THUNDER BREAKS IN ON SILENCE
by: Timothy J. Conley
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Timothy J. Conley on Smashwords
Thunder Breaks in on Silence
Copyright © 2011 by Timothy J. Conley
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/tinytim2
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
* * * * *
Forward: There is nothing wrong with considering alternate realities. We do it every day without realizing what we are doing. Suppose that instead of taking our usual way to work we choose to walk, or ride a bike, or simply take a different route. Would we encounter anything different? Undoubtedly. Well, sit back and read. This FREE e-book is provided so you can explore some ideas you might not have thought of and some concepts that may be new to you. Either way – I sincerely hope you will enjoy the prose and poetry you will find herein and have a wonderful day reading. Come back for more tales that are provided at Smashwords.com.
* * * * *
Thunder Breaks in on Silence
Hot summer day steam rising in the air, my brothers playing in the creek – their tops bare - minnow catching, me - laying on stomach in the loft of our old tin barn - watching and listening.
Breeze began blowing the tops of oak trees anticipating rain - they turned up their leaves. Birds, but moments ago involved in song were no longer heard – where had they gone?
Frogs chittered once as they got ready for rain, but they all quickly fell silent again. Even the bees were quietly returning to their hive, for a moment it seemed nothing was alive.
Then in the distance - rumbling and growling through tumbled clouds – thunder broke forth –forever breaking in upon silence.
Turning over I watched rain begin pelting down and listened to boys running for shelter, but part of me listened for a closer sound – of thunder breaking silence.
* * * * *
Dedication: My wife, Carmela, was asking if I had ever written poetry for her. I couldn’t answer at the time, but went back to the folder in which I keep my poetry and found one that I had written because of her entering my life. Here are a couple that were written with her in mind. She says I’m just a ‘little boy’ and maybe it is because of her that I feel like there are new avenues opened up in my life.
* * * * *
New Road
I have a new road to follow, a road that includes trouble and strife, a road having all the good things of life – a new way to travel.
I have a new road to follow, a road not burdened with cares of yesterday, a road of quiet walks where children are safe to play – a new way to travel.
I have a new road to follow, a road with new companions, lover and friends, a road where travel never really ends, a road with new sights around the bend, a road to walk quietly til my journey’s end, a road of happiness, hand in hand, with a special friend, a road packed with dreams, hardships and pleasures, a road filled up with all of Earth’s treasures, a road of challenge – full courage to measure, a new way to travel.
I have a new road to follow.
* * * * *
Heart to Heart
Heart to Heart, cheek to cheek, lips softly touching – generate heat.
Heart to Heart, hand in hand, lives loving entwined – woman and man.
Heart to Heart, becoming one, bodies snuggled up – when day is done.
Heart to Heart, mind with mind, joining together – in love sublime.
Heart to Heart in sun or rain with one purpose – covering all the pain.
* * * * *
I Need You
I need you, baby, you make me whole, you lift me up, you cleanse my soul.
I need you, baby, you set me free, you help me stand, you make me see.
I need you, baby, you fill me with joy, you give me worth, my hands employed.
I need you, baby, you love me so tender, you expect my best, make me surrender.
I need you, baby, you lift my spirit, you give me hope, you help me not fear it. The future is bright with us standing together, I know we can make it, through all kinds of weather. I know we can stand throughout all things in life, lifting each other above all of the strife, helping each other achieve our dreams by providing the sunshine just when it seems that everyone else is set against us.
I need you, babe in all that I do, I’m nothing alone, lost without you.
* * * * *
Autumn Love
So much time passed like cool water under a bridge that mingles in autumn with red, yellow and brown leaves to produce such a heavenly color. Gazing past water to a meadow’s green glow – to a house in the valley where my mind calls home, where peacefulness reigns, where my loves awaiting, where I can enter in – without hesitating.
Eyes rest upon stone walls that shield and protect from the world outside – from all the heart breaks from the torture of living within society’s cruel system. Heart jumps the gate in anticipation – of love’s sweet voice, of kisses given and sweetly taken, of holding hands against the cold outside – heaven on earth – in my old age.
* * * * *
In Danger of Northbound 209
The first story is one that provides a deeper look into life as reflected by the Southern Ohio countryside. Sometimes we can drive through the quietness of a country scene, with corn rows rolling back in monotony, and think that nothing exciting could break your bored train of thought.
Oh, contraire – you haven't been. . .IN DANGER OF NORTHBOUND 209
Jim Earl Morgan mounted the steps of Engine 209 at precisely 2:10. A thunderstorm was threatening to break the afternoon Southern Ohio heat. 209 trembled with power as Jim Earl eased the throttle forward. His eyes flicked across gauges; he enjoyed the forward surge as 209 strained to pull ninety fully loaded coal cars on their way to Pittsburgh’s steel factories. Jim Earl leaned his right arm out the window and surveyed the lights ahead. Everything was green.
In 1956 the Norfolk & Western Railroad in Southern Ohio employed nearly thirty men in their rail gang, most of whom were laying tracks. Summer heat was stifling. James Conley leaned his shoulder into his tie bar and reached for his red handkerchief. Hammer blows rang in the afternoon air and seemed to echo back from the nearby hills as the road crew struggled to get the track shored up before 209 arrived.
The foreman was looking at his pocket watch. “Ten minutes, gentlemen. Ten minutes.” James let up on the tie bar and moved to the next tie. “Seven minutes. How many are left, Shorty?”
