BAPTISM BY FIRE

Preface

'I baptise you in water for repentance,

 But the one who comes after me

 is more powerful than I,

 And I am not fit to carry his sandals,

He will baptise you with the Holy Spirt

And fire.

His winnowing-fan is in his hand;

He will clear the threshing-floor

And gather his wheat into his barn,

But the chaff he will burn

In a fire that will never go out.'

Matthew 3:11-12

Chapter One

      The sound of a wooden match being struck drew his attention even before the flame. In the total darkness the flame burned with an orange and yellow appetite for more than the splinter of wood which birthed and fueled it. By the aurora Sebastian strained to recognize the faint facial features of the person holding the flame.

     The flame grew larger, more brilliant and hotter forcing Sebastian to squint and try to shield his face with his raised forearm. He twisted his torso to the cooler darkness behind him. The person holding the match laughed at Sebastian's meager efforts to protect himself and threw the match at him. The flame landed at Sebastian's feet and  encircled him in a ring of fire. The man laughed.

     'You're not afraid of a little fire, Sebastian? After everything you went through and with your aggravating faith. Come to me, my love, and be sanctified. By the fire we are born again and given another chance to be happy. Come and see for yourself.'

      'Sean? Are you there?'

      'Yes, Sebastian. I am on the other side of the flames. My love for you is a fire which will never go out. We are forged together by a bond so strong Death cannot break the weld.'

      'No, Sean. You're dead. I witnessed your death.'

      'You of all people understand Death is not final, but a mere transition. Come, my love, and let us start over.'

      A sudden alarm sounded. Not because of the fire, but something Sebastian couldn't quite recall. A coin hit the floor and rolled, stopping at Sebastian's feet. He picked  up the coin and recognized a two-headed Kennedy  half dollar. Sebastian kept such a coin on his nightstand as signal  he is dreaming. As he raised the coin in front of his face like a priest holding the host, Sean screamed.

      'No! Sebastian, what are you doing? Stop. You'll wake up and we'll be apart again. Stop! I might not be able to visit you again.'

     'Sean, I don't belong in your world and you left mine. Under the circumstances death served as your best option.'

      The flames encircling Sebastian roared as though someone opened a gas valve further.

      'I won't let you go, Sebastian.'

      Sebastian raised his coin with both hands over his head and woke.

   CHAPTER TWO

  

     Sunlight beaming through the bedroom window delivered Sebastian into wakefulness.  He threw back the covers to get out of bed causing his two-headed fifty-cent piece to fail to the floor. He returned the coin to its usual place in the same smooth motion with which he turned off the alarm clock.

    Sebastian stood, stretched and, as he scratched various parts of his naked body, paying unconscious special attention to what remained of his abs at thirty-something, stood in front of  the window  overlooking the rear garden. The trees filtered sunlight not yet sufficient to warm things up.  This is New Orleans, however, so the atmosphere would soon be warm enough and humid enough to satisfy all those tourists who hoped to escape the winter for which they fled their homes.

     Following his morning routine, Sebastian sat back down on the bed and pulled his journal and pen out of the nightstand drawer to write the details of his dream before the image faded with the morning dew.

    He finished writing down everything he remembered, then wrote in big block letters THIS IS THE DAY and underlined the phrase. He meant this would be the day he purged every artifact and memory of his former lover Sean from his house, his mind, and his heart. He wanted no more dreams like the one he recorded now, or like any of the others he journaled in the weeks since his return from New York after Sean's death.

     No point to postpone the inevitable any longer. After showering and getting dressed, he would go someplace to buy some cartons and pack up his lover's  things, their things together, things doomed to be constant reminders of the man Sebastian  loved, and -as he learned while assisting his friend Detective Cliff Nolte in the investigation of a pedophile ring of priests and teachers in Brooklyn -he never knew. The discovery of Sean's sexual abuse as a child and teenager by Father Finn broke Sebastian's heart. Finding out Sean later acted as a pimp for the priest, bringing in fresh recruits he helped groom went beyond devastating and to Sebastian's mind unforgivable.

Groundless, Part Six

      

     'How's the patient today, Doctor? Any change at all?' 

     'I'm afraid not, Bjorn. Lars suffered a psychotic break which will take a lot of time to repair, if at all. He seems content in his world, but he doesn't allow me of anyone else to enter.' 

     'Maybe seeing me would help? Six months is a long time without any positive signs.' 

     'The shock of seeing you might plunge him deeper into himself. Remember, he thinks he killed you.' 

     'I was still in our apartment in the city. I planned to drive up to the house the next day. I told him when we spoke earlier in the evening.' 

     'Did the police ever determine if a break- in indeed happened?' 

     'No signs of a break-in. Lars was alone in the house. He imagined the entire incident.' 

     'May I at least see him, Doctor? Even if he can't see me, I want to see for myself how he's doing.' 

     'I understand. He's in one of our observation rooms this morning. Follow me.' 

     Doctor Samuelson led Bjorn through a series of hallways to the room. Lars sat at a table where he seemed to play some sort of card game.' 

     'What's he doing with the cards, Doctor?' 

     'He wrote a prayer on each of them, eighty-one in all. He numbered the cards so he can keep track of them. Every day he shuffles the cards and tosses them like confetti. He gathers them up and counts them. 

     'Is this some kind of occupational therapy?' 

     'His own device. He tossed the prayers into the air with the hope God will keep one of them and grant his wish. He counts the cards to check if one is missing.' 

     'None of the cards ever disappeared, though, did they?' 

     'I'm afraid not.' 

     'Do you know what he wrote on them?' 

     'He allowed one of the attendants to take a look at them once. Some of them say forgive me. Others say give Bjorn back.' 

     'There's the answer, Doctor. Make one of the cards go a miss and I'll walk into the room. Lars will think God answered his prayer.' 

     'I appreciate your logic, Bjorn, but like I said --' 

     'Nothing else is working. I think this is worth a shot.' 

     'They way Lars handles the cards, we can't control how they land. Everything will be random.' 

     'Have faith, Doctor. Maybe today is the day we witness the miracle of God answering prayer.' 

     'All right. Once he tosses the cards, you walk in.' 

     Lars read each card and focused on piling them in numerical order. He shuffled them once and flung them high overhead. Cards floated and landed all around him. On cue, Bjorn entered the room. 

     'Hello, Lars.' 

     Lars glanced at his lover, but said nothing focusing instead on gathering and once again ordering the cards. 'A card is missing. A card is missing.' 

     The doctor entered the room but remained at the door. Bjorn moved closer to the table. 'Which one?' 

     'Number nine. The ninth card is missing. God kept the ninth card.' 

     'What is significant about the ninth card, Lars?' 

     Lars stood, threw his arms around Bjorn's neck and pulled him close. 'Nine is the card which asked God to give you back, Bjorn. I asked God to give you back and you're here. I love you, Bjorn.' 

     Lars held Bjorn like a life preserver. Tears rolled down Bjorn's cheeks. 'I love you, too, Lars. I love you more than you can imagine.' 

