D.E. Bartley Scifi sunday's with the Hipriestess

Prophecy and Fulfillment:

2012 heralds the arrival of the Sun to it's place of birth, or origin, the center of the galaxy, called the Milky way.  Here the sun will rest and burn off the dross.  The sun's power lies in the fact that we must follow it wherever it goes in the universe, we meaning the earth and the inhabitants thereof.  The sun makes a trip to it's place of origin when it feels the need to cleanse  the whole of the systm.  We are catapulting to a place of destiny.

History reveals that the Sun has made this trip before.  The nano meltdown of the earth's crust is historical evidence of the powerful meltdown caused when the sun's energy is directed at the earth.  This happens when there is a breakdown of the universal  laws.  Infringement on free will is caused by Men who wish to rule by the power of death and not the law.

The laws of the universe were brought to the earth by it's great avatars. Each Avatar brought forth a set of laws so that men who were seperated from God by the fall of humanity were able by fulfilment of the law,  re establish  devine contact with God.

In each dispensation the flesh and those who desire the flesh fight against the light of the Sun, and the light of mankind.

The laws were put in place so that men could wander in and out, and find the law working, so that they could reach their fruition, in their time and in their place.  This is why hope springs eternal, so that any man who fulfils the law receives the truest gift of life, the eternal breath.  All men seek to fulfil desire.  As long as the fulfilment does not impinge on any other creature in god's kingdom, there is no harm, no fowl.

We see that the Lie of Cain, was to take control of the womb, to place his seed within it to bring forth only his image.  Mankind fell from the grace of God, when Cain slayed Abel in the field.  The womb no longer brought forth in anonimity, there was placed upon specific instruction by a directed will.  This was the lateral fall, literally.

Now there are men on this earth who only believe in their own divine bloodline.  They protect it, and nurture it and reincarnate through it again and again.  Men have learned to take  up the image they leave behind, because for them death is a certainty.   Cain was told because of his sin, (stealing his brother's womb) he would wander, and that he would bring up the weeds with the wheat.

The illumined ones consider all of mankind the weeds.  They consider themselves the wheat.  They do not like the law, because the law makes all men equal before  it.  The oligarchy that controls the earth have always subverted and destroyed the practice and fulfilment of the law, because they want the power and the glory to determine what comes from the womb and what goes to the tomb.

The black hole absorbs all light and steals free will.   The conquering Nations, and the conquering bloodline of this world have used the power of death to rule this kingdom.  The elites who liked to be called illumined because they can reincarnate back to where they were before, control the earth, or so they think so.  Their control depends on the destruction of the law and the total destruction of free will.  They are the progenitors of the black hole.

Via Appia is the main road between Sodom and Egypt.  This is the road of conquering.  This is the road where the Elite have villified all other images before them.  They have learned to accuse by using the law against the sons of any men.  They hate any image not of their bloodline.  They accuse, then they execute.

Billions of people have died so that the Elite of this world can sustain themselves.  They need the shedding of human blood to keep their crooked kingdom alive.  The road between Sodom and Egypt is filled with cries of the men and women who were murdered to sustain this Luciferian system.

Men have put the flesh before the spirit.  The flesh refuses to obey the law.  The flesh seeks to destroy the law, so that it can rule over the lord's earth, and the lord's men.

Now we see that there are wars and rumors of wars, and that the negative energy of the unlawful is filling the earth.

THIS IS WHY THE SUN IS RETURNING TO IT'S PLACE OF BIRTH!

The Sun removes all of the unlawfulness of the earth, when it burns off the dross.  This will happen and wiser men have recorded the history of the sun and it's journey to the center of the black hole of the Milky Way.

In revelations we read that all nations will come together to make war, to break the yoke of the law which impedes them from taking over the whole earth, we are given the truth of the revelation of Jesus Christ.  All will be gathered together on the field of Har megiddon.  To make battle against each other, against the law, and against God.

AntiChrist is anyone who believes they have a right, or have rationalized and justified taking another man's life.  And the men who rule this world, who believe they are the wheat, have created war to cull the masses, the weeds of the earth.

But we were given the law so that we might wander in and out.  This was a universal right given to all of us by God.  And those who have been villified and murdered to sustain this system have been taken up by the Black hole that denies free will.

"And fire came out of heaven and destroyed them all"  Revelations

Now the sun returns to it's place of origin and there is a sign given to men so that they know when this great prophecy is about to be fulfilled.

It's called the Sun Dagger, a testament to the power of the sun and the power of God.

Chaco Canyon:

The Sun dagger was sculpted out by the hands of men, who created a kingdom, where they built 5 story buildings, but needed to kill other humans in order to sustain their kingdom. They realized too late that this is the crooked kingdom and the sun returned to it's place of origin and burned the earth until there was nothing left.

The natives of this land understood a crooked foundation, leads to a crooked kingdom and so they left the Sun Dagger in Chaco Canyon, as a reminder, as a portent, as a grave sign, because when the sun creates the dagger in Chaco Canyon, it is catapulting through space to it's place of origin, and mankind better prepare for certain destruction.

The Black Hole:

The black hole is so dense with light, and it steals the free will of the light of the universe.  It takes in all light, it steals the light.  It impinges on free will and denies it to the universal soul.  We call this Satan.    Satan is the advesery.  Only here to point the accusing finger to take away free will.

The world has seen the accusor at work since the beginning of time.  The accusor stands before God and accuses mankind so that he can use the power of death against him.

In this world the power of Satan is the taking away of free will.  We see today how men who worship Satan, create laws, and war to take away the free will of man.  They have subverted the law and used it to control mankind by fear of the limit of death.

When the sun reaches it's place of origin, it will do so to liberate all of those souls who have died to sustain this system on earth.  The black hole holds the light of billions of souls who have been murdered  and accused and stripped of their free will.  All of those souls who were crucified Via Appia are waiting for the return of the Sun to it's place of origin to set them free!!!

Ressurrection vs. Reincarnation

All of those souls who have been killed to sustain this Lucierian system will be released from that BLACK HOLE.

The Sun returns, the villified, the accused, the murdered will all be released of their own volition.

WHY you might ask?

Because when the sun returns to it's place of origin all of those souls will once again have:  FREE WILL

No man on this earth can stop this, no man on earth has the power to stop free will.

Free Will makes moves the Universe.  Free Will is the whole image of God.  Free will can not be stopped by any negative energy or power that think they be.

Understand the portents and the signs of the times.  Understand the sun returning to it's place of origin.  Understand the need to sculpt the sun Dagger in

chaco Canyon.  The time is now to scream freedom.  The time is now to demand freedom from the guards at the Prison Gate.

Get on your rooftops.  The time is now, right now, the revelation is happening NOW.

DEMAND YOUR FREE WILL

The time is coming when those who rule the earth will seek to destroy it.  They seek destruction of those things they can not have, because they belong to GOD.

FREE WILL belongs to GOD.

Free will implies no possession of any living, breathing being.

When the fire comes out of Heaven, it will destroy much.  It will destroy many.  It will destroy those who are destroying the earth.  For some this will be a horrendous event, because it will take away their world.

But all of that light will have been released of it's own volition from the black hole, because free will has once again returned to all of those who have been killed.

LISTEN UP!

This is the ressurection of the dead.  This is the return of free will, this is the king of kings, and lord of lords returning to take dominion over this earth.

MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE COMING OF THE GLORY OF THE LORD!

Make no mistake, rise up and demand your freedom, do not fear the light, it is the return of the kingdom of God.  God's will be done.  That is FREE WILL!

This is a testament of a witness who is faithful and true.

Unveiling Earth Mother

The Universal Gods Seemed To Be Splitting their sides Over The Enormous Joke Of Existence

Recently, while transforming a day of relentless hangover into a sinking sort of Sunday, I was struck by a notion that beat me in the head like a non   stop pendulum .

I had spent the afternoon slumped on the couch, riding waves of nausea, when suddenly I noticed that the walls were moving, swaying like curtains in a soft summer breeze. Now this, in itself, was nothing so unusual. Having experienced this state on many occasions I was in no way alarmed, but I did, nonetheless, consider this and began to question whether the walls were actually moving or whether my eyes were playing mischievous tricks. I considered reaching out, touching the walls, in order to sense some form of motion, but stopped myself and began to think;

If my eyes are playing tricks on me how can I possibly trust my sense of touch?

It was then that I realized the idiocy of my predicament, that the senses are nothing more or less than deceptive unfaithful housewives, they cannot be trusted. And if I could not trust my senses then how could I trust the product of my senses? That is; How could I trust my past and present experiences?

I began to pick through the alleys of my mind, like some homeless saint, searching for something to recycle, any shred of information that might shed some light on these questions begging to be answered…

I found nothing.

10,000 years of the written word and nothing but cobwebbed histories.
10,000 years wandering circles, devising religions and endless philosophies.
10,000 years stumbling and crawling across the bones of graveyard faith.
10,000 years pushing stoically, headlong into nothing.

I began to question myself. And then began to question myself questioning myself. On and on I spun around, chasing my own tail, until I fell to the floor with nothing more than an empty throbbing head.

Reality is such a slippery fish.

It would seem , I thought, that nothing is real and existence is just a game we play, a costume party, masquerading egos, or a flower continually blooming, withering into the void of itself. Then the
Walls opened and I was in the company of Gods. Not God, but gods.

I sank deep into a reverie and chuckled at my dilemna since the ancient of days,

and then I laughed.

It seemed as if there was nothing left for me to do but to sit back in a fit of laughter and enjoy the whole fucking set up.

And so it was then and this is why I've turned my thoughts on nonsense, preferring that limitless expanse above the confining cage of common sense or science.

And so I've dumped my little portion of bland and meager sense, sitting myself down in order to dine on this bountiful feast of nonsense.

I was a little surprised when I first met the Earth Mother. Ok, so she didn't call herself that, but this was a party for Gods only so I kinda figured it out...and I wasn now among the elite of the elites.  

Pan as usual was hogging the bar and some dude called Poseidon had just nearly caused a riot by proclaiming that he was one of the originals (never a wise thing to say in a room full of gods I can tell you.) So eventually we quit the joint and wandered out onto the cloudy top of Olympus.

Let me tell you straight from the outset that I was jealous of this one  broad, which is one of the reasons I didn't mind leaving with her. I mean I was even ID’d at the door,  smacked right in the face, how embarrassing is that? You ask any modern kid today if he's heard of Mythras and he'll say huh? You ask the same kid if he's heard of the Earth Mother, damn he'll go out and hug a tree! So ok I was more than jealous, but I have to say she was not what I expected.

I'll try and describe her here for you as you might want to say, I dunno, hello or somethin' if you see her, or maybe just think of her a bit more. Look all I know when I met her she looked like she needed all the friends in the world!

She was not the smallest god at the party, but having said that she was not far off. She stood about 5 feet tall and (as a poet might say) she was slyph like, meaning that I personally thought she could do with a bit more meat on her bones. Her skin was unsurprisingly a pale green in colour shot through with darker greens and what appeared to be bruises. At first I wondered who had beat her up, but then I remembered seeing that leaking tanker on the way over and kinda understood. She was bare foot and her toes constantly twitched as if she was treading on hot coals. Her hair, well I guess you could call it that, looked more like thick ol' roots hung down her back, starting a deep earthy brown and tapering into almost transparent thin white tendrils at the tops of her thighs. Her eyes were a deep sea blue and no I aint bein' poetic! If you looked in them for more'n a few seconds (as I found out whilst shaking her hand), you began to see fishes. Now talking of her hands, they were long and slender like her feet and also like her feet were in almost constant movement, like she was conducting some hidden orchestra...which I guess she was sorta. Her face was slim yet open, a tired countenance that appeared to have seen a lot of pain and not enough celebration and a mouth which seemed to be always on the verge of smiling .

Being that she is the Earth Mother I was expecting fanfares and all that jazz when she arrived, but heck even Shiva got more attention. When I questioned her   about that her reply was simple, How often do the followers take Shiva for granted?
 As we continued to gaze from Olympus, I asked her why she never stopped moving. “You are seeing me from the perspective of the God’s, and not as a mortal…”

“The world turns,” she replied simply. “Every moment of every day, a life is extinguished which must be in turn balanced by a life created. A great tree falls, I must nurture a seed to take its place, the ocean is polluted, I must find new homes for life there, the air is filled with poison, I must try and convince the wind to move it on before too many are harmed.
“How then can you find time for parties?” I asked boldly.
“I must show up at one now and again,” she smiled slightly. “To remind them, motioning to the room behind us. That whatever they do to me, at the end of the day they are all answerable. From clay are we formed, to clay will we eventually return. “ “It is the circle of life, well...one of them.”

Stunned by this reply, I shot back “Then how come this is my first?”

“That is easy, you only just realized, you only become responsible when you are truly aware” she laughed, the sound of a tinkling brook. “Many years ago, you were believed in by only a few thousand close followers.”

You needed to tear the veil, have the walls come crashing in, get smacked right in the face to party with
The Gods!”

Glancing back to the room where I could see Melchizedek arm wrestling Kali, with four arms I sighed. “Is it always this rowdy?” I asked.

“Yes.” She sighed and I heard the wind in the trees. They spend that much time bickering and fighting amongst themselves that they have little time for anything else.”

 "Much like their followers no doubt."  I returned.
Yes. There was a finality in this word that put me in mind of mountains collapsing and the earth opening up to swallow all life.
 Eventually she spoke again, I will go in there soon and remind them again. She said as if stealing herself. Where they come to  form and where they will return too should they not help me.
Will it change anything? I asked glancing at her slight form.
 I hope so. Again that sigh.  Hope springs eternal.
.
“Surely though, I said thinking of my own few followers. Should you not be telling those below?”

“I have told them in so many ways..” She began. Suddenly her face turned ash grey and I started forward as she leaned heavily on the parapet. As quick as it had changed, it changed back, resuming that faint pale green hue. I apologise, She breathed deeply and coughed a couple of times.

“Forest fire. “ She finally breathed in explanation.
Her fingers which had stilled momentarily, now began twitching again with great ferocity. Burgeoning seeds into life even as their brethren perished in flame. Determindly she breathed, “There must be..
Balance in all things” I finished for her.
. She nodded back towards the room, were even now Baccus was belting out yet another a drinking song and glass could be heard breaking.
 I was about to ask her more questions when the now familiar tug of a summoning arrested me.   "I am sorry I must leave.""
 "I know,"  she sighed.   "And I must stay to try again. ...We may meet again. She half smiled as she turned to re-enter the party.
Gods and mankind willing! I will show you my divinity within the forest….where I am at home.

At the back of the forest, a mysterious silhouette hinted through the silk canopies of ash, All nature awaited with baited breath as that enticing shadow moved forward. I sipped mycoffee slowly, more to keep my hands busy and hide ny mouth for fear of revealing far too much. A guarded and suspicious person I came to be,  used to keeping my own counsel, ny own secrets, letting no one in, letting nothing escape.

