Sometimes the definition of Mr. Fix-it can be very, very subjective!

Handy Man

By David Landrum

Hey, baby, I’m your handy man.
----from the song, “Handy Man”
by Otis Blackwell

I’ve always liked the song “Handy Man.” I like the original version by Jimmy Jones and the cover by Del Shannon. My favorite, though, is the recording James Taylor made of it in 1977. I like Taylor’s version because he sings it in an easy, sweet, gentle voice, and this reflects how I am. Of course, I like the song most of all because I do the thing the guy in the song says he can do. I fix broken hearts.I’ve done it now at least two times.

The first one I fixed belonged to a girl name Linda Seales. I got to know her when I worked at a McDonalds in Indianapolis.

Linda was not a pretty girl. She had red hair and blue eyes but her teeth all had spaces between them and she was a little chubby. She came from a poor home. As a senior in high school she started working at Mickey-D’s to earn spending money.

Linda didn’t open up much at first but after a while she started talking about a kid name Tom Hefner who was giving her a hard time at school.

Hefner came from a wealthy home. Religious, good-looking, popular, clean and wholesome, he tormented Linda without let-up —and to the great amusement of the other students. Every day he launched some kind of barb at her. She insulted back, but he had popularity on his side and good looks. “Suck my nose,” she would say, but her insults had no effect because he, and the other students, knew he rated higher on the social ladder than she. Linda patiently endured it and confided to me, the Handy Man.

Hefner was breaking her heart.

I did research on him. He played football and sang in the school choir. I studied his picture in her high school yearbook so I knew what he looked liked, found out what church he attended, and went there a couple of times myself. He always attended a 9:00 p.m. service with his family but stayed afterwards for something —a catechism class, I think—until after 10:00 and then walked home alone. I waited for the right night, and when it came I got my shotgun, and cornered him on the empty church parking lot.

Rain poured down. He came walking, wearing a poncho with a hood. I got out of the car, shoved the shotgun in his face and told him to get in. A blank look of terror filled his face. His eyes darted both ways and I saw from the way he placed his feet and shrank back that he meant to run. I let him have it, putting a deer slug right in his heart. The shot flipped him completely over and he landed facedown, blood streaming into the falling rain. The loud sound of rain and the church bells muffled the shot. I hopped back in my car and drove away.

Bess, our supervisor, told us the next day that Linda would not be at work because one of her friends had been murdered yesterday. I tried not to smile when Bess described Hefner as Linda’s “friend.” The newspapers and the local TV news reported on the tragedy. No clues and no suspects.

I knew it would be foolish to leave town. Linda formed a link between me and Hefner. This might arouse suspicion. I had left no clues as far as I could see.The police said robbery had not been a motive.

I worked at the MacDonald’s there another nine months. Nothing linked me to the killing. When Linda returned to work she was subdued. She told me she felt guilty, even though she knew it was silly to feel like that way. After a couple of months, though, her smile returned, her blues eyes shone, and her red hair looked brighter. Without Hefner’s constant badgering and bullying, things were better for her at school. She had met a guy and the relationship was going well.Everyone around Linda commented on how much happier she seemed.

I smiled to myself. I had fixed it. I had fixed her broken heart.

When I felt it was safe, I left town. I made sure I closed out my bank account, got my apartment deposit back, and said good-bye to friends, including Linda. I did not want anyone to suspect I had left town because I had something to hide.

I moved to a place in Arkansas and got a job at Walmart. I worked there a year, moved in with a girl named Luann, and worked. I began to wonder if anyone with a broken heart would come along for me to help. Finally, in the middle of winter, someone did. Her name was Tiffany Bledsoe. She went by the nickname Tiff.

Again, a pretty girl, but a girl with a broken heart. This time, though, the guy she had married was the source of her heartache.

Tiff was slow to open to me, but I’ve learned over the years how to win confidence from girls I think might need my skill as a handyman. In the break room she would talk about her husband, Jimmy. I would listen, respect her silences, and not push her to open up. Patience is the key in such matters. Finally she began to share the truth. He beat her. She made me promise I would not tell anyone else. I promised and intended to keep the promise—but also to make things right.

Here I encountered a problem. If I got rid of Jimmy she would be even more heartbroken.

            She would feel guilty and blame herself. Her heartbreak would get worse. I thought and thought about it and concluded there could be only way to fix her broken heart. I would not kill him. I would kill her.

            This fixing would be trickier because I lived with Luann and our apartment was only a short distance from her house. But I’m handy with love and I’m no fool.Soon I got an idea that would provide me with an alibi.

             I bought some grass, and Luann and I smoked it after supper. I had set the digits on the clock by our bed up one hour. After smoking, we jumped in the sack and went to it. I made sure I smoked a lot less than she did. After we were done, she fell asleep.

  I got up out of bed as stealthily as I could and left the house quietly. Jimmy worked nights. I climbed in Tiff’s back window, sneaked into her room, and put a pillow over her face. I’m sure it didn’t cause her a whole lot of pain. She shook and raised her arms for a few seconds but then got still. I held the pillow there for a long while to make certain she was dead and then left.  I walked back home and climbed in bed with Luann. The whole thing had taken me only twenty minutes. I woke her up and told her I wanted her again. Killing Tiff got me aroused and Luann and I did it then both of us fell asleep.

             When the news broke I was a “potential suspect,” as the police put it. They questioned me. I told them I was at home with my girlfriend. They questioned her, asking if I had been with her that evening. She said I was. What time did they go to sleep? She said we watched TV, had sex, and went to sleep around 8:00 (Luann always looked at the clock as she dozed off). The police concluded I was no longer a suspect. The coroners had put the time of Tiff’s death between seven and seven-thirty.

              I lived there another two years. Jimmy, Tiff’s ex, got married again not even a year after I cured Tiff’s heartache for her. I wondered if he would treat this new girl with equal contempt. But this wasn’t my job. I had done my work. I had fixed a broken heart. I had done what I came to earth to do.

              Luann and I eventually split. I moved on, this time to Oregon. I’ve found a job. There is a girl who seemed forlorn. I’m getting to know her and she is beginning to confide to me.

              I fix broken hearts. I know I really can.

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A father's fierce love can sometimes reach beyond the grave to protect his family...

Maggie’s Whisper
By Bruce Memblatt

Come out to me my darlin,’
Come sing a simple song.
By the shady grove you’ll find me,
I’ll be back before too long...

