Archive for December, 2012

By Detective Maggie Maise

A thriller sure to excite more than Steven King getting ready to levitate you to a small, and hauntingly quaint little apartment just outside of the town limits of Pocahontus near that pub where that person named Red Neck Woman used to wait tables and singYou walked down there to the Black Owl night, from The Last House on the Left, shortly after leaving the Blue Moon in Elkhart, Illinois, to visit your friend who lived about one floor above the small town tavern there.  An original Hallowed Eve story strongly written by your night of The Walking Dead author, the audience screams with sheer and graphic horror when the young man, found with several solid silver bullets still In The Dark of the Night and sunk perfectly to the depths of his innocent brain do not explain the exact number of the thirteen proceeding stab wounds. You say you only showed the murderers where to find him. But new evidence located by the young new efficient sheriff approximately this twelve years later, secretly considers you a man posing as a loving husband as the very first suspect of the crime. Everyone around the scene of one hidden creep’s infamous scandal only show up to make occasional nasty faces, as the zombie townspeople do nothing to unload the evidence behind the Cold Case to the local city sheriff. For years, the skeletal old timers, once young, now hide out. You know you dare not maim yet another. Everything is perfect until the Holy Ghost tells all.

Some hope for this terrifying and boring life to pass by quickly while others just sit at the kitchen table staring at the prop of a lime green flowered and peeling wallpaper until the sweet madness of your complete insanity leaks the liquid of the truth to you at the crime scene now turned the pungeant odor of your overly scrubbed linoleum floor. For the first time since the crime got done, you now know that Big Brother and someone named Them now watches your every move. Unable to make even a phonecall to stop the one who you think gave them the final and yet stronger new evidence – You wonder how they ever located the relative informant of the dead ghost. You cringe with the horror of it all. Did the body guard leak the information or is it yet hidden forever in the graveyard of his dead loved one he murdered. With no avenue to hurt that person, even if you try to hire a hit-man on your secret cell-phone or telephone line to suppress the new evidence, you know it’s tapped. You can’t even get into your car and drive all cool and low key like and have a secret conversation, since it’s no secret anymore.

They’re listening to everything you say. For the first time since it happened, you are finally trapped forever. Your mind, sliced wide open feels like the Chain Saw Massacre and Dreams In The Witch House all rolled into one. If only the voices of your good conscience would just stop and let you live your own dark life. And while going after the one with The Knowing forever unfeasible – You know the fear you feared all of your short haunted life has finally come upon you. Huge beads of sweat pour down your face, and your hand reaches out of a perceived grave begging for mercy. Are you in The Twilight Zone? Perhaps the authorities you threatened the poor and innocent others with for years finally reported you and had you bugged. The dumb and the stupid overstay the stay with you. The smart get out early and fast. But still, it’s all so terrifying. Everything now is happening so Fast And Furious. It’s almost as if  The Hills Have Eyes. As you stand Shocked, the tables now turn on you. This is nothing like your boyhood days when mummy tucked you in at the morning light and read you to sleep for the day from your favorite story book, Tales From The Crypt. Your only choice? Sheer madness of terror strikes you like lightening. One of you checks your pantyhose. Just as you feared. A runner. A distant scream is heard. The other one clutches his heart. That’s right.  It’s the big one. It all feels so creepy and Psycho. You, the ever clever murderer must now leave the next state over you ran to, adopt a child and try to look domestic like while you the simulataneous and spontaneous Illinois fugitive use the prop of a Highway OO, Missouri family farm, you run for your your life, and then hide out.

A new horror soap opera, soon to suck the very blood of local worms everywhere as fishing season country style all over Charmington seems to erupt from cryptic vaults and mausoleums everywhere. The farm estate of these very Dark Shadows during an equinox of The Season of the Witch and As The Cauldron Turns stars a beautiful new ghost of a you, and a nightmare of a spooky series premiers on the eve of Halloween. Mixing the last Pot of Bubbling Brew, I thought about my old dead ex-husband and how I often prayed, I mean chanted at the Voo Doo Temple, about how I wished to God he would’ve gone out on that farm and shot up some black gold. Remember the Beverly Hillbillies? Well that’s Texas talk for oil. Poor old Jed without a dime to his name goes out on the family farm too rocky for planting food to grow – And shooting at I think a squirrel as he hopefully had enough sense not to shoot at a pole cat or a skunk, and hopefully this time not me or you. Although when thick, rich black oil began bubbling up out of the ground, the family became millionaires overnight. They decided to move to Beverly Hills and leave Charmington, Missouri to find some frightfully fun people like Vincent Price, Alfred Hitchcock and you.

Our story opens up with a depth of field (close-up camera pan) on the real criminal behind the murder towel drying himself after a nice shower in a shoddy hotel room on the dark side of town. Running free for years – He seems to live a fairly normal life. Conjuring up more lies than the local town wants, the man poses (Insert high-pitched scream) as a loving, family man (Additional scream). He goes to Wal-Mart and McDonald’s. (Scream double-hard) He even takes an occasional break to wrestle with his sister’s kid and stepbrother’s kids who he gives affectionate little nick-names like, “Children of the Corn.” She makes devilled eggs while he goes fishing at Wolf Creek or the local resevoir named Fangoria: Our Perpetual Lady of the Lake Drowning. The haunted water hole reminiscent of the woman he once murdered and a man who drowned there as well, walks the grounds perpetually saying over and over and over, “I’ll never eat at Wendy’s again.” This makes the young fugitive homesick. For Hell. As a dark and ominous cloud settles over the lake, he considers the day of his own birth . (Insert nasty scream with bogus sounds of New Years Eve fireworks here). This of course, is the most terrifying part of the story to imagine of all of the facts. Although possibly too cowardly to take their own lives, the friends who know (Insert every wicked Satanic scream ever recorded on tape here), and hope and pray no one ever finds out his dirty little secret. And As The Stomach Turns, the particular hit-man who did the hit is no square.  After each hit, he turns on his portable boom box and dances a dance to Michael Jackson’s Thriller.  Be they family or be they fee-fi-fo-fum, though, they did not get away with this one mocks the holy ghost.

One night the whole family decides to eat dinner at the local haunted house. Their own home. After finishing the meal, they drive out of the driveway, and wave goodbye to the demon pig levitating outside the window in midair as usual, and proceed to ride out to an old farm afterwards to enjoy a Rubidee Road of a time going on a hayride and hotdog roast (Insert long and ghostly scream) in Greenville, Illinois. You choose to dress up as the famous singer of the Rocky Horry Picture Show: Meatloaf.  She counteracts by dressing up as Lizzie Borden and threatens to make perfect slices of you with an axe. The refrigerator opens and out comes the ketchup.  Everything is fine until she tells you she’s been spending her days while you slaved away at nothing much on the farm all day while others did all of your work for you, hanging out at a place called Terror Firmer. You wonder what kind of a person names an aerobic health and exercise club Terror Firmer. At least name it something like Behind The Mask and offer a double promotion and a set of extra-large hair curlers to every woman brave enough to show herself in public with no make-up on. (gasp). You remember trying to visit your father and your other relatives at the local graveyard last week and wonder why protestors showed up with bare feet, and wearing overalls and sporting pitchforks and holding a huge gold crucifix they stole from the next graveyard over, and with signs that said “Die You Zombie Bastard!” Such boldness of gross clarity frightened Edward, Mr. Scissorhands who working the graveyard shift presented his business card to the ghastly crowd and invited them to return at the morning hour, at a more convenient time for a time of visitation to more properly greet the Dawn of the Dead. 

