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.