Christmas Surprise – Told by Puddles the Cat

Out in back of the house, in the sparsely lit snowy alley there was a gathering of sorts, a gathering of the feline persuasion.  Many had gathered to hear about the latest exploits of Puddles the cat.

“So you see boys, I was upstairs in the Mrs.’s bedroom.  I was minding my own business when all of a sudden I couldn’t resist the call of those pretty parcels, and let me tell you, those baskets made some noise...”  Puddles shifted on the garbage can and began telling the story again.

           

“All that shiny paper holding in all those goodies.  Those goodies not only could I smell, but when I came upon that transparent paper and actually saw the booty, whooeee...what else can I say?  I just couldn’t help myself.  You know how it is right?  Like when they leave the meat defrosting on the counter, or better yet they leave the turkey cooling in the kitchen before they cut it up.  You’re sitting on the warm linoleum giving the soulful eyes, to no avail.  What else is a cat to do?  Year after year it’s the same holiday torture show.”

           

“But Puddles, they always cook up the gizzards for us, and if we are really good we get gravy too.”

           

“Hello?  Who said that?  You down in front?”  Puddles pointed a fury paw to the tabby in the third row.  Heads turned.  “Boy...are you new?  Have you been listening to me?  Don’t you see the plight I am explaining to you?  Who brought this kid?  Ya, I know, no one is gonna fess up to that one.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, so I ask you what is a cat to do?  Here is the opportunity of a life time, am I wrong?  You’re all looking at me as though I am floating three feet above you ... would you have passed up the booty in those baskets?  I don’t think so ... and if you did you’re a traitor to the feline fur coat!  Need I go on?  All right then, let me tell you how it was.  Okay, I am perched upon the bed right, and I have one hell of a view of the cheese.  Yes, you heard me right there was cheese and Damn if it didn’t taste good.  Before I knew it I was in there like a shot ... I clawed my way through that red cellophane paper and I was seeing through rose colored glasses let---me---tell---you!!  Somehow, it all made sense.  All those years of holiday torture, wrapped up in that one moment...it was like irony...What?  Okay, what fool piped up with ebony?  I said IRONY not IVORY!! I heard that.  You might think I don’t know who you are, but I’ll be dealing with you after.  Don’t kid yourself, Ebony my Wiskas...”

The Fishermen's Choice

The fishermen woke early.  Dawn had not begun to punch her eye through the swirling sea mists, as the fishermen fumbled into clothes.  Their warm breath converged with the chilly air and danced about their lips as they tended to assigned tasks and breakfast chores.  Soon they were ready to gather up the last of the nets and head out to sea in the little wooden fishing boats.

Hopeful, they unfurled the sails and began their silent bargains with the sea gale gods.  Promising what they could for strong gentle winds, those that would see them to their destination without stirring the ocean into a tempest.

Even though they only experienced half of what they wanted they gave thanks for what they had received.  The day was sunny and warm and they gathered many fish from the sea.  There was much laughter amongst the men.   But while they were pulling up the last net of the day a strange occurrence happened.  Suddenly the winds came and with it the water began to grow and swell.  The men grew afraid because this was unlike anything they had ever experienced.  The skies were still blue with not a cloud to be seen and they could not understand why the ocean was acting so strangely.  It became worse and worse until the men feared their boats would capsize.  They rushed to unfurl the sail again so they could go on their way and leave the wind and the sea to their argument.

On the side of one of the little wooden fishing vessels a woman appeared, her body in the waves and her hands and arms holding on to the boat for dear life.  She spoke not a word but the men could see the fear in her blue eyes.  They were in shock of finding such a woman with them as she was not there a moment before and they wondered where she had come from.  Some men yelled to pull the woman from the sea and rescue her.  Others shouted that she was a siren from the deep and it was a trick of the scaled women.  They said they would surely die if they helped this creature. 

The wind howled and the waves grew as the men argued among themselves.  The boats began to drift apart from each other and soon the boat with the woman was alone.  As the waves grew, they began to break over the side where the woman was holding on.  Her weight pulled the edge closer to the water and it began to slosh in with an ever pressing speed.  Still she implored them with her eyes.  They knew a decision had to be made before they all died.  Either pull her in, or force her away. 

One man looked at the others and shook his head in disgust.  Then he grabbed the woman and began to haul her into the boat.  When the others saw what he was doing they too began to assist the woman.  As soon as she was in the boat she looked at the men and smiled.  Her long black hair and her strange clothes were soaked.  A fisherman offered her his coat to warm herself but she shook her head.  Then before their eyes the woman transformed into a Dolphin and jumped back into the sea, and when she did the waves and wind began to calm and the sea was again at peace.

The fishermen looked at each other knowing that no one else who hadn’t seen what they had experienced would believe their stories.  They agreed to tell the others that the woman had slipped off of the side of the boat before they could save her, and let that be the end of the story.

Day after day no matter when or where the fishermen who had saved the woman went they were successful in their catch and the boat would come back to shore with heaps of fish.  The villagers wondered about their great luck and consulted them for their secrets.  But no matter what they did they couldn’t reproduce the quantities the fishermen came back with.  This happened even when others would go out with the fishermen and fish alongside them.

What the fishermen or the villagers didn’t know was that she was confronting many fishermen of the world, testing humanity to see if it were worthy of the ocean and her bounty.  Sometimes she was met with kindness and she was pulled to safety, other times sadly it was not so, and these men didn’t know that their decisions and conduct weighed heavily for humanity.

