Thursday, October 30, 2008

Behind Glass Doors.

Every time he goes by this place, used to be on the bus ‘till his pass ran out, every time he goes by he looks at the window, the poster, and he thinks. Walks by, and stares at the window. Tries to match his reflection so his face covers the one on the poster. But he’s too short, his hair’s a mess, not slick like the man on the poster. His smile is a grimace, and his eyes don’t shine.

So he walks by. Every time. He wants to “Apply Now!” , to go behind the glass doors, to be the Man in the Suit, smiling and beaming and shining. But all his clothes are old sweaters and jeans, Salvation Army. He knows, though, he’s got to look just right, just like the Man, to even get past those doors. He knows he’s got to do it.

When he’s picking up his unemployment cheque, he knows, somehow he knows by taking it in his hands – it’s the last one. The envelope feels too heavy. Sure enough, there’s a letter inside, and they’re telling him he’s not trying, but he’s been walking. But they just won’t get it. Folding the cheque into his wallet, he feels like he’s been kicked in the sack.

And when he’s in line at the bank, the feeling doesn’t go away. The pain rolls up into his bladder, man, oh man, it’s not comfortable. Walking down the street, he’s limping a little. When he’s trying on the pants of a suit, the pain has shot up into his side, just rolling up and down, from balls to bladder to under his ribs. And he’s squirming and bending and cramping. The sales guy’s talking to him about shoes, and he just nods and counts out the cash for the suit, and bolts. Runs bowl-legged all the way to a clinic. Gets to catch his breath in the waiting room while kicking himself for wearing the suit, nervously eyeing all those people walking around with samples.

Old army boots under a new cheap suit, that’s what the doctor sees when telling him it’s either a kidney stone or a bladder infection, but he can’t afford x-rays or follow-ups, so he just gets a prescription for antibiotics and hopes for the best. Never in his life did he think that hoping for the best would be hoping for a bladder infection. And now he can’t even afford dress shoes.

Monday morning. He walks by the place. Once. Forgot his wallet, so he walks back home. Twice. Forgot his resume. Three times, four, and now he’s just pacing. And now standing in front of the glass doors. There’s the poster, behind his reflection. The reflection with the cheap suit. The bad hair. The army boots with a thick coat of black shine that look nothing like dress shoes. The Man in the poster looks down at him. The Man in his crisp suit, great hair, a smile like a switchblade and the hand extended to shake his, but it feels like it’s grabbing him. Right by the balls. And that pain starts up again, he thought the pills cleared it all up, but now it’s shooting right through him. And nailing him right to the spot along with his fear and anxiety and desperation.

Then he feels something like fire and acid fill his bladder, and he forgets about the Man in the poster, and his desperation and his fear. The pain flings him through the doors and at the counter where all he can squeeze out, red faced and teeth clenched, is “Bathroom! Stone!”. The guy behind the counter – cheap suit, bad hair- just points, looking terrified.

When he finishes screaming and his eye focus again, he thinks he can see a tiny rock in the toilet along with the blood and piss, but probably not. Doesn’t want to give it much thought. He can hear a knocking at the door – “Sir, it’s the manager. Are you alright? Should I call an ambulance?”. He pulls his pants up, opens the door, and trying to keep his hand from shaking too much, he hands over his resume.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

ZERO

I've been up here much too long....much too long. I've seen the worst of man, heinous crimes upon their brothers, sisters........and the children...the children look dead. For in some times and in some places children are alive, safe. NO one appears safe..................WHAT THEY FEEL IS MY NAME..I'VE BEEN TAKING IT FOR SOMETIME......NOOOWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!





WHERE IS JESUS?



September 9th, around 4 am, the most important and baffling situation the human race has ever encountered took place. Every effigy of Jesus on the planet ....just got off the cross and walked away. The phenomenon whipped the world up in a mass frenzy of paranoia. Our savior has left the premises and vanished..............





A drunk?.... Just look at him, slumped over, half passed out, cigarette burned to the filter in his finger tips.... is it him? Is this man to take my place? He's very strange looking! Not a handsome man, shaved head, missing teeth, lanky, not healthy at all. He is a strange being....without a care....without any real moral judgment, perhaps a pagan from my youth...... looking to the sun again? That would be a grand turn of luck but I know why I'm here. The end...the end of my story. For this drunk I look upon is the guardian of his fellow man,

the next "savior" if you will, or maybe the great destroyer of all that is....live or dead.

I remember the days I was a young man like him, a great time, but every one's youth gets better with age. The friends that I talked to, the ideas we shared, all radical milestones and the memories that carved today. Yet, nothing has changed.....Rome is still in power ... the lost souls, those of structured spirit. I was about the same age as him when I got the call, sorry, when I answered the call (one always has the choice). Free...... we are all free, right and wrong are abstract thoughts, intertwined to form the mystery of.... fate. See, my fate was served with friendship and fellowship, maybe brotherhood, but I took the passive way out. I chose love........ the only feeling in the universe that never ends. Though scars of fear rip dark holes in time, those places demons lurk.

