or... or what, he was too hungry and tired to do anything. He had no choice. He had to stand up and hold his ground. At least if he was going to die, he would do it standing tall. His children would be proud he thought.

The mound made another staggered step in his direction. The leaves were nearly gone, and Fumpsy could almost make out the creature that was concealed by the leaves. Fumpsy started to speak, “Wait a minute, I know what you are, but what is an animal like you doing in this part of the...” when the creature interjected.

-V-

Read Part 2

Cigarette

She stood there, huddled in her coat against the cold, cupping one hand over the cigarette held firmly between her lips. Her other hand pulling up from her side held a blue Bic lighter; she lit the cigarette and pulled hard on it. Her eyes closed as she thought about the past, present, and future. Things would be changing, but they were always changing. ‘Why did life have to be like this?’ She thought to herself. No answer made itself clear.

It was rare that she had time to herself like this. Most nights out people who were deeply interested in her would surround her, but tonight she put out a vibe of aloofness. All her friends danced inside the club, she could see them manically moving to the beats pumping through the large speakers. To her it was like watching an intricately orchestrated choreography of which the creator had no idea what was to come next.

Her mind wondered. There was a couple outside in the cold with her. They stood closely to each other underneath a patio space heater. It wasn’t that cold out she thought, but that could have just been the alcohol keeping her warm at this point. Her thoughts started muddling together.

Love. The word drifted across her mind. She latched onto it with fervor. All she wanted was love. True love, not anything watered down or looked at through some rose tinted glasses. She wanted to feel that feeling that she had heard described so many times before; seen it in movies, read it in books, imagined it since she was just a little girl.

But what is Love? She thought, for some reason the definition was escaping her. She felt she would know it if she had it, but didn’t have it right now. She focused all her concentration on answering that simple question: What is it? She knew it was an undeniable feeling, that it made you do strange things. It made you feel safe, free to be oneself. No matter how you acted, someone who truly loved you would understand. But what did that even mean?

She was beginning to realize that she had no idea what she wanted. She wanted an idea, a concept, something that didn’t exist materially, but she could only conceive of things in a material sense. This night was starting to really get on her nerves. She had just come outside to be alone, around people, and smoke her last cigarette.

Alcohol always seems to ply the mind into deeper thought that can’t be controlled. Perhaps it was time she stopped drinking for the night? This rabbit hole was not worth the effort to travel down. The cigarette burnt her finger as it was reaching the end of its life. She took one more drag off of it and tossed it aside. It was time to rejoin reality and stop introspecting so much.

She walked back inside and joined her friends, flashing a mischievous smile at them as she entered into the complex movements they were creating. She disengaged her brain and just let the music take her away to another place. One where though was not needed, just simple existence was enough for now.

-V-

Gorta Mor (Part 3)

Go to Part 1

After days of rambling, in the mid-day heat the brothers came upon another traveler resting on the side of the road. He was dust covered wearing a very wide brimmed hat, a brown leather poncho, and had a piece of long grass hanging out of his mouth. He was clean-shaven, but had a little bit of stubble starting to show through the dirt on his face. He looked to be in his early twenties.

“Oh hi.” Shamus called to the traveler.

“Ello,” the man called back.

“Where are you headed to?” Darbish asked.

“Going north,” he said back and pointed in the direction the brothers were heading, “I hear there is great wealth to be made there. My cousin sent me a letter recently describing how wonderful the abundance of fortune to be made is. I plan to go there and retire with some help from him.”

“Oh wow!” Shamus breathed out excitedly. He had chosen a good direction to go, he was sure of it now.

“Sounds astonishing. Would you like to travel with us?” Darbish asked, traveling is always better with more company, he believed.

“What me?” The man inquired. “Nah, I think I’ll rest here a while and pick up in a day or two, I passed a lough a little ways back, I think I’ll catch some fish and enjoy the good weather while I can.” He smiled a crooked smile with the grass in his mouth nearly falling out.

The brothers nodded and continued on their way up the road. Renewed with vigor of knowing that great wealth could be a reality ahead for them they both find they have a new bounce in their steps.

