Archive for the ‘Fictional Parables’ Category


By Tess Doberville

Maggie stared out of the window of her tiny apartment. Her long blond hair rested around her hips. Someone from that church was praying against her in witchcraft again. Claiming to be a mature adult, or at least only looking like it on the outside, someone from that church was praying against her in witchcraft again, she told the flowerbox of daisies on the ledge, a second time. One year this past August signified the anniversary of whoever prayed a bundle of witchcraft against her all at once. And you might fool some of the people some of the time. But this was uncalled for. She was living in peace and minding her own business. Isn’t this what they wanted? For her to go away. To just kind of dissapear into the cracks of the walls. Or take a dive into the chilly Mississippi. Imagined standing on the ledge of the bridge with her arms out and the seven foot wingspan, like a giant dove. She closed her eyes and thought about what it would be like to fly. She obeyed. So leave her alone. All of you. What seems to be the problem? They will reap what they sow.

Just like God found a way to tell Kate Winslet through Leonardo in the final scene of Titanic that she would not only die old in a warm bed, but more than live to see the day when God sent her someone, Maggie remembered going to watch the film. The real one does exist. Maggie thought of who her one would be. He would brush her long blond hair for her just as her grandfather had done for their wife and his father before him.  It took one whole year to grow her glory back. The more she thought about it, it really was her glory. Maggie sat on the perfectly made single bed in her living room and closed her eyes. She felt and it was good to feel what God gave her. Even sad. After all, the cruel books of her husband from the other church said to shut down your emotions and die. But she knew how they used it. They used it to oppress people and take their lives over. For when Paul said to die to self, he meant that to minister to the sheep of God, thought Maggie. And for she knew her relatives ever filled with his warm love always had a flock of sheep around.They did not have to beg. Presence of love drew humble sheep. Loud noises ran them away.  That is why that if she could write the final scene to Titanic, the two star crossed lovers would have survived and floated back to Ireland and married. They would have lived in a newly thatched cottage on the sea.

It was very sad to write death into the final scene for DiCaprio surmised Maggie wisely as she glanced at her black antique typewriter with typed on papers everywhere all over her table.  Like a face down game of fish, even the ones who attempted this past year to bully an already crushed and broken person born of a sick desire to attempt to use her own enemies to crush her must know that even like they say, you reap what you sow.  And so they might. So she just as well might just wait and watch and while praying they did no more evil, take less time to analyze, and more time to wait upon God to outlast that other shallow badness. They will reap what they sow.

Until that week, Maggie thought her life had just started to fall into place. She had routine. She was just starting to slowly reach out and trust. And then suddenly right in the middle of walking on sunshine, the avalanche came. She tried to push the door closed, but soon tired of that and collapsed. After that week, though she fought as hard as she knew how, she felt punished for a crime she knew for certain she was not the perpetrator of ~ On top of it, asthma, she was healed of at the age of eighteen, returned. Shortness of breath. For the first time in years she realized how very tired she was. Her best friend from high school announced he was gay.  He would need her help to come out of the closet.  And she barely had time for herself during that late August summer.  It was at the same function that the fiance’ of her other best friend said he would put the wedding off if only for her.  Shocked, she wanted to slap him.  But patiently held back and like a mother or a sister counseled him back to health. She stood for photos with another friend’s husband who stood for photos with everybody.  He felt as comfortable in public as he did alone. This is strange.

After that there was the sudden hair situation. It is very true what Jim Morrison said. People are cold when you are a stranger. In short, people take your good prayers. They drink you down. Surprised, she slowly turned and looked and saw herself in the glass of the red lacquer wall mirror that had been hers and hers alone this past year. An old friend gone shortly, now to reappear. And they, like greedy and careless vampires on a cold winter night, sit back and watch you die as if it were the Sunday afternoon footballer game. Making shallow puns and asides you do not find funny and do not have the strength to laugh at. Do they not know, you are more about Handel’s Messiah and a whole lot less about standup comedy.  And that the tragedy you write about is  a good despair of an even greater melancholy and dissapointment that you feel almost all of the time.  Sad, that this is what God has put in his pulpit to care for the sheep, you whisper to the mirror afraid that God will hear you say it and make them pay vastly for their secret infidelity to him and him alone.  Not for her and certainly, they the energy sucking emotionless, have no heart. They could not care less about anything but one thing. Morning. Noon. And night. Eat. Sleep. And laugh.  And more like chuckle themselves to death.  I guess and besides, thought the mellowed, and no more the crisp and prompt Maggie, it is so much easier to make an excuse when it is your turn to have the problem you know you prayed in against a gentle one, alone.  Legion. They will reap what they sow.

They love to put up the barricade of, well God is developing your faith or you need to give us some money or not wanting to be confrontive of your enemies although you defended them from theirs. They say, God is just developing you as they head for the shopping mall or McDonald’s for a cone. No he is not. It is what it is. An ancient excuse, she spent at least seven years on the farm believing that one thought Maggie. And now that she is in the city, even more private silence finally figured out that no one was ever coming to get her negatives at any time. They did not then.  They are not now.  People are comfortable to live lives of the kind of nonconformity called conservative. And yet this is only a great rebellion for the covering of a broader blanket of resistance to any art of change they may draw up late at night.  In the secret precipice of the creative gallery of the mind, only one direction knowledgeably exists.  You have to cross the river to get east to the other side.