“Got two to go, boss.” Shorty grunted as his sledge split the air. James glanced down the track as the rest of the crew cleared the tracks, gathering up tools as they moved toward the truck. His job was to ensure all tools were cleared from the tracks before the arrival of 209. Shorty lifted his hammer and slung it over his shoulder. James shouldered his bar and started after Shorty. He could barely hear the rumble of 209.
It was always satisfying to know they hadn't caused a caution light to flash. Raindrops splattered in the dust as he followed Shorty's back. Shorty turned and grinned. “Let's get in the truck before that thunderhead breaks.” James picked up his pace.
Up the tracks three small boys struggled to remove the foot of one boy from a split in the tie. “It won't budge!” groaned Tommy, as he tried to pull his brother free. He grabbed Harold's suspenders and shoved him down the tracks. “Run and get one of those men down there to help us. Hurry!” Harold sprinted, waving his arms in the air the way he always did, and yelling to the top of his lungs.
James had almost made it to the truck when he heard Harold's screams. His blood chilled as he looked back down the tracks, past the running figure. 'Kids shouldn't be allowed to play near railroad tracks.' flashed through his mind as Harold continued running toward him.
To his rear, Shorty was calling from the truck, which was starting to pull away. “C'mon, Jim. They're leaving you.” When James didn't answer, Shorty cast a glance backwards and turned loose of the hand that was helping him into the truck. The truck picked up speed as Shorty stumbled and tried to sprint after James.
James was running down the tracks, still carrying the heavy tie bar over his shoulder. Shorty picked himself up from where he had fallen and started after him. Overhead, thunder broke. In the distance he could hear 209's whistle as it warned cars from a crossing.
James was winded when he finally arrived where Barry was stuck. Barry's foot was tightly jammed into a crack on the outside of the rail. He had been interested in seeing if he could get his shoe into the hole and then pull his foot out of both of them. It had seemed like fun. He heard the train and turned pale underneath his summer tan. Sobbing, he leaned on his brother's shoulder and strained to pull his foot free. “Scrunch up your toes!” his brother directed.
“But they hurt!” Barry wailed.
Tommy was crying with frustration when Harold and the man ran up. “Mister, we need help bad!” he gasped out. James pulled him aside and looked at the place where the kid's foot was wedged. It looked bad.
He tried picking up the eight-year old, but he wouldn't pull free. James sat him back down and glanced down the tracks. 209 wasn't in sight yet, thank God. But it was close. He waved at Shorty. “Go back down the tracks and flag her down! Make 'em stop!”
James had no illusions. Shorty would not be able to stop the train in time. Those engines needed at least a full quarter mile to stop when they were going half-speed. This one had a full head of steam, and probably didn't know yet that anything was wrong. He turned his attention back to the children. Grabbing Tommy he directed him to pull his brother back toward the middle of the tracks. “Lift up under his arms. Keep his foot taut. I'm gonna try to get under the tie with my bar.” He stabbed down with his tie bar, trying to work it under the tie. Maybe the pressure from the bottom would free the kid's foot. He hoped so.
The bar suddenly slipped in his sweat stained hands and struck his shin bone. Stars and pain flashed as he struggled to regain control of the bar. Pelting rain drove sweat into his eyes and made the bar ever slicker. Thunder rumbled as the tracks began to hum with the approaching train.
Barry's screams brought James back to the task at hand. “The Train! The Train, oh, my God, the Train!”
James tried not to look back over his shoulder, but couldn't help himself. Barry was right. The train was in sight and would be down on them in no time. He could tell that Shorty had gotten to the engineer, but not nearly in time. They were all gonna die, if something didn't happen.
Furiously, James dug the head of his tie bar into the rough rock that the ties sat on. He couldn't get under it, so he switched over to face 209 and dug in again. Tommy was screaming for him to hurry. 209 screamed for them to get out of the way. The rails squealed in protest as James got his weight onto the bar. Tommy was still pulling on his brother when the tie split. The tie bar slipped from James' sweating hands and went flying toward the oncoming train, which was still trying desperately to stop. James tumbled backwards and rolled down the embankment. A stump stopped his progress toward the creek. Once more he had stars flash before his eyes and almost lost consciousness.
Slowly James groaned and rolled over to see coal cars moving past. “Oh, God! Those poor kids!” He held his ribcage and struggled back up the hill toward the tracks. The cars were noticeably slower when he made it back to them. The kids were nowhere in sight, but that didn't surprise him. He knew where they were. The cowcatcher was extremely efficient in removing everything from the tracks.
James went down on one knee and sobbed with frustration and pain. He was still bent over when Shorty ran up. “Jim, you did it!” he hollered. James tried to brush him off. “What are you talking about? The train got 'em. I saw it with my own eyes.” Even as he said it he could see it wasn't true. Shorty was grinning from ear to ear, and pounding James on the back. “They flew backwards and landed completely on the other side of the tracks. Man, that was a majestic effort you put under that rail! You did it!”
James had tears in his eyes, partly from Shorty's praise and partly from his bruised ribs that Shorty was trying to dislodge from his back. He sighed with relief as he heard two small boys yell from the other side of a now completely stalled train. Disaster had been averted.
I can still remember the smiles on the faces of the Wilson’s when they drove up in the hollow to thank my father for his daring rescue of their sons. Dad took it all in stride, went back to work on Monday, laying tracks and fixing rails. But one thing had changed. For the next twenty years he always turned and looked back down the tracks to assure himself that no small boys were in danger from Northbound 209.