Your father you reason did not mean to murder that man. He was only trying to get some money to buy a farm at Green Acres. Or was it at Greenville, Illinois? Besides, he’s dead and you got to keep the cash. Another day. Another murder. What the heck. You know that some dumb pastor at a church somewhere prays for you not to get caught. That extra thousand dollars meant so much to him. As you smile, a set of side fangs showing encourages you that you may just find a way to Take Back The Night yet. You pray hard for Satan to keep God from performing The Last Exorcism on you. The Last Horror Movie watched you find yourself sucking down innocent blood. You and your wife both smiled crookedly and discussed how it was The Worst Horror Movie Ever Made. Glad you Madeoff with so much dirty money though you think unoticed, sometimes you feel like a One-Eyed Monster from a Horror Show. That time you got so excited, you did not know whether to Let Me Out, Put Me In, Keep Them Out or Let Me In.

Do you want to know the final conclusion of our story? How I hate to leave you up in the air and only guessing at the final fate of our young dark-haired fugitive. But to this date, only a few Burnt Offerings serve to investigate the truth about the devious witchcraft of this Chainsaw Massacre, and while his Serial Smiley Face seems to cover over the facts of the Dommer story, do not let our star, precious little Jason fool you. Sometimes Guilty Hearts come to a place where they’re tired of running. One dark morning, when this life is over the young man who starred in tonight’s Hollywood Slasher Cinema might finally fess up to all of his crimes. In the meantime, beware The Flight to Tangier. Run from the Interview With A Vampire. Be a Mercenary. As me Irish grandpa always said, “Lassie, I look forward to the next Bloody Reunion!” And his son, The Name of a Rose and I both agreed.

Because I Could Not Stop For Death (712)

By Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility – We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses’ Heads Were toward Eternity –

“In a letter to Abiah Root, Dickinson once asked, “Does not Eternity appear dreadful to you…I often get thinking of it and it seems so dark to me that I almost wish there was no Eternity. To think that we must forever live and never cease to be. It seems as if Death which all so dread because it launches us upon an unknown world would be a relief to so endless a state of existense.””

“Poetry used by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Ralph W. Franklin ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.”  ~ Borrowed From The Academy of American Poets

 Willfull Sin:

Hebrews 10:26-29 26For if we sinne wilfully after that we haue receiued the knowledge of the trueth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for sinnes,27But a certaine fearefull looking for of iudgement, and fiery indignation, which shall deuoure the aduersaries.28Hee that despised Moses Lawe, died without mercy, vnder two or three witnesses.29Of how much sorer punishment suppose ye, shall hee be thought worthy, who hath troden vnder foote þe Sonne of God, and hath counted the blood of the couenant wherwith he was sanctified, an vnholy thing, and hath done despite vnto the spirit of grace?   1611 King James Bible

~ A prosperous Hanukkah and a very Happy New Year to all of my readers.  Please do not drink and drive. If you must, bring taxi money and call a cab.  If not, perhaps a hurst may suffice. As Dylan Thomas once wrote,”Do not go gentle into that good night.”~Julie

From the faux Irish pub revolution.

From the faux Irish pub revolution.

By Tess Doberville

Once upon a very dark time, as you will remember in our last The Black Day Angel fairy horror tale, our handsome male heroine, Lonnie who with his strangely Indian looks and demeanor, of the Black Irish ~ meaning of the early Spanish conquistadors who had came to Ireland in the earlier centuries and took Irish brides as their own, now faces a different mystery.  As we left off in Part I. of our story, Lonnie who had gone to a graveyard that he seemed as if to stumble upon, after drinking a rather large bottle of premium Irish whiskey, in the entirety of the thing, guzzled this down nonstop and very drunk sobers at the ghost of his own dead and presumed forever lost father.

Staring at the ghost who with extended hand misted and at once seemed to welcome Lonnie as opposed to life, to enter the land of the grave beyond with him, the guardian Dark Angel, whose full purpose a heaven elsewhere known, smiled only slightly.  She extended her two arms before her and lowed, her hands with palms upturned, outstretched.  Lonnie knew though in his spirit, for a fact that on this very Christmas eve he faced his own real birth father.  Created in his image, the two nearly mirrored eachother.  Lonnie, flesh.  His father, a spirit being gone from the earth, for how long now?

The mystery of his father’s life brought forth so many immediate questions.  Where had he lived while on the earth?  Where had he gone after Lonnie, a newborn baby he had deposited on the orphanage steps?  The rectory had refused all information to him.  And anyway, in those days, nobody kept records, and definitely not accurate records.  The days and years of a birth, most estimated to the closest common denominator.  Only efficient churches  kept records that revealed such things through baptismals and the what not.  However, the important thing was that Lonnie was here and now, and that he was neither dreaming, nor having a nightmare, nor blacked out, as was normally the case.  He wanted to converse with the man, and Dark Angel who seemed ministerial, as if she were pleading, beckoning him to come said nothing.  He stepped forward and as he did, he heard the choruses of many angels singing.  He remembered a sermon during church on Sunday, when he was about eight, of Father giving a sermon that said certainly all of these mysterious things are in the earth.  But that man is neither to commune with or worry about such things. And yet at this time, another ghost he thought of much more than this.

23And when he had sent the multitudes away, he went up into a mountain apart to pray: and when the evening was come, he was there alone. 24But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves: for the wind was contrary.25And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea.26And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear.27But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.28And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.29And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. ~ Standard King James (Pure Cambridge)

What did it all mean?  For here before him was a challenge.  What had he done?  Had he said or done wicked things to hurt others while drunk?  Did he even remember all of his behavior?  Of course, he remembered the old addage:  What you say, and what you are while drunk is who and what you really are deep down inside.  The alcohol does that, you know.  It is an emotional painkiller, used mostly for anesthesia and colds during wars and by well-meaning old Irish grandmothers for medicine. But more than that, the hard liquor was the greatest uninhibitor. What was never meant to be forever, Lonnie had made forever.  To deaden the pain of the loss of his family.  An orphan all of his life, and even up until now in his adult life, he felt constantly abandoned and alone.  The terror of the loss of the only woman he ever really and truly loved to a deep, dark grave compounded matters profusely.  He had questions.  And not only did he know God.  He was very close to God.  Not ever a mean, cruel or violent being, the gentle Lonnie had hurt no one while drunk.  He only saddened and sorrowed so greatly at times, not so much about a God who did not care.  But more, about the people whose hearts God placed heavy burdens on to care, but who sat in darkness while proclaiming to a world who really needed something that they had the light when they did not.