Yet she only had the strength to think about holding the nirvana inside and giving life a wait. At the very same time, two horrifying situations that came against both of her daughters and her son; her father, her sister, and all in the final week of August, one year ago from August 2012. And no thanks to I’m reading everything you write, and I’m right on top of it with my magnifying glass, thank you very much.  She thought about her critics, and often wondered if they had even completed the fourth grade, let alone the fifth.  For certainly, most did not act an age past ten.

“And from my basement platform, I’m calling down the hordes of hell against you,” you threaten. ” But I ask you,” Maggie speaks shyly and quietly, ever so softly to the sheriff devils above. And since that week someone, somewhere had been calling down the hoards of hell against her daily. “No need.” She was already so deep down in it by then, the light necessary to process even peaceful joy from out of the deep seemed dim at best. At least here was the precious thought world.  She did not even have a milidot of the capacity to process it. One man did this to her for eight years, a rabid King Saul who pursued her daily.  He then died suddenly, all of life concluded one day. It was the first day in eight years she had a peaceful day. That day. “For anyone to oppress a David on the farm or anywhere,” the macroputer spoke freely in a gentle male voice, “Is nothing to wear a badge of honor over, secret or otherwise.” She stared at her computer, grateful for the subtle revelation she at times found this way.  They will reap what they sow.

The second alien imposter, not at all of her Irish family clan of prior times, her bulbous old husband, died of natural causes after a little over ten years of such behavior. He too seemed as blind to the art of giving apologies as the other rude rogues. His arrogance waxed high in the heavens. His boasting more so. “I am the fifth generation of Farmington preachers,” her old husband bellowed as she watched him lie, hoard and commit nasty deeds too criminal to mention. “Well, I could not even begin to compete with that she said. No preachers in my family. Just my mom who got saved before she ever started first grade when Jesus appeared to her in the middle of the woods of the high mountains of Tennessee and conveyed his love to ‘Little Engin’ and her affectionate town nickname at the time.

That’s all. And her Grandpa Emmet of Watervalley, Mississippi who got delivered from severe alcoholism and found Jesus while alone and spent the rest of his life being gentle and kind and telling the rest of us about the real love of the flow. The head Irish Whiskey runner over all of the other whiskey runner go boys of Yallobusha County. Well,” she guessed that wasn’t much. And then there was the Indian grandpa who smoked five packs of non-filter camels a day, he proudly rolled himself and a fifth pint of whiskey from the time he was eleven until he died young at the age of nearly eighty, which is very young for a mountain person to die, the good air and all. Everyone attributed his early illness to the fact that he smoked non-filter cigarettes all of his life. Then he accepted Jesus Christ on his deathbed and all twelve something of the children, one adopted, another one they adopted after he just showed up on the doorstep one day, and all of the sisters still tell of how the light of the heavenly presence filled the room and everyone saw the angels come for him.

Well, but I guess my old husband is right,” she thought to herself  whispering in her head, and only dreamed of writing all that down someday.  Very sad that she did not have more to say about her family being preachers and all. Yes, almost all of the people in her family were saved from things that should probably not be discussed with anybody at all. He was right. It was such a shame to discuss such things. Besides, she had always secretly loved to listen to the stories of all of the many adventures her two grandpas had had before. The grandma would call out from the kitchen for them not to tell all of the stories, to let me talk too. But it was like I told Grandpa. “The fireplace is warm. And I live overseas the rest of the time.  I am little, and I am lonely.  But I want to be alone when I do, and besides to only see him once every four years.  The last time Maggie went, why she thought when she was twelve. They did not sit that year for him to get him started, and make him talk for five hours straight or more.

He had a new electric guitar with a wa wa and he was sitting up in the attic on the third floor writing songs. Fresh back from Vietnam, her cousin Ronnie who now measured life slow pounded floor boards. He never talked to anyone anymore. Maggie loved her family. They were good people who had loved many strangers. She remembered her parents driving down the Pennsylvania Turnpike in a snowstorm and stopping to pick up a private home on leave going to his folks on the farm for Thanksgiving. They taught her things like that. The folks of the young military man invited Maggie and her family to come inside. His mother must have had over fourty-two plates and bowls including leftover dishes on the table. They all sat in the quiet of low indoor farmhouse light on hundred year old handmade wood chairs and scooped homemade strawberry ice cream from shining ceramic bowls. The people were loving. Her parents taught her openess to meet new people. She knew that once, and had almost started again. You will reap what you sowed.

One cousin delivered from drug abuse and filled with Jesus in the time it takes to blink an eye. But again, he was right, her husband. None of his black man hating preacher cousins or back to the first of the fifth generation had ever allowed a black person into their home, let alone their church. They were a family that kept it clean, her old husband’s family. And the friend that was with her cousin at the time was a black person who also got instantly saved and delivered from all desire for drugs forever. “Yes, her husband was right. Only a small handfull of her family lived as men of the cloth.” Surely she would take his advise. For she had to. “You will stay away from your family,” he said. Because that deliverance minister at the church who wore marine khaki and never set foot in a war, let alone with his camoulage hunt. He said his family was better. They only thought they were better. She prayed for God to give her a family next time that just was. Better yet, a man that was an adult and who could navigate like a man. On his own. The holy good fifth generation preacher was a wife beater who unfortunately did not fall asleep when he drank what he had hid out in the cow milk barn. But instead, got meaner. “And God he was right. Wasn’t he?” Maggie thought about her family. She loved them. They were life. But he said they were bad.  And that his family is lily white. You reap what you sow.