Leaves that billowed wrapped around high arch branches that seemed to travel on forever, bending and folding catching sun and moon and sparkle of dawn. Green turned into olive and gold then brown and deep red and back to green again as the wind gently kissed its lengthy arms. Beneath it a rock of gray and light gray relaxed where people sat and birds rested on the most beautiful of sunlit days and magical of moonlit nights.

Its trunk’s firm grip drew towards the sun catching its wonder and feeding from its endless strength. This tree stood tall and alone on the edge of the bank that gently nudged  a shimmering lake below returning dark green and brown and gold.

Maggie rose at eight. Tussled blonde hair trailed off her pillow in high delight as strands of yellow caught the corners of her mouth. She gently brushed the strands away with childish glee. And out of her bed she stood, quickly catching the bright beams of sun that filled her window withmagnificent hue. A moment’s present. Then, without a smidgeon of hesitation she ran swiftly to the blonde wood door that emptied out into the long white hallway that led to her mother’s room.

The room was darkened with shades drawn challenging the brilliant morning sun.

Dark blue curtains paralleled the shuttered shades keeping the shimmering light even further still away from the dresser and mirror and double bed and TV set that furnished the spacious room. No matter how far they traveled the sun’s gold rays couldn’t break free to blend into radiant light. A tear slowly traveling down her face before touching her cheek seemed to thrive under the dim atmosphere. Margaret rolled a soft tissue in the palm of her waking hand and pulled another from the small bent cardboard box that rested on her chest. She wrestled with the unappealing concept of getting out of bed, and thought again as she wearily pulled her thin blanket tighter around her small waist. A small beam of light suddenly illuminated her forehead. 
“Mama, I had a dream.”

Afternoon came quickly bringing sweet winds and a high sun over the lakes’ still, silvery skin. A bird rose into the air above the lake and flew into the horizon fading into the distance, its hurried wings sending it fast and far. Maggie, dressed in jeans and a bright white t- shirt, ran excitedly down the path to the lake. Overgrown green brush with sharp leaves gently slapped her as she sped down the dirt road leaving dust to fizzle into the air and dissipate softly toward the ground. The over-sized dark blue cap with a small  pink bear embroidered on its front, the one her father gave her just a few short weeks ago, almost flew off her head when a rush of wind climbed with her as she quickly turned the corner of the path that leddirectly down to the lake. The dented tin pail she carried in her handswayed briskly back and fourth catching pellets of sunlight that leamedbrightly as she finally met the dark green bank of the lake and found rest under the lonely brilliant tree, its buoyant leaves shading her from the midday sun. She looked across the lake and at the clouds above andimagined how the shapes of the trailing smoky things swirled into giants, and faces and towers, airy changeable illusions against the rich blue sky. She wanted to stay in that peaceful spot forever never having to think about anything like loss, or love, or friends, or food or TV or pain. The wind picked up steadily while the branches of the mighty tree above her whistled in its wake. Leaves rustled like jittery music crunching air and twigs to bark. Her eyes perked as her soft hands brushed away small funny pointy cones that fell quietly into her lap. And then a whisper …

Come out to me my darlin,’

Come sing a simple song.

By the shady grove you’ll find me,

I’ll be back before too long...

He grumbled and spit and wiped the side of his torn pants with a greasy ripped rag. “ I’m going to kill her too.”

Mourners dotted the ridged neat green lawn just above the hill at the cemetery. Hedges and shrubbery cut clean and precisely even spannedthe rows and rows of stone and marble graves. The sun still bravely shot its rays across the stratosphere hitting the surfaces of those headstones with gloss, radiating a buffered glow on the cold dead stone. Maggie neatly dressed in a quiet dark blue dress and simple black shoes tightly held her mother’s comforting hand and wondered why people had to die, and when her turn came would her daughter love her as much as she loved her mother at this moment.

Margaret stood silent as they dropped his coffin down, swaying back and forth until it hit  the cold dirt below. Only a few weeks ago there was a dance and dinner out and silly  arguing over directions home and a myriad of little things that didn’t matter at all.

Now there was abrupt silence in the sunlit stony ground. Maggie gently tugged Margaret’s sleeve hoping they could return home quickly. Margaret told her daughter soon and further imparted that it wouldn’t be peaceful at home. People would be  arriving with food and fruit and cake and bottles of wine and she warned Maggie that there might be moments of raucous laughter and silly chatter and not to let those foolish soundsdisturb her because those people loved him too. Maggie thought abouther shoes, how she wanted to take them off and run on the grass barefoot, as she looked up at her mother lost in the perfect whisk of black hair that fell just below Margaret’s ear.

Glassy-eyed he slowly pulled the hives down off the roof of the shaky white porch, which appeared as if it hadn’t seen a paintbrush for decades. A small fleet of hungry bees circled around the buzzing ratty cones. He placed the hives in a wooden crate with splintered reeds of wood that shot out of its edges. Then he carefully slid the deadly humming box onto the back of his small rickety flat bed truck. His pants, dirty and tattered slid against his knees as he bent down to the weedy ground to pick up the large tan burlap tarp that was resting next to his truck. He was ready to kill.

He stepped out of the lake like a dream, sun’s shimmering glow illuminating the soft boundaries of his back, beads of water accenting his smooth masculine chest. His sandy hair falling down wet and dark over his radiant blue eyes . He stands perhaps six feet tall. His handsome gentle face is welcoming and calm and yet playful all at once.

He smiles broadly. I want to run to him and I do, my long black hair billowing gracefully behind, and I touch his chest dipped by the bright noon sun. We walk down the shore of the lake. He says he loves me. It’s the hour of noon on July twenty nine. I’ll never forget this day long as I live. The sun must be burning brighter than it ever has before. I want to kiss him. I want to stay with him always. I….

“Mama! Hurry! Wake up!” Maggie shrieked as she wildly shook her mother’s sleeping shoulders. Margaret stepped out of her dream and her eyes opened quickly to see Maggie standing by her side pale as a ghost.

“Mama, look! There must be millions of them!” Maggie shook from head to toe.

“What, sweetie, what? Calm down. Concentrate and tell me slowly.”

Margaret’s eyebrows rose. She tried to form a smile to calm Maggie down when the corner of her eye caught it at the window. Black bees covered the windowpane like a wall, a buzzing terrifying wall. Lit by moonlight feeding on glass they wanted in to sink into skin, to buzz and sting, to engulf. Their tiny beings joined together in massive number giving them power vacant of reason their only motivation was the result, to feed the hunger to kill and kill and kill. Margaret grabbed Maggie’s hand and wrestled her quickly out the room. They flew down the stairs. Oval framed pictures of “him and her and her” whizzed by as they rushed into the living room. All the windows were covered with the ugly buzzing sickening creatures. Under the moon-beamed sky even more swarmedoutside orbiting the house like a giant black tornado, creating a gust of buzzing death. Round and round the house they circled without rest like vultures waiting to descend. They were there to kill. Margaret pulled Maggie out of the living room and sat her down on the steps that led upstairs.

