Posted on Blog Short Story

Life Giver

sandpainting
We are here to create … I do it with words … but we all create … if nothing else, we create our lives each and every day as soon as we get out of bed.
I once had a mystical experience when I was quite young and on the road.
That experience forms my writing … it forms me … I spoke with God … once upon a time …
I swear this is all true. This is an abbreviated version of what happened on that magical, mystical night.
I was hitchin’ from LA to Miami. Along about sundown, a blue pickup truck picked me up on Old Highway 90. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, I was spending the night with a young Apache Indian. His name was Jimmy.
After his grandmother fed me, we walked out into the desert and sat down on a small rise. Jimmy talked of Geronimo, as I listened with my eyes closed.
Then things grew quiet.
It seemed like many minutes from the time Jimmy stopped talking until the time I realized there was no more to come. Actually, it was probably only a few seconds. Once I realized the story of Geronimo was finished, I was hesitant to open my eyes; I did not want to break the spell. Though, eventually, I did open my eyes and looked right into the face of God!
It was the stars! While Jimmy was talking, the sun had traveled to the other side of the world and the stars had come out. Never had I seen anything like it. For three hundred and sixty degrees the stars touched the horizon. No light impeded their brilliance. There were no buildings to block my view of that wondrous sight. There was just as much starlight as there was black sky. I felt as though I could reach out and touch them, they seemed that close. I could see how Ptolemy believed the earth was encapsulated within crystalline spheres. In the dry desert air, the stars did indeed look as though they were made of fine, delicate crystal. I saw the Great Bear, and Polaris—the only star that does not move. Orion seemed as though he could lower his arm and smite me with his club. I was in the midst of searching for other constellations when Jimmy broke my reverie. He said, “It is time.”
As I sat up, Jimmy handed me a wooden bowl; he had one just like it. We each held our bowls with two hands in front of us, about chest high. I was told the potion would help me go within, to commune with the Old Ones. Jimmy said, “It is my hope to speak with Life Giver at times like this, but it has not happened yet. Although I have been trying for many years. I am told by the older men to be patient. That Life Giver will speak to me when I am ready to hear what he says.”
Jimmy reached his bowl towards me, as in a toast. I did the same. Then we drank whatever that concoction was. (Hey, I was young and open to anything.)
He said that we would not speak again until morning. He would continue facing west, and that I should face north. I walked ninety degrees around the rise to Jimmy’s right, sat down, and awaited whatever was to come. It was starting to get a little cool, and I thought it would have been nice if I had had the forethought to bring a jacket. In an effort to keep warm, I brought my knees up to my chest, folded my arms about them, and rested my chin on my knees.
Time started to stretch out. A second felt like a minute. After a while, I noticed I wasn’t cold any longer. I unfolded myself and lay back to look up at the stars. As I said, time was playing tricks on me. I don’t know how long it was before I heard The Voice. At first I thought it was Jimmy, but when I looked in his direction, he was staring off into the western sky, oblivious of me and his surroundings. Then I heard it again. It was in my head.
Aloud I said, “Are you calling me?”
“There is no need to use your vocal cords … think … and I will hear you.”
For some reason, this all seemed perfectly natural. As though I spoke with disembodied entities every day.
My first … or if you want to be technical about it … my second question was, “Who are you?”
I swear this is what I heard:
“I have many names, and have had many other names in the past. I am known to your friend Jimmy as Life Giver. I am known to you and your culture as God. Some refer to me as Jehovah. I am called Allah and Krishna by others. Some call me The Tao, or The Way.”
I don’t know why, but, for some reason, it did not seem strange that I was having a conversation with God.
“If you are who you say you are, why do you speak with me when Jimmy has been trying to speak with you for years?”
“I have been with Jimmy all those years, and more, waiting for him to notice me. I am with my children—all my children—always. I am never not with you.”sandpainting
