35 años. Feel free to comment on my work for improvement sake. Writing is a profession where feedback is required. Why else would Ernest Hemingway talk with his stories with the likes of Gertrude Stein and Scott Fitzgerald?
35 años. Feel free to comment on my work for improvement sake. Writing is a profession where feedback is required. Why else would Ernest Hemingway talk with his stories with the likes of Gertrude Stein and Scott Fitzgerald?
The worst part about exorcism is you never know if the victim is dead or alive.
Frances, formly known as Father Frances, never spoke in front of a congregation. He never studied to help others find their way to the good Lord and Savior.
His real skills were never needed. Void of value. Seen as a public nuisance, even by his own institution, which was why he was bussing tables when he saw the note.
“Meet us outside. The van marked Saint Joseph’s.”
He actually skipped the invite. He went home that evening, fed his dog, Grace, and went to sleep.
It was when he woke that he found the secondhand sheets of his bed stripped. Actually, he was still wrapped in his blanket when looked up to see two men he knew too well. Black robes. White collars and both carrying old King’s James versions Bibles. Charles wore glasses. Hawthorne was blessed with 20-20 vision.
He got off the mattress. “Morning, Fathers.” He walked right past them, taking a deep breath, and looking down to realize his underwear was neither tight nor white. He grew boney from a bad diet. “You’ll have to excuse me. You weren’t invited.” He looked across his one room apartment at Grace. “I can’t believe you let them in.” The old hound whined.
“Frances, why didn’t you respond?” Charles always had a horrid way with words.
“Well, golly gee, Father Charles. My mommy always told me to be careful of Catholic Preists.” Frances felt his face. Man, did he need a shave. “Either of you carry a razor? Mine’s pretty blunt.”
“Jokes aside, can you take us seriously for a second?” Hawthorne was a thorn in Frances’ side.
“I don’t know, boys. THAT might be little too difficult.” He turned around and started working on a coffee pot. And in went the last bit of grounds. He poured water out a jug he reused too many times. He refilled it at the diner everyday before he came home. Turning around, he said, “If you old bible thumpers could be bothered to help feed the poor, I’m hungry.” He took out a box of off brand Frosted Flakes and started eating them like chips.
“There’s a possession in the area,” said Charles. “We need your assistance.”
“No, you need my expertise. And I think I’ve done my peace.” The Frosted Flakes were stale.
Charles started. “There’s got to be something that we can do—“
Hawthorne cut him off. “If you aren’t interested, we will deal with it by ourselves.”
“Money? Anyone? I’m a bit hungry. And no. There isn’t much.”
Charles pulled Hawthorne’s arm and whispered to him, “We have no idea what we’re doing!”
Frances turned to the remaining dog food. For all things he actually cared about, he hated himself, but his dog was a different story. The dog food was near empty and he was surviving the next week off his change collection. “On second thought, you guys buy me three 50 pound bags of dog kibble, a bucket, and I’m in.” He turned to the priests. “And maybe, a change of clothes. Anything I wear is liable to get destroyed. Or not. Any idea what it is?”
Hawthorne started, “We didn’t say yes—“
Then, Charles cut him off. “But I think the terms are fair.” He signed a couple fingers and mouthed the phrase CUT IT OFF.
The victim in question was being held in a house next to an old convent.
When Frances asked, he was told that, at first, the man had been held in a psychiatric facility.
After various attempts of helping him, they found him attached to the ceiling.
Outside where he was being held looked and smelled like portraits on the wall. Old and painted by some artist who liked the ceiling in the Sistine chapel a little too much. There was a door below the portion where Adam reached for God.
“He’s in there,” said Charles. “What’s the bucket for?”
Frances held the bucket, filled to the brim with water. “Give me a second.” He pulled out an old journal and opened it to a page of hand written notes marked by a yellow sticky note. He knelt before the water, prayed, and then said, “With faith and courage, your will be done.” He turned to face Charles. “Do you know why I hate this? This man’s body is about to be destroyed. His soul may live, but I’m going to torture his flesh. No matter what, he’ll have scars.” He left Charles standing there to head in.
He stepped inside the door holding the bucket and closed it behind him. The man was strapped to a chair in there. He seemed asleep.
