Tango: The Glories of Romance (Buenos Aires/a short story)

Tango:
The Glories of Romance
(Buenos Aires/a short story)) 4-30-2007


Had he told her what was on his mind, she would surely not have been grateful. He believed what she said, that she was in love with him, even though he was trying at times. They were in love, and watching a show, a Tango show, at ‘Restaurant 36,’ in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Three couples were doing the Tango (an artful alluring dance that was brought over from immigrants from Europe around the turn of the 20th century, a combination of several dance steps put together, it was of course then refined to what it is today).
Manuel—looked at Brazil with wanting eyes. He did not dare to ask for want he had on his mind (he figured he’d get it later) even the wine didn’t force it out of him, and uncounted beers, slowly does it, he told himself, if anything he felt painfully sober. For these four hours in the bar-restaurant and show house. He had figured he was either in love with her, or in lust perhaps, with her, so he told himself anyhow, at the age as theirs, it goes hand in hand, one might conclude.
‘Why,’ he asked himself, sitting at the table, watching the Tango show, ‘why had he not come to some conclusion sooner?’ They were on a vacation (kind of) the first one they had ever taken together, from Lima they took a plane, and were to spend a week in Buenos Aires, kind an overdo pre engagement vacation, although they were not engaged either. They had been friends since early on in primary school, and throughout high school, at which time one might have concluded they were sweethearts and friends, but she never did anything with him, he was seldom around. And for some reason, now he was pressing her to get married, both 25-years old. If anything, she was used to him, familiar might be a better choice of words, she didn’t know him as well as he knew her.
His blood was boiling. This new intensity she seemed to give him was evidence he figured, that she was the one and only. He had dated many girls, but it was Brazil who he compared them with, and they all fell short of his expectations of course. He was a thief by profession, but she didn’t know it. If anything, she was oblivious to it, and unknowingly teaching him what a man is, or suppose to be, which he was becoming not becoming, but pretending to be, the result of her tutoring, which she took from observation of her father was at best annoying.
“Manual,” she said, “I am so glad you are not one of the many thieves in Buenos Aires, or Lima, not one of the many, but you seem like a man, like my father, who has lived to a high degree of integrity.”
Manual, didn’t quit understand that simply statement to be taken as a word of praise, he didn’t really see her point. But said nothing to spoil the moment, I guess, he told himself, it was kind words, she respected him. But why did she put ‘man’ involved with this. I mean, he felt like a man, I guess, he looked like a man, but now she implied, all this looking, and feeling were not the ingredients that make a man. What exactly did, he didn’t know. This bothered him.
“And what is that,” he asked.
“What is what?” replied Brazil.
“What is it that makes a man a man, according to you?”
She hesitated a minute, not because she could not answer his question, only that such a question came out of his mouth. Those kind of questions are from people that are offended, and how could he be offended, I mean, this was evident, if he was a man, and had man qualities, he would not have to ask her what she thought they were, he would, and should know.
“God knows a man has only himself, and good works to offer, he should influence those around him, influence is the quality of leadership, and all men should have this; it is a God given gift. Man is supposed to lead in a household, how can he lead if he does not take this God given gift from God seriously. A man doesn’t take from the weak, not like a thief, who tries to take from another he knows he can. But he is a soldier of sorts. He does not laugh at someone’s tears, or a child hurt while playing, he has passion between them.” (She had remembered at that moment what her father had told her, “…not all males, old or not, can define a man, because they are not men, although they look like them, feel like a man, because they are mature physically, but that is not the ingredients that make men.” In addition, her father once old her, “I was hungry, very hungry, living in Seattle, Washington, and I saw a boy selling candy at night, going from house to house, and I was going to rob him, but I couldn’t, and the reason being, it is not what a man would do. The boy was perhaps 12-years old, and I was twenty, it would have set a trend for the rest of my life, that it was ok to so such things. I would starve to death before I’d rob from another, what does not belong to me. If God can feed the sparrows, he will surely feed me.”)
“Ludicrous,” came out from under his lips; she could see that he could not see this squarely. And for a moment he despised her (it showed on his face, and she saw it). ‘
It would seem he did not appreciate her honesty, and her insight. He stared at her, at her unique awareness. How lovely she looked her excellence, her soft hair falling over her forehead; her shinning like crystal eyes, her completion—polished like ivory. He was caught between his wit and her truth.
She started to think he never gives advice, like papa said, or would say, ‘why?’ and add, ‘perhaps it is in conflict with his lifestyle, so this was surfacing.’ She really didn’t know his other side, the side that gratified him to keep secretes, and her father once said, ‘secrets are for those whom wish to hide the truth, they come out sooner or later, and usually later with men trying to become whom they are not to hogtie a woman to them; you see, they become the person they think you want them to be, not whom they really are; embarrassing as it may be, when the truth comes, it is usually too late for the woman. You see, a man cannot play the roll of a man forever, if he is more than what he claims to be.’