 

Groundless, Part Five

     Lars startled himself awake. Still dressed, he fell asleep in his club chair in front of the television which was still on. The cablebox reported the time to be only 11:04 PM. Lars stood and stretched, reached for the remote and switched off the television, and then stretched again. He inspected the windows to make certain they were looked. He turned off the light as he exited the room to make his usual rounds to check the locks on doors and windows before continuing upstairs to bed.
     He happened to look out to the front yard as he striped off his clothes. He threw open the windows for the night air. Quiet night. He was about to turn away when a glint of something shiny and silver winked from the shadows. Lars turned off his bedroom light and continued to scan the yard. Someone stood among the birch trees lining the south side of the property. No, make that two people. He stepped away from the window and pressed a button adjacent to his bed.
     'Home security. What is your emergency?'
     'Two people, two men are watching my house. One of them is holding something silver. I think he has a gun. Please send someone right away.'
     'Are you secure in the house?'
     'Yes. All the windows and doors are locked. I am in my bedroom upstairs.'
     'Do you have a safe room?'
     'Yes, I'm going in now.'
     'The police are on the way. Stay in the safe room until we tell you to come out.'
     'Okay.'
     The call disconnected. Lars entered the safe room and activated the locks. Nothing to do now but sit and wait. 'I can do something else,' he told himself. He ventured out of the safe room to retrieve the revolver Bjorn stored in the nightstand on his side of the bed. Lars never liked having a gun in the house, but now the gun seemed like a good idea. He carefully checked to make sure the gun was loaded and took the safety off. The doorknob on the door opening to the hallway slowly turned. Lars froze. The police always announced themselves, but whoever this was said nothing. Lars panicked and fired the gun through the door with a mind of its own until the trigger clicked without any more bullets. Lars still sat frozen the the bed holding the gun at this side when the police opened the bedroom door.
     One of them turned on the light. A second officer approached Lars, He kept asking Lars, 'Are you all right?' while he took the gun. Lars didn't answer. He sat on the bed staring into space. Someone spoke through the police radio to announce the arrival of the ambulance.
     'Come with us, sir. The ambulance is here to take you to the hospital. Sir?' Lars didn't respond. 'Sir? Can you hear me?'
     Lars turned his head and looked at the officer, but didn't speak.
     'Sir, you're in shock. We're taking you to the hospital. An ambulance is waiting for you downstairs. Do you understand?'
     Lars nodded and stood. With an officer on each side of him for guidance, Lars ambled into the hallway where two bloody corpses lay akimbo on the floor.
     'No! Oh God, no!' Lars screamed while his legs surrendered to grief.

Groundless, Part Four

     Four hours on the train for what? Humiliation? Suspicions can be swept aside until they become facts. Lars believed Bjorn's friendship with Mateo to be something more from the time he met Mateo. Even so, he never expected to encounter their lovemaking in his apartment and not in the bed he shared with Bjorn. Lars vowed he would never enter those premises again. Lars planned to sell the apartment complete with all the contents and remain in the country house. He didn't need the stress of city life anyway. He also didn't need any reminders of Bjorn and his betrayal.
     The ringing phone brought Lars out of his reverie. The caller ID announced Bjorn calling again.
     'Hello?'
     'Honey, I called several times on your cellphone only to go into voicemail. Are you all right? I expected you back hours ago.'
     'I'm fine, I guess.'
     'You guess? What's wrong?'
     'Nothing. Only a little blue is all. I'm busy up here with a project. I called.'
     'Yes. I saw a missed call from you, but you didn't leave a message. I assumed you called from the train.'
     'That's right, but I decided to come back.'
     'You went back? Why? Don't you miss me?'
     'More than you can imagine. I'm better off here for a while longer.'
     'Okay. I'll come there. I miss you, Lars. I prepared a surprise for you here, but it can wait. I'll catch the next train and take you out for a ce meal. Okay?'
     'Bjorn, do you not realize the time? You'll get here too late to eat. No, I'm better off alone tonight.'
     'Lars, did I do or say something to upset you?'
     'You tell me. Did you?'
     'Okay. I agree. In this mood we are both happier to be apart. I'll wait and come up tomorrow.'
     'Fine. There are some things we need to discuss, Private matters, so I trust you'll come alone.'
     'Honey, I want you all to myself. If you feel like, well, if you want me to invite Mateo--'
     'No. No need to drag him wherever you go. Call me from the train. I'll send a taxi to pick you up.'
     'I can get a taxi. Won't you tell me why you're being strange?'
     'Goodnight, Bjorn.'
     'Good--' but before Bjorn finished speaking, Lars ended the call.
     'Is Lars all right?'
     'He says he's fine, Mateo, but he sounded like he is angry with me.'
     'Angry? Did he give a reason?'
     'No. He wouldn't admit he is angry. He's learned your technique.'
     'My technique?'
     'When I asked him if I did something or said something to upset him he replied I don't know. Did you?
     'Anything else?'
     'When I told him I'll catch the next train he told me he prefers to be alone tonight. I could come tomorrow as long as I come alone.'
     'Bjorn, at the risk of being an alarmist, I don't think you should wait. Let me drive you up there. I don't think Lars should be on his own tonight. We can be there by dark.'
     'Thanks, Mateo, Let's go.

   

   
         

Groundless, Part Three

'Mateo. God. What did you eat for lunch?
'Herring, some cabbage salad, a few pickles. Why?
'Your guts are rotten. Dammit, Mateo. Give a guy a warning before you fart or step away. Jeez.'
'Sorry, but I'm sure you fart once in a while, too.'
'Not in front of anybody and not in a small space like a shower. Forget it. Hand me the screwdriver. I want these shower doors installed before Lars gets back. Did you hear something?'
Mateo listens and shakes his head. 'Not a thing.'
'I thought the front door opened. I'm going to take a look. I might be Lars. I'll be right back.'
Bjorn walks out of the bathroom and down the hall into the living room. 'Lars? Are you home, Sweetheart? Lars?'
The door is closed. Bjorn turns the knob. The door is locked. He opens the door and steps out to check the corridor. The lighted sign over the elevator doors indicates someone going down to the lobby, but otherwise no sign of anyone. Bjorn returns to the apartment, closes and locks the door before rejoining Mateo. '
Lars?'
'No. No one.'
'When do you expect Lars?'
'Any time now, so we must get moving.'
'Your phone rang while you were gone.'
'Thanks, I'll check my voicemail.' Bjorn picks up his phone. 'I have a missed call from Lars, but he didn't leave a voicemail. He probably called to tell me he's on his way. We need to finish.'
'Think he'll like your home improvement project?'
'I hope so. I want him to continue seeing you, but at least he can come into the bathroom without being upset over the shower curtain.'
'He means a lot to you, doesn't he?'
'Yeah, he does.'
     

Groundless, Part Two

     Lars approached therapy with the single-minded passion he gave to everything important to him. He reached a plateau in his progress and a limit to his willingness to continue. He needed a break and wanted to visit his country house. Mateo agreed the change of routine would be good for him. Lars made all the preparations for he and Bjorn. At the last minute Bjorn backed out. 

     'I'm sorry, sweetheart, but this isn't a good time for me to be away from the office. Besides, I think you might do better without me tagging along.' 

     'Bjorn, we haven't been to the house in ages. The country will do us both a world of good, only the two of us.' 

     'You go on and if I can, I'll join you at the end of the week.' 

     'Promise?' 

     'I promise to try if everything goes well at the office.' 

     The week ended without Bjorn coming to the country. Now Lars was returning to the apartment in the city and practising his game face. Long hours at the office left Bjorn without time or energy for a good-night phone call. Lars didn't want to add his disappointment on Bjorn's burdens. Besides, he discovered a way around his phobia at the local home improvement store. Glass shower doors. The remedy to his fear seemed too simple to miss. He installed in the country house and planned to install them in the apartment as soon as possible. Lars realized the glass doors were only a bandaid. At least working through his other problems without fighting with Bjorn over a stupid shower curtain. 

     Unexpected voices greeted Lars when he entered the apartment. At four o'clock in the afternoon Bjorn should still be at work, so Lars stopped and strained to try to identify them.The closed bedroom door only muffled the sound of people having sex. As he walked closer, Bjorn cried out Mateo's name. 

     Lars left the apartment without a sound. Once outside, he flagged a taxi to take him to Central Station and the train back to the country. On the way, he phoned Bjorn and left a voicemail message he decided to stay in the country another night.