* * * * *
Halloween at Hickory Ridge Mall
Flaming orange spitting out punkin eyes, angry, dripping teeth that all despise, mottled skin with green shone through, a rotted stem shows heart untrue.
Diaphanous sheets blown on the wind, mouth ablaring – again, again, ripped edges from struggle across the fence but nothing to take more than a glance.
Teeth bared yellow across shriveled jaw looking ever inward on Hickory Ridge Mall, finding no soft target to maim and fright, for all are inside on Halloween Night.
Inside at the feasting and carrying on by the crackling of fireplace and candle glow, with friends dear and true – ones you know, not the fiendish, devilish of the world gone cold.
But outside they must come to get in their cars, they no longer await behind shuttered bars but must mingle and join with the forever damned, who live for naught but to frighten the land.
So eyes look behind and glance toward the shadow, is Dracula there? Will blood spill the night, will the Horseman ride up and throw his head, do the sane ones scream and run with dread as Halloween explodes and runs afoul while everyone fears the bewitching hour?
All is now quiet as Winchester beds down, people lock their doors – on their foreheads a frown. Did we really see what we think we saw? Was all hell opened up at Hickory Ridge Mall?
* * * * *
Crystal Ball
Horses hooves thundering across the meadow, cannons mimic the gods bowling in heaven, men lay dead and dying – pierced asunder – for what?
All the world wonders. The streets of Memphis run with blood – violence upon violence – the opening flood with none to hold up the dove’s right hand – more monster than human – animal than man.
Sharp pain in my side where the 38 dwells, knocked me to my knees – near the gates of hell and none will lift a finger or hand to help – its hurt all others – each man for himself.
Bodies on the ground attest to the madness infecting the minds performing atrocity with gladness, degenerating to a cesspool of violence and hate – society sunk in – already too late.
Two hundred years on with none to look back, houses crumbled, cars rusted – no more attack generations erased – ceasing to toil, wake and play – for humanity is gone, whimpered – to fade away.
* * * * *
Realty Check
A friend asked me today to comment of some issues that she had after listening to the President address the Nation regarding Iraq's dictatorial regime and their penchant for using biological and chemical warfare to obtain their desired range of terror and destruction. Her fear was primarily for her children and her question was whether she could take care of them if/when the situation dictates.
Her mind was cooking the issue and the answers she was giving herself were troublesome to say the least. When a couple are given the 'keys to the kids' they're given by our society an awesome responsibility to go with the sometimes daunting and more often very satisfying task of seeing their children grow to adulthood. We in America have been richly blessed in that our society has not been threatened with annihilation from outside sources until 9-11. On that day the realization should have sunk in to each parent within the borders of the United States that TERROR in any and all of its forms can strike real close to home.
So – what do we do when it does? Her basic question was whether she could ‘take care’ of those wee ones that she loves and adores if something like biological warfare was to happen to them. In brutal terms – could she ‘end their suffering’ and I’m sure at the back of her mind, since she is a Christian, is the question of what will God think of her when she stands with their blood upon her hands at judgment?
First of all – we have to be prepared for all potential threats to our lives and livelihood. Nothing in the evolution of man upon this planet gives any civilization the right to assume they have a ‘free ride’ – one not subject to the vagaries of chaos. God does not place a bubble around any individual or nation protecting them from all harm. By taking precautions and thinking possibilities through to the bitter end – man takes care of that responsibility.
Would God hold their blood to her account? I don’t think so because in the process of ‘taking care to end their suffering’ she would be taking the responsibility directly onto her shoulders (as it should be).
With regards to that responsibility – we cannot and should not surrender it to the government – in any form. We, as parents, must make informed and considered decisions that affect our little ones. The government cannot do that for us. They can inform us – by all means – they Must. But take our responsibilities – no matter how odorous from our hands – No way!
To switch gears briefly here – there is another responsibility that we have in regards to this issue. That is our stance with regards to terrorism and terrorists. As Americans we must stand behind our President in the eradication of any and all terrorism threats. When in the course of world history a regime such as Saddam’s raises its ugly head to hurt and threaten its neighbors (and we all are neighbors upon this splendid ball) – then it is up to the saner populations of the world to make it plain that the actions taken to further their aims and regards will not go unpunished.
We need to step on Saddam and HIS kind. Only through doing so can we reasonably assure my friend that the thoughts which have been haunting her waking moments will not become a reality. No parent wants to contemplate even the possibility of having to do something that would drive all of us around the bend where true sanity no longer exists. We want for our little ones to be safe, to feel safe. Unfortunately, that atmosphere may have evaporated forever with the collapse of the Twin Towers on 9-11.
* * * * *
Treatise to Life
When in the natural course of human existence we take for granted the essence of our daily lives then something needs to remind us of why we are alive at this point in the continuity of our species.
It is not then conceit or misplaced imagination that drives us to accept the challenge of daily living. Those of us who live inside this 'pampered' society in which we find ourselves have little, if anything, to really challenge and confound us. We do not grow our own food - we graze through the isles of fast, frozen food at our nearest convenience store (nearly a mile from our places of residence). We elect to shop for our clothing at the boutique just across town. The faces of our women are adorned with all sorts of cosmetics extracted by 'others' from Earth's resources.