Tintinnabulation heralded her entrance, bells strewn across her voluptuous form. The unobservant eye would have only seen a woman of exquisite beauty dancing slowly down the dais. But the perceptive eye would have seen the majesty, the pride with which she carried herself as she lived the music. No trained slave or hired help was she, as her body swayed and shimmied in the rhythm of the belly-dance. She chose to dance for all within the forest, , of her own accord. She was no servant to the patron's lust, instead, they were her audience in thrall, entranced by her power. She was like a goddess, unapproachable by mortal man.

All eyes locked upon this goddess of the dance. Men wanted to possess her, but no one could ever own a woman such as she. The women wished to be her, to entrance and control the male heart, yet such a divine ascension was beyond them. Yet for all their futility, they could not resent her, all could only hold her in awe.

This mistress of the dance, and mistress she truly was, writhing and sliding her nubile body as if under the ardent attentions of an unseen lover. In her proud, defiant eyes, she took what she wanted, yet was willing to give back pleasure in turn, on her terms. The temptation to return to her is just too great, I fall for her again and yet again.

Dr. Benjamin drives a rust-colored 1961 Chevy step-side pickup. His elbows poke out when he steers the wheel.
He likes the Las Vegas desert, it is the ideal city where men become gods, gods become
rich; and everyone loves a winner.

After a time he speaks: "I need to check out an old television."

Dr. Benjamin takes a left on the old highway, there are sand berms, buried tires, debris from a former war,
it is a dumping ground.
His Chevy step-side has a bench seat that smells like
wd40. He turns off the truck and turns to the rider. "Why don't you show me something beautiful?"

The student squirms in all shyness, and moves far away from the driver. The old man's eyes gleam, a
reincarnation of possibility for young cotton and the smell of shampooed hair.
The windows are open for the passing dust swirls.
Dr. Benjamin doesnt like the radio. He stretches his right arm across the bench seat, shuts the music off, props himself up,
then falls over everything as he tries to undo a zipper.

There is no radio and so Dr Benjamin will sing the words in his head,

"Holy Jesus, why do you smell so sweetly?"

The real-life sounds are only grunts, too low to describe the old man's passion. He never takes off his pants, but the shirt comes untucked in the slow thrusting.
Dr. Benjamin's potbelly is cold. Hes in a hurry, pushing so fast between thighs that he forgets to command directions.
The voice of the teacher hisses sharply between gritted teeth he shakes the sweat halo all over the bench before the student finally pushes away.

As an eight-year-old boy, I told Dr. Benjamin that I had to go pee very badly. I told him that I couldn't pee in the truck because,
"Its not very ster-ile. He would have to continue his lessons later.

There was relief in getting out of that truck, even though I had nowhere to run, no one to yell for. The runaway was stopped. Only five miles outside of the city limits of Vegas and there's not a damn thing to hold you except a cactus. After staring at the desert till the sun made three yawns, I returned to the philosopher king and his Chevy.

"Guess Im done." I kicked a blue pebble.

Back in the truck, Dr. Benjamin reminded me that I wanted to hitch with him all the way to california and find my father. It was important for me to do this, He said, "The heart has its yearnings."

An hour before I tried to lean west, now I couldn't. The longing was over. Dr. Benjamin drove back to town, too proud to say that he wanted to shoot a load over my face. The cabin was quiet until we came to a 7-11.

I pointed in a hurry at the 7-11, saying that the throat was dry. Then I gagged to form a guttural sound. The teacher licked his lips and pulled right over.

After pulling a wedding ring, lint, and several bullets out of his pocket, Dr. Benjamin handed money so I could buy two Slurpees. I filled the cups with blue ice and sugar, trembling. I had just given the clerk a hard earned dollar as the fucker drove away.

October 31st

This is the beginning of the Celtic and Wiccan New Year. Samhain is Irish-Gaelic for 'the Summer's end', and is pronounced 'sow-in'. Samhain represented the death of the summer sun god, Lugh.

This festival celebrates Nature's cycle of death and renewal, a time when the Celts acknowledged the beginning and ending of all things in life and nature. Samhain marked the end of harvest and the beginning of the New Celtic Year. The first month of the Celtic year was Samonios - ‘Seed Fall’.

Two Roman festivals became incorporated with Samhain - 'Feralia', when the Romans commemorated the passing of the dead, and 'Pomona', when the Roman goddess of fruit and trees was honoured. The Halloween tradition of bobbing for apples is thought to derive from the ancient links with the Roman fruit goddess, Pomona, and a Druidical rite associated with water.

Samhain heralds the beginning of Winter when the world starts to darken and the days are getting shorter - the 'dark half' of the year and the demise of the power of the sun.
The Crone

The triple Goddess - worshipped by the Ancient Britons - is now in her third aspect of the Crone: the keeper of wisdom and mysteries.

In the Scottish Highlands the Crone was personified as the 'Cailleach Bheur' - the blue-faced hag - the Queen of the Winter.

She was reborn on every All Hallows Eve, returning to bring the Winter and protect animals through the coldest months. She turned to stone on Beltane Eve.

Ritual of the Crone "Blue-faced Hag"
Place an apple and pomegranate upon the altar. There should also be a "planted" pot of earth for each participant - these may be arranged on the altar as well, if there is ample space. Instruments of divination may be placed within the Circle perimeter for use during the ritual if you wish. Arrange the altar as usual and decorate with Autumn leaves, pumpkins, etc.

The Circle is cast and purified the Circle in the usual manner. Dancing around the Circle in a shuffle step (deosil), all chant three times:

The Moon is bright, the Crone is old
The body lifeless - the bones so cold
We all live and pay our dues
To die in ones and threes and twos.

Death, dance and play the harp
Piercing silence in the dark
The Woman's old with withered limbs
Death beckons Her to dance with Him

As She accepts the Dance of Death
The Earth is cooled by ghostly breath
To lie in dormancy once more
To have Her strength and life restored

Go to the Western Quarter and draw an invoking pentagram with the athame to open the gate. Then evoke the dead by saying:

All ye spirits who walk this night -
Hearken! Hearken to my call!
I bid you in our Circle join!
Enter! Enter - one and all!

Come ye, spirits of the dead:
Be ye spirit of plant or pet
Or human being who still roams!
Into this Circle you are let!

Speak to us of things unknown!
Lend your energies to this rite!
To speed your journey, we have joined
On this sacred Samhain night!

All ye spirits who walk this night -
Hearken! Hearken to my call!
I bid you in our Circle join!
Enter! Enter - one and all!

Bestow blessings upon the dead, saying:

Oh Mighty Pan of the Summerlands:
Guardian of the beloved dead
We pour forth love on those you keep
Safely, in your peaceful stead
We bless those who have walked the path
That someday, we as well, shall rove
We offer peace unto their souls
While resting in your arms, below

Now is the time for divination (Ouija Board, pendulum, cards, etc.) and communication with those who have gone on before us. Allow plenty of time for this. [Note: I have found that it is helpful to have a tape recorder handy within the Circle for recording any communications that may be "channeled" during this time. Some people disagree with this suggestion, saying that the metal of this electronic device causes scattered energies in the Circle; however, if the recorder has been cleansed and purified as the rest of the ritual tools, the problem seems to be resolved.]

When the divinatory processes are completed, the Priestess goes to the Western Quarter and draw the banishing pentagram, saying:

Blessings be upon thee, oh wondrous Spirits of the
Summerlands. We humbly thank thee for your presence in our
Circle and honor you in celebration this sacred night. We
beseech thee, oh Pan, keeper of the sacred dead, embrace
once again those souls within your keep and hold tightly
to your breast those which have been lost and wandering.
Grant them safe passage to the Summerland, where they may
rest peacefully in your strength until they are refreshed
and reborn again in perfect love. We bid thee all a fond
farewell. So mote it be!

The gate is now closed.

The Priestess goes to the altar and hold up the pomegranate, saying:

Behold the pomegranate, fruit of Life...

The athame is plunged into the pomegranate, splitting it open to display the seeds. She says:

Whose seeds lie in the dormancy of Death!

The Priestess eats one of the seeds, saying:

I Taste the seeds of Death.

The pomegranate is then passed hand to hand through the participants of the ritual, each eating a seed and saying to the next person:

"Taste the seeds of Death."

The Priestess then holds up the apple, saying:

Behold the apple: fruit of wisdom, fruit of Death...

She then cuts the apple crosswise, saying:

Whose symbolism rewards us with life eternal!

She holds up the apple, displaying the inner pentagram, and says:

Behold the five-fold star - the promise of rebirth!

Consecrate the fruit and wine. Each person then tastes of the apple and sips the wine, saying to the next person:

Taste the fruit of rebirth and sip from the cup of wine of Life.

After libation, the Priestess presents each member of the group with a small pot of earth, planted with three seeds [preferably rue or lavender]. She briefly explains to the group that this is the season of the seed - it is a time of dormancy, but also a time of re-generation for growth. Further, as the seed rests in the earth, they should also take time to rest and re-evaluate their lives, metaphorically planting only those values which will enrich and enhance the growth within the Divine Self. She then instructs them to name the seeds within their pots with three values they wish to incorporate into their lives, knowing that as the seeds sprout with new life, their lives will be new, as well.

After the presentation, all join hands and hold them skyward.

PRIESTESS:

Thus is the Circle of Rebirth.
All pass from this life through the great god, Pan
But through My love you are all reborn
In the cycles of nature - through the Cosmic Plan.

In living we die - in dying we live
The fruit is first seed, yet seed comes from the fruit
In the mystery of life and death and rebirth
The Circle turns ever, and I am its root.

ALL RESPOND:

The Sun conceived in Darkness, cold
In the Shadow of Death, a Life unfolds
A shred of Light begins to burn
From Death comes Life - the Circle turns.

Dismiss Quarters and Dissolve Circle.

PRIESTESS:

The rite is ended.

ALL:

Merry meet and merry part and merry meet again!

Outdoor libation to the Lord and Lady, and the spirits of the dead.

British Summer Time ends today with the clocks going back an hour - long, dark, velvety evenings arrive.
This festival welcomed the final harvest and the safe storage of crops for the coming Winter. Anything left on the trees, bushes or in the fields after this date was considered ruined by the 'puka', and unedible. The puka or pooka is a mischievous spirit or fairy from Celtic lore.
Fire festivals

Samhain is one of the four Celtic fire festivals marking the quarter points in the year - feasts were held and bonfires were lit throughout the countryside.
The bonfires were to warm friendly spirits and ward off evil spirits, and also represented the sun which they wished would return, bringing heat and growth.

It was custom to give an ember from the fires to attending families, who would then take it home to start a new cooking fire. These fires were believed to keep the homes happy and free from any lost evil spirits.

The name 'bonfire' is believed to be derived from the custom of burning the bones of the cattle which were slaughtered at this time - a 'bone fire'.
Feast of the Dead

It is believed that the borders between the world of the living and the dead is thinner on this night - also known as 'Ancestor night' - so souls of the dead can enter the land of the living. Spirits roam free to revisit their earthly homes. The Celts looked to their ancestors to bring them guidance for the coming year and hoped to commune with the spirits at Samhain.
Samhain is considered a celebration of life over death, and a time to remember those who have left the world of the living. Candles would be lit at the graves of loved ones. In Mexico family members light many candles around the graves of their loved ones and lay out special feast foods for the spirits, and remain there all night.

Halloween originates from the ancient Celts' celebrations and is based on their 'Feast of Samhain'. The Catholic church attempted to replace the Pagan festival with All Saints' or All Hallows' day, followed by All Souls' Day, on November 2nd.
The eve became known as: All Saints' Eve, All Hallows' Eve, or Hallowe'en. All Saints' Day is said to be the day when souls walked the Earth. In early Christian tradition souls were released from purgatory on All Hallow's Eve for 48 hours.

In order to protect themselves from any roaming evil spirits the Celts would appease them by offering them treats. The custom of wearing costumes on Halloween is thought to derive from the Celts disguising themselves at Samhain, so the spirits would think that they belonged to their own company. They could then communicate with the spirit world, known as 'souling'.
Samhain Traditions and Beliefs

Samhain is considered a time to eliminate weaknesses - our Celtic ancestors slaughtered weak animals that were not likely to survive the winter and their meat was salted and stored for the dark months, this has evolved into the custom of writing your own weaknesses onto a piece of paper then burning them.

It was customary at Samhain to leave an empty chair and a plate of food for any dead guests, so that they would not be offended.
At the stroke of midnight - believed to be the hour the dead visited - all remained silent in respect.

The custom of trick-or-treating may have originated from an old Irish custom of going door-to-door to collect bread, cheese, nuts and apples in preparation for the feasting at Samhain.

When a candle flame flickers on Halloween night it is being touched by the spirits of dead ancestors.

Those born on All Hallows Eve are believed to have the gift of second sight.

If you catch a falling leaf on Samhain before it touches the ground it will bring you good luck and health for the coming winter.
Samhain Rituals and Games

Stones with a personal mark were thrown into the fire. These had to be retrieved from the ashes to ensure luck for the coming year, if your stone was missing or damaged it was considered a sign of forthcoming bad luck.

Also known as 'Nutcrack Night', because it was a popular custom at Samhain to throw nuts on the fire - if a nut burned brightly it meant that the thrower would be alive in twelve months time, and if it flared up brightly it meant marriage within twelve months.
To see if a relationship will last, place two hazelnuts side by side and burn them over a fire. If they stay together as they burn then the couple will last, but if the nuts burst apart the relationship will break up.

Baked cakes were offered up for the souls of the dead. All the family would eat the festival Soul cakes - known as 'barnbrack' cakes in Ireland - which often contained lucky or unlucky tokens : a coin for fortune, a button for remaining unwed, a ring for marriage, a wishbone for your heart's desire, a pea for poverty.

The Ivy Leaf predition: everyone in the house places a perfect ivy leaf into a cup of water and then leave them undisturbed overnight. In the morning if a leaf is still perfect and has not developed any spotting, this predicts that the person who placed the leaf in the cup will enjoy 12 months health until the following Halloween. If not...

In Scotland the fishermen would wade into the sea at Samhain and pour out a bowl of ale into the waves for the 'Shoney' - a sea serpent-like being, to ensure a good catch for the coming year.

At Balmoral on Halloween night, during Queen Victoria's time a bonfire was lit and an effigy of an old woman called the Shandy Dann was indicted with witchcraft, then thrown onto the fire.

At the Forest of Pendle in North Lancashire, at Samhain a ceremony called the 'Lating the Witches' took place. Locals believed witches gathered here on this auspicious night, so lit candles were carried over the hills between 11 p.m and midnight - lighting the witches or 'lating' them. If a candle stayed lit then the witches' power was broken, but if it went out - blown out by a witch - bad luck may follow.

If any animals were suffering ill health on All Hallows Eve, then the farmer would spit on them to try to ward off any evil spirits that may take them.

On the morning of November 1st a silver coin was thrown through the front door of the house. The coin had to remain where it had fallen in order to bring financial luck.
Halloween lanterns

The tradition of face-carved pumpkin lanterns is thought to be derived from the Celts' placing of ancestors' skulls outside their doors at this time. Others see it as originating from using lanterns to ward off any evil spirits, which may be wandering through the thin veil into the living world on this All Hallows Eve.

The lit pumpkins also symbolise that in the darkness of winter the light continues within the seeds, tubers and bulbs dormant under the earth - they are still full of life and glowing like the candles within the pumpkins.