“Brother, what would you do with plenty of money?” Shamus queried his brother.

“Oh, I don’t know. Find a nice woman, make her my wife, have children and live out my days watching them grow up. What about yourself, Shamus?”

“I would see the world. I would meet as many people as I possibly could. I would learn as much as my head could hold. The possibilities feel limitless.” Shamus felt that he might need to calm himself down a little and not detract from his brother’s dream, “Or you know I could build a family and be really happy with that as well.”

Darbish knew that his brother was only saying the latter to appease his own views on what he felt was the proper life to have. Darbish knew that each person has his or her own future to follow, to each their destiny in their own hands. This didn’t bother him that his brother was a big dreamer. Every society needs to have idealists and dreamers among them to keep the people moving forward.

In the distance a girl sat in a field crying. The brothers both saw her at the same time. Unsure what was happening, they both automatically picked up their pace to see what was going on. As they got closer they could audibly hear her wails.

-V-

Read Part 4

Gorta Mor (Part 2)

Go to Part 1

With the amassed townsfolk on their doorstep the brothers, seriously fearing for their lives, grabbed as many provisions as they could fit and escaped out the back of their home into the night. The terrain at night was dark and dangerous, but given the other option it was their only choice. Shamus looked at his brother for comfort, but Darbish seemed unable to offer any. They both knew they had hard times ahead and decided to bed down for the night in a cove of trees.

Shamus collected a meager assortment of wood he could find nearby and Darbish worked at coaxing the kindling into a flame. Shamus sat by his brother and stared up into the night sky considering what they would be doing next.

“What do you suppose is next for us, Darbish?”

“We get the fire started so we can stay warm, and then we get some sleep.” Darbish replied in a matter of fact tone.

“No, well I know that, but I mean where are we going from here?”

“Oh…” Darbish was surprised, the question hadn’t really occurred to him. For him life was the fields, and taking care of his mother and little brother. What to do next? He pondered it for some time and then spoke, “Well Shamus, I suppose we will head out into the world and make a name for ourselves, there’s really not much back home for us anymore.”

“I don’t think we can call it home anymore, Darbish.”

“Good point Shamus,” Darbish said as he finally got some life into the small fire, “let’s get some sleep and pick a direction in the morning.”

Shamus put his head back in his hands and looked into the starry night. He envisioned many different paths their lives could take, perhaps they would find a new farm and continue their old life. They might get into trade and deal in fine trinkets and assortments from around the world. They could have even learned how to fight and exterminate dragons and demons to save people all over the land. He found it hard to sleep with all these thoughts going through his mind, but eventually drifted off and found his dreams to be much more vivid and amazing than just his thoughts alone.

The brothers awoke in their copse to the sun shining and bird song in the near distance. Things were looking up. They collected all their supplies and worked their way out to the main road.

“Well which way would you like to go Shamus?”

“Hrm… I don’t know, both ways look equally alluring.” Shamus replied.

“Alluring?” Darbish questioned with an eyebrow raised.

“It was a word Ma taught me.” Shamus countered with defense in his voice.

“Um, okay… still, which direction?”

Shamus closed his eyes and felt the breeze on his face; he adjusted his body until he was inline with the air stream. Taking a few steps forward with the wind at his back, he opened his eyes and pointed directly ahead, “This way.”

“Works for me.” Darbish shrugged and the departed down the path.

-V-

Read Part 3

Dream Hero

From the journal of Edwin F. Fauk dated January 17th, 1967:

Eugene Gustaw was what most would call a normal everyday sort of person. He was born in the Midwest and moved to the big city after finishing four years of college. He kept to himself most of the time, he didn’t much care for confrontations and stayed away from them as best he could. Worked a standard nondescript nine to five desk-job. He was in his late twenties, had brown hair, brown eyes, stood five-foot ten-inches tall. Usually wore gray suits and packed his lunch every day. He lived in a small studio apartment off of 23rd street where the rent was high but still manageable on his pay. He didn’t go out much, didn’t have a girl or guy that he was interested in. I guess, one could say that Eugene was just plain old boring.