“Honey. Honey. Hold my hand.” Margaret reached for Maggie’s hand. “We’ve got to think. Are all the windows closed? We have to make sure all the windows are shut tight. Doors too. Anything that leads to the outside even the smallest crack.”

“Mama what about the fire place in the living room?” Maggie breathlessly cried.

“Honey. You stay seated here. You don’t move!” 
Margaret ran into the living room towards the brick fireplace that sat on the wall opposite the wall with the large bay windows blackened with thousand of buzzing demons. She reached into the fireplace for the flue. Scatterings of bees lined the long brick wall going up and further up the chimney soundless and still as if they were asleep. She quickly pulled on the flue when suddenly a small brigade of dark bees engulfed her hand. She shook her hand wildly sending the bees spastically into the air. And then she pulled the flue shut anc she madly pulled her hand out of the fireplace.

Thinking fast she ran into the dinning room. She slid the long table that sat in the center of the room apart and she pulled out the table’s wood extension . Quickly, she sped back to the fireplace and like a pneumatic drill covered it shut.

“Maggie, are you there?” she cried.
“Yes, mom. I’m fine!” Maggie called back without a moment’s hesitation.
“Honey, can you run quickly into the kitchen and grab the masking tape out of the drawer near the sink?”
“Sure thing, Mom!” Maggie leapt up full of pride. She was going off to help her mother slay the giant.

As Margaret taped the solid oak extension securely over the fireplace she breathed a sigh of relief that they didn’t have a basement. Margaret cuddled Maggie under a blanket  as they sat on the sofa in the pitch-black living room. From the big bay window they watched the electric creatures circle and swarm buzzing deadly throughout the night under the moons eerie glow. Maggie turned and asked her mother if they could go to the lake in the morning if the bees were gone. Maggie wanted to go badly because they hadn’t gone out there together for ages. Margaret told her anything she wanted was hers if they made it though the night.

“I will never give up.”

A kite flew over the shore of the lake while a small boy ran below hoping it would stay up in the high blue forever. Margaret wore a deep burgundy scarf that raced with the wind, whipping and bending as far as its length would allow. She stood on the grassy wet shore of the familiar lake, sunglasses shading her eyes, her pants rolled up ever so slightly as she thought about him and Maggie, who was waiting patiently for her to throw the big red ball. Then with a lift of her arm it was off bouncing towards Maggie.

Maggie, with a smile as broad as the sun caught the ball as its bounce grew closer and closer to the ground and she hit it with all her might. Up in the air it went and over Margaret it turned and bounced into the trunk of the majestic tree. Margaret swiftly  turned around and beheld it.

“It’s beautiful that tree, just beautiful.”
“It sure is, mama.”

“It’s odd that I’ve never noticed it before, Maggie.”
“It’s a long while since you’ve been here. Sometimes it whispers to me.”

Margaret looked at Maggie with a strange squint in her eye.

He raised his ax into the air and brought it angrily down on the log. “Fuck them, all.”

Ted stepped on the pedal filling the car’s engine with rich fuel as he drove down the block where Margaret lived. He had circled her block several times, his car smoothly  sailing slowly down the street as he thought about knocking on her door. It was too soon, yet he wanted to keep the lines of communication between him and Margaret alive and open. He hadn’t seen her since the funeral. Could he ask her if she needed anything? It wouldn’t be like a romantic overture, but a friendly gesture. He was just a friend asking a friend if they needed any help during a rough spell. Innocent enough, he thought. Then he saw her still wondrous out on the lawn in front of her house. Her hair falling gently over her face as she leaned down to pick up a piece of paper that sat wrinkled on the soft grass. He thought about how Margaret always looked cool even when picking up litter off the ground. He rolled down his window and tapped his horn ever so lightly. “Margaret!”
She turned around. “Happen to be in the neighborhood?”

“Well, kind of, actually I was just coming home from work and I saw you out here.” He smiled thinking, that went pretty well.

“Good to see you, Ted. I was just getting back myself.”
“How are you holding up? How’s Maggie?” Ted wondered.

“We’re managing, barely. Maggie’s down by the lake. She’s been spending a lot of time  there lately. I hope she gets home soon. It’s starting to get dark…”

Leaves moved sharply disturbing the silent dusk that fell abruptly over the weedy path.

He stepped steadily brushing away thorny bushes and killing soft flowers with his footsteps. A dark canvas bag hung loosely from his shoulder. He could sense her drawing near. Tiny footsteps that would soon be silent…

Maggie ran up the path. She carried a pail full of funny rocks of all shapes and sizes in her hand. She thought about the falling sun and about getting back home before nightfall.

The wind rushed by her as she climbed the slight incline that led to the end of the path and there she saw him. He was standing right on the edge of the end of the path. She hesitated but continued moving forward until she reached the edge of the path herself. She looked up at him. His face was large with blotches of red on it. He had a round nose and fatty rough jowls hung down under his chin. His red hairline was receding and he smelled something awful. Her first instinct was to run. To run fast and far, but Maggie kept walking at the same steady pace. As she traveled past him he reached his long arm out and grabbed her by the shoulder.

“I knew your father.” He grumbled.

“Who are you?” She asked, her hands trembling, her breath hard to catch.

“Your father killed my son.” He said quietly.

“That’s a lie!” She snapped back, not thinking about consequences.

“My son worked for your daddy maintaining the boats he rented down by the lake. He fired my son. Told him he was no good, which he wasn’t but it wasn’t his place to say. The next day my son drove his car off the cliff up by Baker’s point. I have powers little girl. Little Maggie. ”

“If you have powers why didn’t you just get your son another job?” Maggie pleaded.

“Powers ain’t for ordinary day to day things like resumes. Powers are for killing. I killed your pa, and I’m going to kill you too!”

She broke free and ran back down the path as fast as her feet would carry her. Leaping over logs and twigs and weeds and thorny things. He walked steady behind her. As he traveled he reached deep into his saggy bag and took out the silver ax and raised it high. It glistened sharply against the last hints of the setting sun. He walked on rigidly, legs high with each step as he drew closer and closer towards his young prey. Maggie kept steadily running on her small feet when then, from nowhere, a rock jutting out of the ground tripped one of her legs. She darted quickly to the ground. The monster was  getting closer with each step. She had to get up and run. Her breathing waxed erratic and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Suddenly she saw the ridged ax rising above her. She remembered the pail of rocks. She lifted the pail and threw it up at the blade of the ax.