It was almost like the people who did not really have the light saw one who did, and instead of considering the cost, only saw on the surface of what they wanted from it.  Like a she wolf who had long since cast away her mate, she ran after the old slab of meat embreasted amidst a mound of snow and chomped her greedy bit down upon him.  Not because she wanted him. But only to keep the real sheep from having him, from dining of him first.  Just as greed is an animal and not a true and deep spirit instinct, the wise ewe stood back and hid safely in the woods, allowing her to perform the silly act.  After all, the female sheep had seen the Indian hunters come earlier and place a knife up inside of the dead wolf in order to capture a live animal ~ Who once she had eaten away all of the dead flesh, in her desperation realized after it was too late after she hurriedly chomping the bit of a sharp upright knife blade, now fatally bled to death.

The lesson, even Lonnie knew as plain as day is day, and night is night.  The eye is a trickster, and only by a denial of the flesh and what the flesh both holds and desires and wants may the spirit within you arise.  And he did want to quit drinking this way.  Although, true, the alcohol did make you feel better and worry less at the time.  But it was bad medication.  The viscious side effects sometimes included a quiet desperation no human heart could reach past to comfort him.  Head aches aspirin would not cure only spurred the heartache that returned stronger with each following sober day, whose problems only seemed to mount greater as opposed to ease or suffice.  And contrary to the popular tin tray and paper magazine and billboard ads of these pre-prohibition days, the booze decreased instead of heightened male sexual pleasure.  After all, what did his deceased Christian girlfriend ever miss out on.  She did not believe in sex before marriage, and he was glad about that ~  For certainly because of his secret and declining physical condition, that was the one thing he did manage to provide her with.

So, this his moment of truth shined brightly. Or as in this case, darkly.  A lonely night alone standing wet and soaking and smelling like Kilbeggan, pure Irish whiskey, to coin a pun, no this was not his idea of a very Christmas night.  The Larry O’Rourke pub, his most precious Dublin toasting place, he often felt the spirit of the young Joyce who once was there before his trists in Trieste, Paris and Zurich.  The writer would be proud of his success, and yet even Lonnie had no idea the man would die at the prime of his creativity.  Lonnie additionally did not know that God himself had actually destined him for a long and blessed prolific life.

Lonnie breathed deeply and walked forward.  And contrary to Father O’Mallie’s teaching, he listened.  For truly, he had already destined himself to talk to the ghost.  “Lonnie,” illumined the spirit who spoke as if wind, and he felt his father’s emotions.  It was the strangest thing.  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. They buried me while I thought of God.  Standing at the place of the battle, as a soldier in the American war one moment, and I considered I might die.  And then I did.”  Lonnie knew the rest of the story by some kind of strange and heartfelt telepathy.  Of course, he knew right away.  His father was thinking of accepting Jesus Christ as his lord and savior.  He had drug it out.  Trudged what seemed a thousand miles through German wasteland only to delay.  And just as the moment of decision came, he never had a chance.  The enemy knew that his only chance required for him to move forward quickly and remove the person suddenly.  The dirty deed done, who would know that the person never even had a chance to stand up and speak his piece.

But the limbo that many said did not exist, did.  Of course, it did not exist the way many thought.  It was temporary limbo, set up until the time that people throughout the earth would crawl out of graves everywhere to find the master of light.  Lonnie thought of the way his girlfriend brought him a tree last year.  She had cut it herself, and dragging it behind her brought it into the house.  She found him passed out on the kitchen floor, and threw away the empty bottles.  She pulled him to the bedroom and bathed him the way she had heard her mother tell her that good Samaritan story over and over and over.  As a child, she had this kind of a strength all along.  So it was nothing to chop up vegetables and put a large pot of home made soup on the stove.  While he slept smelling like soap and powder, his cotton pajamas smelled gently of the delicate lavender she placed in the wash.  And just like her own grandma before her, she washed the clothes by hand and set them near the radiator.

Her own grandma had actually only had a kitchen cook stove do this.  But still, the grand daughter liked this modern way.  It just seemed more free and easy.  That was what she was, he thought.  Free and easy.  He had even called her that once, and meaning it in a wrong and bad way, now felt as if he had wounded himself instead of her.  She was not harsh and self-centered and demanding like other women.  Over controlling women and her did not get along.  Love does not demand it’s own way.  But so now he stood where she must have gone, except he slowly reasoned, she actually must have gone up and not down. He reached out his hand to the father ghost standing before him, as if to say, “My name is Lonnie.”  But the man only said, “Lonnie, I love you.”  And suddenly, Lonnie knew that all of his life that this very thing that he an orphan, long abandoned could not ever understand was an actual thing of existence.  She had given him lots of this actual love.

A strange and mysterious feeling washed over him.  A good and not a ghostly feeling.  For truly, this must be love.  That his Christian girlfriend who had died had laid down her life for him suddenly became clear.  Before she had died, she had held his face in her hands and told him that he should cry.  A lot.  For God would store every tear in a bottle and give it back to him in the form of crystal water rivers to bend and cup his hands around and drink from someday.  By now, she was drifting off to that place.  She begged him not to hold onto her, as if to say, “Let go of my ankles.  If you do not let go, I cannot go up to that lovely place I now see.”  She told him of the land she now saw.  It was filled with so much beauty, and glistening ponds and cattle and birds above and tender dancing trees whose leaves rattled with song wind.  So much rolling farmland that everything she ever lost diminished in an instant. And in her eyes, he saw that she wanted him to live forever and not perish too.

“I will not make the mistake of denying God,” Lonnie said to his father ghost, and then glanced slightly at The Dark Angel.  “I will ask Jesus into my heart this instant.”  Someday I want to go where she, my Julia went.  It is the only way I will ever find her again.  “I do not know if we will ever be together,” his father said.  “I made so many mistakes in life.  Even now, I am waiting for the heavens to decide.”  By this, he meant God.  After all, you have to understand, the Irish way of thinking and speaking is different than the English.  It is a matter of dialect.  “But nevertheless, it is the age old matter that is being decided,” surprisingly spoke The Dark Angel.  Her voice sounded like crystal on a cloud, and she hesitated, for she did not hurry.

Of course, he knew this in the spirit place of his heart.  Everyone wondered whether those who went into a coma and wanted to go to heaven had the ability to make this decision with the heart of the spirit, speechless.  Right now, Lonnie felt speechless.  Such a thing as he had not ever felt before all of his life came over him.  The elation, nirvana, so precious and so innocent and yet so pristine.  He prayed to stay in this all of his life.  Suddenly nothing else mattered.  Suddenly the very atmosphere of the graveyard, of all places had turned out to be after all, a very Christmas night.