NOTE: To cut down on the prose, I offer a transcript of my conversation with the entity, which I have come to believe was indeed who It claimed to be: Life Giver. Before you make up your mind, read the transcript in its entirety … then decide.
ME: It just doesn’t seem fair that I’m here speaking with you when it should be Jimmy instead.
LG: Jimmy and I do speak, all the time, but not in this way.
ME: Have you come to teach me some great truth?
LG: You have nothing to learn. None of my children have anything to learn. You only have to remember.
ME: Remember? Remember what?
LG: Who you are, and where you come from.
ME: Now I’m getting confused. Aren’t you God?
LG: We are God. Some refer to me as All That Is, which is more descriptive of the truth. There is only ONE. We are both a part of that ONE. This planet’s first religion was The Law of One. In a time long forgotten, man knew from whence he came. That is what I mean when I said you have only to remember.
ME: So, why can I experience you and Jimmy can’t.?
LG: As I have stated, Jimmy, you, and all of humanity experience me every day.
ME: What I mean is why am I talking to you tonight, and Jimmy is not?
LG: How do you know he is not speaking with me now as you are?
ME: Well, I guess I don’t. I reckon God can carry on more than one conversation at a time.
LG: You reckon?
ME: I didn’t know God had a sense of humor.
LG: I have what you have, you have what I have. We are ONE.
ME: I guess I was pretty lucky when Jimmy picked me up this afternoon, or else I wouldn’t be here speaking with God.
LG: It was no accident that Jimmy offered you a ride and a place to sleep. Jimmy and I arranged it while he slept last night. We spoke in his dreams. Though he has consciously forgotten our talk, he has remembered it subconsciously.
ME: Then why am I here?
LG: Do you mean why are you here tonight, or why are you here on the planet Earth?
ME: Both … I guess.
LG: You, and everyone else extant on the physical plane, are here because you want to be here. You, personally, are here tonight because I have a message for you, and this was the only way to make sure you heard it.
ME: Before you give me the message, may I ask just one more question?
LG: You may ask as many as you wish.
ME: What is the meaning of life?
LG: The meaning of life, the reason you, and all our brethren on this planet and on all the other planets in other star systems, is to choose. Making choices is the reason for life. The choices you make are the way I express myself. When a life is completed, the experiences you bring back to me are a gift. A gift from a loving child who has volunteered to endure the hardships of the physical plane in order that its parent may BE.
ME: What if we make the wrong choices?
LG: You cannot make a wrong choice. Whatever you choose will eventually lead to evolution, and over time evolution creates balance as part of the nature of existence.
ME: Even if we make a choice based on hate?
LG: Remember this: Ultimately, there is only Love. All so-called negative emotions—hate, anger, jealousy, greed, just to a mention a few—stem from fear. The only way to combat fear is Love. Love always wins out over fear.
ME: WOW!
LG: WOW, indeed.
ME: You said you had a message for me?
LG: Yes, you are planning on going home. You, of course, may do anything of your choosing. However, you came to the Earth to teach. Some of those you have agreed to teach will miss their lessons if you go home now.
ME: I thought you said we have nothing to learn, we only have to remember.
LG: The lessons help you to remember. As a song will bring back memories of the time you first heard it, the lessons you, and all teachers, impart, help those involved to remember.
ME: I’m just a kid, how can I teach anyone anything?
LG: First of all, you are as old as I am, we existed before time began. Secondly, you teach by example. Some will learn from you after seeing you for only a moment, others will have learned their lessons after many months with you. As you, in turn, will learn your lessons from others you will encounter.
ME: You say I have a choice?
LG: Of course you do.
ME: Okay, as long as it’s my choice. I don’t like to be pressured, even by God. When will I know when it’s time to go home?
LG: I will tell you.
ME: Sounds like a plan.
LG: Yes, it does. It is almost daybreak. It would be better if you left without disturbing to Jimmy. He is speaking to his inner self.
ME: Well … good-bye.
LG: I am always with you.
I got my carcass up, looked over at Jimmy, and mentally said good-bye. I walked the few hundred yards to his house, picked up my gear, and walked into a new day.
Three years later, I finally made it home.
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Posted on Blog Short Story