A lot of people in her family, a lot had been saved straight up out of sorrow, and to walk a holy happy life all of their days, they loved to reflect a joyful light. Gee, nothing like a f-i-f-t-h  g-e-n-e-r-a-t-i-o-n Farmington, Missouri preacher.  Whose mandate, cold, and with no love. How was this life?  Her sinful family and almost all of her relatives who loved eachother, so much so that most of Maggie and her cousins grew up through the years, “For all of us to feel close no matter where we go in the world,” and they talked about it like that at family reunions. Compared to the fifth generation preacher and his cast of lukewarm drip dries, she rather had to love who and what he condemned as sin by Mormonism. And yet they had a spirit greater, and even more, love. And yet there were the Catholic side of the family of Maggie. She loved them too.

One time, she went into a Catholic church place where the nuns were. She walked over while he was in the package store looking around for something to drink. She would never know how he found her in there sitting in the few back rows of where the nuns were praying and singing. She was praying for one of his dead relatives, who presently lived in a house one town over. “Get your Catholic ass out of here,” he said. Well, she thought she had better do that. However, she had already looked up Catholic in the dictionary, and knew for a fact that it meant universal. And that part of her she had always marked as private, exclusive, and most definitely not universal. Her universal that was safely tucked into her blue jeans. Private, it was hers alone. Was he by any chance trying to insult her? Although his request made no sense, she obeyed it. The lily whites on the other hand, heretofore known as his fifth generation preachers, looked and smelled like bowling alley proach at all times. But that is likely why almost all of the cousins among Maggie’s family preferred to go to the L.D.S.  Did she say a cuss word?  It was either that or the Catholic church. Not one more bad than the other.  But just places to go where you took what was in their heart.  But they coudn’t see that.  They could not even see they were religious.  So how could they see that. The other side was Baptist. Besides, modern Pentacostals are not the real thing. Arrogant, God feels constantly fit to squeeze them every minute. The others got saved one by one. They would all join in groups and pray for the young folk. One day she thought of who was continuously and daily praying against her, and she thought. “I should just get into my car and drive to their house, and tell them to stop. Just stop.” But of course, she would never go there. It was the last place she wanted to go. She was tired. She just wanted the evil to stop. They would reap what they sowed.

And as time went on, it was almost like that bible story she heard in church growing up, about the forming of the original church, after the time when Jesus died.  That and it seemed like God was always adding one more of us to the mix. But, first the perpetrator of Meg’s old husband’s ministry group he left died suddenly one day of sudden natural causes, after eight years of such unbearable and wicked behavior, and complete jealousy of Meg by his side. Little did the man know, he could have had him for a good chicken. And for reasons Meg never did fathom, she heard God say, “Trust me. I would never give your shoes, past or present to anyone on this earth willingly,” she heard that voice say to her. “Although if you are really evil, God may take your power to make that choice away,” remarked the spirit to him. You will reap what you sow.

Therefore, let us kindly proceed with the plot of our story. Also during that final week of August 2012, a man who had never ever even been invited to her home in his life, let alone talk to, a man the age of by now her dead old ex-husband, in his seventies suddenly showed up at her door and asked her out on a date. A man she had not ever even talked to, but who she had only ever talked to his sister some at the store that he owned. A man she had no interest in whatsoever and he was so pushy. Maggie was deep in the depths of her manuscript and trying to do alone what some people got help with. She was so insulted as she saw right through the spirit of the thing. It was all she could do not to cry.  That and be rude to the man.  Because it was the fault of the others and no fault of a one who unknowing just went along with the feel of that currentWhile she needed her strength to finish what she was working on, that same week, and for a grand total of more things happening that week than had happened the three years since she had slowly and quietly walked away from the halls of drama, she had actually been healing from the post traumatic stress disorder. Or at least on the path toward that.To proceed, and finish telling the rest of what happened to her during that week, outside of the memories of the condition of all of those people in her family who got miraculously saved and delivered, and not a one a stiff, cold, intolerable and very religious and a very hateful, do not touch my hair as I do not like that, preacher like her perfect wife beating, cussing, alcoholic and among other things adulterous fifth generation preacher husband.  They will reap what they sow.

So, up to her neck in manuscript and without any answers in the mail for a willing collaborator, she felt overwhelmed. After all, they said it had to be finished that week as well, and what was more, she still did not have all of the factual information she needed. Which meant one extremely inconvenient thing, and one extremely inconvenient thing only. The young lady would have to go back through every last single paragraph of every last single page and begin deleting from a work that was technically complete, hence this. With hours of editing before her. She had hoped to bless someone. She had hoped that for the first time in her life, this part of her life would change. That this would be the end to the endless pattern that she had experienced and known all of her life of people who had let her down despite her faithfulness to them. At the pivotal times, when they were uglier than sin, she had stayed by them. They will reap what they sow.

The world is filled with songs and poems and books about people who are bad and selfish friends, and even cold and apathetic lovers.  Which reminded her, one day her old husband always claimed he was like a father to her. But he also told her all of the time that she did not need Jesus, because he was all the Jesus she would ever need. He did not mean that lovingly. He meant that when he was God.  One time she got a job at a school typing.  The superintendant rang her on the phone.  “Hello, this is God,” he said.  “Yes. Nice to meet you,” she responded back.  For she did not doubt it.  And besides, she knew this, she had never seen a Jesus in her life that acted the way that he did.  He was supposed to be soft, gentle, kind and loving. Not loud, boisterous and jumping around and screaming, and so obsessed with gaining power. Such behavior is actually relative to the medical profile of a serial killer, of which my husband had already received his medical diagnosis. His psychiatrists coddled him and assured him it was due to an unhealthy childhood. How stupid of his psychiatrist. Someone needed to give them some acid free paper to write his medical prescriptions on.