“Hello. I’ll be your priest today. My name is Frances Morgan. And you are?”
The man’s eyes opened. “You couldn’t handle my name, inbred.” His arms struggled against the ropes. “Any chance you’ll let me free of these?”
“Are you possessed?”
“No. Just mentally ill. They stopped giving me my medicine.”
Frances put his hand in the water. His robe’s wrist soaked in enough to drip. He walk over and flicked his wrist to spray the man with droplets.
As the drops hit him, a scream of pain erupted from the man. “I’ll eat your HEART!”
“Liar.“
“What do you expect?” He started straining against the ropes, rubbing the man’s skin raw in places it looked like he already harmed.
“Like I said, I’ll be your preist today. I bless this body as God blessed the stars of the sky.” He started repeating the last sentence over and over, splashing water on the body sparingly. Every time he did, the man screamed as though he was being beat.
He repeated and cast water drops on him for an hour before stopped. The bucket still held most of it. No luck.
Crap. It might kill him.
“Have you ever asked if you’re working for the right side, priest?” said the man. “My master is a great being. He’ll reward you if you let me out.”
“Side? Let’s just say I don’t like sides. I’m pretty sure we’re all here together and need to work it out.” Frances picked up the bucket and moved closer. “This one is going to take a good old John treatment.”
“If you haven’t heard of his greatness, let me assure you, his most hellishly damned will beat you within an inch of your life if you come a step closer.”
Frances again chanted the words, dipping the man’s hand in holy water. He watched as the skin began to burn as though he lit a match, then said, “Bless him, father, this soul lost to the lakes of hell.” He turned back and began repeating the chant again.
The man screamed in sounds that sounded like the crying of thousands of squealing pigs. His hand nearly seared due to the holy water, he tried to put himself together. His lips chattered as he said, “My lord will avenge me. All ills inflicted to my soul, he will pay back tenfold. He will give you death, and you will love him for it.”
The father stopped chanting. He raised the bucket above the man’s head. He stared at the poor man, possessed and burnt beyond compare. “I’m sorry.” He flipped the bucket, drenching the body in the holy water. He smelled the frying of human flesh. Knowing better, he didn’t want to think what it smelled like. Taking a step back, he saw the skin rash and crack as the man screamed until the body passed out.
A white smoke erupted in a continous stream from the man’s ears, mouth, lesions, and nose. The room seemed to quake as the smoke found its way into a vent on the floor.
Frances came close, put his fingers below the man’s jaw, and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Nothing. Then, one started in a slow rhythm of beats. He knelt to the ground and cried for a moment before turning to leave.
Alive. He had saved him.
Back outside the room, he saw Charles. He looked up to him from a seat, holding the Bible from earlier.
“I did what I could. He might wake in a few hours. I recommend medical care, now.”
Charles ran to a phone to call 911.
Back home, he stacked the dog food in the pantry where Grace couldn’t break in for a buffet. He thought about the encounter. That was a little different than normal. He felt something was on its way, but didn’t know what. Not his problem.
A few weeks later, he received a letter asking for help. “Meet us at Saint Joseph’s cathedral if you want to discuss terms.” He didn’t even want to think about it.
On the other hand, if they paid him a little bit, at least he could buy more dog food. A small monthly stipend might be acceptable.
Life as the Dominus only fit a select few. Krane was the Dominus of Faraway Lane. The days were filled with the rights of his title, as the only male to many women, but at what cost?
The only way to become one was to survive the Dome. It didn’t matter how much wine or satisfaction he received. Nothing relieved his nightmares. Some days were better than others.
He often stood at the end of the lane, staring off into the yards, flowerbeds, and gardens of the women who worked his street. A few little girls found fun passing a dodgeball back and forth. Apple trees were in season. The day was bright and green with an over abundance of white houses and picket fences.
Lady Charlotte, the eldest of the street, would often try to help him past bad days as they came. It was seen as the common good to aid the Dominus, unless they find themselves with one of the failures. She lived at the end of the lane.
“What is on your mind, dear Dominus?” said the Lady Charlotte.
“I’m remembering Gary.”
“And what did we talk about last time, dear?”
“The illusion of control. But I was there. I could have relented.”