Mister Finn

Mister Finn must die this night. Mister Finn has lived far too long. Mister Finn is an abomination.
Mister Finn took my sister. He defiled her. He shall die this night.
I await him in the darkness with knife in hand. I await his warm blood to be let loose, to flow onto me---as a sacrifice. I wait with death in my soul, in my being. With my own hand I shall dispatch Mister Finn to the other side where he shall be judged for his wicked deed, where he will be condemned to hell.
Sweet Death awaits Mister Finn this night.
It is his time to die.
As I slit his throat, as his life bleeds out—I smile. He cannot speak, but his eyes beseech me—beg me—with the question: Why?
I will not give him the satisfaction of an answer. Let him ponder the “why” for all eternity.

Posted on Blog Short Story

A Conversation with a Friend

I was hanging out the other night at the Tiki Hut, minding my own business, when a voice behind me said, “Hey, man. What’s up?”
I should first explain that the Tiki Hut is an edifice at the marina where I live. The denizens of said marina congregate there on occasion to commune with one another. I, on the other hand, avoid it like the plague. It’s not that I don’t like people; it’s just that I don’t like being around people. But that particular evening, I had the place to myself.
I turned around, and standing there was this dude I had never seen before, although he did look somewhat familiar.
“Hello,” I said in response. I was a little perturbed at having my solitude interrupted, but decided not to be rude. “Are you new here?” I asked in a friendly manner.
“Kind of.”
I mentally shrugged. I didn’t care one way or the other. I was just trying to be polite. Well, I had done my part and started to head back to my boat. I had a six-pack of cold beers waiting for me, and I thought it about time I paid it some attention.
“Want a beer?”
It was the dude. He was holding a plastic grocery bag that I had not noticed before. It definitely had the outline of a six-pack. Figuring the guy might be lonely, and thinking I might as well do my Christian duty, I said, “Sure, why not?” I would have a beer and we’d shoot the shit and then I’d get the hell out of there. I reckoned I could put up with him for the time it would take to drink one beer.
He reached into the bag and came out with two bottles of my favorite brew. Things were looking up. He did the honors of popping the caps and we both took a long pull of that cold, good-tasting beverage.
“So,” I said, “you moving in?”
“I’m thinking about it. I wanted to get a feel for the place first. Do you like living here?”
“It’s okay. As long as you pay your rent on time, they leave you alone.”
I’ll not bore you with the rest of the mundane conversation. That first beer led to a second and then a third. I was starting to warm up to the guy by the fourth. Then it dawned on me. We both had had four beers each, but we had started out with only one six-pack. When I mentioned that fact, he said, “No, you must be mistaken. There were two six-packs in the bag.”
Another mental shrug on my part.
As I popped the cap on my fifth beer, he asked me, “So, what do you think of the state the world is in?”
If I had been asked that question on the first or second or even the third beer, I would have bolted. I don’t get into conversations like that. Truth be known, I generally don’t get into conversations at all. I live alone and I like it that way. I don’t have to please anyone and I sure as hell don’t have to answer stupid questions. But … I was on my fifth beer and the guy was buying. So, what the hell?
“It depends on what world you are talking about. My little world is doing just fine. I eat every day. And when it rains, I’m dry. What more could a man ask for?”
He nodded, but said nothing. Fueled by Guinness Stout, I went on.
“Now, if you’re asking about the world in general, I would have to say that, for the majority of the people in it, the place is a shit-hole. Wouldn’t you say so?”
“I would say that the vast majority of the people on this planet are living the lives they want to live.”
Now the guy was pissing me off. Being of Irish descent and having four and a half Guinnesses in me got me up on my soap box.
“Do you believe in God?” I asked with a drunken sneer.
“I have heard of Him, but I don’t know if I believe in Him.”