It happened to be, Manual ran into an old friend of his, “Adelmo, how are you, how you been?” Adelmo was with one of the Tango girls, that was on stage a few minutes ago. They both looked under the weather, boozed up, half drunk.
“Whatever is he doing so drunk?” came out of Brazil’s mouth. “Who is he to you?” She added. (She also remembered what her father told her: ‘…be watchful for whom the man you date, hangs out with, it is usually they are like two peas in a pod, so do not be deceived, if your date tries to avoid them, it is for sure….’)
“Lord, it’s been long since we’ve worked together….” he said accidentally. Had he had a chance to retrieve those words, those simply words, he would have.
“Work—what kind of work?” she asked.
“Does it really matter?” he sharply said.
“It doesn’t anymore,” she said, listening to her instincts, “I just assumed it might.”
Having discovered Manual to have a new or different nature than what was displaced up to this point, and him assuming, they were stuck together in the city, he was being a little careless with showing his true character.
She stood up, informed Manual she needed to go to the bathroom, and she did just that (as he carefully watched her go through the door), but on her way out of the bathroom (Manual was busy talking to his friend, as she predicted), there was a door at the other end of the building, she walked right past the pool tables in the back room, where several young bucks checked her out, but she kept on walking pas them out onto the sidewalk, and flagged down a taxi, and told him—“To the airport,” leaving her cloths and the few items she had brought along where they lay in the hotel room, and caught the next flight back to Lima.

Walking with the Dead (a short paranormal story from Iceland)