She was 23 when I died. She showed me, as women do, how to love... cherish, how to be a man. I can't really tell how long it has been. How much time has gone by? The mid-age was so loud with callings for the most hideous prayers, asking for pointless metals and ownership of others........... sometimes called a marriage, mostly referred to as slavery........ To beg for great love then turn around and beat that very love with every fear and insecurity one can channel at that grand instance of weakness............ That is the root of all weakness and shackles most souls, most people, the fear that you are not the best you. This race stops when in the hands of a lover.

I don't believe it, I can't! This shell of a man, mind recoiling in heartache and loneliness, is to lead the spirit back into the hearts of the human race. But I can hear the chattering of demons in the shadows, whispering in his ears while he sleeps, and not the smallest sign of fear in his slobber. He dreams of that great love with the bravery of a million dead warriors....... he reminds me of a being that wanders through the halls of conscience...Odin the warrior poet, all father of his tribe. His time may end in the same way as Odin and I, hanging for wisdom. I hope that he isn't misused as I was, forming the perfect, divine fright to control the thoughts of the world...... the only freedom men and woman have is in their hopes and wishes, once that is controlled by any institution or tyrant the soul begins to die. I knew the moment that I gave up my physical self that the future was up to humanity............. i had to watch every person all the time. They hung me up there, like a scarecrow, chasing people from freedom and personal growth. Everything I lived and died for has been twisted to control the innocence of children and make them forget every soul's true mission, the golden rule, to be nice and helpful to every thing.....To grow into a loving mother..........or in the case of men, to quell the jealous breast, become gentle and peaceful.

A stir...... Without missing a step he bolts from his inebriated state pulling a razor sharp dagger from his person, dashing crazed into the night. Around the side of the house and over a fence without a thought, the man stalks......So I followed, but by the time i found him, he had a demon by the neck........ Once a human, the demon came from a lust for acceptance which led to the dark solitary life of poison....... Man made demon juice that leaves the chained in a state of terrible self gratification, harming all that stand in it's way.

"Leave now, get off drugs, there may be hope for you, but the next time I see you trying to sneak through a little girl's window........",he pauses to press the blade to the demon's ear," I'll eat your fucking skin."
With a quick motion he covers the demon's mouth and lops the ear off then leans in to whisper, "Hear me now?"

He lets go the wounded beast, and with a whimper the demon disappears into the night. He wipes the blade on his leg and brings the other arm up to soak up a mix of blood and rain water from his face. He turns and realizes that I am standing behind him. Without missing a beat he says,"Oh Jesus, I didn't see you there. Want a beer?" He walks right passed me and hops back over the fence, to take his seat and pulls two beers out of a half empty case.

"Come on .", he says while waving me over.

"Come have a beer, if you're really real?", he snickers,"Come on....You can tell me all about hell and punishment. I'm ready."

"That was the most hideous form of justice I've seen and it will probably work, I don't think that I can really say that it was wrong of you. Your motives where pure.", I said to him.

"So ... you're not hear to smite me?" he shrugs.

I look him right in the soul, right to the pit of his conscience, and try to break his smug sarcastic demeanor, replying in a stern voice," You don't know, do you?"




....TO BE CONTINUED IN NOVEMBER.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Governance

Max was a fine little hatchling. He stood larger than many others and his call was stronger than all the others. Mother knew who to feed first.

He had a truly remarkable left scar on his face and as he grew, it was remarked that he was a “freak of nature” and not a “normal” being.

He did grow up with a sense of not-belonging, but what difference it made, and how much worse he felt for not being one of the flock, was never tested by his mind or heart.

By the time he was old enough to sit on his own perch, he had made the decision that he would not invest another’s word in to his self-esteem. He had known that he was made, and that he would be unmade, by greater thoughts and choices than his own.

“Look out there, at the edge of the horizon,” Normy said. “What is that?”

“Can’t tell just yet,” Fooraq said. “Let’s get closer.”

“No, no,” Max warned. “Don’t you see it?”

“What Max?” Normy asked.

“It’s one of those men who stand still. Let’s take it easy over there,” said Max and the four of them, Linda included, made their way just east of the man who stood still.

Blinking was one of Max’s most noticeable qualities. He never blinked. He saw all and took in all, and never turned away. Life was a fait accompli.

Sitting there, looking at the man, they surmised what he meant and what they should feel about it.

“Look it isn’t good news. He is there for a reason. We should respect that and not approach him or the area,” Linda said.

“Yeah, but that corn sure looks good. It looks like we could do a lot with that,” Normy remarked.

“I agree,” Fooraq said. “We should go for it. I don’t see any reason…”

“No. I don’t trust it,” Linda said, fear leading her voice.

Max looked at the scene and thought long and hard about what he saw. There was the rustling corn, shaking uncontrollably in the midday breeze; there was the thickness of forest to the other side of the cornfield where all species are lost in the darkness; and there was the stand still man, moving only when the gusts determined it so, and always smirking like it knew more than anyone what should be done.
The warmth of the day was quickly fleeting and the opportunity seemed to be fading.

Farooq could not sit still like he was anticipating the opportunity escaping from them. Max did not pay much attention to him. Normy leaned slowly towards the field as a prelude to a run-in. Max only saw that he was leaning. Linda turned her back to the corn and gazed back in to the dark forest. Max paid special attention to her.

“Well, if you all are going to stay here, then I should say that I plan to go,” Normy said in a low voice.