First, her husband was the exacting opposite of her father. And her father had grown up more abused by far than this ego-maniac. But her father was always gentle, kind and good and did not hurt people. Therefore, that dispels the totalitarian blanket hypothesis that all girls marry their father.  And yet why anyone in the world has to have an evil heart is an enigma. It is exactly like the maintenance man who helped her set up her table said as he told her his story. His mother also was a raging alcoholic and ruinously abused all of the children. True, there is a long-lasting rage that is the noted medical diagnosis of every victim of child abuse and incest. But this big old guy was kind by what he called choice. Choice is a lot like love. It is a choice. Everyone in the world can think of lots of people who had a bad childhood who are not out there hurting people.  And what is more, there is something demonic about it or not.  After all, what about the people who are born without conscience? Did the demon get inside when they were still in heaven getting ready to come down? Is it physio-biological? Or are some people just plain evil and they enjoy it? It is likely all of these things rolled up into one.  What they really needed Maggie knew, was that if they did not have anything good to pray for her, and wanted to get out of spiritial work with the lazy man’s excuse, then what they really needed to do was to just leave her alone. If only they knew how tired she was. She could not carry them anymore.  They had carried her a little in the past. And then one day, they had just suddenly walked away. Maggie was tired. In a way for the first time in her life, she had never been tired like this before. Even during the abuse. They would reap what they sowed.

One day she went to the library to see what had happened to her. But first, in order to do this, she had to hide under the back seat of the truck of her husband when he went to town. She pulled the moving blanket over herself and lay there. He went into a place called The Factory, a kind of small town shopping plaza to flirt with women. And quickly she got up and ran into the library and looked up on the computer what was wrong with her. What had the infrastructure of the modern cult church and his religious evil done to her? She looked up the phrase strange movement and instantly, the computer pulled it up as according to Wikipedia Encyclopedia,”The kinetic energy of an object is the energy which it possesses due to its motion.[1] It is defined as the work needed to accelerate a body of a given mass from rest to its stated velocity. Having gained this energy during its acceleration, the body maintains this kinetic energy unless it’s speed changes. The same amount of work is done by the body in decelerating from its current speed to a state of rest.”

Amazing. And then right next to the definition, a picture of a ferris wheel was posted to help illustrate the definition. However, what about the times when it felt more like a roller coaster, or like you were the roller coaster? The owl perched on the top of the curtain rod began to speak to her. “I told you for the second time,” she said. “All of my life I have been good. It’s really not a self-righteous thing. At times, it has been a disturbance to me. If only I could be like those who feel nothing when they take revenge or misconstrue, because they are mean.  And in fact have been so mean all of their lives that they have long since lost the power to know the difference.” The tiny set of red velvet curtains parted to a miniature lawn outside. An army of a hundred Christmas soldiers bowed, and bending as a set of many trees danced she felt, and this more pleasant to the sight. She turned aside and wrinkled her nose at the other veterans of bitter and rancid. But thankfully, they were few and very far away from her. Very far away. She made a mental note. “Someday you will write a book,” stated the coy librarian. She stared straight ahead without speaking. This was how she cheered the librarian up. It took a thousand years of concentration just to get herself into the place she called book heaven. “I wish I owned one,” she accidentally said out loud. Speaking out loud. This was a cult rule violation punishable by two or maybe even three days locked up in the chicken shed. They will reap what they sow.

One time a chicken got stuck back there behind the large meat freezer and died. He didn’t care.  But this was her friend. Horrified she thought about and felt his suffering for days.  She began to hate meat. She hated that he filled the freezer with the old ten year old meat. Who could eat that much meat? Who could eat that old meat?  Gross. It wasn’t her fault. The man on the farm, he was always picking things up and shoving things, and hammering and moving things around. One time he jumped up in the middle of the night and pulled the sheets off fast and hard. She fell out of bed. “It’s time to change the sheets and re-arrange the bedroom,” he said. She never complained or argued. She expressed calm and quiet gratitude for each strange and cruel instruction. At the time, she did not know it was an illusion.

There was that other time she was in the shower. Thank God it was summer, although she had slept in the snow for almost eight hours one winter day. She was hiding. From him. She had, well she does not want to give all of her secrets of survival away. After all, the others in this world, others have their own lessons to learn too.  Half asleep, and even after suddenly wide awake, she survived the screaming and the threats and the demands about not moving the furniture around fast enough by remembering how he demanded she come outside now  one summer day and take the outside pool down. He hated that pool. But she had to come out and do it, he said right now. An elderly woman who lived in a house so old, one of the owner’s slaves had set a hallway on fire to protect himself from her, gave the teenager the money to buy the pool after she spent something like all summer gardening, cutting grass and on the tractor, cooking, cleaning, scrubbing floors, and everything else also as well as chopping enough wood to last the woman her whole winter. He hated that woman. She dismantled the thing carefully and systematically for over an hour.  The sun burned hard. But that felt good. It must run in the blood of a descendant of such a royal heart to work so hard like that, and even if in the void of no supervision. She did wonder who flew overhead in the private plane. But it did not matter. No one ever came to rescue Maggie Maise. Maggie Maise was clearly on her own. She went back inside to put on her long skirt and standard shirt and tennis shoes and put her hair up in a bun and all of the rest of the gear. She had a full body suntan to beat the band.