The pail bounced off the shiny blade as the rocks it contained fell haphazardly to the ground. But it bought her just enough time to get up and run again. Her legs were in pain yet she ran down the path like lightning. He followed her walking faster and steadier waving the silver ax up and down and up again like a robot gone insane. Its’ steely steelglistening with killer eyes. Then she saw the tree, her tree, she ran toward it. He was right behind her. The ax was high in the air . When suddenly the whisper...

Come out to me my darlin,’

Come sing a simple song.

By the shady grove you’ll find me,

I’ll be back before too long...

Then, it grew:

COME OUT TO ME MY DARLIN,’

COME SING A SIMPLE SONG…..

Forgetting about Maggie momentarily he started chopping wildly at the tree, his ax bursting into its handsome trunk. He chopped away like a mad machine. Sad chips fell mechanically from the blade of the ax. Just above the tree’s long branches turned smooth and flexible and like giant wooden tentacles they started to venture, cautiously at first, then suddenly, rapidly. The long wooden hands slithered down its trunk and wrapped tightly around him. His ax vainly fell to the ground as the branches drew him closer and closer against the tree’s husky trunk. Branch after branch wrapped him around the solid beam tighter and tighter. Blood started flowing from his mouth as the spirally hands clung to his neck strangling him slowly till life passed from his body, a puddle of dark red blood oozed beneath his feet. Maggie watched as the branches of the tree slowly recoiled up and back and up over the trunk until each one was in itsproper place. Then the wiry branches quickly stiffened and the tree stood tall and firm returning beauty against the night. Maggie stood still and watched the moon as it began to cross the sky. She knew her father had saved her life.

Come out to me my darlin,’

Come sing a simple song.

By the shady grove you’ll find me,

I’ll be back before too long...

*

Bruce Memblatt is a new writer. His previous publications include a short story entitled  “First Dream,” which has been accepted for publication in Demonic Tomes December 2009 issue And another entitled “Jingle Jangle,” which will be published in the December 2009 issue of SNM Horror Magazine. And one called “The Last Station,” which will appear in the January 2010 issue of The Horror Zine.

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Sometimes the little things in life that bother us add up to a life-changing experience!

Tacky Cat

By David Lewis

That damned cat always got loose. And when the damned cat got loose, it climbed that damn ugly tree. But Linda loved Salem, and Linda was great in bed, so the cat stayed. The name was dreadfully un-original, and he had pleaded Linda not to name it something so tacky. Linda prevailed however, and with a name, the couple had brought home their first pet. He didn’t hate the cat because of its name (partially yes, actually) but he did hate the cat because the cat hated him, and of course because when it got loose it climbed that damn ugly tree. That ugly tree had plagued the yard for nearly a year now since they had first moved in together. He hated the tree more than he hated the cat, and even begged Linda to find another home, but Linda loved the house, and Linda was great in bed. They moved in sometime around early June. The place had a lot of work to be done - new shutters, a coat of fresh paint, and probably even new siding. Occupied with other work: his nine-to-five, a half-hearted attempt at writing a book (in which he attempted to detail his time in Desert Storm), and Linda; he hadn’t quite found the time to get rid of that tree. But if the cat stayed, he sure as hell wasn’t keeping that tree around anymore for it to run up.

He visited Al down at Al’s Big Machines on a Saturday, and rented an industrial wood chipper for three-hundred dollars a day. Al bore a striking resemblance to his big machines, which were also big and red. He looked ten minutes from a heart attack, and as Al had rambled on about how to operate the machine, Phil’s mind flooded with grotesque images of Al collapsing at his feet clenching his chest. Al’s face had lost all color, and hid throughout his dark brow he could spot beads of sweat had formed. It had been summer, but the AC was cranked at Al’s. The horrible part about it was that He’d have had to press his lips against Al’s; tasting the eggs he’d had for breakfast, the goo of which Al now prominently displayed like his Medal of Honor. Be it luck or timing – maybe even both – he made it out of Al’s store incident free with the wood chipper in tow. He got to work, wanting to rid his yard of that disgusting demon tree. He worked around the tree, and limb by limb, the menacing black devil dwindled. He happily tossed its rotted limbs downward into the chipper, savoring each moment when a branch struck the dancing blades and shrieked as it shredded into a tiny pulpit.

At two o’ clock the sun was high and hot – Phil decided to take a break. Sweat marched nervously towards his brow, and beaded at the brink before it received enough courage to jump. Linda prepared him two ham and cheese sandwiches, which Phil tore into ravenously, and when those were gone; he washed each of them down with two cold beers he had produced from the fridge. Content, and ready to bring the rest of the tree down, he cleaned up and lumbered toward the door, stopping when he heard Linda’s voice echo down the stairs.

        “The cats out again Philly,” her was voice muffled by another floor and running water, but he made out what she had said. He bit down hard on his tongue, and soon he could taste blood. I swear that bitch was letting that cat out. He’d thought about it more than once. He shuffled outside into the backyard, and once again he felt the afternoon heat on his face. I’ll probably be burnt tomorrow. Spotting the black cat on the black tree proved to be more difficult than he had originally anticipated. Within a few minutes, however, Phil spotted the creature sitting on an uncut tree limb on the backside. His gaze wandered from the ground to the limb, from the limb to the ground. There were almost no low branches that remained, and for the first time he began to wonder how it had gotten to where it now sat. After he shifted his ladder to a better angle, he slowly began the ascent to the top. Fifteen feet - he stopped to re-evaluate. Ground base, this is Phil, it’s looking pretty bad up here. We’re going to make base camp and attempt the summit at dawn. Phil, out. But this task had to be accomplished now, without the cat out of the tree; he could not tear it down. I could, the thought left as quickly as it had come. In a less than graceful first attempt, he reached out to grab the scruff of the feline’s neck. At the same time his left hand maintained a firm grip on the ladder rung. He missed, and nearly fell. After reasserting himself, a sinister smile drove from one cheek to the next. If I pushed the cat out of the tree, I could say it fell. A  tragic mid-rescue attempt by Team Phil. Linda might not believe it, but who cares, she’d get over it. And of course there is always the off chance it would survive the fall.Without much deliberation, he once again extended his hand out towards the cat, and soon met finger tips with soft black fur. He nudged poked, and prodded. The cat would not move, only stared at him with big green eyes. Damn you cat. He pushed hard, and with disbelieving, bulging eyes, the cat soared from the branch. There wasn’t much time for rejoice. His successful attempt had also left him unbalanced. He was beginning to tip. He grasped sporadically into the air, searching for anything to grab onto. The ladder left his feet. Simultaneously, his hand wrapped around one of the few remaining limbs. He hung there. And for a time he switched places with the cat. Safe for the time, Phil managed to collect his thoughts as best he could. You’ve been in worse situations than this, just think. His thoughts only led him to the conclusion that the rotted branch from which he now hung wouldn’t support his two-hundred pound frame for long. Far below, the ladder crashed against the wood chipper. A cacophony of metal against metal, and within moments the smell of gas perforated his nostrils. The once sweet chime of the wood chipper had now become death bells that signaled his end. They’re going to find me half mangled in that thing. Linda will hear me scream but it’ll be too late by then. The blades were hungry below him, screaming like angry devils. Maybe they’re tired of wood. The rotted limb snapped.