Our most challenging moments occur when we confine ourselves in the tin contraptions we use as the preferred method of conveyance – the car. Most of us try not to think of the speed with which our bodies are hurled up and down the countryside. We choose not to consider how quickly we could become mangled within busted pieces of the machinery of our lives.
Consequently our destructive energies turn inward as our societies try to influence us with laws and constrictions. Our bodies are made sick, often before our time, by the pressures we accept. Our minds are constantly in turmoil due to the certain-ness of the uncertainties of our lifestyles. We wish for release from the constant bombardment of the relentless media upon our lives. We want something REAL, but don't comprehend how to build any reality except for the fleeting one that flits and floats before our staggering eyes.
Stating an age-old problem in modern terms – we are bored! Nothing seems to be a worthy challenge anymore. Scraping to get by has been removed from our daily lives and we become fat and lazy because of all the 'labor-saving devices' that now adorn our lives.
We don't grow our own food so defending hearth and home against the ravages of nature and our fellow inhabitants of this globe we call home don't enter into our sphere of existence anymore. People no longer starve to death when local famine hits in the great country of America. Truckloads of produce arrive at our grocery chains every day. All we have to do is rely upon the meager jobs that we have to provide us with enough money for us to be able to afford to eat the food.
So what do we do? Is there an alternative for the lifestyle that modern man has drawn into his breastplate? Well, yes and no. Simplification of our living could be one answer but even that could prove to be a two-edged solution.
Consider for a moment that most of America relies now upon production within the service industry. We may not mine the ore that is turned into steel but we make the products that flow into our homes. Those things invade our space at an alarming rate because we think (or are made to think) that we need them. That new car with OnStar capability is a must. The new toaster oven which sits on the kitchen cabinet will make our lives so much better because we can now 'bake our own bread' within it. Trouble is – the typical mom isn't home to bake it and when she is – is too tired due to the requirements of her job upon the meager strength remaining in her already tapped out reserves.
Of course, we need the new clock to wake us from the dead sleep we fall into after the hard day trying to dodge the boss and the long evening of watching TV to avoid making connections with those we are supposed to love.
And let's suppose for a moment that we could 'DO WITHOUT' all those gadgets. We must then consider the impact that would have upon the service industry that depends on us replacing our worn-out (planned obsolescence) appliances and major products.
Experts exist within our society whose sole task is in the predicting how fast something should wear out. Our feeble attempt at simplification could put them out of a job. Our selfish desire to be free of the things that define our lives can actually be hazardous to the health and well-being of others within our society.
I wonder what the bow and arrow man thought when his king said there would be no more wars. The sword maker could just possibly re-tool his cottage industry to make plows, but what did the bow and arrow man do to feed his family (until the next war)?
Today's society probably is as fragmented as any society has ever been. Those fortunate people who by birth or flash of genius obtain wealth reside at the top of the heap. That has always been the way of things, but there is now a major difference. They may have the money but they are isolated from their kind (others of wealth) and from the unwashed masses.
And don't even throw the really poor into this equation. Today it seems there is no common denominator to bring people together. Nothing is really challenging us on a global and personal scale. We have conquered communism. We are stamping out most common childhood diseases and we can probably feed our growing population. But we cannot replace the resolve that is withering away. In modern America there is no longer any goal that is realistically within our grasp.
We need to be invaded by aliens from outer space. We really need to have our asses kicked, our teeth kicked in and our egos bruised. In other words, we need to be seriously challenged. Modern man needs to pull together to fight an evil so terrible that it will make fathers have to look under the bed before their children can go to sleep at night. Only when we have something of that magnitude will we pull together as a society to realize the full potential within us.
* * * * *
Discipline Our Children – Please!
Teacher X calls the office to ask for Principal A to come to her room to remove little Johnny from class because of fighting or foul language or maybe because little Johnny has finally gotten on the last nerve of a teacher already stressed way past the point where most of today’s parents think they would already have raised the belt to their own child.
A note in the child’s file says he can’t be disciplined. Last resort becomes to send little Johnny home for a couple days – although it isn’t currently called a “cooling off period,” Teacher X certainly benefits from the absence of little Johnny and his disruptive ways.
But what happens when the day comes that little Johnny seriously hurts someone else? After all, Principal A doesn’t currently have the authority to say that he can’t return to school. Because his parents both work there is no one to take care of him. He either wanders the streets unsupervised or another ‘unsuspecting’ school is saddled with him. But you can rest assured of one thing. He and his antics are not forgotten by those teachers he came in contact with.
Listen to a group of fourth or fifth grade teachers and one of them will bring up someone who may have passed through their classes a couple years earlier. They all know Johnny by name because he is etched into their minds for the rest of their natural lives. They may not have taught him much – in fact, he probably taught them more – about human nature when it is allowed to run wild and unchecked.
Listen long enough and you’ll also probably hear a phrase that goes right to the core of the matter (from the teacher’s point of view) – “Where are the parents?” – “Why aren’t they involved in Johnny or Suzie’s education?” – “What are these children learning at home?” – “It has to be Johnny’s home environment!”
Well, from a parent’s view point – I agree with those statements. From an educator’s view point – I also agree with them. Let me introduce myself. I grew up in the hills of southern Ohio, went to the Navy in 1970 and retired after twenty years in 1990. I worked 60 hours a week while going to Memphis State to finish my degree. I’ve worked all sorts of jobs since retiring from the Navy: Administrative Assistant, Dock Loader for a trucking company, selling/repairing computers, Office Manager, Data Base Manager, computer programmer and teacher.