Walking with the Dead



(A Minnesota short story of suspense)) I once heard, or read, “The dead are dead, leave them be.” Indeed I thought, I shall, but how dead can dead men be, I would learn soon (and they all laughed as I said that).
I saw what I saw, down they marched down a low path in a silent procession to the sea, these ghostly figures with stern like faces, the spirits of earth, air and water, old soldiers marching; amazed I was to see through the fog like mist, see these phantom ghosts, this evening along the Icelandic coast (I had come here from Minnesota, to visit, a weekend, come by myself to get away from my tenants, I had 21-tenants I rented my houses to, 21-families that is, and I often took a long weekend, or a short one and few here and there, Iceland, was my selection this time, outside of its capitol city Reykjavik; of which I was some forty miles out, and on a cliff, I was I say, for now I was walking down this path to its sea with them.)
I could see these shapes, by way of the moonlit sea, the rocks and cliffs all about had a gleam to it; they had grim eyes, with no blinking or lids, ghosts with an uncommon gray to them, lamp lit crimson eyes. Long stringy hair, some naked, some with old garments on, some almost demonic like, all primitive looking, some even with primate tails, so it seemed, akin to slaves, Moors, Crusaders (from the 11th Century), barbarians, even some WWI soldiers, some Saxons, Romans and Greeks; all marching lordly to the sea, as if they had been lost, and now found. Someone was leading them, in this long thin line that stretched out for several hundred feet, perhaps two to three hundred of them. The figure leading them looked physical, I saw him turn about a few times, briefly saw him; men of the past great wars. I myself was a war veteran, Vietnam was my war. It all was so very strange, why could I see them? I was aghast. I told myself: get out of here before I get caught in some web. The leader again looked back at me, as if he was trying to see if I was following him because I could see the dead, or perhaps out of simply walking to the sea, for personal reasons, and not able to see the dead, thus, he stopped the group, and I stopped. His eyes opened wide, as if surprised, as if he was astounded I could see these so called wondering spirits. Then he started back up again. A few of them watched me; put really paid me little attention, and continued on their way.
I couldn’t stop, I found myself walking with the dead out of intrigue almost. With wondrous uncertainty I hurried along behind this long line or procession of ghostly spirits, sea bound. My feet got weaker and my knees heavy the closer we got to the sea. Then I started to hear voices in my head, as if the leader was talking to me, paranormally—, the jest of it was, under the sea there was a porthole for lost souls on earth, and these were souls that had been lost for centuries, and had found their way to this location, one of several throughout the world. And evidently, the scout, or reconnoiter in front was leading them to their fate, the door to their next beyond.
Amongst themselves the spirits, these two-hundred souls, marching onward, talked in diabolical whispers, social talk to a certain degree, in all sorts of languages. The closer I got to the sea, the dimmer they became. As they reached the sea, evening turned into twilight, and twilight into night-night. There was a chill to the night all round me, and it was summer I’ll have you know, hot nights normally, but with all these walking dead, I felt like I was in an ice-box, then there was a stillness that prevailed on the shore. The water receded, and the spirits quickly walked into the sea, and in a moment’s time, sank into the waters, as the current rebound. Next I noticed the hissing water bubbled, souls murmuring echoes that seemed to fill the night air, then I figured they must had found the door, for their prevailed a stone-silence all around me, as I stood in the water up to my knees, the tide out, yet coming in fast.
The tided then came upon me, like a black vulture, unrepentant, and covered me, and when I caught my breath, and the tide moved out again, I found myself buried up to my next in sand, and a man peering over me, the very man that was leading the dead this location, and when he spoke, his voice was that very voice that I heard in my head.
“You will be perfect,” he said to me, as if he had designs on my future. Then he added, “You could see the dead, there are not many of us that can, you are one of the few…!”
I was confused with all these happenings, to say the least, my mind in a chaotic whirl. It was almost impossible to believe this man, whom said he was walking with the dead, to their porthole of entry on earth, to join the dead beyond it. But I had seen it with my own eyes, and so what could I say. I even thought for a moment, this was all a dream (I did suffer from the lack of sufficient sleep), and then got thinking next, was he not going to unbury me?
Then like a worm stuck in a hole, he pulled me out easily, and I found myself standing next to him. “You are my replacement.” He said, humorously, but with a serious enough face to make me believe he meant it.
“No…!” I said, “I don’t think so…!”
He then told me, he had been walking the dead for over a hundred and fifty-years, and before him, there was another fellow, and before him another, all the way back to the days of the Vikings, and then some. I said nothing more for a few minutes, letting him explain to me what he felt he had to, watching the blaze in his eyes, as if he was tired of the job, and wanted to get on with life else where. I assumed he must had been close to 200-years old by the way he was talking.
“You have a gift, and you will have to use it for the next hundred years or so, walking the dead, how else will they find their way to the porthole in the sea?”
To be frank, I didn’t really care, I wanted to get on out of there, and started to walk away.
“Wait a minute,” he said, “if you leave, I will have to put you back where I dug you up! I only saved you to take my place.”
Revenge is sweet I thought, now he threatens me, but I PAID HIM NO HEED, AND IN A FLASH, something hit me from behind, on the head, when I woke up, I was back into my cramped quarters in the sand, and the tide was coming, I could hear it, and the old man standing over me like a prison guard, smirk on his face.


Conclusion: “That is really all I remember folks, because when I woke up, I was down here with you, standing at this porthole, waiting.” (Then all the newly arrivals, started laughing over my story)) all the dead, that surrounded me in the deep of the sea; we all laughed together then, as the old man—so I could see afar —was bringing in a new load of lost souls.))

Written 4-18-2007/edited 4-21-2007

The Rude Chamber (part of the Cadaverous Planets)

#32

The Rude Chamber
(And the Voodoo Guardian of Haiti)

A short story within the Paranormal/part of the Cadaverous Planets

(Whatever Happened to Tfarcevol?)


Advance: Tfarcevol the Wise, seen in the pages of the History of Moiromma, and the Cadaverous Planets, had his 100-lives, as did most Moirommalit’s, but for some reason, out of the velvet darkness he was cast into where his mind and soul went, he was chosen, and resurrected for the 101st time, but there was a reason for this, as there is for most everything within the universe—to be the Voodoo Guardian of the Citadel in Haiti (this happened in 1986, how long he was the guardian I do not know, perhaps since the time of Napoleon; the story has been handed down to me by a woman named Sam Pound, I shall narrate it in the first person, and do my best to see it his way, Dan Weber’s way, the friend of Sam’s.)


