Whistles in the Mist

Whistles McCoy was up before the Sun every day of the week. Being a logger means long and weary hours. Sleep is seldom seen. Most of us still languish in dream as he makes his way past the gated cemetery .

A crow whooshes past and settles in a bare tree across the way. Whistles tips his hat.

“Morning, brother.”

The crow bobs, studying him before cawing once. Whistles hefts his axe to the other shoulder.
Today is different. Today he killed someone.

The mist seems heavier now. Harder to move thru. His footsteps echo loudly in the fog. Tendrils twist around his ankles as if trying to hold him. The thick carpet obscures the blood splashed over his boots. He leaves sticky, unseen half-footprints in his wake.

“Whistles. . . .” a disembodied voice whispers. “Whistle for me, Whistles.”

He spins, clasping the axe in two-hands and peering into the fog.'Impossible!' he thinks.

“You remember the tune, don’t you?” a figure glides into view.

“No! It can’t be. . . I killed - ” Whistles’ knuckles squeeze into white. Sweat beads at his temple.

“Yes, you did.” the mystery guest leans against the fence.

“But you’re. . . .”

“Quite.”

Whistles glances around, hoping someone will appear and tell him what's going on.

“I want my money back, Whistles.”

Whistles looks askance at him, “You’re dead.”

“Yes, we've covered that.“

“Then why do you need money?”

The stranger’s eyes blaze. Whistles readies his axe.

“AHA-HA-HA-HA!” the stream laughter shakes the shadow. “You know, I always did like you Whistles. You’re a smart guy. A hard worker. You had such potential.”

With a sudden cry, Whistles rushes and swings! The axe passes right thru the evanescent stranger and ricochets off the fence, cleaving bone, flesh and muscle.Whistles crashes to the ground in agony. His screams and life flow out, disappearing into the empty whiteness around him.

“But your choices, Whistles.” the figure says, axe now in hand. “Tsk tsk. You’re choices have been very disappointing.”

“Here!” Whistles digs into his overalls and tosses over many rolls of bills. “Take it! Just leave me alone! Let me live, please!”

"Oh, I’m not going to kill you Whistles.” The smile can be heard if not seen.

“Thank you! Thank you!” he crawls slowly backwards, pushing off his good leg.

Far-off in the fog, another set of footsteps echoes now. More crows gather in the branches overhead, laughing and flapping their wings. Whistles breath is erratic now.

A very tall personage in a top hat, billowing coat and leaning on a scorpion-in-amber tipped cane materializes out of the mist. He gazes down.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for so long.”

Removing his hat, the figure crouches and grasps Whistles hand in enthusiasm.

“Yes, yes! You’ll make an excellent addition, of that I have no doubt.” he stands to address the shade.

“Perhaps I should apologize, Martin.” the top hat is replaced. "I didn't think you had it in you."

“People surprise you everyday, Mr. B." he hands the axe over, "I got the money right here.”

Mr. B pockets the cash..

“And one soul.” Whistles’ victim points. "That's the deal, right?"

“That was indeed the bargain. You’re free to go, Mr. Reyes.”

Martin Reyes, once only a mere ectoplasmic soul, is himself again. Whole and true. He looks at his hands, feels his face and a delighted grin breaks out. Eyes shining he bows.

“Oh thank you, sir!”

“Tut tut, off with you now.” Mr. B watches him go. “Nice fellow.”

He stoops back to Whistles.

“Now, as for you Mr. McCoy! You and I have to be going as well. It’s short jourmey, don’t worry.”

Whistles complexion is ashen, like the swirling fog. His eyes bulge, showing a lot of white. He licks his lips.

“Who are you?”

Mr. B looks cross.

"You know I was hoping for a bit more out of you, Whistles. You had such potential. How disappointing.”

“Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot lately.”

Mr. B laughs approvingly. The crows shift above in flurries of feathers and rattling branches and soft caws.

“I see what Martin meant about you! Yes, now I’m absolutely sure you’ll fit right in! I’m so glad to have you.”

“Where. . . where are we going?”

Mr. B’s grin is suddenly black and rotting. Whistles can smell feces and necrotic flesh. The mist darkens.

“To a place you've made, Mr. McCoy. A place of wicked horrors and eternal pain. I’ve come to take you there. Give me your hand.”

“Oh, my God!”

“No, I'd thought you figured that out by now.”