¶ For God so loued þe world, that he gaue his only begotten Sonne: that whosoeuer beleeueth in him, should not perish, but haue euerlasting life.

John 3:16  (1611 King James Bible)

To be continued…


By Tess Doberville

Dark Boy whose long black hair flowed down around from a tree dead, all tangled up thought calmly to himself.  He viewed himself at the age of four and remembered how he commanded his entire household in Spleenville.  He wondered with a great marvel at his own unfounded hatred against an innocent dead man’s wife, of whom he had thrown off of the farm ~ Even now, he lived in her very own home with her own grandchild, the blue-eyed blond girl. Indeed, he had so hated his father, and Slidell’s second little wife.  He spent months plotting and planning to obtain the money of every relative and her farm home upon his father’s death.  His father dropped dead on the spot he now stood on.  Landing on top of a macho-man sized pile of sweet grainfed cow manure.  Stealing the brown sludge, his body soaked up the odorous stuff. Dark Boy promised himself the hard working companion would be lucky if she escaped with a cheap thousand-dollar auto.  He laughed cunningly to himself, remembering the time he had prayed to the holy pentagram at the center of Charmington, Missouri and the door got tore clean off the white car while backed out of the little carport awning.  The exact same spot where Lapsy Dog got shot to death.  There were other auto accidents he prayed this way to happen too; but fortunately all of those individuals, although some cars totalled, lived.

The boy who viewed himself as very handsome flaired out his nostrils with anger at everything that did not go his way, felt no shame concerning any violent crime he committed.  This was no mystery.  Spoiled, his mother always made sure he had the most collections of  hotwheels out of every boy who resided at the helm of the fanciest neighborhoods she hustled her unknowing, now dead husband to buy houses in: While his last wife and her five children, whose home they now lived in, lived on the streets homeless with all of those children.  Even as a young child, Smaddam, pushed around and bullied along with his sister, who used the weight of her rude, demeaning and bad behavior, despite nothing but the finest in each and every material lavishment to push around, bully and punch on every classmate they ever attended school with.  This was talked about all the to Bedwardsville.  Later, when they moved to the small town of Charmington, Missouri the reputation the family had as a bully family reigned as if throughout the world.  But likely only the states of Illinois and Missouri. As the two became teenagers, even a few of the rookie police sat in dark, lonely bedrooms and wept to themselves late at night. Cowardice lawmen, who once feared the wrath of the mother.  The children, if you could call them that ran crack labs larger than those of any Illinois adult from Kentucky to Arkansas.  Every teenager who complained found themselves beat to death, and dead and thrown up against the side of a shed down a country road by the green abandoned, lime green watermelon colored lean-to house on Shu-bee-dew Road in Illinois. “Ya’ll better not come messin’ around with me,” grunted the deep-voiced other relative of Smaddam, Tron fAllen. Shortly after, he dissapeared into his male (Hell) cave, and started thinking up some more evil to do.

His brother, once a Spleenville cop had beaten a man half to death and left him for dead just because he looked at him the wrong way.  To this day, that man is a vegetable, and not as in cucumber. Most of the other cops in Spleenville, without any real strong backbone made Barney Fife look like a Greek God.  Too terrified to do their job and clean up the mess , the cops kissed the back ends of fAllen and Smaddam while Smaddam and his sister boldly knocked both indefensible kids at school and adults alike around like yesterday’s filthy trash.  Most families got sick of it and vacated Spleenville for Bedwardsville.  Then Smaddam began to chase them down in Bedwardsville where Smaddam sometimes attended church with his seemingly mousy wife, pretending to read the word, while only using people to benefit himself and while arming himself with secret treachery ~ He used the woman preacher’s son-in-law to gain financial and otherwise evil leveredge while, as it seemed Pastor Smandy of Greater Boring (Glory Gone) Church, believed his every lie. He fooled and tricked everyone while never telling anyone how kind the blond haired and blue eyed woman had been to him.  Het got angrier by the second as he thought about how she had shown him the kindness of Jesus.  Truly, he would get even with her the most for that, and try to make her look otherwise.  He decided to steal everything she ever loved and treasured, and especially all that his father owned.  There his rooted evil festered and grew like a moldy casserole someone cooked, but left in their fridge for three years, along with that filthy block of green white cheese too.  And still, not many later attended a sodomizing gangster’s funeral.

“But “Absalom’s heart was wicked, and ungrateful, and cruel. He formed a plan to take the throne and the kingdom away from his father, David, and to make himself King in David’s place. He began by living in great state, as if he were already a king, with a royal chariot, and horses, and fifty men to run before him. Then too, he would rise early in the morning, and stand at the gate of the king’s palace, and meet those who came to the king for any cause. He would speak to each man, and find what was the purpose of his coming; and he would say: “Your cause is good and right, but the king will not hear you; and he will not allow any other man to hear you in his place. O that I were made a judge! then I would see that right was done, and that every man received his due!” And when any man bowed down before Absalom as the king’s son, he would reach out his hand, and lift him up, and kiss him as his friend. Thus Absalom won the hearts of all whom he met, from every part of the land, until very many wished that he was king instead of David, his father. For David no longer led the army in war, nor did he sit as judge, nor did he go among the people; but lived apart in his palace, scarcely knowing what was being done in the land.”

Speaking of Dark Boy who stood around and scratched himself deliciously, he closed his eyes and breathed of the fresh farm air deeply.  One-hundred miles of Charmington, Missouri farm road lay outside the farm.  And he had taken it all by folly.  Slick as wet.  However, the sweet young girl, the mother of the baby girl who Smaddam falsely claimed as sister, Sistina had nicknamed her baby girl, Spicy. “Smaddam! Ohhh Smaddam!” His father used to call him forth as a boy.  “You got Feryl out there working on the farm like a dog for you. You got more Matchbox collections than any boy in the universe.  You get to lay around the house with your sister and mother and eat all day and make all sorts of crafts, like cloth door and Christmas wall wreaths with your mama all night long.  And you dress new and fine all the time with $200 designer jeans. And spending Feryl’s money while keeping him in rags.  Feryl lives in a deep dark dungeon of the basement eating table scraps from the black trashcan we put down there.  And you eat filet-mignon and other such sorts of delicacies while sitting at the helm of the upper dining room next to me. What more could you steal, I mean fill your decrepit, selfish and greedy, I mean your lovely life with? You sell drugs on the side to all of the Spleenville teenagers, and you said you do that for even at times you smashed the windows out of some cars for backpay. You have grown up to be a whoppin’ cheap shot of an asshole,” said his father proudly.

Smaddam, who spoke well and who once fooled everyone easily twitched not even one slight inch as he hung from the three-hundred year old tree.  On the lookout for Santa Clause, he had his bow and arrow cocked, ready to shoot the man down.  The tree once gave cover to the good little woman prophet, a fourth wife who  taught the children to watch for and admire (but never shoot the deer), as she tried a hand as mother seer to Smaddam.  Smaddam who had his own greedy, selfish ideas about life listened not to the woman, but decided to go his own way.  And yes, he had those ideas too.  But she firmly and wisely denied him.  Plowing her down at every hand, he lighted up his eyes with a skinny beam of centralized lazer glare and sent the two beady messages to her through the sub-conscience world.  He called this Satan, God.