One day the woman confronted a small fishing vessel, and like before the winds came and the brine water surged, tossing the small boat to and fro over the waves.  The men were fearful of the woman’s appearance out of seemingly nowhere and they thought her some sort of harmful ghost or sea waif come to claim them as a sacrifice for the fickle seas.  They tried to pry her fingers from the wood so they could toss her back to the brine where she had come from.  Surprised that she was indeed solid and warm, this did not deter them, so crazed by fright they were.  They could not pry her grip from the boat.  One man began to kick her hands and fingers to smash them into succumbing to her side of the boat.  It did not work. 

Finally another man took his fishing knife and brought it down upon the woman’s fingers just under the knuckles where her fingers were joined to the hand.  The frightened men were silenced by the sickening thud and then the sight of blood pouring forth into their boat.  This was no sea waif; this was no ghost of any kind.  Blood was life.  The shock cut through them like the knife cut through her. 

Before their eyes she began to transform and rise out of the sea.  She grew and grew until she was more than twenty feet above them.  Her black hair turning into writhing Moray Eels, while coral grew over her torso.  The men could see sea creatures peeking out of holes full of sea water.  Each leg began to grow opalescent scales and fins replaced where her feet had been.    

She held her hand before her as she screamed out her rage at what these men had done to her.  The sound was deafening and could be felt inside their bodies.  The sea became a huge roiling mass as angry as she.  The winds whipped at the men, pushing them this way and that.  Then the men watched as starfish limbs replaced her stolen fingers.  When she spoke, it was as loud as thunder claps, and the men had to shield their ears. 

“I have been testing you over the years to see if you are worthy of my bounty and if I should reward you with safe passage over my skirts.  Most of you humans have been severely lacking, but I searched and searched anyhow giving you the benefit of the doubt.  I wanted to fall in love with creatures such as you because in many ways you prove interesting and some have been compassionate.  With your actions today however, I can no longer look the other way.  You have proven to be dangerous infantile creatures with only selfish gain at the forefront of your consciousness. 

You have taken four things from me.  So I in turn will take four things from your future generations.  Those of you who have shown me compassion will still reap my bounty, those of you who chose to rape, or tried to destroy me, will feel my wrath. 

I will hide the fish in places you will not be able to reach, with your nets or with other means, and I will move their coral homes to places you cannot destroy them.   I will create Tsunami to cleanse your filth and dwellings from my skirts and force you to rethink your lack of respect.  I will release the storm sisters upon my face to dance their fury into colossal cyclones and hurricanes bringing fear into your hearts and those of your children.  They will wonder what they have done wrong to receive the fury, the barren seas, and wonder what they will do for food in the future, and I will whisper to them of you.  Lastly I will raise the levels of the ocean with the frozen fresh water and release ice to do battle with your ships in raging storms.  Many lives will be lost, and when they are they will swim down to join you in your watery prison. 

She raised her hand and the ocean swelled and surged tossing the men out of their boats and into the sea.

The Stamp Mosaics

In my home office, things started to disappear; a box of paper clips here, some stamps there.  Small things at first, nothing significant, but enough to be an inconvenience.  

It took me a while to notice.  It isn’t as though our office is immaculate but I have order where order is needed.  I once saw a picture of Albert Einstein’s office and I could not believe someone so brilliant could ever find his way in such a messy array of texts and papers.  Thankfully, for Albert and us, there is order in chaos.  Although the universe can be a random and bizarre place, planets behave a certain way, black holes behave another.  I wondered which of those we were like. 

Our office was not as bad as Albert’s, but it was not the tidy, efficient, sterile machine like my mother’s could be either.  She had everything in its place and it always gave an unlived in vibe.  Like some kind of tomb you had to tiptoe around.  It was purely functional, as though no ideas, no life or creativity had ever breathed within its walls. 

Our office, on the contrary, was much lived in.  Not a day went by that one of us was not in some way contributing to its character.  There were wooden bookshelves lining the walls in the back holding texts, paper and envelopes.  Storage shelves doubled as work surfaces and storage areas.  Plastic bins held extra cables, mice, power bars, keyboards and various other computer equipment.  Wires were everywhere but in a way that resembled tidiness.  A scanner in the corner, printer on a wooden shelf, and with the new flat screen monitors there was more desk space.

That is until my partner starts into his coin collection.  Then there are coins everywhere, q-tips and toothbrushes for cleaning, toothpicks for who knows what, small jars of ketchup and olive oil.  Reference books, although most of his reference work is done on the internet.  Binders upon binders stacked one on the other full of his centuries old booty. 

I liked to look at them too, some of them anyway.  The old faces and crests, the way I would feel when I thought that all that time ago these heavy circles would have sat in someone’s hand, rested in their pocket.  It was like touching history in an obscure way.

Perhaps that is why things began to disappear. 

I didn’t notice it right away, because I thought Russell had misplaced what I needed and he of course thought I had.  We had even gotten into some pretty intense fights over it. 

Stamps seemed to be the most popular.  We even tried to put them in different places to break the losing streak so to speak, though that didn’t work very well.  We thought perhaps we had forgotten the new hiding places but the old empty cardboard wrappers were staring us in the face. 

Then it seemed other things were being used.  There is no other way to say it.  We woke up one morning ready for a full day of work and there were staples all over the floor.  Not unspent staples like you find in the box and load the stapler with, but spent staples.  As if someone had pushed the stapler over and over and just left the bent staples all over the floor, like they had done it for the simple joy of the sound and feel of the stapler, or that they had not known what the stapler was for.