[The Citadel] Its passageway let up to the chapel, I and Sam, my female, assistant, walked slowly through it by candle light, it reflected on the walls, glowed on the floor, the ceiling, made a lovely hauntingness to the thick stones walls. The Citadel was built in the early 1700s, on top of a hill, 3000-feet hill, it took 20,000-Haitians to build it, in fear Napoleon would takeover the Island; evidently he had such intentions, and it never happened. Thus, it was built in a hurry and many of the forced labor were killed in the process. Perhaps the citadel can be more of a crematory than a fortress, but it has been called the 8th wonder of the world.
The year was 1986, when I was there with Sam, I was thirty- nine years old then, and she was ten-years younger. Both of us were treasure hunters (looking for collectables of the ancient), part time archeologists you might say.
We had found the chapel, it was blocked off, and we had to go under the floor, and through the walls, and up again. A new roof was being put on over the chapel, and most of the work had been done, it was evening, and the workers had gone home. We were unobserved, Sam Pound, was from Minnesota, like me, Dan Weber; I lived on Jackson Street in the city of St. Paul. This was not our first adventure together.

[Midnight] The evening was intensely hot, my body was sweating pitilessly. In another hour we would attempt to locate the treasure we came for. I pulled out a book to read, by Bram Stoker, “Lady Athlyne.”
During this time a workman came on watch, a Haitian, checking out this and that, the doors in particular, the ceiling and roof, etc, and so forth. He then left as he arrived, and I started to read afresh, trying to figure out between sentences the secret place were the writings were, the treasure we sought after. (The treasure being the secret scriptures of Moiromma; they were taken to earth by Agaliarept, the henchman of Hell, hidden from everyone because of a three-year war that took place on the Planet, and now guarded by a voodoo priest, also known as the Prophet of Moiromma, or wise man of Moiromma, Tfarcevol.)
Not much was known of him, only legends told of some far off planet, and he was resurrected from the dead, to guard the scriptures, ones he had written long before they were taken to earth, written on his Planet. Anyhow, I was hoping most of this was legend, not fact, only the scriptures. Normally, 90% of legends are bull, and 10% fact, so I’ve found out in my worldwide search and travels.
I put my book down, got thinking, and strangely enough Sam stood up, looking down, over me: like a cat looking above a mouse; she was still, as I lay on the floor. She was hauntingly looking, which didn’t connect to her breeding or personality. I forgot about the treasure for a minute, lost all interest in it, lost in a contemplation of her despair. I quickly stood up and said horridly “What is the problem with you?” Thinking she saw something, and was paralyzed by it, or shock in seeing it.

[Trembling Spirit] She spoke in a strange low tongue, one I had never known. Her body became contorted, as if there was a spirit form inside of her, too large for her, and her skin was budging like rubber being stretched to its limits. She was trembling, or so it seemed, and in a low rustic voice that was not hers, slowly, the language she was speaking turned into English, almost a gradation, syllables being worked out, the words were forming. Then she said, “If I offended you, pardon me!” then added, “I am not the owner of this body, as you well know, but I am the guardian of this citadel, as you should know, and known as Tfarcevol the Wise, from Moiromma. And you see, if it is the treasure of the scriptures you are after, I cannot allow this, it must—in time—be returned to Moiromma.”
Then she raised her hand in protest, “Stop your search, and I will release your woman friend….” I had also read about this legendary planet, and knew should I do as this spirit said, it could not be trusted, and I wanted the scrolls.
In all respects, the spirit that filled Sam to the brim, if he was good natured at one time, he was no longer, in a ward, he was bad, but he could not possess two people at once, so I had a chance to escape, or try to deal with it. I paused a moment, my eyes roving about, to see what I could do, Slam’s fingers nervously moving about, trifling perhaps. “Be careful,” the spirit said, I think the scrolls were in the room and I was making him nervous.
“Do you not see the importance of you leaving this area and not coming back?” The voice said inside Sam.
“Perhaps not,” I said.
“For many generations, many have come to find this treasure, only to find misfortune.” The voice alleged.
Again I thought the spirit, that called himself …the Wise, was playing games with me. Perhaps the treasure was nearby, and what could an old spirit do in a woman’s body, that was half my size, and I knew karate.
“There is not a corner of this chapel or for that matter, the whole Citadel that has not been searched so looking for the scroll is useless, plus I will not allow it even if you could find them.”
But I felt not all was lost.
“Someday someone will find them, you can’t stop everyone!” I stated.
“By that time, I will have given them to another Moirommalit, you see there are many of us down here on your planet, I simply cannot leave to find one, could I, they would have been given to one long ago.”
Before I could say another word, he leaped out of Sam, she must had said something to him (he mumbled something anyhow, as if he was talking to himself or Sam in a confusing dialogue), and leaped inside of me, quicker than a leopard. And the only thing I could see was her running out of the chapel door too freedom, as this large, perhaps seven to nine feet tall spirit, (for I saw him for a second, during the transfer). Then he went into the cellar, open up an old coffin, bones inside (I could hear Sam breathing, she must had come back for a moment to see what was taking place, because the spirit said…’shoo’ which I took for: go away), and he lay down, and he told me, “You will die here, and I will wait, and when you do, I will go about my business as normal.” He wasn’t going to leave my body quite yet.
I tried to negotiate with him, but he wouldn’t have it, he feared me, feared what I first feared, that he was lying; now he assumed I was lying, but I wasn’t, and I guess he wasn’t.