At the tender age of four, Smaddam’s head began to swell largely.  As a young teenager, he walked through tenement walls and school halls and flashed his evil from where he walked.  And not even the teachers realized that Satan himself lived large in the evil boy who lurked just yards away. Perhaps he only imagined the grey-white movement. He began to twitch more and madly with the excitement of taking out Santa.  Dancing for the first time a lovely dance, for the first of it’s brief cruel life, the spirit of the thing actually looked soft, warm, kind and lovely for once.  Did it smile sincerely instead of politically?  Not possible.  For certainly, the father’s instruction for mean treatment of others paid off in the curse the dark white boy had incurred. A white horse, given by the good meth lab family who got busted and unlike Dark Boy repented, ran across the field in front of the newest evil stepfather looking for the baby girl of the woman grandmother with the short blonde hair.  This had been the real mother of the new baby, (Sistina’s)  horse.  The old aunt of Smaddam, who had her skinny crooked nose and spindly, unkind heart to match in everybodies’ business but her own, also felt a great and unfounded jealousy for the prophet woman who fed the horse and  who also fed the first little blond girl, Sistina, a child with spiritual things so supple and trim it made even the evil Dark Boy cry with a great and green envy at church services.  Holy, Hallelujah all of the angels sang!  Smadam’s favorite Christmas song, and one he loved so much he sang this to himself all year long, I Believe In A Thing Called Feed The Holly, Jolly Flesh Or Bust (Sung To The Tune Of  ‘I Believe In The Old Rugged Cross’): 

I believe in a thing called feed the holly, jolly flesh

I believe whatever the cost

And when the true Christian I find

And I take all his children

The land is next mine

For I’m really the devil’s hind.


I believe in once saved, always saved,

For I believe I do no wrong

And loathe the day this comes to an end

I pray my evil will grant me a Hell,

Where I can at last praise my sin.


One day, the horse who appeared at the window while she saw him as she washed dishes, had broken out of the corral.  As free as a white dove, he glided across the fields with hooves and legs no longer battling the imprisonment of the secret evil of the farm.  Two-hundred and fifty acres of Charmington family secrets.  The good woman, who once lived there, she helped build along the shanty farm house underground sewer system with nothing but a ditch-witch and her own slave labor to offer.  She and little ten-year old Sistina ~ Of the three corrupt preachers who abided Satan’s deep sin and godless evil at the helm of the three corrupt churches, once practically the whole entire county seat of St. Asses County of once sweet Charmington, Missouri. Pastor Chucky, who always had a quick smile and an even quicker lie, but with no backbone sat and watched the corruption of the other two preachers like watching a movie.  He once sold insurance for a living,  for the same company that Shark’s big brother once scammed a scam in he thinks the 50’s, where they talked a forty-year old woman into faking her death.  Then they put up a false tombstone in the city of Redericktown and she moved to St. Louis and everyone in the family collected the insurance money and began building churches.  “Well, with that information, I’m lucky I’m still alive, “said the young hoosier man who once attended Christian D.O.A. (Dead On Arrival) Reformed Church of Charmington, Missouri across the street from the state fair combination race track.  “What do you mean by that?” Asked the woman, a stock employee of Stall-Mart Stores, Inc., the feature combination grocery store and department store of all of Charmington. Smaddam thought of how much he truly loved himself. Twitching severally, he also watched a prophesy which meant nothing to him now that he thought about every relative he had hoodwinked, tricked and fooled to get this baby and this farm.   Depression and darkness, as a dungeon, his mind thrice possessed, but not of holiness expungiated through the trees.  Tiny deer shivered and her rabbits ran for cover.  Would she ever appear to claim the farm again?  Somehow the evil ones knew she would.

Jeremiah 12:3 But thou, O LORD, knowest me: thou hast seen me, and tried mine heart toward thee: pull them out like sheep for the slaughter, and prepare them for the day of slaughter.

“The secret’s in the swamp.  The secret’s in the cow swamp,” whispered the ghosts.  Buried at the bottom of the cow swamp lay a waterproof tight green safe with thousands of dollars.  (Walk eight feet out.  Dig about ten feet down). A local resident thought he had read about that somewhere.  But where?  And how would he ever remember?  Not the brightest star on the family Christmas tree, Dark Boy’s best friend from Spleenville seemed a combination of a clinical L.S.D experiment and too many years of anti cross-breeding, and although his family came from Illinois, the smart prophet girl’s family knew of their evil too close up.  Wrong superstitions were meant to be broken and while it was true that she came to save and not to destroy, the evil Smaddam had throughly tricked the owners of the family farm who he also plotted to someday secretly try to trick and destroy.  What you do evil to others first, he quoted from his Satan Bible, they can never therefore in turn do to you. “Moooo!” Protested one of the five-hundred rustled cows.  The beautiful young blonde woman who once lived here loved them though.  She kneeled on the poly-sealed wood porch and prayed often for God to block the protagonist meat-load farmers from coming to make hamburger out of them at the butcher, and eat them for lunch.  They fought like good men looking for good women to go back out to the pasture when the tricksters came.  They did not want the perfunctory marriages of the death enemy.

A tree convulses however as the dark boy provided no white oil like the sweet woman who cried until God’s good olive oil flowed down the twin branches.  And as if to say, “I am the way and the goodness and the light and the life,” the tree although repulsed by the unwelcome charge of dark boy Smaddam hanging there, lit up her eyes as the woman once lit up her eyes for her.  And if imagination runs dark, imagination filled it’s streams and rivers and gullies with no trepidation of loveliness when that woman lived here. Now the Smaddam boy’s cruel wife hangs by him and with every inch of her rebellious strands of white hair, she too sought to wipe out the Santa Clause.  She perched mid-air where the barn once was, hangs as an unfairly skilled second-hand gangster, a proverbial Bonnie & Clyde who produce the fruit of death by association of Dark Boy, Smaddam.  No laundry spins out of the rickety washer where the older good girl, blonde-headed prophet woman once risked her life to spin empty instant coffee jars in the washer in the winter, and washed her clothes on the stiff rocks at the bottom of the hill where Smaddam now hangs, he once crafty with a bow and arrow.  Certain smells now arose up from the once sweet creek.  For betrayal followed by the stench of a once-promised tragedy finally punished him as foreboding as the black snake who hangs from the tree there and opens his mouth wide as if to crow like a chicken.  He simply hisses at the dark boy. Smaddam thinking the dark snake his friend fell hook, line and sinker for that.  After all, the snake promised him life for his hanging.  But instead, Smaddam’s belly and his guts threaten like a Judas to spill into the creek fouling up the girl’s once life-refreshing healing waters with the defilement of bad blood from the bad seed that comes to at least one of every child of certain lines of heredity.