     

Groundless, Part One

     Phobia of one description or an other plagued Lars all is life. So many things to remember to be leary of, to circumvent, or to avoid all together at all costs. He counted as a blessing he never feared leaving his house. Agoraphobia meant missing out on meeting the love of his life. Bjorn made Lars confident. Bjorn made the world a friendlier place. Fear of losing Bjorn because of his foolishness itself became a phobia. He succeeded in keeping this unnamed fear to himself.
     As the two men grew closer, Bjorn sensed the psychological luggage his partner carried. In time keeping track of all the demons became tiresome. Bjorn suggested Lars get some counselling. A psychologist friend of Bjorn's agreed to meet Lars. Tomas exuded a warmth which put Lars at ease at once. Lars expressed his enthusiasm to meet with Tomas twice a week. He wanted to move past his fears, of course, but his desire to remove any reason Bjorn may cite to want to leave him superseded all else.
     Weeks and months passed. Lars indeed improved. However, he couldn't shake lose his fear of shower curtains. To be more specific, Lars didn't like closed shower curtains without the shower being used. He feared someone waiting in the shower to do him harm, even in his own home. The sight of the curtain concealing the shower caused dry mouth, shortness of breath, rapid heart rate, and light-headedness causing Lars to collapse on the floor. As a result, Lars demanded the curtain be left open. Bjorn drew the curtain closed out of habit to prevent mildew. Whenever Bjorn stayed over and forgot, Lars became unhinged, causing a huge arguement filled with angry and hateful words. The men didn't stay angry for long. The make-up sex came at a price Bjorn tired of paying. Hence, Bjorn called Tomas.
     Lars learned the name of his fear: Scelerophobia. Knowing a demon's name made him vulnerable to exorcism. Lars began to relax into Tomas' care.

Shades In A Silver Bowl, Part 2

     Curiosity overcame fear by the time the moon rose full again. Robban once again filled the silver bowl with fresh spring water which he placed in the center of a circle of candles on the floor. He asked the goddess Hecate to bless him with another vision.
     He sat cross-legged as he stared into the water. Within minutes the water stirred. The milky swirl formed a vortex which expanded from the bowl's center to the side before the water turned clear again. Only the old woman from the the previous vision appeared this time.
     'Robban. Your body grows weaker each day you are gone.'
     'What do you mean? Look at me. I am healthy. You are familiar to me and yet a stranger. I don't recall giving you my name.'
     'Your transition into your other world erased your memory. I am called Brigitta. I helped your mother several times. You spied on me from behind the draperies once. You asked me to teach you the ways of the cunning folk. Your mother did not disapprove, but we kept your lessons secret from your father.'
     'But I don't leave in your world. I live here.'
     'I think you used magick. Two months ago you went to sleep without waking again. People are worried you are dying.'
     'Like I said, I am in perfect healthy where I am.'
     'If you body here dies, your life where you are will most likely end also. You must come back. At least for a while.'
     'I belong here. I live here. Your world is foreign to me. So are you truth be told.'
     'The transition made you forget, but you didn't forget everything. You still scry. I taught you.'
     'You're wrong, Brigitta.'
     'If what you say is true, tell me how you learned how to scry.'
     Robban paused to try to think of an answer. In truth he couldn't explain. 'Scry? I'm unfamiliar with your word. I'm looking, nothing more.'
     'Why would you want to scry if not to keep in touch with your real life?'
     'I'm curious about the old ways. Like I told you before, I don't understand any of this.' Robban stood, but this time he made sure he didn't disturb the bowl. 'I must go.'
     'No, Robban. You must come. You must find your way back here. Return to the body you left here. Save yourself. You crossed once. Come back and later you can cross again if you must.'
     'You're not real. You are a fantasy. This ends now.'
     Robban stooped to pick up the candles. In rapid succession he hurled them into the water. Smoke rose from the bowl.
     A woman's chilling scream buckled his knees.

Shades In A Silver Bowl

     Full Moon. Again, some strange power compelled to do something he didn't understand. Robban didn't know much about scrying. His compulsion to do this served as additional evidence he may be losing his mind. 

     The genesis took the form of a melody playing in his mind, over and over. One of those sticking, unidentifiable refrains which demands a name. Soon words followed the notes so the refrain became a chant. Anytime Robban sat alone the chant comprised of unfamiliar and meaningless words soon took over his thoughts. After a couple weeks Robban's life began to change. His boss gave him a promotion. A new friend entered his life who soon grew into a significant other. The couple moved together into a new, larger home. As Robban's connections grew, he became more content with his life. 

     Now he planned to look into silver bowl filled with fresh water by the light of the Full Moon and a single candle. His lover went out of town on business, so Robban wouldn't be interrupted. He sighed with the hope the activity would be self explanatory. 

When the Moon rose high in the sky, Robban lit the candle and placed it on a table behind where he would sit. The silver bowl filled with spring water rested on the floor in front of him. He sat cross-legged on a cushion and rested his wrists palms up on his thighs. Eyes closed, his breathing began to slow. After a few minutes his body relaxed. He opened his eyes and looked into the silver bowl. 

     'A silver bowl with some water. Now what?' 

   There was movement in the water. He glanced around the room, but nothing outside the bowl moved. He returned his attention to the bowl. A white cloud formed in the water like milk spilling in. In an instant, the cloud dissipated. 

     A curtain drew back and Robban looked into a room. A chamber with stone walls. Someone laid on a bed and people stood at the foot and on both sides. The man on the bed appeared to be asleep. The people lining the bed held candles. Robban inhaled the aroma of herbs burning, a blend of sage and cedar. Something else, too, Robban couldn't name. The identity of the person on the bed mattered to him more than the fragrance of some burning herb. 

     'Come back to us, Majesty.Your people need you. I need you.' The young man standing next to the bed who spoke looked crestfallen and tired. The same moment in which the man held the hand of the unconscious man on the bed, Robban sensed pressure of a grip on his own hand. The startling realization caused him to almost kick over the silver bowl. An old woman standing behind the others came to Robban's attention now. She said nothing, but seemed to smile at him in recognition. The corners of her mouth turned up with such subtlety he didn't trust his eyes. She turned her attention to the young man in the bed and back at Robban. He understood. 

     Numbness traveled up Robban's legs. The body on the bed stirred. Robban leapt up to stomp his feet to prevent leg cramp. As he did, the bowl overturned and the candle flame guttered. 

     

     

Nothing Under The Bed

     The bib necklace sparkled in the midmorning light. 'Oh, yes, indeed. I like this one.' She spoke only to her reflection in the dressing mirror as she held the platinum and mine-cut diamond creation over her dress. She considered the fish scale design lent a certain femininity to both the stones and the wearer. 'I deserve this.'
     The unexpected turn of the the doorknob caused her to drop the necklace. The master's presence in the doorway prevented its retrieval.
     'Where is my wife?'
     'Luncheon with Mrs. Talbot.'
     'Why are you in my wife's room?'
     'Doing a little straightening up, sir. Making sure everything is in place as the Missus likes.'
     'Very well. Would you be so kind as to tell cook I'll take my meal in the garden. I assume you are finished in here?'
     'Yes, sir.'
     As she turned to leave she gave the necklace as swift kick under the bed. The Master waited for her to leave, glanced around the room, and closed the door as he left.
     Later on when her mistress' car came up the drive and rushed to the bedroom to put the necklace back in the jewelcase. However, the necklace vanished. The maid recalled the precise spot where the necklace landed on the rug and panicked at finding nothing. She looked in the jewelcase hoping the master spotted and returned the stray piece to the case. No luck.
     The butler greet the mistress at the front door as the maid dropped to her knees and with nervous fingers searched the carpet at the edge of the bed. A hand grabbed her wrist and pulled under the bed. The maid tried to scream, but all efforts to resist failed.
     'Celia? Celia?'
     'Madam?'
     'Jonathan, have you seen Celia this afternoon?'
     'Yes, madam. She came in here as your car approached the house. I assumed to prepare for your afternoon rest.'
     'Well, she isn't here. She didn't do anything in here during my absence. Find her for me, will you?'
     'Of course, madam.' The butler left closing the door behind him.
     The mistress sat at her vanity and took off the earrings she wore to lunch. She opened her jewelcase to put them away. Next she removed her shoes and slipped out of her dress to lie down. As she did so, she stubbed a toe on the solid mahogany bed frame.
     'Yeow, Sweet Mother of God!'
     A knock on the door preceded Jonathan's voice. 'Madam, are you all right?'
     'Come in, Jonathan. I may be maimed for life, but I'm fine. I stubbed a toe on the bed again. Do you think you can get someone to switch this one with the bed in the green room?'
     'Of course, madam. After your rest or before?'
     'Come back in an hour. I need to get off my feet for a while and let the swelling in this tow go down. Did you find Celia?'
     'No, madam, but staff is still looking for her. She can't be far.'
     'Send her to me when she is found. You may go now.'