Evelyn knew what was going on. While others were steamed mad about not getting her for her piano for a church platform, she had more things to worry about than the selfish desires of the youngest preacher in Farmington. The meat of the matter they did not notice. Evelyn knew that something about the man of the woman and the daughter was not right. However, it was good for them to learn of this hate. For they would encounter it in two or three cruel churches. Although elderly and in her nineties and secretly dying from cancer, she as a woman who once worked as a kind minister in the streets of St. Louis before her retirement here to the historical country home and property her husband and she bought for a weekend home for in between trips to California and back, and he now sadly dead ~ She discerned a devil of Satan in the husband man of the speechless wife and child before her. She knew that the behavior of the little girl he dropped off there everyday was not right. And the woman never drove. She only rode. And only the little girl could stay. He never let the woman stay. And the little girl only worked and never talked. The woman only seemed to talk with her eyes. And she seemed far away, somewhere completely different from here. It was almost as if that although she dwelt in the earth, she did not. And that she certainly always dwelt in heaven while on earth. She would go back to that. They would reap what they sowed.

One day the elderly woman, Evelyn, she announced to the man who the little girl was going to stay with her for a weekend. She did not ask. She had dealt with few of his kind ever. But she knew enough to demand and not plead for favor. She put the little girl, actually thirteen by now upstairs in the tiniest little girl room with the original furniture for the period of the dwarfed about 17th century two-story farm home. Everything in the home was scaled down to the size of four-foot two tall people. And everything in the home was a kind of reddish wood and all original. The crooked posted canopy stints which held up a pink flag which rested over the bed gave way to small porcelain dolls and an antique lamp and a even an old jewelry box. And a burned area in the middle of the house, still there from the pre-civil war days where a slave or someone had set fire to the home for protection, and of the house that leaned slightly sideways.

When the little girl came home, she whispered to her mother that she actually ate a bowl of homemade cherry ice cream, and for the first time in about ten years, slept like a log. The mother did not think she herself had slept at all in twelve years. Let alone like a log. Until August rolled around again. And it was then that she just climbed into the bed at the end of September and she slept for one month solid. And then she got up. And saw. It was all still the same. As cold as snow. Lazy Christians everywhere. She had given up hours to pray for them, spending whole nights on ice froze Missouri parking lots and parks and backyards and wherever she could go to do this. She saw unlike the prior, these now complacent simply wanted to take the lazy man’s way out. She realized that for the first time in years, she was just simply out of strength. She saw the cold truth. That she really had not been loved back, and indeed was not loved as she had loved at all.  She was necessary to them for one thing. And one thing only.  She repented for taking a break from the other world. She kneeled and crossed herself.  And then got right back into bed again. She sunk, and for all of the months after, she lost all track of time as most men know it.


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

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. 

By Coldcase Detective, Maggie Maise

Dark Boy wandered down a singular country road on Slain Street.  His ripped and torn three-thousand dollar designer jeans spoke of the teenagers he had helped slaughter.  They hired them to sell drugs for the string of dealers from here to Arkansas.  And then they killed them fast.  With no one to avenge the boys, some of them came from families who did care, some who cared and were too poor to do anything about it ~ And still others, nice boys who got lost in the shuffle of the mean mother who stuck her brat drug using and selling kids out front because she was too mean to punish, and hoped hers would punish innocent and other humble kids for not having served her little bullies best.Dark Boy’s Bleedville, Illinois mother thought she taught him how to do it better.  How he loved to puff up in his red-robin pride when he thought of himself and of all of the evil satanic godlessness he had secretly committed and gotten away with.  But mostly he slithered around Bleedville hanging out in the dark and crusted drug shacks painted farm crackle white and heisting heinous lies for leveredge of later days ~ Or so he thought.  But what he did not know is that the latter days were already here, and the bells had come to toll for him.  As mama taught him, when he opened his mouth to lie, his black tongue dropped down and fell out green and smooth.  Something like a woman’s pre-pregnancy goo, green of color, slithered out of the mean idiot’s slummed-up mouth, because like his mother, when did he tell a lie?  Every time he opened up his mean mouth.As a cold wind hit him, he spoke.  And the white chill of winter got him every time and froze the slime like a thousand years of flem on two lines below his wide, flared nose.  Like the time he made plans to hide the drugs at mama’s house.  Using her house for the pivotal Satan point-of-sell contact, the dark, arrogant then eighteen-year old  outsmarted police by what he bragged to everybody about in  Bleedville, Illinois ~ That he gave free drugs to some people in the area who said they served the local government there.  At least, that’s what he said he and they did.  To keep things quiet for himself.