Farooq immediately jumped in to the field and swarmed to the first stock of corn that he could reach but upon seeing the grave smirk on the face of the stand still man, he spoke loudly and returned quickly to the group.

“That was close,” Farooq said in a low voice again. He sill seemed as eager as he had before, but was now looking in the direction of the dark forest just as Linda was.

Normy’s disposition appeared to have changed amongst the group. He was no longer leaning towards the corn field, instead stood upright, as if unsure of how he should sit, uncomfortable with the complexity of choice.

Max noticed it all as he always did and noticed more than he could comprehend.

Normy kept quiet but the sun was dipping as eternally does and eventually he became extremely uncomfortable with the slipping of time.

“Ok, I’ve seen this before, and perhaps more than once. That man with the smirk will stand still and he is no threat. We can go get some… it can be done,” Normy said.

“Wait,” Max warned.

But Normy took off and so did Linda and Farooq – in the other direction, tired of the dilemma – and Max opened his eyes wide so that he might see all.

He immediately took off after Normy, crying loudly “you don’t understand Normy… you didn’t see…”

A husky voice called out “pullllllllll!!!!”

Before he knew it, Max was on the ground. As he knew it, that was where he belonged, to which he saw it quite clearly. He saw the smirk of the man who no longer stood still.

He knew that nothing stood still forever.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

HOUSEHOLD SOLUTIONS SCARECROW SECURITY UNIT

After some trepidation, Fredrik Jordan Sr. contacted Household Solutions Company and placed an order.

“The scarecrow?” the voice on the other end of the line queried, “oh yes, we've seen a sales spike for those units recently. Okay, that’s one twenty for the unit, installation fee: forty dollars, shipping and handling, parts and labor, plus you’ve decided to go with the FieldWatch Security package … is that correct, Mr. Jordan?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “give me all that crap. Fully loaded, damn it.”

“Okay so, your total comes to two hundred and sixty dollars and sixty four cents. The total includes your first month’s payment on the rental of the FieldWatch monitoring system. How will you be paying?…”

And within a couple days, it was out there, watching over his proud crops with its eerie monitoring eyes in its rotating head. With a sigh he took one last look at the thing, then turned off the porch light and walked achily upstairs to bed.

“What do you need one of those things for?” his neighbor’s voice rang through his head, “nobody’s had any trouble in these parts.”

“I know,” he recalled saying, “it’s the family. Somewhere they got it in their head that no crop is safe without one of these damn things. The kid must have seen it on TV.”

***

“Listen,” he said, “sssh. Do you hear that?”

His wife listened. “I don’t hear anything,” she said, groggily.

“That noise,” he said drawing back the curtains and peering out the window, “it’s like a low hum.”

“It’s probably to keep the birds away, but I don’t hear anything. Get back to bed,” she said, and buried her face in the pillow.

Alright you bastards, he thought, I‘m on to you.

***

The Jordans sauntered up and down the aisles of the Super Duper Market, cart straining under the weight of groceries. Freddy junior grabbed a bag of Boffo brand paper towels and tossed it in the cart, grasping impulsively for the next item.

Fred Sr. picked up the paper towels and studied them, compared prices. He replaced the Boffo towels with a generic brand.

“These ones are eighty cents cheaper,” he said.

“I want Boffo,” Freddy jr. said.

“Yeah? I don’t care,” Fred sr. said, “what do you think, we grow money on our farm?”

Freddy jr. picked up the Boffo paper towels and said, “I want these ones.”

“Put those back.”

Freddy junior’s chin began to quiver and he threw a fit.

“Cut it out,” Mrs. Jordan said, “we’re in public.”

“I don’t care,” Freddy jr. said between sobs.

“Well you better care,” Fred sr. said, “be glad we’re in public, kid, or I’d give you such a smack.”

“Just let him have it, Fred,” his wife said with a sigh.

“What? No. He can’t always get his way. Look at this, the kid put half the crap in this cart. Most of this isn’t even kid stuff.”

“Fred,” she grabbed the generic brand paper towels forcefully out of the cart, “from now on, we choose Boffo. I mean, everybody knows Boffo brand paper towels are sixty percent more absorbent than the leading competitor!”

She put the Boffo towels in the cart. Fred senior said nothing, he was deep in thought.

***

He had a hard time getting to sleep that night. It was the hum, so low it was hard to hear, which was the very thing that made it impossible to ignore. He walked bitterly downstairs and turned on the TV.

“--more from the Late Night Show after this …”

The first commercial flashed on screen. It was for Boffo brand paper towels. He scoffed, remembering.

“… remember, Boffo brand paper towels are sixty percent more absorbent than the leading competition. Boffo, a division of Household Solutions Company.”

Fredrik Jordan sat bolt upright in his chair, his mouth dropped open. The next commercial sprang on.

“You know folks, no crop is safe without the Household Solutions scarecrow security unit --”

Sickened, he turned off the TV. He got up and paced, wandered into the kitchen. On impulse he checked the fridge and cupboards.

Boffo apple juice.

Boffo cereal.

Everything Boffo brand …

He ran upstairs and shook his wife awake.

“Kate! Kate, wake up!”

“Mmm, what? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“How much TV have you been watching lately?”

“What kind of a question is that to wake somebody up for?”

“Just answer the question. How much TV have you been watching?”

“I don’t watch TV, I read. You know that. What’s gotten into you?”