The name Jack O'Lantern derives from an old Irish tale of a villain who after he died could not enter heaven or hell - a damned soul. So he was condemned to wander the land with only a candle to see his way (some say it was a hot ember from the devil), which he placed inside a gouged out vegetable to act as a lantern. Others believe Jack-O-Lantern was a mischievous spirit who carried a light at night and lures night travellers into bogs or marshes, which were the dwelling places of fairies.

The Jack O' Lantern used to be made from a turnip, but Irish emigrants to America adopted the plentiful pumpkin since it is much easier to carve. In the Isle of Man they still carve turnips to make lanterns and call the night 'Hop To Naa', not Hallowe’en, or Trick or Treating.
Samhain Divining

Samhain was a time for divination and magic, the Druids would foretell the future on this powerful night.

Many of the customs were performed by young people divining for their future husbands and wives - apples often figured; their connection with fertility is widely recognised :

An old belief is that by peeling an apple on Hallowe'en and keeping the peel in one piece, then throwing it over your shoulder you will discover the initials of a future lover.

By candlelight go alone to a mirror and eat an apple before it, whilst combing your hair. Your future love will be seen in the glass over your shoulder.

Ducking or bobbing for apples was a marriage divination. The first person to bite an apple would be the first to marry in the coming year. 'Dookin’ for apples' is thought to have originated from a Druidical rite associated with water.

Young girls would stick apple pips to the outside of her cheek, with each one standing for her sweethearts. The last pip that stayed stuck was her true love.

Blindfolded girls would go into the fields and pull up the first cabbage they could find. If their cabbage had lots of earth attached to its roots then their future sweetheart would have plenty of money. If they later ate the cabbage it would also reveal their future love's character - bitter or sweet!

In Ireland a popular Halloween game was when a blindfolded person would sit at a table on which were placed several saucers. They choose one by touch, after they have been shuffled about the table. The contents of the saucer foretell the person's fate for the following year :
water means the person will travel, a coin or salt indicates future wealth, earth/clay means someone known to the player will die next year,
a bean predicts poverty and a ring meant marriage.

New Age related ideas to earn money by working from home

Samhain or Samhuin stands between the worlds of the living and dead and outside of ordinary time. It's the day that past memories meet the hopes of the future. The veil between us and the spirit world is at its thinnest tonight and we remember our ancestors, recent and from the distant past. It is death that gives life its purpose and decay that fertilises new growth.

It is a time to plant the seeds of new projects, allowing them to germinate over the winter months. It is also considered the time to end old projects and to generally take stock of one's life.
Samhain allows you to come to terms with your past year and leave all mistakes and regrets behind you, in order to move on. Look forward to what the future holds.

Use the magic of this time to say good-bye to a bad habit or addiction, an old relationship, or anything else negative in your life

The Samhain Rite

A: The Statement of Purpose and Precedent

We gather here on the Feast of Samhain, the End and Beginning of the Sacred Year, the Time of Turning when the Dark Time begins. This is the Last Harvest. The fields lie empty, sinking into Winter^s Sleep and our larders hold what gain we have reaped from our labors.

As our forebearers did, so do we do now, and so may our descendants do in time to come. We are here to offer worship to the Lord of the House of the Dead and to the Queen of Phantoms; to the Gods, the Dead and the Sidhe; and especially to our honored dead here on the Feast of the Dead.

We offer to Donn the Dark One, the Antlered God who offers hospitality and peace to those bound for the Ancestors' Country. We offer to Morrigan, the Great Queen of Battle and Sorcery; the Old Woman of Death and the Cauldron of Rebirth.

In this Season of Death we honor the Holy Dead as the ancients did, and we seek the Seed that will wait in the Womb of Winter. Now let us open the Ways Between...
B: Honoring the Patron Deities

To the Gods, the Dead and the Sidhe we offer welcome. All you Spirits who gather here with us, join now to honor the Patrons of our rite.

On the Night of the Scythe and the Skull, the honor-feast of Summer's End, let us worship the Dark One and the Great Queen.

The Invocation of Donn
In the season of darkening, the Lord of the House of Death receives the Spirits in his Hall. He is Donn the Dark One, called Cernunnos the Horned One. He is the First Ancestor, the Torc Bearer, The Guardian of the Cauldron of Plenty.

Hear us now, Horned One, Dark one, Receiver of the Dead, Granter of Rest, Patron of the Feast in the Land of the Dead. We your children pray you to come in, to let your gaze fall upon this Sacred Ground, to indwell our rite and give us your blessing.

We make due offering to you. We give you...

(offering made into shaft or offering bowl.)

Silver, that you grant the wealth of the Underworld, Source of All Potential.

(offering made to the Fire)

Oil, that the richness of the Land be renewed as our own lives are renewed.

(offering placed at the foot of the Tree)

Horn, that the beings who know you may bless us in the Season of Hunting.

Be welcome among us, Donn; Dark One, accept our sacrifice!
The Invocation of Morrigan
As the Earth falls into sleep the Queen of Spirits is choosing those who will go to the Cauldron of Rebirth. She is Morrigan, the Great Queen of Phantoms, the Chooser of the Slain. She is the Battle Raven, the Red Woman, Mistress of the Cauldron.

Hear us now, Red One, Great Queen, Lady of the Reaping, Cauldron-Witch of Sorcery and Prophecy. We your children pray that you be with us, that you look kindly upon our holy rite, that you come into our Grove and give us your blessing.

We give due offering to you. We give you...

(Shaft)

Precious stone, that the Bones of the Earth may be clothed again in life.

(Fire)

Whiskey, that the Waters of Life May flow in us and Spirit indwell flesh.

(Tree)

Feathers, that your raven Eye watch over us in the Season of Sleep.

Be welcome among us Morrigan; Great Queen, accept our sacrifice!
C: Honoring the Ancestors
On the feast of Samhain the veils between the worlds are thin. We call to our Beloved Dead, the blessed Ancestors, to join our feast and receive due offering.

Come to the Gates, honored ones; hear our call, we your children who remember. We offer you our worship, our reverence and our love.

You who fill the empty womb, you who cause the seed to spring to spring, you who fill the breast with milk, receive now these offerings, made in your honor:

Apples, the Fruit of Life and Death.
Pork, the flesh of the Sacred Sow.
Hazel nuts, concentrated meat of wisdom.
We offer these...

(some of each offering made to the shaft)

To the ancient heroes of the Pagan World; those men and women who did the bidding of the Gods for the good of the folk.

(offering made)

To the honored Dead of the passed year; those women and men of our folk who inspired and guided our whole world.

(offerings made)

To our own Beloved Dead, Grandmothers-and-Fathers, family and friends who have gone ahead, we honor you and grieve for you. (offering made)

To all of you we give these fruits and meats that you may feast in joy in the Land of the Dead.
D: During the Praise Offerings

While the Praise Offerings are made, a wreath is passed among the people and all who wish tie a black ribbon onto the wreath in commemoration of their own dead. This wreath is then given to the fire at the Prayer of Sacrifice.
E: The Blessing

The Ale of Blessing flows in us, filling us with the magic of Morrigan and Donn. As the year turns, let us welcome the quiet of the Dark. Let the stillness of the land calm and satisfy our spirits, allowing us to receive the Harvest's Bounty. Let the gain of the passing year be ours, to fill our lives with contentment. Let us welcome the Dead who wish to return to the living world, even as we remember those who depart. May we rest content as we pass the threshold of new beginnings.
The Death Song

(Repaganized from the Carmina Gadelica)
You go home this night to your home of winter,
To your home of fall, of spring, of summer,
You go home this night to the Turning House,
To your pleasant rest in the Land of Joy.

Rest you, rest, and away with sorrow,
Rest this night in the Mother's Breast,
Rest you, rest, and away with sorrow,
Rest, O beloved, with the Mother's Kiss.

In the Many Colored Land;
In the Land of the Dead;
In the Plain of Joy;
In the Land Beneath the Wave;
In the Land of Youth;
In the Land of the Ever-Living;
In the Revolving Castle, the House of Donn.

Rest in seven lights, beloved,
Rest in seven joys, beloved,
Rest in seven sleeps, beloved,
In the Grove of the Cauldron, Morrigan's Shrine.

The shadow of death is on your face, beloved
But the Cauldron of Rebirth awaits you,
The threefold turning of your Fate,
When your rest has given you your peace.

So rest in the calm of all calms,
Rest in the wisdom of all wisdoms,
Rest in the love of all loves,
Rest in the Lord of Life and Death,
Rest in the Lady of Life and Death,

Till the Season of Turning
Till the Time of Returning
Till the Mystery of the Cauldron

happy holloween

Beginnings
--- In this life there are no beginnings, only departures

After killing a little time shooting 8-ball and discussing God around a beer-soaked bar with a bunch of Yuppies and bikers, I drift out of the Irish American club and into the dull, rainy streets of a Kearny Saturday night. The town is silent at 2 am in the morning.

My name is Swifty. I drive a taxi for Schuyler cab, the graveyard shift, on the weekends. When I was a kid I wanted to be a pilot, but just the thought of flying, brought on a dizziness I still don't understand. My mind simply could not picture things from a great height. So I drive. Leaping back and forth across town mile after mile of relentless driving until my mind shuts down and I work myself into some kind of altered state where something clean and untainted begins to appear; a kind of curtain that temporarily separates my empty life from chaos, the motion keeping me alive. Day after day of playing out the fucked-up implications of a normal life destination, even someone elses, giving me a purpose to live another day.

My cab is just up the street, and when I walk back to where its parked, there's a guy waiting in the rain. A dark apparition carrying a beat-up old briefcase, emaciated, wearing a stained black raincoat about two sizes too big, blank eyes sunk back in his skull, totally oblivious to the shitty weather conditions. With his long hair and beard, he reminds me of one of those pathetic pictures of Jesus I used to see in Sunday school when I was a kid.

"Are you waiting for me?", I ask.

Yeah, can we get in out of the rain? he says.

Sure thing., I say, and press the remote device on my key ring to unlock the doors.

As soon as we're inside, I start the engine and turn on the windshield wipers. When I glance in the rearview mirror, I catch a good look at the man's face as he lights a cigarette. There's a tattoo on the back of his hand, I cant quite make out. It looks like some kind of reptile. I usually don't allow smoking in the cab, but something about this guy makes me fore-go the rules.

When he gets the cigarette lit, he leans back in the seat, catches my eye in the mirror, and says, "Swifty, Ive got five hundred dollars in my pocket, and its all your's if youll drive me to New York, to the Tapan zee bridge."

Using my first name catches me by surprise, until it occurs to me he's noticed my name on the hacks license posted on the dash. Upstate New York is about 90 miles from Kearny, but five hundred dollars is a lot of cash, and I don't mind the drive. I reach over, turn off the meter, and say, "Dude, you just bought yourself a driver."

“How long to get there?” he asks.

“In this rain, about an hour or so.”
_____

I take rt -21 North to I-95 starting to feel pretty good about heading somewhere out of the ordinary, meantime Jesus hasn't said a word. So just to break the ice, I ask where he lives in New York , and he tells me he keeps a room downtown. When I ask about family, he just sits and stares out the window.

The only other words spoken over the next fifty miles was when he leaned up and asked if I would turn down the radio. I bit my tongue, turned the radio off, and drove on through the rainy night toward our destination, wondering what kind of misery and squalor could account for this pitiful pilgrim.
_____

About a mile from the bridge, on highway 9 , I ask Mr. Jesus where he wants to go when we get there, and he says, Take me to the top of the Tapan Zee Bridge..

"Did you say the top?"

"That's what I said, Swifty."

"What the fuck for!"

He looks out the window for a couple of seconds then says, "To kill the snake."

"What goddamn snake? Are you mad?"

What's madness, Swifty, but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance? The snake has gone with me everywhere I go., he says, …and tonight I have a special place to take him.

"Fuck this man, Im not taking you up there.," I say.

At which point he produces a pistol from his coat pocket, leans forward, points it directly toward my right ear and says, “Swifty my old friend, we made a deal.”
_____

As soon as we reach a spot somewhere close to the highest point of the bridge, he leans forward, drops the five hundred dollar fare onto the front seat, and says, "Right here is good enough. I stop the cab, he opens the backdoor, gets out and walks directly to the railing. He climbs up, looks once, straight up into sky, and dives up and out as far as his scrawny legs will push him, a kind of clumsy swan dive. He seems almost to be flying for a second. Then the outward motion stops and he falls suddenly and silently along with a million raindrops toward the Hudson River as it goes about its watery business below.

Meanwhile, I've been sitting, mesmerized, watching the whole thing unfold through the passenger window of my cab, living every second of what seems to be a new kind of extremely realistic television. I consider going to the police, but quickly change my mind.

I know I'm not up to coming back across this bridge again tonight, so I decide to get a room in a motel on the other side, and lay low until morning.
_____

I pull into a parking spot in front of the Tarrytown Motel, switch off the engine, open the door and start to get out. That's when I notice the briefcase in the backseat. I get back in the cab, close the door and turn on the inside light. I reach over the seat, retrieve the beat-up briefcase, and slide open the zipper inside, a stack of papers held together with a metal fastener.

I remove the clip and read the first page. As I browse through the sheets, I discover that each one is a part of the same unfinished story. One after another, the tale of a decorated Vietnam war veteran and his exploits in 'Nam, and whole chapters about our group of guys, stories about our troop, stories of the day I died. At the very bottom of the briefcase, I find a wrinkled photograph. It shows a group of very young guys standing in front of a sandbagged bunker in what had to be Vietnam.

Suddenly, a fit of nausea washes over me as the blood rushes to my head. My mind runs like a wild dog as I struggle to hold the picture steady in my shaking hand. Standing at the center of the photo trying to look dangerous, is Lance Corporal Edward Renshaw surrounded by a group of guys he once knew and loved as brothers: Outcasts, poor white trash, unfortunate sons, and comrades-in-arms.

As I scan the faces of these mannish-boys, the names come spinning back. Forty years fall away like so much mold and mildew. And there, standing at the far right, looking off into the distance the lost old man I'd just watched go over the rail.

Our savior, the one person in that long forgotten place we had all looked up to. He was on his third tour of duty in that unimaginable shithole, and he knew how to stay alive. We called him the snake because of the way he could slither through the jungle without making a sound. We hung on every word he had to say, and when the shit hit the fan we stuck to him like blood-sucking leeches. The snake was untouchable, a goddamn voodoo man.
_____

I put the papers and photo back into the briefcase and closed it up. Holding it under my arm, I open the door, and step out into the early-morning drizzle. I look up toward the sky, and watch the gray clouds pushing past. Tiny rain-rivers wash the tears down my face as I stand in the perfect quiet, and try to work some angle of reference.

I should have recognized him, even after all the sorry-ass years had taken their toll. I should have noticed the eyes. But if I had, would I have tried to stop him, or just let him go on and do what he had to do drag that gigantic snake over the edge.