One could never really know though, could they?   But one thing one could know for sure as a cruel summer day in Bleedville, Illinois and it’s sister towns of  Tebecca, Spleenville, a good place to breed and raise a wicked and corrupt family, Torento, Illinois is long.  He killed his older brother and he did not care.  And neither did his mom.  It was the other woman’s son she sacrificed for hers.  So what the heck.  All was fair in love and war in Bleedville, Spleenville and Torento. Dangling there, the meth tucked in his younger sister’s shirt pockets totalled thousands of dollars.  Hiding on her father’s property, she loved stealing and selling the meager property of his new wife even though she knew he kept her carless, and penniless and never gave her jack, because of the girl’s mom’s own meaness against him.  She examined the tattoo on her body on the back of her neck that matched that of her mother as she hung hiding from the old oak tree like a bat fresh out of Hell.  Soon the cops would be on the way.  She laughed wickedly as she remembered the night she and her boyfriend drove up and sacked all of her dad’s new wive’s only belongings in the army green pick-up truck and sold it for crack. Even the Curtis Mathes Stereo.  The girl knew the woman could prove she bought it in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  That records, paperwork and sales receipts could be traced ~ The greedy girl had no more respect for that than the young man’s life she had ended in a car wreck just to get more crack into her body.  Like her mother, it was all for me.  And none for you. Scoot.  Boot.  And ugly.

No holly, jolly Christmas that.  Dark boy continued walking down the dark road called Slain Street.  This was no rubidue of a plan tonight.  He planned to get some prime cash for selling the life of his older brother to some crooked drug boys to get them out of hock for their lives and greedily and self centered as usual, his.  His brother lived over the bar called The Black Owl.  The father had thrown the good boy out because of the assignment of Dark Boy’s mother.  Life or death.  Bread and butter.  Who cared.  It was all the same.  He bit into a hard snicker bar filled with nuts and let his tongue travel lustily over each and every one.   He thought of his ugly hearted girlfriend, and mumbled to himself about how he was going to trick the nimwit into buying him and his sister some kind of desired material thing next.  He smacked his stomach and broke out into an evil version of the Mr. Bojangle dance, and danced farther on down the black smogged country road.

The town was undergoing a shakedown.  The good governor’s son who wanted to move his good family to the small town of Spleenville and buy a house there, had heard from somebody at the state capitol of Illinois that there was a lot of corruptness going on in the town.  This made the good governor’s son very sad, as his great, great, great, great, great grandmother had bought a piece of property in Spleenville when the French settled the town.  Known for the little hills and vales that once emanated a slice of French countryside, the original Europeans likely did not envision the crack ridden murdertown, or the existential criminal regime under the direction of the dark boy’s mid level illegal drug and teen murder management team.

But unbeknownst to the town, the governor’s son moved another friend’s good son into a job at the local sheriff’s department.  This man, not used to performing an undercurrent of godless evil and flowing in it much like the dark boy’s black hooded late night of the church of the devil meetings.  At Christmas time and otherwise, many of the older and more gentle humble elderly people of the town secretly wished they could roast the dark boy, actually of German European descent, on an open fire.

Christmas eve came quicker than everyone expected.  And during the night that dark boy and his sister usually spent robbing houses and terrorizing the other kids their age at the high school – A thing that caused many of the parents to sell their houses and move to Shedwardsville, not a much better choice.  The land where all of the attorneys charged way too much and did way too little. In any case, though, this was the night that Dark Boy decided to sell his older half brother’s life for a piece of silver.  Giving him the kiss of death earlier that day, he visited him at his little dump of an apartment over the top of the street tavern.  He pretended to invite him to Christmas dinner at his dark hearted mom’s trailer dump for the next day, for a meal of turkey and thick, plump  gravy as dark as cow manure.   Faryl, the older boy said he really just wanted to stay in and rest over the holidays as he’d been working for a double promotion at the construction yard just to get his rent paid.  Faryl told Dark Boy, whose real name was Smaddam, he knew he’d told Smaddam eight months before or more that he was done with drugs.  Aw, said Dark Boy.  “Now you know I got that crack hid in my mom’s kitchen cabinet.”  Flour bin theology tsked Faryl.  “Dark Boy, it’s time to knock it off and get right with God.  You know they’re going to find out your behind the deaths of all of those teenage boys one of these days.”  “But, I have so much hatred in my bones and my veins.  This dark, ugly, angry, violent bitterness my mother put here monitors me every second of my life.  Everything I touch turns to hate.” Dark Boy took off down the stairs.  But not before putting dubs on Faryl’s boots and guitar.  Memories, he knew he’d grab of the boy’s dead carcus and a few of his belongings once his Satan friends got through beating him to death.  He went to meet the murderers,  not even realizing as he drove by in a stolen old dark, cranberry Cadillac the new sheriff who passed him by the road on the other side.  The man, the epitomy of godlight probably shielded in it noticed the dark entourage floating by on the other side, and discerned an immediate evil.

Standing at the edge of Howl Creek off of Demented Road in Torento, Illinois, the dark boy and his two accomplices discussed the night’s business.  “He’s a big boy.  He knows boxing.  He won’t be that easy to haul off,” they complained.  “Naw,” insisted the dark boy.  “Promise, I’ll make it so smooth and easy, the police’ll never know who did what until we have some time to move around and get away.”  “Look,” said Dark Boy.  “Give me the cash for selling you my half brother’s life now, and meet me next to Snalderman Bogie’s house at eight pee m.”  The other slightly darker boy, also a white boy and the son of the town minister and the second-in-line pastor for the local Church of Satan, handed dark boy a sack of cold cash money, filtered with a good stash of freshly made homemade meth, he’d just cooked up in the midst of a group of stinking, nasty pitbulls at Dark Boy’s sister’s house.