It got stranger and stranger as time went by.  Tape would be hanging from the ceiling; stamps would be stuck to our monitors in mosaic designs.  Rubber bands seemed shot from one area and sent to another.  It was almost like we were being invaded by childlike minds in the middle of the night.  Or at least intelligent ones, the mosaics proved that.

When I asked my son Zack about these occurrences I received looks of innocence, or looks that told me he was wondering if I was really serious and this was not some kind of joke.

We let it go for a while.  As we saw it there wasn’t much else we could do.  The mischief   only happened at night and there was never any noise for us to be woken from sleep.  We did stay up all night once and hid in the dark corners lest anything arose, but to our great disappointment nothing did.  So we just let it ride.  My curiosity was almost palatable.

That was until Russell began to lose things he had already sold on the internet.  He could no longer find one of his uncirculated ten dollar bills with the radar numbered serial numbers.  The oddities were no longer amusing.  Puzzling yes, but funny?  Not in the least. 

I thought that perhaps we didn’t see anything the night we stayed up because we were awake, or because we were too noisy.  Perhaps whatever was invading our office was aware of the fact and would not show due to the thought of retaliation of some kind.  Yes I was grasping at straws, but I could no longer sit back and do nothing.  My imagination was running away with me and until I had the answer to this dilemma, it would continue to do so. 

The more I thought about it the more I became convinced that we would have to find a way to see into the office while being asleep.  I decided after much thought, that the only way to do this was to set up web cameras or a video camera in places where they wouldn’t stand out, and record the night’s visitors.    It wasn’t as though we didn’t have the technology, and it would be a simple thing to do for anyone.  I only had to figure out the camera angles and then we would capture whatever was going on.

The first night didn’t produce much.  It turned out I was so excited about the prospect of finding out about what was going on that I could not sleep.  The next night proved to be better.  When Russell and I sat down to the computer to watch the nights events I am sure our jaws hung open. 

For there, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, sat a man.  Sort of.  He was little, about a foot and a half tall, thin and had big fox like ears on the top of his head amongst sparse tufts of hair.   He had huge owl like eyes over a small nose and just a hint of a mouth. Thin arms and legs were covered by a shirt and pants that were a patchwork of bits of fabric sewn in big blue stitches.  At first he just sat there as though he was thinking about what to do.  Then gradually he picked at things about the room as though he was trying to figure out what they were or what they were used for.   For a couple of hours he sat with a book upon his lap and I was amazed that he could read our language.  Russell was not impressed when he put a couple of coins in his pocket as he left. 

Where had this little man come from?  More importantly where had he gone?  Who was he and why was he in our house, messing with our things?  How long had he been here?

Days went by and the same kind of things would happen on camera.  Until one day our little man left something for Russell.  It was a drawing he had done of Russell at the computer working.  It was beautiful, done in pencil and was signed Onhim.  So he had a name.  I thought that perhaps the sketch was to make up for the coins he had taken earlier.  Russell had left a rather nasty note demanding their return.  Something I hadn’t encouraged, after all Onhim could step out of seemingly nowhere, who knows what else he was capable of.  By the picture drawn it also seemed as though he could be here in the room with us in the daylight although we couldn’t see him.  This was troubling.  I began to wonder just how much the stranger knew about us.  However I didn’t get the sense that our visitor was malevolent in anyway.  He seemed as curious about us as we were about him.

I began to leave things for our little night visitor.  It wasn’t hard now that I knew he was an artist of sorts.  I set up an easel in the corner of the room and left some paper, pencil crayons and charcoal pencils, and then later some paints.  The result was an amazing array of drawings and paintings.  Creatures that were not of this earth or this dimension, there were fairies with gossamer wings, goblins, what I took to be trolls and amazing elfin beings.  Each surrounded in woods and trees the likes I had never seen before.  Little people made of moss and lichen.  In some of the drawings it was as though they could simply walk out of the paper that held them. 

I left many notes for Onhim, encouraging his drawings, and asking questions about the creatures.  I loved to see what he would come up with day after day.  Onhim came through for Russell too.  Apparently on his side of things, that is to say, where Onhim spends most of his life, coins are quite abundant.  A little purple bag showed up on Russell’s desk one morning full of small gold coins each with a hole in the middle.  All previous discrepancies between the two were forgiven. 

I went to the thrift store to get some clothes for Onhim.  I felt so badly seeing him in tatters.  I found some blue Oshkosh overalls and a couple blue shirts to match.  I didn’t pick up any socks or shoes though.  Every time I had seen him he was barefoot so I thought this must be his preference.  Besides I didn’t think I could find anything small enough, not even in the children’s section. 

I laid these out on the stool in front of his easel.  I was very happy to see these gone the next morning, and a thank-you note left in its place. 

~~:: ~~::

I sit perched upon the end of the bed, watching as the couple drift deeper into slumber.  The one on the right is closer to REM sleep then the woman is.  Her mind seems to be fighting the inevitable waltz with her subconscious.

I am patient, knowing I will soon dine on the delicious creativity that their minds will indulge in.  I am content to let my mind wander over the scents of their sleeping bodies.  I try to identify the origin of each fragrance.   It is the perfume of silken sweat, spent orgasms, the open pores of resting skin which roll over my tongue, enticingly sweet flavors. 

There are others like me.  We are the night watchmen.  Silent and invisible to man’s eye, keeping each night uncluttered of unwanted, unneeded dreams.  While these beings rest and create stories within their minds the dreams draw energy from the dreamer and it is on this that we feed upon.    