Martin Reyes lived into his late nineties. When he died, he was whistling.

Knowledge City Blues

The city fell around them. War had finally arrived with all its fury and horror. Some later thought the initial victims were lucky.

For months there was no communication between the survivors. No whispered words, no furtive glances, no secret nods, no handshakes, nothing. Each was woefully unaware of the others existence. Until the night of the beacon. It drew them together.

The surrounding countryside was lit up for miles. Every hunger worn straggler ceased whatever they were doing for a moment and gazed up at the indigo flare as it fell back toward the earth.

An urchin nibbled nervously at his thumbnail as the light diminished and night reclaimed Her throne. He ducked back into his filthy corner and tried to sleep, but the blue flash burned in his dreams.

A young lady fell to her knees touching her forehead to the dirt. 'Thank you!Thank you! Thank you!' she prayed. This was her sign. Rising to her feet, for the first time since the attack, she smiled. It would be a long walk. There was no time to waste. Her first step is full of joy.

When the spark disappeared below the horizon an old man died. His death was peaceful and easy, blissful even. Do not mourn. He merely closed his eyes and was gone. There was no pain, no suffering. We should all should go the same way. Before he died he spoke a single word. What did he say? I don’t think you’re ready to know yet. . . .

The survivors emerge on the following day. Encounters are filled with hopeful trepidation. Like animals they stalk uncertainly closer. At times it’s a group of wanderers who spot a lone traveler and immediately surround them. No blood is spilt. No harshness or cruelty is echoed, instead it’s only curiosity that lords over their feelings.

What’s your name? Where were you when the firebombs fell? Where have you been? I thought I was alone. Do you have any water? Any food? Are there others? Did you see the blue light, too? Yes, I know. Come, let us make the way together.

And in the breach where the signal emanated sits Knowledge. He doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting. Doesn’t know how he knows all the things he knows. Like which night would be clear enough to launch the flare or where to aim in the velvet gloaming to ensure optimum trajectory and altitude. All that he knows has no memory and he can’t remember a time before the waiting. So Knowledge sits, waiting for the survivors.

In Mysterious Ways

When I died I went to the in-between place and God met me there.

“You mean Purgatory. You should say Purgatory. That’s what I named it.”

“No,” I responded. “I like the way I’m thinking of it better.”

Anger reddened the Divine face and the hands clenched.

“See! That’s the whole problem with you. . . “ eyes closed and there was a Divine inhalation of breath. The wind stirred our surroundings. “. . . people. You never do what I tell you.”

God slumped down against an oak tree. There was a two-way sign above his head.

“Okay.” I murmured, looking around and waiting for God to cool off.

The road forked ahead of us and the sign beckoned both ways.

“So. . . uh,” I queried after awhile. “which way do I go here?”

“What are you asking me for? You’re not gonna go the right way anyway.”

“Which way’s the right way?”

“Ahh son,” God smiled. “that is a very good question!”

When I awoke I went to the toilet and brushed my teeth.

“You mean bathroom. Brushing your teeth in the toilet is disgusting.”

“Aw. . . shit.”

“This is what I’m saying.” God agreed.

I shook my head. “No, no, no that’s not what I meant!”

“I don’t know.” God shrugged. “That’s what you wrote.. . . .”

The Haunted Room

"I'm sorry sir." the owner says, "There are no rooms."

"Liar." the stranger's whisper slithers thru the air between them. "You have one room available."

"You. . . you don't understand sir. You don't want that room. . . nobody does."

Cold, peculiar eyes pierce the owner's heart. A chill creeps up his spine.

"One room, please." the stranger says.

The owner mops his suddenly sweating brow with a hankie and leans over the counter.

"Sir that room is. . . umm" he glances around. "haunted!"

"I know." and long after the stranger disappears his words linger still.

Dead Battery

Tomorrow I die. By firing squad if you must know and I know you just gotta.

Am I sorry? Repentant? Remorseful? No. You slackers need to be stirred up every now and again lest complacency take you completely.

There goes the warden. I hate him. He asked if I wanted some clergyman to grant me forgiveness. Confess your sins and be saved, he said. Fool. I need not his faux Messiah. Or yours. My God is within. That shall sustain me. I recall telling you people this last time but nobody listened, did they?

I suspect you’ll just stand around and watch, just like last time. Millions more will be there tomorrow though. Gathered and silent, not lifting a finger to help. Jus like last time.