It was a boring that was so complete it would cause you to possibly stop and make note of it, well if it weren’t such a waste of time to do, and that’s the way Eugene wanted it. He had worked his entire life building up this identity. Making sure that he was a person for whom notice was never really taken. You see, underneath all the uninteresting layers Eugene was really and truly a super hero. Not your comic book has special powers, per se, type of super hero. And not your other comic book has loads of money and secret layers full of gadgets super hero. But the genuine kind, he was a person who saved lives and fought evil.

At night when everyone would go to sleep Eugene would go to work, he was a dream hero. He inherited the trade from his father. He had the ability to surf through other people’s dreams and assist them. At first this might not seem very interesting, but if there are people like Eugene on the side of good, then you know that there are people out there causing problems. Whenever you have a nightmare, one of these agents of evil is trying to kill you. You know the old adage dreams are as real as real life, get seriously hurt in one and the damage will carry over. Perhaps not physically, but not all scars show up on the outside of us.

I had the joy of meeting him once in person and once in my dreams, it’s how I know about him. I know he would never want the world to know of his existence so I waited till now, now that he is departed, to put any of this in my journal. And I’ve carried the scars for so long now. He is a hero and I wish more would have known him, known more about him. Truth is, I think I’m about to go, and it might not make much sense now, but they are out there. The Dream Heroes, just like Eugene. Saving us as best they can. They live among us, protect us, and most of us have no idea.

Here’s to you Eugene, thank you so much for keeping me alive. I really do wish they didn’t find you in the real world. At this point it doesn’t matter much if they find me, I’m ready now.

-V-

Boozer

“Tell me if you heard this,” The burly man to my right tries to whisper in my ear, but only achieves spitting and yelling in his drunken stupor, “a chicken, and priest, and a… um… Damn! I used to know this one. Hold on a sec.” He starts tapping his finger on the side of his head and making a weird whishing sound.

“You sure you remember this?” I ask him repulsed by his presence. Why did this guy have to sit next to me in this nearly empty bar? I don’t think I was putting of a particularly friendly vibe tonight.

“Huh? Oh Yeah, the joke!” He seems to be very self amused at this point, “So the doctor was in on it! You get it?” He says slapping his hand hard against my back.

I wonder how I find myself in these situations regularly. I’ve been on this earth thirty-five years now, and every bar I go into recently seems to end up with some drunk wanting to be my best friend. It’s not like I’m rich or famous. I don’t even look like anyone important. I guess I just have one of those faces. You know the kind that says, ‘yes I want to hear all your problems, and oh don’t mind the fact that you just puked on my shoes. No, not at all, I get them dry-cleaned once a week; I’m a bit OCD about my shoes. Really? I didn’t know how much you miss your daughter. I bet it must be hard.’

Never fail, I walk in and order a beer, and within five minutes I have my own personal intoxicated new friend telling me all his problems. The worst part is I just sit here and take it. I listen and nod and agree with them. I console them as best I can. I have no idea why. I bet they would go ballistic if I tried anything else.

Once I did try to keep myself amused by cleverly mocking the tanked steward next to me, but plastered people seem to have a weird sense about that. He got real serious and offered to clean my clock. I plied him with a drink and all was forgiven. I will have to say that about the inebriated, no matter how badly you betray one, a drink in their favor fixes all. I decided to try a new tact with this one.

“So, why me?” I asked. This caught him off guard, not enough to stop him from swaying, but he did screw up his eyes and gave me a solid look.

“Why you what?” I could see the spittle fly at me as he desperately tried to articulate.

“Why did you sit down next to me to talk?” I could feel the pangs of anger in my bones.

“Oh, you just think you’re so high and mighty! The world revolves around you.” He turned slightly and started a discourse with the pillar holding up the ceiling. “This guy thinks the whole world revolves around him! What you think of that friend?”

In this moment I noticed I had an out. I dropped some cash on the bar and slid silently away. Perhaps it was time to stop drinking for a while. One of these days my luck with the boozers would run out and I didn’t need to push my luck.