9¶ And Absalom met the seruants of Dauid; and Absalom rode vpon a mule, and the mule went vnder the thicke boughs of a great Oke, and his head caught hold of the Oke, and hee was taken vp betweene the heauen and the earth, and the mule that was vnder him, went away.

2 Samuel Chapter 18  (1611 Bible)

She, the prophet woman gets on her buffalo and rides down the middle of the gravel and dirt filled road to the gate the angel only guards for her alone, and always ever and never for them did. The road once all dirt, Smaddam alone filled his belly with the empty gravel, and now chews sour grapes with a gasped open mouth.  And as the bright woman now eats and laughs and loves and lives elsewhere, the dead carcass on the tree knows the truth.  She who homesteaded the ghosts of the land knows the day will one day come for her good return. In the meantime, she knows that he who prays for he who prays against her, only prays against himself.  That the voo-doo of a million years, the slaves and the plantation owner of the 1700’s Indigo and tobacco farm want vindication for the girl, and for the land at the helm. This is no mystery.

Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right. Honour thy father and mother, (which is the first commandement with promise,)That it may bee well with thee, and thou maiest liue long on the earth.

Ephesians 6:1-3  (1611 King James Bible)

The police report sent out over the Charmington and Fonne Terre circuits on more than one night,  said things about those who died throughout the land of causes both personal and natural to their individual human nature, like, “Do you think he had time to commit his sick soul to Jesus?” For example, once the authorities left after safely and carefully scraping the smashed blood, guts and brains of the unsuspecting criminal from off of the pavement outside. A single white snot rag of surrender sweet, decorates the road there after the wrecking crew’s departure. An unseen angel wrapped itself around the gate, only looking on for what truly he must now finish to carry out.  He thought of the girl who once lived here tenderly and carefully.  He promised himself he would go to her now, and bring her back for a visit someday. Together they would walk the length of the creek ~ She and with Slickery and Sistina singing and skipping and dancing and tracing cow-made paths all the way ~  No longer the acres of the land ugly with the defilement and lies of the Dark Boy who lives there now.  Coming to the dip of the river, after sunning at the storm made sand beach, the three (the real mother, daughter, and grandaughter) made a dive into the creek near where black snack lived. And heaven on earth had finally come.  For them and them alone, black snake purified the holy spot and spread out with the unseen red blood of the Christ figure swam until the late sun fell deep upon soft summer trees.

The Black Day Angel

Posted: December 6, 2012 in Fictional Parables

Black-Angel-85641By Julie Griffin

Where did she go?  From whence did she come? And what would she say or write next?  He shuddered at the thought of heading home to a black, dark house.  Thoughts of being all alone haunted him daily.  His best female friend was engaged to be married and the reflection of the thing stared him in the face all of the time.  Frightening to think that he would soon lose her forever.  She was getting married to a normal man. On top of that, his whole life situation was a mystery.

Even a neighbor, a glad survivor of divorce lived a full and happy life.  She joined a book club, enlisted with a dating club, and had even been gardening.  She had a wall of piranhas built right into the living room wall.  And before the necessary reconstruction ~ She designed flowerbeds shaped like piranha which lined the front yard on either side of the walkway leading up to the door. She painted the living room blood red.  She placed a molded Irish crucifix over the fish aquarium to guard them. The glass sheeting that followed, days of plaster and drywall removal mounted up to nothing in consideration of the hours of installation, and finally the transporting of the delightful and active fish.

The visage of the demon who lived in his house whenever he left ~ Marred and ugly, he entered the room.  He strolled through his living room as he had always done for 365 days out of the year. He walked past the enclosed indoor pool.  It was the middle of the depression, and yet the aspiring actor had work.  He wrote.  Plays.  Short stories.  And even the occasional love letter to a debutante’ for a wealthy courting gentleman here and thereFor these he got top dollar.  Fifty bucks a shot.  After all, preppy Dublin college boys knew everything about how to hold your gin martini and make a bully investment.  That and holding the stiff upper lip.  But nothing about real love and romance or pumping gas and baling hay, or how to carry your liquor after you drank a lot and still speak right to others.  To write flowery dissertations that spoke to the heart, was Lannie’s pleasure. Besides, this during a time when entire families lost their homes and lived on the streets starving to death.

The mystery of the invisible woman, so much on his mind, but some days the past romance lingered so on his mind as well.  True, he was a horrifying detective.  He never even guessed she was sick. And so, it was that she had died, and even though she had lingered for awhile, this was now forever. Working two jobs just to make it and then the nervous breakdown.  He hoped that wherever she was now that she was happy. How did she manage to go to this heaven he thought to himself?  But it was true.  Everything shut down.  No trace left.  He stared down at the box he held.  She had left without her present.

Acts 6:1-7 “The Hellenists, foreign Jews, complained against the Hebrews, Palestinian Jews, “… because their widows were neglected in the daily distribution.” A neglected widow means neglected children without a husband/father to depend on. Jewish women, as many women in developing countries today, received no inheritance and were therefore totally dependent upon their husbands.” [Portion for Orphans]

The demon darkened his door, and he told the man that daily he darkened the church of diligence.  He truly wanted to believe the trait a form of faithful religion.  The demon often prepared huge feasts in the middle of the night and left the dirty dishes for the man.  The man would wake up at times to find saucers thick with fried eggs and hot sauce, jar enchiladas and baked steak, half eaten baked potatoes (double butter and sour cream) spread out evenly over  the shiny white tile countertops.  Each tile came from Spain and took at least several years to finish. While he neglected details and facts, the demon did not.

Baked.  Polished.  Painted.  The man began to gain weight.  But he had lost a lot of weight over the past few years.  The stress of the economy.  The race to stay young and fit and spry.  He needed to eat. So, he actually began to look good again.  He worried about his image constantly, which drove him to drink liquor straight from the bottle.  He remembered the first time.  It was just a glass or two with ice water and a lemon and a lime to relieve the stress.  He slept like a child that first time. Then he added a green olive. It was all over after that. One day he looked down at the olive and noticed that the green flesh shone.  The light hit the marvelous vegetable and after a certain angle, he thought of the way the original tender plant curved and  hung on foreign trees.  The thing was life.  It was actually incredibly amazing.  Someone or something had to of created this.  It did not just form.  It did not just make itself.  He considered the ways.  There was not one time in his life when he had ever seen anything, let alone a tree just appear out of nothing.  That would be a miracle.  Those kinds of things were saved for Jesus Christ.