I consider myself the be fairly unique in that I have two teaching jobs – during the daytime as a mild mannered elementary school substitute teacher and at night as a teacher of computer programming courses for a community college in the area.
My perspective in both school systems is unique. I am also a parent of one of those little Johnnys. My child is in the fourth grade. He likes having his father teach at his school. The bottom line is that I get to see things from a teacher’s perspective and also from that of a parent. And I’ll give you a CLUE for free – I whole heartedly agree with the teachers, staff and other concerned parents.
Teachers are beleaguered, have irate parents taking pot shots at them from some of the most obtuse angles, and feel as if they have too little time and what little they would like very much to use to develop those students who are really interested in learning is – you might have guessed it – taken up by those who want to “act up and play the fool.”
Can teachers really expect for parents to “get involved in their children’s education”? After all – the tax dollars that we pay toward that education – don’t they give us parents some sort of exemption? Isn’t it the responsibility of the school system to properly teach little Johnny and Suzie? Maybe teachers should just quit their belly aching and teach – after all – they are being paid to do the job.
Well, they can’t do it alone. Now right here is the crux of the matter. Teachers need the support and dedicated attention of parents – all parents, in molding little Johnny and Suzie into responsible, contributing adults. Parents who merely drop their child at the door and pick them up in the afternoon are sadly missing out on a rich environment that can be made so much richer by the participation of the parent in their child’s education.
We, as parents, need to assist teachers in bringing order and discipline back into the education process. We need to get involved by volunteering our assistance. Most teachers would welcome parents into their classrooms in the role of observers. You might learn just how dedicated that teacher is toward the goal of providing a quality education to your child.
But – if you did that – you probably wouldn’t be as quick to criticize and cast blame upon a teacher when little Johnny is finally sent home. You’ll see, like I did, that what is really needed, by both child and teacher – is something called discipline. Little Johnny needs to learn to listen – the first time. Little Suzie needs to obey and know there are rules to obey and consequences to be paid for disobedience. What we really don’t need is for a child in the second grade to rush out of the classroom screaming – “I’m gonna have my momma come up in here and kick your ass!”
Parental involvement in a child’s education is not the ‘be all/end all’ solution. There are many things that the school boards still have to get right. There are things the teachers can do to correct problem areas. But take a look at this statistic – parents have little Johnny for the first five years of his life (the time when most learning takes place), then dump him at the door for six to seven hours a day – parents get the kids back and have them for on average – 18 hours a day. Really now – who has the most impact on Suzie?
Bring that impact fully into your child’s life by getting involved with his/her teachers in the classroom or in programs that support the classroom. Volunteer to help Johnny’s teacher ensure he gets a solid education that includes moral values. It is possible that everyone will learn from a cooperative process. And for their sake (the kids) and for the rest of us – set down some rules that are reasonable and enforceable and bring the kids back in check – if only for the future of our species.
* * * * *
When you lay your head on my shoulder
When you lay your head on my shoulder – you woke up a heart long gone cold – you pumped new blood through my veins, dear – you made me feel I wasn't old –
When you hug me, you kiss me, you hold me – you make me be all that I can,
When you love me your smile really lifts me you make of me so much a man.
When you lay your head on my shoulder – you made me feel I could fly to the Moon – you made me feel I could bunji-jump in Boulder – you gave my heart a new tune –
When you hug me, you kiss me, you hold me – you make me be all that I can,
When you love me your smile really lifts me – you make of me so much a man.
When you lay your head on my shoulder – you gave new meaning to my life – you showed me how much I was needed – you gave me a reason to strive –
When you hug me, you kiss me, you love me – you make me be all that I can,
When you love me your smile really lifts me – You make of me so much a man.
* * * * *
A Frosty Bump in the Night
Stones piled atop each other on both sides of the gravel road threw darker shadows on a night already devoid of the moon’s beacon. Noises crept disturbingly through the forest, threatening to spill over into a world never made for their kind.
Gravel scritched underfoot as the visitor passed a long abandoned gate: standing open to beckon another soul into the confines of the wrought iron fence surrounding a village of stark, moss-ridden, acid-rain eaten stone markers of the already dead.
Roger tried to tiptoe by the gate; fearful that current residents might want his soul. He turned around suddenly in fear that some hideous monster was already upon him. It stopped. But started again as he took another couple steps. He looked down. His shoe had developed a squeak. He tried to walk on the side of his foot, so as not to awaken the inhabitants. In the distance, a mournful canine voice lent its eerie cry to a night already steeped in shivers.
Night swished cold and dank through trees mostly stripped bare of leaves. Few remained, as lonesome sentinels, shivering a warning to those who could listen – a warning of what they would do to him. He wouldn’t give them the chance. The frequency of his steps increased, but another sound joined the stirring chorus. So loud it was that he turned around quickly, half expecting a legion of life’s castaways. It seemed eyes stared from behind each wind-eaten stone. The stranger’s back prickled from stabbing imaginings of what they could do to him. He wouldn’t give them the chance.
The sound continued with each step he took. So loud it was that he knew that someone was going to be disturbed; someone better left undisturbed. Taking another step convinced Roger of what the sound was – his new corduroy pants were rubbing together loudly.