     Celia was never seen again. Staff swore to hearing her weep at night, but they never brought this to their employers' attention. After a while, the weeping became one of many night sounds of a quiet house. No one mentioned her name.

Friends Without End

     The locks on the front door activated without a human hand. No amount of effort deactivated them. No amount of pulling on the knob forced the door to open.
     'Damnit. Open.'
     'Sorry. I can't let you leave.' The familiar voice did nothing to calm Damian's nerves.
     'This apartment isn't mine anymore. I have to finish moving into my new apartment.'
     'I want you to stay with me here.'
     'There is no here here. The owners are making extreme renovations. I must leave, so open this door. Now.
     'I can't let you go. You are the only person in decades to acknowledge me. You talk with me.'
     'Come with me if you want. I invite you to haunt my new place. We can still talk. I can't stay here. Please, unlock this door.'
     'I can't leave with you. I can, however, make it possible for you to remain here with me.'
   
     Days later several of the other tenants of the building complained about a terrible odor coming from the apartment. When the super entered the apartment, Damian's body lay on the floor.
     'See, Damian. I told you everything turn out for the best.'
     'So what shall we discuss?'
     The super cocked his head as though he heard something, shook his head and called 9-1-1 from his cellphone. 

String Dream

     Such a bizarre dream I woke from. Without a moment's hesitation, I phoned my friend Laurie to describe the events while fresh in my memory to get her interpretation.
     'Laurie, I dreamt I worked as a switchboard operator in a clothing store.'
     'Switchboard? You mean one of those old-timey things with multiple lines like in old movies?'
     'Something similar, I guess.'
     'In your dream did you enjoy doing this?'
     'Not at all. The stupid thing kept ringing and I couldn't escape it.'
     'Well, darling, my first thought is you having to work for someone else is no dream. This is a nightmare best forgotten. Tell Cook you don't want her to make whatever you ate for dinner last night ever again.'
     'That's all? No other insight you can offer?'
     'Get out of bed. Get dressed and take your dogs for a walk around your estate. Appreciation for what you possess should set your mind straight again. Come to mine for luncheon when you're finished. I'll tell Marie make one of your favorites.'
     'Fine, Thank you, Laurie. I'll see you later then.'
     'The very idea of you with a job? And in a shop no less is too ridiculous. Push those thoughts right out of your mind.'

* * * *

     I woke from this dream, made coffee, and prepared to go to my job as a switchboard operator in a clothing store.

Riparian Meditation

    Blustering chill winds imprisoning most people in their homes howled one man's name urging him to the river. Aron put his daily chores on hold . Pulling two pairs of jeans over his longjohns, a flannel shirt and thermal vest layered under his coat, he left his cottage for the river.
     'This weather isn't so bad,' he told himself as he sat on his favorite bench. An icebreaker plowed a path through the ice for other boats making their usual upriver journey. Huge chunks of ice left floating, bobbed in the wake. Fog lifted from the surface of the water presenting an odd scene. Aron marvelled at the three forms of water on display. 'Does the river, ice, and fog recognize themselves as dimensions of their being?'
     Aron never experienced the like in his eighty-some years of life near the water. He thanked the winds for bringing him to the show.
     As he continued to contemplate the scene, a kind of steam or fog rose from the top of Aron's head like a genie escaping he bottle. Aron somehow witnessed this also and smiled. He understood while the river, its ice, and fog are comprised of the same hydrogen and oxygen atoms they did not interact with each other. They couldn't if they wanted to because not one of them possessed the power to cross over from one dimension to be with another. Fog would condensate and ice would melt, rejoining them to their source. The fog rising from Aron grew and grew until it dissipated.
     Soon a young man walking his dog approached Aron's bench. The dog sauntered over to be petted by Aron say hello, but Aron, still smiling, reunited with his source.

Mirror, Mirror (Finale)

     Mateus Dyrbar made daily deliveries of newspapers to Heidi's front porch. Sometimes the door stood ajar with an invitation to enter attached. The visits didn't last long, but Mateus became more comfortable with the woman perched in a wheelchair in the shadows each time. The young man even began to image her face. He didn't find her ugly, at least not as he thought she appeared.
     He purchased a hand mirror  to bring Heidi as a surprise present. He thought showing her how she appeared to him would help her to like herself more. He intended to make her happy, but that is not what transpired.
     He opened the daily newspaper to conceal his surprise gift. He went inside, careful to close the door behind him as usual. He sat in the same chair he always sat in with the newspaper and mirror on his lap.
     'You opened my paper.'
     'I brought you something.'
     'Yes, you opened my paper. Why?
     'I brought you this.' With a flourish he produced the hand mirror.
     'You idiot. Why do you insult me with such a thing when the mirror over the mantle is blind? After I told you I don't care to face my ugliness? How dare you!'
     'I want you to show you the woman I visit every day; a woman who is not ugly at all.'
     'Give me that and get out.'
     Heidi lunged forward out of her chair. Mateus, caught off-guard, dropped the mirror. The glass missed the carpet and shattered on the aged mahogany floor. Shards of broken glass exploded into the air. One of the larger pieces rocketed its way to Mateus and stabbed him in the neck. The severed carotid artery became a geyser of blood. Some splashed on Heidi's face as Mateus fell dead to the floor.
     Heidi stood in apparent shock at the scene playing out in front of her. She bent down to pick up one of the larger pieces of mirror and gazed at her reflection.
     'Mateus, you were right. I am quite beautiful. Thanks to your blood I should remain beautiful for a year or two. Oh, my precious friend, you certainly took your time bringing this mirror. My other young gentlemen callers were much faster in presenting their gifts.

Mirror, Mirror (Part Three)

     'All I can see of you are your lapis eyes.'

     'Are you uncomfortable?'

     'Not at all. Your eyes are beautiful, rather like the Cheshire Cat.'

     'The Cheshire Cat's were green as I recall. Would you like me to smile so you can check my teeth?'

     'Do you make a habit of turning the slightest compliment into something rude?'

     'I don't get many visitors.'

     'I can understand that. I'm sure not many people are willing to sit with you in the shadows without being able to look at you.'

     'But you are? Willing to sit in the shadows with an old lady?

     'You voice doesn't sound old. Something metallic glints on either side of you. Are you in a wheelchair?'

     'I am. You detect more than you thought possible.'

     'The result of an accident?'

     'An accident of birth. You see, someone raped my mother.'

     'I'm sorry for your mother, but something good came as a result.'

     'Something good?'

     'Well, yes. You.'

     'My mother never missed a day to remind me I am the hideous result of a hideous crime committed by a hideous man. She delighted in using the word for me. She named me Heidi as some sort of sick joke.'

     'What a cruel way to treat an innocent child. Did she care for you otherwise?'

     'By way of a nanny, a governess followed by a ladies' maid. My mother's money allowed her to keep her distance.'

     'How do you keep yourself now? Do your friends visit and bring you groceries?

     'Friends? What sort of friends visit and allow newspapers to gather in the front yard? As for groceries, what little I need comes to me, as you did with my papers.'

     Heidi's implication she expected his service to continue caused the young man momentary discomfort. Unsure of what to sat next, he blurted out, 'Mateus.'

     'I beg your pardon?'

     'My name is Mateus Dyrbar.' 

     'Precious. Odd surname for a Swede.'