The dark man came.  Chilly thing, that.  The banshee held no candle to the being.  It reminded Lannie of the hours he had spent in the orphanage as a child.  No one wanted an older boy, and fortunately, he was more fair as a grown man than the plain boy he once knew.  The cold inner moors of the damp orphanage frightened Lannie, who remembered hiding under the stairs while muffling his little sobs.  He hid other things too.  A toy he got from the Christmas drop-off.  Chocolate.  A letter from a fellow orphan who left.  A tiny used lion made of soft felt fur and a real fur mane dyed rusty gold and only about five inches high.  This he placed in the mouse crack in his closet.  But they kept moving him around to different rooms, as older children kept coming into the orphanage left and right lately.  He had always been the oldest before this as long as he could remember.  He thought of people who desired to love tender and round new babies, creatures with rosy cheeks and priviledged smiles, he knew nothing of.  No one wants a plain boy, let alone an old boy he thought to himself.  And as he watched as if a movie, knickered legs curled up under a white and starched suspendered shirt, he saw smug families before lovely open chimney fires rocking newborns next to an Irish wolfhound curled up at the feet.

Rí Séamas Bíobla (Cambridge Ed.)
Is é reiligiún Ceimice agus undefiled roimh Dia agus an tAthair seo, Chun cuairt a thabhairt ar fatherless agus baintreacha ina ghalar dúnta, agus a choinneáil unspotted féin as an domhan.    James 1:27

“I think we may have an opening at two, Mr. Murchadh,” stated the receptionist.  His first positive response for a try at his first try at professional play acting ever.  He felt mystified, yet positive.  The Dublin Theatre.  The Old Lady Says No.  He did not know his part yet, and he did not care which part he played.  The important thing was that he got the part when times were tough, and the soup lines long.  Lannie himself had known the sadness of soup lines.  With no known mother or father or family of any kind to fall back upon, he had taken the liquid dol as well as all of the others who had  no family.  It was at the theatre that he first came to life.  It was at the theatre the at first noticed the dark man who stood off to the side flush against the rich, red velvet curtain. Lannie did seem to notice the aura of the man.  His fourtieth consecutive week of the theatre play, he had been working  hard, drinking much and sleeping little.  He needed the barbituates to keep awake.  The liquor to go to sleep.  His life a constant go,  he had no time for reflection.  No time for thinking.

The theatre cleared of all people, and the final gas light turned down, he  followed Lannie home that night padding twenty feet behind him matching his footsteps.  And not a sound he heard.  Since then he always appeared around the home of Lannie, always watching and creeping and looking. He stood in the midst of the swimming pool as fog and full moon poured around him.  Once Lannie felt the rush of a strange and melodic cold permeate as the creature drew near.  But like a ghost, he was mostly felt and rarely seen by Lannie.  And Lannie had his own private fits at the midnight hours.  Fits he never remembered having.

The demon of the dark man did things.  There were a group of people who ran a little church down the way.  A family church.  But like some churches in small towns, the church members all stayed within the group, and shunned everyone else.  Lannie, already a lifelong orphan had known enough shunning to supply a hundred small congregations like these with their ample fill of prejudicial hatred for people not like them.   Lannie, who never fit in anywhere, made his own path in life.  He had had his share of fickle people who say come join us one day, and push you away the next ~ Only to ask you to come again at the convenient time for them.  The dark man appeared at the back of the church one day.  That was all it took.  Several of the entire unsaved congregation, which included about every last doggone one of them, who always put hands over faces and whispered about him when they saw him in town ~  Clutching eachother at the sight of dark man, they knew the fear of God for all of their nasty ways.  Many of the group actually got saved by the real Jesus, as opposed to the religious Jesus that day.  Therefore, they demanded not for people to forgive  them.  And wrote no book trying to use clever public relations to flip their sins around.  But rather fell on bended knee in repentance begging for the mercy and forgiveness of almighty God for themselves and for their own souls.

One time Lannie woke up in the graveyard face down, a soft and sloppy rain pouring down upon him.  He turned his face sideways and kissed the mud.  He who loved his solitude gathered himself up, and while dripping from the brown mud mixed with the oily rain, he saw her.  The angel whose presence of black velvet dust stood as a forboding here.  She stared at Lannie, and the pools of his eyes revealed a great sadness ~ Centuries of time and celte oceans of fisherman long since drowned at the same time.  The dark man, obviously acted as the lone presenter.  The black day angel meant more.  Lannie watched a sheer slip of a ghost come up behind the angel.  The ghost, a man and his father from another place and another time.  And he knew. That fatherless children grow up to live like Lannie.  The man opened his mouth to speak and the veiled substance of his inner being simply hung there.  Lannie felt the spirit of the words the man was saying.  And a thousand years of regret from beyond the grave filled him.  Only a momentary apology.  He knew now his life would change, and that his life had a chance to be good after all.  It was the gesture that meant more than the words.

To Be Continued…

By Tess Doberville

Staring at the hundred foot tall corrider straight ahead, she thought.  It was not that she actually believed she may mount and hurdle up the wall, although she knew no other way to go. She turned her head slightly and stared into the partial hallway of the hooded cult who held her captive.  She gathered her long floor length pentacostal skirt.  Grey.  Again.  So much like the days she lived.  The office held files and long lengthy tables and a few papers on a large desk, long old St. Louis city depression glass windows ~ A sound forum for which an opera might live.  And suddenly it filled her.  A spirit rising higher and higher and higher.

“And when the lamb opened the first seal,  I saw the first horse.  The horseman held a bow.  And when the lamb opened the second seal, I saw the second horse.  The horseman held a sword.  And when the lamb opened the third seal, I saw the third horse. The horseman had a balance.  Now when the lamb opened the fourth seal, I saw the fourth horse.  The horseman was the pest.  The leading horse is white, the second horse is red, the third one is a black, the last one is a green.”  She opened her mouth to sing.  Where had they put her now?  A mental (asylum) institute?  The facto place of higher mental learning and ultimate spiritial meander.

Her voice made an echo throughout the building.  And still no one came.  Unusual.  But the spirit of something still greater broke through the cold and still air of winter on the inside of the other room they sometimes brought her to here.  And she remembered another session where she admitted that he went everywhere with her.  And then one day, he just went away.  Days and hours happened and sometimes she slept by day and stepped out into the streets and walked all night.  Holding her body against the cold, welcoming and comforting concrete of a sea wall, she massaged this with her palms while she listened to the river and dreamed of barges from other times and angels who ate candlelight dinners with a handsome gentleman, while rolling down the dark and welcome river.

Do you hear voices?  Certainly, you hear them too?  “A definite split in personality. Harmless as a fly.”  “Lately, I buy my groceries alone now,” she told them.  Explaining the rooms and the people and the halls here, a little more difficult to navigate now that her imaginary friend had left.