His life hadn’t flashed before his eyes, but time was thick and slow. This reminded him of when he had taken Linda to see the works of Salvador Dali in Philadelphia some years back. Linda had begged him to go. He hated the city; despised every crack in the sidewalk and every looming skyscraper. The city was always gray, and the smell of trash that had nowhere to go made him gag. However, the Dali fellow had sparked an interest in him. Dali was thought to be somewhat of a loony, and after seeing the paintings, Phil tended to agree. He was particularly enthralled by a piece called The Persistence of Memory.  Strewn about a landscape were three or four clocks. The clocks had a deflated look to them. When plastic melts, it stretches and elongates; that is how Dali’s clocks were, melted. Now he was living inside one of Dali’s nightmares. Time melted around him. Then everything went white. Intense heat rifled through his body. Accompanying the heat was pain. He remembered that there had been a lot of pain.

He was certain he had no luck, and God had forsaken him three years ago. So by whatever force, he missed the wood chipper. He nearly missed the chainsaw, too. His neck twisted, and then snapped; six vertebrae compounded and shattered. The saw blade sunk three inches into the right side of his face. The blade had just narrowly missed his eye, but pulverized the socket that surrounded it.  He was declared dead twice on the way to the hospital, and once at the hospital, where he was finally brought back (and stayed alive). Over the next month he was in and out of surgery, having cranial reconstructive surgery, this and that surgery. None of it made sense to him. He only knew that it was painful. Only blurred, unrecognizable images flashed in front of his eye. He knew he was only seeing from one eye. When he felt for the other one, his fingers only met a mountain of soft cloth-like material. Then his hand was gently, but forcefully placed at his side. He learned that exploring his shattered body was a no.Eventually the darkness on the right side lifted. He saw the world through one good eye, and one foggy red one. Doctors moved in and out of the room. Their cheap cologne choked the air. Linda also moved in and out of the room, never staying long. Incoherent and distant mumbles always accompanied the departure of her cheap perfume. “I ave to o tae air of the at,” she stood over him as she voiced it out. After two months, (this was a guess; he didn’t really know how long it had been) he was quite certain he could care less about what type of hat she had to go make.

My daughters came and visited me in the hospital; each coming a long way from home to make sure their daddy was ok. They were both soft and elegant, and when I saw them cry for me, I cried too. But soon they left, and all I was left with was Linda, and the indomitable itch that ran through every inch of what was left of my brain. The itch screamed at me all day and all night. The cat! But even more importantly, the scream that accompanies it - Linda!

***

I’ve been out of the hospital for nearly three months now. My rehabilitation has moved from what my physical therapist calls Phase one, to phase two; or in laymen terms, from a downtown office, to my home. I wish I could remain somewhere else, anywhere else. My sleep is haunted by demon’s nightmares. The black tree still stands rigid and malignant in my yard, and high up on the last limb of the backside, sits that damn cat watching through the window. But I have a new plan now. I’m going to get rid of that cat. I’m going to kill that cat. And if the cat goes, then Linda will have to go to. There’s nothing on TV, but I’m not really watching, just flipping through aimlessly while my thoughts wander elsewhere. Like the bank robbery before Linda and I had met, the guard who had reached for his gun; But more importantly, where I had stashed the .38 Special.

Reincarnation can cross many boundaries...

REUNITED

By Elliot Richard Dorfman 

****
Behold a couple whose love was so rare and true,

But death abruptly came and cruelly parted the two.

Then the husband’s restless soul who was caught in twilight’s sleep,

One day abruptly awoke and desired his cherished mate again to meet.
****

Milton Fenway woke up one cold November dawn with a throbbing headache. Without waking his wife, Beverly, he quietly got off the bed and went into the kitchen to take a couple of aspirins. Not able to sleep anymore, he made himself a warm cup of tea. Slowly drinking it, he vividly recalled last night’s strange dream where he was standing in a lonely field. A tall, handsome young American Civil War phantom with piercing light brown eyes and dirty-blond hair appeared in the mist. He wore a ripped New York State uniform with a large blood stain spread across his chest. Unlike most stories describing spirits as vapors, this ghost was solid.

“I was only twenty-four years old when I died here in Sharpsburg, Maryland on September 12, 1862, ”the soldier sadly told him. “I was fighting for less than forty-five minutes, when a bullet ripped through my chest. They say Antietam was the bloodiest single-day battle in American history. I was buried on the spot where I fell. There was an up crop opposite me, so the farmers never plowed there. I remained undiscovered for almost one hundred and forty-seven years until a tourist stumbled upon my remains that some creature dug up. Once discovered, I was re interred with full military honors in a cemetery not far from here.”

The figure moved closer and seemed to peer directly into Milton’s soul.

“Oh gosh,” the phantom screamed out in adulation, “heaven has finally granted my wish. I have found you at last!” He took Milton’s hands and caressed them. “I beg you to forgive me. I had no right to volunteer and leave you alone like that. Had I heeded your advice, we could have had a full life together. I can never forgive myself for being such a pig-headed fool and causing you such sorrow.”

He physically embraced Milton, who although pushing him away, had - to his surprise - enjoyed it.

The amorous ghost looked angry and began talking loudly. “You don’t remember me, do you? ”

Milton shook his head.

“Darn it. I’m Jacobi Tryon! Obviously, you seem to have forgotten everything about your previous life. I guess that what happens when you are eventually reincarnated. As for me, my soul was too restless to move on after my violent death, so I’ve remained here in this twilight state for almost a century and a half. Well, no more of it. I want the chance to live again and properly be reunited with you. Somehow, and in someway, I’m going to make that happen.”