     'I suppose.' Mateus glanced around the room in an effort to discover some object to change the direction of the conversation. 'Your room is filled with a lot of things I wish I were able to view better. Why is the mirror over the fireplace mantle blacked out?'

     'Why gaze upon Hideous Heidi. Would you want to face your ugliness every day?'

     'I think I so.'

     Heidi laughed. 'You think so. You're handsome is why. I bet you stop by shop windows to check yourself out. You can't begin to comprehend the impact of deformity.'

     'Humans have feelings regardless of their appearance. I think I should leave. I've taken enough of your time.'

     'Will you come again tomorrow?'

     'You should call whoever throws your paper to ask him to make sure the paper hits the porch. He'll do that, you know.'

     'I see. Another life lesson taught me. Yes, I think you should go.'

     Mateus started to approach Heidi to take her hand, but she spun her wheelchair to face the wall, leaving him with nothing else but to let himself out. 

     He determined to take a different route to work in the future. Still, he was sad for Heidi and the life she lived. He sensed her watching him walk to the street, but he never looked back.

     Two weeks later, he walked his former route to his office without thinking and happened to pass Heidi's house. As expected the newspaper rolls tracked the days of his absence. He stopped to pick them up and chucked them like pebbles against the front door. 

     The door opened wide enough for the familiar hand to appear. This time, however, the hand wore no glove. The gnarled and twisted fingers grasped each roll like a talon with a twig and drew them inside one after the other. He shamed himself for his impatience. Perhaps tomorrow, he would deliver the paper to the door and ring the bell. The hand did not acknowledge him as usual before the door closed. 

     'Then again, the best thing may be to leave things alone.' 

     He would think about it some more.

     

     

     

     

Mirror, Mirror (Continues)

     Several days later, the young man found himself on the same street. More rolled-up newspapers littered the front yard. He gathered these as before and walked up to the porch to ring the bell. Again, no answer came so he left them piled near the door and left.
     He watched from the sidewalk for anyone would bring the papers indoors. After a while, the door did open. A small, delicate gloved hand reached out for the papers, drawing them inside one by one like a mechanical clockwork. 'So it is a lady who lives there.' The young man further assumed she must live alone since there was no one other than himself fetched the papers from the yard.
     The next day, he brought the daily edition to the front door and rang the bell. Again, no one responded until he returned to the street. The door opened as he observed before and the same gloved hand reached out for the paper.
     Intrigued, he made delivery of the paper to the house part of his daily routine. After a few weeks, he brought a single pink, almost white long-stemmed rose which he stuck into the center of the rolled paper. The gloved hand paused midway of the usual reach. The man imagined a friendly wave before rose and paper disappeared into the house.
     When he return the following day, the door stood ajar. A note card written in a delicate feminine hand said, 'You may come inside, if you like.' The young man smiled and entered the house. He stood statue still as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. His hostess sat in the shadows of the far corner of the room.
     'I am very happy you accepted my invitation. I wanted to meet you and say thank you for your courtesy.'
     'May I turn on a light? All I distinguish your silhouette. I think people ought to converse face-to-face, don't you?'
     'No. No light. I see you quite well.'
     "But, I --'
     'Perhaps I made a mistake inviting you inside.'
     No one ever put the young man into an awkward situation before. He understood he should do as the lady asked, but he wanted to share a conversation with her. 'I'm sorry. We didn't exchange names yet. Besides, you only said you wanted to say thank you, but you didn't.' He smiled the smile that always won him his way.
     'If you insist on staying you may. Thank you, young man for bringing my newspapers within my reach.' The front door slammed shut startling the man. 'Please make yourself comfortable since you won't be leaving right away.'
     His winning smile faded into apprehension.
   

Mirror, Mirror

     Their relationship began with a simple act of kindness the previous winter. Movement of a curtain caught a young man's eye as he passed the old Victorian house. Several rolled up newspapers gathered at the curb on the sidewalk leading up to the house. The young man delivered them to the front door and rang the bell. Another quick movement in the curtains signaled the presence of someone inside, but no one answered the door. He left the papers and went on his way.
     The woman stood at an angle so she could observe the young man leave without being seen. When he didn't turn back after a few minutes she decided it was safe to retrieve the newspapers. This she did so quickly any observer wasn't sure the door had even been ajar.

Heir Unapparent

     Mr. Schneidermann studies each person entering the room with an intensity most of them found uncomfortable. This is a reading of the last will and testament of Otto Stjärna, not some criminal judicial case. He is an attorney, after all, an expert at reading faces so his manner is understandable. After everyone is seated, he begins his remarks.
     'Thank you all for coming here today for the unsealing of Otto Stjarna's will. I also want to express my gratitude for your willingness to submit the DNA samples for testing Mr. Stjarna stipulated for your attendance here today. Mr. Stjarna wanted to make sure his work to upraise humanity continues. As you are aware, he never discussed his work with anyone. He kept his successes private, but his generosity with people in need endeared him to many while he amassed a sizable fortune; a fortune he intends to fund whoever takes his place.'
     Glances are exchanged by those gathered, but not a word is spoken. 'As some of you may surmise, Mr. Stjarna wanted to be certain of the linage of the person inheriting his entire estate.' More glances exchanged. Smiles transformed into consternation.
     Mr. Schneidermann picks up a stack of manilla A4 envelopes. 'I hold in my hands your DNA results.' A few of the men lean forward in anticipation. Stjarna's estate is enough to provide each person in attendance a sustainable income for life. 'Only one of you is a complete match to Otto Starna. Lars Dagdrömmare, I have some papers for you to sign. The rest of you may go. Thank you for your time.
     'Wait a minute, Schneiderman. Not so fast. Is there nothing in the will for any of the rest of us?'
     'I'm afraid not. Sorry. None of you were a familial match to Mr. Stjarna.'
     'That cannot be true. I am his brother.'
     'And I am one if his sons. This woman is my sister. How can we not be a fam- whatever kind of match you said? Your tests have to be wrong. The lab made a grave mistake.'
     'Did you not submit a sample of your hair and a fingernail clipping in addition to the swab of your mouth?'
     The men and the woman nodded.
     'Each sample was sent to a separate lab as a cross-check of the results. None of them showed anyone but Mr. Dadrommare to be a suitable match. Again, I am sorry.'
     Otto's brother continued to protest. 'Dadrommare is not even blood relation. At best he is a family acquaintance. Your tests are wrong.'
     'The three top-rated laboratories in the country evaluated the samples. They are not mistaken.'
     The young woman stepped forward with tear-filled eyes. 'How on earth can this be?'
     'That's a good question. Unfortunately, the only man capable of an answer it is no longer among us. You see, Mr. Stjarna's DNA is unlike any of the accepted models. You might say possessed no verifiable DNA. Mr. Dagdrommare is the same.'
     'How on earth is this possible?'
     'I agree. How on earth?'