Sighing in relief, Roger tried to gather his courage. There really was nothing out here to scare or frighten anyone. His imagination was conjuring images that didn’t belong in any Tennessee countryside scene that he had read about. There was nothing out here to frighten anyone, at least not since his grandmother’s time. Too many of Grandma’s tales from the crypt came flooding back. Roger shivered suddenly and pulled his coat closer around his neck. Cold fingers brushed against an exposed throat.
Roger cleared his throat and mumbled, “I better get going. Standing here won’t make morning come any quicker. Boy, I wish now I hadn’t forgot to fill up the car this afternoon. I could be home in bed, or at Becky’s, or have Becky in the back seat – “Uh? What was that!”
Rustling, loud and ominous, was coming from the side of the road, just beyond the fence. Roger glanced back over his shoulder in an attempt to catch his stalker with the power of his own eyes. Something moved. Muscles were frozen. His feet seemed glued in place. He couldn’t move. About all that would move was his churning stomach and all that was coming from it was noise – “Ungh! Ungh!”
Coldness seeped into his being as a mass produced an outlined mask of a cruel face. Eyes glimmered redly into his own. They burned their wake into the very innermost part of his soul. Volumes were spoken through those harbingers of death.
“We will have your soul in hades tonight.”
His eyes were the only tools of his body, save his shaking, icy-cold hands that seemed to work. Muscles taut with fright prepared to move, but his feet seemed glued in place. He couldn’t budge them. “They won’t move!” he screamed inside his head. His voice box wanted to assist in the shriek he felt welling up inside, but his eyes saw something that caused his blood to freeze. They saw clearly into the shadows, defining a dark, colder region where dwelt the most fearsome of all monsters. Fear supplied the outlines, wind the creature’s movement, the ground joined in with scratching sound effects.
Staring into the center of the darkness frightened him to the very core of his being. Roger had never felt so alone, or so utterly helpless.
“How long have I stood here?” he asked himself.
Breath rasped in his throat, sharp pain became a red hot spot in his side. It was obvious why he should have gone out track team. Cold breath streaked down the back of his shirt, freezing the rivulet of sweat trickling down the middle of his back. That did nothing in comparison to the screech of the banshee behind him. Life came flowing back into his limbs once again.
“Ro-o-g-e-e-r-r! You’ve been such a bad boy. Shame on you! You deserve everything you are about to receive – your lukewarm Christianity cannot save you now. ha! ha! ha!” “Hoo Hoo Hoo!”
Something suddenly snapped. Roger’s feet came free of the cement holding them and he streaked down a dark lane only dimly lit by the paleness of a sliver moon peeking wanly from behind tattering clouds.
Roger felt the breath of the beast and looked behind him. His steps careened steadily to the left as he cast a glance over his right shoulder. Dark shadows were following closely, goaded on by the darker one standing to one side of the road. He had to get away, but never saw the ancient wooden street sign that he ran into.
Full force of body in motion met crunchingly with a post weakened and worn by time and weather. It snapped at the bottom, he bounced and flounced back on his ass, the back of his head coming down hard upon the surface of a hard, frost-rimned road.
“You see his eyes?”
“Yeap, they’s wide opened. Frozen terrified.”
“Yeap, whatcha think could do something like that to a man? This been a peaceable community fer years, hain’t it?”
“Reckon so. You goin down to the store?”
“Yeap, reckon so.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Curious bystanders milled around as the stiff body was placed into a waiting ambulance. “Nuthin much out on this old stretch of road.”
“Did you see his eyes?”
* * * * *
A Tale of Connard and Gwynned
Upon a black stallion mountain meadows he rode – the sun’s bright shadows couldn’t lift his heart’s load for in no corner of the earth could he find none so dear to remove the memory of his lady fair.
For Connard had given her his heart and his soul and forever searched for the magic to become whole but found not the bright smile to lighten his way to remove the memory of his lady’s love.
Love he did as a man loves his bride – into his life she came to stand at his side – her laughter so sweetly filled his heart with visions that linger now in dreams of his lady fair.
But not to be was a lasting love – for Gwynned was spoken to another and though she longed for his body as her lover – she knew she must break his heart and send him away from the sweet essence of his lady’s love.
And so he must seek and dwell in the land of no man where even his spirit can find no place to stand forever to desire the touch of her sweet hand which infects his dreams of his lady fair.
Beneath his stride his horse turned to dust – upon his body iron links turned to rust, but his spirit drove him on and on as it must in searching now for his lady’s love.
So it came to be that he stopped at the standing stones and there knelt in silence invoking the tones that might raise the ghosts of the Old Ones long dead who might repair the time spent from his lady fair.
Such was the depth of love of Connard and Gwynned that the Old Ones decided to grant him their release and slowly he sank into a state of peace enveloped in the memory of his lady’s love.
* * * * *
Connard's Lament
Mountain meadows have passed swiftly – sparkling brooks twinkled in the afternoon sun desolate, rock-strewn expanses engulfed me – extreme loneliness have I endured – in looking for my lady’s love in it all.
Children’s faces raise as we ride by market places seem to beckon and call – bustling cities make me remember a time long gone by – when I lay in the arms of my lady’s love.
Soft skin, lace, sweet body perfume – a giving smile and ready hands – the giving and taking of rising passion and timeless remembrance of such sweet action fill my mind with longing for my lady’s love.
Stars in the heavens continue to shine meadows of flowers now covered with snow bright in my memory her sweet face glows and bids me find peace from the heavens above – to linger in the warmth of my lady’s love.