The ghost vanished and Milton woke up.

Despite it being only a dream, Milton remained confused by his reaction to Jacobi’s embrace and began questioning his own masculinity. While the marriage to Beverly hadn’t been good, it certainly wasn’t due to any physical problem. Most likely the cause was from a clash of personalities. Milton, an English high school teacher, was sensitive and easy going. Beverly, also an educator, was aggressive, and had no qualms in pushing down anyone who tried getting in her way of success. She had recently become an assistant principle, and was furious at her husband for not having done the same.

Married five years, the Fenways had no children because Beverly strongly lacked any maternal feelings.

“I’m not keen on tying my life down to a couple of selfish brats who constantly need your attention,” she adamantly said when he confronted her about it.

It was Saturday, and Beverly always slept late on the weekends. So after making a full breakfast for himself, he got dressed and decided to take a long walk with his American bulldog, Bruno.

They walked on a country path that led into the woods nearby. Most of the leaves had fallen, and the wind whipped through the empty branches. Bruno barked when he saw a deer cross a stream, but Milton was too deep in thought to notice. He just couldn’t get the bizarre dream out of his head. He could still feel the thrill of the phantom soldier's embrace.

“ How stupid of me to keep thinking about something that was just a silly figment I created,” he thought.

“That’s not true!” a voice said behind him. Turning, there stood Jacobi Tryon, and this time Milton was wide awake. Why, he could even smell the sent of the man’s musky odor.

Milton pushed the phantom back.

“You’re no ghost. You’re as physical as I am.”

Jacobi smiled with amusement. He bent down and patted Bruno, who seemed to like him. “I only can manifest myself into a solid physical state for a brief time. Anyway, just how do you explain last night’s dream?”

“Please, Go away and leave me alone,” Milton pleaded.

Jacobi rose and grabbed Milton by the shoulders. “ You wouldn’t say that if your memory was restored. So that’s what I’m going to do. Look into my eyes and concentrate.”

It took only a moment before Milton began recalling a former life - a former life as a woman! His legs became unsteady, and he leaned against the trunk of an old oak tree.

“It’s impossible,” he breathlessly said, “you put those images into my head.”

The phantom became angry. “Nonsense! That would serve no purpose.

One hundred and forty-seven years ago you were Corey Anne, my cherished wife. Don’t keep trying to deny it. Deep in your heart you know it’s true.”

“Okay, even if that’s so, what happens next?” the perplexed soul asked.

“We must find a way to be together again.”

“But how?”

Jacobi began to fade. “ It shouldn’t take me too long to figure that out. In the meanwhile try and go on with your daily routines until I return.”

“Do you really expect me to do that?” Milton asked, almost sobbing. But Jacobi was gone.

It began snowing heavily and Bruno was becoming restless. By the time Milton returned home, he had decided to go away for few days. It was impossible to be with his wife right now, not with the restored memories of Corey Anne looming over him. It was the only rational thing to do. Jacobi had said he would be back in a short time. Hopefully, he would have an answer to end this unnatural situation.

Milton arranged to stay at a familiar lodge somewhere in the Adirondack mountains. There he hoped to find some solitude and perhaps calm his nerves. Surprisingly, when he informed Beverly, she almost seemed happy and didn’t even bother asking him why or where he was going. Although it continued to snow heavily all through the day, the man drove up to the place early that evening and went to bed as soon as he was given the key to his room.

Throughout the night Milton had vivid dreams, or was it recollections of being Corey Anne? It was a pleasant June night in 1860. Corey Anne sat with Jacobi on the veranda of her parent’s palatial home in Massachusetts. She could smell the strong aroma of the red and pink roses that grew on the trellis nearby. No wonder Milton like roses so much, it was a carry-over from his former life. Jacobi suddenly bent down and produced a beautiful diamond engagement ring.

“Corey Anne,” he said with great emotion, “now that I have graduated from college and have been hired by my uncle to work at his prestigious law firm, I feel I am worthy to ask your hand in marriage. I pray that you will say yes. From the day we first met, I knew you were the only woman I could love and want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Corey Anne’s heart almost burst with joy. “Oh, yes, my darling. Nothing would make me happier than becoming your wife.”He rose and gently put the ring on her finger, then gave her a kiss that took her breath away and tingled every sensation in her body. Moments later, her family, who had heard it all through the opened windows, came running out to congratulate them.

Other scenes followed that showed the life of a very contented young woman of the Victorian era. They lived in a charming two story cottage. Jacobi was always attentive, lavishing his beloved with many pretty, extravagant gifts. How lucky Corey Ann had been, for her young husband was as good as they get. Unfortunately, they had not yet had children when the war broke out between the states. When he told her that he wanted to volunteer in the Union army, she unsuccessfully pleaded with him not to go, but he strongly insisted it was his duty. For three weeks after his departure, Corey hardly slept or ate. Then she found out that she was pregnant, but induced by her weakened condition, had a miscarriage shortly afterward.

“Don’t fret, my dearest Corey,” Jacobi wrote. “Hopefully the war won’t last long. When I return, we’ll try again and I am sure there will be many children to enjoy and cherish.”

She did her best and patently waited for his return. Upon hearing the news of his untimely death in 1862, she became a recluse, dying only a year later from a broken heart.

Milton had been at the lodge for two days. Despite the peaceful tranquility of the snowy mountains, his mood grew dark. He decided if Jacobi didn’t quickly find some resolve, suicide would be the only answer. What else was there to do? It was ludicrous living like this. Returning to his room, Milton sat mindlessly looking at the flames in the fireplace until he mercifully dozed off. A little later on, he felt someone shaking him. Opening his eyes, Jacobi stood over him, his light brown eyes bright as the flames in the fire.

“Wake up, my one and only. I know what has to be done. Come on, you’ve got to return home right now.”

Home, but why such a rush?

“Ask no questions. Just trust me,” replied the ghost, somewhat annoyed.

Milton nodded. At this point, he was willing to agree to anything that would effectively work.

A few blocks from his house, his car skidded and crashed into an oncoming car in the other lane.

For a moment, Milton blacked out. When regaining consciousness, he felt somewhat lightheaded and disoriented.

“What just happened?” he asked.

Jacobi smiled

“ You’ve been in an accident. What a disgusting mess. Take a guess whom you hit?”

“Now is not the time for playing guessing games, Jacobi. Whoever is in that car may be seriously hurt or worse.”

Jacobi shrugged. “Oh, the two people in there are dead, just like you.”