The murder plan for the night was all set in order.  One of many that Dark Boy had sold and supervised for the tri-state drug ring.  But this one had one small gliche.  The new sheriff in town.  Walking into the police department of Spleenville,  Sheriff John Dorighty, finally, sniffed a sleeze in the air.  Sneezing out loud, the thing was so powerful he thought the force used properly could blow the windows out of the home of a lying bastard anywhere at any time.  He was right.  He’d just finished casing the sprawling, flat stretching seemingly bored farmfields of the tri-communities when he heard an ambulance go by.  Ambulances in this area didn’t do much save take old people to the grave, and old people round these parts meant 90’s and  100’s for those who lived a good life and usually 60’s or 70’s or sooner for those who didn’t and 19 or 20 or less for those who used meth.

Sheriff Dorighty hurried to the new cop car he’d just got out of.  Thinking it best to check to see who was being rushed and headed fast to the hospital, his intuition told him something.  When he got to the emergency ward, the first he saw on a stretcher with a group of emergency ward crew was a young teenager boy covered in stab wounds.  The crew worked fast to bring him back to life.  Sheriff Dorighty pitched in, rolling up his sleeves and performing C.P.R.  as fast as he could and with everything he had within his soul along with the hospital emergency team!  Sweat pouring down every face, the unconscience red headed boy with a freckled nose showed no signs of life whatsoever.  The color of the Irish looking boy’s white skin drained from every pore of him. Sheriff Dorighty  kneeled down next to the blood filled white bed sheets, and as one drop hit the sharp shining smart, furniture polished white linoleum hospital floor he prayed.  “Dear Jesus, don’t let the boy die, please God, if you’re a real God.”  Weeping profusely, while ripping and tearing at his stiff, starched gray sheriff’s shirt he looked down at the glinting star badge, and remembered his vow to God and to himself years ago. And as one finger reached down to touch a single drop of blood, osmosis met fingertip, all workers looked on.  A single eyelid fluttered open.  And Sheriff Dorighty Finally smacked the floor repeatedly playing a series of Thank the Lord My God patty cakes with open webbed fingers hooked to the gentle surgeon-like white, clean smelling dear, delicate hands.  The chapped, crack lipped boy mumbled something.  “No, no my boy,” hushed the good sheriff gently standing.  He wanted to take him in his arms like a child and caress his sweet, soft red curls.  The two males blinked at eachother with eyes covering dual spirits bred of the original sweet innocence of the bo didney kindness of the Lord God, Jesus Christ himself.  Sheriff Dorighty knew that somehow, someway he had to get to the bottom of this.  Who was killing and trying to kill more teenage boys, and seeming to get away with it all?  He knew right then, he had to find the center nucleus of the dark creature heading up and responsible for all of this.  And little did the dear, good man know that he had just passed him on the cornfield that day while making his rounds.  The presence so dark, that it seemed not even Satan wanted to look his way.

Dorighty asked the Lord God to direct him in wisdom, information and discernment.  And soon it was if the supernatural hand of destiny had reached down and drove him to an overall redemption, encompassing a broad and vast territory of everything he was ever built, birthed and designed for.  Through sovereignity, he downshifted and sped through misty country roads.  Nearly spinning out at a turn, he stopped at a man’s house. It was just a sniffing suspicion, and hoping he wouldn’t get stoked out, Sheriff Dorighty  and this particular man stood on the man’s large over hundred years old front porch whispering back and forth, while he stared at the scuff marks on the porch and watched how dull the long since unshined thing looked.  But it didn’t take long for Dorighty to figure out that a showdown was getting ready to take place.  Dark Boy, or somebody named him or like him.

Dorighty jumped into his sheriff cop car and sped down the road toward the Black Owl.  Skimming past a dirty glass door that said Free Drink’s on Lady’s Night, he didn’t detect anything  out of the unusual.  A sweet, young and kindly girl who exuded the light and purity of a large, southern church simply lit up with sparkles of light blue eyes as her glistening short bouncy hair curls bumped up against her forehead and cheeks.  She smiled sweetly at the sheriff and her energy like to of brought him to his knees, again.  He watched several young men shooting pool.  One short brown-haired guy aimed at the eight ball and called them all home.  And did it.

Dorighty sensing something more than what meets the common eye down here thought of the tenants in the number of small one-room shanty apartment utilities who lived over and atop the Black Owl.  He asked the one bar owner with a bright-lit cigarette hanging out of one side of his mouth if he’d seen any strange action or strange people hanging out at the Owl lately.  Remembering memories, Dorighty saw a man with a little boy propped up at the bar.  The man, with a wad of expensive bills flowing out of his sharply tailored suit coat pocket laughed as the small child chomped big on a fried fish sandwich.

Glad that the little boy could be a partaker of the delicious food and no slave to it’s grease, the man laughed and joked with the bar tender of the old 1930’s or something sooner, scene.  Dorighty woke up from his daydream staring at something, or rather someone dark.  Dark Boy strode through the doors of the Black Owl’s Christmas eve glitter lights.  And suddenly, Sheriff Dorighty knew the reason why he was here at this time.  And at this place.  And at this exact minute. The horror of the moment struck him in the way of a reality.  Dark Boy pulled his black ugly stretch hood over his long waist length black Indian hair – And, where some might try to make him a movie star, Sheriff Dorighty knew better than that. The kid was a menace.  A brat.  Dorighty took a seat at the far end of the bar and ordered a fresh baked fish sandwich with pickles, onions and double tarter.