-V-

Heart of Revenge (Part 3)

Go to Part 1

Chimay tower was an extravagant waste of money, mostly made of glass and architecture that by all rights shouldn’t have been able to stay standing in any adverse conditions. The tower had 111 floors, with the top most tiers overwhelmingly tall with vaulted ceilings. Just barely out of sight from the ground, one might be able to make out the gothic theme at the top, it was rumored to have over four hundred gargoyles fighting an eternal battle. I was once told it even had heated sidewalks around the building, talk about ridiculousness.

It was all owned and built for one Carlo Reservoir, my guess is they guy I was delivering the package to, he was a slippery as they come. Everyone knew he was deeply vetted in the criminal underworld, but no one could pin anything on him and no one was quite sure how far his reach went. Many people knew him from the news where he was commonly seen doing ribbon cuttings or doling out grants brilliant underprivileged souls. In the limelight he looked a perfect saint.

I pushed my way through the large revolving door and was immediately met with the security stand on the other side. The guard on the other side of the desk didn’t look particularly intimidating, but then again I’ve been around some pretty interesting characters in my time, so it usually takes a lot to impress me. He took a solid look at me, noted my Styrofoam container, and typed something into a computer terminal out of my sight behind the desk.

A look of approval flashed across his face and he pointed to the left of the desk. I looked over and saw a batch of elevators. Well, at least this was going to be pretty easy. I started walking to the first one I found and was stopped short by the first sound I had heard since I entered.

“You’ll want to hit the first and last buttons.” I looked back at him as he was finishing the sentence. There was nothing to read on his face, he just pointed my attention back to the now opening elevator. What an odd man, I thought as I entered the space. As the door closed understanding hit me. Didn’t this place only have 111 floors? And sure enough, there were only 111 buttons in front of me. How was I supposed to drop off a package to the 112th floor?

First and last buttons, I thought. Heh, a simple trick, I pushed the 111 and 1 buttons at the same time. The lights in the buttons flashed a few times then a panel opened up to the right of me. There was a green glass plate with the outline of a hand imprinted on it. Fancy! I guess the only way I was getting anywhere would be to place my hand there, so I did. The panel locked around my wrist and the elevator snapped into action. I was stuck, held in place, as the lift picked up massive amounts of speed. I didn’t really have anytime to consider options before the box came to an abrupt halt and the doors started to open.

-V-

Read Part 4

Reasons

Back arched, arms behind me, seated on the Victorian reproduction settee I await the photographer’s next instruction. It has been a trying shoot to say the least. Twice now I have had to fend off his requests to remove parts of my clothes. He’s tried plying me with various alcoholic drinks and the usual set of maneuvers and language they all use. But I know every trick in the bag and have yet to see one yet that has worked on me.

“Could you tilt your head down and to the left,” he says soothingly, too close to my ear.

“Like this?” I ask as I adjust my pose.

“Yes, just like that. Hold it a moment.” He seems to like this pose a lot as I can hear the shutter clicking away and the lights flash a strobe like cadence into my retinas. “It’s wonderful, but I wish we could get you to look a little more comfortable. Is it a bit hot in here, under the lights? Do you mind if I unbutton my shirt a little?”

I’ve played this game many times. I’m almost sure he has adjusted the thermostat to bring up the heat and purposefully pointed the floodlights on me to make me sweat. I’m a pro too, I think to myself, the extra antiperspirant should hold to the end of the shoot and all I really need to do is think of nice cool places like the arctic. The amazing power the mind can have over the body.

“No. I don’t mind, but you do know I have to be going in a few minutes. I have to get across town for another shoot.” It’s my usual line I give when I get to the point where I figure the photographer is just trying to get into my pants and I might get one or two usable snaps out of it.

“Oh that’s sad, yeah. I think I have enough to work with here.” He says playing a wounded animal. “I wish I could get you back soon to try some new ideas I have, when would you be available?”