Abandoned Child

     Once again Sam Goode missed the last bus. Sam submerges himself in his work and misses the bus to the commuter train platform more often than not. He thinks about work even as he walks the several blocks of dark streets.
     On this particular night, Sam's attention is drawn to a house which escaped him until this moment. Well, not the house per se, but to a dim light that reveals the front door standing open. He halts his trek to the train to study the situation. Whoever lives here may be in need of help. He pulls his cellphone from his pocket as he walks up the few steps to the house, but he doesn't make a call. From the stoop, he turns to look back to the street and to either side of the house. No one to be seen. Not a sound. He returns his attention to the open door. He knocks and shouts, 'Hello? Anybody home?' and steps inside.
     The light emanates from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling at the far end of a hallway. Nothing seems to be disturbed, though an outsider can never tell with certainty about a stranger's housekeeping. In this case, none of the sparse furniture is overturned. No drawers pulled out or emptied by ransacking. No one has answered his call. No one is home. Sam decides the resident left in a hurry and failed to latch the door. He is about to leave when someone sobs. 'Hello? Is someone here?' he calls out a second time. Again there is no reply, only continued crying. Sam's palms begin to moisten. He shouldn't be in someone else's house. He is beginning to suspect a crime of the sort he needs to avoid. He decides to leave.
     The crying gets louder. Sam realizes a child is crying. He can't leave now. Who would leave a child alone in his darkened house? The sobbing and cries now advanced to wailing. A door creaks open revealing stairs to the pitch-black basement. Sam switches on the flashlight app on his phone and proceeds step-by-step on high alert down into the darkness. Halfway, he pauses and scans the chamber with his flashlight. In the far corner sits a little boy. He stops crying when the light shines on him. A lot of questions need asking, but he doesn't want to overwhelm the boy.
     'What's your name?'
     'Sammy.'
     Sam squats to look the boy in the face as he talks with him.  'Sam is my name, too. What are you doing down here all by yourself.'
     'Waiting. I want to go outside and play. Will you play with me, Sam?'
     'Too late to play outside. Who left you here?'
     'Will you give me a hug, Sam. I'm a little cold.'
     'Sure, I will, kid.' Sam wraps his arms around the child and holds him close to his chest. 'You didn't answer me. Who left you here?
     'I feel warmer now.'
     'Sammy, you're avoiding my question. You're only a little kid. I want to know who left you here?'
     'You did.'
     'I did? That's not possible, Sammy. We've never met. You're mistaken.'
     'Sam, you left me here when you started working and you never came back. Hold me closer, will you? I'm shivering.'
     Sam tightened his embrace to warm the child all the while wondering what he should do with Sammy. Minutes passed. Sam stroked Sammy's hair and the child says, 'I love you, Sam. Please take me with you' as he began to fade away. Fade isn't accurate to describe what happened next. Sam's body absorbed the boy leaving him sitting alone in the dark basement hugging himself. Tears began to roll down Sam's cheeks. The upper door hinges creak again and begins to close.

      

Between Floors

     Work made for a long, tiring day. Bridget focused on getting into her third-floor apartment, kicking off her Diane Von Furstenberg heels and collapsing into her plush club chair with a glass of wine. For once she opted to take the elevator than climb the flights of stairs. After today she didn't need any further exercise. She pushed the button and the elevator doors opened. She stepped inside and pushed the button for home, glad to be alone and not obligated to chat.
     As the doors closed and the elevator began to ascend, the lights went out. 'Damn. At least this is a short ride,' she said out loud to no one.
     'Touch me.' A man's voice. 'Go ahead. I know you want to. Touch me.'
     She was certain the car was empty when she entered. She panicked. Without any light the buttons all felt the same so she punched them all.
     'Touch me.'
     Panic turned to near hysteria. Again, she punched all the buttons wanting one of the to stop the elevator and open the doors. The elevator halted and the doors opened at the rear. Bridget assumed she was disoriented in the darkness and exited.
      Moments later, the elevator doors opened to the third floor. The lights were on and another resident entered. He spotted a woman's handbag on the floor. He picked it up and looked inside. The wallet contained a driver's license belonging to Bridget Houlihan which he pocketed.
     The man exited when the doors opened onto the lobby. He handed the bag to the doorman.
     'This was on the floor of the elevator. There's no I.D. but the wallets has some cash in it. Someone's bound to miss it.'
     'Very kind of you, sir. Thank you.'
     'Good night.'
     'Good night, sir.'
 

The Watcher, Part Two

     His bladder is pressing for relief. Sandman hesitates to get off the bed because of a mysterious red eye staring from across the room. With caution he swings his legs over the edge of the bed slides his feet into waiting slippers. He walks into the bathroom without turning on the light. The white commode is effervescent in the moonlight. He sits. After his bladder is satisfied, he flushes the toilet with an elbow, turns on the tap, rinses his hands, dries them on the hand towel provided and returns to bed.
     The eye maintains its surveillance. Sandman turns his back to the eye and covers his head with one of the pillows.He can still sense the continuous stare. In the pre-dawn light he strains to determine an outline of the man or beast with the eye. He cannot. On his back now, he tucks his hands underneath his head and stares back at the eye. He is so focused on the eye the night clerk using a special glass pressed against the peephole allowing him full view of his naked body stretched out on top of the bed goes undetected. A sudden noise raises an alert; a kind of hissing-sucking salacious sound. His attention goes to the door. 'Who's there?' he calls out. 'Is someone there?' He waits for a reply. None comes. Still the hissing-sucking continues. He decides to pull back the bedspread from one side and cover himself. Better to get a bedbug bite or two than some pervert getting his jollies.
     More hissing. More sucking. The rooms fills with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. Of course, the machine sits on the small refrigerator next to the desk. He forgot since he didn't plan to make coffee. The maid or someone probably set a times before he checked in. Sleepy now, he relaxed into the bedcovers. He told himself 'fifteen more minutes' as he closed his eyes.
     The coffeemaker disguised the sound of hundreds if not thousands of tiny feet marching across the room. In a matter of seconds they will reach their prey. A skeletal arm and hand extend out from under the bed and tries to beat a warning against the floor. Hollow bones on carpet aren't loud enough, nor quick enough.
     When the maid arrives later in the morning, the mans' bags and clothes remain as he left them. She changes the towels and vacuums a path from the door to the bed. She leaves without discovering or disturbing the guests under the bed.

The Watcher, Part One

    Harold Sandman hates motel rooms. Work forces him to stay in a lot of them. Motels make being a travelling salesman possible. Nothing recommends this one in the New Mexican desert over any of the other rooms this week. He settles his sample case on the floor below the window and hangs his two-suiter on the rod serving as a closet. He pushes a wide strap off his the shoulder bag.causing the bag containing changes of underwear and socks, a pair of jeans, a couple of polo shirts, a pull-over sweater, and his toiletries to land near his feet. Sandman doesn't open either of the bags of clothing to unpack and put away. Bugs. He doesn't want to risk bugs getting into his clothes, spreading plague and waiting to bite him. Instead, Harold strips off his travel clothes and fold them neatly into a cotton laundry bag he always carries with him which he places in an outside zippered compartment on the shoulder bag and takes a shower.
     Afterwards, he removes a pair of jeans and one of the shirts to dress for his search for a decent meal. He is meticulous in closing and re-locking the bag. He picks up his room key from the little desk common to every motel room and heads for the requisite coffee shop frequented by road-weary travelers.
     After his meal, he returns to his room to review his appointment schedule for the next day. He takes off his clothes with the same care he put them on, folds them and seals them back in the shoulder bag. He props himself against the headboard bolted to the wall, reviews his paperwork, returns the papers to the briefcase and the briefcase to the little writing desk no full grown adult can sit at and use. Again, he makes himself comfortable on the bed and channel surfs the television until he can't keep his eyes open. He turns out the light and fall asleep on top of the covers where he presumes no bedbugs can survive the air conditioning.
     Sometime during the pre-dawn hours Harold Sandman is startled awake with the awareness someone is watching him sleep

The White Van

     Grey morning rain and sleet coated the streets. The chilled air is a great motivator to walk quickly. The timer on the signal light showed twenty-three seconds remaining to cross the four lanes of the boulevard. I knew I could make it, but a voice said 'Wait.' Twenty seconds remaining. I could still make it. Again, the voice said, 'Wait.' I decided I would cross the side street instead of the boulevard when the light changed and cross the boulevard at the next block. And then it happened.
     A white van sped up the hill from the river far too fast. The driver slid into a left turn, coming to a stop inches from a man who was standing on the corner. The driver of the van was only second away from pinning the man against a light pole. Ten seconds remained on the clock.
     While I stood watching the seconds click away, the van didn't move, nor did the man who stood on the corner. All activity suspended for those remaining seconds before the signal light changed.
     Ten seconds from not making it to work yesterday. Nine. Eight. Seven. Whoever spoke to me saved me.