“Well, if God is real, how can he let the suffering go on? How can he allow a baby to get cancer? How can the son-of-a-bitch let the world get into the mess that it is in today?”
“Good questions, my friend. Very good questions.”
“Don’t patronize me, and hand me another one of those goddamn beers.”
I was in rare form.
When I had been placated with my sixth beer (but who was counting?), my new-found friend went on.
“Many people feel as you do. They use the same argument. ‘If there is a God, how can He allow the suffering?’ I think the answer is that there is no God. There is only the Oneness. There is only us. Perhaps we are God. And if we are God, how could we allow ourselves to suffer?”
That was it for me. Free beer or not, I was out of there. The guy was crazy. But first I would finish my beer … just to be polite.
Then he went on.
“It’s a shame that we don’t believe in reincarnation, because that would explain many things. If reincarnation was for real, that would mean souls exist before birth. It might even mean that we choose our lives. That life is not a crap shoot.”
About then, I was thinking, You’re a crap shoot, buddy!
“Do you know that physicists have proven, mathematically at least, that there is no such thing as time, and that we are living in a hologram? And if that is so, then what does anything matter? Look at it this way. We live in a dimension known as space-time. You cannot have one without the other. You cannot have time without space and you cannot have space without time. Right?”
“If you say so. How about another beer?” We were now into the third six-pack that wasn’t there. But what the hell?
“Think of it this way. Space-time is a manifestation only of the physical plane. Off the physical plane, there is no space-time by definition. Correct?”
“Please stop asking me to confirm what you are saying. I’ll admit it makes sense … so far. So, I’ll sit here and listen to you as long as that magic bag keeps popping out Guinnesses.”
“Okay. Now visualize this. If you were to look into a dimension of time-space from a dimension of non-time-space, meaning a non-physical universe, what would you see?”
“Your momma!”
He smiled at me with such forbearance that I felt ashamed at having made such a flippant remark. I sobered up instantly. “I’m sorry I said that. Please go on.”
“I take no offense and I assure you, my ‘momma’ takes no offense.”
I pushed my half-finished beer aside and waited. He didn’t seem drunk, yet he had had as many beers as I had. He took another deep swallow of his Guinness and continued.
“What you would see is all time happening at once. That is what you would see. Now, here’s my point. If all time happens at once and we are living in a hologram—a false reality if you will—and if we exist before we are physically conceived, and if we know the lives we are going to live, and if there is no time, which means the duration of our lives are as one-millionth of the time it takes to blink an eye ... then how are we harmed?”
A good question to which I had no answer. But I had to ask, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’ve been known by many names over many lives. My time on the space-time plane is over. I come to visit once in a while because that’s what I do. I am a teacher. Sometimes to the multitudes, sometimes to just one lonely man thinking of drinking a beer by himself. In my last incarnation, I was known as Jesus Bar Joseph, or Jesus, Son of Joseph. In parting, let me say this. There is no God. There is only the Oneness and we are all fragments of that Oneness, playing out our existence. Working our way back to the Oneness where we will be reunited. There is no hell and there is no heaven. There is no loss, there is only us. Peace be with you, my friend.”
Then he glowed with such intensity that I had to cover my eyes. The brilliance was filled with LOVE. I have never felt such love. I have never been so loved. It was all I could do to not break down and cry right there on the spot.
Then he was gone.
Now I sit here pondering his words. If we are all ONE, then hiding from my neighbors might not be such a smart thing. I think I’ll invite that nice young couple who live a few boats over for a Sunday brunch. If I can make it through that, perhaps I’ll visit the Tiki Hut a little more often.
You never know who you might meet there.