The woman enjoys my drawings, even giving me tools so I can bring forth the images that I sometimes see dancing over the heads of these wondrous creatures, these humans.  Her enjoyment is biased however. Originally they came from her.  She is drawn to the images because her subconscious remembers them, and although it is not filtered into her conscious mind, the feeling of familiarity is strong.  It pulls her to them.

I am intrigued by this woman.  Her detailed dreams are vividly colored and her positivity bleeds through them with hints of fruit and nectar.  She would not be so kind and giving with me if she truly knew my role within her domain and my vampiric ways.  Feeding not on blood of the flesh, but on mists of the mind.  If she knew that the creaking wood floorboards in the middle of the night were not due to the temperature changes within the house, or the house settling, but rather signaling my otherwise silent presence.  She would withdraw my welcome, and try to find a way to bar my entry.

He, in his nightly slumber, becomes invisible and flies over the world in first class correcting the wrong doings of evil men.  With saber sword he slashes through flesh, coloring the world red so the innocent may flee.  I watch his violent bloodlust, knowing that it is his primitive brain that seeks such nourishment.  I relish in the taste of such images, they are hot spicy delights.  I devour them and in turn he, during waking hours, can walk the earth safely within society’s confines.  He will not feel the need to spill havoc onto those he loves, or bring chaos into the streets because he has released such things to us. 

Some have called us the night vultures, saying we feed on the garbage that filters through the psyche.  I say we are as necessary to these beings as water, for it is we who drink their secretions.  Unburdening them of unwanted painful memories, and emotions better off not felt.  We provide these services free of charge; expecting nothing in return, only our nightly meals which sustain us. 

We have been here in a symbiotic relationship with these creatures since Mother Earth conjured us to relieve her of the constant excessive energies these beings create and litter her skirts with, and in previous ages, this was enough.

Now we watchmen can no longer keep up with the extreme populations of these beings.  Over the last centuries their numbers have exploded, the latest technologies coming out of the most brilliant minds have humans living past ages meant for the balance of things.  There are not enough of us.  Even with our insatiable appetites the balance is tilting the scales, and Mother, in turn, has begun to clean house. 

Natural disasters, global warming, humans think they have the answers as to why these things are happening.  They don’t.  The truth is we can no longer keep up to them and the way they pollute.  Green house gases?  The true pollution is the violence and negativity these beings thrive on, Mother can no longer tolerate it and survive.  Something is going to have to give and lose the battle.  I can tell you now it will not be Mother, she is too important in the great scheme of things...

Candle Illumination

Mint upon my palate, I rub sleep infused eyes and crawl under the covers.  Oh blessed sleep, please descend upon this body and transverse this fatigue.  Eyes closed, bring a wavering blackness upon subtle lids.  The conversation begins…

“I am worried about the candle.”

“Do not fear my child; you have put the metal cookie sheet beneath it.  Even if it were to tumble your thoughtfulness will save the house.”

“Are you sure it will be enough?”  My brows arch.

“Come now, it is time for the lessons.”

“The book says we should concentrate on the candle, try to become the candle, what ever that means.”  My disbelief hung in the air.

“Observe the candle.  Tell me what you see.”

“I see a white candle made of wax with a flame above it.  What else is there to a candle?”

“Surely this is not all that your eyes bring to you, look deeper and broaden your mind.”  His smile gentle and coaxing.

“The candle is not doing anything that I can see, except perhaps illuminating with the flames light.  It is the flame that moves and dances in the slight breeze.  It consumes the air and the wick.  It is emitting light and heat.  The candle is allowing this as the heat melts the wax and gives the flame more wick to consume.  If you count the candles allowing nature, I suppose it is doing something.”

“Yes, continue to observe.  What is this process teaching you?” 

My brows marry in concentration.  “In a way it is as though the candle has a life of sorts.  Its age is that of its use.  Just as we have, it has a birth, and with use a middle age.  Once spent; a death.  It gives birth to the flame, nourishing it.”

“Exactly, we are more like this candle then you know.  It sits before us doing what it does best, giving light and heat to those who wish to use it.  It is perfect in its simplicity; it does exactly what is required.  Nothing more, nothing less, yet leaves nothing undone.  It does not wish to be anything other then what it is.  Imagine what freedom we could have if only we knew and lived this secret.”  A pregnant pause hung between us.

“I suppose…but you are forgetting that we are not as simple as a candle.  Our complexities and our emotions, although a burden at times, are also what separate us from all other forms of life.  Should this not be celebrated?”

“It is and it should be celebrated, but it also blinds our minds eye with the cataracts of confusion.  We become like cattle in a monsoon, stuck in a quagmire of selfish impulses.  We, like the cattle, know the nature of the mud, yet we are still drawn to it instead of staying clear of what know to be a yoke.  Does this sound like the thought of a clear mind?”

“So how do we cleanse the mind?  How do we gain clarity?” I ask.

“Some say that meditation can bring a sense of clarity.”

“Some say?  So this is not your thinking then?”

“I think this is too simplistic.  Yes, a period of meditation is needed to quiet the mind and still the soul.  It can only be a good path for one seeking spiritual illumination.  However I think much more is needed then this simple recipe.  One must have the eyes in the head and the eyes of the spirit open at all times.  This is needed if one is to observe the world, its ways, and learn the lessons given through out the day.  How else is one to observe the heartbeat of life?”  Silence grows as we concentrate on the candle, and I mull over his words.  I am next to speak.

“So which would you say is of more importance, the candle or the flame?”