“Yeah … yeah. That’s right. You don’t watch TV. Are you sure, though, sure you haven’t been watching just a little bit?”

“Yes! Now let me get my sleep.”

“Mom!” Freddy jr. called from down the hall.

“Now look what you did,” she said, and she groggily got out of bed and walked to Freddy’s room.

Fred sr. wandered over to the window and brushed aside the curtains, looked out at the scarecrow security unit. Its glowing, lifeless eyes scanned the field in three hundred and sixty degrees on its rotating head.

***

The next day the neighbor, Dave Miller, was back.

“How’s that scarecrow working out for you?” he asked.

“I’m taking it down and sending it back,” Fred said, “you were right, we didn’t need it after all.”

“Well,” Miller said, “I’ve been doing some thinking about it and the idea’s starting to grow on me.”

“How’s that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about it mornings is all. I get out of bed and I think to myself, ‘you know Dave, no crop is safe without the Household Solutions scarecrow security unit.’”

“Wait a minute. That’s the company line, Miller. Where’d you hear that? Have you been watching TV?”

“Huh? No, I don’t watch TV myself. The idiot box is what rots the brain, you see? But, those thoughts just come to me.”

“Wait. Do you hear that? It’s that noise again.”

“What noise is that, Fred?”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t hear that low hum? God, I can’t even hear myself think!”

“I don’t hear nothing.”

Fredrik Jordan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply.

“Oh,” Miller said, “here comes Mr. Taylor.”

Taylor was Fred’s other neighbor on the opposite side. He strolled up confidently with a pamphlet in his hand.

“Good,” Fred said, “he’s probably come to complain about the noise.”

“Howdy neighbors,” Taylor said jovially, “is that a Household Solutions scarecrow security unit you got there?”

“Yeah, sure is,” Fred said, “look, sorry about the noise, pal. I’m taking care of it right now.”

“Been thinking the past couple days about getting one myself.”

Fredrik Jordan said nothing. He stalked purposefully into his shed and took out his axe. He charged over to the Household Solutions scarecrow security unit # 3427 and began chopping at its base amid the gasps and protests of his neighbors. It was feverish and sweaty work and he didn’t stop chopping until the humming stopped.

When it was over he leaned against the long axe handle, panting.

“Well,” he said, catching his breath, “what you think about it now?”

“Fred,” Miller said, brow wrinkling, “are you all right, buddy?”

“Yeah,” Taylor said, “you don’t look too good.”

“No,” Fred said, “I’m better than good, I feel great! Oh my God, it’s over. It’s all over.”

Fredrik Jordan’s ear snapped to attention. His body stiffened to alertness by a sound. A low hum that sounded from the distance.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Taylor said, “I’ve been thinking about getting one the past couple days so I took the plunge. They’re at my place, fixing it up right now.”

Fredrik Jordan simply shook his head, “no. No. No! They got to you Taylor! And you too if you’re not careful, Miller!”

“Take it easy there, partner,” Miller said.

“Take it easy? Can’t you hear it? Are you insane!? What’s wrong with you people!? What’s wrong with everyone!?”

Fredrik Jordan ran across the field, ran as far as he could go. He kept running until his legs gave out and collapsed. Taylor and Miller exchanged worried looks.

“Boy,” Miller whistled and said, “poor guy. Guess he must have snapped for some reason. Overworked I guess. So what's all this about the Household Solutions scarecrow security unit?”

“I just got mine installed, just this minute. I couldn't wait to tell you guys the good news,” Taylor said, beaming, “after all, no crop is safe without one. Which brings me to why I came over here today. Here, I thought you should read this.”

He handed Miller the pamphlet for a brand new Household Solutions scarecrow security unit.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

THE DEMON OF WALL STREET

He tended it, kept it in excellent repair, trimmed off the fray. He watered the flowers around it, but the flowers died. The memorial flowers always died.

His father had died. The father who had willed the farm over to his son, the son who knew nothing of business. The bank was foreclosing on the property.

His father had died, but had not left him. His essence stayed behind, gave him advise. His father’s essence wore rags, stuffed with hay and hung in the field where he tended it, kept it in excellent repair.

He climbed the little step ladder and leaned up close. His father’s limbs were bundled sticks. His face was papier mache with a bright red painted on smile, hopeful black dots for eyes and rosy pink cheeks, head tilted ever-so proudly back, optimistic, happy, content. He leaned in close to the bright red smile and listened.

***

He got off the Lake Shore Limited at Penn Station at nine in the morning and hit the gun shop by one.

Just one week’s wait.

At the hotel he unpacked, laid the contents of his bag on the floor: sticks, hay, clothing. Before he reassembled his father, he needed a method of carriage.

So he walked the streets of New York with a shopping cart full of his scarecrow father, propped up like a drunk friend, waiting for time to pass. Nothing unusual, just one more thing to tick off the list of ‘now I‘ve seen everything.’ Once in a while he would lean his ear in close to the bright red lips.

A couple days in, the cart fell over on its side trying to make its way up a non-wheelchair accessible curb, spilling his father all over the filthy street. This would not do.

***

He remembered there was a thunderstorm. It didn’t matter whether or not there really was one, because that’s just how he remembered it. His father had just died.