Rusting armor hides a heart turned to stone and set apart – many mounts come and go and still I’m alone with memories that haunt me and keep me awake, but still I move on for my lady’s sake in search for a way back to my lady’s love.
* * * * *
Heavenly Intervention
A maiden approaches the abbey begging for forgiveness but is turned away – she falls on her knees on the steps outside – lifting her small voice to heaven she cried and awakened the Archangel who tended her plea – noticing the tears that burst on her cheek as she arose and stumbled off down the path.
Michael was deeply touched by her plight – appealing to the Mother of Everlasting Love to intercede on behalf of the forlorn maiden who seemed so sadly to have lost her way. He sang: Ave Maria – Ave Maria. Upon your steps she is kneeling, Unto her Lord she is praying, Ave Maria.
Michael looked down as a foot sore man approached the abbey and was turned away – he fell on the very same step and stopping prayed – as his chin rested upon his breast a bright, sharp tear joined hers in rest upon the steps of the abbey. The man stood and stumbled down the path she had taken but at the fork his choice was mistaken – so Michael could tell from his perch up above that never in this world would they find their true love,
So he sang: Ave Maria, Ave Maria – Upon your steps he was kneeling, Unto his Lord he’s appealing, Ave Maria
So the Mother of Mercy and Everlasting Love looked down from her throne in heaven above and granted that the pathways together would grow so Gwynned and her Connard could fall on their knees and praise the good fortune returned to each as they found the source of their love.
So Michael sang: Ave Maria, Ave Maria – Upon your steps they were kneeling, The will of the Lord you’re revealing, Ave Maria, Ave Maria.
* * * * *
When Vampires Ruled the Night
I took a deep breath. Rapt faces, upturned, startled into silence waited for another tale from the dark side. The runner on my rocker squeaked as I leaned forward; sharp inhalation from my five grandchildren postmarked the noise. They were afraid to ask “What was that?”
“What would you like to hear about next?” I asked. Jimmy's hand went up immediately. “Tell us about vampires, Gramps. Make it scary, like the other one. Can you?”
“Sure, Jimmy. Let me relate my own grandfather's stories about the most terrible, darkest, meanest, most atrocious vampires of history. I was about your age. I remember it like it was yesterday.” Perspiration could be seen on young faces.
“Throughout the whole vast shadowy world of ghosts and demons, there is no figure so terrible, no figure so dreaded and abhorred, yet complete with such fearful fascination as the vampire, who is himself neither ghost nor demon, but yet one who partakes the dark natures and possesses more lethal cunning than the vampire.
“There were many so-called “living” vampires in history. Have you heard about Vlad Tepes the Impaler?” Heads shook, Gramps continued. “The Prince of Wallachia in Romania. My Grandpa said he was a friend with Elizabeth Bathory, a Hungarian Countess. Vlad Tepes earned his reputation as the Impaler by placing his prisoners atop tall, pointed, greased stakes so that their tortuous deaths could take hours or even days. He was even credited with having the head coverings of visiting dignitaries nailed to their skulls when they failed to take them off when being presented to his court.”
Gramps leaned forward with menace in his eyes. Small forms cringed. His voice took on a rough, spooky quality. “Vlad Tepes was also known as Dracula, the son of Vlad Dracul. Dracul meant the dragon or the devil. This Romanian Dracula ruled Wallachia with an iron hand during the 1400's. He killed as many as one hundred thousand people during his reign of less than twenty years.”
Jimmy was aghast. “Wow, GI Joe never killed that many.” He looked over at Tommy. “And you thought he was bad. This guy must have had a dual machine gun.”
“He wasn't the only one, Jimmy. Remember the Countess Bathory.” Gramps rung his hands.
“She was called the Blood Countess, and is credited as the most prolific murderess in history, with at least 610 confirmed victims.”
Young Amy shuddered. “I don't want to hear any more, Gramps.” She got up and ran to the door, but stood, hugging the casing, looking back with fear in her eyes. She had almost run out during the Wolfman story. Gramps turned back to the boys.
“Her victims were young, large breasted virgins who were tortured and killed after taking jobs as servants in her castle. Elizabeth drank the blood of these young women and also bathed in it. She thought that the fresh blood had rejuvenating properties. The Countess, as well as her servant accomplices, undoubtedly was a person with an erotic blood lust whose sexual satisfaction could come only from blood. Jack the Ripper, in our own days, was similar to her.”
Gramps rocked back and gazed at the large clock on the mantelpiece. “That's not all of it, is it Gramps?” demanded Orel. He was older than the other children, being ten. Gramps looked narrowly at him, aware of the real mean streak in the child. Torturing cats and bugs was reputed to Orel. ‘What effect will vampire stories have on him?' Gramps wondered.
“No, that isn't all of it’s the mysterious and terrible qualities of both.”
Everyone was held spellbound by the story. Re-emerging themes of pleasure and pain, master and slave, good and evil, which appear in all vampire stories, appeal to people on many levels.
The children's rapt attention as he spoke of the Bohemian Mora, who sucked human blood, made him feel he had hit the correct button. “Many of the features of these shape-shifters, as they are sometimes called, came from mythology and legends that have been passed down through the generations.”
Amy had crept back into the room and stood behind the boys. She was already an avid history buff and liked tales that were woven with historical backgrounds.
“Amy,” he addressed her directly. “The ancients believed that vampires were made from a real creature that existed much the same as the ancient Romans believed that Romulus and Remus were raised by a she wolf. The Greeks also had their beliefs in the minotaur and the Theban's believed in the sphinx.” Her eyes sparkled.