“What?” Milton shouted.

“ Take it easy, I’ll explain everything to you,” Jacobi calmly answered. “First tell me why you married Beverly. Were you that much in love with her?”

Milton frowned. “What has this got to do with what has just happened?”

“You’ll see, just answer me,” Jacobi insisted.

Milton sighed. “Well at first I was in love with Beverly. It was only after we were married a while that I realize that all she was concern with was getting ahead. When I told her I was satisfied being a teacher and had no ambitions to become a principal or school-wide superintendent, she starting becoming emotionally distant to me.”

Jacobi nodded. “I guess that’s why Beverly has been cheating on you for the past six months. The car you just hit was Al Linford, one of the assistant principles at your school.He was taking Beverly home after spending an evening at some seedy motel making love with her. ”

“I’d like to see them in hell,” the betrayed husband responded angrily.

Jacobi put his head back and gave a loud laugh. “Actually they’re headed there right now. That gives us the perfect opportunity to enter their bodies which still has plenty of life. After all, it’s a shame to see them go to waste. My spirit will enter into Al’s and you into your wife’s. Now relax and I’ll handle everything.”

“Are you sure it will work? ” Milton uncertainly asked.

“Absolutely, responded, the cheerful revolutionary ghost, anxious to live again. “Brace yourself, Milton. 1 ... 2 ... ”

***

Things were far from easy once Milton and Jacobi entered their new bodies. There was a very long period of adjustment before there could be any semblance of normalcy for them. It was the strong love and mutual support of the reunited couple that gave them the strength to eventually succeed and gain the same happiness they once shared such a long time ago - and even more so, for in time they became the proud parents of handsome twin boys.

Elliot Richard Dorfman taught in the New York City School System for more than three decades, as well as giving private vocal and piano lessons. He founded Suma Play Productions, Inc., and was artistic director of the American Youth Repertory Company, Off Broadway. After retiring, he moved with his family from the borough of Brooklyn to Johnstown, New York. Among his successful former students are American tenor, Daniel Rodriguez,character actress, Kelly Wolf, and Broadway stage manager, Ira Mont. Mr. Dorfman, a former member of the NY Dramatist Guild and Associated Music teachers League, has appeared and written for radio and television. His plays (dramas and musicals) have been presented on the professional stage, schools and centers. Since the fall of 2007, over sixty stories have appeared in the following magazines: Delivered, Twisted Dreams, Bewildering Stories, Golden Visions, Static Movement, NVH, The Tiny Globule, Perpetual, Paradigm Shift: New Paradigm, Black Petals, Blood Moon Rising, Demonic Tome, Short Story Library Magazine,Stories That Lift, M-Brane Science Fiction, Coffee Cramp eZine,Infinite Windows and Horror House. Five poems have appeared in Falling Star, Orange Room Review,Debris,and Golden Visions. Voted by GOLDEN VISIONS MAGAZINE readers as best 2008 author. For more detailed information go to: elrite.webs.com

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The life of a laborer never changes, no matter what race or planet they're from!

Union

By Joseph DeRepentigny

Jack could not remember how he got here nor could he remember much of when. All he really knew was that they took him recently. He knew this because his entire body hurt as if some thug had worked him over. Flashes of bouncing off a wall or floor entered his mind at random. He also remembered someone or something picking him up and carrying him here. Where here was and what here was, were questions still to be answered. Still, here he was lying on a floor wondering what was next. Hoping that the aches may subside he opened his eyes and turned his head slightly.

To say the room was a mess was an understatement. Piles of debris filled this room like the aftermath of a four-year-old child's birthday. Leaning to one side to sit up Jack grimaced past the pain and got a better look around. Unfortunately, the increase in elevation did not improve the scene.

"What a dump," he whispered to himself.

"It may be a dump but it is home," A voice said from behind.

Twisting in pain, he saw a rubbery looking man with an orange skin tone sitting on a crate. He was dressed in what looked like tan coveralls and black canvass sneakers. His whole appearance was somewhat comical except his forlorn facial expression.

"Who and what are you?" Jack asked with a groan.

"My name is Ptah." He replied, ""I'm a Realian."

"OK and now tell me where I am."

"You're on an interstellar freighter heading toward a space port." Ptah said in a matter of fact tone.

"Why'd you bring me here?" Jack said matter of fact.

"I didn't," Ptah replied standing up. "That is I didn't ask for you specifically. They just picked you because we were available."

"Huh?"

"You where nearby and the people who run this ship picked you up as my assistant," He said as he kicked his feet back and forth.

Suddenly a word clicked in Jack's head. Interstellar, he'd heard it used on TV and in books but seldom as an explanation. "Did you say interstellar?"

"Yeah," Ptah replied.

"As in spaceship," Jack said warily.

"That's right."

"I'm in space."

"Yes, but you people have been spaceborne for some time." Ptah replied.

"No we aren’t," Jack started.

"And you race is traveling outward right?"

"No, not really," Jack said shaking his head. "Only the military or the very rich go into space."

"Oops!" Ptah said with a smile. "The big guys grabbed a primitive."

"What do you mean primitive!" Jack said sitting up.

"Your people are primitives." Ptah said with a grin. "Here let me show you. Where are you from?"

"Earth," Jack said getting up off the floor.

Ptah chuckled. "All of us call our homes earth. It is the primitive thing. A spaceborne race will refer to their home planet by its system name. For example, I'm from Realia 4. That name indicates I'm from the Realian star system fourth planet from said star."

"We call our star the sun!" Jack said with growing anger.

Ptah laughed at that. "Like Earth, Sun is a generic term too."

"OK smart guy where am I from?"

"I don't know and I doubt the big guys know either." Ptah explained, "I'm just the custodian in this place."

"You're not doing a real good job." Jack interrupted.

"That's because I'm on strike."

"What, did you blow the place up?" Jack said with a grin.

"Stop interrupting me!" Ptah said standing up.

"OK, sorry."

"Anyway I've been here for god knows how long and I decided I needed help." He continued, "So I tell the big guys I need help. They say there isn't anyone to help me. So I stop cleaning and removing the trash. Pretty soon, the place is crawling with vermin. Finally they give in and send me you."

"Where are the big guys?"

"Up there." He said pointing at the ceiling.

“I need to go up there and tell them they made a mistake and to let me go.”

Ptah smiled and shook his head. “We don’t have access to up there. We are allowed down here only. We have living quarters and an automated feeding center. On occasion an automated doctor will check on us or a member of the crew will come down and inspect the hold but we are not allowed up there.”