The Lady shook her head. “You can only control you. He knew what he was getting into, the same as you. A man has few options in this day and age. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just don’t put thought into it. You deserved to live as well.”
Krane knew she was right. He wanted to forget it all, but it would haunt him when he least expected it. “I think I’m going to take a walk to help clear my head.”
The Lady bid him his day as he strolled up the lane. A few of the women whistled at him as he walked up the street. He hated when they did that.
When he walked half the street, he turned to Lady Nora. The young lady wore a white summer dress, red lipstick, and her hair done up in a bun. Her daisies seemed to come along nicely. She whistled at him all the same.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds. “You call me?”
She beckoned him with her index finger as she headed for the front door of her residence. Krane followed, and the rest of the street watched as they headed in.
Not a word was said. The ladies kept gardening as normal. The little girls kept playing ball. Nothing changed.
When the Earth’s ground met the realm of space, the planet split between a frozen land and pool of heat, with a path between holding the last plant life. The cities once filled with men and women who built the last standing structures fell to crumbled ruins. Statues that kept the faces of man survived as the last standing likeness of humanity.
Among the wreckage, the spirit wondered above the ground. It searched in the heat and the cold. It passed the zones where the last life remained in the forms of mushrooms and moss. Passing a toadstool as big as a whale, he stopped to ask of it, “Has the soul of man ceased?”
The toadstool called back, “Men have not been for some time. They only live on as a cautionary tale of the ill fated told to our young.”
Upon hearing this, the spirit turned to space. “The soul of man no longer endures. It was a ride, friends, but I will not walk this earth without you.” The spirit aimed into the unknown to all but itself. Shooting as a light beam, it fired off into the boundless space filled with stars, planets, and life yet to be born.
The cost I pay to keep the picture right, to play the colors back and forth in mind, to never forget smiles of those who passed on from this place, with their greetings, and how they would show care without effort.
They always did the right thing by nature like gardens carefully trimmed to keep trees and bushes growing blueberries and apples.
The fruits of their labor as jewels atop their invisible crowns, a sign of their nobility.
what happened here? what happened near is not to be spoken of. words cannot show the wallpaperlike flowers in a field of tall grass or the waves of wind that ebb the seawater green.
yet, you know what people do when no one is looking. so many things happened here. some, I don’t even know.
I sit to play the game we know too well, Waiting— Waiting— My mind screaming like a teapot boiling.
Again, I find myself staring out, My voice to crawl out of the pit And if I hear me, I’m happy, Yet my ears hear nothing here.
Static— static—endless loops And those words said by a girl last week That sit in my head like a brick wall Blocking out other thoughts
So I keep Throwing— Throwing— Things to see what sticks
Taking a measure of me
An old lady down the street used to take care of me when I was young. My parents used to tell me about how dangerous it was to leave me alone, but I always thought it odd. The lady, Mrs. Berry, always brought butterscotch candies, which is usual for those of her age, and I enjoyed her company.
Her family, opposite of my own, always seemed odder still, and though I never like to judge too much, her son was an odd duck. A mortician by trade. A bit older than myself, and he seemed of a mean temper, but she always defended him saying he’d never hurt anyone. I put up with him until his mother passed.
Her body was supposedly incinerated, but something about it always seemed odd. I let the feeling pass and went on.
I stayed home as my family always told me I was sick. They said I needed the assistance of others. They said I saw things. I saw nothing but what was before my eyes. The streetlight at the turn by our house always bothered me though they never seemed to bother anyone else. The lights blinked out of time. My father told me I imagined it, but no. It was clearly a message in timing. I wrote the message in morse code.
It read: hidden hidden blood hidden bone bark bite. I told my mother. She told my doctors. That’s when they upped my medications.
And my parents always worried for me despite my age. They said that I had a way about me. That I’d get myself hurt. I told them nothing could hurt me. Dinners were tense, especially around the holidays. I took to walks after dinner, one of the few times they let me out of their sight. And one particular night, the streets lay damp with darkness and covered in snow.
Passing Mrs. Berry’s house, I stopped to stare and remember the old lady. And that’s when a beast set upon me. A big gray dog with the body of a quarterback and face of a hound, it’s canine jaw jagged with curved daggers. It lunged. I back into the street, dodging the beast, my feet nearly slipping upon ice.