“I’ll check my calendar and get back to you,” I say, as I really have no intention of ever seeing this guy in person again. I’ll get him to send me the edited photos through the net. I collect my things and quickly exit his studio. The cover story of another shoot was just to get out without too much cajoling on my part.

People ask me why I do this? And by this, I mean stand on the other side of the camera for all to see. It could be that I’m good at being a model. It could be that I’m deathly afraid of getting older, losing my looks. It could be that I just enjoy seeing myself, in magazines, on billboards, being recognized. But the truth is only for me, I have my reasons, and that’s all you need to know.

-V-

Gorta Mor (Part 1)

Gather round young children as I tell you a tale of the two McDerbin brothers.  In the Early nineteenth century Ireland was a lush and beautiful place to be. The people were happy and they sang songs of joy to how great their lives were. Now many have heard about the Irish ability to imbibe copious amounts of spirits, but it was not known that at this time nery a drop of intoxicating drink would pass the lips of any Irishman. There is even a saying from the time, “By avoiding liquors, lagers, and ales, one can be sure to be happy, wealthy, and wells.” Let us look now on the hamlet of Claouth where the brothers live happily with their mother.

“Shamus! Darbish! Come inside. I need help.” Erin called to her boys. She was old and frail, life had been mostly kind to her, but the years were easily wearing on her by this point. The two young men entered the house, they were breathing heavy from tilling the farmland behind their cottage. Shamus, who always seems to have a perky glint in his eyes, looked around the room and saw his mother standing over a large pot on the stove. Darbish, the elder by a year, pushed Shamus aside as he entered.

“What is it yah need ma?” Darbish asked with a slight annoyance in his voice. “We still have half a field to till before sundown if we are going to get a good crop this year.”

“Watch how you talk to be boy!” Erin exclaimed as she painfully turned to him. “I need help moving the pot off the stove to cool your supper.”

“Absolutely ma,” Shamus said as he ran over to the stove and pulled the pot off. Erin smiled at her youngest son, and then shot a pensive look at the other.

“You could learn some manners from your younger brother, Darbish.”

“Oh aye, I could.” Darbish said in a playful way, “or I could get the fields done so that we will have more supper to eat in the future.”

“One day we will figure out how to have many riches and we won’t have to worry about fields anymore.” Shamus said dreamily.

“Corse, an I hope that day comes soon. I can get supper from here,” Erin chided, “Go and get the fields done with yah.”

For the McDerbins, life was going well. But, as they say, not all things can stay great forever. Then one day, the crops began to die off all across the land. The people had no idea what was happening, fear and doubt was working its way into the collective psyche. Erin, whom was already quite frail, came down with an affliction. The doctors that came to see her were bewildered by her condition, as it wasn’t just the normal passing of time on her and it wasn’t anything else they had seen before.

The townsfolk took this as a serious omen and convince themselves that the failing crops and Erin’s malady are connected. Rumors began spreading all around the village and with each retelling become more and more blown out of proportion. Within days most of the residents believe that Erin is a witch and she is causing the crops to fail as she is passing. In the middle of the night the villagers formed a mob and with pitchforks and torches assembled in front of their home to satiate their aggressions and fears.

-V-

Read Part 2

Heart of Revenge (Part 2)

Go to Part 1

Subways sometimes freak me out. I don’t much care for them. There are too many creepers and nowhere to run if you need a quick out. Plus there’s the rats, I’m not talking about the people, I mean real twenty-pound city rats. They gross me out, all pestilence and grease and hair. It almost makes me vomit every time I see. Fortunately they tend to stay out of sight, but one never knows.

The ride on the subway ends up being very uneventful. I’m mostly alone in a car with a flickering fluorescent fixture at one end. There is a bum sleeping underneath it. I can vaguely smell his decay from the other end of the car. My guess is this is one of the few ways left to stay warm in the weather. We go through a dead zone in the tunnel, basically where the wind kicks up and the electricity goes out. Usually its only for a short period of time, but this one seems to last longer than I’m used to.