Waves of confusion break against my brain, and I wonder if the same madness that took him is waiting in the wings for all of us. I could only hope that he too went to that universal love at the end of the tunnel and found his own redemption... But here at last, is what
I had always been waiting for...the manuscript, in my hands waiting to be completed. Funny I too, had started and stopped many times my own rendition of fighting and dying in the Jungles of 'Nam. The Snake's gift to me was learning to survive in the worst of situations, and now I would do him justice and finish this book, for him, for me, for all of us.

Swifty awoke from a troubled sleep of hazy half-remembered dreams. He tried to calculate the time from the amount of light filtering into the Barracks. He guessed its still early, but he might be wrong. The alcohol could be screwing up his sense of time. He turns over on his side and takes a one-eyed look at the  battery operated clock radio 5:47. It must be cloudy or raining out. He hopes that its raining. Something about the rain has always given him comfort, made him feel secure. On patrol in Vietnam, he had felt almost invisible in the rain, all sounds dampened, making it easier to move silently through the jungle. The squad would be on patrol today.....

Swifty stares, with his left eye, at the clock. He's keenly aware of the seconds ticking away, knowing the alarm will sound at any time. No way his body can take that loud buzz. He reaches out, and feels along the top of the radio until he finds the switch that disables the alarm, and slides it to the off position.

What day is it? Must be Saturday. He lies still as possible, and listens for the sound of rain, but hears nothing.  

Swifty considers going back to sleep, but he has to take a piss. He quietly rolls off his bunk, he peeks out of the tent, no rain just clouds. When Swifty reaches the dry creek bed, where he usually turns back, he decides to keep going. He does not want to go back to camp. After walking for another half-hour, he comes upon a clearing divided by a barbed-wire fence. The fence runs the length of the clearing, eventually disappearing into the tree line. There’s a sign on the fence that reads: you are outside the perimeter of Camp Evans. In the distance, Swifty can see a narrow river  where he's never seen a river, he never knew was there. He feels strangely drawn to this mysterious no-name river. So, ignoring the warning sign, he pushes the top strand of wire down, and steps over to the other side.

As he gets closer to the river, Swifty hears the sound of voices, and walks ahead until he sees five young boys kneeling and talking. They’re all wearing the same uniform camouflage pants and T-shirts. Their  faces are partially covered with mud, and they each carry a plastic replica of an M-16.

He overhears enough of their discussion to realize they are planning an attack on another group, who are hiding, waiting on the other side of the river.

Playing army. Did kids still spend Saturdays in the woods playing this old game?  The idea of young boys engaged in imaginary battle fills him with a joy he does not understand. It awakens, within him, some very strong feelings a kind of lightness he hasn't experienced for many years. Catching a glimpse of something from the past, back when everything seemed to be within reach.

Meanwhile one of the boys looks up and sees Swifty standing on the slope, an old man with a curious expression on his face.

Who is that?, the boy asks his friends. They all look up and fall suddenly silent, staring suspiciously at the stranger.

"Hello men.,"  says Swifty  in an unusually happy mood. I heard your plan. When are you going to start the attack?"

The boys remain silent, intimidated by the presence of an adult.

A crazy idea comes into Swifty's mind. He runs down the short slope toward the boys, who back up and look at each other, totally confused.

"Would you like me to join your team?", asks Swifty. "We could all go down the river together, wade across, and come up on the enemy from behind."

The boys smile at each other. What does this guy want? He seems really serious about the game.

Maybe they should take him up on the offer.

"Charlie  is over there, and he never loses.," the oldest boy says.

Swifty notices a real fear in the boys eyes, "Ha, it's just a game,!"

"Is Charlie that bad?", he asks.

"He fights dirty, and always seems to know where you're gonna be." Pipes up the smallest of the boys.

"ESP huh? Well maybe we can give him a little surprise this time." Swifty is confident, he can outsmart Charlie.
_____

When they reach a spot in the river, where they can see the rocky bottom, Swifty  tells the boys to wait, while he wades across, and has a look around.

As soon as Swifty enters the woods on the other side it begins to rain. The surroundings begin to change dramatically the trees seem more exotic, as if they belong in a tropical climate. They also grow closer together, so that they overlap and form a canopy that blocks out most of the light. The foliage is more lush now  deeper shade of green. What is it about this place that seems so familiar? Everything. The look. The smell. The heavy air that’s almost impossible to take into his lungs. And yet he feels more alive than he has in years adrenalin rushing through his body every muscle taut every nerve on edge.

Then suddenly, he knows where he is....the Hobo woods the goddamn Hobo woods. Viet Cong tunnels everywhere. Here is the land of ancient myths and unbroken solitude the ultimate truth seen only in dreams. And there, directly in front of him, covered in coral vine, sits an ominous stone Buddha surrounded by skulls polished to a shine by the monsoon rains. He feels a horror tempered by a curious joy, and knows the hour he has always waited on, has finally arrived wrapped in a glory that was at once poetic and cruel.

Now that the battle was approaching, all he could think of was the sweet revenge against life ,the people, the conversations, the apathy and emptiness that had always surrounded him. Triumphant at last back here in this remote land where his soul had always been, a place that existed apart from normal, everyday life. He had somehow entered an ancient world beyond boundaries, and for that, he  knew he had to pay the price.

Swifty felt the explosive impact of the bullet against his upper thigh. For a split second, he saw the vacant, soulless eyes, and scarred face of Charlie, who had been waiting patiently these many years for Swifty to show up....Reveille sounds,   Swifty jumps up from his cot, it's time to wake up and face the real jungle and Charlie, hiding in the tunnels.

I'd been out solo a few times before, but this mission was totally different. When the chopper dropped me off three days back, I'd stood at the edge of a clearing and watched as it took off and left me standing in the swirling dust feeling like I'd made a terrible mistake. Unfortunately I was the only sharp shooter in my platoon.

It was April, just a few days after the assassination of Martin Luther King, a tragic event that had cast a long shadow on the war in a way that no outside event ever had. Scattered riots broke out and there were fights and stabbings all of it officially denied. So the timing for this mission could not have been worse. On this assignment, I would not be gunning for NVA or VC, I had orders to track down and eliminate one of our own a black Recon Sergeant named Malcolm Lee Washington, better known as the brother  Blood fighter. There were some who said he was a mind reader knew what you were gonna do, as soon as you thought about it, and his dog would track men down and chew them up.

After his partner had been shot dead by one of our own helicopter gun ships in another friendly fire fuckup on hill 285, he had determined that no one was, or ever had been... on his side, and that every swingin’ dick, no matter the color of their skin or uniform, was out to get him. The only way to survive was to start his own game, and God help anybody who passed within his sight. He was now a one man show representing nobody but himself, and he didn't give a shit if you were Jesus H. Christ, to him, you were just another moving target in his free-fire zone.

Although Washington had a history of trouble with the law, stateside, his combat record was impeccable. A recent photo showed a guy who looked nothing like a Marine Force-Recon scout gold bead in his nose, a bandanna made from a piece of camouflage, a mean black moustache that drooped over the corners of his mouth, and a long scar down the right side of his face that looked like a river marking on a map a bad hallucination. Looking into those dark eyes, was like staring into the abyss. This was a man who had spent too many nights sleeping with his eyes open. And now he'd been pushed over an invisible line into a world of absolute moral indifference.
__________

The highlands of Vietnam you don't know real fear unless you’ve been there. Its kind of like a jungle, except its up in the clouds and there's always this fog like rain, except its not raining. Everything is wet and tangled and the angles of vision are always slightly skewed. Up here sound carries forever, and its damn near impossible to maintain strict field discipline and absolute silence. Sometimes at night, you could even hear the rocks talking. Seriously scary, especially when you are all alone.

Earlier today, the sun had broken through for a couple of hours, and from my position I was able to see most of a small valley and along the opposite slope. For the first hour nothing at all had happened then I got lucky. I don’t know what made the grass sway just enough to direct my eyes toward a spot about halfway down the slope, but when I looked through my scope, there he was tiger suit completely woven into the terrain. Suddenly, my heart was racing and a trickle of sweat found its way down the center of my back. I mentally kicked myself in the ass for taking those goddamn Dexedrine tabs earlier, but I was sure I could nail this guy with one shot from where I was set up. It seemed almost too fucking easy. I clicked the safety on the Remington to the off position, and lined up the target in the crosshairs of my scope. Every nerve-end in my body was pointed toward the tip of my trigger finger.

Then it hit me like a ten-ton brick my whole body started to shake. I lowered my rifle and rolled onto my back. What the fuck was I doing? This was not a North Vietnamese regular or Viet Cong; this was an American soldier, a black man --a marine just like me, with a family back in the world -- waiting. Did anyone have the right to give me orders to kill this man? Did any of the old rules still hold? Had all order spilled over into chaos? The dark was coming on fast and I decided to shut it down and wait for morning. Maybe things would make more sense after a little rest.

__________

I spent the first part of the night slipping in and out of a half-sleep of bizarre Technicolor dream sequences

a huge open field -- it was pouring rain. I was walking across the field with a friend, who was also acting as guide. There was a gigantic wooden stage, and on the stage stood Jimi Hendrix in a blue spotlight all alone bobbing up and down, wrenching the tremolo bar on his Stratocaster almost to the breaking point. He was plugged into a wall of black amplifiers tall as the New York City skyline, and he was pulling impossible sounds out of his guitar whistling rockets bombs bursting in air, The Star-Spangled Banner from hell. As we moved closer to the stage, we came upon a huge lake of shit-brown mud covered with dead bodies. My friend waded right in and motioned for me to follow. I hesitated for a second, and he reached out, grabbed my arm and yanked me into the muck. The corpses were lying on their backs, arms straight out from their shoulders, feet together, as if they’d been posed. I was trying to tell him I didn’t want to see anymore, but he'd just point out another body, and move along without saying a word. It was when he asked me to get down on my knees and take a closer look, that I finally got what he had been trying to show me. The dead men were all American soldiers with their faces blown away. Their dog tags were missing only the empty, blood-spattered chains remained around their necks

faltering dreams:

I was back home in church where a military funeral was in progress. I was standing in line, waiting my turn to file by an open casket, but I couldn’t remember who the funeral was for. I was about to turn and ask the person behind me, when a familiar sound jolted me wide awake

metal on metal a rifle bolt closing

When I opened my eyes the spectral figure of Malcolm Lee Washington was standing over me with the barrel of my Winchester pointed at my head. One look into those dead eyes and I knew I had made a fatal mistake by not pulling the trigger when I had the chance. I'd been a fool to take this man as a member of the human community. He was a dark angel, a basic element of the metaphysical soul of these mountains.

I didn’t think it would do any good, but I had to try and explain some things try to make this guy understand reason. "Hey man, its not fair my dying like this. I pleaded. "Can't you see we're brothers both the same? I could have killed you this afternoon, I had you dead to rights, in the crosshairs, but I didn't because there's got to be some rules, some way to stamp order on this crazy breakdown there's got to be a line you can't cross even here. What about the rules of engagement?"

Blood Lee looked down at me for a few seconds, sighed, like he was talking to a child, and said, You just don't get it, do you. Don't you know why they picked your ass to come up here? Its because of the one fucking thing you just said that's right. You and me yeah, we're the same,... two more expendable motherfuckers. Both of us dead men, always have been, right from the start dead as doornails, cannon fodder. Believe me man, its better to die here and now for nothing, than to die later for this fucked-up cause. Either goddamn way, it ain't gonna mean jack. He paused for a second, shook his head as if he were remembering something, then added, “As for the rules my brother, ain't none, not here. That's the one thing you've got to love and respect about this place, everybody's got a license to kill, equal rights....Means I'm free at last, and it's right here that I will die in my freedom, now you gonna die in your's!"

Swifty slammed the door shut to the supply shed and turned the key securely locking the building for the night. He sighed as another day of meaningless work was finished and started walking back to his beat up truck. The only thing he looked forward to in his life was the few hours between quitting time and bedtime. His R & R. He opened the door to his truck and the hinges creaked loudly in the quiet evening and he almost winched in pain at the horrible condition of his vehicle.

After a very short ride, the truck parked in front of his apartment and once again the truck’s hinges groaned in pain as the door was opened and closed. Once inside the small one bedroom apartment he felt a small sense of relief or possibly happiness that he never felt anywhere else. Why he felt happiness in this terrible, cheap apartment really confused him, but he never thought about it long enough to find an answer. Every evening was an exact copy of the previous evening before, and today was no different. He walked, with a bit more energy, to his fridge and grabbed the can of suds, put on the evening news , listened to the hypnotic drone of the Anchor man and soon succumbed to the elixir and snored loudly.
The alarm had been buzzing for almost ten minutes before the sound penetrated Swifty’s schrapnel laden brain and forced him awake. He did not move and began wondering why the alarm clock sounded so distant when he realized he fell asleep in his recliner again. The can of Sam Adam’s was on the floor next to the recliner and to his surprise it was not quite empty. He stumbled to the bathroom for a quick shower that was better at sobering him up than cleaning himself. Even without the shower Swifty could have shuffled to his truck, drove to work, and began his morning janitorial duties drunk as a skunk without a second thought.

The parking lot never saw Swifty’s truck instead he favored parking behind the visitor stands on the football field. This gave him a nice secluded spot to relax during the day when his hangover was too much or when he needed a few sips of whiskey to move the day along. A Custodian was basically invisible unless the trash cans were full or some sick kid threw up all over the lunch room floor, and this little fact allowed Swifty to sleep off more of his hangover before starting his morning work.

The morning nap lasted over an hour, much longer than he expected, and school was well under way when he stumbled through the halls to the Janitor’ s room on the second floor. He pulled out a mop bucket and a handful of rags before locking the door and heading to the opposite end of the school to begin cleaning the halls. As he mopped the halls his thoughts continually returned to the small bottle of whiskey he left in his truck. Sometimes Swifty wished he had made more of his life after his tour in ‘Nam , but his body took a long time to heal after stepping on a Bouncing Betty and getting blown to pieces. He kept the thoughts of self-pity at bay and was just thankful to be alive.

The meaningless routine of mopping let his mind roam and daydream to his tour in Vietnam, the only time he ever felt like a hero. While in the Marines, Swifty had been responsible for other men’s lives and for fighting the good fight for the good ole U. S. of A. but now he was so much older, and heavier, doing the menial job of a high school janitor. The memories helped him get through his days just like the beer helped him get through his nights, but when he came back to reality he was more depressed than before. Several times he had let his daydreams get the better of him, helped out by the alcohol, and he destroyed his apartment reliving the day he died. Yes Swifty had stepped on a Landmine, a Bouncing Betty, it flew up in the air and exploded. Swifty lay broken, the gaping wounds bleeding profusely, he was pronounced dead on the marshlands of Kobe Tom Tom. His marine unit, D1/4 helplessly looking on as the medic tried to revive the 18 year old.

Swifty would always remember what happened to him, he was floating in a tunnel surrounded by a white light, and an angel was talking to him, they arrived in a land he’d never seen before, a sand dune laden land with a small stream covered in great pines. He floated to the water’s edge , spying transparent fish swimming in a clear stream, so clear Swifty could see straight to the bottom, floating above the sandune, Swifty could see God, Jesus and Mary. The angel told him he could go back , Swifty looked up at God and asked “ Can I come back here?” And the angel replied “so far.” Swifty relived those moments in death right up till that day. He never forgot his moment of death, he remembered every detail like it was yesterday, praying that one day he would return there.