“In my mind there is no distinguishing the value between the two.  You can have the candle without the flame; it just ceases to be as useful.  In this instance, the flame cannot exist without the candle.  The flame is dependant on the candle.  When the wick is consumed in its entirety the flame too shall be consumed.”

“Where does the flame go?”

He smiles and gives me a wink.  “Now you are opening your mind.  These are the questions to ponder.  If I knew where the energy of a flame or a soul went after death, I would be a great master who would burst forth in hundreds of rainbows at the time of mine.” 

He chuckles, and his eyes become happy upside down smiles. 

The Execution

**Please note that this story contains graphic material that may not be suitable or may be disturbing to some readers**

~~ I wrote this when I was sixteen years of age in response to finding out about the details of public executions that were still happening in the world.  Here we are another 20 years from when I wrote it and we are still finding out that this is a regular occurence in some countries.  I am posting this story in hopes of shedding light on what others hope to sweep under the carpet. 


The rain pelted down on Lizzy’s head as the crowd gathered in the town square.  She could see people waiting under overhanging roofs, standing on boxes, while others peered out windows, all trying to get a better view.  What were they looking at?

“Pa what’s all this for?” Lizzy asked

“Hush child, hurry it up now.”  He maneuvered her throughout the crowd, his great bulk, demanding attention.  Lizzy looked around, trying to gather the meaning of the commotion.  Why was Pa pullin’ so hard?  Lizzy knew some of the townsfolk she passed, barely recognizing some, dressed in their best as they were.  Why there was Mrs. Liverberg, didn’t know she had richie clothes like that.  Didn’t she look fancy in that new frock?  Over there by the rain barrel, was that Devon?  Oh how he liked to pull her braids!  Not while pa was around though, never then.  She snickered at the thought of Pa catchin’ Devon pulling at her hair, that would be a lark!

“Whatchu laughin’ at Lizzy?”  Pa grumbled

“Nutin’ Pa,” she put a mitt to her mouth to stifle another giggle.  Lizzy looked down at her shoes trying to think about where she was placing them. Where was Pa takin’ her?  So fast he was, she could barely keep up to his long strides.  Lizzy watched her feet appear only to disappear again.  Her big toe sticking out of the top of her boot, how lonely that one toe looked.  On very cold days, she would see steam rising out of that hole.  Pa’s strides on the cobblestone made soft clumping noises, barley touching the crowds’ voice.

“We there yet?”

“Keep u girl!”  Pa was in a mood, all worked up about somethin’.  “Here child, yer eyes on yer feet now!” 

Lizzy nearly fell over the steps, trying to follow in his trail.  She didn’t answer, things were better that way.  Pa broke through the top of the crowd and onto the porch of the Cobblestone Horseshoe.  Through the door, Mr. Granger was waiting.

“Michael, tis been too long my friend.”  Mr. Granger took Pa’s hand and gave him a violent pat on the arm.

“Tis been Paul, it ready?”

“Wouldn’t be anythin’ else now would it?”  Pa gave a hearty laugh and followed Mr. Granger up the stairs; Lizzy could smell the acrid smell of sweat from the two men, mixed with the horses waiting to be shoed.  As they ascended, she felt like the grey stones were dank with long ago secrets.  A feeling of foreboding sent shivers up her spine; Lizzy poked her head from behind Pa’s back to peek at Mr. Granger. 

“Ah and Miss Lizzy has come to join in the festivities.”  Mr. Granger tipped his sweat soaked hat towards her.  Lizzy returned a clumsy curtsey.

“How do you do?”  Lizzy asked.

“I am well me fair one,” Mr. Granger looked at Pa and smacked his knee, “she’s turnin’ out fine that girl.  Should draw a good man ‘ith that face.”

“Ah, enough of yer old man flirtin’!”  Pa laughed, “Lets see the place you have saved for yer old friend.”

Lizzy looked about the rooftop, Mr. Granger had gathered many a friend to see the sights of the day.  Three seats were saved closest to the town square, Mr. Granger led them over.

“Would this be suitin’ to yer tastes?”

“Aye t’would be at that.” Pa said grinning from ear to ear.

Lizzy looked out across the town square, it seemed she could see for miles.  The townsfolk seemed to be wee little ones from way up here.  Something was about to happen in the middle of town square perhaps some kind of dance.  A wooden platform had been erected earlier in the day, a wooden table sat in the middle of it.

“Pa what is going on?”

“Lizzy yer ‘bout to learn one of life’s teachin’s.  I ain’t gonna spoil it by tellin’ ya now.”

Had Pa gone mad?  Lizzy watched him and the others on the roof.  Had they all gone mad?  The glint in their eyes shone through any outward emotion, flushed cheeks and rapid breathing, calmed by steins of Ale. 

She went pale, mulling over the new idea that sprang to her mind.  The Witches, that’s what this was about.  Were they gonna burn them some Witches?  Pa, oh no Pa, I don’t want to see no witch burn!  Lizzy looked over the side, searching the platform.  Where was the post?  They tied Witches to posts to burn didn’t they?  That dumb Devon said so, he loved to tease the girls ‘bout the Witch burnin’s.  Damn you pa, don’t want to watch this.  Gonna cover my eyes, that is what I’ll do! 

There was movement below; men climbing the steps up to the platform.  A man in chains was flung forward, his hands bound.  The men wore black masks, only eyes exposed.  The crowd swayed back and forth, calling out for blood, and throwing things at the stranger.  Soon he was covered in muck.