“Trunk doesn’t like strangers.” I saw Mrs. Berry’s son. “He doesn’t know you.”
“Call off your dog,” I said.
He whistled to call it back. “My mother’s dead, and I never liked you much. Stay away. Next time I won’t call him off.”
Going home, I remembered the light, and went to watch it again. This time, the Morse spelt: murder murder grind grind chomp.
And I felt the need to do something dangerous. Nothing chomps and grinds on bones but a dog. And dogs like nothing as much as meat. My parents sat in the living room, watching The creature of the Black Lagoon. I took bacon from the fridge. Outside, the tool shed held a crowbar. And I realized that I had the motive and means to see if I was right. I waited until 2 AM, then made my way to Mrs. Berry’s old house.
As my crowbar made shards of glass fly to the carpet as I cleared a window near the front door, I cleared a path to pass my body. The glass cracked underneath my boots. That’s when I heard the beast awaken, a horrid lurching behind it, as if the floor boards shrieked at his steps. The evil stood before me with his shotgun, cloaked by the shadows of night. “You’re in the wrong house.”
“Wrong indeed.” I threw the crowbar. It found a path to his head. He fell, and as he did, the gun fired into the nearby wall. His head bled out a red pool.
The dog growled as though hell commanded him, but then turned to his master. He began licking the blood. My God, what the hell!?
I rushed through the house, the dog at his master’s body—my mind telling me to search for another oddity, with no place more off than the bedroom. A gloomy mess of old newspapers amd coffee stains upon the bed. His wall poorly plastered. With the impulse still in my heart, I took my fist and beat the plastered wall. I beat the walls until my knuckles tore to bleed, and when the plaster started to come, I pulled chunks off the wall, one after another. The lady, Mrs. Berry—her body deceased from mangled tears—missing limbs in the wall frame.
I turned to puke, and as I did, I heard the clicking of a hand gun and a voice.
“Kneel and put your hands on your head.”
My head came and I took a breath. “I will, but first, know I claim his death, but not her’s.”
I tried to be him. I learned to punch a speed bag. Lifted weights, jumped rope, and threw good punches, but it seems the closer I get to my idea of him, the further I’ve lost me. I’m buried somewhere behind his Archie comics and mountain of grandchildren who beat me to him. He loved us all, but only found time in the order of our own lives.
I blame my parents for that, but I often wonder if it was me. A person can only blame their parents until it stops making sense. Two people can’t be to blame for everything their child missed unless they went out of their way to remove him.
Asking if they removed me is pointless. They pulled me so far from their lives that I’m a stranger in my own family. When most guys say little to none, I can’t leave the house without saying,”Let’s go,” in five languages. I prefer chopsticks, but everyone around uses forks. Waking up at 3 AM is a side effect of the jet lag I’ll have until the day I die because bed just isn’t comfortable.
The longer I think about it, I see that the more I try to be him, the more I never knew myself. Who can you be when you are a collection of pieces from different puzzles? Some of my sides are jagged, while others smooth, and they are supposed to fit together.
And that’s why I try to be him. I’m misshapen puzzle. Superglue only works when the pieces fit.
And I guess that’s who I am. That’s why other are confused by me. I confuse myself.
And lo, the bell did toll—over and over. Sometimes at the zenith of the sun, and other times, at the full moon. Sometimes on the dot of each hour, and other times, way off schedule.
And it didn’t matter when the bell rang. They gathered up their things as in a wild frenzy of terror, fearing the next ring, and ran for shelter anywhere the light of the sun was blocked, because when the bell rang, the sun’s rays heated degree by degree until fire broke out in the wilds by day, and even night. At the next bell, the clouds rolled to soothe the lands with calming rains.
Their time was measured by the ringing of the bell, and they talked of a glorious final toll. A time when the bell ceased to ever ring, though many often said it to be a fairy tale. To those who believed the bell would never end, they feared each ring of the bell as though it would be their last.
Each and every mark was chiseled
by want and loss.
I often wonder why I laugh and cry
and some days remember the reason I scrape at scabs,
like healing hurts more than never letting go.
It is a part of me now.
I will never forget though often I try.
It is harder to forget than to heal my scars, some self inflicted, and others there because I’m just addicted.