Dark Boy ordered vodka, straight.  He slugged down several shots in a row before breathing.  And when he did finally breath, a dark cold stream of black smoke like the breath of Satan came out of his mouth.  Dorighty played it cool.  He pretended to have a need to use the men’s room and went there.  He came back.  He munched on his fish sandwich while the secondary bartender joked and chatted with a regular man wearing a Cardinal’s ball cap sitting next to the dark boy.  People laughed and chatted and a fear of shouts went up here and there as the sound of pool balls cracking in the background and the juke box played Jimi Hendrix Purple Hayes, one of the dark boy’s favorite songs.

Dark Boy got up suddenly and started walking toward the hallway of the upstairs apartments.  Sheriff Dorighty stood up slowly and followed.  For a few slow seconds, Dark Boy felt confident.  After all, he’d always gotten away with it all.  They let him.  But this time, for the first time in all of the born days of his short and very spoiled rotten life, the boy turned around sideways.  And what he saw both brought a sudden and trembling terror filled anxiety to his very soul and produced seven identical sweat beads over his top lip.  He speeded up his pace.  One of his lopsided legs tripped and made him fall face down across the stairs.  Nervous, he released a blast of quiet, yet nervous gas.  The smell almost overwhelmed Sheriff Dorighty.  Dorighty held the railing of the peeling paint walled stairway and held on for dear life. Despite the nauseus  smell, he managed to put another foot on the stairs, and keep going.

Dorighty knew he must do it now.  Walking across Dark Boy’s back while Dark Boy howled out bloody murder, Dorighty sped up the stairs toward the bright headed, blue-eyed blonde boy’s little apartment adobe.  Looking down from the top window, he saw two boys like Dark Boy sitting in a large, older classical cranberry red Cadillac.  Dressed in black too, the nasty boys smoked a cigarette apiece and sat quietly in the car, side by side, like two spouses married to Satan for life. He strode down the faded carpet of the hallway, and knew what he must do next.  While fighting God’s redeeming visions like a night time movie of all of the teenage boys before who they’d killed, he knew he must make it to the older brother’s place before they did.  A shuffling in the hallway behind him, and he turned to see Dark Boy pulling his one scraggly leg behind him hand rocking back and forth sideways as he both dragged the leg and then ran and walked.

Dark Boy tackled the sheriff, and he was down.  He began clawing his face and with a look on his face much like his dark dad’s when he beat his new wife to a pulp, Dark Boy burnished a piece of broken soda water bottle glass.  Determined to begin stabbing the sheriff’s face, much the same way some of the teenage boys he’d killed, found on the sides of outer Spleenville sheds and over by Torento, Illinois, Dark Boy raised his hand to get the sherriff good.  His dead carcass doesn’t know to this day how the sheriff slipped like grease from the spirit of his father’s own two wicked arms.

The sheriff made his way to Faryl’s apartment and bursted through the door like a saint ridden angel god.  Sheriff Dorighty turned his face like flint to the heavens and stormed at Faryl telling him to brace his life from danger.  Faryl began immediately digging in a nearby duffle bag.  He threw the sheriff a noosed rope and held two in the bush of his hand for himself.  The two accomplices of Dark Boy stormed into the apartment together, one twin more evil than the other.  They wrapped their arms around Sheriff Dorighty.  Faryl threw out a rope and one magically noosed and lassoed Dark Boy around the waist.  Pasting down his arms, he pulled.  But since the dark things came for a murder assignment Faryl grabbed, pulled and dropped the boy out of the nearest open window.  Hitting the pavement, his brain split wide open and spilled all over the pavement there.  Death to a future prison convict came quickly. Sheriff Dorighty snapping out of his delusion quickly grabbed the other boy, and stabbing him an exact thirteen times watched in wonder as blood rolled and flowed out of his mouth and down his neck like a volcano at full lava eruption.  His eyes bulged and you could tell he knew the suffering of a silent scream.  And although he could not communicate it, it was almost as if he could talk, and say that he wanted to tell you that justice had finally been done.

Dark Boy screamed liked a Rambo with severe brain damage and with black pools of angry tears cascading down his cheeks charged at Dorighty like a madman.  His nostrils flared with anger.  A sudden look of horror more frightening than the Amittyville Horror and the crooks who killed his father that got the electric chair when the great Mississippi River floodgates broke, and filled the corriders of the prison just as the execution was taking place ~ Dark Boy’s ears filled and spilled with blood, his dark heart excreting same.  He had run his dumb chest into Sheriff Dorighty’s star badge.  Dorighty ripped it all the way down to Dark boy’s belly without flinching a bit and with no emotion whatsoever.

The star of David saved the two Jews of Black Owl from a certain extermination that night.  Faryl threw the lasso around Dark Boy and roped him on in.  Just before Dark Boy took his last breath, and as a chorus of Jingle Bells winded up on fumes of hot chocolate and frothed apple cider, and some chose to celebrate with coffee singles, he said, “I did it.  It was me all along.  I killed them all.  Grandma hid me out on Fate Street in St. Louis, Missouri.”  But it looked like not even the mean streets of North St. Louis could protect or hide him now.  Faryl lowered Dark Boy’s mangled body out of the window, but dropping the rope accidentally, the deceased Dark Boy fell head-first out of the window leaving black and purple bruises all over his dead, dark hateful face, after he hit the pavement. Despite, it looked like he had been beat to death instead of stabbed by a star. 

But the fearefull, and vnbeleeuing, and the abominable, and murderers, and whore mongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all lyars, shall haue their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death. ~ Revelations 21:8