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No Earthly Good

At dinnertime we talked about Charlie. He was somethin’ else. People always said that he was of no earthly good, but Charlie showed us all.
Daddy shook his head, and as he cut his meat, he said, “You believe that about Charlie?”
No one answered. Sister started to cry.
I grew up with Charlie. He was the first boy that I ever did kiss. Him, brother, and I would go swimming down to the swimming hole in the summertime. I think sister was sweet on him, but she never said nothing ’bout it ’cause momma always said Charlie was a bad sort.
Charlie’s people came from back up in the hills. He never wore store-bought clothes and his hair was always a mite too long. But his smile . . . his smile . . . would brighten anyone’s day.
Charlie died today.
He was down to the highway, walking along the side. As he passed the Gentry house, the baby came out of the yard and walked onto the highway just as the car came out of nowhere. It was moving fast. Charlie only had time to jump in front of it and push the baby to safety.
Sister still cries.
Now no one says that Charlie was of no earthly good.

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Why?

Why do we all live in fear? And don’t deny it … there is fear in all our lives.
Why do we hoard? Fear, that’s why. We’ve all seen those people on the hoarder shows. They’re so funny and pitiful. We enjoy laughing at them. But not so fast, my dear friends. Do you own a storage shed? Do you rent a unit at a storage facility? Is your attic filled with worthless stuff that you’re never gonna use?
Why do we hold on to all that crap? Fear, that’s why. We are afraid that there is just not enough. And by keeping what is essentially trash, we can live in the contented bliss of having just a little more than our neighbors. Having something material and finite, when something intangible, such as love, would enhance our lives in so many different and wonderful ways.
Why do we give money to an over-bloated military machine when that money could go to feed the hungry? Fear, that’s why. But what is there to fear? The U.S. military is the mightiest in the history of the world. We spend more treasure on defense then Russia, China, England, Germany, France, and all the countries of South America combined. And still it’s not enough?
Why do we elect demagogues who promise to protect us by hurting others that are not like us? Fear, that’s why. We all profess to be loving individuals. But not so much when it comes to our fears.
Why do we walk by a homeless person begging for a few coins? Fear, that’s why. God forbid that our hands might touch as we hand over a quarter. He might have a disease. Or perhaps we judge him for his addiction. We are so much better than that wretch, and any contact with that miserable excuse for a human being will assuredly diminish us. May he rot in hell for his transgressions!
Why do we shun any discussion of death? Fear, that’s why. We all fear death. But why? We are righteous people. Assuredly, we are all going to Heaven. We all want to go to Heaven, but not right away, if you don’t mind. Could it be that there is something … a very little something … within our consciousness, within our souls, that tells us we might not be as righteous as we think we are?
Why do I write drivel such as this? Fear, that’s why. Fear I might sober up and have to confront my own fears.

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Michael

Michael was my friend. Michael died saving my life.
Michael row the boat ashore ... sister help to trim the sails … the River Jordan is chilly and cold … chills the body but not the soul … the river is deep and the river is wide … milk and honey on the other side …
I can only hope that Michael has found his milk and honey.
This is the story of Michael.
Michael and I grew up together. We went through grade school together. Then on to high school, where together we stayed. Neither of us wanted to pursue a “higher” education, so we decided to travel to broaden ourselves, as the terminology was in those days. At that time, we thought good would always win out over evil. But we were yet to be taught our lessons of the real world. Evil does sometimes triumph over good.
Michael James was six feet tall. He had straight blond hair and blue eyes. The bluest eyes I ever did see. If limpid means clear, as I think it does, then Michael’s eyes were limpid pools of blue. The color was that of the sky, perhaps a little lighter, with flecks of yellow throughout the irises. Upon meeting Michael for the first time, one was taken aback by his eyes. They did not bore into your soul—they lit up your life. Then there was his smile. I had known Michael for many years and I don’t think I ever saw him without that shit-eatin’ grin on his puss. That grin, and its persistence, was amazing, given the fact that Michael suffered from a skin problem. He had large red patches on his skin, including his face. They came and went. I thought the name of the disease was psoriasis, but of that I am not certain.
Michael had no mother. She died when he was quite young … before I knew him. He had no siblings; he was reared by his father, which is probably the reason I am alive today. By that, I mean he was raised to be a man. He was taught “The Code” of real men, which is: You do what you have to do.