Suddenly the car is washed over with bright-ass lights everywhere. It’s blinding. I reach for my crowbar I keep tied up under my trench coat, but it’s not there. Oh shit, I think, what could possibly be going on now? Across the car the bum is lifted up like a marionette with an unseen hand controlling the strings. He looks like the dead, eyes askew, drool escaping from the corner of him mouth. As he is pulled closer to me I can hear a sonorous distant voice, “Five sevenths and three eighths, you must be sure you avoid the wraiths. One half and four thirds, don’t forget to head the words.”

Blackness. Silence. The whooshing sound of wind slowly creeps back to my ears and the car lights flicker back to its normal pattern. Even the bum is back in his pile towards the end of the car. I want to get the hell off this car and soon. My stop is the next one. My stop is the next one. The train slows, the doors open, and I get my ass out of that station so fast the littered newspapers didn't even have time to react in my wake.

The bum’s words are still echoing in my brain as I get out on to the street. I don’t have time for riddles so I try to push it as far back as I can, but it’s like that birthday song you just can stop singing in your own head. I guess I’ll have to find a way to deal with it later, for now I needed to get rid of this package.

Fortunately the subway station was really close to the Chimay tower, it was only going to be two bitter blocks in this cold. The streets in the business district were deserted. It’s weird to be in a commercial zone in the middle of the night. There is a very creepy air about. Best not to think about it too much, so I flipped up the collar on my jacket and bounded to the tower in the cold.

-V-

Read Part 3

Ferryman Gregg - Introduction

This is the story of Ferryman Gregg. A friend and I started writing it a long time ago. I had planned to scrap the project, but on finding my notes found it might be better put up as a serial here. The initial story is more background to the future exploits of Gregg and is a little choppy and lacks a bit of my normal fluidity. Future installments will be much better, I promise. Without further ado, the beginnings of Ferryman Gregg:

Charon was ferrying Persephone to the world to be with Demeter. Charon opened up a hidden part of his gondola, which had bottles for mixed drinks and offered to mix a drink for Persephone. She initially declined, but somehow Charon accidentally drops his pole into the river Styx. After some awkward conversation, Persephone decided to take him up on the drink offer, indecently one that has pomegranate flavored vodka! Many drinks later Charon and Persephone get it on. After which Charon put his hand over the edge of the gondola and said some words of magic and his gondola pole flew up out of the water and into his hand.

Persephone goes to the living world and soon has morning sickness. Demeter is perturbed that her daughter, a god, is getting sick. Demeter questions Persephone relentlessly, but Persephone stays quiet. When Persephone starts showing, she breaks down and tells her mother the whole story. Demeter, known for being ruthless, becomes livid that her daughter is making her a grandmother, and to have an illegitimate child as well sends her over the top. The night before Persephone's return to Hades while she is asleep, Demeter plots to rid this unholy child from her daughter. Borrowing Cronus' scythe, she slices open Persephone and takes Gregg out, her intent to expose the child in the elements. Gregg looks up and smiles confusingly, to which Demeter melts as she realizes that she cannot in good heart abandon her own flesh and blood.

Demeter decides that Gregg should live, but cannot have his birth sully the family name. So to assure that he will never know whom his true mother is she steals some thread from the fates and sews Gregg's eyes shut, her belief that if were to see his true mother all hell would break loose.

The next morning Persephone awakes to find that she is no longer pregnant and goes ape-shit trying to figure out what happened. Demeter hands her Gregg and gives her a warning, "I don't care what you choose to do with him, but be assured you cannot keep him." Persephone, angry but understanding, just nods knowing that her mother is right.

Persephone gets back into Charon's gondola holding a basket. Charon again offers a drink, but receives an icy cold stare from Persephone. Frozen by her stare he puts his head down and concentrates on navigating the gondola across the river. When they reach the Hades side she pushes the basket into his hands and says, "Here, I think this is yours. A payment for the drinks earlier, if you will." Before Charon can respond Persephone is off the boat and quickly exiting into the distance.

Charon looks down into the basket and pulls back the blanket inside. His face drops and he says, "Oh dear... this could prove to be difficult to explain."

-V-