A wet sweat scurried down her temples as she prayed and trembled only slightly.  She held her little friend who by now did not need to describe the heavenly realms her medication had taken her to.  Of course, leaving this world that way, more painful than many even know.  Only since you must return to do it time and time again.  Once she told them about this time she went to although she had some years before that, travelled to a distant future ~ Of another woman’s past long ago and far away.   A dance hall.  The band never showed.  She had no date.  And her solitare suiter that night was engaged to her girlfriend.  Secretly, she told him kindly to just go away.  As she left, her shoe heel stayed behind on the faded swirling banquet carpet there, and everyone else stole away into their own dark night.  The next day, she told the doctor, all of her beautiful blonde hair fell out in August.  The same month of the tragedy of her daughter and her other daughter and her two uncles.  But only from the shoulder down.  It was the strangest thing.  And in this dream of this past, this other woman went to her hairdresser and had the hair cut up even one inch shorter than that.  This had not ever happened in all of her visionary woman’s life. Then a few weeks before that and during and after, dark and strange events began to happen, in all of the places where there had once been light.  It was a mystery as to why.  The month of August and of September is forever to be avoided at all costs she elaborated ~ For it is filled with a full fledged array of a treachery of ungodly curses.

At midnight, she watched the mediterranean blue sky and painted an imaginary oil painting of the Apocolypse of the Four Horsemen on a canvas suspended there.  As she moved to carry the lovely treasure to a place on a wall, they came.  Something about a curfew, and how did she get out anyway.   A protection mechanism overtook her, and she froze and going at a speed faster than light found the hiding place of the soul.  She did not exist for all portentious purposes for many hours.  She watched skies of ochre yellow and felt sad for her arms would not move and she knew she was wasting precious painting hours.  “Schitzophrenic?”  Asked one.  “Not sure,” said the other.  And she heard them.

She did not speak for days.  And when she finally did, she described to them what she saw.  The scroll she explained listed upon the leaves of an ancient scroll some three thousand years perhaps before this  2070 year of the lord of this age, King Ghandi Ghandi, she explained.  She needed to locate King Ghandi Ghandi.  And as visions like colors swarmed before her eyes, she said, she saw this thing they called a holy bible.  These men, and women had once used it for something.  She only knew that there were six seals altogether, seven he once told her the holy golden number of heaven, and one more did exist.   Death, famine, war and conquest she told him.  Though it tarries, watch for it, it waits.  The man I am to leave with, he will be here soon she warned him.  “The sky will come here.”  She reached out her arms and flapping her wings as a mighty, vast bird, she showed him.  She pulled a glass jar from out of behind her back.  His eyebrows rose.  Where did she get that? He thought, looking at her strangely.

All of our tears,” she promised him, the tears of the saints, who he, her imaginary friend whose hand holding hers as they walked through parks and woods and stores, whose person she missed painfully ~ “Are stored up in these jars like glass, and when we get to this place all the winged ones often showed me, the trembling and the pain, it will shatter and as the glass like water breaks, will shower us with sheathing rains of love.  It will rain for one thousand days and one thousand nights, I think the book they read to me in my dream, showed me.  It will wash the earth away.  And the man named Noah will turn into a woman, and reign forever and forever and forever.  Well, the facts may not exactly be right.  But it is difficult to remember everything they wrote in that book, when you awake up from a dream in the sani-masoleum.”

Although he trepidated, still the doctor listened, and very late for a date with his techno-helmet, he would miss his daily dose of virtual water, food, entertainment and sex in that order.  “Then I saw the lamb open one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures say with a voice like thunder, “Come!” “I looked and there was a white horse.  The horseman on it had a bow.  A crown was given to him.  And he went out as a victor to conquer.”

6And I beheld, and loe, in the middest of the Throne, and of the foure beastes, and in the midst of the Elders stood a Lambe as it had beene slaine, hauing seuen hornes and seuen eyes, which are the seuen Spirits of God, sent foorth into all the earth.

[1611 King James Bible]

A man named John had once walked through the heavenly door, and although it seemed no one had time to climb into the virtual reader and let it speak to the brain though these days.  With everyone who operated at the level of a constant busy rush, the nation of the beings she knew who had all of her life always lived out there, knew about doors.  The light that came to the ones who had much, who could travel and buy and go wherever they wanted though did not seem to appreciate this at all.  Her gift, therefore to go many places while not ever leaving that place, she understood how this one opened a door within a door.  To the king of the throne, how bold and beautiful his light, and as it increased as the winged ones sang.  So hard to believe, but so necessary the need.  Everything cascaded to the sevens.  And they sang:

Soon the Lamb will take his bride to be ever at his side.  All the host of heaven will assembled be.  O, ’twill be a glorious sight, all the saints in spotless white.  And with Jesus they will feast eternally. “Come and dine,” the Master calleth, “come and dine”:  You may feast at Jesus’ table all the time.  He who fed the multitudes, turned water into wine, to the hungry calleth now, “come and dine.”  To the hungry calleth now, “come and dine.”

Well, the doctor shrugged, and then went out.  These crazy ones, he muttered to himself.  It was a good thing they moved them all to these institutions during the years of 2020.  It made the streets safer for public sex night, he figured.  After all, how could everyone drink and brawl and parade down the streets nude in comfort with these nuts on the loose.  It would be so convicting, and yet a strange kind of a guilt overode him, and one thing for sure was, he could not stop thinking about this funny little thing called love.  What was it?  Eight sessions ago.  And she begged him for some of the forbidden stuff.  Canvas and oil paint and brushes.  What was she going to do with that stuff?  Was machino rec time not enough?  Besides, he could get fired for bringing in that stuff.  It was outlawed years ago, right along with women actually being allowed to carry their babies to full term, let alone keep them and raise them themselves.  It was if she had asked for a shot of whiskey and some cherry chew.  He grimaced.

Nevertheless, he had found some of the things in his great grandmother’s farm attic.  He grimaced again.  When they had such nasty places.  He thought of the fatal germs that had wiped out a couple of billion of the joined world order around our globe of the holy darwinian sepulchre about twenty years ago.   Besides, he was curious to see this image she wanted to make for him, of a great earthquake that practically ripped around the entire globe, a thing thousands fell into, and slipping down slopes too slippery to cling to, she claimed she heard their tormenting and screaming and defiling cries for help for hours.  And when she looked down once the dust had settled, saw many slung against walls and crushed vehemently, their empty guts spilling out and sentenced to a place called Hell forever and forever and forever.  Fascinating little girl, he thought although Sybil was a woman.

It is too bad they had outlawed books some time ago.  And plays and live human actors, as the great computer machines only used the images of them now and sprayed them on the city halls and New York walls.  Hello darkness my old friend.  Back in her little room, she pushed her palm up against the foamy paddy walls.  The living things made breathing noises, and like a safe mother womb, comforted her all around, and even though no one really fell asleep naturally anymore, she did not know that.  She rolled back the little railing in the floor though and thanked mother breath for befriending her.  At midnight, she would escape again.  And with just enough time to dance on the plaza of the old building before they came to lock her away again as they had done every day of her life since they put her here at the age of twelve. Once a place they called a palace ~ Now these worldwide palaces, which made way for the five world kings housed and kept inside people like her everywhere.  Her feet bare, and the long dark skirt she so loathed, danced anyway and as rain began to pour as if from the midnight moon ~ She danced as barefoot as a lion in a midsummer night dream, while she clutched her strange black book named only Holy Bible and sang the song the angels taught her, When I Danced Liked David Danced.