“In times and cultures of warrior tribes that combined beliefs involving animals and the dead with the protection and rejuvenation of the community, vampirism and spirit possession enjoyed a rationalized function in the society. This rationalization was an attempt of the villagers to link the family with society and religious ritual, and appears primarily in civilizations where the dead played an important part in the culture and in the religious beliefs of the culture.”
“Really, Gramps?” Tommy sounded incredulous. He looked at Jimmy and Frank, then back at Gramps. “Where did you learn all that?”
Gramps smiled. “History books are fascinating things, once you open the covers, Tommy. Let's go on.”
“I hate history.” interrupted Orel. “It's so dull and boring.” He placed his finger in his mouth and imitated puke on the floor chair.
“How would you know if you had just done something that was done before, if you didn't study your history book, huh, Orel? Are you going to repeat the past?”
Orel's black eyes sparkled. “I hope so. Especially if it makes me the one who kicks ass on everyone else.” Orel poked at the other boys and started toward the door. “Come on, I know where we can find beetles to feed to your frogs, Jimmy.” The boys followed.
Amy stayed behind. “Tell me again about all those people, Gramps. Did the living dead invade our world?”
The “living dead” vampire is one of the oldest figures in the world. The idea of the dead feeding on the living is found in Ancient Babylonia and Assyria, in Egypt, Indo-China, Africa and South America.”
“The Finnish Lord of the Underworld.” The other boys laughed but turned their attention back to Gramps.
“Orel, you've got a lot to learn about life.”
“But it's a sure bet I'll not need your history books to get me what I want out of life.”
“How do you know?” Gramps rocked back in his rocking chair.
“Did he really kill that many people?”
“Fraid so, doll.” Gramps lifted her onto his lap. Her blue eyes flashed as he began talking again about one of her favorite subjects – ancient history.
* * * * *
What Really Happened at the Pyramid?
Maggie looked over the side of the moss covered ledge and shuddered. I could feel her trembling as she pressed her sweat covered body against mine. I tried to look past her but her grip on my arm shuddered her body back against mine.
“They look like ants down there,” she said. I tried to look past her but her grip on my arm suddenly overcame the feeling of world conquest flowing through my veins. We had arrived and conquered. Nothing could defeat the Warbird. Its lines and contours filled my heart with pride. No one stood between us and this lush, green planet.
Something brought me out of the intoxicated haze that seemed to infect my brain and reminded me of an important point - she was between me and the edge. Gently I maneuvered her around so she was behind me. The scene below was breathtaking. Standing there looking down into the jungle brought back all the mystical tales I had read about the pyramids.
Finishing the book Mystic Places was why we had jumped at the tour of Mexico. Maggie just had to see the ruins; really see them. That's why we were standing about three-quarters of the way up the side of one of the tallest of the Mayan structures. It seemed to reach to the heavens themselves: Almost as if they actually could have held a spacecraft in tow.
For a moment he almost became one of those early spacefarers. Looking up at the golden bird anchored in the sky above, he again felt the presence and realized Maggie was moving further up the side of the pyramid, attempting to reach a high ledge that jutted out by itself.
She was yelling at me to follow her. He shook my head. Now he was not sure whether it was to clear it of cobwebs or to try to warn her from going onto the ledge she had in mind. But one thing became obvious - I would have to follow her.
Maggie was standing back from the edge, looking down at a large brownish stain that seemed to be part of the rock surface. It was more than part of the rock surface. It appeared to have been painted into the very pores of the basalt. “What is it?” she asked. I shook my head. “I'd rather not think about it.”
I struggled, my hands were tied. Someone was holding the gleaming claw of a hand high in the air. Far below I could hear the raucous cheering of a starved crowd. They knew the time was upon them to receive Mother Earth's bounty.
The Dragon-Lord motioned for those holding me to place me directly over the stained ground. Then he opened his mouth in a wide smile, to show the two hollow teeth that resided there. I shrank back against those who were pushing me forward. I would rather jump over the side myself than let him touch me.
He stepped forward and raised an arm toward the stack of heads of countless others who had wandered from their tribal boundaries. He looked straight into my eyes and told me what he was going to do. “Your blood will spill and mingle with those before you. That is, what blood remains after I drink my fill.”
The high priest gestured for those holding me to bend back my head, exposing the neck. His fangs sank deep. I could feel the blood being siphoned from my now lifeless body. Maggie's voice came through a fog. I could hear her screaming something as she stumbled toward me.
“Your heart I will have roasted tonight, and your worthless body will be thrown to the crowd below. You do understand, don't you?” He stepped away from me and parried a look back over my shoulder. My guards were holding my head so I couldn't look at who was holding onto my arms and shoving me toward the priests standing near the edge.
One in particular caught my eye. His red skull-cap rimmed a malicious face. The blackish- blue tattoos of a Dragon Lord made both cheeks stand out; his lower face seemed sunken by what he was seeing. “Oh, damn! They've arrived with your ransom. I guess we are going to have to set you free.”
My legs almost folded under me. I lowered my eyes to the stones underfoot and sighed in relief. That is exactly when he struck. The blades on his fingers raced hot through both bone and cartilage and curved around a beating, frightened heart. His backward thrust ripped it out. He held it high above his upturned head, lapping the fresh blood dripping from it.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-28 show above.)