Michael row the boat ashore …

Though we both had the travel bug, my case was more pronounced than his. During the summer between our junior and senior years of high school, I took off and bounced around the country while Michael held down the fort, so to speak. When I returned to finish my last year of school (at that time I still bought into the myth that you needed at least a high school education to survive in the world), I regaled Michael with tales of my adventures.
Well, after hearing what a wonderful world awaited us out there, Michael could not wait to hit the road. He wanted to leave immediately, but seeing as how I had just come in from a three-month run, I prevailed upon him to wait a few months and allow me to at least try to get my diploma. He said he would wait, but he did not … or he could not. Within six weeks of my return, Michael was on the road.

the River Jordan is chilly and cold …

Michael was hip, and the only place for a hip guy to migrate in 1968 was San Francisco. And that was the end of Michael’s roaming. He fell in love with the city. I endured my senior year as long as I could, but two weeks short of graduation I said, “The hell with it!”, stuck out my thumb and headed for San Francisco to rendezvous with my friend.
When I arrived, I didn’t know where Michael was living; however, I knew if I hung out on Haight Street long enough, I’d see him. It took less than two hours.
This will tell you something about my friend Michael: He always had a place to live out there, and never paid rent. People were always asking him home, and once there, he just moved in. They were always glad to have him. And when I would hit town, he’d take me to wherever he was living and tell me to make myself at home. The person who actually owned the domicile never looked askance when he brought me through the door. They all loved Michael, and any friend of Michael’s …

it chills the body, but not the soul …

For the most part, Michael stayed in San Francisco. I, however, could not stay in one town for more than a few days. I was like a pinball, rebounding from coast to coast, and from Canada to Mexico. While on the road, I was alive. While on the road, I interacted with humanity and had to live by my wits. I loved being on the road. Because of Michael’s reluctance to leave San Francisco, I had two homes, one on each coast. My mother’s in Miami, and wherever the hell Michael was staying at any given moment in San Francisco.
On one of my forays to San Francisco, I was introduced to Linda, the love of Michael’s life—his soul mate. They had met at a Clint Eastwood marathon. A movie house was playing the three Sergio Leone films. You know, A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly … non-stop, twenty-four hours a day. Michael had a bag of Red Acid, and in 1969, what girl wouldn’t swoon toward a man who was into Clint Eastwood and had a bag of LSD? It was love at first sight.

sister help to trim the sails …

Now that Michael had himself a woman, he got his own digs. Every time I hit town they were living in a new place. It wasn’t always easy to find them, but somehow we would always meet up on Haight Street. I stayed with them on Geary in the Tenderloin. We stayed south of Market in the low rent district, we stayed across from Golden Gate Park, and at the end, we were again in the Haight-Asbury district.
One thing I must tell you about Michael so you can get a sense of the man. And yes, he was a man; though we were the same age, he was a man, while I was just a kid. I think Michael knew he did not have much time in this world. He could not wait for anything. Back then, we were doing acid all the time. Normally, you would swallow a pill and wait for it to take effect. But not Michael. The twenty minutes or so that it took was just too long for him. He had to shoot the acid into his vein to get off instantaneously. Of course, Linda and I would have to follow suit or there would be no peace. And in those days, I just did not have it in me to stick myself with a needle. Michael did the honors.

the river is deep and the river is wide …

The last time I came into San Francisco and saw Michael and Linda was in 1970, it was July. They were living in the Haight. It was a crummy neighborhood; the Summer of Love was three years gone by then. All the shops on Haight Street were boarded up with sheets of plywood, and the denizens of the street were the leftovers from that long-ago summer.
True to form, it was not his own apartment Michael took me to; he and Linda were living with a guy named Bobby. Bobby was a likable enough fellow. He just didn’t know bad men when he met them. Bobby had set up a “drug” deal to buy two pounds of marijuana. Nowadays it seems ridiculous to term buying two pounds of pot a drug deal, but in those days that was heavy shit.
It was my first night in town and we were sitting in Bobby’s pad smoking a joint when Michael told me he was going to be a father. I looked over at Linda; she was radiant, and she was also blushing. I was just about to say something appropriate when the door crashed open, and two guys burst through the entrance. They were the assholes that Bobby was supposed to buy the pot from.