He was taking down all the little trinkets that ornamented his father’s life and placing them in boxes. Pictures of his father’s old friends and times and places that he had never known. Old clocks shaped like things that his father enjoyed, that he had always felt lukewarm about. There were a couple of clocks set in glazed pieces of chopped wood with eagles painted on them. Other things came down that day: old Christmas cards, some velvet paintings, the scarecrow in the field.

***

He didn’t know too much about finance. It wasn’t really his fault, nobody had ever tried to teach him. It’s not that he was simple minded, but he was kind of caught up. They didn’t teach him how to run a farm at school, that was for sure. His father had taught him practical things: how to raise chickens, how to build a fence, and how to shoot guns.

He tried to imagine how many people in the city had never seen a farm. Millions? He tried over and over to imagine them all. He tried to see how many he could visualize in his mind at one time and still be able to count them all. He tried to trap as many of them as he could in a well-lit room of his own design, shoulder to shoulder. Before long they would step out of line, move around, waver and mingle. He could never count higher than the mid teens. When he would open his eyes, there would be more people on the street than he could fit in his mind.

He wondered how many of these people could teach him finance, how long it would take. Too long, probably. He had a little money, enough to last on this trip that’s all he knew. Enough to last on this one way trip.

***

He remembered the power went out during the thunderstorm.

He was in the attic or the basement, moving boxes, making space. He was moving stuff around and a lot of it was really heavy and difficult. He imagined every box or couch as having little arms, legs and a head, all slacked and slouched, feet dragging across the floor. Dead weight.

He didn’t cry when his father died, didn’t punch things or get angry. Just felt numb inside. “Oh,” he said, when they told him the news. “Oh.”

He slumped up against the wall, wiped his forehead, catching his breath. He looked over to the scarecrow that he had set across the narrow room from him. The way he remembered it, lightning struck just then, and it was at that very moment, everything lit up, he saw clearly the scarecrow turn its head and look at him.

He was frightened half to death until it started to talk.

***

He had gathered up the sticks and some good stiff yellow hay and set them down in piles for his father. His father had picked out some old work clothes that weren’t too worn out and together father and son conspired to make a man. But a man without a head. He blew a balloon, and they covered it in gluey strips of newspaper together. When it dried he popped the balloon and painted on a face.

His father didn’t really say too much ever, but a certain tension was lifted when they made that scarecrow.

***

There was only one solution to the unwieldy shopping cart problem. The efforts of father and son to fashion a man from sticks and clothes had seemed an immobile failure on the streets of New York.

The scarecrow had been a refuge of sorts for both of them. The memory of its genesis was a refuge for him and the thing itself was a refuge for his father’s soul. Sticks and clothes did not move on their own … well, only once when no one was looking. They would not move unless he donned the clothing, father and son conjoined in spirit.

He knew intuitively he would no longer need to listen to the bright red lips with his ear, donning the clothes he would listen with his heart and his mind.

***

He stalked purposefully down Broadway in his father’s soul’s clothing with his brand new gun. Turned a left on Wall street and hit the New York Stock Exchange.

There was a giant American flag draped across the face of the building like a mask, and a guarded fence keeping out the public. It was a fortress.

Dark jackets milled about on the other side of the fence, chatting feverishly, getting in and out of dark cars. He felt the heaviness of the gun in his waistband.

A blue jacket walked slowly out of the building and up to the fence, rubbing his forehead, pacing, pacing then resting his elbows.

He listened to his heart, now was his chance.

***

His heart said it was the bank that killed his father. Inflation and mortgages and other things he did not quite understand had tired his father out, slowed him down, squeezed his heart into a tight little fist that one day collapsed from exhaustion.

It said it was the banks and the New York money men, manipulating the stock market, driving out the small business man. That’s all he needed to know.

***

He walked bumpily up to the man resting on the fence, already he saw dark jackets jogging a bee line in his direction. He opened his mouth and words that weren’t his own came out, words from the heart, words like two red eyes glowing from the depths of his black mind.

His voice accused the blue jacket of killing his father, of ruining his father’s business, of ruining the country.

He recognized something in the face of the blue jacket. Something familiar. Something that told him the blue jacket was no different from him, possessed of the same drive.

His voice continued to accuse.

The blue jacket jumped over the fence despite the dark jackets’ clawing, resisting hands. Before he knew what hit him, the blue jacket had pummeled him into the brownstone pavement. The blue jacket breathed heavily through his teeth, shaking out the pain from his bludgeoning fists, towering over him.

Some tourists were taking pictures off to the side.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

THE SCREAM

Emma Strawberry was doing time at the Northwoods Facility for Women. It wasn’t a prison, it was a place to relax, a place to excuse yourself from the world, a place to ask for permission. Everything had fallen apart and she was doing time. It’s what happens when you fail at life, she joked to herself, a penalty.

She killed time, took the attitude of someone serving a life sentence. Kill your job, kill your relationships, go to prison, keep on killing, kill time. What were they going to do, kill her?

From her room on the third floor, she looked down, across the field, through the trees and over the fence to the field opposite the grounds. She stared down at the scarecrow there, stunned, fascinated. She never knew that time could take the form of a man, even if it was just a stuffed man. The scarecrow was time itself, leaning frozen against the breeze, and it was screaming.

She looked over at her clock.