Last meal? PB & J with a glass of milk. What better meal to greet forever with?

You wanna know what I did, don’t ya? I can see it in your eyes. That insipid greed will be your ruin. Gimme, gimme, gimme. That’s all we ever hear from you and I gotta tell you, we’re all kinda sick of it. Greedy bitches. Doesn’t matter, after tomorrow I won’t have to listen anymore. HA!

Still wanna know? Yeah, of course you do. Well ok, but you’re not going to believe me. Nobody does. Why do you think I’m in here?

I solved your problems. All of them. Nobody gets sick. No one goes hungry or is homeless. There’s no murder, no rape, no wars. People help each other. Money is obsolete. Everyone is truly happy in your world.

But that’s not good enough for you, huh?? Now I have to die because you can’t adjust and adapt to the true bliss I’ve brought you? Fine! But there ain’t gonna be no three day grace period like there was last time. Screw that! I’m gonna fucking massacre all of you. Thought Hiroshima was bad? Wait ‘til true divinity smites you.

I told you I’d be back.

Happyness

We sat on a hill beneath shade trees overlooking the Hudson River, waiting. The clouds had diminished to a playful few chasing each other on the breeze. Scattered puffballs float lazily by. Powerboats cut large rippling V’s thru the sun-dimpled water below and robins fly from tree to tree in small circles of frenzy. It’s a magical place. A perfect day.

Everyone turns as the music begins. The photographers are click zipping away. Four beautiful women with perfect poise and light grace make their way down the steps and up the aisle between our groups. An adorable little couple who almost lose their way and have to be redirected trails them. Stopping haltingly near me she digs vivaciously into her basket and the boy grabs her elbow, leading her on amidst the falling petals. I glance at my friend the King, up there all alone but not for long. His eyes light up. I turn, rising to my feet with the rest.

She descends the stairs gracefully; hand on her Father’s arm. Enraptured we all stand as she slowly passes by. However beautiful her chosen ladies are and they are supremely so, the bride’s loveliness outshines them all. Adorned in twinkling white with a lacy long train whispering softly along behind her she proceeds confidently, violet bouquet clutched securely near.

Later when the holy man asks the final question of them both the day is strangely silent, as if the whole world hangs upon their answers. They look into each other’s eyes. They promise. They kiss. The crowd erupts into juvenile catcalls and appreciative applause and smiles and joyful tears.

Too quickly runs the rest of the day towards the finish. The toasts are stories of before, moving, heartfelt and hilarious. Contagious laughter spreads like fire. The near gloaming coaxes an almost full red moon into the sky. ‘One more drink!’ my friend the King says to me so I have a few one mores and garner a hug from the Queen. They’re glowing when I congratulate them.

Then I disappear into the darkness leaving the dwindling soiree’ behind but the music and merriment follow me back to my car and as I drive off I wonder why the memories last so much longer than the times spent creating them.

Pen and Ink

Writing is the hardest thing in the world to do, having an idea is easy.

Millions of people have billions of ideas every day I would imagine, little fleeting tufts of dandelion notions dancing around in the sunlight of their minds. Sometimes they fry or are blown away by the winds of change never to be seen again. I think that is a most horrible thing.

I often wonder where the lost ideas go, where they end up. Since manifested ideas are so easy to behold, does it not also make sense that somewhere there lies an enchanted land of forgotten thoughts?

It must be a terribly beautiful world, with strange winged creatures soaring through a multi-colored ever-darkening sunrise. Of course, no one ever sees it because of the damned mists that forever enshroud the place and the more intensely you search for it, the easier it eludes you.

I carry thought imprisoning tools with me in a daily futile attempt to limit the number of escapees. Some are indeed too quick for me while others are so disassociated or ridiculous that they make no sense at all. Sometimes they come back, (the most intrinsically absurd aspect of all lost and forgotten thoughts) traipsing uncertainly down the street and suddenly stumbling into me like an overly drunk friend looking for just one more. Ok, just one more.

More oft than not, the ideas that do make the long perilous journey from synapse to paper usually end up trapped in a folder and stuffed away at the bottom of a lonely trunk in a dusty corner of the room. A sad fate for any emerging fancy but, oh the electric joy that repeats and resounds throughout my being when I find that magical scrap of parchment that was once a forgotten thought.

. . . wait a minute, what was I talking about?