What’s this?  Lizzy sat forward in her chair, maybe no witch burnin’ after all.  Unless it was a man witch, then wouldn’t Devon talk?  Lizzy learnt some new cuss words.  Smiling, she wondered what Devon would do if she called him some of these names.  An evil grin spread as she thought about finding out.

Pa stood up fast, spilling Ale over his oldest daughter.  He didn’t notice, wrapped up in the event.  Lizzy watched as a collective evil penetrated the crowd.  Faces twisted in fury, arms flung in anger, mouths spurting no mercy.  The people transformed into a mass she could no longer recognize, a form she couldn’t fathom. 

She hadn’t noticed the hanging noose on the old oak tree; the crowd had all but swallowed it up.  She noticed now, as the people parted for the quartet.  The rope, swung over one of the lower branches, displayed its yellow braid.  Devon came to mind.  Damn.  They meant to hang him, for all to see, was that it?  That had to be it right?  It will be over in a second.  She fought the urge to bury her face in her sleeve.  Pa wouldn’t like that. 

The men in black fastened the noose around his neck, the crowd chanting as one, yelling “Pull tight!  Pull it tight!”  Lizzy couldn’t believe what she was hearing, she knew these people.  She had grown up with some.  What had possessed them?

She watched the rope as it was pulled taut, lifting him into the air.  The noose tightened around his throat, forcing his neck to stretch.  Lizzy was sure his head was going to give up the fight, and go flying through the misty sky.  Either that or his eyes and tongue would fly out into the crowd, bulging as they were.  How long could a man hang like that?  She knew he would invade her dreams and thoughts for days and nights to come.  Surely the end was close?  She willed his spirit to flee, to be rid of this place, these people who would do such a thing to a man.

Lizzy caught her breath.  What were they doing?  Why would they go and cut the bugger down?  Is he dead already?  Bit quick wasn’t it?  Confusion set in as they hoisted him limp, upon their shoulders and carried him once again to the platform.

She wanted to pull away, knowing horror was coming, but it seemed as though she was rooted; no longer noticing those around her.  She was becoming part of it, hypnotized in the evil that surrounded her.  She could feel the inner beat, the rhythm of what was happening; the rhythm of life and death.  An inner struggle tugged at her.  Silently she watched.

The stranger was strapped with leather thongs to the wooden table, the remains of rotten food clung to his hair.  She could see the fear in his rolling eyes, as he tried to plead with his captors.  They taunted him as he lie there, safe in their black bag masks, part of the pulsing form that had no definition.

Six inch iron spikes were held up for the people to inspect.  A roar of approval sounded as they were driven into the strangers bound hands and feet.  Lizzy could hear the snapping of bones from her perch above the carnage.  His screams sliced her heart with icy talons.  She cried out when she saw life still breathed within him, tears welling in her eyes.  She saw the glint of metal before she heard the collective gasp, the glint of light on the sharp blade tip.  Lizzy felt her stomach betray her as she saw the sword rip through the air and slice off the strangers manhood.  It was tossed with indifference into the horde.  Men in the crowd flinched at such a sight.  Numb, she could no longer conceive such fiendish acts of cruelty. 

Again the blade came up; it was passed to one of the other tormenters.  He displayed the bloodied steel with pride, boasting towards the man, his prize.  She never saw the movement, it was so quick, and she had to think on what had happened.  Her brain caught up, then fought to bury the knowledge.  The sword had entered the mans nether regions, ripping up into his belly, cutting him in half, stopping just short of the ribs.

She stared at the white cord that fell out of his wounds, a giant white worm, swimming in a red sea.  Blood spurted into the air in a high arch, soaking on lookers in the mass.  They danced madly in its color.

Lizzy was thankful his screams were no longer audible, knowing her mind would not have taken another of his pleas of death.  Sweet release denied him, the nature of the game.  Wrenching her eyes from the lunacy below her, she only found the bizarre, grotesque, beings around her drawing energy from the scene below.  Glee danced in their eyes, righteousness sat upon their shoulders, insanity hid behind their thoughts.

As she watched life drain over the wooden platform, she felt a change, a draining of her own.

Damn  you pa.

The Mansion

It was a dark and stormy night when I came upon the monstrosity before me.  To say that the mansion that held my eyes captive was huge, would not be honest or give you a true rendition of what I saw.  It was a surreal, grandiose and grotesque creature.  It rose up out of the ground and almost seemed to laugh with its own audacity. 

I could not be choosey, my body, wracked with spine snapping shivers from the bitter cold wind and horizontal rain, made the decision for me. 

I approached her with caution; it was almost as though she could smell me and the feral fear I carried for her.  Her visage completely dark, save for one window lit in the middle of her core, resembled an un-slumbering Cyclops.  I climbed her marble white steps that led to the entrance of her mouth.  There was no lamp, no bell.  Nor was there a knocker on the tall solid oak doors, only a silver chain with a large ring on the end.  I raised my hand to pull the ring and thought better of it, like a fresh wave of common sense rushing over me with no warmth.  In the end it was the thought of my jaw shattering, or biting off my own tongue because I couldn’t control the effect that the cold was having on my body, that forced my hand.  I yanked down hard on the ring, hoping I would be heard over the din of the storm.

I should not have worried.  The bell that rang out overhead vibrated with a low tone that was powerful and sounded like a moan.  If anyone had been asleep before my arrival, they surely weren't any more.  I waited on the porch in front of the doors for moments, and was about to pull the chain again when the door opened of its own accord and I was granted access.  I couldn’t help but think that the house itself had been thinking on whether to let me in or not.  I scanned the room looking for who had unbarred the door, but no one was in the entrance way with me, save the spiders and their cobwebs. 