MISTER R Opening Scenes

FADE IN:

EXT. DIMLY LIT NEW YORK STREET. WAREHOUSES AND CLOSED

SHOPS.

A young blonde woman looks nervous and scared as she

hurries along a sidewalk. Every few steps she glances back

to see who is following her. Her heels click on the

pavement so she stops to remove her shoes. She looks behind

her once more and screams. A black shadow overtakes her.

She is next seen laying on her back on the pavement as she

tries to fight off a dark figure in silhouette. Something

glints in the streetlight. The young woman screams louder.

EXT. SAME URBAN STREET WHERE THE YOUNG WOMAN

COLLAPSED.PORTABLE FLOOD LIGHTS ALLOW US TO SEE POLICE CARS

AND AN AMBULANCE ARE ON THE SCENE.

A body on a gurney is loaded into the back of the

ambulance. Sebastian Stephens is talking to a young

detective identified as Nolte by the I.D. badge hanging

from his neck. An older man slips out of an alley wearing a

fedora and a black topcoat with the collar turned up. He

sees the police activity, pulls the brim of his hat down

over his eyes and detours away from the gathering. He

passes a taxidermy shop window filled with birds. A crow is

prominently positioned in the center of the display facing

the street.

EXT. EARLY SUMMER. MIDNIGHT. NEW ORLEANS.

MASSIVE FAST-APPROACHING STORM CLOUDS APPEAR TO BE LEAD BY

A MURDER OF CROWS FLYING PAST IDENTIFIABLE LANDMARKS

STREETS. THE CROWS CONTINUE WEST CIRCLING THE GARDEN

DISTRICT AND LOWER TO THE GARDEN GATE ON THE SIDE OF

SEBASTIAN STEPHENS' HOUSE. THE GATE OPENS ITSELF TO REVEAL

A BEAUTIFUL WELL-KEPT FRENCH STYLE GARDEN. THE LEAD CROW

DESCENDS AND LANDS IN THE SHADOWS NEAR THE HOUSE. A PAIR OF

INCREDIBLE BLUES EYES STARES OUT FROM THE DARKNESS. NO

OTHER FACIAL FEATURES ARE DISCERNIBLE AS THE CROW SURVEYS

THE STEPHENS' GARDEN: THE BACKDROP OF FLOWERS, THE GARDEN

LIGHTS, THE BRICK WALK LEADING THE VIEWER TO THE PATIO AND

FINALLY TO THE SEATED FIGURE OF SEBASTIAN STEPHENS. HE IS

30-ISH, FULL-CUT AUBURN HAIR, HIS FACE IS CONTOURED BY

STUBBLE. HE WEARS A PALE BLUE V-NECK PULLOVER SHIRT OVER

KHAKI PANTS AND SOCKLESS CORDOVAN LOAFERS. HE IS SIPPING A

GLASS OF ICED TEA AND IMPATIENTLY LOOKING AT HIS WATCH.

2.

Mister R steps out of the shadow of the house. He is

dressed completely in black except for pearl grey gloves.

Everything about him shows wear and age.

MISTER R

Mister Stephens? Good evening.

Sebastian stands at attention. Defensive. He and Mister R

size each other up for fight or flight like territorial

animals.

SEBASTIAN

I expected you hours ago. You said

this was an urgent matter, yet

you're late.

MISTER R

My apologies. You were kind to

agree to see me on such short

notice.

SEBASTIAN

You caught me by surprise, sir. Do

you always come around the rear of

a house when you call on people?

MISTER R

I knocked at the front door. There

was no answer. What a magnificent

garden. You have quite a green

thumb, Mister Stephens.

SEBASTIAN

(Holding up his hands for

inspection.) No green thumbs here.

My parents created this. All I do

is water the plants and replace

them as they die. No special

talent.

MISTER R

Still, you keep the magic going.

SEBASTIAN

Magic?

MISTER R

Of course.

The Borrowers

     Where is my knit cap and my gloves? I had everything else I needed to go to work except my knit cap and gloves. I searched everywhere. The closet shelves and floor, under the bed and between the bed and the headboard, the kitchen, the living room, everywhere and they were nowhere to be found. Time was getting late to leave, so I relented and took another less-warm pair of gloves, but that was my only hat.
     My roommate emerged from his room just as I opened the door to leave. I asked him if he had notices my missing items when he came in the night before. He hadn't, but he would help me look again. 'No worries,' I replied. 'I've already done a thorough search. They aren't here.'
     'They have to be somewhere,' my friend replied.
     'The elves must have needed them. They'll bring them back when they're done with them.'
     When I arrived home from work that evening, my gloves and knit cap lay on the foot of my bed.
 

Deliverance

     Perfect posture was considered one of Deliverance Helly's finer characteristics. Now as she walked with her head high and her back straight neighbors mocked her baring saying she appeared about to ascend a throne instead of the pyre. Some said she stuck her nose up as usual, but she would regret her pride soon enough.

     Truth be told Deliverance struggled to maintain a brave face, shaken to her soul by the cruel lies proffered at her trial. These people she grew up with,  shared daily chores, and attended worship at the Congregational Church. Even as she walked to her death she struggled to understand this turn of events.

     Someone spied slight movement of her lips. 'Look! She's calling on her prince to save her!' Another said no, she's praying for forgiveness, but the crowd shouted down this person. Those who brought them raised their Bibles over their heads and called on God's justice. Stripped of her clothes and shoes, Verity stood in only her shift. The executioner pulled her arms around a post behind her and bound her hands with rope. A faggot touched the kindling. Flames and smoke rose to separate her from the view of those gathered to witness and celebrate her execution. Only her upturned countenance remained visible.

    Storm clouds gathered to blot out the morning sun. Lightning ripped open the sky releasing a torrential rain dousing the flames. The rope used to bind Deliverance's hands fell away. She raised her arms over her head and shouted, 'I am saved by the One who loves me, but you shall not escape my revenge. From this day forward you fortunes change. You so quick to judge shall forever be judged and damned. I will dog your heels through the far reaches of time.' The people stood as statues unfazed by rain, paralyzed by the curse. A second flash of lightning broke the spell. They scurried for cover, all except one. Deliverance disappeared.

The Landing

     She landed on something coarse but soft. Hay. A sliver of light slipped through gaps between the boards comprising walls of this strange enclosure. The young English noblewoman raised her hands up to the light. They were not the hands she knew with long, white well-manicured Dresden fingers. These were rough, calloused and almost square. One of them brushed her face. Stubble. 'Am I now a man?' The other hand shot to her throat. 'My necklace.' The red jasper touch piece her governess gave her as a child was gone. Wherever she was the light was too scarce to even reveal the gold chain much less the stone.
     The stone was gone and so was the dress, stockings and heeled shoes she wore. Dungarees, pull-over homespun shirt, and muddy boots replaced them. Something was in a pocket. Thrusting in a hand she pulled out three stones, one of which was her red jasper. The other hand checked the other pocket and pulled out empty. 'Nothing but stones in my pocket. Oh, my God! Is it not bad enough I've become a man? Must I be Irish as well?'
  
 

The Well

     Every morning Mr. Jones would walk a mile down the dirt road, wooden bucket in hand, from his cottage to the well for his daily water. Neighbors who saw him thought him crazy to walk such a long way to a well long dry, and never miss a day no less. No one ever bothered to watch for his return with his bucket brimming with water.

     One day one of the neighbors did bother  and asked if he could walk along.

     'Suit yourself. It isn't my road.'

     The two walked along in silence. When the well came into view, the neighbor ran ahead.

     'I'm going to prove to you this well is dry. Then I want you to show me where you really fetch the water from.'

     That said, he picked up some stones and dropped them into the well. Instead of a splash, the stones landed with a clacked when they landed.

     'See? Now we both know there's nothing down there but dry ground and some stones.'

     Mr. Jones said nothing. He removed a pocket knife from his dungarees, rolled his shirtsleeve and sliced his forearm.

     'What are you doing, man? You are as crazy as everyone says!'