Written: 4-18-2007 (the author was in he Citadel in 1986, and it is a wonder to see)

No Eyes to Weep With (Revised 2-13-2008)

#31

Part of the Cadaverous Planets

No Eyes to Weep With
[General Iromma of the Great War—on Planet Moiromma]
(A short paranormal story into Augsburg)Part Two of Two)


He killed with pride, which he offered his prey little of, in his graceful manner, even with a passion of hate which he held for them, he did not shame his victims too much, just enough to gain a violent reputation; his eyes burning into their deathly white faces he oppressed them, slowly, like boiling a frog alive, unnoticeable. He struck to kill, born of coldness. From such a general, one would think he would have to pay a price, but for three-hundred years, he did not on planet Moiromma, not until, after the war was won; he never had I say—but then, on the other hand, the war ended and fear does funny things to those we make into our heroes.
Anyhow, throughout the history of Moiromma, cruelty was not uncommon, just graceful cruelty was (by graceful I mean, he loved to kill, and though very little of his prey), his kind observed this with a fretful eye, but needed him to win the war; it was by his rare breed they won. He was a soldier the day he was born, and he did his duty, and it was to kill or be killed. When he killed it was never fratricidal, he was the general of a long drawn out war, which lasted three-hundred years, and he was almost immune to bloodshed. General Iromma, born and breed on Moiromma.
Many sneered at the General with sarcasm at the end of their lips, at the end of the war. He paid little attention to it, it was his job, duty to fight the Great War of Moiromma with the barbarian tribes of the Northlands and insure they would not crossover and into valley region again—as they had done and butchered many soldiers and citizens alike, for food; thus, they were starving in the Northlands, starving and eating ice rats, and bats, and worms, things of low nutrition you might say—not in the delicious category; yet, into the kingdom of King Moir the XI region they had penetrated, he drove them back, and captured what was left of them. It was said he captured the enemy and took them on the long march from the frozen lands of the north, to the valley to be punished, and gave them nothing to eat but snow on the way (some ate grass, brown grass, tundra grass you might say, when they could, when he was not watching, it may seem funny, but one can survive on such a diet); it was a death march, and they carried the soldiers packs and gear for them, the few that made it to the valley—that is. The General took out their eyes like plucking a yoke out of white surroundings; he took their eyes so they could not even weep among themselves, he didn’t like the noise. Thus, the uprising of the Northlands of Moiromma was stopped, once and for all. (It was Moiromma’s Great War, amongst the Cadaverous Planets.)