“This is ridiculous,” Jack said with growing annoyance. “I’m stuck in a manual labor job in a spaceship with no way of leaving. You’d think slavery wouldn’t exist in a high tech society.”

“We are cheaper than robots.” Ptah said automatically. “We are cheap to make, cheap to maintain and cheap to get rid of when we wear out.” He said counting on his fingers. “Besides we are paid and get to get off the ship during landings.”

“What if I run away?”

“And do what?” Ptah asked putting his hands on his hips. “Hope for a ship going to a planet you don’t know the name of?”

“What do I do now?”

“CLEAN THE HOLD!” a voice on a loud speaker shouted.

Looking up Jack saw a tall thin alien with grey skin and wide blue eyes staring at him. The man if it was a male was dressed in a simple one piece set of black coveralls. It stared at him like someone would stare at a spider in a museum.

Taking a chance Jack jumped up and said. “You have to let me go! I’m a primitive!”

The alien didn’t react. Instead it turned and went through a door.

Ptah walked up beside Jack and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Typical, management doesn’t care.”

Jack looked at Ptah in shock. Ptah let go of Jack’s shoulder and said. “You get the brooms and I’ll make us some tea.”

“Tea?” he said in a whisper.

“Yeah, tea break is in fifteen minutes.” Ptah said with a wink. “We may be nobodies but we do have a union.”

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Sometimes a misunderstanding can lead to a greater truth...

Channeled

By Michael C. Keith

Eternity was in that moment.

-- William Congreve

Ellen Crowley was a week from turning 87 years old when she saw her dead husband in a television documentary about WWII. She had been a widow for 64 years having met and married the love of her life shortly after graduating from college. Now as she sat in a wheelchair in the recreation room of the Leland Retirement and Care Center the image of Ronald Crowley’s contorted and bloodied face caused her to shout his name. Her sudden outburst caused everyone in the room to turn in her direction and brought an attendant to her side.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Crowley? Is there anything wrong?”

“I saw my husband,” she replied pointing in the direction of the television.

“Where?”

“There on the TV. They never found his body, but there he was in the sand with a bullet hole in his forehead.”

“Are you sure it was him, Mrs. Crowley? That’s an old film and it’s not very clear,” asked the attendant.

“Young man, I know what my husband looked like. Don’t treat me like a fool! There hasn’t been a day since I was told he was missing in action that I haven’t seen his face, so I damn sure know what he looks like.”

“So you’ve seen him on TV everyday,” questioned the attendant a bit too solicitously.

“No, not on TV, in my mind, for God’s sake. I see his handsome face in the window of the train that took him off to war. That was the last time I saw him alive, but he lives in my memory, and there he was just now on television.”

Despite her objections, the attendant took her back to her room and informed the nurse on duty that she has having an “episode,” which was staff code for residents behaving peculiarly.

“Calm down, Mrs. Crowley,” urged the nurse on duty in a patronizing tone.

“I just saw my husband who’s been dead for over 60 years and you’re telling me to calm down? How stupid are you people here?” exclaimed Ellen as she was being lifted onto her bed.

“We all think we see things, Mrs. Crowley, especially things we deeply miss.”

“Idiot, I know what I saw!” yelled Ellen on the verge of hysterics.

“ Look, that’s not possible. He’s been dead for over 60 years, but if you say you saw him then fine. Good for you,” replied the nurse tersely while pulling the covers over the elderly woman’s frail body. “We’ll give you something to help you sleep.”

“Good,” snapped Ellen angrily, “The more time I spend unconscious in this place the better.”

In ten minutes the nurse returned and administered a sedative, although Ellen was already drifting off. An hour later the attendant informed the RN that Mrs. Crowley appeared in distress. When the nurse arrived at her bedside she knew instantly that the old woman was dead.

“She’s not to be revived according to her living will, but stay here with her while I call the doctor,” said the nurse exiting the room quickly.

When she returned to her station, she fished the needle she’d used on Mrs. Crowley from the toxic disposal container and inspected the label. Her heart sunk when she read it realizing she had mistakenly given the elderly resident 500 mg of penicillin, a med to which she was highly allergic.

Mrs. Crowley’s funeral was sparsely attended as she had no children and had outlived her few close friends. Those who attended were mostly from the retirement center.

“It’s so sad to leave this world with no one,” commented one of the center’s residents to another as they watched the coffin carried from the small chapel where the service took place.

But Ellen was the happiest she had been since the loss of her beloved spouse, because she now stood with him on the Normandy beach where his life had come to a sudden and tragic end.

“I have waited a lifetime to be with you,” said Ellen weeping with joy as she tenderly wiped the blood from her husband’s face.

The coastline that had been cluttered with bodies was now empty and pristine and the breeze rolling in with the waves smelled of flowers.

“Me, too, my dearest. Me, too,” whispered her husband as he kissed her, and the reunited couple walked the infinite shore hand in hand as the sun descended the eastern horizon and the moons gained their trajectory.

* * *

Michael C. Keith teaches Communication at Boston College. He is the author of many stories, articles, and books.

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Regret

By Ben Macnair

It is better to regret the things you have done,

than the things that did not do.

It is easier to forget the things you did do,

than to regret the things you did not.

Each moment you spend in regret

for your lost past,

is another moment wasted

of your future.

Regret (Part II)

By Ben Macnair

Right now

Everything balances between

Good and bad

Right now

Everything balances between

Time and infinity.

Now today is

Over,

Tomorrow will

Happen again.

Indigo dreams for

Nothing is

Good or bad

Regret carries no currency

Exchange rates

Mean less with

Each passing

Moment.

Between

Every single one of your friends and

Relatives a single blood line connects

Everything together.

Vestal Virgins stoke

Every fire in

Remembrance of each passing

Year.

Between you and me, and the big blue sky,

Each passing year leaves less and less to be saved,

As whispered secrets are carried to the grave.

Tomorrow will be

Offended by today

For

You will be a different person tomorrow, in a different

Orbit around a different sun.

Understanding nothing, we can

Realise everything

Heathens will only remember grace,

Eyeing each other up

Across the arches of History.

Righteousness will only

Tie the telling of history in knots.

Ignorant of his effect on history,

Socrates

Mouthed the regret

Of time

Remembered for

Evermore.

Peter Pan and Wendy

Roo and Kanga and

Ebenezer Scrooge

Caught in a confusion of

Indigo literature and

Of everything

United and torn asunder

Suddenly

Time stopped and

Happened with

An instance of

Neglect.

Gone now are the poets the

Omnipotent guards of

Love and

Distance.

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