As he finished up the mopping on the second floor he began to hear students screaming. Swifty worked in the high school for the past thirty five years, and over the years had heard lots of screams from the different classrooms but this particular set of screams was completely different. These screams sounded like real fear, real terror. He had heard screams like this come from grown men during the war and the return of these sounds stopped him mid-step. The screams were followed by someone shouting, commands, and then followed by two rounds being fired in quick succession.

The gunshots created screams from most of the other classrooms and prompted several teachers to run into the hallway. Three teachers stuck there heads into the hallway and all three looked at Swifty for some kind of answer. He had no answers to give them. One classroom door flew open and several students came running down the hallway. The screams, the gunshots, and the confused teachers all caused Swifty to begin thinking in a way he had not done in several decades, like a soldier. Within moments instinct kicked in and the hibernating soldier awoke inside Swifty releasing all the training the Marine Corp had beaten into him.

He stalked along the lockers attempting not to make a squeak on the freshly mopped floors. As he approached the classroom he began to hear the shouting commands once again quickly followed by a gunshot. The door burst open and slammed against the wall, several feet  away from Swifty.

“’Any one else want to run away?”” the commanding voice asked. Swifty watched as the student turned killer pushed a limp body out the door into the hallway. The question caused all the students and teacher alike to scream. Another gunshot went off in the classroom and Andy had to see if another student was killed. He leaned around the open door and saw the gun had been fired into the ceiling.

“I want everyone up against the wall,” the gunman shouted. The students got up and shuffled against one of the walls, the wall opposite the door Swifty noticed. The shooter moved between the line of students and the door. He began babbling about God and Satan, and  Armeggedon,  Swifty used that time to sneak into the classroom.

The classroom became the jungles of Vietnam, the students became a line of American prisoners, and the shooter became a Vietcong soldier lining the soldiers up for execution. Swifty did not have a weapon, not even the mop he had been using earlier. He did have determination and a goal though and those two emotions had gotten him through more than one skirmish in Vietnam. All the daydreams of being a hero again were really happening, he finally had a chance to make a difference again just like in the war. How exactly would he make the difference though?

Someone had called the police after the gunshots were fired and the sound of the sirens began drifting up to the second floor classroom where everything started. The student waving the gun around had actually calmed down some and was just droning on and on about Heaven and Hell until the sirens. The gun came up in a flash and he walked behind a girl in line. He never hesitated, the gun barrel simply rested against her head….

“Kyle , please stop!” the teacher screamed. Swifty knew without a doubt he would have to stop this kid before he murdered the entire class. This time Kyle left the body where it fell instead of throwing it out in the hall. Once again, in a more excited voice, Kyle began his speech about the gates of Heaven. Swifty lowered himself to his hands and knees thankful the loud pops and snaps of his joints were covered up by Kyle’s voice and the crying of students. Slowly he crept around the door planning to sneak as close to Kyle as possible before making his heroic move.

. The only weapon Swifty had, was experience and boat loads of it too. Kyle spun quickly and saw the old janitor crawling on his hands and knees towards him only this time he did hesitate.

The combat veteran turned high school janitor jumped to his feet and made a rush for Kyle . Swifty was faster than he ever thought he could be at this point in his life but even this last burst of speed was not quick enough to overcome the quickness of youth. The gun raised and began spraying bullets. Three quick shots erupted from the barrel. The first was fired in utter surprise and went way wide while the other two were slightly more calculated and aimed. These last two bullets found their marks in Swifty’s stomach and chest. His mad dash at Kyle and salvation as well came to a grinding halt when the two rounds slammed into him at less than five feet. Swifty still had some energy left powered by his determination and used every ounce of it to make a final push.

After the two rounds hit Swifty , Kyle lowered his gun and focused his attention on the students again. This gave Swifty the only edge he needed to finish the battle and rescue the students. Two more bloody steps and Swifty was on top of Kyle . The result was Swifty’s massive 280 lbs. frame falling, the weight of a dead man, on Kyle’s small 160 lbs. body. He could do nothing to stop the massive bulk of Swifty and instead gave up ground stumbling backwards. Three shuffling steps back and Kyle was slammed through the window. His fall would have been minor but going down head first his spine broke on impact.

Swifty was given his salvation by rescuing the students and allowed to be a hero once more before his tragic death. The once invisible, alcoholic janitor was now the center of attention  at the school. A small statue of the American Marine  was placed at the school in memory of Swifty’s heroic and brave sacrifice. The plaque beneath the flag bore a statement that would have made Swifty very proud.

“"all gave some, some gave all"

“ Lance Corporal Edward Swifty Renshaw”

The Point man

With each tentative step I cringe,
waiting to be blown to hell...
such is the lot of the point man...
It is not a job I like but we all have to take a turn...
Another step... a little further and still no sign of Charlie...
and I am still alive... Another step... I freeze...
No movement, not even to breathe, for I can feel it across my knee...
trip wire... booby trap... to move forward is to die... to step back is to die... I taste brass...
Slowly, I turn just my head and tell the rest to get down...
When they are safe, my decision made, I send a prayer to heaven and throw myself, back and down... the wire snaps... the igniter pops and smokes...
it does not explode... a dud... I won... this time.
copyright, e.w. richardson, 1999

Lean mean, and seventeen

Let me share with you a story, bout a young man seventeen,
Who had plans & dreams of joining the United States Marines . . .

He had taken all the pre-test at a small recruiting store,
Where they told him he had qualified for infantry and more . . .

He was off to San Diego where the sun is scorching hot,
To see if he might have the grit to be what he was not . . .

The days turned into weeks, then months and muscles turned to steel,
a sense of pride & honor filled his heart & soul with zeal. . .

He had conquered all his dragons; he had finally seen the light,
He knew now, what it really meant to be the first to fight . . .

He was Lean, Mean & Seventeen when he donned the Tan & Green,
he had paid the price to earn the name UNITED STATES MARINE. .

He knew that war was looming in some far off distant land,
with heat and bugs and other “demons” buried in the sand,

So, he said a prayer & packed his bags, what else was there to do,
Like so many gone before him, he would fight for me & you . . .

The sweat, the blood, the loneliness were often hard to bare,
A buddy lost within the ranks, the “1000 meter stare”. . .

But the kindred spirit of the Corps and all those that he knew,
would help to keep him focused on the job he had to do . . .

He has stepped into a BROTHERHOOD that few have ever seen,
And wears the Anchor, Globe & Eagle of a UNITED STATES MARINE
Copy Right © 2004/2007 –Former Cpl. Of Marines “Rocky” Fortner© USMC 63-67 (Vietnam 65-66 – L 3/9 & L 3/3)

Bloodshot brown eyes shuttered wide open, darting from side-to-side in silent horror, deep in the unspoken agony of paranoia. The sheer blanket that sought to comfort him always seemed just shy of hiding the terror that haunts his prying eyes. His small, shivering hands grasp indiscriminately for the warmth of his mother in the folds of the blanket, as though she could stop the long, hair-raising whistles of mortars falling and the bone-rattling, earth-shattering explosions that follow. He could still remember the silent scream on his cousin's face the day before, as a rafe of bullets snuffed his young life out. The visions made him shake and moan as he lay very still next to his mother. Khewa was under attack again, there were
no Taliban here, only locals trying to get rid of the foreign invaders....

"THEY’RE HERE!" came Dad's whisper

Soldiers hustling from house to house, ransacking what’s left of a shattered nation, machine gunfire punctuating each visit as nervous soldiers fire at every moving shadow. A blood-curdling scream ruptures the uneasy silence, echoing for miles before the sharp, brutal cracks of rifle fire silence her forever, and a new fearful hush settled over the neighborhood. Hundreds are rounded up and herded like cattle two by two into large, rattling military trucks.

"THEY’RE RIGHT NEXT DOOR!!!" He hissed, his voice sounded hoarse and strained, scaring the bejesus out of everyone.

The boy’s mother grimaced as his thin brown arms wrap around her tight enough to break a rib. The clock seemed to slow to a near standstill. Each tick of the second hand knifed into the psyche of each of the five huddling family members. One minute trudged by …then another …and another. The soldiers were talking loudly, twelve feet away on the other side of the wall. All the lights in the house were off, as though no one were home. All huddled under a single blanket downstairs, his mother slipping a hand carefully over two-year-old sister’'s mouth to keep her from wailing. Five sets of fearful eyes stared through the window at the darkening heavens, whispering urgent prayers under their breaths, their eyes seeking only Allah.

KEFAYA! Came the yell of the platoon leader …having come within inches of death, Allah, answered the family’'s prayers...…the thump-thump-thump of boot-steps receded back to the truck, and the soldiers called it a day. The trucks grumbled to life, and roared off into the distance. Tomorrow, it would all begin again. Zahid decided he'd go with his uncle and father to plant IED's against these evil foreign invaders.

Mother rocked her three children to a fitful slumber, punctuated by sudden screams as nightmares seized their subconscious. When they awoke, the neighborhood remained clear. The air was still, but not rife with tension like before. Birds peeked warily out of their nests, giving test chirps to see if the monsters had left for good. No one left their house yet…they wouldn’t for quite a few days. The sky slowly brightened, as though sensing the tensions had eased. Fiery hues or red, gold, purple and orange hearkened the sunrise, welcomed by the bravest of birds.

Father pulled out his Rubab, it had 3 strings missing, he tuned it with fumbling fingers. He was no great musician, knowing little of A minors and B flats.. Still, with every unpracticed strum of the strings, the war seemed just a little farther away, just a little less scary, just a little less real to the three enraptured audience members who sat before him, listening to the tuneless music as though it were Brahms, or  Mozart. The song he sang was old and whimsical, free of finesse and complexities. The melody rocked and comforted them....this was their song, their life. Praise Allah.

Putrefaction

I'm addicted to
the ebony decay
of a dead rose
Turning from
the iridescent
on to this path I chose

Littered with hopelessness
and crimson words
of shattered love
As the black vultures
gaze solemnly
from the gnarled trees above

Awaiting the end
of my dark
and vengeful delight
A flock of demons
to carry me
swiftly into the night

Far from crystal waters
and my home
of harmonic love
Into the fiery depths
of an unjustifiable
diabolic-ever after......

I'm not coming back no more

Been here since the beginning of time
a desolate soul roaming the earth
my royalty clothed in dna
since the moment of my birth

old souls collected along the way
begging for eternal release
to finally sleep uninterrupted
for heaven is a moment of peace

another day beckons the morning dew
tattered souls cry out in repressed sorrow
"the sodomite" has once again returned
to feast upon the dead of tomorrow....

Descent

In my deepest darkest descent, I fell
Barreling down through the bowels of hell
Scathed and pierced by bramble and briar,
into eternal damnation and fire.

There, I was confronted by the Beast,
seated at morbid feast,
fallen angels by his side,
I knew I had no place to hide,
as I stared into his eyes of trampled and bloodied time,
I realized in horror, they mirrored mine.

Some people it seems are bound to a fate none of the rest of us could ever imagine. A horrid existence marked by sufferings of the mind and spirit. And this was the case with my acquiantance, Annabel Lee. Indeed the queerness of her situation and the surname with which she was cursed were not wasted upon me. We both knew the tale forged by Poe's pen and now I often wonder if he knew how horrid the fate of annabel's would be a century before it occurred. Though no method of hypnosis was incurred often the human mind can induce a state within itself or so I theorized at the time, reality is subjective, a trick of movement, or suggestion and the
mind can go reeling into infinite dimensions....

The actual date of the circumstances is not important. Anna was referred to me by an old friend. Though I am no doctor by any means I have a natural understanding of the mind. anna seemed very on edge upon our first meeting. She removed a handkerchief from her handbag and wrung it so that it was nearly destroyed before our session was half over.

"My mind plays the most horrible tricks on me." She began in a low unsure voice. "You see, for a long time I have known things and began to experience visions to accompany this knowledge no less that six months ago. I see the most horrible things. Creatures I know cannot be from this world. When I told my husband he dismissed it as nothing more than a hysterical flight of fancy on my part."

I urged her to tell me about the creatures. She paled considerably and did nothing to hide the shiver of dread.

"They are horrible. They cannot be of this world. Some are monstrous resembling a lizard. Yet they stand upright as a human. Claws that are hooked like talons, their teeth are curved inward. I have never seen anything like it." she paused looking nervously about the room. "They will come. If I continue, they will come. You see my grandfather released them upon his death and now they are my curse. My father used to say he saw and heard things but he described nothing of this magnitude. Several years ago they found him in a rather unsavory part of town enviscerated. He refused to release them. I just know it." she finished.

She moved to the window and stared out into the empty street with a disquieting conviction. "There are some things that were never meant to be tampered with don't you agree Mr. Collins?" I nodded absently as I looked over the notes given to me by my associate. It seemed Ms. Lee had suffered this peculiar malady for months, perhaps years before she sought help. Now as she told her tale she made it all seem so recent. This alone peaked my curiosity.

"Ms. Lee, may I ask a question?" I proceeded cautiously. She nodded, her eyes moving over the street. I was again struck by the meticulous way she watched, taking every small detail in. "If you are indeed married then how is it you are the one cursed with the bad tidings associated with the name Lee?"

"Madame, my name is Annabel Lee by birth. I have chosen to omit my husband's name for the time being. There is no need in bringing him into this hell...at least not for now." she added grimly. "My husband's name is Leon Chaney.

"Now? What do you mean? Would you elaborate? I am not sure I entirely understand you wanting to keep such things from him." I countered becoming quite suspicious.

"Of course. As I told you he knows of the things I see but I discovered I can only keep him safe by keeping the magnitude of my situation from him. You see Ms. Collins, they want me to give him over to them. A pittance if you will for relief of my own suffering and they have promised to go back to which they came if I do so. If you would be so kind would you escort me to my home so I may show you something. I have to know I am not completely mad."

After a bit of debate on my part I agreed. I was not so certain it was a good idea. After all she claimed things not of this world visited her but I must admit I was most intrigued by this point.

We arrived at her home shortly after seven pm and were immediately greeted by her husband. A tall gentleman with chestnut hair and eyes so dark they were almost black. He was quite a bit younger than I expected and I was sure many years younger then his wife.

"Good evening Ms. Collins." he said, extending his hand. I took it noting the firmness of his grip, his flesh itself seemed quite a different matter, it was quite translucid. I subconsciously wiped my hand upon my pants as if to remove something from them he had left behind. He watched, his gazed unaverted and his eyes seemed to brighten a bit.

He gestured for me to sit, playing always the most gracious host. He was however, someone anxious. Anna sat as well but at the edge of her seat as if expecting to need a quick exit. "Annabel has told you of the creatures she sees?" he inquired. I nodded, my attention by now entirely on Mr Chaney. "Very good." he said somewhat distracted himself. "Perhaps now this nonsense will stop. I have no reason to doubt she thinks she sees something but my wife is something of an hysteric you understand."

I nodded acknowledging him. Contrastingly I had found Annabel Lee to be a rather calm, reasonable woman. Not at all one prone to hysteria. There had to be some basis for her claims and her husband's demeanor made me more determined than ever to get to the bottom of them. "Annabel, will you now take me to what it was you wished to show me?" She nodded and rose slowly, her eyes upon her husband. The woman seemed positively frightened to death. She led me through the kitchen and to a small door on the far wall.