Michael row the boat ashore …

Only one of them had a gun, but that was enough for us. When told to lie on the floor, we did so without protest. One of them said to Bobby, “Where’s the cash?”
Bobby answered, “In my pocket.” The guy covering us with the gun told the other guy to get the money. Bobby, trying to be helpful, reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. Then it seemed like a lot of money, but now, as I look back on that night, it couldn’t have been more than $500.00.
As soon as the money was in the asshole’s hand, the other one with the gun walked over to Bobby, placed the gun to the back of his head, and killed him. Upon hearing the shot, Michael and I looked at each other and knew that we were next.

the river is deep and the river is wide …

Before I could think of anything to do, Michael bounded to his feet and rushed the guy with the gun. When I saw Michael go into action, it released me from my paralysis, but not soon enough to help Michael. He took a bullet to the chest. While Michael was being shot, I picked up a lamp from a table and smashed it over the gunman’s head while his partner stood frozen in place.

it chills the body, but not the soul …

The man with the gun went down hard and the gun fell from his hand. All this went down fast; in a blur, I did not have time to think. I picked up the gun from the floor while the other guy still stood frozen. Obviously they were not professionals, though, at the moment, that did not enter into my thinking. I aimed the gun at the one standing and shot him dead with two shots. Then I turned to the one on the floor. He was moving and about to get up when I put a bullet into his head.

sister help to trim the sails …

By the time the second one fell to the floor, Linda was bent over Michael. I dropped the gun and went to them. He looked at her and smiled, then he looked at me and said, “Get her out of here.” We both, Linda and I, said at the same time, “No!” Then Michael died.

Michael row the boat ashore …

It took me a full minute, which at the time felt like an eternity, to make a decision. I grabbed Linda by the arms and pulled her into a standing position. She was numb. I told her we had to get out of there; that this was a drug deal gone bad, and there were dead bodies—four of them! I told her prison was no place to have a baby, and Michael knew that. That is why he wanted her out of there.

if you get there before I do …

I told Linda to collect everything of hers and Michael’s that could identify them. I had the presence of mind to wipe the gun clean, but not to pick up the cash lying on the floor. Linda could have used it; she had a baby on the way. I took Michael’s wallet. He had never been arrested so I knew they couldn’t identify him by his fingerprints. After I had Michael’s wallet, and while Linda went about collecting her things, I took the time to vomit all over Bobby’s carpet. It was, after all, the first time I had killed. We left Michael and never looked back. Though it wasn’t actually Michael we left, only the body that housed that wonderful, brave man.

tell all my friends I’m coming too …

Linda’s folks lived in New Jersey, so I hitchhiked with her to the East Coast. She was in a state of shock, and because Michael’s last words, though not implicit, were to look after her, that is what I did. After getting her to her parents, I stayed in the Northeast for the next seven months. I kept moving, but would drop in to see her every few weeks. Seven months later, when the baby was born, I was there. I was there for my friend Michael. It was a boy and I was asked to be his godfather.

milk and honey on the other side …

Once Linda had the child, and I knew she was in the good hands of her parents, I said good-bye. And while still on the road, I dropped in to see Linda and my godson every few months.
There are three human beings extant on this earth because of my friend Michael James … I am one of them.

Michael row the boat ashore . . . Hallelujah!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRv-fgfLFTk