And so the General tolerated his trials without whimpering or showing his pain and scares in the many battles he had fought, and won for the king.
He told his Army, in the process of discharging them, “We do not bend, nor never did we, no more than today than when our great ancestors did when they swept the land, back when King Moir the 1st, ruled the land. Now you can say the three-hundred year war is past, and all but a dream, a great experience, indeed.”
So he addressed his public when he came back from war, and all celebrated his heroism. But they all feared him as well, and this brought a strange public demand on the king to insure their safety with such an animal for a public servant in peace time.
It was that very summer on the planet when things changed for him, for the General; summer on Moiromma, lasts only six-weeks out of a year, thus, much must be done in this short time. He was deadly pale and was healing, being nourished from the lack of protean of many years of fighting, his eyes a hollow glare, sunk deep into its sockets, the skin touching his skull. Yet he remained master of himself. It was right around this time the king made his announcement, for he had lost ground with the king because of the demanding public; he, the general, could not bend, or gain public sentiment for himself, they feared him too much, he never smiled you see, his eyes glared death to whom ever looked in them. He was all of seven feet tall, and the best soldier since his great grandfather, who was King Moir 1st general, and assistant.
Such a beast the general was, as he roamed the streets of the valley kingdom, where the caves were, and the King lived. In regards to the demands of the public, in consequence, the king spoke, and in so doing his words pronounced the banishment of the General, from the land, in fear of public reprisal. The general, like his great grandfather, asked for a review of history of Moiromma for additional information, and thus to think about what he, the king was doing. The king did not take a liking for this, and the general took note, and with a swing of his sword, decapitated the king right there and then, right where he sat, on this throne, decapitated him with a stiffly and lofty condescension, and he simply said, before he was overpowered and decapitated by the chamber guards himself, “I have pity to give the king no pain, that is why I took off his head, and not out his heart.”
Had the king been wise, he would have remembered his great, great grandfather, and what Iromma’s great grandfather had done, for that is what was written in the annuals of history, on the kingdom.

Benediction: legend has it, this old General, was resurrected on earth (as Moirommalit’s can do), in those far off days. Ending up in some part of Germany (I think Augsburg) as a butcher, or butchers helper, and died of old age on his 539th birthday, in 1972. Perhaps middle-aged for Moirommalit’s; he died with old fashion grace you could say, and courtesy and inconceivable haughtiness.

Written 4-20-2007 (reedited 2-13-2008)

Reeking Foulness(A short paranormal story out of Augsburg)

Part of the Cadaverous Planets

Reeking Foulness
(A short paranormal story out of Augsburg)


The bed was of rags and straw, the old man seemed to be an old soldier of some sort, perhaps from WWI, I guessed; he slumbered about his shanty, in Augsburg, West Germany, 1970. A year I will never forget, he looked as if he had lived a long life, a hard lived life, and now, in a word, a wake drunk, so I thought because of his behavior. He had a haggard look to his bone structure, charcoal and olive skin, huge shoulders, and tall, perhaps close to seven feet; an unsavory look, a villainous composure, eyes hard. Curiosity to him—so it seemed—was of a thing of the past, he paid little to no attention to me, or the people walking by, or standing about waiting for buses, taxis and so forth: ‘…an old warrior,’ I said to myself, indeed he must be; WWI, yes, what else.
It was1970, I was lost in the beautiful city of Augsburg, the streets I was not familiar with yet; I was assigned to Reese Compound, US Military stock, the 1/36 Artillery Unit, A Battery (I was twenty-two years old, a Private), and it was a weekend, and I was moseying about. Being lost in a city was not a big thing to me back then; I could simply jump in a taxi and be back at my unit in fifteen minutes any place in Augsburg.
By this time, standing nearby this shanty of sorts, it was early afternoon, Saturday to be exact. In my confusion of where I was at, I saw a small creek, in a park close by, with a bridge that crossed it. I wanted to cross it, but got interested in the old man; nonetheless, I ventured beyond the old man’s shanty to the park and onto the bridge, elbows on the bridge’s wooded railing, looking over towards the old man again, the old German war veteran, or so I supposed he was. He was doing something: intimately each time I looked, I just did not concentrate on what.
The old shanty had but three walls to it, the front open, not sure if he had sliding doors attached to the ceiling, but I was hoping he did, how else could he secure the place at night. In any case, I didn’t cross the bridge, I walked to the edge of the park, his shanty across the street, sat on a tree stump, and pondered his business, like a peeping tom, I suppose you could say. I watched him doing whatever he was doing; I simply could not get a clear picture of what he was doing. He mumbled to himself in some language, it didn’t sound like German to me, and it wasn’t English, or Spanish, I knew all three languages.
The old man’s cloths was like a scarecrows; perhaps he was 90-years old (a guess of course) not sure why I say ninety, but it just seemed so, wrinkled and all, but he was agile, and strong looking, he could have been younger or older. He then pulled these old looking rags out from behind a stove, a hole in the wall it seemed, where he kept them, and then he chopped them up, and I got a better look by standing up, and gazing over the edge of the street, and he nailed them to the wall as if to dry, and he had some already drying, and now the rages, that I thought were rages, were not rags, but some kind of substance, funny I thought. I was now more curious.
I noticed he was boiling something, it was that substance, because he pulled some of them out, and chopped them also up, and a few he swallowed whole.
After about thirty more minutes, it got to me, what he was boiling on that small gas stove. My instinct or sentries said they were something eatable that was mysterious, so I walked across the street, looked closer and began to bethink —this was none of my business, or was it? Anyhow, my observations quickened as I approached, the old man’s eyes had a yellowish crust look to them, one I had never seen before.
There seemed to be no danger as I now stood in front of the shanty. Accordingly I began to look at the wall, what was in the boiling pan, the hole behind the table that held the little gas stove on top of it, in the corner, and on the table where he was doing the chopping, where there was blood. Then seizing the moment, I asked the old man if he knew what he was doing?
“Yes,” he echoed, as if the sound came from his feet; adding, “cooking leftover meat from the butcher shop across from my place.”
I looked closer, into the boiling water, on the wall, on the table, and what was hidden behind his coffee cup, perhaps not hidden, but laying there.
I held my mouth, for a moment closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I confirmed indeed I was seeing right. An unholy sense came upon me, and I said as nonchalantly as I could, “Sir, I hate to tell you, but you are cooking some species of bats.” (a species I had never seen before.)
He looked deep into my eyes, as if holding me in a trance, “I’m eating my food from my planet, it’s traditional, ice-bats…!” so he said, his eyes deep dark as the bats wings. I next took a moments rest, there on the floor behind him was a heap of bats, dead.