"I thought this a strange place for a door. But Ms. Collins, I know it is a portal of some sort. Look at the size of it and the queer markings. It is nothing made by human hands." I stopped before the door inspecting the markings and the very material from which it was hewn. Indeed this was nothing I had ever seen before. I had studied ancient and modern writings and this I could fit into none of those categories. I grabbed a pen and paper from my coat pocket and made an etching of the carvings for further examination at my leisure. As I straightened Annabel Lee rushed to me, leaning inappropriately close whispering in a frantic tone. "They already have him. While I was visiting you they have gotten to him."

"Impossible. He looked perfectly fine to me." I shivered inwardly as I remembered the spongy feel of his skin.

She shook her head asserting her belief. They have gotten him."

Her words rang deafeningly in my ears. I reached for the handle on the strange little door and pulled it open. I creaked and shuddered before giving way and coming slowly open. "I thought you said these were rather large beasts, like lizards." I said. "Nothing of that size could get through here. You said, standing upright they would be at least as tall as a man."

"Exactly. They cannot get through. They must have evolved somehow since the door was made. I don't understand though. They said they needed his blood to have the magic necessary to get out. Yet at least one is out now."

"If they never got out how did you see them, Madam?" I inquired sharply. None of this made sense any longer. I was rapidly becoming convinced the woman was mad. She gestured toward the door. I shook my head and slowly crawled as far inside as I could manage. At first I saw nothing but deep impenetrable darkness. As my eyes adjusted I could see something moving about in the darkness. From outside the door I could hear her droning on about how her husband had done just as I was doing now and never seen a thing. I was tempted to speak but the visage before me kept my silence.

There were several creatures, at least four, gathered in a small group beside an object that seemed much like a pillar. A pillar? my mind quipped. There was not enough space in this room for such a thing. The creatures themselves seemed of a reptillian persuasion, with long matted manes and slitted glowing eyes. One turned its attention to me, Its nose was flattened and the teeth protruding from the thin lips were curved inward.

I heard a sound but could not make out a shape in the dark. A slithering sound of something massive dragging itself across the floor. A shiver of dread raced along my spine and a sense of displacement overcame my senses. I was being dragged backward. I fought madly until a voice reached me through the mist lingering within my brain. "Ms.Collins! It is I, Annabel Lee!" I stopped fighting and looked around as my confusion lifted. "They almost had you." she said, sitting heavily upon the floor. She looked at me within her eyes I saw defeat. She was ready to give up but I was not yet so willing. Something had managed to take control of my mind.

I began to describe to her all I saw. She nodded at several key points she had seen these things too. She stood carefully then helped me to my feet. "Come back into the parlor with me." She led me back through her home. Her husband still sat as he had been left. Strangely he seemed...inanimate. His appearance was that of one lost in deepest thought. He seemed unaware of myself or of Annabel. She glanced at him a look of grim determination came over her features. "At least acknowledge us." she said, the sheer force in her voice made me cringe. Yet instantly he seemed to come alive. He hitched a deep breath and looked up at us.

"Forgive me. I did not realize you had returned." he said quietly. He stood shakily and walked quickly about the room. Annabel watched him. Her gaze cold and somewhat malicious. "Now, do you see what I have been faced with? There is nothing to be seen, is there? Anna is merely the victim of hysterics." His words seemed somewhat rehearsed, forced from his lips.

"On the contrary. I saw some very strange things. I heard something as well but could not make it out. Something massive and slithering." I shivered as I thought to add soulless and inhuman but refrained as he looked at me; a mixture of fear and confusion in his eyes.

annabel was watching us, once again with the abandon of one who observes all but never intervenes. She suddenly busied herself getting us drinks. I sat and bade her husband to do so as well. "For someone who has never seen the creatures you seem most haunted." I observed. He nodded and resigned himself to staring at his hands. Annabel handed him a drink then with a grim smile gave me one as well. She seated herself near him and stared into her own glass. There was something about her demeanor yet...

She spoke suddenly. Her words resounded deafeningly through the room as if carried by some unnatural force and amplified. The words were foreign but I was convinced were derived from the language upon the door. I again felt the displacement and the sense of impending doom. I stood seeking to silence her. I reached out seeking to steady myself. She stepped away her voice louder and her words becoming something like a chant. I fought the displacement as my world began to gray out to an all consuming fog.
Spellbinding chanting continued to make me sway and swoon.

I awoke sometime later in my own home. I sat up suddenly and was met by the disquieting stare of Annabel Lee. "How did we get back here?" I asked as confusion dominated my thoughts.

"We never left. When you accompanied me to my home we did so with our minds and the power of suggestion...mesmerism if you will. You see when my grandfather died he unleashed things not of this world. Yet they exist only in the realm of the subconscious. I have learned to control access to that realm and therefore control them. I needed you and your strength of mind to see them and believe in them so that I could accomplish my task."

"Which was?" I asked dubiously. She smiled sardonically but before she could answer we were interrupted by a frantic knock. I excused myself and was greeted by a distressed looking policeman.

"I was told I could find Ms. Lee here." he said breathlessly. I stepped aside and allowed him in. This man was very excited something had happened. Something sinister I was certain. Anabel Chaney stood, her stare unwaivering as he spoke of his heinous news. "Your husband madam. He is dead. The neighbors reported screams that were quite frankly inhuman. They said it sounded as though the demons of hell had invaded your home. Everyone in the
neighborhood has been walking around like zombies, blank glares, and none of them can remember anything that has happened to them in the past few hours." ....."I don't even know how I came to
be here....." He trailed off.

Annabel thanked him softly and sent him on his way. I stared at her in disbelief. I was now under the impression she had in some devious way murdered her husband and I was her alibi. "What did you do?" I demanded.

"My husband was an abusive and cruel man but weak of mind. It was quite easy to control his mind through mesmerism and allow those beasts to tear his soul from his body." she said casually. She returned to the window again watching the street below. "In fact that is why his flesh felt so strange to you when you shook his hand. He was already dead. He just did not know it yet."

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• Edgar Allan Poe Day (xbiancajade.wordpress.com)

There I was, walking alone, along the side of the road. watching the wind eat the snowdrifts, as familiar thoughts eat at my heart.   The only sounds are the slow crunch, crunch of my boot heels, thick and heavy as regret.  I left knuckle skin on the last tree I passed. Just a little bit of frustration scraped off in impotent outbursts of anger. I stop for a second to watch a single bead of my life splash to the ground, turn pink, and freeze. Iwas here. images fight for precedence in my head, blonde hair, tie dye shirts, his  body naked and waiting on a blanket in the grass, and the thought of  his  sudden silence. pulling up my hood, my eyes blind in the flash of oncoming headlights.   Half-heartedly, I stick out my thumb then a finger as they pass me by. It starts to snow, a frozen version of my darkest moods, and when i look up for explanations I find only the same images in the clouds laughing at me.   It's cold out here. its hard out here. but, for now, its where I belong.  Here comes another car. He's stopping.

"Hey, where are you headed?""

"As far as youll take me." I replied quickly, too quickly.

I hop into the car to wafts of stale smoke and cherry air freshener.  To fill the awkward pause that comes with meeting a new person,  I pull down my hood and busy myself adjusting the seatbelt .I observe my chauffeur for the night out of the corner of my eye. he is a squat man, not very tall not very short, with a bit of a gut that told of many nights hiding from the wife in whatever bar he frequented. He had the bleary hollow eyes of someone hypnotized by the constant blurring of the yellow lines of the road, he's been driving for a while I thought.  Suddenly I hear him ask about the cuts on my knuckles, the black eye I am sporting...not wanting to answer I tell him some bullshit story that i had slipped on some ice and skinned them when I slid in the road.  Through all of the small talk he fired at me over the next hour or so, I picked up that he was 42, had a wife, and one kid.   He said he was on his way home from a trip for his boss blah, blah, blah, when the flash of blue and red appeared behind us.  It was a routine traffic stop.   The man got off with a warning for having a tail light out and we were on our way again. but, when he opened his glove box to pass the officer his license and registration I noticed he had a 6 inch hunting knife.

While I was nodding and yessing my way through another half hour of his incessant gutteral rambling, he suddenly stopped the car.  I spied him through very sleepy eyes.

"Is there something wrong?"  I mumbled. I suddenly sensed he was a psycho.....

Because he was instantly on top of me, groping me, trying to open my feather down coat.

"Come on, just a little, I'm doing you a big favor, taking you out of that storm.  You would have walked the highway all night in this blizzard!" He was yanking at me now.

I was fighting him off, scratching his face, making him very mad.  He fumbled to open the glove compartment, I instantly knew what he was trying to reach for.

my thoughts trailed  back to the knife. I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to pull out the sharpened steel and  chopping at his hand that was forcing itself down my pants.

What would it be like if I turned my arm into a piston hammering the knife into his chest until my muscles burned with fatigue, until the leather became sticky with his rapidly congealing blood.   What would it be like to create a widow and fatherless child.   At this point in my life, where I was leaving everything behind, where I had nothing left, I had nothing to lose. could I do it? Could I  have the balls to kill this weasel of a  man nice enough to give me a ride in the dead of the night when I was at my worst and freezing?

Then I thought of  the way things were at the start of our relationship, everything new, reveling in the discovery of each other. He was an Adonis. then I thought of the devil he became. How he abused me, beat me,  that evil bastard that cast me to the path that led me to this point.  No one is innocent. what the hell, right?

So, I stopped fighting him, and I told him I had  to stop at a gas station to relieve myself  and asked him to find one.   He let go of me and stopped the car to retrieve a map.  I quickly grabbed the knife from the glove compartment, unsheathed it and plunged it into the side of his neck. I was surprised by the result. he couldn't scream. he couldn't move, he was in shock. the amount of blood was unimaginable, baptizing my left arm into a new life as he gurgled his way to the door the other side. with great effort I pulled the blade out of his neck and stabbed it, to the handle, into his side and kept stabbing until his he was nothing more than mush from armpit to hip. he was probably dead five minutes earlier but I  couldnt stop myself, murder is therapeutic, I found. when I  was finished I searched his pockets and took up smoking. I left him there. I left the car behind and started walking again. I kept the knife though, washed, like my arm in the snow. its cold out here. its hard out here. but right now, its where I belong. I've made my choice. Ive committed myself to fire, and some of the labels that have followed me throughout my life. I still need a ride, but I hope to god one doesn't come along.

It seems for the first time in my life god listened. or maybe he was looking out for the rest. another ride never came. I kept walking. I kept replaying what I had done over and over in my mind. I wont deny that I was scared. I figured that my life would be over. i kept an eye past my shoulder expecting to see the cops speeding up behind me ready to pounce. after an hour of walking I relaxed, pulled my coat close around me and concentrated on putting one foot over the other. I finally made it to a little town, frozen, wet and looking for any kind of help I could find. the first door I knocked on belonged to a small family that was all too willing to help me out. I had made it, somehow.
So I'm sitting here on my porch. its 40 years later, I am 62 and watching my grandchildren play in the grass near the oak tree I had planted. My Husband had died 3 years ago. I miss him. the cancer got him. ate him alive from stomach to brain as surely as the memory of what I did to that poor man years and years ago eats at my soul. I never did get his name, or maybe I just forgot it.  I notice Ive been forgetting a lot of things as i get older. but I'll never forget what I did. All I have to do is look at my right hand and the places where my two missing fingers used to be. I lost them to frost bite on the cold walk into whatever town that was. since then Ive had a pretty successful life, one I know I dont deserve.   I take to the highways late at night.  Cruising the dark corners, and ethereal midnight expanses, stopping to help anyone hitching a ride, or needing to fix a flat tire.  I'm only too happy to oblige.  I'm waiting, any day now, I will become that driver...someone will be luking on those dark silent roads, miserable and filled with contempt, then I will be that driver,  and that piker, or hiker, will sense the psycho in me.

It had been a long day in which all of the lady jurrors were absolutely convinced that the Man From Puerto rico was trying to rape that woman from Miami.

"Even though she was there to seek his spiritual guidance."

Even though , "She took off her own clothes."

I said "Everyone knows that Miami women are easy." I received many glares. I didn't see anything wrong in what he did.

We were sent home in a deadlock, to our respective cities. The translators took the squids out of their ears and dabbed them in isobutane and cloth. The maps of the Miami highways were tenaciously folded, banded by rubber and set on edge in the corner of the deliberation chamber. We bowed, curtsied, waved, air kissed and then took our respective exits at noon.

I found myself in a small cafe with a cup of Cuban Coffee, staring at a street without cars. The gas price had increased and so commuters took to bag lunches and busses. There is nothing that maintains the popularity of paper bags more than the gas price. Without, we would be rolling ourselves in plastic toothpicks and plastic hamburgers, plastic pizza and plastic toothpaste. In short: society must preserve trees when the carbon monoxide from cars gets out of hand. So there was no traffic and the coffee needed cream. Unfortunately the cream at Lola's had turned on it's belly through the hot and humid morning. I lit a cigarrette.

Next thing I knew -- there was a zzipp, zzipp.. zipping of a housefly. Except we were not in the house. We were on a veranda with Cuban Coffee and cigarrettes. The fly dived and dipped, and then sucked at the strands of my hair for a while. I thought to myself, "Is there something sweet about the hair?" The arms shooed left and right. I blew volumes at smoke toward the fly trying to give him bronchitus or at least a little emphazima. Nothing. Little bastard twitched his semi-translucent wings and came again with those thousands and thousands of eyes. He was hogging a laugh in the down spur of dive. He wiped his arse on my scalp, coughed abit about the smoke, took to the air, circled and came again for a fifth or sixth approach. The boy was prepping for war.

"STOP THIS!" I yelled at the little bastard. But the fly would not take notice of my hail. He would not stop and pay homage to the majesty and divinity that make up the human race. How could this little fly not realize in every myiatic cell of its being that the intellect of the human and the humble fairness with wich we have cultivated for a thousand years would not snap and falter -- would not fail to smash his body against the first rock. Perhaps he is a suicide lover, I thought. Perhaps he has need for a wrongful death suit, an insurance scam among flies. Perhaps this nesbit is considered the messiah of his people. My eye twitched and I bent and postured the head to meet eye to eye with the fly. There were so many eyes, surely we were looking at each other.

"What do you want?" I stammered. The fly, for his part, danced around on a cloudless air layer for a few moments before coming to a stasis pose. He cough and sputtered until his mouth or beak found words:

"I was on the wall."

What great awe this fly inspired. He was on the wall? I knew the fly to be a HE because he was aggressive. Never in my life have I seen an agressive female fly. Only do they attack when you try to smash their babies. But that is not really agressive, perhaps it could be characterized as reactive.

"You were on the wall?" I needed clarification. "Please, lord fly, please tell me what you saw, and be off."

"You judged wrong!"

As the fair and patient judge of the insect kindom, it was my job to listen to the plight of the little thing before dealing him a swift death by newspaper. Sometimes, I must admit, there is no time to hear the entire argument. Sometimes I swat and kill the first time they whine.