Posted on Blog

Night Moves

They are always with me. At times they appear out of the ethereal mist, and other times they speak directly to my mind. I wish they would leave me to myself … but that they will not do. No, first I must do their bidding.
They come in the night and stay until the black sky fades to gray. When the stars have left the sky and the clouds to the east turn pink, I am allowed my rest. But I ask you, what respite can a murderer have? At their behest, I have killed again this night. And I will continue to kill until they go back from whence they came.
I remember the first time they came to me. It was a little over a year ago, and since then I have killed twenty-nine people. Please do not think me insane. I assure you these beings are real and not immanent. At first, I, too, thought myself demented and delusional when they stood before me, telling me they came to save the human race, and to accomplish their mission, certain people must die. They explained that the demise of the race was not impending, but if action was not taken, and taken soon, it would be too late to set things on a course to ensure the continuance of mankind.
You are probably wondering, if you do not think me crazed, why they cannot do their own dirty work. That is a very good question and one I have asked of them. They, of course, are not of our time and space. They appear—when they appear—as diaphanous specters; they cannot manipulate physical matter. Thus, I have become their instrument here on earth. Where or when they are from, I do not know. And why, out of all the billions on this planet, I was chosen, I know not. But it has been a long night and I must sleep. I will continue this at a later date, and continue it I shall, for I want there to be a record of my actions and the reasons for them.
I am back. It has been two days since my last entry in this journal, and tonight they had me kill again. That makes thirty people—thirty innocent people … men, women, and children—I have dispatched from this world. Yes … I am sorry to say they have had me kill children. However, I was told that after tonight there would be no more need of my services. The human race was safe for the foreseeable future.
I refer to my tormentors as they or them because I do not know what they call themselves. Their form is vaguely human … two arms, two legs, and a head of sorts atop a torso, but their gossamer appearance precludes calling them human.
Tonight’s victim was a man in Moscow. I was directed to him and given his name. I then set about their business. I was told that his son, yet unborn, would one day invent something that would cause the death of billions. Being told the purpose for this particular death was a departure from the norm. I had never been given rhyme nor reason for any of the others. The man’s name and the names of the other twenty-nine, including where and when they died, are in the addendum attached to this missive. I remember every one of my quarry.
I guess I should have mentioned this earlier, but my victims were scattered around the world. I do not know how they did it, but one minute I was in my room behind a locked door, and the next minute I was standing in a foreign locale with the name of that night’s victim swirling through my brain. Then into my mind came the place I could find him or her in the city, town, or hamlet.
Now, the thirty-first person will die. They, at last, have left me to myself. I am now free to end this the only way it can be ended—with my death. I’ve been saving and hiding my medication for quite a while now; there is enough to kill me three times over. May God have mercy on my soul.
I affix my hand to this document this 3rd day of June in the year of our Lord 2019.
Signed,
Francis Fitzgerald

• • • •

When Dr. Allen had finished reading the above, he turned to Dr. Harris and said, “Interesting, but why have you brought it to me? We both know that the man was a certified, delusional schizophrenic. How long have we had him here at our institution?”
Dr. Harris hesitantly answered, “He’s been here at Oakwood twelve years, sir.”
“Well, there you have it. It’s too bad he took his own life; it doesn’t help our reputation any, but these things happen.”
“Yes, sir. However, there is something I think you ought to know.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of investigating a few of the names on Fitzgerald’s list. It’s taken me three weeks, but I’ve verified eleven of the deaths and their time and place. They all correspond with what Fitzgerald has written.”
Dr. Allen straightened in his seat, glanced at the papers in his hand, then looking Dr. Harris in the eye, forcefully said, “Preposterous! If there is any correlation, he read of the deaths in the newspaper or heard of them on the television.”
“Excuse me, sir, but Fitzgerald had no access to newspapers. He was denied them because they would agitate him to no end. And the only television he had access to was in the day room where the set is perpetually tuned to a movie channel.”
“That still does not give credence to this fairytale,” said Dr. Allen, waving the Fitzgerald papers in Dr. Harris’ direction.
“No, sir, it does not. However, there is one more thing I think I should make you aware of. My sister is married to a Russian physicist, speaks fluent Russian, and lives in Moscow. I called her about the last name on Fitzgerald’s list. She made a few calls for me and it turns out that Fitzgerald was dead before the body of the man he mentions was discovered. And just one more thing, sir. The man’s wallet was found in Fitzgerald’s room. I have it if you’d like to see it.”
Turning a color red that is not in the regular spectrum, Dr. Allen shouted, “NO! I DO NOT WANT TO SEE THE DAMN WALLET!” Handing the Fitzgerald papers to Dr. Harris and with ice in his voice, he said, “Burn these, burn them now. And if you value your position here at Oakwood, you will never speak of this matter again … to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
Dr. Harris accepted the papers with a meek, “Yes, sir,” and walked out of the room. When he was in the hall and by himself, he muttered, “I’ll be goddamned … the old bastard is afraid.”
But Dr. Harris did not burn the papers. He placed them, along with the wallet, in his desk drawer and locked it. He had some thinking to do. As he started on his rounds, a quote of Shakespeare’s kept repeating itself in his head. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”