A gust of wind pushed at me through the opened door.  I went over and shut it, happy to leave the storm and the sound of the banshee winds outside for a while.  Somewhere in the distance I could hear a banging.  It was muffled and had rhythm, almost sounding mechanical with its regular beat, but then it would seem to stumble and the beat would be broken.  I tried with all my being to search for what in my experience would have made such a sound but nothing sprang to mind.

I walked deeper into the house hoping for some dry clothes upon the way, or perhaps a fireplace with a lit fire to sit by.  I wondered why there had been no one to greet me.  Suddenly a scent came to my nose.  Food.  It smelled like spaghetti sauce or chili.  Strange I thought.  It was past the witching hour, who could be cooking at this time of night?  My stomach didn’t seem to care about the time of night, or what was being concocted; it just wanted something to sustain it.  The promise of food propelled me forward. 

On my way down the long corridors, past the windows and their blinding flashes of lightening I got glimpses of huge paintings on the walls and in rooms.  The furniture looked mostly Victorian, smelled musty, and didn’t hold my interest.  I kept going into the deeper parts of the house. 

I came across a room that was modern, or had recently gone through some renovations.  It was strange because it resembled a kitchen; there were cupboards and drawers, countertops, but no sink.  Everything was done in a pistachio green with black lacquered knobs and pulls.  The doors of the kitchen cabinets were insane with hot pink post-it notes; blue ball-point neat writing was all over the place in lists, creative word combinations, things to remember.  Everything was so neat and organized, but when I pulled open some of the cabinets to see what secrets they held, I found them empty, the drawers too.  So many of the things that were on the counters, such as office supplies and such could have been placed in these and hidden, but whomever worked here had chosen to keep them out in the open.

I continued down through the hallways, turning a corner I found that I had come across what had to be the room that had lit the front core of the house; the one room that had given the house its Cyclops façade.  I could hear music coming from that direction.  It sounded like Mozart.  I peeked my head around the doorway to see into the room without being seen and I almost choked with fright.  It was Mozart, not someone playing Mozart, but actually Mozart.  He was pale, gauzy, and filmy, like the audience that he was playing for.  I could not believe what I was seeing nor could I take my eyes off of what I was seeing; and the music!  It held me captive in another way, as though if I left I would leave a layer of mysefl behind.  I felt a cold draft on my shoulder.

“Are you lost?”

I turned to look at who had spoken and saw that one of the filmy patrons had come over to see why I was intruding.  He had a long pale face and was wearing a powdered wig.  His clothes boasted frills and sported buckles.  He even wore the knee high socks and had buckles on his shoes.  Such fashion would have placed him in high stature in the era he was from.

“I’m sorry.  I just came in from the storm.  I was looking for some warm dry clothes or perhaps a fire to sit by to warm up.”  I said.

“It has been a while since I have felt the horrors of the living.”  He said.  “You can’t interrupt the concert, or he will become a raving loon.  Continue your search down the hallway and I am sure you will find what you seek.”

I nodded my head and left the room before I disturbed anyone.  The last thing I wanted was a roomful of ghosts mad at me for ruining their concert.  Who knows what kind of punishment they would have in store.

The smell of the food was getting stronger, and strangely so was the sound of the banging I had noted earlier.  I was determined to find out the source of both.  I didn’t have long to wait.  I made a left and a right and ran into the kitchen alcove.  A man stood at the stove, his back to me, and he was stirring something in a large pot.  His black hair shone in the light.  He wore a pair of well fitting black jeans and a black cotton button up shirt.   Upon the countertops of the kitchen were all sorts of vegetables and ingredients.  The scent of onions made my eyes burn and my stomach growl.

“Well it is about time you got here.”  He said without turning around. 

“Excuse me?”

“You arrive in the dead of the night ringing the life bell, enter the house and you think we wouldn’t notice?”  He asked.

“Well no, of course not…” I stammered.

“Come here and tell me if this tastes good.”  He beckoned to me with one hand.  I could see the glint of copper on his right hand; a wrist bracelet and ring.

I went closer to him, peeking over the side of the pot to see what was inside.  For some reason I was bracing myself for the worst.  This was a haunted house after all.  Perhaps there was a head in the pot or eyes of newt or maybe even fingers and toes.  What does one serve up to ghosts?  I was equally shocked when all that was revealed was a pot of vegetables simmering.  Carrots, onions, celery, zucchini, broccoli, cauliflower, and tomatoes, it smelled heavenly. 

“It smells good.”  I said, my rumbling stomach agreed.  I looked into his face and was greeted with amazing blue eyes and a dark goatee.  His chiseled features smiled at me. 

“It will taste even better when I add the final ingredient.”  He said with a smile.

A chill ran up my back.  “What would that be?”

He bent over and opened one of the cupboards close to the floor.  There was a big red can that he lifted to the counter.  When he went to the drawer for the can opener I read the label.  100% “Grade A Cow’s” Blood.   He came back and looked at me then looked at the can.  “I am a recovering Human Blood Addict.” He confessed, then grinned widely and I could see his extended fangs. “You could say I am now a Vegetarian or is it Vegan?  I always get ‘em confused.  Anyhow I am proud to say that I have been clean and sober for three years now.” 

“I think you mean Vegetarian, although they might have something to say about the cow’s blood, I don’t think you can eat anything that comes from an animal, not just the meat.  Not that I am complaining, if cow’s blood keeps you sober, I am all for it!”  I said holding up my hands and smiling.  “But could I trouble you for a bowl of the veggies before you put the blood in the stew?  I am not one who favors my meat, or vegetables rare.”