     Mr. Jones paid no attention to his neighbor as he let his blood drop into the well. After a few minutes he tied his kerchief around his wound and lowered his bucket into the well. When he drew it up again, the bucket was filled to the brim with water.

     'I don't believe this! I want to taste this water of yours.'

     Mr. Jones presented his bucket and the other man dipped his cupped hand into it.

     'That's the best water I ever put to my lips! Amazing! We both heard those rocks I tossed in strike the bottom. Yet you have a bucket filled with fresh cool water.'

     Mr. Jones only shook his head and turned to walk back home. The neighbor grabbed his arm.

     'You're not going anywhere until you to tell me how you did this.'

     Again, Mr. Jones shook his head. 'You were hear. You saw everything I did. That's all there is to it. I'm going home now. Come or stay.' Mr. Jones shook his arm free of the other man's grip

and proceeded to walk away.

     The other man returned his attention to the well. 'Jones didn't drop his bucket that far down. I bet I can touch the water,' he thought to himself as he bent over the edge of the well. He couldn't feel any water, so he stretched himself a bit further over the wall of the well. This time when he reached down he lost his balance and fell in.

     Mr. Jones heard the thud of the body hitting the bottom. Without looking he knew the man's fate and smiled as he continued his homeward trek.

     The next day Mr. Jones grabbed his bucket as was his daily ritual and headed down the dirt road. When he was close enough he saw only the pitched roof of the well above the surface of a beautiful pool of clear water.

     'This should get me through the Summer,' he whispered to himself as he dipped his bucket.

 

Dark Moon Harvest

     Midnight. Dark of the moon. A time for planting, they say.

     Fog rises into the cold air like an exhaled breath. I'm out with my sack of seed potatoes and peas. We should have both in time for Easter. Fortunately, the earth is warm and willing so the digging takes little effort. I make mounds for the potatoes and massage the soil over the seeds once they're in. The fog blankets by work. A nearby voice moans.

     'Who's there? Someone there?'

     I hear neither voice nor footstep. I progress to the next mound where I again plant seed potatoes and massage the soil over them. There's that moan again.

     'Are you hurt, whomever you are?'

     No answer. No further moans. I feel the nervous Nell. Foolish to let the dark and the fog play me this way. I tell myself I'll not ever finish if I let my imagination stop me every two minutes. I move to the next spot. 

     I pack the soil into a mound into which I place the seed potatoes and cover them with more soil. I continue to the next and the next in silence.

     'Touch me  as you did before.'

     I straighten my back in my kneeling position. 'What's that? Who's there?'

     'Touch me as you did before.'

     'I don't know what you mean. I haven't touched anyone. Who are you? Where are you?'

     'Rub me like you did and I'll give you more than potatoes.'

     A woman. Out in this at this time of night did not bode well. She must be some sort of witch. I sprang to my feet. The fog was denser at my full height of six feet. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, much less some woman begging me to touch her.

     'Go away, Woman. I have work to do. I'm not interesting in whatever it is you're offering.'

     'I said touch me. Get back down on your knees as you were and massage my mounds some more. I'll give you more in return than you can imagine.'

     Intuition told me to run. Apprehension and the fog forced me to stay. I got down on my knees and proceeded as I was told to do. I gathered the soil into a mound. Planted the seed potatoes and covered them with more soil which I massaged into form.

     'Oh, yes. That's it. I want you.'

     The ground shook under me. I tried to get on my feet to run, but the tremor keep me aground. A chasm opened and I fell in.

     'Now, my darling, it is my turn to return the favor' is the last thing I heard before the earth closed over me.

     Another Dark Moon. I rise from the earth like an exhaled breath. Touch me.



Adam

     Moonless night so dark and deep the stars were concealed. A flash of lightning ripped and penetrated. Rolling thunder moaned in pain then pleasure. He slid out of the channel created by the lightning to unfathomable depths below. As he descended tissue formed and bone gave it shape. He grew eyes and opened them just as he landed in the sea. Waves carried him to shore and presented him on a white sand beach. He lay for a while on the beach, his back relaxed on the white sand feeling  gentle ocean waves caressing his body.

     The present moment was all there was. The past whispered no secrets to him about where he had been before he arrived here. No future beckoned him to plan or fret. He stood and walked a short distance into a jungle, uninhibited and unaware of self or time.

Shameless Appeal For Mister R

Here's a link to my project submission to Amazon Studios, MISTER R.

Please take a look. Write a review, even if only a line or two. I can only learn from whatever you may feel about the work. I appreciate your willingness to allow me to entertain you a little.

Thank you for your support.

Best,
Mdan

http://studios.amazon.com/projects/65549

The Back Porch

1782

     "What are you doing? Spot, I told you to stay away from there. Go on now. Go catch yourself a rabbit or something if you're hungry."

1882

     "That's not for you. Go on, now, Ringo. Look at you with blood all over your face. People will think you've gone mad."

1992

     "Dammit, Patches. How did you get back here?  I thought I hooked that screen-door. That meat has to last us a while. Drop that now."
     Patches looks at her master, wags her tail, but she doesn't drop her quarry.
     Patches, I mean it now. Drop that.
     Patches drops her prize on the plank floor of porch and sits looking up at the man.

    " Good girl, Patches."

     Her tail still wagging, she bows her head. She takes a quick lick of the fingers she had nibbled as her reward.

Manhattan Spirit Guides

     Wind plays dry leaves hanging on the dry oak trees like Chumash turtle rattles 

as he walked along the bank of the Hudson River. Flotsam caught in cross-current 

formed the ripples of spirit canoes. Early winter limits food sources as wildlife 

holes up in their dens. The village depends on its band of hunters for survival. 

Squirrels rustle in the dead dry leaves on the ground looking for fallen nuts. The hiker

turns to look, but the squirrel disappeared without making another sound.

     The hiker pulls his hat down to cover his ears and his coat

up tighter around his neck as he surveys the woods around him. The occasional crackling

of almost frozen earth and the turtle rattles in the trees keep his eyes sharp.

     A firm grip on his shoulder pulls him into the underbrush. The branches arch

into a low canopy providing a place out of the wind to sit a few minutes and

get a little warm before continuing on his journey. He relaxes. An arrow whirs

near his ear and pins a rabbit to the ground a few feet away. Before he can get

on his feet again, the rabbit and the arrow vanished. The sound of the

turtle rattle fades in the distance. He is warm enough to continue on his way

to the car park at the beginning of the trail. 

     A wolf howls and others join in. On impulse the man also howls in reply. A good howl seemed like the polite thing to do.

A Christmas Ghost

     A doorknob turned. The front door opened. The old wood floor creaked moments after I settled into bed and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. Creaking footfalls led to the other bedroom and that door opened and closed.
     My roommate was on his way to Europe for the holidays. He and I possessed the only keys, yet he sound of the front door opening was preceded by the click of a key in the locks. I lay still and listened. Minutes after the other door, the one to my roommate's bedroom, opened and closed it opened once again. Once again the floor creaked with footsteps. This time the footsteps paused outside my own door.
     Silence and curiosity overtook me and I got out of bed. I clasped the doorknob. I listened. I sensed someone waiting on the other side of the door. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
     The other door once again opened and a hooded black silhouette emerged into the hall. the door closed behind it. I stood agape. Whoever this was, he was searching for my roommate.
     There were no lights on in the apartment, so the blackness of the entity was indeed a deeper black than night. Ignoring me, the ghost proceeded down the hall to the front door. Outhouse stench trailed this being. No, the odor was worse than an outhouse. Death, slaughter mixed in. Rotted meat with maggots I once discovered in an abandoned refrigerator dumped on the side of a country road sprang to mind. I held my breath and observed the being as it passed through the front door.
     The noxious odor left with the being and was replaced with the smell of a Spring garden. I returned to my bed wide-eyed by the scene I witnessed. I couldn't help but to wonder why this entity was looking for my friend.