An Orangatang decided to become an artist.

It was an unheard of conception and caused much consternation amongst his fellow Orangutans.

You will make our family a laughing stock, said Mother Orangutan to her son. great apes do not do such things. what on earth are you thinking of? I have never had any desire to paint a picture and neither did my father before me. Please reconsider your foolish idea. What is wrong with being a servant, or failing that, a tool-maker? There is always a market for youngsters to wash clothes and dishes and to serve humans, besides we get fed good. instead of eating termites and grubs. Think of your mother - do you want other orangutans to point her out in the trees and snicker behind her tail - look, there goes the nutcase whose son wants to be an artist!
Baka, you are being selfish and unreasonable and if you don't see sense in this matter I will be forced to box your ears!

"Younger brother," said the Ape's brother Arnie, - for all that Motherr is an unimaginative and somewhat right-wing conservative who can't see beyond her own proboscis, I have to concur with her opinion in this matter. I am, as you know, a well-respected Ape about town, admired by my peers and eagerly sought after by lady apes for grooming and casual copulation. If it were to get about that my younger brother were an intellectual and was considering painting pictures it would, by association, be looked at askance also. Fellows would be loathe to invite me to all-night fermented fruit-juice parties and the most desirable females be more than a little inclined to keep their legs together when I approach them for sexual favours. it simply will not do. If you will not consider our parents position then at least consider mine - I have a reputation to maintain.

Baka said nothing. In truth, he had hardly heard Elder Brother's earnest words - he was too busy contemplating his unconventional scheme.
Its not as if orangutans are unintelligent creatures, he mused to himself. We teach our young arithmetic and how to wash roots before they eat them. We have mastered the languages of crocodiles, lions and birds and even cook and clean for humans. What is wrong with painting a picture?? Did not our ancestors compose symphonies for woodwind and drum that even now are played on hollow tree stumps and gourds, resounding boldly across the plains? Even men have taken up the art and construct musical instruments of their own.
And were not our ancestors great artists and painters also, daubing sacred caves with images of the Gods in magical colours painstakingly concocted and prepared from secret mixtures of ground ochre, fruit juice and duck guano? I myself have seen the works of the great master Ooo-ooh-ach-che in the limestone galleries beneath Gunung Simpali and, despite the passage of tens of hundreds of years, they still retain their primeaval magnificence and speak to the great apes of today with all the vim and vigour as when they were first painted.

Why, even human anthropologists and National Geographic film crews come from as far away as the United States and London to admire them - although in the ludicrous and myopic manner of their kind they attribute them to some enlightened predecessor of their own debased and mongrol species.

Thus the great ape wiled away his time, contemplating his great endeavour. Already his fellow apes stopped to point him out, laughing at him and making curious twisting motions with their digits to the side of their heads, though Baka was oblivious of their scathing wit.

Mother orangutan and Elder Brother were quite beside themselves now with indignation but no matter how much they reproached him Baka simply smiled at them, his thoughts a hundred miles away. One night he was even summoned to a meeting of the tribal Elders. In no uncertain terms they made their viewpoint known. If Baka did not buckle down and put aside his foolish notion he would not be allowed to take part in the next great durian fruit expedition and he would (his mother wept to hear it) be relegated to the end of the pecking order to receive his share of coconuts when they raided the nearby farms , receiving only the outer shell, that no other self-respecting monkey would touch. He would be considered lower even than one-eyed and one-legged James or Beulah the idiotic girl-orang, whom the tribe had adopted and did their menial chores for them.

Once again however the wisdom of his betters and fellows seemed to fall upon deaf ears. Even when his long-standing sweetheart of four seasons publicly turned her face away from him and allowed herself to be mounted by Gladial Sharp-fangs, Baka was undeterred from his unconventional idea. Oh, he felt the pain of ridicule and ostracism - but all great innovators, he knew, were treated thus. In the future he would, no doubt, be regarded by one and all as a quite remarkable fellow and orangutans would reminisce of how they had once groomed and baby-sat him as a child, and all would learn to imitate him and take up the paint brush as well.

But in the meantime he must undergo the ordeals and privations of all great orangatans and innovators: shunned, reviled and ridiculed by those of lesser ambition and intelligence.
He took to avoiding the familar jungle tracks where other apes might recognize and hoot at him (sometimes they even threw rotten fruit - once he had to soundly thrash a youngster seemingly bent upon the humiliating task of urinating on him from a height).

Finally, he decided, and not without a twinge of true regret and pain, that the only way to go forward would be to isolate himself completely from the rest of society and conduct his great experiment in seclusion. The pretty features of his fickle girl-friend swam blurily before his eyes but with a savage sweep of his paw he pushed the image away and loped off into the unknown to search for a remote glade or cave to make his art studio.

Eventually he found the ideal location, a light and airy hollow half-way up a cliff-face. After a gruelling and bitter struggle that would have astonished and delighted his father and the other elders had they witnessed it, he evicted the present occupant, a half-blind old Macaca, who despite his half gammy leg and dull carious teeth, put up a fierce struggle.
In the week that followed he carefully and fastidiously swept out the cave of macaca droppings, the half-consumed carcasses of small mammals and other accumulated detritus.
He selected and prepared the best durian and coconut leaves for his canvas, and slow-roasted twenty carefully crafted hard-wood twigs to just the right consistancy and quality of charcoal to make the perfect drawing instruments.

At last, he said to himself one beautiful, amber-skied late afternoon as he sat at the entrance of his cave, surveying the valley beneath him and all the manifold wonders of Nature: the low purple hills in the distance, the occasional gleam of silver water, the pink flush of the elegant flamingoes going about their sedentary business, the harsh cries of condors and Bee Eaters hunting or raising their young.

At last, he repeated softly, my preparations are finished and I am ready to embark upon the great work that will bring me simian immortality and change the way future apes think forever!
Now, let me see, what shall I paint? let's wing it.

For all intents and purposes John Hicks, prisoner of Guantanamo was dead.  Rumor had it that he had been reanimated by alien technology. But no one knew with an absolute certainty. He appeared one day in the offices of George Noory , the executive producer of Coast 2 Coast, a radio talk program known for its off the wall, in-depth approach to the paranormal.

When it was medically verified that the John Hicks was indeed dead after his execution, Art Bell assigned one of his top producers and star reporters to do the story. The producer ran into some obstacles when he tried a human interest approach to the story's spin. He wanted to establish a history, interview family and friends. But John Hicks wanted nothing to do with it. His reason for coming to the world's attention was to make people happy, he said. His past, his family, his origins were not important, what was important was the truth...and he wanted to share it with everyone.

When the show aired, the ratings went through the ceiling. The Executed man was an immediate success. People loved him. They wanted to invite him to dinner, even if it was only to have him sitting at the table. Politicians from around the world and religious leaders from every denomination wanted to consult with him. They felt that he had insights into life that were given to him by God. What became immediately apparent was that his mere image on the TV screen instilled a sense of happiness and contentment in the viewing audience that was unheard of in the annals of television broadcasting. No one could account for this phenomenon. Corporations were quick to see the value in all this. They asked John to sell their products and wanted his photos for print ads. They offered top dollar, butJohn hicks said he did not need money, and no longer felt the urge to chase that beast. Furthermore, he made it plain that he had not come to sell candy, soda, cereal, or anything else to anyone. He came only to be seen and make people aware of the continuity of consciousness in the Bardo State.

Although he had not given permission, toy makers were manufacturing action figures and dolls in his likeness. He refused legal representation, thus allowing anyone who cared to market his image to do so with impunity. He began to appear in ads all around the world, on trading cards and billboards. The ressurected man was seen drinking beer and eating foods that he had no use for. He had become an overnight celebrity. Hollywood wanted to sign him to do feature films; TV execs wanted him to star in his own sitcom. He refused all offers. Nonetheless, paparazzi and reporters followed him everywhere he went along with mobs of autograph seekers. Fan clubs sprung up on every continent of the planet. Glossy photos of him were in countless households, even in shacks and shanties in third world countries, all of them signed by John Hicks.

No matter where he was seen, or where he appeared, he always wore the same clothes--a white pair of pants, and a white tunic, and a thin black tie  with a star and quarter moon embossed upon it.  No one knew where the dead man lived. He would simply appear where he was expected, and in places where he was not expected at all. People from all walks of life invited him to come live with them, wealthy individuals offered to build him air-conditioned mausoleums around the world so that he would have a comfortable place to stay no matter where he went. He would have nothing to do with it. It was apparent that he was enormously reticent and valued his privacy above human comforts. Scientists took interest in him because he did not decompose.  There was a bright aura and halo emitting from him, but this did not increase over any length of time. He was a true enigma who always sidestepped a question with a shy and wry smile.

When he met with Ratzinger at the Vatican, this press release was handed to reporters:

After many a millennia, the time has come to complete the true, long awaited role of the human species. My presence on the planet at this time is to draw attention to the ressurection that befalls everyone alive today. The time is near when the great culmination that the human race had long expected on a subconscious level is but a sun flare away. The technology is in place; the required number of human beings is in place; the political antagonisms and spiritual malaise are ripe and very much in place. The momentous time has arrived, the sun has returned to it's place of
origin, only doing so when times like these arise. The great culling of the human race is
about to begin. I am the second born of the dead, pick up your lives and follow me, take
no food, no clothing, no possessions, they will not be needed.

The minions from every nation, every race, every creed, left their homes and domiciles to
search for John Hicks, he was spotted in the Himilayas, or on the Pyramid of the Sun,
or beneath the Denver Airport, he preached to the Liberals and the Republicans, baptizing
them in the Potomic River.

He would appear at bar mitzvahs and family picnics, at Christian baptismal ceremonies, and at pubs and nightclubs where he was seen dancing with delighted females who slipped their phone numbers into his olive green jacket in hopes of a late night rendezvous. Drug addicts toasted him as he passed because they believed he had reached the highest high attainable. Post offices had to open up special divisions for all of the fan mail he received. They had to store all these letters in huge warehouses because Hicks had no known address.

Then suddenly John Hicks made an announcement, he would speak to the whole world on
december 21, 2012. He said he would reveal many truths, and needed the world to listen.

On the night that this broadcast was to occur, everyone was in front of their TV set or radio, eager to hear what he had to say. Soldiers on battlefields stopped for the occasion, crime halted during this announcement, the flow of human semen ceased while sex was put on suspension. All ears and eyes were peeled to hear the  second born among the dead.

He told the world, there was now so much more to life, that life extended far beyond our dreams,
that it now extended into the bardo state. The sun had returned to it's place of origin and erased
the limit we call death. He said "men will seek death and shall not find it."

No more suffering to die, no more giving up the ghost, all of mankind would now experience
the reality of the universal consciousness. He suggested World Leaders release prisoners
and stop all wars, and destroy all missiles and nuclear warheads. He told the people they
no longer needed food or sustenance, that the ether was all they needed to sustain their
consciousness, because it was the very face of god.

Without hesitation, or thinking of the ultimate consequences, The illuminati gave  orders to launch missiles of mass destruction at countries that were at the top of their adversary lists. They also deployed troops on their home front to decimate the civilian population. They would not give up their power without a fight.  They controlled the womb, and they controlled the tomb.   While the sheeple sat in front of  TV sets listening to the gunfire and explosions in their cities, they waited patiently for the nuclear, chemical and biological warheads to hit the earth; and they watched John Hicks, the executed second born of  the dead on the screen with smiles on their faces, in complete tranquility, as he opened wide  the door to heaven.

What a wasted life, thought Jennifer as she toyed with a 38 calibre.  She flipped it around
not caring if it went off or not. her life no longer mattered, maybe it never did.
She looked over at the bed. She had already turned it down, making it look so inviting.....
She cringed at the unbidden thought of Brad and that young bitch, Lindsey, lying on-- no, stop it, she told herself, forcing her lips still.Her mother, always suspicious and asking weird questions about Brad. The looks and hints from her friends. They had all known. Brad had been at the prenatal clinic today, but not for her. No, for Lindsey, who was now surely frantic with the idea that she had no one to help her through a pregnancy that hadn't been planned. Well, too bad for her,  Jennifer thought.

A phone was ringing in the bedroom. It was Brad's work cell phone. Funny, Brad didn't usually forget things.

The voice on the other line had hesitated. "Hi... Is Brad there? I really need to talk to him. Is this Brad's cell phone?"

"Who are you?" she had screamed into the Cell phone. Brad is dead, there's no more brad, he's now unbrad."

"WHY ARE YOU SAYING THAT? HE CAN'T BE!" the barbie doll voice of Lindsey screamed at her, snapping her back to reality for a few moments.

"And I still have dinner on the stove," Jennifer reflected softly. "Who will eat it now?"

The confused voice babbled, "What? -- No, that's silly, we were just downtown -- he said he'd call me, I need to talk to him."

She replied with eerie calm, as if she was mentioning the weather, "'Brad?' No, Brad's not here. He's dead, you know, your gonna
hafta raise that child on your own, and I'm gonna hafta raise my child by myself....at least I get everything that was brad's you however
are shit out of luck......" she mused.

The knock came suddenly in the middle of the afternoon, between the soap opera and the chopping of shallots.....

The doorbell chimed pleasantly. Who could that be? Hopefully not a visitor, with Brad due home and dinner on the stove.

"Mrs. Selby?" the woman asked. "Mrs. Brad Selby?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, but there's...been an accident," the woman officer said softly. "Can we come in?"

"Of--of course,"   Jennifer  said, confused.

She had found herself smiling at two police officers: an older woman and a nice-looking young man. The young officer shifted his stance,
and cleared his throat.

Her head buzzed so loudly she could barely make out what the officer was saying. Brad had been pulling out of the downtown prenatal clinic's driveway when he was hit by another car. The driver's side was crushed. Dead at the scene, around four pm.

Her girlfriends had talked about husbands spending long hours in the office, and being tempted into affairs. But Jenn firmly believed
that men who had affairs were simply looking for the happiness they weren't getting at home.

She wished sometimes she was stunningly beautiful, but she knew that Brad didn't need "eye candy", but a compelling
and tranquil companion. Her friends thought she was a little naive, but she couldn't imagine a better husband or lover than Brad. Their love
would be complete now, when she told him about the baby, tonight at dinner...

"You're getting too old to have kids," Mother had complained recently. Jenn's younger sister had four kids already, and was constantly
asking Mother for money. But having children was a hallmark of her hometown. Jennifer, however, had always felt that life could be planned
a little better than by flying by the seat of your pants.

But it was hard to argue with Mother. Married at nineteen, divorced at forty, Mother was cool, competent and independent. And Mother
didn't like Brad much, having trouble knowing where she stood with a down-home, educated man that didn't give off many airs.
Jen wanted to laugh outright sometimes at Mother's discomfort with someone she couldn't label.

Jennifer giggled with happiness. She'd had a hunch this morning, and a cheap pregnancy test showed positive.
Brad was so good about calling if he was going to be late; she never bothered him at the office. Tonight would be extra special,
when she told him her news. She turned the stove to "low" and went to her night stand to quickly brush her shoulder-length black hair.
Though others thought her mousy, Brad had always told her she was extraordinarily beautiful, which made her blush when she thought
of the way he looked at her sometimes.