He nodded to me and set the table: two plates, candles, a bottle of red wine and the sound of Mozart’s concert wafting down the hallway.  We got our names out of the way and the informal introductions; all in all it was a perfect beginning to a date with a Vampire.

“Looks like you were prepared for a houseguest.”  I mused.

“Sometimes we get lucky.”  He dished up our plates and poured the wine.  “It is so nice to have someone to eat with.”

I nodded and complimented him on his sautéing skills.  Then I said, “On a bit of a change of subject, there is something that is bothering me.”

“Oh?  What would that be?”  He asked.

“It is that thumping noise I can hear; it was really muffled and faded when I first came into the house, but now it’s getting louder and louder as I get further into the house.  What is it?” 

Vale smiled and poured me another glass of wine.  “You will need nerves of steel to find out what is the source of that sound.  When I first heard it I thought it was the heartbeat of the house itself.  Then I found out the truth, it is something you must experience.  If I told you, you would not believe it.  I will point you in the direction to follow when our dinner is over.”

True to his word, when I had a bellyful of vegetables and had tasted the great wine, he explained the route to follow that would lead to the source of the banging. 

Would this be the last mystery the house held?  One left, past the roman baths, two rights, and down the spiral staircase, then through the dank wine cellar with its earthy floors.  It was as though I had come down into the dark recesses of a living and breathing thing.  It was so warm here compared to the rest of the house.  The banging, getting closer with every step I took, began to vibrate within my chest.  Its irregular knocking sounded like dull thuds sometimes, then almost metallic the next.  I could also hear the intermittent sound of doors opening and closing as I drew nearer. 

Then I came to the final door in the hallway.  I touched the door and felt the curious vibrations coming through the wood.  I could no longer contain my curiosity.  I turned the cold knob in my hand and entered the chamber.  Vale had been right.  Had I not seen it with my own eyes I would not have believed it.  The room was a large laundry room, with high vaulted ceilings and lined with half a dozen washing machines and half a dozen dryers.  The hot humid air was tangible and smelled of laundry soap, and something else I could not identify.  What was unbelievable were the beings going about their work as I watched from the doorway.  Men wrapped from head to toe, in what looked to be gauze bandages were pulling wet white clumps out of the washing machines and throwing them into the drying machines.  They made such a racket when they threw the items in the dryers.  Like the wet white clumps were heavy and dense materials.  Then they put the dryers on and the rhythmic stumbling sound was almost deafening. 

I watched another of these bandaged men take the now dry items from another machine.  What had come out of the washing machines looking like wet globs of papier-mâché, now were hard balls of chalk.  I could now detect, under the scent of the laundry soap, the smell of drywall.  Sure enough when I walked further over to the left, there was a sledge hammer lying upon the floor amongst battered and uneven chunks of the building material. 

“You mustn’t disturb them.”  Vale said from behind me.

I looked at him with knit brows.  “What would happen if I did?”

“It would not be good for you or them.  He would see to it.”  Vale pointed to a barely discernable translucent waif in a velveteen red chair.

“He would be who?” I asked.

“The great, late Alberto Giacometti.”  Vale said and smiled. 

I watched the beings as they clumsily tacked together large quantities of the round chalk balls to an 18 foot wire structure.  It appeared to be a human form but grotesquely represented; a thin head and strange elongated limbs. 

“No! No! You are getting it all wrong, she is too plump.  Can’t you see the beauty is within her slender?  You oafs have nothing of note within your bulbous mockeries of brain sacks!  I would do it myself but alas my punishment is the lack of substantial hands with which to work.”  Alberto flew into a ghost rage; every one in five things went crashing about him, or spilling into a wall, until finally his energy was spent and he looked again about the room.  It was then that he saw Vale and I watching the performance from one side of the room.

“You!”  The artist shouted in our direction.  “Come closer; let me have a look at you.”

The closer he came to me the more I could smell the undercurrent stench of rotten pomegranate, sweet and sickly.  Somehow the smell oozed with redness that his veins no longer enjoyed.  I watched his face inspect mine from three inches away; a most unpleasant and unexpected experience.

“Superb bone structure, the cheek bones are to die for.  Brows are a bit prominent, but are still within workable range.  Lush pouting lips, I can see why you like this one Vale.”

Vale’s whole body tensed beside me and he blushed a deeper shade of grey.  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Ha you have no idea what I am talking about, and I am no longer a tortured artist working with these buffoons!”  He indicated the laundry workroom and his Mummy assistants with a great dramatic swoop of his hands.  “Never mind, she has more substantial things to do then be your arm candy.”  Then he looked me directly in the eye.  “You must sit for me, or stand for me as the case may be.” 

“Me?”  I asked shocked.

“Yes you, over there, and now.”  He demanded.

“You must go and do what he demands; we will all be lost to his rage if you do not.”  Vale looked genuinely fearful of the defunct artist.

I went to the spot pointed out by Alberto and stood while he yelled directions to the bundled forms of dust.  Hours went by, and the passage of time was marked with cramps and the shrill barks of his impassioned insanity.  More here, less there!   Over and over again until I felt myself literally being whittled away down, down, down into a 6 inch impression of his vision of me.  My head was reduced to the thickness of a blade, all the bone structure that had impressed him before, gone without a trace.  My body thin and stick like, I would never escape this house or these men again.  I had become just another victim of a house who was a man eater, falling victim to those past tasty morsels themselves.  I had become part of the freak show, a stick walking shadow.