When the screaming stopped, a man’s voice broadcast in her head, ‘official time of death 2317 hours.’

***

“I saw something strange a couple nights ago,” Emma said.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” her brother Eddy said.

Eddy suffered from an affliction most people have, an irrational fear of the mentally ill, as though what fed on emotions and devoured minds was a communicable thing.

“Listen,” he said, “I’ve got something to tell you, and I know now’s probably not the best time --”

“Then it can wait,” she said, rushing out of her room, “come on.”

Eddy winced and picked up his coat, followed her slowly down the hall. She was practically running.

***

They were on the other side of the fence, off of Northwoods grounds.

“You’re going to get in trouble, you know,” Eddy said, glancing around and behind.

“What are they gonna do,” Emma asked, “kill me?”

Emma charged behind the sparsely placed trees opposite the fence, all charged up. An open-minded seeker in search of an answer to a question that was asked for her. Eddy followed.

She stopped when she got to the scarecrow.

“This is it,” she said.

“This is what you wanted to show me? Okay, so I’ve seen it. Come on, let’s go back inside before you get caught. It’s cold and you don’t have a jacket.”

“Okay, Mom.”

Eddy rubbed his forehead, looked down, and quietly said, “hey, come on, huh?”

She skipped a joyful circle around the scarecrow, “someplace to put one of these things, don’t you think? Right outside a mental institution. As if we’re not paranoid enough, right? We gotta look out the window and see this spooky old thing hanging there all Christ like without its dignity. A crazy person‘s gonna get ideas.”

“Don’t say shit like that. You’ve been here five days, and you’re talking like you’re some kind of veteran or something,” Eddy kicked earth, planting his foot in, hands in his pockets.

She felt the cold whip around her, hugging her too tight. She looked up into the blank face of the scarecrow, “this is where time goes to die. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

She glanced at him, “that’s all I do at this place, you know?,” she turned back to stare into the blank face again,

“I kill time, and it gets nailed to this post for everyone to see. This is where dreams come to die too. For everyone to see.”

He tugged gently at her shoulder, “come on, let’s just go, huh?”

She pulled away, “it’s kinda funny they didn’t bother to stitch a face on this thing, don‘t you think? I mean, it can be who or whatever you want it to be. Time or a dream. But, what if it’s just a mask. A mask for a shy kind of death. What’s underneath the burlap face of time and dreams?”

The burlap face was brittle and weather beaten. She dug tensely into it with her short unvarnished nails, tearing it apart with her delicate fingers. It cleaved in two and she got on her tippie-toes.

Time stopped. Her breathing stopped. Her heart stopped beating in her chest.

She fell on her butt, kicking and stumbling away. Eddy tried to help pick her up and she fought him, never taking her eyes off of the blank face of time and dreams rent in two by her own hands. Eddy called to her, still trying to help her up. Finally, she tore her gaze away and buried her face in his shoulder. He held her.

After a moment, she looked up at him with a face as blank as the one she destroyed and said, “there are eight dimensions.”

***

She was back in the relative warmth of her own room, sitting on the edge of her bed. Eddy stood.

“What was all that about eight dimensions?” he asked.

She sighed a deep breath and said, “what I meant to say was it’s a sphere, not a line, or a circle. Individually speaking. Or … it’s a pond, universally.”

He didn’t understand what she was saying, but understood it as a symptom of her current condition. He betrayed nothing of his thoughts on his face.

“I’m talking about time,” she continued, “and death. Time is like a pond, you see? You throw a rock in and the ripples go out in all directions, front and back. Something happens in the present, something to remember in the future, little ripples of significance travel back to the past. If you don’t look for these things you can see them or sense them, all the time.

“The individual is like a little ball of clay. As we perceive time rolling along, it stretches the ball of clay and rolls it out into a tube getting thinner and thinner until it eventually breaks. And time continues to roll along, leaving behind little scattered thin bits of clay that spread out around the edges of time, like pebbles on a beach. Until God or something throws one of those pebbles back into the pond, rippling it out back toward the beach again.”

She slapped her knees excitedly and said, “it was a spider and an egg. Behind the face, I mean. A spider told me about time and death. I’m still not sure about dreams though. I’ll have to think about it some more.”

Eddy’s mind was working, and his heart too. Trying to drudge up courage and then what to say, how to say it.

“Dreams,” Emma went on, “see, our dreams are like our children. We create them, but we ultimately have no control over them, and the kind of dreams you can control aren’t really dreams anymore are they? Sometimes our dreams outlive us, if they escape into the so-called real world. The dimension of dreams is like a spider’s leg. No more or less real than the one beside it or opposite it, the waking world. I guess that old saying applies to a person’s dreams too. You know the one about, ‘the greatest tragedy is when a parent outlives their child.’”

Eddy’s blank mask crumbled and his eyes began to water. His chin twitched and he fought gallantly against the sobs.

Through tight vocal chords he told her:

“Em, Mom died last night. It happened around eleven at night. She was out on the deck of the houseboat and she fell into the water. A neighbor heard her scream but they were too late.”

Emma felt ghoulish and selfish. She heard what he said all right, but she was busy thinking about the scream, and she was thinking about time.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Hondo the Dead

The long wooden hands moved very slowly under that raggedy jacket arm. Jerry had seen it though. He had seen the movement and it was for him academic that it now stood still in the corn field, unmoved by his attention.