"Maybe you should come over for dinner so we can plan the funeral."  Jennifer propositioned Lindsey, "We'll have to figure out what we are going to do, and I certainly don't want to be alone tonight."

Lindsey hesitated, then sobbed, " I loved him so much, what will we do without him?" Okay, I guess I'll come over now then."Jennifer was very pleased as she hung up the phone.

The light fragrance of lavender tea candles wafted through the air, and the rooms gave off a warm glow from the soft light bulbs
she put in the lamps. All the pillows were fluffed and straightened, but they welcomed a squeeze instead of giving the impression
they were not to be touched. The mahogany grandfather clock, polished to perfection, presided over the house with its comforting chimes.
The bed was made, and Brad's 38 calibre was given honor at the head of the table.
Life was such a joy, she had thought, as she was putting the final touches on dinner.

A thunderclap ricocheted off the dark clouds, moments after the pure white lightening lit up the Sistine Chapels  old church steeple. The Pope took a look at the court papers one more time before he lock up his Lord's house. He turned around and slowly walked down the chipped steps, when he is filled with a deep-seated feeling of sadness and loss. He paused with a puzzled look upon his weathered face, he cannot put his finger on where it is coming from.

He turned his head around quizzically to look back at the chapel, and realises that the sadness and loss that he could feel was emanating from the old building itself. He stands stock still, on the final step, transfixed by the crucifix above the main entrance, as a vision enters him.

He stands in complete awe, the Lord God Almighty is sending him a message ! His time on this mortal plain is almost over, but everything will be all right because he will be safe in heaven with his Lord. He makes the sign of the cross, bids farewell to St Peter's and starts his short journey home.

He is about one hundred yards down the road when he sees a car speeding towards him, seemingly out of control. He knows that if he does not move, it will surely kill him, but what of his Lord's vision ? It told him that this was meant to be, it was his time, he would die and go to heaven. He cannot move and cheat the death that God has planned for him. The car hits him head on, he dies instantly without pain or regret.

He looks around the mist, looking for someone, a guide to show him the way. The mist starts to get thicker, turning into fog, and it is getting hotter and hotter, he starts to sweat profusely. What is happening, where is the shining light for him to walk towards, where are the angels, this cannot be real, why is he not in heaven, he should not be burning up, he should not be feeling pain... many priests are ahead of him trying to climb a very steep cliff, there is a mob and they are throwing rocks and shooting at the priests....molested children hoards of them, charging after the priests....

He hears a deep rumbling of thunder, and a flash of lightening reveals a horrific sight, a sight beyond all of his most imaginative nightmares. Satan walks up to the Pontiff slowly, with a ferocious grin on his face, and says to him "You didn't really think that you were going to heaven did you?"  I have you dead to rights, the  court of the laws of your god have pronounced you guilty."

the Pope replied, "The Lord rebuke thee."

Sandra Bauer  was God's gift to men and she knew it. When her school mates couldn't afford Cosmo, (which was often), they looked to Sandy  to teach them how to apply make-up with Q-tips, how to scratch their stockings to reflect a night of groping pleasures. It must be said that Sandy knew that she could fall down and break a leg and then the next day every other girl would be limping  just the same, to be in her clique.

And the Cast!  Oh the cast of girls that would line up to sign that plaster-de-Paris pleasure. They would steal their father's fine tipped pens and practice for hours as if her leg cast were a fine work of art made by the artist that bring coin to Sotheby'’s. Sandra  rarely parted her legs but on the occasion of the cast she had to recline on a public bench in such a way that each girlfriend was given a ten minute access. This fervor of duplicity did excite the boy's things, who pretended to care-no-less on the walkway, pretended that they didn't want to sniff Sandra 's panties on a Thursday when her mother would not wash them till Friday. All 3,000 or so  students of the Blair's  School for Secondary Education knew that Sandra paid the mortgage deed on their attentions.

Old Man Kingsly  in English Composition Class would fluff the dandruff flakes off his suit. He would look straight into the blackboard and expand upon the eating habits of  the duck-billed platypus.  "The duck billed platypus must eat 1/2 it's body weight every day, and eat an orgy of different river creatures."

Mr. Kingsly would inject the orgy word on every occasion, peer straight into Sandra  from the wall, and then reluctantly point out the Bloom's Taxonomy chart to the right of his desk.

"There is nothing greater than understanding... You understand?" The English Composition class again murmured at the Bloom's Taxonomy chart. They had heard it all before. Knowledge was placed two squares below Understanding and so for this Mr. Kingsly would not say that the class had to learn any rules of grammar. He was a very liberal master and fidgeted his glasses when the notion took root.

Now had Sandra never broken her leg -- which she did by bending for a fallen pencil and tripping down the school steps -- had Sandra  never broken her leg, then the girls would not have weighed her down with so many pounds of ribbon, ink, and lavish streamers. For the streamers and ribbon on the plaster leg became entwined with one of the desks she was sprawling on just as the school bell rung to end class.
Kingsly  dusted his shoulders of flakes again and waited to see if his special girl was going to be the last one in class. He rushed to the door, saying, "Thank you, yes, come again," to each of the students who gave him naught a word back. When the last devil had cast herself out to their other curriculum  and only Sandra-one-leg remained, Mr. Kingsly locked the door and pulled down the shade.

"Do you need some help untying yourself?" asked the master.

Sandra, herself , grunted, pulled, perspired -- oblivious of anything else around her save the damn adornments that were caught to the aluminum legging of a desk. She was hooked like a rainbow trout, wiggling and frantic, not knowing what hungry man-beast waited above. Mr. Bloom's Taxonomy reflected peeping light from the Southern Window because some ancient father of the room had the diagram printed on glossy paper. The word "Understanding" glistened, and danced in the sunlight.

Mr. Kingsly crept forward with his mighty Pen at the ready. He was looking at the girl very closely.  So heavy was the stare that she at last gave up the fight with the desk and perched up to meet him dead in the eyes.

"What do you want?"

Mr. Kingsly  knew what he wanted very badly. He wasn't getting any younger, he told himself daily. In a minute, the master unpinned his belt, the trousers slid down and a mess of polka dotted boxer shorts came to light.

"I think you are on the verge of  understanding through application Ms. Sandra!"

Sandra shook her head and all the berets trembled. No matter. She saw the purple/pink polka dots of the boxer shorts and transfixed in wonder, "Why would a man wear pink and purple polka dots?"  she mused as the class master came closer.

His Red Sharpee that 'failed' the students was three times bigger than the regular ones.  The old bugger put his hand down the left flank of his shorts as if to pull something through the slit.
"I have something to show you, Ms Sandra."

Sandra should have screamed but she was too old for that. Besides, curiosity always leads to knowledge doesn't it?
Kingsly  bent down as he slid the left side of his boxers up by two inches. "This is the Japanese Kana for understanding. Do you see?" as he wrote on her cast.

She only saw blank dots though the man's aging skin was clearly exposed. Sandra blinked three times then swatted at Kingsly as he wrote up the cast of her leg.

"I want to give you the most precious mark a teacher can give. The highest honor, do you understand?"

Sandra was speechless. Perhaps startled by the new attention, yet used to it, yet she was freakishly enchanted by the purple on pink dots; who would have imagined.

Just then, the tardy bell rang, . Sandra lifted the heavy cast to Kingsly's face.  Old Kingsly  fell to the floor was grunting, tugging to get up while Sandra  played with the lock -- left, no right -- AT LAST!  the puzzle solved. The truth is always there to set one free....if it is applied correctly...
She pushed back on the door quickly as 22 students eagerly enter the room for English Composition.  The orgy of students were already in their respective seats, oblivious of their master on his knees with his underpants exposed.

As the last person pulled into his chair, the class stood and recited  the undying  Taxonomy Scale  engraving it in their memories, for a time when they in turn must accommodate what they have assimilated.

"Oh, my, It must be morning, again."
Sunlight has entered the derelict building above this watering hole, and the faintest silver has lit the moist top of the shaft, reminding me that it isn'’t all that deep, just… deep enough.

I'’m not sure how long I slept, or even if I did. I know I have dreamed of this shaft more than once, and for the first time I realise that I no longer know what day it is. I could have slept through a whole day without knowing. But it doesn'’t really matter.

Another day here? Can I endure that? I mean, it’s not the loneliness. That’s never been a problem, 'I’ve always been alone, always preferred my own company to my own kind. It’s the hunger. It’s worse now, a feeling I'’ve never felt before. I’'ve heard that starvation causes the body to digest itself… I don’t want to think about that, I need water…

I move my head, putting my tongue against the smooth rock of the shaft. The water that filters down is cold, metallic and a little salty… this old brick well isn'’t far from the sea. Ah, the sea! I promise myself, the first thing I will do if… no, when I’m out of this place is go to the sea. They say all creatures come from the sea, that it'’s part of our very being. I would love to feel the touch of the sea on my old skin, just once more...…

Was that a noise? Yes! Someone has entered the building! I try to call out, but only a faint mewling sound comes from my mouth. I'’m weaker than I thought. I try again. It’s almost shameful, I sound like a baby crying…

A man’'s head appears, looking down into the shaft, blocking the faint silver light.

"“Hello? Is someone down there?"”

I make my pitiful noise again, wishing I could form words, cry for help… I move my leg, splashing the brackish water weakly. "help me" I whisper

“"My God! Hang on, I’ll see if I can reach you!"”

Fighting to form the words, I call out " “Please, help me!"

He is climbing down the shaft, carefully using the rocks and crevices to lower himself. A weak point of yellow light appears, he is flashing the light

“"I can’t see you…”...."

I am half buried in the greasy mud and black weeds that cover the bottom of the shaft, and I worry that his puny flash light will not reflect off my dark skin. I move my leg again, hard enough to splash the shaft wall and form thick bubbles in the scummy water.

"“Okay, I see you, I see you … sort of… I’'ll come down…”"

He’'s coming down to rescue me! He turns off the torch, climbing down closer, until he is just above me.

“"I… don’t know if you can see me… reaching out… can you take my hand?"

"I'll try...."”

What bravery and selflessness, I think as I reach out and take first his hand, then his arm, and then heave up my many legs and enfold him completely. What foolhardy courage they have in their hearts and their souls – in their very bones.

"That’s what I love about humans. They’re so crunchy"…

"Ain't nothin’ better in life,"” Ricky dribbled. from a mouthful of slightly cold pork and beans.  He spoke aloud to no one in particular because there was no one in the small apartment with him. In the last ten years, no one had been in the apartment with Ricky, but he went right on talking just the same.

“"A beer, a ball game, and a recliner. it's like a sore dick, you can't beat it!"” Ricky spit out a half-eaten bean with that last statement. The partially eaten bean landed on Ricky's more than generous stomach he had acquired over the last fifteen or some odd years. He stared at the bean for a full ten seconds before he decided he had fulfilled an action worthy of a reward. This particular reward was a big gulp from the sixteen ounce Sam Adam's Light beer can sitting on the arm of his recliner.
The gulp was followed by a very satisfying smack of the lips which was closely followed by a belch of amazing magnitude. Ricky's lips slowly curled up at the edges forming a smile for what he thought was a great achievement. He sat the beer back down on the recliner and ran his paint covered fingers through the small patch of thin hair on his head. As his hand fell back down on the recliner's arm and carefully, almost sensuously, caressed the beer can his thoughts began to drift toward his very unsightly and noticeable hair loss. Ricky never thought of himself as handsome, maybe attractive to a certain type of female, but as time went by even this small compliment to himself faded as the hair thin and the gut got bigger.

This depressing train of thought made Ricky's throat quite dry, and he hefted the beer can one more time for a big thirst quenching gulp. The can felt almost empty in his hand, and just to verify this fact he raised it up for a final drink only to feel a few drops run past his lips. He dropped his arm down until his knuckles almost touched the floor and lobbed the beer can in the general direction of his trashcan. The can hit the rim of the trashcan, bounced straight up, and possibly with the help of a god Ricky stopped believing in back in 1991, the empty beer can fell into the trashcan.

“"BOOM shaka laka!"” Ricky yelled. “"Just’ like throwin'’ dem grenades at rag heads back in ’91," Ricky said which was followed with another loud, bodily sound effect. One thing that never changed with Ricky was his almost constant thoughts of his time in Kuwait during Dessert Storm. These thoughts ran through his head almost non-stop once a few beers had passed his lips. The beer can grenade started a daydream about a random night in Abdali during the war, back before Ricky lost his hair or grew his huge stomach.

A Baath patrol entered the kill zone of Ricky's ambush in his daydream when a television commercial brought him back to reality. The advertisement showed two men of obvious Middle easterm descent advertising sporting goods . Ricky's eyes widened and then closed shut so hard two small tears ran down his cheeks.

"I'll get you rag heads!"”  he screamed at the television. He reached out and swiped for the grenade (beer can) before he realized he had wasted it on an empty foxhole (trashcan). Ricky's eyes widened again in horror when he realized the grenade was a charred piece of metal in the foxhole, and now the two enemies knew his exact position because of his war cry. As if playing along with Ricky's fantasy, the two Middle Eastern actors faced the cameras, pointed fingers at Ricky, and grinned at him. The director of the advertisement assumed this warm and friendly ending would lure more people to buy Spalding's balls, but Ricky saw two enemies holding rifles and aiming them at his head.

Ricky's fear abated slightly when he felt something heavy in his hand, and then it left him completely when he saw he was holding a nasty surprise for the two enemies. The bowl of beans changed into a concussion anti-personnel mine about the same time the beer can became a grenade, and the trashcan became an enemy foxhole. He had just a few seconds before he was going to be killed, and in his mind his hands moved flawlessly - completely unlike the old, worn hands he possessed just a few seconds ago. The mine was armed before the enemies could raise their rifles up, and he lobbed it before they sighted on him. Ricky's fantasy played out like any great war movie, and the mine landed perfectly between the two soldiers.

“"BOOM Shaka laka!"” Ricky screamed again and watched as the two soldiers were torn apart by hundreds of ball bearings. A huge smile was on Ricky's face for a job well done. He had saved his life, in a most heroic and fantastic way, and dispatched two enemy soldiers.

“"I told ya I'd git you ragheads,"” he told the television. His smile might have been much smaller if he could see through the cloud of his fantasy to realize a bowl of pork and beans had smashed the television screen and lay among the wires and tubes. Once the beer wore off, and he had cleared the area, Ricky's daydream would come to an end. Then he would wonder how and why he threw his dinner bowl at the television. This would bring up a string of curses because he could not afford to buy a new television or even have this one repaired.

Two hours later Ricky lay in bed holding his service issue pistol with his sheet pulled up tight against his chin and smiling. Smiling, because on his way to his camp (bedroom) he had killed three more enemies (a chair, a lamp, and a mirror), and his captain was going to give him a little R&R time for the job well done.

“Five ragheads in one night. All by my lonesome too. Ain't nothin better in life,” Ricky mumbled this as his eyes closed, and the beer finally brought him to a state of unconsciousness. Another night passed for Ricky, and this time it was a good night. A night he did not think of his unpaid bills, his low-paying job, or his small apartment; instead on this night he was the hero he was always meant to be.