(—one thing never left my mind those ten months in Augsburg, which was the name of the butcher shop next to the old man’s shanty, “The Moiromma Special Cuts.” I would later on in life put two and two together, it was discovered (yet untold to the general public of earth) the adjacent solar system to Earth’s, that there was a peculiar plant, among the so called ‘Cadaverous Planets,’ called Moiromma, where legends of Tangor, Rognat, and Siren the Great were told, long told, long ago.)

Written: 4-19-2007

The Hermit’s Ghostly Dilemma (a short story)

[The Hermit’s Ghostly Dilemma] Josh O’Hara lived a solitary life in the thick of a northern wooded area in Minnesota, near the town-let called Webster. He lived there most all his life, and when his father and mother passed on, he remained there. The family was somewhat known in Webster as the Hermit family, respectfully. I had met him once hunting for deer. I crossed his property. He lived in a little shack of a house, three rooms is all, and a tank of natural gas outside his hut, in the back, used for heating, and other things. I saw the opened door, as I come upon the shack, and then looking in, into the shack, I heard a voice in a nearby room, and asked:
“Is all well and fine in there?”
The voice called out, thanking me for my concern, and told me: he was physically well, but mentally he was having dreadful nightmares. In addition, he heard voices, saw shapes of faces in the middle of the night, overnight. He was having a hard time sleeping. He said there were legions of shapes all around his house each night. It was hard to fathom and to be frank I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Three months had gone by since I had my first nightmare,” he cried and whimpered in distress, adding, “…just thinking about it happening again, thinking about going through it another night is worse than going through it, living it.” Furthermore, he explained, he was dreaming the dead were coming for him, as well as seeing them wide awake waiting for him.