He knew Hondo did it for him.

Upon seeing this marvelous animation, he ran back to the farm house where Dad was prepping the chicken for dinner in the kitchen and Mom was brushing the dust off the pictures above the fireplace mantel.

Jerry unknowingly kicked the cat as he ran in the house and the cat began racing around the house like a wild beast that had been dealt an unexpected blow. But it was just a cat.

“Jeremiah Alistair Lalonde, you little troublemaker, stop that ruckus and come sit down,” Jerry’s Dad yelled.

The minutes were left to their own devices and they spun away and sped away before they were corralled by the hour. Jerry had become antsy amongst all the time lost and his mind spun a tad out of control until he stood up and said in an eager voice: “Dad! You got to see what’s going on outside. I’ve never seen nothing like it.”

“What Jerry?” his Dad said in patient annoyance.

“Outside… outside,” Jerry begun pointing to the window that overlooked the browning cornfield in hopes that Dad would understand what he was getting at without saying more.

“Sit down and calm down. Dinner will be in a couple of hours and you have Sunday homework to be on, don’t you,” said Dad in a there-there tone.

The night sky was chasing the sun westerly and Jerry thought his dad might miss one of the most stunning moments ever seen on this property -- which his family had spent 200 years ploughing and sowing -- rubbing sauce all over a chicken breast.

Grabbing his dad’s right hand, Jerry pulled with all his might his dad’s thick body towards the door. But it was all for not. His father was built like a 19th century engine locomotive, heavy and slow and his father never moved until his whistle blew loudly.

“Jerry, what has gotten in to that scrambled brain of yours? Sit down and begin your studies,” said Dad without blowing his whistle too loudly.

“But I saw it!”

“You don’t know what you saw. But I’ll tell you, you’ll see the back of my hand if you don’t see the words in those books very soon. Now come on,” said Dad, who tore apart the chicken pieces one-by-one.

Jerry opened his Math 4 Basics book and began to mouth the words so that his dad would believe he was reading and thinking about the book’s contents but his very true thoughts belonged to that slight rolling of a wooden broom stick that was the scarecrow’s arm. For the last few weeks of summer he spent his dusks talking to the scarecrow who he had named Hondo. As the first breeze of fall blew through the field Dad took to the field with his farmhands, as he had every year of Jerry's life, and began to pull off the blanket of corn on the farm bed. Jerry thought that soon Hondo would be as cold as the snow that was waiting to attack the winter days without the corn. And so he begged his dad to give him one of his old raggedy jackets to put on poor old Hondo.

I don’t like you spending all your time out in that field alone,” said Mom one night at the dinner table. Mom had been watching Jerry arrive home from school and immediately drop his bag, pick up an apple and run outside to the cornfield.

I am not alone,” said Jerry in response but to no avail, Mom and Dad had grown sick and tired of the whole Hondo thing.

That conversation did not lead anywhere and back to the present the current reading of his math book didn’t fool Dad, who stopped his chicken prep and walked over to the table to sit beside Jerry, his brown eyes cold and loving stared right in to Jerry's mind.

“You are growing famous around town, Jerry. People say it is weird that you don’t make friends from school,” said his dad.

Jerry just kept reading, “8 times 8 is 16…”

His dad placed his hand on the page Jerry was reading from but Jerry kept reading, “9 times finger is…”

“You have to see it from our perspective, Jerry. It ain’t right that you are spending so much time with that bundle of sticks.”

Jerry kept reading, though he wasn’t reading from the book, which Dad had taken away.

“Jerry!”

Dad got up from the table and left the room exasperated. Jerry smiled a little since he knew he had out willed his father, had endured the stormy issue and could now rock back and forth on his chair in victory.

A sudden urge developed inside his heart and his mind begun to stir about. He got up from the table and walked over to the window which looked over the cornfield and began to gaze at Hondo, who stood alone, his smile appeared sad, his body unattended.

Hondo the strong: the only one who could survive a night, a winter, a lifetime in the outside with nothing to keep him company but the whistling of dead corn and the spare time of a nine year old boy from Leader, Saskatchewan.

As he stared silently out the window, a light burst from the right where the barn was. A couple of cows could be heard complaining but Jerry thought nothing of it. He turned his attention back to Hondo and gave him a quick wave hoping to see that right arm re-animate and wave back as a magical moment in a Saskatchewan fall.

A shadow walked out of the back of the barn and storming like a bull in heat. The shadow was tall and thick and Jerry knew at an instant it was Dad, carrying an axe in one hand and a bag in the other.

Dad made his way up to Hondo and without a thought began chopping down the scarecrow limb-by-limb, first starting at the arms, then the neck and finally the post the scarecrow had sat upon until there was no evidence of Hondo ever existing.

Sitting down on the floor, Jerry felt a ripping sensation run through his body from his stomach to his neck until he felt a bulge at his Adams apple and the darkest emotion burst forth until Hondo became a tired memory.

Dad walked back in the house and dropped the bag of sticks that had once been Hondo and said in matter of fact tone "pick him up and let's build him in your room."

But Jerry returned to the table. It as as if Hondo were just a figment of Jerry’s history that had been forgotten.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

LOPSIDED

The Old Man in the Old House watched the three children play in the field across the street.

“Wait a minute,” Miranda said, “Did you see that? The house across the street: the blinds opened up.”

“He’s watching us,” Ollie said, nervously.

Miranda suppressed a scream and asked, “what does he want?”

“I don’t know,” Ollie said.

Davy popped up from the long grass and said, “It’s obvious he’s gonna eat one of us,” he walked over and love-tapped Miranda on the shoulder, “he just wants to see who’s weakest.”

“Hey,” Ollie said, calmly, “don’t you pick on her.”

“Yeah,” she said, punching Davy back, “don’t pick on me, I’m not the weakest.”

“Sure you’re not,” Davy said, “look, I’m just saying … he’s gonna eat one of us. And it sure as snot ain’t gonna be me.”

“Nobody’s going to get eaten,” Ollie said, “quit trying to scare us, Davy.”

“You’re scared?” Davy continued, “well you shouldn’t be, ‘cause he smells fear. You know what fear is to him? Man, it‘s like the sauce on barbecue ribs. It‘s like sugar on your Cheerios. It‘s like --”

“That’s enough,” Ollie shouted.

The Old Man was still watching them, his old hand worked over his old beard furiously.

The children ran through the field, jumping over the small shrubs, weaving between them. When they were tired, they rested against a post facing the Old Man’s house across the street. They eyed the wonder of the corn fields swaying, its three sentry scarecrows stood fiercely still against posts of their own. The three scarecrows stood raggedy, two on one side of the field, with one to fend for the whole other side by itself, giving the field a lopsided appearance.

The Old Man weighed the children carefully, each of them was an option. He watched and weighed options.

“My older brother said,” Davy said, “the old man in that house gives one poison candy every year on Halloween, so you never know if you’ll be the one to get it.”

“Aw, everybody says that,” said Ollie, “but no one ever gets sick.”

“That’s because no one ever goes there on Halloween, cause they know.”

Ollie and Miranda tried to let Davy know by looks and posture that they weren’t afraid. And maybe they weren’t actually afraid, but the look of the creepy old house and the idea of the creepy old man in the house excited them. Ollie smiled.

“I heard,” he said, “the reason the old man went insane was because he built the house on an Indian burial ground.”

“Oh yeah,” Davy said, picking up a rock, “look how scared I am.” He got up and threw the rock across the street, toward the house. The rock fell in the front yard with a low thump and a rustle of the grass.

“They also say,” he continued, “he picks off the smallest and youngest.” He looked over at Miranda, “but you’re not afraid are you?”

Ollie clenched his teeth and looked away, picking blades of grass and piling them.

“Come on,” Davy said, grabbing Miranda by the arm, “let’s just get it over with. Here we come with your human sacrifice Crazy Old Man!”

“Let me go,” Miranda shouted, “you’re not allowed to grab my arm! I’m not a human sacrifice!” She shoved Davy, who stood nearly twice her tiny size, shoved him as hard as she could. Davy took a step backwards. Miranda stood with her hands on her hips, staring daggers up at the older boy.

Ollie sat, picking grass, looked over just in case she needed him.

Davy smirked down at the little girl. He could flick her in the shoulder and she’d fall down, crying. But it was too much of a hassle, he figured. He scoffed and backed down, “Come on,” he said, “let’s get out of here.”

Ollie got up, brushed off his pants and said, “we’re going home.”

“Suit yourself,” Davy said, “I’m gonna go home and shoot my bee bee gun.”

They parted company, resembling the scarecrows across the street, two to one side of the field, one to the opposite side. Ollie marched with his sister in tow.

“Ollie,” she said, weakly, “I feel funny.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay,” he said, “we’re only twenty minutes from home.”

He continued to march through the field, expecting to hear her complain again, but it never came. He turned and she was gone. She hadn’t fallen, there were no tracks, she had vanished.

Across the street, the old man closed the blinds and walked through the kitchen, out the back door and into the shed. He took out a wooden post and carried it into the field. He had seen who was the strongest child, the one with the greatest will. Soon, he would have a new scarecrow up, and his field would no longer be lopsided.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Scarecrows: Hay-stuffed sub-morons or fear-inducing super-geniuses?

With Halloween coming at the end of the month, those behind the curtain wish to shift focus a little. September was a fine month indeed for astonishing tales that dealt heavily in science fiction, but perhaps it is time to touch on darker subject matter. Tales thick in atmosphere, and heavy on chills. Our subject matter: the scarecrow. Our focus: to illustrate the secret world of the scarecrow.

Sure, you may say, scarecrows aren’t scary, they sign songs and dance around brainlessly. We here respond by asking, wouldn’t that very sight be frightening, in and of itself, if seen by the unaided eye in the light of the real world? Surely, you may say, there is better Halloween subject matter than the wily old scarecrow; Witches, Bats, Frankenstein’s Monster, Werewolves (oh, we’ve covered that already). Why the scarecrow, you may ask, why?

I’ll tell you why. Because the scarecrow can be more than just a dummy, it can do more than just scare away birds, it can also scare people, yes, it can be a very frightening thing indeed! Of course, it can also sit back and stonily observe …

But, I’m sure you trust us, else you mightn’t have purchased your ticket to the Theatre of Technicolor Dreams to observe … Astonishing Tales of Wonder!