We sat down, around his small table, and I sat back on his wobbly wooden chair, and tried to comfort him. But I couldn’t remain the night, some thirty-miles away was my motel room, and some colleagues, that were to meet me, and we’d go out to a nearby bar and grill for a few drinks, conversation, and call it a night, so I explained to him. We were together a while longer, then I bid him farewell, and good luck, and suggested he pray a bit and surely all would be well by morning. He was more cheerful when I left, surely a lonely man caught in his own dilemma, alone in the woods with sounds that sounded like voices, and shadows that looked like shapes or ghosts. It all made sense to me, the mind can conjure up many illusions.
That night at the bar, I told my friends from St. Paul, Minnesota about the hermit I had met, and gave details on his delusions (so I thought); adding, “…he perhaps needs sleep more than anything else.” Well, all of us decided after the bar closed at 11:30 PM, to mosey on up to his shack. The moon was bright, with a few gray clouds overhead, seeping across it, and we had all most a full tank of gas, and I knew the way to the shack, it was not all that difficult to find, and as I said, we had some light out in this pitch dark countryside covered with towering trees and all.
(At this point and time, Josh O’Hara, was asleep, his bronze face sideways on his pillow, on his small iron looking bed, one the Army, I remembered, used back when I was in the Army in the ‘70s. We were very quiet, He, Josh woke up suddenly, looked at us, “Oh…!” he said, “you again…and you brought friends!” He wiped his eyes, as if to focus, then covering them again, saying, “they are out there waiting, I seen they walked by the window, in my nightmare, and just now—the window….” He pointed, and repeated. I think he was trying to weight what was reality and dream. He coved his face with his hands, and pouted.

“Stay here,” Josh cried, “when I see them again, I’ll tell you, point them out to you!”
We all pulled up chairs and sat around Josh’s table, drank coffee he had heated up on his gas stove, as he went back to his iron bed to rest, but couldn’t sleep, and got back up again, perhaps ten-minutes later, and lit a cigarette, after circling, pacing the floor and table, he sat with us as we played cards, poker for pennies, he didn’t play he just sat, perhaps he couldn’t concentrate I thought at the time. On his face I noticed relief though, and so we, he and my friends leaned back, and unnoticing, we all fell to sleep.
“Sins,” said Josh finely, waking us up, “I must tell you the whole story lest you find yourself in the thickness, without reason. I once loved a girl from town, her name was Susie Henderson. I loved her and so did that city slicker, John Weber. A crystal beauty, her skin shinned, we went to the same school, and when we were kids, we promised each other we’d wed someday, but Weber changed all that. The rich man from college came back to town, from the big city, and promised her everything, she had saved herself or him, not me, as we had once planned, and it was him at the end. I knew talking would not do any good, in saving her from heartache; he got her pregnant, and left her. She committed suicide, and I, I took it upon myself to even things up, I helped him with his suicide, I had him play Russian roulette, you know, the game where you pull the trigger of the gun, hoping it will stop at the empty chambers in the gun. Well he pulled the trigger, and the first pull was his last. Of course I had the shotgun aimed at him all the time. His parents were too late to save him, and the police simply accepted it as a grieving suicide case. But nothing is ever so easy is it, that was thirty-years ago. His father and mother died, and so did Susie’s, and most of their relatives on both sides, the last of the relatives, Weber’s brother, died three months ago. All died, all dead, all but me. And each night they try to smite me, but I wake up and time and shoo them away. This happens over, and over and over…night after night!”

Josh stopped for a moment, caught his breath, looked back out the window, and said “And so you see, I am in a ghostly dilemma. Can they really hurt me, I don’t know.”
We all listened to Josh attentively, listened to him gravely, his voice seemed afar, his eyes dreamy, his sprit almost broken, his mind confused, and all this new information changed things a bit. A strange story indeed it was, I thought. He was the recipient of murdering ghosts, wanting revenge, and I wasn’t sure of what to say, for the ghosts evidently wanted atonement for his misdeed. And perhaps, his family and Susie’s wanted to protect him, and all were fighting around his home, for it was the center of a three family dilemma—and familiar to all. A feud you could say, and he believed they wanted him dead to rest in peace, he was the last of the feuding you could say, the last link in a long and enduring chain of events.
Well, we watched for the evil ghosts, and none showed up, so in the morning we suggested he moved on back to town, or the cities, St. Paul, or Minneapolis, for we needed to move on, get on back home to go to work. It was Sunday morning, and Monday comes quick. None of us caught a deer but we had this story to tell of course.
Josh, was in his fifties, thanked me for my advise, as we left, but the following weekend, I went back up to his shack in the woods, to see how he was doing—; he was on my mind all week. I found his house was crushed to the ground, smashed to smithereens, and so I went directly in to Webster Township to find out what took place. The local sheriff told me, there evidently was a storm in the woods, or bears, all though there was none in town, and the trees had fallen on the house, and killed him. Lo and behold I thought what an odd occurrence. He couldn’t explain it fully, nor did he try.

Written 4-18-2007